Visiting Our Empty House

We are currently in the US for 19 days for Charming Daughter’s college graduation and to attend the wedding of our dear friends.  We haven’t seen our house for three months and no matter whom we employ to care for it in our absence, we still spend the first week cleaning, decobwebbing and finding things that have mysteriously been relocated or disappeared outright.

While we are in Switzerland, our children still use the house, even though all three of them have their own places.  We know that they are “in residence” from numerous sources.  One, they tell us.  Well, some of them tell us, um, some of the time.  Two, our Slingcatcher in Switzerland will change channels on the TV in the middle of a show, as if by magic.  Ah ha!  One of the little buggers is home, changing the channels.  This usually sends Mr. Big through the Swiss roof and he is on his mobile immediately tracking down the offender in order of he-who-is-the-most-likely-culprit, always beginning with Small Son. 

Small Son, of course, answers neither cell phone nor email if it appears to originate from the Parental Units, so it is onto Domestic Son.  If Domestic Son swears he is not currently at our house flipping channels, Mr. Big phones Charming Daughter.  This usually does the trick because she will inadvertently rat out whichever brother is at The House through our skilled use of seemingly innocent questions, i.e. “where’s your brother?’

Most of the time though, all three of them are smart enough to refrain from using the TV during Swiss prime time, thereby not giving themselves away.  So, Mr. Big employs Method Three, a.k.a. Monitoring The Burglar Alarm System Remotely.  He can tell from the internet who accessed the house by looking at which ID number was punched into the alarm system.  He gleefully prints out a report, rubbing his hands together in evil delight, like some demented kid playing with an ant farm, master of all he surveys.   What he doesn’t understand is that all three of them know each other’s code as well as my code and, yes, even Mr. Big’s code.

My children are not stupid.

Really, the only way we ever know who has been the house is by looking at the clues they leave behind.  Beds have been stripped and sheets and towels are in the hamper?  Charming Daughter or Ms. Fiancee.  Dirty sheets still left on bed and dirty towels still hanging over shower bar?  Small Son and his friends.  Beds stripped, sheets changed, beds remade and towels laundered, folded and put in linen closet?  I don’t know who the hell THAT was, but I wish they would come back.

Today, these are the things that I have found and what they tell me:

1.        Evidence of vomit, cleaned up with bar towels, left in hamper.  This was one of my kid’s male friends who was here with a girlfriend.  How do I know this?  Easy.  If he hadn’t had a girlfriend, the vomit would not have been cleaned up in the first place.  The girlfriend cleaned it up but that was all she was willing to do because she is not a fiancée or a wife who would have washed the towels to destroy all evidence because she was mortified.  A girlfriend, on the other hand, doesn’t feel the same level of responsibility because, hey, it’s not her throwup, right?  He’s the doofus who had too much to drink.

2.        The key to the Hummer is missing.  I think this might possibly be Charming Daughter.  The boys, I’m sure, had duplicate Hummer keys made approximately 39 seconds after we told them we were moving to Switzerland and not taking the car.  I do not think Charming Daughter has learned to be this devious.  Yet.

3.       The key to Mr. Big’s work room is missing.  Since Domestic Son is the only one who might have a use for large power tools, I think this is probably him.  The only time I have seen Small Son with power tools is when he and his buddies were building their Beer Pong Table and I shudder to think of Charming Daughter wielding a Skil Saw.

4.        Three air mattresses are missing.  I believe if I could swoop in and do a spot check of all three of their abodes, I would probably find one air mattress at all three places.  They are really nice air mattresses.

So, that is what I’ve found so far this morning.  Who knows what the afternoon holds, (besides a nap to get over this jet lag)?  And, it will surely be quiet for my nap because Mr. Big is at Lowe’s for the second time already this morning.  Mind you, we have only been home for about 13 hours and Lowe’s has only been open for 6 of those hours but he has been there twice.  He is there right now.  Only an American is going to understand this.

