"The fact is, I was a trifle beside myself; or rather OUT of myself, as the French would say..." ~ Jane Eyre

I am dealing with post-holiday blues tonight with all things French. Because what makes you feel better than something that is Francais? I made a croque-monsieur for dinner (no bechemal, very little cheese, cooking spray instead of butter but it was still tres fantastique) and am sipping a Cabernet Sauvignon. I am catching up on French gossip pages and reading about Sarkozy getting cozy with a new Italiano mistress. I am looking at French recipes for my thirtieth birthday getaway weekend to the North Fork at the beginning of February. Savory crepes? Coq au vin? I told J.Sarah that I want to make brandade just because I saw Jacque Pepin make it and it looks so good. This afternoon, my brother-in-law made reserves for tomorrow night at Artisanal for my sister, my boyfriend, and me so we can have a big pot of fondue. Nothing like drowning the blues away in a big pot of melted, hot, bubbly cheese.

I am not sure why I get post-holiday blues. Its not that I don't see my family each week; sometimes we even see each other each day. I suppose it has more to do with a spirit and feeling more than anything else; Christmas is a time that takes you the closest proximity back to the memories of your childhood and a time when you were with the ones you loved who are no longer alive. It was a time when my sisters and I still lived together under one roof; as much as we share now, you couldnt help but share more when living together in one home. We work so hard to pay it forward to Jack and ensure that he experiences the same blessings we had from our parents on Christmas and each day of the year, but I know that it will never be exactly the same. Its all very Le Petite Prince, mais oui?

Its nights like this when I know I need to think pink: La Vie En Rose. I have Edith on the CD player and am thinking about procrastinating even further tonight (I have so much on a to-do list right now) and looking into flights to Quebec in February. Even the idea of waking up in a city where hot croissants and cafe au lait is the only way to go for breakfast makes me less blue. I may head out tonight to the bookstore because I realize that Jack has yet to read Babar, and we all know that French elephants make the best of children's stories. Though as great as it is having the memory of an elephant, I do wish I could forget the past a little tonight and be less bleu.