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Copyright © 2017 by Samantha Vérant
Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Catherine Cassalino
Branding by Sourcebooks, Inc.
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Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
This book is a memoir. It reflects the author’s present recollections of experiences over a period of time. Some names and characteristics have been changed, some events have been compressed, and some dialogue has been re-created.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
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To Max and Elvire.
Thank you for opening up your hearts to me.
Je vous aime.
Beaucoup! Beaucoup! Beaucoup!
xox
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Author’s Note
How to Make a French Family
PREFACE: How to Marry a Frenchman You’ve Ignored for Twenty Years
INGREDIENT ONE: COMMUNICATION
1. A Beautiful Mess
2. Leaping into L’amour
3. Bienvenue en France
4. This Is My Circus, and These Are My Fleas
5. Winging It
6. I’m an Immigrant?
RECIPES FOR COMMUNICATION
Paulette’s Tomates Farcies
Jean-Luc’s Moules à la Marinière
Moules Curry Sauce
Moules Roquefort Sauce
Moules à la Plancha
Tuna Noodle Casserole
Jean-Luc’s Quiche Lorraine
INGREDIENT TWO: FRIENDSHIP
7. Integrate or Die Trying
8. Driving Forward
9. Bring on the Mistletoe and Holly
10. A Baguette in the Oven
11. Online (Friend) Dating
12. Love Doesn’t Just Come from DNA
13. Swinging from (the Sugar High of) La Chandeleur
RECIPES FOR FRIENDSHIP
Jean-Luc’s Tartiflette
How to Host a French Dinner Party
Individual Tomato and Zucchini Tarts
Alain and Muriel’s Grapefruit, Shrimp, and Fennel Verrine
Roasted Potimarron (Hokkaido Squash) Soup
Balsamic Glazed Pork Tenderloin with Mustard Cream Sauce
Boeuf Bourguignon
Jean-Luc’s Langoustes à l’Armoricaine
Lemon Mustard Vinaigrette
Creamy Balsamic Vinaigrette
INGREDIENT THREE: ADVENTURE
14. A Spring in My Step
15. Salmonluhjah!
16. Weight Not, Want Not
17. Making Ends Meet
18. Diving Right In
19. La Guerre des Boutons (The War of the Buttons)
RECIPES FOR ADVENTURE
Jean-Luc’s Crêpes
My Mom’s Chicken and Mushrooms in a Cream Sauce
Maxence’s Ham and Cheese Crêpes
Chicken Tagine with Apricots, Prunes, and Almonds
Lemon Confit à la Marocaine (Preserves)
Sam’s Toulousian French Creole Gumbo
Isabelle’s Gâteau Fondant à l’Orange
INGREDIENT FOUR: PASSION
20. The American Invasion
21. Digging Up Roots
22. Dreams Change
23. Throw Papa from the Plane
RECIPES FOR PASSION
Jean-Luc’s Flambéed Pastis Shrimp
Mango-Avocado Salsa
Moelleux au Chocolat with a Cœur Fondant
Sautéed Rosemary Potatoes
Elvire’s Gâteau au Yaourt (Yogurt Cake)
INGREDIENT FIVE: LOVE
24. Stepmother’s Day
25. Get Me to the Church on Time
26. Friendship Is Always in Season
27. Life Is a Bowl of Cherries, Even When There Are Pits
28. Sweet Sixteen
RECIPES FOR LOVE
Jean-Luc’s Traditional Tian Provençal
Kathy’s Goat Cheese and Balsamic Glaze Tian Provençal
Jean-Luc’s Simple Pot-au-Feu
Jean-Luc’s Cherry Clafoutis
Jean-Luc’s Strawberry Soup
A Crumble for All
Frushi
Cherry Compote
Epilogue
How to Host the Perfect Book Club
Reading Group Guide
Acknowledgments
About the Author
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This memoir chronicles what happens to a fairy-tale romance when an American woman, me, marries a Frenchman by the name of Jean-Luc and jumps into a new life in southwestern France. This is a true story. There are no composite characters; however, I did change the names of select individuals to protect their identities. There are some composite scenes; if I didn’t do this, the book would be more repetitive than Groundhog Day. Some sequences of events have been compressed, moved around, or omitted completely in order to ensure a well-paced story. And, rather than writing two more years of life (again, Groundhog Day), I did include our problems with the “renter” in this story. Conversations are not verbatim, but reconstructed from my elephant-like memory. Unless they are with Jean-Luc or my family and expat friends, most of the conversations I have are in conversational French. Well, broken French and a mix of Franglais. To simplify things, I’ve written the majority of the conversations in English or we’d get lost in translations.
As for the recipes included in this book, season them to your taste, especially when it comes to salt and pepper; take shortcuts, like using a food processor to finely mince, when needed; and get creative! Also, if you have a convection oven, a general rule of thumb is to lower the temperature or diminish the cooking time by 20 percent.