There are certain things that my husband misses in Switzerland.  Number one is a nice, juicy ribeye.  Number two is a hardware store about the size of one of the smaller Swiss cantons that is open for business for about 18 hours per day, including Sunday.  You should see him in a Swiss hardware store, even their “big” ones.  He is so sad.  Invariably, they never have the perfect, exact thing he is looking for.  He always has to settle for something that “might” work.  Even when he does find the right thing, it is incredibly expensive.

For example, he needed a dimmer switch for the foyer light at the apartment in Switzerland.  A dimmer switch.  This item in America costs about 4 US dollars.  And, you would have a choice of color, shape, size, etc.

In Switzerland, at the Jumbo, (a “big” hardware store), he had 2 to choose from.  Two.  He choose the ivory, not the white.  It was 95 Swiss franc, or about 90 US dollars.  NINETY DOLLARS.

By the way, he is back.  He is soooo happy.  He just skipped down the hall, muttering under his breath, “OK, I need my drill bits.”

He is in heaven.  He is working on his Honey Do list.  (For the Europeans, a Honey Do list is a To Do list, but it is generated by your wife.  Get it?)  His Honey Do list is extra long this time because it is the only chance we have to get the house ready for Domestic Son and Ms. Fiancee’s wedding.  One of the line items on the Honey Do list is installing a sink in the laundry room, which he is doing as we speak.  Of course, he bought the wrong size sink on his first junket, hence the need for the second trip back to the hardware store.  The point being that:

A.       The store was open both times he went.
B.      He had a choice of about 80 different stainless steel sinks and,
C.      The sink cost 55 dollars, or about as much as four chicken breasts in Switzerland

Mr. Big is in such a good mood that he has, momentarily, forgotten about the missing Hummer and work room keys.

Provence Trip Part II

Y’all, if my landlady doesn’t think I’m crazy after this morning’s escapade, then she is just not paying attention.  I’m expecting the Swiss Mental Health Patrol with a straight jacket with my name embroidered on the pocket to show up any minute now.  I was just outside bleaching roof tiles.

Well, that sounds silly, you are thinking.  Silly, but necessary.  Let me explain.  Domestic Son and Ms. Fiancee are getting married in August, as you know.  As the mother of the groom, I have been doing my job and planning the rehearsal dinner.  For those of you not from the US, a rehearsal dinner is held the night before the wedding after the actual rehearsal.  Traditionally, the groom’s parents pick up the tab for the dinner, therefore, it is the groom’s Mom’s responsibility to plan and execute the party, get it?  A completely American concept, I know, but we are Americans and we need to rehearse things.  Blame it on Hollywood.

Anyway, the theme of the dinner, I decided, would be a typical 4 course menu that we might enjoy over here in France or Switzerland out on a terrace amongst the olive trees and the vineyards, drinking local wine and listening to the cow bells.  (I have not figured out yet how I am going to get some Swiss cows into my backyard in South Carolina, but I am working on it.  I may just have to tape the sound of the cow bells and play it in the background.)

So far, I’ve bought the appropriate flowery tablecloths in yellow, orange, purple and other bright colors.  I found the slate tiles for the cheese course and the little ceramic picks that one places in the cheese wedges so people know what they are eating.  I’ve been planning the menu and experimenting with recipes.  As far as flowers, a typical little café or bistro table over here would have only a teeny, tiny arrangement in a teeny, tiny vase plunked in the middle of the table.  If I did that at the party, people would think I was being skimpy.

“Oh, poor dear.  Bless her heart.  She must have ran out of money by the time she got around to ordering the flowers.”  That sort of thing.  

But, I hate big arrangements that you can’t see around while you are eating.  Somebody always has to be the first one to take the bull by the horns and moved the damned thing off the table and onto the floor so they can see their dinner companions.  Then, a huge collective sigh is heard round the room and eighty-six other bulbous flower arrangements are immediately hoisted through the air and thrust out of the way.  Conversely, there is the tres trendy phenomenon of the Flower Tower.  This consists of a glass vase about as tall as an average 12-year old looming over the diners’ heads spilling forth trailing vines and whatnot down from above.  True, you are able to see through the glass and minor stemage to the other side of the table.  However, you then have to deal with the Rainforest Effect of foliage dangling over your head and catching on your tiara.  The flowers are just lurking up there like so many bats in a cave and one has to crane their neck skyward just to glimpse them.  I mean, why bother?  Save some money and buy dead flowers for these kinds of arrangements because no one is ever going to see the TOPS.  Ridiculous.  People, just because it is on TLC or HGTV does not make it good or right.

