My tongue is green, my head is spinning and my teeth are furry. I haven’t had solid food in over 24 hours. No, its not the plague, its Detox Delight! Which is really funny if you think about it. A delightful detox? Really?

Well, actually, yes… I’m only on day 2, but already I’ve lost 2 kilos. I know that this is weight that will come back if I return to my evil ways, but that is the other delight of this program. The two days I spent “prepping” have really help point out my evil ways. Particularly my habit of going into the kitchen for a little snack between the articles I write.

Its a break. I need to stretch my legs, and rest my eyes from the computer screen. I always choose a healthy snack; a clementine, a rice cake or a few almonds. But I must have skipped my math because those calories add up!!! Now I boil some water and grate a bit of ginger inside. Same break, zero calories.

Another delight has been the comments from my family;
“You’re crazy, Mom, you look perfect.”
“No toast for me this morning, I’ll just have a plain yogurt, I’ll do a mini-detox. Like you.”

And then there is the delight of having all my meals planned for me. Detox Delight delivers. They deliver your entire menu for the next to days. They’ll be delivering chez moi for five days. This week I will not have to ask myself “what’s for dinner.” Not even once! The family is surviving on leftovers I freeze, which means they are cleaning out my freezer, too!!! And since there is no cooking, there are no dishes to wash. Now that is what I call delightful!!!

The not so delightful part has been the rather large, water logged legs I had to hoist into bed last night with their sexy sock lines that had to hide from Mr French. And taking the metro home from a meeting last night, sitting next to a young man who was munching innocently away on his fresh out of the oven baguette as I used all of my resources to resist the urge to pounce on his snack and reveal my inner gluten glutton.

When I was seven years old my rather devout, convent school raised, Roman Catholic mom decided to become Jewish. Her husband, my father, was Jewish and she somehow got it into her head that my brother and I needed religion. My Dad was not going to start attending church, so she signed up at the local synagogue and before any of us, not my Dad, not even the Rabbi, knew what had hit us she was organizing a conversion ceremony. I still remember that day, driving up to The City with a RABBI in our car, dressed to the nines, a gazillion bobby pins in my hair, ready to go to the Mikvah (a ritual bath).

Because we were already born, and to a shiksa no less, my brother and I had to go into the bath, too. There is not a single photo of this day, but I can tell you that I was wearing a polyester a-line pale pink, yellow, and orange dress that had a square neckline and white knee highs with patent leather mary janes (my fashion habit started at an early age). I had to take it all off, and then we had to remove every one of those bobby pins from my rather long, unruly hair before heading into the bath. I remember my mom being annoyed with herself for not having understood that when they said we’d have to be as naked as the day we were born, that included our hair. I was just relieved they p hadn’t insisted we shave it off.

Immediately after that, pork was banned from our house, those lovely crab dinners were out and a new tradition began; Friday night dinner. Every Friday night we had to be home for dinner. My mother would light the candles, we would sip some really horrible sickly sweet wine and we’d all say a prayer over the bread. Then my Dad would bless us. There is a special prayer in Judaism, asking that your children grow up to be healthy, good people. If you’ve ever seen Fiddler on the Roof, you’ve heard the prayer, you just didn’t know it was a prayer because they snuck it in there as if it was a Broadway melody. Finally, my Dad would recite a poem for my Mom, a hymn really, written by a king (Solomon) and fit for a queen.

Those dinners stopped a few weeks before my brother’s Bar Mitzvah and my 16th birthday, when my mother died. She was 39 years old.

A WOMAN OF VALOUR who can find? Her price is far above rubies.
The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, and he hath no lack of gain.
She doeth him good and not evil all the days of her life.
She giveth food to her household, and a portion to her maidens.
She stretcheth out her hand to the poor; yea she reacheth forth her hands to the needy.
Strength and dignity are her clothing and she laugheth at the time to come.
She open her mouth with wisdom and the law of kindness is on her tongue.
She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness.
Her children rise up and call her blessed. Her husband also, and he praiseth her;
“Many daughters have done valiantly, but thou excellest them all.”
Grace is deceitful, and beauty is vain,
But a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.
Give her of the fruit of her hands and let her works praise her in the gates.

Happy Birthday, Mom

;

When we first met, Mr French was a bit concerned with my lack of fashion and thought I needed lessons in chic. He did not get my California hippy penchant for large, clunky shoes in odd color combinations, like fushia trimmed vomit green. Or my handbags that could double as a stuffed animal which I alternated with my equally inappropriate ‘Eastpak’ collection. He has since ‘corrected’ my ways and helped me develop a rather unhealthy habit regarding both shoes and bags.

These days, he can not understand why I still insist on wearing my threadbare, black frock coat when I could wear my other, perfectly modern, black wrap-around coat.

“But it’s from the 1940’s.” I whine.

“Yes, and it looks like it.” he reposts.

He’s right. The lining is shredded, the sleeves are worn and there is no button hole, so the coat can not be closed to ward off the winter winds. It is a little nutty to be wearing torn, worn out clothing when there are practical, yet gorgeous alternatives just one hanger over.

I bought the frock coat at one of those rag dealers near Les Halles when I was a starving student here in the 90’s. I was with my brother, and being a fille from la Californie, I didn’t own a decent coat. I found this one and have loved it ever since I loved it a little more when a tailor taught me it was a redingote, a traditional  French style that draws its name from the French trying to say “Riding coat” around the time of Marie Antoinette. I still loved when that same tailor mistakingly removed 6 inches from its length.

I have, it would seem, a passion for vintage coats. Like my 1950’s Paris couture black velvet, A-line coat with wide 3/4 length sleeves and a zoot suit lapel, or my 1960’s baby llama’s wool coat with jet black buttons (and holes torn under the arms). I’m missing the 70’s, but the 80’s are represented by my purple, inverted fleece Norma Kamali wrap around coat that I bought new for a small fortune and have worn ever year since then. The 90’s I went classical with a Burberry trench.

Now that we’re on to the next century Mr French is trying to show me the evil of my ways. He has guided me in the purchase of a grey Max Mara; practical, but boring and its already fading at the sleeves after just a few years!!! IHe has even gotten me into a warm, sensible, yet dreaded for being totally un-stylish, yet heart breakingly trendy Moncler, which my daughters hope I tire of sooner, rather. And I’ve acquired a lovely black cashmire trench style from Paule Ka that I love and look forward to wearing as vintage some day!