La Vie Active

When I tell people here I'm going back to work, the most common response I get is about how nice it will be for me to get back into la vie active. Which makes me smirk because how is taking care of two kids not an active life? You might think I willfully misunderstand the remark. Which is possible.

I read a study once that quanitified total work hours (including childcare, food prep, errands, cleaning, chauffering, in addition to 'real' work) of women who fell into one of three categories. Worked outside the home part-time, worked outside the home full-time, had no job other than child and house care. The results showed that the worst possible situation for a woman to be in is part-time work.

As of this week, I am able to confirm this information.

When you work full-time, everyone says, oh you work full-time, let's help you out around the house, let's get a cleaning service, let's order dinner out tonight. When you are a stay-at-home-mom, you have a lot of work, it's true, and it's never-ending (at least that's what it seemed like to me), but your focus is in one spot. But when you work part-time, you really get the shaft. Everyone says, oh yeah, but you have time, you only work part-time. So you do everything you did when you weren't working outside the home and you do it in addition to the work you're now doing outside the home. And you can't even complain because you have the priviledge of not having to work full-time.

Active, schmative.

L'école maternelle

Chose promise, chose dûe.

I don't really know if it's just glorified preschool or what. They all seem to think it's wonderful and so important to the development of kids. But I have my suspicions.

Homogeneity is so incredibly important here and I think the whole real school/preschool is really about getting them young. That sounds terrible and it's actually much more benign than that. Put simply, kids who do well in school here are kids who fit into the mold. Artistic, creative, and original thinkers CAN thrive, but the outlets for those qualities are not found at school. So if they get used to it starting at 3, the hope (I think) is that the fitting part will be easier.

I think it's also about l'égalité des chances. Like many, they haven't figured out that same doesn't mean equeal, but that's a whole other debate. Anyway, an institutionalized preschool, they say, helps to wipe out the differences between kids that may exist due to socioeconomic circumstances.

And mostly, I think it's about childcare solutions for families where both parents work. Although even in those families where there is a parent at home, all are anxious that their children start maternelle on schedule so they won't 'miss' anything.

Boy2's day goes something like this. At 8:30 Husband takes the boys to school. Boy2's class is large, 30 children, who are divided into 3 groups of 10, with one or two adults managing each group. The greeting activities are done together, then one group goes to the motricity room for physical play (balls, mats, etc.), another group goes to the art area (painting, drawing, etc) and another group stays in the classroom for music or storytelling or schoolish stuff. Then they all break at 10 for 20 minutes in the schoolyard for outside play with balls, bikes, and trees. Then they return inside and switch activities until Mama time at 11:30.

Days I work, he will eat at the cafeteria and I will pick him up at 1:15.

Amongst his classmates (gosh it's weird to call 3 year olds classmates), there are 16 who stay all day every day (although not wednesdays, as there is no school in pre or elementary), from 8:30 until 4:30. Amongst those 16, there are a few who arrive at 8 and don't leave until 6. That's a long-ass day.

By the way, I have a pounding headache and it's way too hot here again.

Etre Bilingue

I didn't respond to comments left on friday's post. But only because the topics deserve more time than a comment response. So today is about bilingualism and tomorrow about Maternelle.

Sarah, who has a very interesting blog about bilingualism and children (babybilingual.blogspot.com), asked about the boys'.

While in graduate school, I worked in a department where a woman from Quebec was a tenured professor. I saw an interview of her on tape, made to be used in basic level French classes during the francophonie unit. And I was very surprised by her attitude. Which was openly hostile (although in a very polite way) towards the 'omnipresence' of American culture. Up until then I had always thought of Quebec as sort of a happy francophone island. They wish. On an island it would be easier, perhaps, to manage the constant flow of all things anglophone. She actually used the word battle. How hard it was for francophone Canada to remain so.

I understand her attitude better now. Because I feel the same way. As I've mentioned before, when you're raising children in two cultures, you want them to feel at home where they live obviously. So Boy2 going to school earlier than I would like, in my ideal world, is fine, but spending too much time there, and therefore, in French, is not.

