écurie normale supérieure

First I thought it was so cute that Pierre, who is working with vegetables and horses like Rosalie (below) to cure his crippling phobie sociale, would reply, when I would ask if it was going to rain tomorrow, "Oui, normalement," as if a specific time in the future could ever be normal, but then I caught on that it's a pretty normal locution.

figue-nique

I try to beat the wasps to the figs au bord de la ferme, right by the potimarron planters. Usually I win, which makes them very hangry. I have this fear I'll eat a fig with a wasp inside that will sting the inside of my mouth. Maybe that would be just the pique I need to give my French a certain je ne sais quoi...

soupe aux mauvaises herbes

I’m deeply entrenched in transformation. Compost comes from the toilets. I made a compote of some pommes abîmées and a gâteau aux courgettes out of myself. Morgan has dreams about sexual assault, offered me her melatonin, warned of possible malignant effects. I just ate an almond and I couldn’t tell if it tasted more like amaretto or cyanide—do those taste the same or the opposite? What’s that thing Montaigne says about the skeptic and the rhubarb? Jean-Pierre says, in French, that it (rhubarb) will burn a hole in your shoe, I say what?, he says it in English, I don’t know what he’s talking about; oh, rhubarb, ça pique. Also, Italian coffee, you can float a horseshoe in it. I learn argot for water (flotte), tired (noz?), someone who apports the emmerdements (chieur). Morgan asks what’s argot, Jean-Pierre says “slang,” Morgan says “for what?”, he says “slayng,” I say, “argot, c’est l’argot pour ‘argot,’” Morgan laughs a little but everyone's kind of uncomfortable. Here's a picture of me and Marwan next to a bus:

Happy Bastille Day, fidèles!