So, no looming and no bulbous.  All I really want is some sunflowers and some lavender.  Just wrap the stems together with raffia and lay them on the table.  So simple.  Too simple, really.  I can already hear it.  “What, we’re not good enough for a vase, even?  Is this how they do it in France?  They don’t even give you a vase?”  You get the picture.

But then, a brainstorm whilst driving through the Provencal countryside.  “STOP, MR. BIG!!!!”  Mr. Big, being the well-trained husbandal unit that he is, SLAMS on the brakes.  “LEFT, LEFT, turn LEFT RIGHT THERE!!!”

We screech into the parking lot of an architectural treasure lot.  You know what I’m talking about.  The kind of place that has stone fountains and stairways-to-nowhere lying around outside, with random old doors and marble planters strewn every which way.  Heaven, really.  Now, here is where “Provence” comes into the picture.  (You knew I’d get there eventually, didn’t you?) 

For the past two days, Mr. Big and I had been spectacularly spellbound by the terra cotta and ochre-colored roofs and buildings spilling down the hillsides of the ancient villages perches, or medieval “perched” villages in the area of the Luberon and the Drome in southern France. 

I had taken, probably, 200 pictures of just roofs and masonry over the last 48 hours.  (Don’t you know by now that I am a major weirdo?)  And, here we were, just driving by, a virtual MECCA of Provencal building blocks.

What if, I wonder out loud, instead of just laying the lavender and sunflowers on the tables, we cradle them in terra cotta roofing tiles along with a couple of baguettes?  “Trailing Spouse, I don’t know what the hell you are yammering on about but right now you need to get out of the car and attempt to speak French to this nice country-type person who is looking ominously in my window.”

That, my friends, is how I came to be bleaching roofing tiles in my little garden under the suspicious eye of my landlady.  I DID buy 20 ancient roofing tiles in Provence and they WERE covered with hundreds of years of spiders and dirt and one CANNOT serve baguettes off dirty tiles.  Even crazier, I am now about to weigh my 20 CLEAN tiles and find the 16 that are the lightest, wrap them in bubble wrap, and pack them in my suitcase.

“Excuse moi, madame.”

“Oui, monsieur?”

“What are those suspicious-looking items in your baggage that weigh approximately 1,015 pounds, sil vous plait?”

“Vases, of course, you cretin.”

Customs Officer looks sheepish and replies, “Mais oui, madame.  Bonne voyage.”

Oh, did I tell you that I am also on a hunt for authentic Laguiole cheese knives for the cheese course?  So far, I have found seven at a flea market in Buis-les-Barronies.  Only nine more to go.  I know my Small Son is reading this and thinking, “I am never getting married.  Because if that woman puts stuff about me on the internet like this I will croak of embarrassment.”

Mini-Trip to Provence

As I touched on last time, I was getting increasingly grumpy with Switzerland’s freezing excuse for spring, so I convinced Mr. Big to make a road trip into southern France to find some sunshine.  Well, we found no sun but we did find some of the most remarkable scenery and quaint villages that exist on the planet.

Folks, there’s a reason why Peter Mayle is now a millionaire author and, conversely, much-hated in Provence.  Yes, he moved there about ten years ago to the town of Menerbe and yes, he wrote many books about it.  HOW COULD YOU NOT?  It’s like paradise.  Really.  I have lived in California, which is also beautiful, but it does not have the unrelenting ambience that Provence has.  California does not have old French men in berets fishing from the sidewalk.  California does not have castles and houses round every curve that were built in the TENTH century.  Unfortunately, the effects of Mr. Mayle’s books have been an absolute inundation of tourists into the cities, towns and hamlets of the area known as Provence and it is no wonder that the locals are growing weary.  (They are, however, enjoying the fact that the value of their properties have increased tenfold.)