Yesterday, we went for a walk. Husband and a friend were walking futher ahead with the boys and I was trailing behind and talking with friend's wife. Boy1 ran back to see us and said, "Mama, Papa found some mûres!" "You mean blackberries? " I asked. "Yeah, Papa found some blackberries." Other than situations like that, where he's forgotten a word or never learned it, he never speaks French to me. He switches back and forth from one second to the next, depending on who he's talking to. When all four of us are together, the conversation is always in both, between the boys and me in English, between the boys and Husband in French and between Husband and me in French. Interestingly, the boys speak English to each other, which I am hoping will last. Boy2 is, for the time being, far more advanced in English than in French. He never uses French with me but he does use quite a bit of English with Husband. Which won't last - school will take care of that. They have three playmates who are native English speakers now, they don't live in Laval so we don't see them every week, but I try to arrange something a least once a month so they learn childhood English too, not just Mama English and Disney English. The goal being for them to be almost as comfortable in English as they are in French. Which is hard because French is omnipresent, obviously, on my little American island in Laval.

La Rentrée

Today was the Boys' first day of school. Boy1, who will be 6 in October, entered CP, the big deal grade where they learn to read. Boy2, who will be 3 this month, entered Petite Section, where they learn to be proper French citizens.

Just kidding.

No really though, they both did start school today. And Boy2, who is too little to be doing that kind of thing (according to moi), will be going as well. Because that's how it works here. When kids are three (and many of the kids in Boy2's class are barely 2 1/2) they go to school. Real school. Boy2's classroom is in the same establishment as Boy1's. Regular daycare is for children up to 3, at which point they all go to school.

I tried to do it my way with Boy1. I kept him at home until he was barely 3 1/2. I gave in for a couple of reasons. First, all the activites I had taken him to before were closed to kids over 3. Of course, because they're all in school. All the children his age he used to play with while I drank coffee and chatted and breastfed the new baby were, you guessed it, in school. He was the only child in Laval over three who was not in school. And people would go on and on about how he was missing out on all kinds of socialization and whatever. Which I really think is nonsense. But whatever. Let's just call it what it is, very cheap daycare (we will pay about $250 total this year - and it's a private school) in a scholastic setting. Although they do have a prettier name for it - La Maternelle.

Several Things

1. I have been without television, internet, and telephone service since tuesday evening. The television and internet privation was vaguely bearable. The phone thing, on the other hand, was more than I could stand. I use the phone a lot. I like the phone a lot. Foreigners like to use the phone a lot.

2. Boy1 said to me yesterday, 'I love you more than my heart can stand.'

3. I was tucking Boy2 into bed last night. I said, 'Goodnight my monkey.' We had just finished reading Hand Hand Fingers Thumb, which features many monkeys drumming on drums. And he said, 'I not monkey.' And then gave me his real name. I asked him what my name was. He said, 'Mama.' My other name, I suggested. 'Oh, Nicole.' I asked him what Husband's name was. 'Papa.' And his other name? 'Cheri.' Which tells you how often I call Husband sweety.

4. The phone line repair guy was here this afternoon trying to reestablish order and I stepped outside onto the sidewalk to answer a couple of questions and have a look at the mess. (Some tree and ivy trimming fellows got a little carried away and snipped through an important wire.) When I returned 5 mintues later, Boy1 was in tears, convinced I had abandonned him for life. It took 5 more minutes to calm him down. And 5 minutes after that, I had my life my phone line back.

Dans La Cuisine

Husband and I have recently begun our first house-hunting adventure. We, or maybe I should say I, know what we want. City center, 19th century or before, yard. That's about it, in terms of absolutely essential things. All of which make husband cringe because something in the suburbs built about 50 years ago would be a lot cheaper. But jeez, it's so nice that they have liveable city centers, and old houses are cool, and kids need a yard.

So we've visited a few houses. One was very nice but the first floor was really narrow. And entertaining is already really limited in the house we have now due to small spaces so I'd like to move on to something a little more accomodating in that sense. Another, my favorite so far, is charming, very nice first floor with lots of space, smallish bedrooms on the second and third floors, small but cute yard, 4 blocks from Boys' school. The downside, the bathroom needs some major work. A third, neither one of us really liked the house, but we both loved everything else about the place. A great yard, a guest house (!!), and a green house.

