Culinary Lessons

I was told over a six-course French dinner last night that “Gastronomy is a religion in France”. Food, wine, cheese, bread and unhurried dinners continue to be regular parts of our experience and the one piece of French culture which many Parisians are inviting us to share with them, at their own kitchens and tables, which as anyone knows is the best place to learn about any country. It also is the only place where my limited vocabulary can keep up with conversation, so I’m extra grateful for the invitations.

This week I was invited to cook with Iris in her kitchen. Iris, in my mind, is the unpublished Julia Child and I would walk over fire for the chance to cook with her. Fortunately, I didn’t have to perform any extreme acts to receive the invitation, I just had to show up with a few ingredients that Iris requested: liquid cream and 200 grams of good grated cheese. I, of course, showed up with two different types of liquid cream fresh, and 400 grams of cheese—just to be safe.

The lessons (which doubled as a language lesson as well) had us making a homemade desert custard (which tasted good, but didn’t look quite as nice as we had hoped), gratin dauphinois (a classic French dish that is a bit like scalloped potatoes, but includes nutmeg), meatloaf (which included three types of meat ground fresh for me by the local butcher), and an apple tart (which is an Iris standard and I think I can finally replicate). It was a bilingual afternoon that also had two breaks—one for tea and one for wine.

One moment that speaks to the freshness of ingredients here was the making of the meatloaf and our collective checking of the spices. I was elbow deep in a kilo of ground meat while Iris was adding a bit of this and a bit of that and checking the seasoning by tasting the raw meat mixture (which is not something my mother does, so it was a bit shocking).

Then she told me to the same, and fool knows that it was NOT the time to explain you don't regularly eat mostly unrefrigerated raw meat mixed with a raw egg. So I tasted it, found it surprisingly good and decided that that salmonella was clearly an American problem, so we continued to talk about what else it needed.

That wasn’t the only time this week where I found myself eating something a bit unexpected in part for reasons of pride (more specifically not wanting to seem like the mostly mute American who only eats chicken nuggets) and for reasons of politeness. At last night’s dinner, which involved homemade pate, rabbit, and the strongest French cheese I have ever tasted, I was offered something by the host, I couldn’t quite tell what was going on because the meal was conducted entirely in French and it looked like I was being offered a large bean of some sort. I glanced over to Josh with our commonly used “Please translate” code and he explained “It’s the rabbit’s kidney”.

Everyone seemed happy to offer it to me, so of course, once again, I ate and thanked him profusely. It did taste surprisingly good, but I did find myself wondering—“Do rabbits only have one kidney? I also found myself feeling even less bad for serving rabbit sausage on Easter. Rabbits are clearly food here—bunnies are for cartoons—at least that’s how I justify that eating the kidney is a special treat.

And so the culinary adventures continue and I am already beginning to fret about how I will figure out how to make these recipes when we return stateside—and who will be an honored enough guest to be offered our rabbit kidney.

sPg

Milestones

Riddle me this: What do all of these numbers have in common? Or, more specifically, what is their relevance?


1169816
1262991
143368909

Time’s up, and as Alex Trebek would say Canadian-style on “Jeopardy!”, “Oooh, sewery!”

What the three numbers have in common is that they are all key milestones in our Paris existence.

The relevance of the first number is that it is the number of steps I’ve taken since I arrived in Paris in mid-January.

The relevance of the second number is that it is the number of steps Sara has taken.

And the relevance of the third number is that it is our phone number!

So, why do we know (or care) how many steps we’ve taken on Parisian paving stones? And why does a measly phone number get to join the august company of our million-plus step accomplishment? Read on, MacDuff…

Too often in the States, people judge their personal successes by maximizing salary earned, hours worked, dollars spent, and the like. By this account, our year is France ranks low indeed. We left those criteria behind when we stepped away from our jobs and flew away from US soil. We now work fewer hours in a week than we used to in a (bad) day, and we now relish a $10 meal whereas we would have taken a $100 dinner for granted a year ago. We’ve literally recalibrated our happiness, both the terms we use to measure it, and the scope of what seems reasonable on each scale.

