Ze More Butta ze Betta

It's Eleanore's day off. Frances and Carolyn are IN.

On our 9th day in France, we thought it appropriate to do as the French do: make croissants. Of course, it takes us thirty seconds, literally, to get to professionnal croissants at a boulangerie down the street, but hey. A goal is a goal.

Mechanical Prep:
Employ the early riser (me) to check out recipes online. Trust that she will find the best uh, AMERICAN recipe...hmmmmmm....wouldn't it be easier, oh, never mind.

Emotional Prep:

Have kids hang the wad of clean laundry out to dry on the centuries'-old back patio...to get them in the mood for a LOT of french baking to come.

Discuss and Arrive at Mission Statement:
"Ze more butta, ze betta."

Mechanics:
1. Place husband/father in front of computer to Google the conversion from cups to litres and cups & tablespoons to grams and GAWD knows what else so we can use the American recipe.
2. Get the kid with the most energy to whack at the butter to soften it with a, yes, hmmm, ladle.
3. Flour your trusty wine bottle from the night before (cork and good wine still in it) and use the bottle in the place of a rolling pin.
4. Trust the kids have washed their hands before lathering the butter all over the dough and then folding the dough a million times (exaggeration) so there are 81 layers of dough per croissant (no exaggeration).
5. Finally get outside while the dough is rising for the SECOND time...Go, say, to a gorgeous, pumping, clear river, cross it on an old, charming stone bridge, play hard at a par course, which happens to be adjacent to ancient ruins of a local roman aquaduct; then pilfer a lush field of grass to play Monty Python tag (where "not-Its" run around yelling out Monty Python quotes at the "It" (me), like "Wewease Wojow," and "It's only a flesh wound," and "Your mother smells of elderberries," and "what did the Romans ever do for us?" and "How do you KNOW she's a witch?" The idea being that "it" is laughing so hard that she is on the grass, muddying her jeans and cannot tag a soul). Or something like that.
6. Have a really good bottle of wine ready to drink with your husband while you all wait for the last rise.
7. Send the kids off to buff out their fort in the one little tiny corner of the tiny apartment while you DRINK the wine. Say "yes" to letting them use the cushions from the sofa for their fort...it'll buy you more wine time with your husband.
8. Get that same husband / father to Google the conversion from fahrenheit to celsius for that American recipe ... and then get him to finish the deal by turning on that tricky french oven himself, and while he's at it, let him cook everything else for dinner : sauteed exotic mushrooms, fresh goat cheese and herbes de provence wrapped neatly inside grilled, sliced eggplant, fresh french (lettuce-only) salad, leftover pasta for the kids, green beans for the kids, water in the glasses.
8. Toast your kids and said husband to a super day of baking croissants and acknowledge the fact that those croissants turned out DARN good. AND buttery.

Mission Accomplished.

Note to self / selves:
There are hundreds of french bakers who rise at 2 or 3 am to make croissants for you for a very small price. A. very. small. price.

Flattering follow-up: the amazing artis and his wife invited us to their house for dinner soon...they find no trouble in picking us up and driving us home. Remember, we're car-less. How nice is that? We can't wai!