All the places we have seen have one very terrible thing in common. And it is something that seems to contradict one of the cornerstones of French culture. They love food and all things about food. And yet, the kitchens are ridiculously small. What is up with that? Why are all the kitchens here so small? Why? Why?

In all the years I have been here, I've seen two kitchens worth notice. One was in a château and one was in a hôtel particulier (a mansion). Nothing similar will fit into our budget so I'm left facing the reality that I'll probably never get my dream kitchen. All the other kitchens I've seen are like little food laboratories. You have everything you need to get the job done and no more. No corner benches, no desks, no window seats, no reason to stay once the job is done.

Maybe that's why. There was a time when guests were limited to certain rooms in France. They didn't go into the kitchen, they stayed in the living room or dining room or sitting room and that's it. Closest friends and family might have access to the guts of the house, but that's it. Socializing didn't happen in the kitchen. Which still baffles me because at home, correct me if I'm wrong, but, at a party, where does everyone end up hanging out? In the kitchen.

M et Mme Massot

There is a heavenly place 4 blocks from my house. It is the bakery of the Massots. They make the best bread. EVER. Flutes (like a baguette but much thinner and smaller and softer crust) with chorizo. Flutes with bacon. Flutes with sharp emmenthal cheese. Hearty loaves with apples, hazelnuts, and raisins. Loaves with goat cheese and herbs. Loaves with pears and roquefort. Leavened baguettes, country baguettes, regular (although nothing about them is regular) baguettes. And my personal favorite, spelt loaf (épautre), more flavorful than wheat flour but not too whole grainy that makes you feel like you're eating rope.

At lunch they set out fougasse, which is kind of like a French foccacia. Topped with feta and grilled tomatoes or bacon and goat cheese. They never sell sandwiches.

And then there's the sweet stuff. Baguette viennoise (which is only like a baguette in its shape - which makes sense because baguette really means wand, as in magic, which this bread is, by the way) with chocolate. Baguette viennoise with nouagtine. (Viennoise bread is kind of like brioche but less butter and more milk.) And of course the standards, pain au chocolat (chocolate croissant), brioche, brioche with chocolate, croissant, and pain au raisin. During the winter they make their own ginger bread loaves. And in the spring, lemon pound cake. On wednesdays, which children have off every week, they make chouquettes. I've talked about these before. Cream puffs without the cream and topped with little bits of rock sugar.

For the past month, M et Mme Massot have been on vacation.

But now they're back.

Made my day.

It's all in the tilt of the head

It' s the small things about a place that remind you that you're a foreigner.

So many things are the same no matter where you go. We all laugh and cry and eat and sleep and drink and love and learn. But.

Heads don't tilt the same no matter where you go.

I have always liked books. My book budget is ridiculous given my ridiculously low earnings. I reread 3 of Jane Austin's books for the millionth time this summer. And I enjoyed them as much as the first time. But going to book stores isn't as fun here as it is at home.

No cafés inside book stores, no couches, no magazines, no lounging. But most of all, it's the way you have to tilt your head here. Think about how you tilt your head to look at book titles on the spine of a book. You have to tilt it to the right. Titles read from top to bottom. Wouldn't you think that kind of thing would be universal? Well, it's not. In France, titles read from bottom to top, so you have to tilt your head to the left. Go ahead, give it a try. Not just a quick tilt. Stand up, imagine you're looking at a big shelf of books and you have to stand that way for a while. Head tilted to the left. Not very comfortable is it? Or perhaps my discomfort in this position has more to do with my inflexibility when it comes to books and the selling of than my neck.

This is a very literary country. Books are a big deal here. Prices are set and book stores are not allowed to sell them at any other price. Unless they're in the clearance bin and that can only happen after a fixed amount of time after the publishing date. A HUGE deal is made about the literary prizes, Prix Goncourt and the like, and every Monsieur Untel knows who the winners are every year. There are used book stores, but not as widely developed as at home and frankly, they buy books for silly sums. 10 cents a book kind of thing.

Then there's the whole book cover thing. As I mentioned in yesterday's comments in response to Eric, the French are crap when it comes to marketing. And their books are perfect evidence of that. Millions of books are sold here with NOTHING on the front or back cover other than the name of the author, title of the book, and publisher. They make sure you can't judge a book by its cover.

