La Métamorphose - Chapitre I

Originally posted by franzkafkadunyasi

  • papilloter | to flutter
  • s'étaler | to fall flat on your face
  • brouillé | on bad terms
  • démangeaison (f) | itching
  • abrutissant | mind numbing
  • congédier | to fire (licencier)
  • tictaquer | ticktock
  • carillon (m) | chiming clock
  • dispos | fit, fresh (en forme)
  • se faire porter malade | call in sick
  • fainéantise (f) | laziness
  • se méprendre | to be mistaken
  • piaule (f) |  room
  • tréfonds (m) | depths
  • gémir | moan
  • carrure (f) | stature
  • arrière-train (m) | hindquarters
  • vacarme (m) | racket (bruit fort)
  • propager | spread
  • effroi (m) | terror
  • corvée (f) | chore
  • secousse (f) | tremor
  • fardeau (m) | burden
  • fatidique | fatal
  • sarabande (f) | song and dance (vacarme)
  • fripouille (f) | scoundrel
  • amortir | to cushion
  • grabuge (m) | ruckus
  • babiole (f) | knick-knack
  • réclamation (f) | complaint
  • gésir | lie (être étendu)
  • inouï | unheard of
  • interpellation (f) | interrogation
  • propice | favourable
  • se tracasser | to worry
  • cuisant | painful
  • se cramponner | to hold on tight
  • s'égoutter | to drip
  • déclic (m) | clicking (petit bruit)
  • pêne (m) | bolt
  • contourner | to bypass
  • s’escrimer | to struggle
  • besogne (f) | task (travail)
  • mener une vie de pacha | to live a life of ease
  • racontar (m) | gossip (ragot)
  • inanité (f) | futility
  • faire un bond | to jump up
  • gisant | lifeless
  • écarquiller | to open wide
  • prendre son élan | to gain momentum
  • voltiger | to fly about (voler en tous sens)
  • sans accroc | smoothly (sans problème)

So I decided to try an 18th century method of hairstyling called “papillote curls”. As you can see the method calls for wrapping up your hair in triangles of tissue paper, when you’ve done this it’s time to pinch your little hair packages with a flatiron and wait for them to cool. Removal of the tissue paper should result in large spiral curls. I did the curls on myself which turned out to be a much more difficult task than anticipated. The back isn’t much to speak of, but I think I managed to get the front pretty good! The only thing I’ve done to my hair in the second picture is run my hands through it for a more even look. All in all I think this method works better than anything I’ve tried before :)

badassindistress  asked:

Hi Marguerite, I had a question about hair curling. Do you have any resources about men's curling patterns or methods? I ask you because you described Courfeyrac as taking out curling papers several times and I need to know because Reasons. If they used papillotes or the like there must have been setting patterns, right? (Please don't put yourself out for this though it has absolutely no urgency) Hope you get better soon!

I don’t, alas! Dear dashboard (@pilferingapples, especialy) do you have an answer?

I mean, assume that they had the same methods as women did in the time period. Little Women mentions Meg using curl papers and burning off her hair with tongs, and various hairstyle blogs mention rag curls and curling papers as the method we nowadays replace with curlers. 

It’s a bit early but here’s some hair dressing items from Diederot’s Encylcopedie: http://xn– 

And here’s some very sketchy curl papers (I think) in between some hairdressers with tongs from a 1780s political cartoon: 

 Like, the thing I love most about doing dinners at my house is how much better it’s made me at coming up with dish ideas. We were doing this dish with marinated trumpet mushrooms at work, and it gave me the idea of doing abalone mushroom bourguinon. 

It’s like the reverse of beef bourguinon because first I make beef stock (vegan, of course)  turn that into bordelaise, marinate the mushrooms in that overnight, then sear them in butter (instead of the way you make beef bourguinon where you sear it, then make the broth with the resulting juices) made a demiglace, some purple sweet taters dauphinoise, and charred broccolini and it’s the perfect new main course.

Then, i had the idea the same day to try making fumet based on the poaching liquid I use for this heart of palm dish I have. It worked, and then I remembered this tomato-fennel broth recipe I came up with a few months ago that I didn’t know what the fuck to do with and BOOM, it all came together: the fumet+that tomato fennel broth is literally bouillabaisse if I throw in some fennel and white wine. I hate tofu and don’t cook with it, but I had the idea to marinate it in fumet, bake it off en papillote, and serve it with the bouillabaisse broth, caramelized fennel, and a nori chip,  and GOD DAMN if that shit wasn’t good as hell. 