Our trip has at least three sub-genres that I can write about in this blog, so I am only going to touch on the first one today.  Namely, where we went, what was cool and what was crap.

First, the crap.  OK, here is the way I normally plan a trip.

“Mr. Big.”
 “Yes, Dear Trailing Spouse.”
“Let’s go somewhere.”
“Where would you like to go, O Love of My Life?”
“I’m thinking Provence.”
“What country is that in, Snookums?”
“It’s in France, Mr. Big.”
“Well off we go then.  Do we need plane tickets?”
“No, we can drive.”
“Well, alrighty then, do we need hotel reservations?”
“No, we are going to wing it.”
“Brilliant.  Do I have to bring anything besides blue jeans?”
“No, dude, you are good.”
“Will they have the internet in this place you are taking me to?”
“I will make every attempt to find you some internet wherever we stay.”
“Lovely.  Off we go then.”

That, my friends, is how you plan a vacation.  That is also why I can never, ever stay in a B&B, (or an auberge or gite or anything with less than 20 rooms.)  Bed and Breakfasts give Mr. Big the heebie-jeebies.  He does not want to have to run the risk of sitting and conversing with strangers.  Also, there is a 99% degree of probability that a B&B does not have the internet.

Hence, our days in Provence were filled with small villages and complete wonderment and the taking of over a thousand pictures, but our nights were spent in the cities.  Here is where the crappy part comes in.  Have you heard of Avignon?  Do not go there.  It was disgusting.  It was filthy, crowded and vile.  We stayed in the Mercure right off the Pope’s Palace and I watched two drunk, teenage girls pee on the side of the hotel thinking they were hidden by the potted olive trees.  Um, no, ladies.  You were in plain sight.

I know what you are thinking.  You are thinking I am spoiled because I live in the land of exceedingly polite, quiet and clean people.  I assure you, Avignon will make even a person from Newark, New Jersey turn up their nose.  Don’t waste your time or your money.

The next night, after a lovely day out in the countryside, we spent in Aix-en-Provence.  This is the hub town in Provence.  For those “in the know”, it is just pronounced “Ex”.  I would pronounce it “Ex-traordinarily Overpriced and Overrated”.  I’m sorry.  There are about 67 other towns in Europe that I can think of immediately off the top of my head that are nicer that this town.  Again, avoid at all costs.

Having said that, if you do find yourself in Aix against my good advice, do go to a fabulous restaurant there that we found simply called “White”.  It is tres trendy but the food was absolutely outstanding.  (Hint:  wear black.)

On to the good bits:

Gordes—undeniably fabulous in every way.  You will be spellbound.

Lacoste—as in “Izod”.  Medieval village perched on a hillside that Pierre Cardin has bought and is pissing off the locals in every way.  Fabulous.
Rousillon—you will not believe that it is a real, functioning village, it’s that cute.
L’isle-sur-la-Sorgue—where the men fish from the sidewalks and the antiques are EVERYWHERE.

Bonnieux—Mr. Big wants to buy the church on the top of the hill and renovate it into a house.  I’m like, Mr. Big, I’m pretty sure it’s owned by THE CHURCH, so that’s probably not going to happen.  (Ever since he found out flippin’ Pierre Cardin bought his own rundown castle in Lacoste, Mr. Big wants his own rundown castle).

And, a few other towns that no one appears to have “discovered” yet, so I am not going to tell you about them until I get my mas and then I will pass on the location!  I am a ruthless bitch, am I not?

Glossary for Going Antique Hunting in Europe

I apologize for not updating this blog in a timely manner.  I got extremely depressed over this continuing Swiss cold weather and Mr. Big and I departed on a road trip to the Provence region in the south of France to look for some sunshine.  Alas, it rained for the better part of our mini-Easter vaca, but the scenery was spectacular and we stumbled upon some great little villages.  More later.