Let’s take this one step (waka waka waka) at a time: whenever I’m in Paris, I wear a pedometer so I can see just how damn much walking I do when I’m here. When I proposed to Sara, in Paris, in 2005, after a red letter walking day, I had my pedometer on. The fifteen or so miles we walked prior to popping the question became part of The Engagement Lore, and could probably inspire a torture/duress/not-guilty-by-reason-of-insanity defense if she ever tries to get out of this marriage.

Now that we both live here, we have His and Hers Pedometers (a lousy name for a blog, or a rock band…). We love Paris, love walking, love walking in Paris, and love Excel, so we actually track our daily walking distances in a custom spreadsheet. In the past couple of weeks, Sara and I both went over both the 1,000,000 step and the 500 mile thresholds, and that’s a big deal. We’re cranking out, on average, about 6 miles a day, which is great, since we’re eating like the foodies that we are (it’s a common misconception that you have to spend a king’s ransom to eat like royalty in Paris). These are two ways we’re judging the success of our year here: what wonderful food discoveries have we made, and just how far do we have to walk to work off all that salted butter, country bread, stinky cheese, cheap wine, and Berthillon ice cream?

From a milestone that’s a pain in the foot to one that brings joy to your ears—I have to explain why our phone number is a momentous sign of victory. Prior to heading to France, we had been clued in to what are called “ADSL providers” here that provide bundled cable TV, high-speed internet, and telephone services. Big deal, you say, I have that here in the States. Nope, you don’t. Did I mention that all calls to the US and about 50 other countries are entirely free, wifi and a DVR is built into the system, you can check your voicemail messages via the internet or on your TV, you can watch TV on any computer in the house, and that the whole thing costs just $40/month?

Taking advantage of one of these deals seemed like a no-brainer, so upon our arrival, I signed us up for Free.fr service. We anxiously awaited the arrival of our magic modem box, I meticulously read the directions and reverentially assembled the technology before plugging the box in and…nothing. Like the caveman next to the monolith in 2001, I awaited the anticipated series of flashing lights (supposedly first a slow “caterpillar” around the LED screen, then a fast one, then a flashing rectangle, then a dropping line, before, finally, with a cloud of dust and a hearty Hi Ho Silver, the time of day appears and the box works).

Sadly, for several…weeks…the box stayed stuck on the %&*#@(*@ slow caterpillar, and again, like the caveman in 2001, I wanted to beat the living crap out of the box with an enormous femur.

After hours reading the manual, e-mailing their techs, participating in online chats, surfing customer newsgroups, etc., I was told that I had in fact signed up for the wrong program (doubtful) and therefore had to send my modem back by certified mail, pay to sign up for a phone line with the national phone company, and then have that new line cut off by re-signing up for Free, this time with the correct program.

Being addled of mind and threatened of wife, I went along with their scheme. Sara had made me promise in late January that I’d have our technological house in order, and a working phone line in place, by her birthday (March 21). I assured her I would, and that Valentine’s Day would be a more likely deadline.

Needless to say, it took the national phone company 2.5 weeks instead of the promised 2.5 days to install a basic phone line. And needless to say, once I signed up for the second time for Free and once I received my second magic modem box, I was still stuck on the %*&*@$# slow caterpillar.

So, then Free issued their final challenge: bring your magic modem box to another Free customer’s house and see what it does there, and then bring another customer’s magic modem box to your house and see what happens. I felt like Dorothy being told by the Wizard of Oz that no, her journey just to reach him wasn’t enough, she also had to go get the Wicked Witch’s broom as well.

And of course, since I had heard that every Free customer has a horror story of how and how long their setup dragged on, I realized that no one was going to want to unplug their finally-functioning magic modem box so I can run my Free-inspired cross-modem diagnostics. Fortunately, after posting flyers throughout our apartment building, one kindly neighbor took pity on me, and agreed to the test. My magic modem box worked at his place, and his didn’t work at our place, which meant that the phone line was the culprit all along. When I gleefully shared this news with Free in an e-mail and in one of our daily online chats, they…went radio-silent and refused to talk to me. But they finally decided to ask the phone company to check out my line again, and, lo and behold, just a few hours after they did, victory—the time showed up on the magic modem box’s screen.

