When I asked my sister,  “Do you love your husband?” she paused, then replied, “Only in the right lighting.” The marriage didn’t last – his doing — but she had a point about the lighting. Good light and love go hand in hand. Nobody can fall in love while scrutinizing a prospective lover’s pores.  Even Blanche Dubois had the good sense to throw a Chinese paper lantern over a cruel naked bulb. Shadows let dreams live. This is important. Because falling in love isn’t about seeing all the facts,  it’s about seeing possibility.  Of course staying in love is more tricky. Staying in love means seeing a person at their most beautiful all the time, in all kinds of light. This is how the French CutiePie sees me. No matter where I am, under the midday sun or bathing in the harsh flurorescent light of a waiting room, to him I’m always “zee most beautiful girl in zee wold.”  It’s like the FC’s eyeballs have a built-in dimmer switch. He never notices my flaws.  And the more beautiful he sees me, the more confident and beautiful I become. That’s why love feeds love. In all light.

Though the FC thinks I'm beautiful in all light, we tried to make the lighting in our new house as beautiful as possible, like the vintage Victorian fixture we chose for the kitchen. Even with a 100 watt bulb, it casts a warm, love-inducing glow.

The FC’s parents like to breakfast in bed. Each day of my visit in Wambrechie, while the FC enjoys “overnight” bachelor party festivities with a friend, Frederich wakes me, inviting me to join he and his wife in their bedroom for coffee, jam and croissants. Of course I don’t actually lie in the bed with them, I sit at a little antique desk facing the bed and we chat. I also take time to admire their eccentric quarters; lovely colourful fabrics, exotic woody antiques. Their large bedroom is located on top of a renovated barn, in another building, with vaulted ceiling and rustic exposed beams. Frederich, a former antique dealer with a skill for renovating, did most of the work himself. And it’s not too precious either. You can knock stuff over and nobody goes into a panic. You feel like you’re in an artist’s studio not your boyfriends’ parents’ bedroom.

Eventually Priscilla, the FC’s mother, will rise from her reclined Matisse-like position on the bed to pull a photo album from the shelves. They have an amazing collection of family photos; trips to Greece, Turkey, Italy, ski holidays, gallery visits, photos of the FC and his sisters playing on the beach in Giens. Priscilla has everything carefully ordered and laid out on the page, and, in addition to making sculptures and designing clothes, she’s a talented photographer.

Flipping through the photos, it’s clear, she and Frederich have translated their artistic ways into family life. Bohemians with kids, they’re both original and traditional. It makes me understand why I like the FC so much. He has the same blend of values. How lucky am I?

“Coucou!” That’s what the French say upon entering a room unexpectedly. It’s like saying hello, here I am, good morning, good afternoon, wake up and put your pants on, I’m coming through. It’s a greeting and a warning all at once.

I’m back in France with the FC, taking a much-needed break from the house renovation. Tonight the FC is attending a bachelor party for a dear friend and I’m alone at his parent’s country house in Wambrechie, a small village in the north of France. Though it was gloomy and overcast, I decided to cure my restlessness and go for a walk. As I strolled down the lush wooded path to La Deule river, a cuckoo bird starting calling. Coucou! Coucou!! The sound was so clear and pronounced I was afraid it was someone hiding in the bushes pretending to be a bird. On edge, I arrived in the lonely town square where a gang of French boys implored me for a little smile. “Un petit sourire Mademoiselle? Un petit sourire?” Frightened, I quickened my step and headed straight back to the house. Now I’m here, in the FC’s childhood bedroom, writing this post.

“Coucou!” It’s not just a hello, it’s a warning. It’s also time passing. And madness. I suddenly find myself afraid and full of questions.

What am I doing here? Why does the FC love me so much? And more importantly, when will it all come to a spectacular and catastrophic end?

This blog started as a question “What’s the recipe for love?” Maybe it’s just faith. You have to believe that you’re not crazy. That the feelings you have are right and true, even if you don’t know what the future holds, and even if you’re afraid that, at any moment, disaster might enter the room and say “Coucou! Wake up. It was just a dream.”

Title image is “The Cuckoo Bird” an oil painting by Meghan Trice posted on Flickr.

When it comes to health, cooking and boyfriends. I’m all about worst case scenarios. I think it’s my way of protecting myself from disappointment and tragedy. Expect the worst and you’re pleasantly surprised by anything less than a total catastrophe.

