There is a lot to be gained from an inquest into the mind of a typical French parent. Their intense focus on society made me realize that my own intense focus on Oona and Daphne’s individuality had served as an excuse for some really crap behavior. Still, I am not about squelching them—just dimming the spotlight a tad. Having carefully scrutinized the French, I have come to view their relationships with their children in a whole new light. They have a way of adoring their kids and making them feel completely loved but still maintaining an enormously high degree of control. On top of that, French parents do an admirable job of preserving their own identities, and their sanity. I’m even sleeping better these days, not waking up in the middle of the night nearly as often thinking about whether or not Daphne has clean leggings for school or if I remembered to sign a permission slip. In a strange way, the strictness the French practice with their children early on allows everyone involved to relax a little. That is reason enough for me to get as French as I possibly can.
On Trophies and Lies
I once tried to explain to a French friend the American habit of ensuring that every child gets a trophy. This brought on blank stares and lost-in-translation bafflement. “But why would the one that did not do well get a prize? This makes the winner’s prize not so valuable. Why should he even try?” I understand the desire to protect kids from the agony of defeat, to borrow from ABC’s Wide World of Sports, but my French pal did have a point. My own kids crave competition, but I’m too afraid to see either of them get crushed. I always end up announcing something like, “Oona, you are the winner in the short-hair division, and, Daphne, you placed first in the category of contestants wearing pink headbands.” Is there a word for “wimp” in French?
My sister even admitted to me that when she knew her older son would be receiving a trophy for his chess accomplishments (he is a preternaturally talented player), she went out to her nearest thrift store and picked up a secondhand trophy for her six-year-old as well. When she initially told me about this, I thought, How clever!—heading a meltdown off at the pass. Now that I view it with the French ethos in mind, it seems rather pathetic. Not that I wouldn’t do the exact same thing, were I in that spot.
In the park one day with our French and fabulous—and always kind of amazingly good-smelling—friend Paul, I saw another incarnation of this concept play out. Paul was running footraces with Daphne, and he kept beating her. This makes sense: Paul is thirty-eight and Daphne is five. But, unaccustomed to losing, my girl was livid. Paul did not understand and said to her, “You do not want me to let you win, do you?”
Doesn’t she? I let her win all the time. I often do whatever it takes to keep my children from feeling anything but joy.
This brings up an important question: Is lying bad if it is for a good cause? I asked around to see how parents from both worlds viewed the practice. I’m sure you can guess the results. Just in case, here’s a breakdown that gets at the (lying) heart of the matter:
The Lies We Tell Our Children
American Parents
The toy store is closed.
We are going out to do work tonight. We have to, although we’d rather stay home with you.
The country ran out of ice cream, but they are making more.
There is a Santa Claus.
I will keep your Halloween candy safe.
I’m sorry. The games on my phone aren’t working right now. I’ll fix it later for you.
Your picture looks perfect.
I love your outfit.
That’s such a creative use of spelling.
I can’t be the monster because my contract explicitly says no monstering after 3:00 P.M.
French Parents
There is a Santa Claus.
If you sit like a worm, your bones will soften. (Wait, is that true?)
Chapter Five
Le Repas de Famille or The Family Meal
Now that I have a better idea how the French make the magic happen, I like to think back on the very beginnings of my obsession with French parenting. It’s no surprise that food was at the center of it all.
So let me take you back to my dinner with my French pal Lucie and her family—the fateful night that kicked this whole thing off. Initially I had suggested lunch to my friend, mother of two and a bona fide Parisian. It didn’t seem possible for them to come to Brooklyn from Harlem for dinner—unless we wanted to eat at 5:00 P.M. Surely she would need to have her kids home by 7:00 for baths and their bedtime routine. Lucie, however, did not even flinch at the dinner idea. They would come at 5:00 and we would eat at 6:30. I felt a bit guilty imagining her exhausted, strung-out kids arriving back home close to 10:00 (the subway commute can be more than an hour), but I kept quiet. Although my husband and I had been friends with Lucie and her husband, John, for years, somehow we’d never managed to bring our children together in any meaningful way. By the night of the “fateful dinner,” it was high time to hang out, as Lucie’s oldest daughter was already six, we both had four-year-olds, and my youngest was closing in on two. At first, the kids were a little shy with one another, but they soon disappeared into Oona and Daphne’s room and traveled deep into that wonderful land kids go to when they are having fun (and leaving their parents in peace). I recall my delight on many levels: 1) Lucie’s children are bilingual, and they often slip into French without a thought. The possibility that my own kids might pick up a phrase or two made me swoon; 2) in a similar spirit of healthy exposure, Lucie’s kids had immediately impressed me with their manners, which perhaps could rub off on my kiddies as well; 3) almost forty-five minutes had elapsed when I realized I hadn’t heard any screaming (except for shrieks of laughter), tattling, or entreaties for snacks or TV. Something special was in the air.