Anyway, I was going to give you the skinny on flea markets here in my neck of the woods.  I must begin by providing a glossary, semi-organized by country and language, that will enable those of you who like to “go antiquing” to have a better understanding of the quality of merchandise that you might find should you venture across the Atlantic for some goodies.  I’ll start with the American definitions and use those as a baseline.

USA:

Antique Show:  High end gathering of professional dealers.  Beautiful things, but no bargains to be found.  Famous Antique Shows:  Miami Beach, NYC Pier, NYC Armory.  Here’s a hint.  If the title of the show includes the words “and Fine Art”, get out your checkbook.  If you usually go around antiquing in a pickup, your RV or towing a trailer, skip to the next definition, cuz you got no bi-ness steppin’ foot round these heah parts.

Antique Fair:  Fun, fabulous and fairly certain to find something in your price range.  Look for the big ones like Brimfield’s in Massachusetts with hundreds, if not thousands, of vendors.  Something there for everyone, from high-end dealers to Mrs. Jane Suburbia shopping for a chest for her foyer to Ellie Mae Clampett lookin’ to replace her rug beater.

Anything that ends with “And Collectables”:  Mostly down-market but this is where you might find a “hidden gem” for next to nothing.  My favorite kind, but labor intensive.

Flea Market:  Gross.  Knock off pocketbooks, sneakers and blue jeans.  Stay away.

Garage Sale, Neighborhood Garage Sale, Yard Sale:  On rare occasions, a person with an eagle eye can find a treasure at a garage sale.  These are held out in front of the residents’ homes and the customers start showing up even before the paperboy/girl.  Me, I don’t have the patience or the gas to do the “Garage Sale Circuit”.  (In America, I drive a Hummer.  I know.  I know.  I am the Anti-Christ.)

EUROPE:

THE UK:  Every time I have been to the UK on an antique junket, it has been for my store, so keep that in mind.  In other words, I was only looking for things for resale, that I could buy for less than half of the price that I could sell it for back in the US after adding on the charges for container shipping.  So, having said that:

Antique Fairs and Antique Markets:  Have the same meaning.  Usually, flippin’ huge compared to the US antique fairs.  Filled to the brim with awesome stuff.  My friends and I who are dealers spend three or four DAYS at one of these fairs.  Go to Newmarket, Ardingly, or the website http://www.antiques-atlas.com/dbevents/

 Car Boot Sale:  This is the equivalent of the US yard sale, except people gather their stuff together in one spot, (usually a random field!), spread it out on a blanket and sell it.  However, you have a good chance of finding some really great things.  Copper pots, wicker baskets, even some furniture.  Mr. Big once pounced on a golden swan faucet by Jado that he scooped up for 2 pounds sterling which we later sold for 200 American dollars.  Go, Mr. Big!

FRANCE:

Here is where terminology starts to get tricky.  I’m going to start from the bottom because that is where I have run into the most pitfalls.

Vide Grenier:  Literally, this means attic sale.  It is pronounced “veed grah-nyeeaa”.  Just trying to say it is scary.  Well, the merchandise is scary as well.  If you like really down-market garage sales in the US, you will love these.  95% of the stuff is collectables, kids’ toys, clothes and plastic storage containers with no lids.  Ugh.

Brocante:  A step above.  I have found some great bargains at Brocante Faires.  There is a lot of junk, but you can find things.  For instance, piles of framed prints with the random original piece of art in the same pile.  Tons of stuff that the French think are routine but that Americans think are cool like wire egg baskets, vintage Le Crueset cookware, Provencal pottery bowls and urns,  old school kids’ maps and posters, etc.

Antiquite:  Pronounced “ahn-teek-ee-tay”.    This is usually only used outside an antiques store on the sign, not on the advertisements or posters for a fair or market.   If the fair is advertised as a “Faire des Antiquites”, it will be very high end with lots of Louis This and Louis That furniture.