That was my approach to our dinner party Saturday night when the FC and I decided to invite a couple of friends over, last minute. Instead of planning out a complicated meal we decided to finally use up the two packages of instant fondue we brought home from France over Christmas. The FC picked up some mixed greens, day old baguette for dipping and two bottles of white wine.

Naturally, I was dubious about the instant fondue. When Georgia and Gerardo arrived, I warned them, “The fondue is from a package, so keep your expectations low.” The FC frowned. He hates it when I undersell things before knowing the results. He prefers to be optimistic; a ray of golden light in my dark cave of Libran negativity.

In the case of our dinner, the FC proved right. With a fresh salad, the fondue made a superb dinner for four. Fun, tasty, and totally stress-free.  In fact, the cooking-challenged FC made the fondue all by himself (I just added fresh sauteed mushrooms for texture.)  We even improvised a fondue warmer by putting three tealights under one of the removable grills from my gas stove. In lieu of fondue forks, we used long stainless steel barbeque skeweres for dipping.

Here’s the amazing thing about instant food: when it’s good, everyone is as impressed as if it were homemade. They ask to see the package, they marvel at how easy it was, and, as Georgia did, they insist you bring back more from France the next time you go. The FC also shared a French fondue tradition; when you lose your bread in the fondue, you’re supposed to kiss the person on your right. (Seating plans are obviously crucial in this game.)

The moral of the story? Never underestimate the French (the food, or The French Cutiepie.)

Here’s the FC and my Valentine’s Day menu.

Couscous with sun-dried tomato and broccoli (because feeling heavy and bloated is not very conducive to romance.)

One peaked chocolate mousse with caramel centre, to share, with a candle for a wish.

Three pink roses. One for me, one for him, and one for our Mac Powerbooks, which we are never without.

Nigerian Funk (thanks again Margo, for turning me onto this)

Vin mousseux (our favourite love potion next to champagne)

Candles in the bedroom.

Joining friends for Sunday night jazz at Diese Onze afterwards.

You know those moments when you click with a total stranger (on the metro or at a party or in the laundromat) then they disappear into the urban chaos from whence they came? Later, you romanticize about them. You wonder if they felt the same way. You only wish you’d had the courage to ask for their number. Or were you just imagining it all?

These moments are the subject of Missed Connections, a gorgeous illustrated blog which uses stories of missed connections culled from real life personal ads to inspire beautifully rendered drawings. Besides the artwork, it’s amazing how much wordsmithing goes into the personal ads themselves. When it comes to love (and prices by the word) people quickly become poets. Blogger Sophie Blackall choses her inspiration well, picking those personal ads with the most potential for visuals, my favourite being a guy looking for a girl he shared a bear suit with at a costume party.

Thinking about it, the FC and I could easily have been a missed connection. We met at a party, danced and laughed for what felt like hours, then, when my friends were leaving, I bid farewell and disappeared into the night. We would never have seen each other again if the FC hadn’t tracked me down on Facebook. (He remembered the person who brought us to the party and started his search from there.) My heart pounded in my chest when I received his first email message. It was so wonderful to know that he felt the same as I did, that something magical had happened between us. I was also glad I’d decided to join Facebook since without it I might not be writing this post.

Connection found.

This weekend the FC and I went on a pilgrimage to meet my family. After eleven months (almost a year) he still hadn’t met my clan, and since we were going to France for Christmas (the usual time for family introductions) I had to put together a quick pre-Christmas visit. I just couldn’t wait until 2010 to finally share the very important person that was now living under my roof. (Though they’d seen him on the blog, for all they knew he could have been a hired model or a creature of my own imagination. It was time to make him real, for them and me.)

Our first stop on the journey was London Ontario where my sister lives in a charming old house with her boyfriend Adam. The visit couldn’t have been more perfect. We played three hours of Frisbee golf  in the woods on Saturday morning (sorry to all the trees I pummeled with my disc) watched two movies Saturday night (including Die Hard 3)  and munched on easy low key food including my sister’s delicious hummus, recipe forthcoming I hope.  These are things we couldn’t have done during Christmas, which is too special for Bruce Willis, and too busy for three hour outdoor games, and where the big fancy meal, including appetizers and roast leg of lamb, always causes an undue amount of stress. 