We’ll never know exactly who did exactly what to get the damn thing working, but in my head, I picture a clueless French tech walking into a control room, tripping on an unplugged plug (the kind that the operator on the Mayberry switchboard would use to connect Andy Griffith to someone on the phone), saying “huh,” then plugging it back into the jack it obviously fell out of .

But, long story short, after about ten weeks of trying, and sadly about a week beyond Sara’s birthday deadline, all systems were go. Not to go all the-late-Gerald-Ford on you, but our long international nightmare is over. So, if you want to call us, just dial 011 33 then our number, as listed above. We’ll call you right back, since, plus or minus ten weeks of abject misery and suffering, all calls are free.

Josh

PS: One or both of us will blog on this before too long, but for the “French people are NOT rude file,” two of Sara’s and my heroes are now the guy who let me cross-check our modems, and our next-door neighbor, who gave us her wifi password so that we could at least have internet access in time for Sara’s birthday, even if we didn’t have a working phone…

French Lessons

I have been seriously studying French now for twelve weeks, which is really the same as saying, “I’ve been attempting to communicate desperately and with limited success for 1,008 hours” (which equates roughly to the number of hours each day that I wish I could speak better French since I have arrived, leaving out some time for sleeping and conversations that would make more sense in English), or “I’ve been attempting to dig a hole the size of a Grand Canyon and I’ve been working hard, but this spoon just doesn’t make a good shovel.”

There is no way around it—French is hard, damn hard. I do continue to study with my teacher, named Eloudie, which has been a great help (she’s pictured her with my friend Angie who I take lessons with) and having a husband who is fluent is more of a gift than I can explain (As I write this, Josh is en route to the butcher to see if it is necessary for us to reserve a leg of lamb ahead of time for Easter, which is clearly beyond my vocabulary). [PS: “En route” is French, see, I can’t help myself!]

And I’ve made progress. I now can breathe when people talk to me on the street (I can’t usually answer them, but at least I’ve stopped turning blue) and I can now, honestly, conduct most basic things in French. I can buy a chicken, vegetables and ask simple questions without too much trouble. I mailed four letters all by myself last week, in fact. But, as they say, a little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing, which is exactly what I am finding with my French.

Just last week, I was in two work-related meetings, which were conducted nearly entirely in French. I am proud to say I understood a solid 25% of the content, but imagine being in a work meeting, and only understanding one of every four words being spoken and being nearly completely unable to respond in kind. I was still able to add a few seemingly worthwhile comments, in English, but it’s a humbling moment—no question.

My colleagues are so generous with their patience and we all consider it a step in the right direction that I can at least say with confidence “A demain” (or “until tomorrow) or “A lundi” (or “I’ll see you Monday). They also aren’t shy about inviting me to meetings (I guess they aren’t worried I’ll say something out of line) and as a result I’m learning more than I would, even if I studied 10 hours a day. The French speakers who I interact with are also kind in their responses. I find most people usually say, “I’m so sorry, my English isn’t as good as I would like” to which I reply, “No, no! I understand you perfectly. I am so sorry I don’t speak French yet.”

It is also really true that 60% of communication is nonverbal. [side note: there are limits to what you *should* communicate nonverbally. At times, I have probably over expressed, “I understand you” hoping that I would figure out the words, but the verbal understanding never came and I had to out myself that I really didn’t know what was going on.] Still, skepticism, trust, joy, disdain, uncertainty and fondness are not spoken emotions. Even without words, it’s not hard to communicate basic things that really matter.

As I stumble and trip and gasp and laugh my way through French, though, I am more grateful than I can explain for the patience and encouragement I have felt from Josh, from my colleagues, from the butcher, from my teacher, from the café owner and from our French-speaking friends who do whatever they can to honestly include me as a temporary, but real, part of Paris.

It isn’t true that “They all speak English” as I was told, but “They do all speak human”. When words aren’t always an option, I speak human really well and the French speakers that I’ve met do too.

- sPg