Marche Aux Puces:  Pronounced “marsh-oh-puuusz” and that “r” should sound like you are coughing up a hairball.  (I know you are all trying it out loud right now and there are people in the other room saying “What the hell is she/he doing in there?”).  Literally translates to “Market of the Fleas”, but definitely not like flea markets in America.  Lots of good stuff here.  The biggest ones are in Paris at St. Ouen and in a town called Lille at the “Braderie” but they are found in all towns, mostly in the warmer months.  Just search on Google for the town/s or departement/s  you are visiting.

Word of warning:  If you see just the word Marche on a poster or a website, it means a fruit and veg market, not an antiques market.  

GERMANY:  Just like France except brocante equals brocki, antiquite equals antik and flea market equals flohmakt.

SWITZERLAND:

Ah, the Swiss.  I thought they would be very similar to France.  Non, non, non.  The Swiss are the packrats of the world.  Worse than your hoarding Aunt Edna.  Nothing is ever thrown away.  You thought Happy Meal toys and Beanie Babies were bad/tacky?  The Swiss would laugh at that.  That stuff is high dollar, baby!

At a brocante faire in Switzerland, you must wade through approximately 300 of the local residents who have just come outside their homes, laid out blankets on the cobblestones, perhaps brought out a folding table to display their really “good” stuff, and proceeded to think they are going to make a million dollars selling what you and I would call “trash” on any other sane day.  I mean, it’s trash, there’s no two ways about it.  Stuff that you would be totally embarrassed to put out at a yard sale, like a BROKEN glass bud vase that once came from a Teleflorist arrangement, (you know the vases I’m talking about, uh, the FREE ones?).  Hello.  5 franc.  Children’s skis from the 1990’s that have been BROKEN in half and wired together?  20 franc.  Suitcases with broken zippers?  How many do you want?

Total Packrats.  I blame it on the strict recycling laws.  These poor, sad folks could never figure out the correct day in which to dispose of these offensive items so they sell them as “brocante”.  The Swiss should stick to Christmas Markets where they excel.

I have found two exceptions to the rule regarding crappy Swiss brocante markets.  The one held in Geneva every Wednesday and Saturday morning is OK.  Not great and certainly not worth a special trip, but OK to visit if you are already downtown shopping.  There is one vendor there who sells Swiss Army surplus and you can get good deals on used military stuff.  We bought a Swiss Army blanket that was embroidered with the boy’s name and year on it which was kind of cool for only 35 franc.

Last month, I stumbled on an oil painting leaning up against a table leg.  It was a typical mountain scene, as the vast majority of Swiss paintings are, but this one caught my eye because it looked exactly like the view out one of the windows of my house. 






Lo and behold, when I flipped it over to the back, the artist had written his entire name and address and it was an address about five houses up the street from ours in Lausanne!  The painting is really old, so I’m sure the guy is long dead and there’s no way to meet him, but it’s still cool to think about whenever I pass his house.

The best Swiss antiques market that I have found is held once a year in Le Landeron.
There seems to be much more emphasis on eating and drinking and sitting out in the sunshine than actual buying, but I was still able to find a Murano glass chandelier for only 100 franc, which is less than we spent on lunch.

Enjoy the pix and if you are coming to Europe and want to go antiquing, let me know and I can tell you the best places to “hit”.

Extreme Rule-Following

Before I get back to telling you more about my flea market hunting, I have to tell you what happened last night.  It is a perfect example of Extreme Swiss Rule Adherence.

Everybody has nightmare travel stories and I am not going to bore you with the gory details of ours.  However, the tail-end of the evening was just so Swiss, I must pass it along so you can cluck your tongues against the roofs of your mouths.

Our EasyJet flight from Gatwick (London) to Geneva was seriously delayed.  This will surprise no one who has flown EasyJet which is the Euro-equivalent of Southwest Air in the US.   Mostly, anyone with a sense of self-preservation avoids EasyJet but British Airways is on strike right now so we were forced to join the herd and queue up for the cattle car.