Though I’ll miss the tasty lamb, the amazing presents (everyone always goes overboard) and my family’s usual high energy hustle and bustle (Boxing Day shopping is nuts)  ironically, this trip was way more relaxing than any “official” holiday. Leaving on Sunday afternoon, the FC and I felt like we’d just spent the weekend at a B&B, with just enough energy to pop by my Mom’s afterwards for some apple pie, aged cheddar and a glass of wine. I had debated inviting her to my sister’s in London, and I’m so glad I didn’t. That would have been another “event” involving further organization, meal planning and social multi-tasking, plus a two hour drive for my mother.  Instead, Mom hung out with us on her own turf, and the FC made fast friends with her hyper-active golden retreiver Clancy  (he really is a dog person). Mom also spoiled us rotten by taking us to Walmart and buying us an early Christmas present — a GPS – or what I like to call a “relationship-saver.”  (The FC and I have trouble navigating.)

So here’s today’s recipe for love: Don’t wait until Christmas to visit your family; visit them now, or visit them later. Trust me, they’ll love you even more for making the effort at a time when it’s not expected, and you get to bond with them in a relaxed environment free of holiday stress. 

Sister serves up some tasty tangy hummus.

GPS, or what I like to call, the "relationship-saver."

Strong and confident at the wheel (and in the hands of the GPS, versus me, who has Attention Deficit Disorder when it comes to spotting important road signs and exits.) He made it back to Montreal without a hitch.

In France this summer I learned many things about the FC. For example; he’s not afraid of heights, he has his mother’s eyes, and he sometimes disappears without telling me where he’s going. I also found out that, when he was little, his friends used to call him  The Little Prince,  because of his blonde curly hair and prince-like willfulness. But I think it’s more than that.  Like the character in Antoine de Saint Exupery’s classic book, when it comes to love, the FC sees with his heart, unlike me, who sees too much with my mind.

"One sees clearly only with the heart. Anything essential is invisible to the eyes." Antoine de Saint Exupery.

I think it might be time for me to re-read the book.  In French!

I have big news. The FC moved in with me. He’d mentioned the idea about a month ago (see Mi Pasta, Tu Pasta) but I wasn’t sure. Yes, I was thrilled he would even entertain the notion (it meant he was serious about us) but I still had questions.

When I told him, “It’s a big decision” he smiled and replied in his adorable French accent, “Laura, I am already leeving ‘ere.” (Since we met, we’d spent almost every night together.) He also said he’d rather pay me rent than his landlord. Both good points, yet still I wavered. I said we should wait until after our trip to France– and I guess he took me at my word because when the FC returned to Canada (several days before me) he immediately started moving in his stuff. He also put some rent money under my pillow saying “the tooth mouse” had visited  (yeah, in France, it’s a mouse.)

I have to admit, it’s exciting talking about dressers and closet space and trips to Ikea. There’s a new energy. A sense of possibility. We’re making a go of it and I’m happy. It’s what I want, and the FC knew that.

I think that’s why he’s such a good match for me. I may be the chef in the kitchen, but he’s the chef of the relationship. He cuts through my Libran fear and indecision with reason, humour and action. He keeps us moving forward, and he knows a thing or two about love and what to do when you find it.

So maybe I’ll just follow his recipe.

The FC’s Recipe for Living Together

Ingredients

1 practical boy who knows what he wants.
1 flip-floppity chick with more questions than answers
1 apartment belonging to flip-floppity chick

Directions

1. To avoid girl changing her mind, boy moves stuff into apartment when girl’s still in Europe
2. Since there’s no room in the closet, leave stuff on the floor in a big messy pile.
3. When girl comes home, pick her at airport with a big smile and kiss.
4. That night, don’t let her cook, take her out for sushi instead because you know she likes it.
5. Have passionate sex. (This will keep her from noticing big messy pile of stuff on floor.)
6. When girl falls asleep, put rent money under her pillow and in the morning tell her “the tooth mouse” has visited. (This means you avoid awkwardness of money changing hands, which is not very romantic.)
7. Enjoy your accomplishment while planning next relationship adventure.

I don’t know the recipe for love,  but I do know the recipe for romance:

Ingredients

France

Summertime

1 cute guy that really digs you.

Directions

Don’t question. Just enjoy.

My friend Brent was right: this trip is the FC’s turn to “cook” for me, and he’s  proving to be a master chef.  He’s kind, attentive, good-humoured always, showing me the best France has to offer.  So far we’ve been to a wedding in an old castle, stayed at a charming “git” (small hotel) in the Lyon region, feasted on some of the best food and wine I’ve had in my life and now we’re staying at a private villa in the Cote Azur.  

I don’t have time to give you a full culinary report (as I write, the F.C. is tugging at my arm to go the Giens market) but I will very soon.

In the mean time, soak up this view.

View from the terrace of the FC's grandparents' villa in Giens, a small village in the Cote D'Azur.