Our market was big and lively, and there were seven or eight vegetable and fruit vendors, some selling organic produce, or “bio.” Jean-Luc and I usually shopped at one particular set-up, so I headed there. I grabbed some tomatoes, cucumbers, potatoes, bananas, carrots, lettuce, oranges, and whatever else tickled my fancy, throwing everything into my basket. Today, there were vegetables I’d never seen before—like the meteor-like celeri-rave (celery root), and Romanesco broccoli, which, with its chartreuse fractal peaks, reminded me of outer space and how I currently felt as though I were walking on the moon. Our vendor, a tall man with dark brown eyes and a head of unruly hair, smiled and motioned for my basket. I handed it over and, after he tallied everything up on his calculator, paid the twenty-eight euro.
“Un peu de persil? ” he asked. They always gave away free parsley.
I nodded.
“Les citrons? ”
“Oui, merci. Je les veux bien,” I said with a smile. Of course I wanted free lemons!
Beside me stood an elderly woman wearing a flowered dress and practical black shoes with a slight heel. She placed her goods into a caddy with wheels. Much more practical, I thought. I still had to get eggs, milk, yogurt, and le goûter, a snack, at the local 8 à Huit—our town’s version of a 7-Eleven that was technically open from eight to eight, but that closed whenever the shopkeepers felt like it. At any rate, once I was finished with the market shop, I had to get the staples for my French family…or else! By this point, though, my basket was heavy and digging into my arm.
A French child’s meal plan, like an American kid’s, comprises breakfast, lunch, and dinner. But foraging in the cabinets or eating on the go (unless on a road trip) is strictly prohibited. Around four o’clock, children are allowed to have le goûter, usually a biscuit, muffin, or cookie. All meals and snacks must be consumed at the dining room table or breakfast counter—never in a bedroom or on the sofa.
Breakfast is simple. France is a nation of dunkers—meaning one dunks breakfast biscuits, croissants, or madeleines into milk warmed up in the microwave, for the kids, or hot tea, for Jean-Luc. Sometimes Max and Elvire ate cereal, also served in warm milk. Lunches and dinners are balanced—a protein, a vegetable, and a starch. A piece of fruit always follows a lunch and, unless it’s a celebration or dinner party, a yogurt is served for dessert.
I’d read somewhere that French schools serve better lunches than American schools, the article making it sound like the kids eat gourmet meals in the cafeteria every day, and I asked the kids and Jean-Luc their thoughts.
“Ugh,” said Elvire. “The food is disgusting. I only eat the salad.”
“No,” said Max. “It’s eatable. And I never eat the salad.”
Jean-Luc piped in. “Yes, but it is true that the meals are balanced—they might have a fish…”
“Fish sticks?” I asked.
“No, real fish,” he said. I tried to imagine what would happen if American schools tried to serve real fish to picky students.
So, yes, there were some differences, and save for the fact that the French supermarket was closed on Sundays, when I liked to shop, I could get used to these new rules.
After such a long travel day, I really wasn’t in the mood or mindset to cook anything from scratch. I made my way to the rotisserie truck, first picking up a succulent chicken for dinner, and then to the vendor that sold paella for a premade lunch.
The paella sizzled in a black speckled pan, filled with saffron-infused rice, black mussels, happy little clams, strips of succulent calamari, pink shrimp, and langoustine, crayfish. Not only was it a beautiful dish, it was delicious. I bought four portions, and lunch was set. The vendor, a stocky man with a square head and short-spiked gray hair, asked a question I didn’t understand because he spoke so fast. I swore I heard the words “Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo.”
But that couldn’t have been right. He may have made a mean paella, but he wasn’t my fairy godmother. And, sweating under the hot summer sun in my yoga pants and Keds, I was no Cinderella.
“Pardon? ” I said.
“Vous venez d’où? ” he repeated, this time slowly.
Oh, oh, oh! Where was I from? Got it. I answered, “Chicago and Los Angeles.” And then I continued in French. “Désolée. Je suis venue plus tôt. Et, maintenant, je suis super chaude et fatiguée.”