Halfway through our flight, I guess it finally occurred to someone in the cockpit that they might want to let Geneva know that we were arriving.  Midflight, somewhere in the skies between Paris and Dijon, the pilot comes on the intercom with this incredulous tone in his voice that we are being diverted to Lyon, France because our ETA is SIX MINUTES past Geneva’s strict 12:30 a.m. curfew.  The airport has a no-fly rule past 12:30 so that the Swiss who live near the airport do not have to be awakened by the sound of nasty ol’ jets coming and going at all hours of the night.

Well, the pilot relays to us that he is in “negotiations” with Geneva and surely they are not going to divert us for a silly 6 minutes.  Yes, he said “silly”.

Mr. Big and I looked at each other and said, “Dude, is this your first day on the job?  You do not “negotiate” with Switzerland.  The Rules are The Rules.  You might as well just go ahead and change your heading now, buddy.”

Of course, we landed in Lyon.

Follow the rules, EasyJet.  You might want to call ahead of time if you are going to arrive late in Switzerland.  Just a hint for the future.

Anyway, the airline then had to charter buses to schlep 150 passengers, well, 148 because Mr. Big and I immediately skedaddled to the nearest hotel, for the two and a half hour drive to Geneva.  Seriously, I don’t know what they did with those people at 4 a.m. when they finally got to Geneva because the airport would have been locked up tight as a drum and the Swiss train system doesn’t get out of bed until 5:30.  But, that was not my problem!  I was enjoying a minibar Merlot and a small chocolate pillow mint!

My name is Trailing Spouse and I am a Design Addict . . .

Very few people outside of friends and family know this, but I am addicted to buying and selling Mid-Century Modern furniture, houses, art and home décor.  I feel I must disclose this because I have been meeting random people who have been reading this blog here in Europe.  They are under the impression that the reason I agreed to move from America, LEAVE MY CHILDREN, sell my business and basically, give up my life, was my undying devotion to Mr. Big.  Ha!  No.

The reason I jumped all over this opportunity was because I would be that much closer to Denmark and, possibly, Sweden.  Seriously.  Let me explain.

You know all of that crazy, retro furniture that your parents eventually consigned to the basement made out of plywood and plastic that you wound up selling at garage sales in the 1990’s?  Sometimes people call it Brady Bunch furniture?  I covet that stuff.   Remember Mom and Dad’s “Danish Modern” hutch full of turquoise and orange pottery with mod squiggles on it?  Love, love, love!

My homepage on my computer is www.designaddict.com.  I own a 1957 midcentury modern home in South Carolina that I bought just because I was mesmerized by the architecture and wanted to furnish it to the period.  My entire apartment in Switzerland, (circa 1910), is furnished a la 1950’s.  So, what could be better, after raping the American South of most of their midcentury treasures for the past three years, than now setting my sights on Europe?

Granted, I have been a “traditional” antiques dealer for nigh on two decades.  I have been to Europe many times, sending home containers of fine English and Continental antiques to sell to the ever-hungry Housewives of Charleston and environs.  But, how many bowfront Mahogany chests can one sell before it starts to make one’s hair hurt?  If I never see another Welsh cabinet stuffed with pewter chargers or another Victorian rosewood settee ever again as long as I draw breath, I can die a complete and satiated woman.

However, just the glimpse of a Fifties’ West German pottery vase, laying quietly tucked in a cardboard box in the middle of a scruffy blanket at a “Brocante Faire”, which is a glorified flea market, causes my blood pressure to rise, my eyes to start darting back and forth in order to check out potential competitors who may be honing in, (RIGHT NOW, HERE THEY COME!) on my find even while my face begins to assume a casual blankness known only to habitual Botox users.

“Excuse moi, Madame?”, I ask, oh-so-casually.    “Combien pour cette vase?”  (How much for this vase?)

“La bas?”  (She points to my vase, asking me if I am indeed inquiring about the butt-ugly lime green and turquoise vase “over there”).