I should be able to see the merit of all these differences. But I can't.

See, I told you I was inflexible.

Dangerous liasons

I recently bought some facial cleanser, actually cleansing milk, if you want the precise term. On the bottle was written

Visage et Yeux (Face and Eyes)

in case I had any doubts as to which body parts I was supposed to use it on.

Eye is a funny word in French. The singular is oeil and I can't even describe how to pronounce it and I don't want to bore anyone with phonetic symbols. Anyway, it's a funky word. Un oeil, l'oeil, le troisième oeil...

The plural is yeux. I know. Ridiculous. Completely illogical. That one is pronounced with an initial y as in yeah sound followed by a vowel we don't have in English. The x, like many final consonants in French, is silent. Because y is a y, if it is preceded by a consonant, that consonant is pronounced, even if it's usually silent. Bear with me.

For example, les yeux. The s in les is only pronounced if the following word begins with a vowel or a y or an unaspirated h. Don't ask. Anyway, yeux is nearly always used with an article in front of it. Des yeux or les yeux, or deux yeux bleus. Which means that it is always preceded by a [z] sound, because final s and x are both pronounced as [z] in cases like this. This process is called liason.

So, when I read the bottle, over and over, I couldn't imagine how in the heck to say it correctly. You can't put the [z] in just gratuitously, there's no article in sight. But you can't leave it out because it just sounds so strange. And you certainly can't liase the [t] because that sounds even stranger.

I asked a few native French speakers. Without leading them. I wrote down the phrase and asked how they would pronounce it. No one could give me a straight answer. None of them wanted to add the [z] because there was no article and no one wanted to pronounce without because it 'hurt their ears'. (Seriously, two people said that.)

Which made me wonder if the [z] hasn't become a part of the word yeux now. A silent partner, if you will. It's always there, even when there is no evidence of it's being there, other than the feeling of offness.

Who's your silent partner?

Heads up

My mom, who means the world to me and many people in her life, has recently been diagnosed with breast cancer. While I am confident that she will recover quickly and completely, we could all use some help. So, those who pray, please say a prayer for her. And those who don't, good thoughts will work just as well. Someone once wrote that God/the Divine/Sage/Universe/Apple Fairy doesn't have the ego to care what name you use and I'm sure the love present in a prayer or a good thought is felt in the same way. Thanks to all.

Well that's not logical

And I do love logic. It's very reassuring, after unmelted footprints and the like. Anyway.

While we were on vacation I kept an eye out for interesting village names that would, of course, lead to interesting inhabitants of village names. And the day I saw Aigrefeuille-sur-Maine, I thought I had found a whopper. Not even, as Boy1 would say. Which is, I think, his version of As if, which he's probably never heard. He's actually taken to using that phrase with The Tone in my presence quite frequently. I suppose I'm going to have to do something about that one of these days, but I'm currently picking my battles, and that's not one of them.

For now, she said menacingly.

Back to Sourleaf on the Maine River. I looked it up on their website and it's nothing extraordinary. Aigrefeuillais, Aigrefeuillaise. The Maine doesn't figure into the equation like the sauté pans of the City of God sauté pans. Why? No one can tell me. They all just answer with that shruggy thing and say, "C'est comme ça." That's just the way it is. Whatever. I still wouldn't want to be known as sourleafy or sourleafesque or even sourleaved. Or would it be sourleafed?

I shouldn't be surprised. French can be logical and it can also be maddeningly illogical. Cheval, chevaux. Hôpital, hôpitaux. Carnaval, carnavaux? NON, carnavals. 3 girls are elles. 3 boys are ils. 3 girls and 1 boy are...ils. Majority and logic, despite all their claims of loving Descartes more than anything, do not rule here.

Tome 2 of things I've learned

1. It is possible to be too sad.

Yesterday, Boy2 and I took a nap together. He usually takes a nap on his own but he had dozed in the car on the way back and I was worried he wouldn't take one at all. So I offered to take one with him. He sweetly accepted. On the way to bed, he got a big splinter in his big toe. That I couldn't get out. I told him sleep was the only solution (I was REALLY tired). We got into bed and I said, "Do you want to snuggle for a while?" He looked at me with stricken eyes and said, "No, I'm too sad to snuggle."