His caterpillar-like eyebrows twisted in confusion, performing an acrobatic dance. The moment the words escaped my mouth, I knew I’d made a major error. The man choked back his laughter, his eyebrows now dancing the samba. His assistant clenched her teeth with surprise and fought back her giggles. Basically, I hadn’t said, “I’m sorry, I’ve just arrived today, and now I’m super hot and tired,” as I’d meant to. I’d said, “I came earlier and now I’m super horny and tired.” I just stood there feeling like a fool until the man asked for his twenty euro.
Burning with embarrassment, I picked up the rest of the supplies at 8 à Huit, and shuffled the three blocks home, choosing to take the path behind the mairie, where there was no risk of somebody pushing this alien into traffic. In the back of the building, two bushy-eared donkeys with menacing eyes were tied to a cart. Our town had tons of events, including live music and puppet shows and circuses for the kids. But there were no flyers for a show in town. I wondered what on earth these donkeys were doing here. The only one way to get past them was to go around their rear ends, risking a kick. After my outing in town, I took my chances, chanting, “Nice donkey, nice donkey.”
In a backyard along the path, a group of chickens squawked madly. These weren’t cute, plump chickens, but scruffy, with elongated featherless necks and yellow, demonic eyes. They ran up to the fence and flapped their wings. Maybe they knew I’d just flown in from Los Angeles and thought I was casting the next Jurassic Park ? Or maybe they just wanted to pluck my eyes out.
I walked faster, sweat pouring down my back, my basket so heavy I thought I’d have a heart attack. Finally, I made it back home, feeling as though the whole town, animals included, was out to get to me. It took me a few minutes to regain my composure. I chugged some water, deliberating whether I should open the bottle of wine I’d just picked up, and sat at the breakfast counter in the kitchen. Jean-Luc returned from the hardware store soon after, setting an arsenal of supplies on the counter.
“It’s been so hot here, the whole town is plagued with fleas,” he said. “I was lucky to get the last bombs.”
“Great,” I said.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“This isn’t the homecoming I expected,” I said.
“Ah, it’s just life, Sam. Nothing we could do. We’ll get through it.”
I straightened my shoulders and forced a smile. “I know. It’s just such a pain.” I didn’t tell him about how disconnected and out of sorts I was really feeling. And the last thing I wanted was to be laughed at for my faux pas with the paella vendor. Instead, I asked, “Hungry?”
“Starved. I’m sure the kids are, too. They didn’t eat much on the trip back home.”
There was that word again. Home. Why didn’t this feel like home? I set the table on the deck for lunch, and called à table, summoning them to the table the French way.
Elvire sat in her chair, looked at the dish, and smirked. “I hate paella.”
I kept my internal scream deep inside.
Oh, putain. Putain! Putain! Putain!
4
THIS IS MY CIRCUS, AND THESE ARE MY FLEAS
I suppose Jean-Luc and I technically went on a honeymoon before our marriage, on the trip when we reconnected in August of 2009. I had called it the “rekindle the romance” tour, since I hadn’t seen Jean-Luc in twenty years. The timing had been perfect. Max and Elvire were staying with their grandmother in Provence, so we could figure out if our connection was real without bringing his kids into the equation. I’d been nervous on the flight over, but told myself that if Jean-Luc and I connected in person the way we’d connected through letters, emails, and telephone calls
, the adventure was worth the risk. We’d arranged beforehand that if I wasn’t attracted to Jean-Luc on a physical level, I was supposed to kiss him on both cheeks, to “faire la bise,” the typical European greeting.
When he saw me, his beautiful bow-shaped lips curved into a sexy smile, and any worries I’d had vanished. He might not have had a full head of hair, but he worked the look well. And I loved the cleft in his chin, the square shape of his masculine jawline. He wore a blue and white striped shirt and jeans, undeniably French, and looked much better in person than in pictures. Our mutual attraction was instantaneous, just as it had been twenty years earlier.