“Oui, Madame.”  She shrugs and says “Cinq franc”.  Which is five franc or around 4.60 US dollars.  I quickly run her answer through my head two, three or four times to ensure myself that she has said 5 franc and not 15 or 50 or, God forbid, five hundred, which all kind of sound the same when your French sucks like mine.  No, it was definitely 5.  Inside my head, angels are singing, bugles are blaring and all is good and right with the world.  5 bucks!  It might as well be free!  Bless her heart, to her it was just an ugly ass vase and she is glad to unload it and not try to have to recycle it here in the land of Rigid Recycling Rules.

But to me, to me, it is a little piece of fabulousness.  Swedish glass, West German pottery, Danish teak bowls, Marimekko fabrics from Finland.  Lawd Amighty, I have to fan myself just writing about them.  I am attaching some pix of the finds that I have made here in the last year that have me out every weekend trolling the flea markets of France, Switzerland, Belgium and occasionally, while slumming, Deutschland.

Next time I’ll tell you what I found at the Geneva flea market two weeks ago and give a list of some of the best markets around.  Ciao, ciao, and happy hunting.

Fondue Recipe

Before I forget, I know I promised to give y’all my fondue recipe.  Every canton in Switzerland uses a different combination of cheeses but this is the pairing that I think most Americans will be able to find the ingredients for most readily:

Cheese Fondue:  (Warning, this has alcohol in it.  Non-alcoholic options are included.)

Rub the inside of your fondue pot with a peeled clove of garlic.  If you like garlic, just leave the whole thing in the pot.  If you don’t like a lot of garlic, chunk it.

Turn your burner (hob, for the Brits) onto medium low.  Put 2 cups of grated Gruyere cheese and 2 cups of grated Emmentaler  in the fondue pot (which is really called a “caquelon” pronounced kah-kuh-lah).  Add white wine (just omit wine if you are skipping the alcohol and add the juice of one lemon instead), sea salt and white pepper while melting and stirring.  When it is all melted, remove from heat.

Here is the only hard part:  testing the consistency.  Take a chunk of crusty bread and stab it onto a fondue fork.  Swirl it around in the fondue.  If it drips when you lift it up, it is too runny.  If it is the consistency of wallpaper paste or joint compound, it is too thick.  It is supposed to coat the bread with a thin coat while you are swirling but without dripping when you lift it out of the pot and over to your plate.

If it is too thick, add Kirsch (or half-and-half if you are preparing without alcohol).  If it is too runny, (most of the time), mix a slurry in a little bowl of Kirsch and corn starch (water and corn starch if no alcohol), put the caquelon back on the stove over low heat and add the slurry, mixing all the while, teaspoon by teaspoon until it is the right consistency.

Seasonings and Additions:  I like a pinch of nutmeg in ours.  Others put smoked paprika in it.  You can add sliced mushrooms to it or sliced hot peppers, like jalapenos.   If you see it on a menu at a restaurant “avec tomate”, that doesn’t mean with diced tomatoes, it means with tomato paste!

Put the caquelon on the fondue stand over the Sterno and bring it to the table.  Give everyone their own individual plate.  Pass the bread basket which has been filled with chunks of crusty bread.

Typical Sides:  Boiled fingerling potatoes are passed separately.  Take a few and mush them with the tines of your fork onto your plate and spoon a big glop of the fondue sauce over the top.  It’s delish, I promise!  Always pass a small bowl of pearl onions and a bowl of cornichons, (these come right out of a jar), as condiments.  They really cut the “assiness” of the cheese.  Also, pass a plate of sliced, dried meats from a deli, like prosciutto and salami, which mimic the “viandee seche” (dried meat) assortment available here.

Wine:  We would serve a Swiss white or dry rose with this dinner.  But since Switzerland doesn’t export their wine, I would go with a Pinot Noir or Pinot Grigio.

Important!  Fondue Etiquette:  It is customary that everyone swirl their bread cubes all around the BOTTOM of the caquelon which keeps the fondue stirred during the meal.  Sometimes this results in the diner’s bread falling off their fondue fork.  If someone drops their bread into the pot and has to go fish it out, they must KISS THE PERSON ON THEIR RIGHT.  No exceptions.