I figured since I was on a roll, I might as well come up with a new dessert. Ever since I got that maltodextrin from my boss, I’ve been toying with the idea of making a PB & J dessert, so I did it tonight. Almond financiers crumbled over raspberry gelee with peanut butter powder and a lil disc of flash frozen aerated concord grape mousse (that I did with a half sheet and some dry ice since I don’t happen to have an anti-griddle lying around) It’s sick. I got pictures of it all that I’ll post tomorrow, but I’m really proud. 


Poissons salés aux oignons et aux poivrons, La tortue à la sauce tomate

Côtes de porc aux légumes, Légume aux poissons fumés

Poisson frais mis en papillote préparé à la braise, Viande de bœuf à l’oseille et aux aubergines

Mon professeur de philosophie m'a dit un jour :
Le plus dur ce n'est pas de choisir mais de renoncer. Je veux dire si vous avez deux papillotes, une au chocolat blanc et l'autre au chocolat noire et qu'on vous demande de n'en choisir qu'une, qu'est-ce qui est le plus dur ? Choisir ou renoncer?

Ce jour là, je n'ai pas vraiment compris le sens de ses mots, mais aujourd'hui tout deviens plus clair.
J'ai eu la chance dans ma vie d'être tombée sur Aïden, mais surtout d'être tombée amoureuse de lui.
On m'a demandé de choisir entre lui et mon passer. J'ai choisi mon passé. Mais j'ai renoncé à Aïden. J'ai renoncé à celui qui aurait peux être mon futur.


Crossing Knives, Chapter 3: Hangover Breakfast

I’ve been working very hard this week, because I wanted to post a new chapter before going on vacation tomorrow. I’m taking a notebook with me, so I hope I’ll come back in September with at least one more chapter.

This is the moment when my two protagonists finally meet…. there are no flying knives yet, but that will come soon.

As usual, all kinds of feedback, critique and enthusiastic praise are more than welcome. Thank you for reading!

Previous chapters: Chapter 1 - Chapter 2

In a big city like London, where more than eight million people toil and sweat every day, space is a resource that cannot be wasted. Hundreds of great houses on both sides of the Thames had been transformed into blocks of flats, and the new buildings tended to cram their inhabitants into tiny studios or apartments with no more than one or two bedrooms.

The Barbican Estate was the perfect example of that modern mentality, with its many terrace blocks and maisonettes that composed an architectural symphony right in the middle of the City. Living at the Barbican was in itself a symbol of status, and not just because of the high prices. From the top of any of the three monumental towers that crowned the estate one could see London in all its glory, and for many people it was worth sacrificing a bit of floor space for a magnificent sight like that.

But not all urban flats are created equal, and the Barbican architects knew it well; therefore, on the upper levels of the towers they designed a number of bigger lodgings, all of them with five or more spacious rooms. The top floor of each one of the three concrete behemoths was divided into three huge penthouse flats, an oasis of luxury that dominated the whole landscape.

The most famous of the three buildings was Shakespeare Tower, of course. Being identical to the other two, its name was probably the only real reason for its fame. Whenever a photographer wanted to do a study in Brutalist architecture, that was the building he featured in his photoshoots. The gift shop at the Barbican Centre was full of posters, postcards, notebooks… even tea towels, all with the image of the impossibly tall, menacingly grey giant. Many tourists observed it from below, wondering how would it feel to look at the city from a height of 400 feet, or to wake up with the pale rays of the elusive London sun, that surely touched the top of Shakespeare Tower first before descending onto the rest of the mortal population.

On the 42nd floor of the Tower, alone between the wrinkled sheets of his bed, Chef Tom Hiddleston blinked in the morning light, groaned loudly, and covered his head with one of the pillows.

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A Tuồng actress doing make-up, Chợ Lớn, Sài Gòn, Vietnam, 1961. Photo by Jack Garofalo/Paris Match via Getty Images

Saigon et son faubourg, Cholon, 1961. Le théâtre chinois est le plus vieux du monde. Issus du peuple chinois, les comédiens jouent avec les mêmes maquillages et costumes que leurs ancêtres. Une jeune fille, vêtue d'un chemisier imprimé bleu, se maquille à l'aide d'une spatule, les sourcils accentués par les traits au pinceau noir, un dégradé de rouge au rose allant des paupières aux joues sur un fond blanc appliqué à son visage. Ses cheveux sont en cours de préparation, maintenus par des papillotes en papier aluminium; prise de vue dans une loge au décor dépouillé: un miroir, deux bougeoirs et un bouddha.