With all that said, I invite you, dear reader, to join me on a—sometimes bumpy—family adventure filled with love, food, and faux pas.
HOW TO MAKE A FRENCH FAMILY
Simply put, love is the main ingredient needed to make a French family, the same as for any other family in the world, whether blended or traditional. But if you need an actual recipe for inspiration, I’m at your disposal, and here it is:
FAMILLE À LA FRANÇAISE
Prep time: Every day, 24/7
Cook time: Simmer until your heart bubbles over with laughter.
Great for: A lifetime of happiness
Wine suggestion: Forget about wine—celebrate your wonderful life with champagne!
INGREDIENTS:
•Communication
•Friendship
•Adventure
•Passion
•Love
•Marry a sexy Frenchman, win over his two kids, and move to southwestern France*
Blend all ingredients together. Open up your heart to everything and everybody. Don’t let fear, insecurities, or regret hold you back. Take a leap. Shake up your life; don’t stir it. When we dare to follow our hearts, the risk is worth it. Focus on the little things that make you happy, even when times are tough and messy. It will all work out in the end. Dreams change. And people can, too. Love bigger, live stronger, and don’t let anybody tell you that something isn’t possible. Dare to follow your heart. And, most importantly, believe in yourself. A happy family is made when all the members in it are happy. Season with an extra dash of love. Serve to everybody in your world.
*Optional, but not necessary.
Preface
HOW TO MARRY A FRENCHMAN YOU’VE IGNORED FOR TWENTY YEARS
It was the adventure of a lifetime.
In 1989, my parents moved from a suburb of Boston to London, England, and I was to spend the summer with them, taking a break from advertising design studies at Syracuse University. The moment Tracey found out, she called my dorm room.
“I’m visiting you,” she said.
“Of course you are,” I replied. We’d often joked that we’d been able to see the world because of my parents’ moves—from Chicago, where I grew up, to Boston, Boston to London, London to California, California to Virginia to Tucson, then back to Virginia and back to California again. My home may have changed over the years, but one thing has remained constant: my friendship with Tracey. She’s been by my side for every major life change.
“But I have a better idea,” I said. “Rather than staying in London, let’s travel Europe while we have the chance. First London. Then Paris.”
“And then the south of France. And Italy…”
“Don’t forget Greece,” I said. “Can you take off three weeks of work?”
Tracey worked at the Chicago Board of Trade, clerking for a few traders.
“Are you kidding? I don’t care if they fire me. Shots of ouzo? Plates broken on our heads? I’m so in.”
The planning began.
Over the summer, I worked three jobs—two waitressing gigs and an internship at an art studio—to save up money for the trip. By the time July rolled around, I’d saved over one thousand dollars, and it was a done deal. Tracey flew to London, and after touring the city, clubbing at the Hippodrome, and dressing my little sister Jessica up like Madonna, it was on to our first stop: Paris.
There was something about the French way of joie de vivre that reeled us in like little fishes—from enjoying the sites—the chocolate and perfume shops—to getting lost on the cobbled streets. Paris, the City of Lights, the city of our girlhood dreams, the city of passion, seduced our souls. Of course, we hadn’t planned to meet two sexy Frenchmen at a café. But we did.
Tracey had a much better view of their table. She didn’t even try to hide her ogling. I had to crane my neck and peer over my right shoulder, trying not to be too obvious. But I was, and he caught me in his gaze for a brief moment. A dark emerald-green button-down shirt complemented his hazel eyes. His hair was thick, dark. He had a cute cleft in his chin. It was love at first sight, or as the French would say, un coup de foudre—a bolt of lightning, a shock to the system. The attraction I felt toward this handsome stranger, simply put, was magnetic. Soon, the electricity (or Tracey’s blatant staring) pulled the guys over, and they positioned themselves in front of our table. Then, they insulted us.
“No self-respecting Frenchwoman would ever order a bottle of wine sans bouchon,” said the object of my affection, referring to the screw cap on the only offering we could afford. I was about to speak when he said, “We’d like to propose you a good bottle. But on one condition: if you would allow us the honor, we would like to join you at your table.”
Introductions were made. Jean-Luc, the guy in the emerald button-down shirt, and Patrick, his friend, had obviously mastered the “neg” long before the term was coined, but we took no offense. Not with those spine-tingling, sexy French accents. Pleased with our fate, I smiled at Tracey, and she shot me a wicked grin.
Like Jean-Luc, Patrick was a perfect specimen of a man with movie-star good looks. His hair was dark brown, almost black, and he had beautiful crystalline blue eyes. Yet something about him was too perfect—for my taste, at least. But that didn’t matter. Tracey was drooling over Patrick, and, after some minor flirting confusion, the coupling was set.