For nine days, we traveled all over northern France, starting our trip in Chartres. From there it was off to the Loire Valley, where we visited castle after glorious castle, and then it was on to Dinan, a medieval town unique for its ramparts, in Bretagne. We visited the fortified city of Saint-Malo, complete with its pirate flags; enjoyed fresh oysters by the sea; and walked along the rugged beaches. We hiked through the ancient town of Mont Saint-Michel, which reminded me of a sand castle. We traversed the beaches of Normandy; the town of Deauville, known as the French Riviera of the North; and Bayeux, famed for its tapestry. We ate moules frites in the quaint seaside village of Étretat, known for the chalky cliffs Monet famously painted, and explored history, and drank fine French wines. We were a young(ish) couple falling head over heels in love and having the time of our lives. We spent our last two nights in Saint-Valéry-en-Caux, where the air was fresh and salty, clean—a promise of new beginnings.
At that time, I didn’t realize that one year later, almost to the day, I’d be restarting my life in France. Yet here I was. The vacation fantasy was over. And real life was about to set in.
Max and Elvire were spending the remainder of the summer with their maternal grandmother, Meme, and we took the kids to the airport, waiting with them until a hostess gathered all the kids traveling without adults. Elvire listened to music. Max played a video game. Jean-Luc closed his eyes. I sat there, relishing the crisp air conditioning. A pretty flight attendant in a blue Air France suit came over, announcing the kids’ flight to Marseille. Max and Elvire gave us quick kisses and scurried away.
“Call me when you land,” said Jean-Luc.
“Oui,” said Elvire with an eye roll.
We watched them pass through security and sat in the lobby until their plane took off. I was sad to see them go, but was looking forward to some alone time with Jean-Luc.
“Maybe, one day, we could take a trip to Paris?” I hinted, thinking it would be utterly romantic if we retraced the steps we had taken when we first met. Although he’d already taken me on the vacation of a lifetime, we never had made it to Paris. “Like a mini-honeymoon?”
“One day,” said Jean-Luc. “But now we have a lot of work to do.”
“I know,” I said.
Instead of taking off on a romantic getaway, we were on a mission to de-flea the house. Bombs were ignited in all of the bedrooms. We washed the sheets, clothes, pillowcases, and blankets in hot water. And, much to Bella’s delight, we combed her with a fine-toothed comb, wiping it off with a wet cloth, until there were no fleas in sight. The project took three days. When we weren’t getting rid of the army of critters, Jean-Luc and I painted the bare walls in the stairwell a warm and rosy terra cotta to match the brickwork in the foyer.
My mother called, asking, “How’s Bella?”
“Oh, she’s better,” I said. “She’s playing with Uranus right now.”
Uranus was the flea-ridden cat next door. And, phonetically, these words just came out so wrong we couldn’t stop our laughter.
“And how are you?” asked my mom. “All unpacked?”
“I haven’t even started yet. The suitcases are still in the hallway upstairs.”
“You need to settle in.”
I eyed my paint-splattered yoga pants, feet, and T-shirt. “Good idea,” I said.
A nice breeze flowed in from the garden, a reprieve from the scorching weather. I opened the volets (shutters) off the kitchen and locked the heavy wooden doors into position with an iron latch. My favorite rosebush climbed up the wooden beams, its flowers nestling onto a small tiled roof. After a few days of watering, the bush was finally showing signs of life, its leaves no longer wilting. Perhaps it would bloom a second time? I needed to ground myself to this life, just like the rosebush.
Last Christmas, even before he’d proposed marriage, Jean-Luc had built me a closet on the balcony upstairs with pine floors and wood walls, and fitted it with shelves and bars from IKEA. It was time to unpack and make this house my home.
I hung up my clothes, folded my sweaters, and placed my shoes on the rack, setting all my kitchen tools and design elements to the side, thrilled that nothing had been damaged, especially the art I’d packed in Jean-Luc’s suitcase. After jumping in the shower and scrubbing the paint off my body, I came to the conclusion that I probably shouldn’t have painted barefoot. Clean and refreshed, I threw on a cute black cotton dress and toured my new digs, making mental notes on what we needed. Jean-Luc was utilitarian. If tape could fix something, he used it. For example: the bookshelf with the broken shelf mended with duct tape, and the scotch tape holding in place the wallpaper Bella had shredded. Thanks to a few family members and friends who had given us money for wedding gifts, we had some cash to spend.
