The world through rose-tinted champagne

I was awaked at 5:14 on Sunday morning (the morning of my 6th wedding anniversary) by a young women being murdered in our Parisian courtyard – except instead of screaming Nooooooooonnn, she was cooing: AH oui, ah oui, ah ouiii, at the top of her lungs. Paris is going through a bit of a heat wave at the moment, and since an air-conditioned apartment in the City of Light is as rare as a possum in pearls, everyone sleeps with their windows open. Naturally, you are sometimes awakened by a chorus of happy couples. What’s more, it’s contagious. Much like the cut-glass dish of Hersey’s Kisses on my grandmother’s coffee table – up till that moment, you didn't know you wanted one; but once you’ve spotted the shiny foil wrappers, thoughts form: “Why yes, don’t mind if I do.”

To escape the heat, G. and I went to see Ice Age 3 on Saturday night – large movie theatres being one of the only reliably air-conditioned spaces in all of Paris. Like Queen Latifah (in the guise of a foxy woolly mammoth) – I’m 8 ½ months pregnant at the moment. I went to my first pre-natal class this week, and learned that the delivery rooms of the Hôpital Franco-Britannique – where I am registered for the big event – are very much NOT air-conditioned (apparently, you can bring your own fan). All things considered, I’d rather give birth in a multiplex, watching the new Woody Allen movie “Whatever Works”.

To celebrate our anniversary G. and I went on picnic in the Buttes Chaumont in the 19th arrondissement, my favorite park in Paris. It was built up from the ruins of one of Napoleon III quarries – and following the picturesque fashion of German Romanticism, it sports a fake waterfall, a(n even faker) Grecian temple, and the requisite black swan. Aside from the theatrical setting, Les Buttes has another advantage over the more formal parks in Paris – you can sit on the grass. Don’t you dare try that in the Jardin du Luxembourg.

I’m not usually one to buy things strictly for the kitsch value, but in honor of the occasion I couldn’t pass up a tiny bottle of pink champagne: Moët & Chandon Rosé Impérial. The baby-to-be had a sip; may as well start them on the good stuff early…

Some of my pet foods are back at the market this month – including pêche plate – perfectly ripe white peaches that look like they’ve been squashed flat by a hippo. I looked them up on Wikipedia recently; they are originally from China – where the name translates to paradise peach. The English name – doughnut peach – lacks a certain poetry.

But the real reason to go on a picnic is Paris was concealed in a small square of red-checkered wax paper - rillettes de canard - shredded duck cooked in its own fat until it spreads like butter. Up to a certain point, the heat is quite friendly toward rillettes – to truly experience the taste and texture, it’s not the kind of thing you want to eat cold from the fridge.

After a nap and an article on the Iranian elections, the sky was just beginning to cloud over; we rolled up our old mustard-colored duvet cover to catch the bus for home.