Going French With Help From Cymax

I’ve decided to change my identity. My entire heritage, actually. Although I am a perfectly balanced mix of Scottish and English (50/50, I’m told), I’m going French. It’s just that French is sultrier, more seductive. The language elegantly rolls off the tongue… well, more like the back of the throat, but still. I love to eat, and the tastes of France beat the Scottish meat ‘n potatoes or the British fish ‘n chips staple foods. I’ll stay away from escargot, but bring on the cheeses and baguettes, and especially the chocolate fondue, any day. And no more tartan, no more cardigans. I want Louis Vuitton, Yves Saint Laurent, Christian Dior, and Chanel. And who doesn’t want to go to the most romantic country in the world? I certainly do. French: I want to speak it, eat it, wear it, and live it. I want to be French.

In order to “go” French there are some essential things I need to change about my home. Luckily, Cymax makes this incredibly easy with the convenience of online shopping. Cymax has a variety of furniture items, for every room in the house, which will help with my transformation.

Firstly, in order to cook up a French storm, to have all the wonderful aromas and tastes that come with the nationality, I will need a French kitchen cart for all of the extra space I will need to accommodate the varieties of ingredients cluttering my kitchen. Classically styled, this cart will make it easy to cook a genuine gourmet French-inspired meal. I will also need a French baker’s rack for all of the baguettes I plan on making. I don’t know how to make them yet, but those are just minor details.

But I can’t just go from a French kitchen to a drab eating area, furnished with a table and chairs from England that have been passed down to me from centuries ago that any person my age should not have anywhere near their house if they want to avoid the nickname “Granny”. In order to genuinely transform my identity, I need to invest in a French bar table set to feed myself and my guests in style. This will provide a perfect perch for wine and cheese, and a good gab. With the contemporary style, combined with a touch of traditional French scrollwork, I can have a modern dining area with a French design. There I will sit, pouring champagne for guests, and will be well on my way to French-hood.

My new French identity needs to infiltrate my every hour though – even when I am not awake. In order to be successful at training my subconscious, I need to start having French dreams. In order for French dreams, I need to be dreaming in a bed complete with a French comforter set. This nine-piece comforter set features a leafy design that I can only imagine mirrors the falling leaves on Paris streets. Here, I will sleep in French, and when I wake up, I will take my fashionable new clothes out of my French floral accent chest to dress myself, and head to my French jewelry armoire to put on my make-up and accessories to start my day on the right foot.

The finishing touches for my newly Frenchized home will probably be the most important part of my transitioning nationality. I will desperately need a place to practice the language. Sure, I will get the chance to test out my French by speaking with friends (or forcing them to listen to me), but I won’t master the language, or the nationality, without studying. With a French floral desk to match my accent chest, and a French table lamp to keep me company through hours and hours of perfecting the language and the accent, I will have everything I need.

On top of this, thanks to the ability to shop online for all of these necessities, I can become French without having to leave the house. That said, once I feel French enough, I am buying a one-way ticket to France (bypassing the United Kingdom), and bringing my furniture with me. C’est final.

They Mostly Come at Night…Mostly

It was the third time this week that I had left my freshly baked bread on the floor to cool and the third time something tremendously devastating had happened to it. Something shocking; something destructive; something permanent and disturbing. Things that I didn’t know could happen in good bread baking homes like mine. All I wanted was some delicious bread to go with my recently acquired pound of store bought liver pâté, but these terrible happenings were holding me back significantly.

The first night that I left my piping hot loaf of bread to cool on the kitchen floor, (I didn’t really have very much available counter space you see), I woke up the next morning to discover it completely vanished! Not a single crumb, nor a tiny morsel – it was as though I hadn’t baked it at all. Its trace was so completely undetectable that I began to actually suspect that I hadn’t made the bread; that maybe my intense craving for fresh bread, coupled with my overactive imagination caused me to create a whole delusion in which I had baked bread and left it to cool on my kitchen floor. That must be it, I thought to myself, not entirely convinced. So I proceeded to make another loaf of bread and leave it to cool in the place which I had thought I had left my previous loaf.