2. It is possible to be too polite.

In the middle of said nap (which lasted 2 blissful hours), I woke up enough to roll over and sneeze quietly. Boy2 was curled up against me, his head against my shoulder. Without opening his eyes or even waking up, he whispered against my skin, "Bless you, Mama."

3. Road signs are sometimes very profound.

On the way to a historical theme park, I saw a sign on the highway that said:

Conduite souple.
J'économise et je pollue moins.

Which could be translated in two ways. One literal which I won't bother giving because it's not very interesting, although I am curious to know how one might define flexible driving. And the other:

Flexible behavoir.
I save and I pollute less.

Things I learned / ate / discovered on vacation

1. Nagging works. We were going to spend the day with relatives. Our boys can get a little rowdy when they spend the day with certain cousins. So, before arriving, I turned to Boys and said, 'Hey guys, what are the rules?" Boy2 took a deep breath and said in rapid succession, "No fussing, no hitting, no pushing, no fooling around, no whining, no bickering, no nothing! They managed to have fun anyway.

2. Weird conversations are just around any corner. While buying a vacuum cleaner (don't ask me why we had to do this on vacation), I asked a few questions to the small appliance salesperson about vacuum cleaner longevity. He said, 'Try not to suck things up with it." Isn't that the point?

3. The best butter cookies in the WORLD are made in Pont-Aven, which is also a beautiful little painters' city (Gaugin and many others lived there). Better than Lorna Doones (sp?), better than Scottish shortbread (sorry, Charlie), better than anything.

4. There is a walled city in Brittany I had been to before this vacation. Despite the fact that I had never been there. This isn't one of the those past life things, cause I'm not really buying that, and it's not one of those destiny thing, cause I'm not buying that either. All I can say is that walking down the cobblestone street, my feet were walking in my own footprints. Maybe it was the musicians playing dreamy Celtic stuff on one of the squares or maybe I visited this place in a dream, but, one way or another, my tracks had been left on the snow covering that ground and they never melted away.

Honey (s), I'm home!

Quelle prise de tête

In a recent conversation with a friend, Chimp, I said that, when it comes to books, I have to enjoy myself. I can no longer read things that aren't pleasurable in one way or another. Which is not to say that the topic can't be serious. I recently re-read Nickled and Dimed: on not getting by in America (imagine that title is underlined because I can't figure out how to do it), which is a great book, thoroughly enjoyable, but the topic is quite serious and the conclusions even more so.

Which got me thinking about what I don't like. Which is when a book or a movie or anything, really, is une prise de tête. Literally, a taking of the head. It can be a verb, prendre la tête. As in ça me prend la tête, that takes my head. Or reflexively, il se prend la tête. He takes his head.

All of which means something along the lines of complicated where it could be simple. Or making something important out of something that needn't or shouldn't be. Or taking my head hostage by using pseudo-intellectual wannabe highbrow blah as a weapon. Or taking one's self too seriously to a point where one's head becomes the center of a ridiculous universe.

We're going on vacation tomorrow. Which, I hope, will be sans prise de tête. Bonnes vacances!

---

Update: Nickle and Dimed: on not getting by in America. Look what Eric taught me. I can be taught.

---

Update 2: Lorraine just taught me how to make these nifty lines. Aren't they the greatest couple?

Huh?

I hurt my back this weekend. I was looking for my diplomas, if you can imagine that. I haven't seen the things in years. But one of my new employers wants a copy of each to, I don't know, prove to someone I actually have them, I guess. I looked in my current filing area. No diplomas. So I tackled a closet in the bedroom where I keep stuff from home I don't need but don't want to get rid of. All those research papers from graduate school, tons of linguistic books, and maybe some diplomas. A big, full filing box was up on a shelf, I took it down in a way that did not please my left hip or my entire lower back. Picky, picky, picky.