I found Jean-Luc decompressing on the couch, watching the news on TV.
“Do you want to go to IKEA?” I asked.
Jean-Luc went back to work the following week, coming home to share lunches with me when he could, and the kids stayed at Meme’s home in Provence for two weeks, which meant I was left to my own devices for most of the day. Jean-Luc didn’t like the color of the kitchen (he said the pale yellow reminded him of bile, and he hadn’t had time to change it), so I painted the walls a warm, sunny orange. This time, I wore shoes.
Handy with a drill, I hung the art I’d brought from California on the walls—four pieces in the living room and two in the kitchen. I can’t say that I’m a fan of putting furniture together, but I managed to assemble two bookcases and a desk without completely snapping. I just mumbled a lot of putains. Along with placing pictures of the family on top of the bookcase, I found a beautiful model of a wooden ship in the garage.
Jean-Luc regarded it with pride. “My father carved that, every detail, with his own two hands.”
I ran my fingers across the delicate helm, then the mast. “It wasn’t a kit?”
“Non.”
He shook the desk. It wobbled. “Did you use all the parts, Sam?”
“Yes?”
“Sam?”
He knew me so well. I grimaced and pulled out the rogue screw I’d put in my pocket after I couldn’t figure out where it should go. “Maybe I should stick to decorating and gardening, not building?”
Jean-Luc shook his head.
The house was coming together one (hidden) screw at a time. Add the green accent colors of throw pillows, blankets, candles, the plants in the living room, and our tiny castle was bright and cheery. Now that I’d put a little of my design stamp on it, I was feeling more at home.
On Saturday, Jean-Luc and I went to the market together. I blushed when I passed the paella vendor and kept my eyes down. But with Jean-Luc by my side, everything wasn’t so foreign. And, in addition to carrying the heavy basket, he did all the talking.
“Do you want some olives?” asked Jean-Luc, stopping in front of a vendor.
Wooden bowls overflowed with the plump beauties in shades of black, green, and yellow, some seasoned with red peppers. “Yes,” I said. “And some spices, too.”
“Which ones?” he asked, and I pointed.
My eyes darted to all the stalls, some with baskets filled with fresh fruits and vegetables, explosions of color; some with plump wild boar and pork sausages and wheels of beautiful, golden cheeses; some with wine. There were so many local wines and cheeses to choose from. Gaillac and Fronton!
Corbières and Cahors! Real Roquefort cheese from Roquefort! Cabécou, a mild goat cheese from the Périgord! Tomme des Pyrénées, a rustic cheese from the Ariège! And what a dream: Bordeaux and St. Émilion were only two and a half hours away by car. My list of places to discover on the weekends grew every day.
“What do you want for lunch?” asked Jean-Luc. “Paella?”
“No, we had that a few weeks ago,” I said, shuffling my feet. “How about a nice salad? Like a niçoise? And a crusty baguette? I mean, we just bought those beautiful olives.”
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s pick up a bottle of rosé, too?”
I smiled. He knew I never said no to wine.
Soon, my kitchen was stocked with everything I needed to cook French—including golden threads of saffron, two varieties of powdery paprika, whole peppercorns, garlic, fleur de sel, and herbes de Provence.
Back at home, Jean-Luc chilled the wine in the freezer and set the table while I prepared lunch, boiling potatoes and eggs, steaming green beans, making lemon vinaigrette, and chopping tomatoes. Twenty minutes later, we were about to sit down on the deck for the meal when our neighbors, Claude and Paulette, peered over the fence separating our property lines.
“Coucou! ” said Paulette. Hey you!
“Oh, Jean-Luc and Sam,” said Claude. “Welcome back home!”
Claude and Paulette were an older couple in their seventies. He was a burly man with a kind face and big brown eyes. Paulette, his wife, was a sparrow of a woman with a singsong voice and a perfectly coiffed curly head of hair. They were an adorable couple, continuously holding hands, and talking over one another.
How to Make a French Family Page 4