Ever since Oona was born, I’d grown accustomed to socializing under siege—usually with at least one child on my lap. Dinner parties were typically a free-for-all where we tried to eat, see our friends, and survive, not necessarily in that order. I had learned to relate to adults between “performances” by my children and/or a friend’s kids, while also fulfilling my role as an entertainer/chef/handy-woman on call. With John and Lucie, it was wonderful to sit in the living room and enjoy uninterrupted grown-up conversation with wine in hand. I kept mentioning the unbelievable luck we were having with the kids, but John and Lucie did not find it as thrilling. To them, it seemed about as noteworthy as a three-year-old who can walk. When things continued to go smoothly in the kids’ room, I got up to put dinner together. I remember hearing Lucie call out something in French, and then her two kids were at my side. Apparently Lucie had told them it was time to come and help. The weirdest part? They had listened.
The entire evening was filled with these moments of bewilderment. Lucie’s children were so well behaved, but it was their decorum at the table that really shocked and pleased me. As I did almost every night, guests or not, I had prepared two meals—one for the adults and another made with simpler ingredients and a prayer that it would be tolerable to young palates. On this particular night, the kids’ meal was mac-n-cheese, sliced mango, and green beans. A sure hit, I thought. The French children, as it turned out, were much more interested in the adult dinner of eggplant tagine with lemon and olives, served over couscous. In between bites, the six-year-old even asked questions about how to prepare it: “Do you grill the aubergine first?” Her knowledge and interest in food was incredible. According to my master plan, the children required only forks with their meal. Upon being seated, however, Lucie’s kids both politely requested knives as well. I quietly replaced their crappy plastic forks—decorated, naturally, with hearts and dinosaurs—with the more mature cutlery the adults were using. Clearly these kids didn’t need to be babied when it came to food. Watching the two French children eating so well at my table (don’t even get me started on their table manners!) felt bittersweet. I was, quite sincerely, envious of what Lucie had achieved with their culinary attitudes. The painful thought that I’d been selling my own childre
n short turned into a surge of inspiration. It could be done! I vowed to teach my babies how to love food!
Before love, it seems, comes respect.
And it doesn’t come out of nowhere. The French have been cultivating their strong reverence for food for centuries. The French respect and fierce defense of their daily bread (and brie and reduction sauces) is evident in all corners of the culture. For instance, on a recent episode of Les Escapades de Petitrenaud—a popular French cooking show—the host, upon skillfully completing a ham dish, proclaimed, “Children, when you eat this jambon de Paris, Louis the Fourteenth has his hand on your shoulder.” How I wish someone, anyone, royalty or otherwise, was guiding me through meals—not to mention operating as a lofty historic chaperone for my kids.
Let’s have a look at the approach to lunch in public schools in France, which any French parent can do, as the weekly bill of fare is posted each Monday. Every day at l’école, the children are offered five courses: hors d’oeuvre, salad, main course, cheese plate, and dessert. And there are no repeats for more than a month. Time magazine Paris correspondent Vivienne Walt points out that French schools take it even further, by offering dinner suggestions to complement these varied—and very delicious-sounding—lunch menus. Walt, whose own child attends school in France, breaks it down thusly: “The French don’t need their First Lady to plant a vegetable garden at the Élysée Palace to encourage good eating habits. They already know the rules: Sit down and take your time, because food is serious business.”
I admit that I’m perhaps unnaturally passionate about French school lunches, but I do think they get to the heart (of palm) of the matter. Not long ago, the French government went as far as outlawing school and college cafeterias from serving ketchup (except, ironically, with French fries), in an effort to encourage healthy eating. The underlying message here is that in France, they really care about their food, a value taught at a very early age. In addition to menu items like “mâche with smoked duck and fava beans,” or greens with “smoked salmon and asparagus, followed by guinea fowl with roasted potatoes and carrots and steamed broccoli,” students at a school in France’s Loire Valley are given “a choice of ripe, red-throughout strawberries or clafoutis. A pungent washed-rind cheese … along with French bread and water” for dessert.*
Am I the only one suddenly feeling a little peckish?
I laughed (in that troubled sort of way when something hits distressingly close to home) when a friend in France recounted to me the first day of kindergarten in Paris for her American colleague’s six-year-old. On her way out of the school building after drop-off, the child’s mother was handed a brochure that listed the lunch items being served for the week. She started reading it on the metro, and by the time she reached her stop she was in a panic, imagining the reaction of her son, who knew only quesadillas, chicken fingers, and, of course, peanut butter and jelly as lunch foods. She figured he’d be okay with the bread and strawberries that were on the list, but what would he do when they tried to serve him parsnip puree and ratatouille? He would be traumatized! Like any “good” mom, she rushed home, fixed a sandwich with her emergency stash of peanut butter, and raced back to his school with it, presuming she had saved the day for the little boy—only to get an earful from the school administrators, who were disgusted by her pampering and certain that he would eat what was served when he grew hungry enough. Eventually détente was reached: The American boy would eat his sandwich with a fork and knife.