So, since saturday morning my back's been pissed at me. I was hoping things would just kind of work themselves back into place, but apparently not. So, yesterday, while continuing to look for the diplomas, I called around to see if I could get an appointment, quickly, with an osteopath. Done! One I've seen before, who is quite competent, could see me on tuesday. Yeah! And, bonus, yesterday afternoon I found one (out of three) diploma. But, even better, I found a transcript from all three degree programs with DEGREE EARNED at the bottom. Given that all of it's in English anyway and the fact that I seriously doubt the person who'll be reading it will actually be reading it, I figure the transcripts will do the trick.

This morning I went to see the osteopath. Who I've seen before, who has never hurt me or said anything even slightly cooky.

For one hour I was manipulated, in the osteopathic sense of the term, to help back and hip find happiness again. But, man, it hurt so much. I've never hurt like that in an osteopath's office, ever, and I've seen my fair share. The worst, or best, was that he wasn't not doing a good job, he was doing a great job. Anyway, at the end of the appointment, I, dripping in sweat (and not for sexy reasons) asked what the deal was. Why had it hurt so much and what had I done to whack things so far out?

I could not translate, or even understand, the explanation. I can only give you the last sentence, the easiest to understand and the only one I could retain.

"You may be right-handed physically, but emotionally you're definitely left-handed."

Huh?

I considered asking for further explanation, but I'd suffered enough for one morning. AND, I realized (take that, Charlie) that I had my new joker . When the going gets tough, I can always plead innocence on the basis of what must be a serious contradiction for poor me. Right-handed in my head and left-handed in my heart.

Take that

As I've mentioned in previous posts, an American in France occasionally comes up against what I can only call linguistic snobbery. The idea that British English is superior to the American variety, in both its written and spoken forms. Whatever. It's not the kind of thing that really bothers me unless it's directed at my kids. At which point I turn into a raving bitch. But that's just the mom in me.

I did, however, lose my calm once when it was directed at me. No, not really my calm, just my civility.

An English friend looking to move here from London asked if I could take calls from a local real estate agent. No problem, I said.

Said agent called. And spoke French with a very heavy British accent. Out of kindness or laziness or both, I suggested we speak in English. I believe my exact words were, "Why don't we stop speaking French since we share the same native language."

Mr. Agent Man replied, "Oh, you think we speak the same language?"

And then out it popped. "Well, I don't know. If I say you're an arrogant a**hole, do you need a translator?"

Given his reaction, I'd say he didn't.

(Please note: Above conversation took place before St. Anthony and I started working together.)

L'été sucks

Boys and I have been in Nantes for several days trying to get away from the heat, or at least deal with it more gracefully. So much for that. It was hotter in Nantes than in Laval. But my in-laws have a big yard and a good size kid pool so at least the boys were entertained. They slept in the coolest room in the house. They did not suffer from the heat at all. The same cannot be said for me. I slept in a bedroom upstairs with a skylight. I hate skylights. The temperature of the room at 11 pm most nights was around 90°F.

I don't like summer. There. I've said it. I really don't and I haven't for a really, really long time. Some people get down and mopey when it's grey and cold and mists all day. I am not one of those people. I am, however, one of those people who gets down and mopey when it's over 23°C which is about 70°F I think.

Needless to say, given the 35°C + temps we've been having here (way too hot°F), I'm miserable. And totally useless as a mother. I'm not an easy mother to have in the best of times but in the worst of times (summer), I feel sorry for my poor boys. The activities and games I'll participate in include making more iced tea or coffee, reading a book in the shade, sitting without moving in front of a fan.

I should mention that NOTHING, aside from the grocery store and my husband's car, in Laval (or Nantes for that matter) is air-conditioned. No homes, shops, cafés, parks, streets, nothing. So essentially, unless I'm standing in the frozen food aisle at the grocery store (and after about 20 minutes, people start to stare and the boys start to shiver) or driving in Husband's car, there is no relief.

The weather people are saying this thing they call a heat wave, with is stupid because waves are usually refreshing and this is anything but, is going to last at least 3 more weeks.

The boys will be raising themselves by then.