The next morning I suffered a similar ordeal. Not a scrap in sight, nor a speck in view. No hint whatsoever of my laborious loaf, nor any clue as to what had happened to it. I was devastated. I wasn’t sure if I could stomach another disappointment like this. And on top of it all, I was running low on flour, my liver pâté was about to turn and I hadn’t eaten in two days.

I weakly prepared another warm, delicious loaf of bread and left it to cool in the same place as before and ambled to bed with a strange combination of gloom and hope growling in my empty belly.

I woke up the next morning to what I had been dreading…an empty floor with nothing on it but the wet oval of condensation from what had once been a delicious loaf of bread. But wait…there was something there! A clue; a hint! Some friendly evidence from which I could begin my intense investigation. I was starving and someone would have to pay…

Large, critter-like footprints peppered the big, wet mark left by the bread and moist claw prints had been scattered around the kitchen…big splayed feet with tiny, sharp little toes. And what was this?! A note! A tiny little note! I scooped up the note and read it greedily. It was written in sharp red scrawl and it said,

“Thanks for the grub, sucker.

Love,

The Tenants”

I was horrified. Simply horrified. Those scoundrels! Those rascally villains! Those free-loading, no good doing rogues!

I felt used, exploited…abused…

I was furious with myself for allowing this to happen…again. I began to recall a high instance of food thievery taking place in my home, oftentimes followed by similar notes, such as,

“Thanks for the cookies, chump” or “Thanks for the cinnamon buns, sucker”

Now…I am no detective. Nor do I have any logical skills to speak of (unless you consider a proficiency my own made-up style of Kung-Fu a skill), but I definitely detected some similarities between the notes I had received over the years and the note I was reading now. I couldn’t be 100% sure of course without a handwriting expert to consult with, but my inkling was strong and I was determined to end these insults.

I devised a very careful plan. I would bake another delicious loaf of bread and leave it to scroll its thick, delicious vapor throughout the house…in the hopes that it would coax my enemies once again.

Oh freshly baked bread…you mouthwatering temptress…work your aromatic magic…

I hid in my pantry, carefully concealed by an assortment of aprons and cooking smocks and patiently waited for something to happen.

I was starting to doze off when all of a sudden I heard the pitter patter of claw like feet on my black and white tiled floor. I was shaken so suddenly that my heart immediately began beating at a tremendous speed and my eyes were as wide as urinal cakes.

I spied them through the crack I had left in my pantry door.

I spied their small black eyes and their wretched, graceful claws.

I spied their furiously quick feet and strong, skeletal tails.

I spied the family of giant rats that had come to feast on my bread; come to greedily consume every last bit of starch that I had slaved over the evening before.

I didn’t know what to do!

Should I confront them?

Should I continue to hide and then, once they have finished, subsequently move out of the house? The country?

How did they get in? Where are they hiding?

I couldn’t be bullied any longer.

I emerged from the pantry, laden with various colors and styles of aprons and howled a terrible howl! Then I stomped a terrible stomp and the rats were frightened away, leaving half a loaf of nibbled, ransacked bread still steaming on the floor. I couldn’t believe it! I had to do something about this right away. I immediately got on the internet in search of something that might protect my bread from these massive, disgusting rodents.

I stumbled across bakersrackscollection.com and discovered a whole world of strategies to protect my bread! Bakers racks of all sorts designed especially for cooling bread and buns and cookies! Never again would my baked goods fall prey to the wall dwellers…those night walking, baked good stalking crooks!

Not only would I be able to protect my delicious food with these marvelous bakers racks but they also offered superior storage options.

Bakersrackscollection.com was about to save my life!

Unfortunately before I could take advantage of their massive selection and zero shipping costs I passed out from hunger and exhaustion.