The French insist upon decent eating conditions in schools. Often, when I question Oona about the untouched items in her lunch box at the end of the day, she complains that she ran out of time. In French schools, the students luxuriate over meals and are allotted about twice as long for lunch as they are here in the States. The French also spend about three times more tax dollars on school lunches. Money well spent, if you ask me. Moreover, I used to feel relief at the thought that if I ever absentmindedly forgot to put utensils in my kids’ lunch boxes, there were sporks aplenty offered in the school cafeteria. That relief feels more like a grudge since I learned that food is often served on heated plates in French schools, with real (metal) silverware and (glass) glasses.
Clearly, food in France is to be revered, and lunchtime seems as if it is a component of the educational studies. And why not study and develop the palate? Learning about food, the structure of meals, manners, and customs is as important as practically every other subject in school. We eat every day—children should certainly learn to do it right! If my kids had been raised with that kind of attitude, I doubt they’d want to moon me at the table. (Yes, they have done this. Not proud, mind you. Not proud.)
This might be painful, but it’s important, so here goes. Witness a chart comparing a week of lunches at an American school in Pittsford, New York, with the menus in a school outside Paris:
FRENCH LUNCH
Iceberg lettuce with radishes and vinaigrette
Grilled fish with lemon
Stewed carrots
Emmental cheese
Apple tart
AMERICAN LUNCH
Zweigel’s hot dog on a roll with Tater Tots
FRENCH LUNCH
White cabbage salad (rémoulade)
Sautéed chicken with mustard
Shell pasta
Coulommiers (soft cheese) Apple compote
AMERICAN LUNCH
Tyson chicken fingers with rice and gravy
FRENCH LUNCH
Liver paté and a cornichon
Hamburger
Peas and carrots
Mimolette (Edam-like cheese)
Fruit
AMERICAN LUNCH
Double cheeseburger with Fritos
FRENCH LUNCH
Cucumber salad with herbs
Spiced sausage
Lentils
Saint Nectaire (cheese)
Floating island (meringue served on custard)
AMERICAN LUNCH
Mozzarella sticks with tomato sauce and garlic pasta noodles
FRENCH LUNCH
Potato salad
Fillet of fish with creamed celery
Sautéed lima beans
Yogurt
Fruit
AMERICAN LUNCH
Stuffed-crust cheese-and-pepperoni pizza
http://idlewords.com/2003/03/french_week_on_school_lunches.htm
The French menu is practically worth a Michelin star. Or two.
Now that I have a better idea why, it makes sense that the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) deemed “the gastronomic meal of the French” a “World Heritage Treasure” in 2010. That puts the French meal in the same category as national wonders such as Stonehenge, the Kremlin in Moscow, and the Great Wall of China. We are talking about people who are really proud of their food.
If food and dining are like a class in school, French parents can be thought of as homework tutors. I have learned that dinner is perhaps the most important part of a French family’s routine, with considerable time spent together deciding what to cook, preparing the food, setting the table, and then, of course, eating. Lucie tells me that on a daily basis her children, like most French kids, handle raw eggs and separate whites from yolks, use sharp knives, and throw chopped onions into hot oil. They wear little aprons. They sit on the countertop, next to boiling water. They put food in the oven. They learn how to dip green beans in cold water after cooking so the beans will not turn gray (I didn’t even know that last trick). And they sit down at the dinner table, every day, to have a three-course meal.
The kitchen confidence and genuine absorption in culinary processes that Lucie’s kids displayed at my house was no fluke. French kids don’t need special utensils, ravioli shaped like hearts and stars, or endless pleading to eat well—it’s just what they’ve been raised to do. Lucie assures me that her kids eat the same way she did as a child: “The only addition to the routine that my mother back in France would not appro
ve of is tofu. But, then again, why would a petite, chain-smoking woman who believes allergies are a myth, who will tell you that a meal without cheese is like a beautiful woman who is missing an eye, and for whom vegetarians are no less than heretics, admit such ugly, tasteless little squares to the sacrosanct family meal?”
Point taken. Lucie, however, uses tofu to her advantage, incorporating it as a key ingredient in the “color meals” that her children love to contemplate (and eat!). Along with tofu, a “white” meal might include endives, rice, and brie—with an apple for dessert and milk to drink. And for the parents’ beverage, a nice chilled fumé blanc will do the trick. Turns out that kids love menu planning. For the “pink” meal, fresh grapefruit juice is the first thing to come up. “Salmon!” screams the four-year-old, who would otherwise not eat much fish. Pink pasta (a mixture of tomato sauce and goat cheese provides the perfect hue) and beet salad are added to the list, and finally they agree on Lucie’s daughter’s suggestion of frozen strawberries for dessert. Clearly, this approach to mealtime is more than just a means of giving the body energy. For these “pink” dinners, Lucie further elicits delight from her kids with “the ice cubes in which they find a rosebud.” Okay, that might be a bit much for me, but I could certainly stand to jazz things up and take a lesson from Lucie, who has managed to cultivate a loving relationship between her children and their food.
French Twist Page 11