Jean-Luc was unlike any guy I’d ever met. In addition to being ridiculously handsome, at the age of twenty-six, he had just finished up his required military-service officer training in Salon de Provence—and now worked at the French equivalent of NASA while finishing up his PhD. He spoke four or five languages, including Russian. His charm, his intelligence, and his sexy French accent had me hooked. Tracey and Patrick also got along famously, and our night didn’t end after dinner. The boys took us for drinks on the Champs-Élysées, where we sat under the stars, the Arc de Triomphe glowing in the distance, and where I tried Porto for the very first time. From there, it was off to a private discothèque, where we danced until the sun came up and exchanged a few stolen kisses. After dropping us off at our youth hostel, they soon returned so that they could show us a bit more of Paris. But Tracey and I only had nine hours left in the City of Lights, and the clock was ticking down quickly. Soon, it was time to go. The guys tried to convince us to stay, but it wasn’t an option, seeing that Tracey and I had booked one-way train tickets that we couldn’t change. With our hearts racing, we made it to the platform at Gare de Lyon with sixty seconds to spare. Jean-Luc and I shared one final kiss. The train whistle blew. I stepped into the passenger car. “This isn’t a good-bye,” I said.
The train lurched forward. Jean-Luc and Patrick became tiny specks in the distance. As the train rolled along, my good-bye had already turned into the more permanent adieu.
Jean-Luc was too perfect, too smart. He was seven years older than I was, ready for a relationship. The timing wasn’t right. As an insecure nineteen-year-old, I figured there must have been something wrong with him if he liked me.
That fall, I returned to my studies at Syracuse University to find six of Jean-Luc’s letters waiting. I tried writing him back, but my words came out wrong, sounded stupid, could never match the passion in his. Incoherent scribbles filled the garbage bin in my dorm room. By the time his seventh letter arrived in November, guilt had rendered me numb. I tucked his letters into a blue plastic folder and got back to college living.
Fast forward to May of 2009, twenty years later.
My life hadn’t turned out at all like I planned; it was one hot mess. My career and my marriage had fallen apart. I was in debt. And I was miserable. At Tracey’s suggestion, I pulled out the seven old love letters that Jean-Luc had written to me two decades prior. Instead of the inspiration I was looking for, I found regret. Because I had never written him back. I had just left Jean-Luc standing on the train platform of the Gare de Lyon, blowing kisses.
Something in my gut told me that in order to change the state of my world, I needed to face past mistakes. I certainly didn’t have anything to lose. After a twenty-year delay, I decided to apologize to Jean-Luc. But I couldn’t just send him an arbitrary email. What if he’d forgotten about me? To jog his memory, on May 7, 2009, I wrote the first post of a seven-post blog, recounting the twenty-four hours Jean-Luc and I spent together. Then, on May 10, 2009, I sent Jean-Luc the link to the blog, along with my very delayed letter. A few days later, he responded. “I’d experienced train station syndrome,” he’d said. For three months, we exchanged over two hundred emails. The emails soon turned into phone calls.
I didn’t realize one heartfelt “I’m sorry” would change my life…for the better. On August 2, 2009, I dared to follow my heart, and I flew to France to meet him. The connection between us was instantaneous, just as it had been in 1989.
After circumnavigati
ng the blue, white, and red tape that came with an American woman getting hitched to a Frenchman, we were married in a five-minute ceremony performed at our local mairie in France on May 7, 2010. We were finally able to celebrate our union with our family and friends at my parents’ home in California on July 24.
Life and love were, indeed, an adventure.
So let the adventure begin.
Ingredient One
COMMUNICATION
1
A BEAUTIFUL MESS
Rose petals. They were everywhere. Scattered up the stairs leading to the bedroom. Shaped into a heart on the carpet. Blanketing the bed in an explosion of hot pink and orange insanity.
Jean-Luc shook the duvet, launching a hurricane of silver-dollar-size puffs into the air. A breeze blew in from the open window, which turned the petals into a colorful troupe of whirling dervishes spinning around on the floor.
“There must be hundreds of them. Maybe thousands,” said Jean-Luc. “It’s madness.”
In my post-wedding haze, I’d forgotten about the botanical war zone that had had us giggling in delight the evening before. Jean-Luc and I had fallen into bed, exhausted, happy, and filled with relief. This was our second chance at love and—after a twenty-year hiatus—we’d finally tied the knot.
The evening had gone off without a hitch—the weather perfect, the food delicious, and the music outstanding. Buzzed on love and a few glasses of champagne, Jean-Luc and I danced under a full moon, a blanket of stars sparkling over our heads, the perfume of Californian jasmine and roses enveloping us. The morning after, however, it took us a few moments to come to terms with the amorous aftermath of our wedding night.
Jean-Luc nudged my shoulder. He eyed the roses. “Sam, seriously, who did this?”
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