An act of fancy

As I mentioned in yesterday's post, we had a little Bastille Day / Independance Day gathering. I had planned the menu at least a week before. Actually, as soon as Lorraine mentioned making corn dogs. So the menu on Bastille Day at my house was as follows: apéritif was beer with rosemary potato chips with a couple of dips I made (shallot/sour cream and gorgonzola/tomates confites), dinner was corn dogs (go to Lorraine's blog - Here's the thing for the excellent corn dog recipe) served with my homemade (that means 8 hours in my oven while it was 87° outside) Boston baked beans and coleslaw. Dessert was a caramel cheesecake that my new American friend and her daughter made.

The evening before Bastille Day, Husband called and asked if it would be alright if he invited a couple of client/friends. Sure, it would be fine, I said.

The following morning around 10:00 am, Husband said, "Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you last night, P is a vegetarian. Is that going to be a problem?"

And then I did the unthinkable. I rolled my eyes and said, "oh jeez, give me a break."

I was a vegetarian for 12 years.

Unfortunately, many people who are 'reformed' from something, good or bad, become, like I had, intolerant of what they once were. Think about it. The former smoker (not you Lorraine or Eric) who CAN'T STAND to be around cigarette smoke, the reformed sinner who CAN'T STAND hanging out with unreformed sinners, members of a minority who CAN'T STAND members of a minority smaller or newer than their own.

Which is not to say that I can't stand vegetarians. Not true. Many of my friends and my sweet mom are vegetarians and I love them all. But jeez, menu planning and cooking are a lot less fun when vegetarians are involved. Ever made a vegetarian corn dog? And DON'T tell me to use a soydog, they don't have them here. They have some soy mush sausages that are nasty and that's it. And I'm totally open to soy products, when they're good.

Anyway, the dinner was delicious. I had to get poultry dogs for NAF (new American friend) and her daughter since they don't eat red meat, P had no dog at all, and boys and Husband and I had the real dogs. And they were excellent. As for the baked beans, well, let's just say technically, at the time they were eaten, there was no meat in them. I will say nothing about their amazing clove, molasses, and slightly smoky flavor or how they got the latter of those three flavors. Everyone enjoyed the beans.

Friends and family who endlessly tweaked menus on my behalf during those 12 self-righteous years, bless you all. You are kinder than I am. If you ever rolled your eyes at my various dietary restrictional phases, don't feel guilty. I totally deserved it.

Don't bite, Charlie

We had a little gathering at our house on friday evening. It was Bastille Day, Husband had the day off, and we hadn't done anything for the 4th of July because the kids and I had to make a trip to Nantes that week. So I told the boys it would be a combo Independance Day / Bastille Day party.

I invited a new American friend of mine (T) and her 5 year old daughter. T's English husband was away on business. Also in attendance were two clients/friends of Husband's that I hadn't yet met. Both are English. I had planned a very American menu to represent the Independance Day stuff and we were all planning on drinking wine here in Laval, France so I figured that counted as the Bastille Day stuff. Oh yeah, and we walked up the street to watch the parade in the morning. The boys were very impressed by the bands and soliders and fire engines. I was happy we had a spot in the shade and an iced coffee right afterwards.

That afternoon, while I was in the kitchen cooking, Boy1 started to ask some questions. What was Bastille Day? What was Independance Day? Husband was standing in the hall and stayed close by. He has, I'm sorry to say, very little faith in my culture générale, and I suppose he has his reasons. It all started when, after having bought me a bouquet of flowers, he started talking about the Carnation Revolution in Portugal. Up until then, I'd never heard about a revolution in Portugal. Yes, I know, my ignorance is showing. I've got a few university degrees, but not much general culture. On the up side, he is quick to say that I have somewhat more general cultural/historical knowledge than many Americans. Cold comfort when you see the results of that exam they give all the BA grads at University of Arizona - you know the one I'm talking about - half the people can't find Portugal on a map or say who we fought against during World War I. (Please note: Husband's not being judgemental, he just knows how little some Americans know about the rest of the world). Anyway.

Back to the kitchen conversation with Boy1. I told him that Bastille Day was about a time when France was ruled by kings, not presidents and prime ministers and unions. The kings hadn't been running the country very well, the poor were very poor and the rich were very rich and the poor were fed up. So they took to the streets and changed things. Husband listened with approval. No mess-ups so far.

Independance Day, I told him, is about a time when my country was still ruled by the English. We wanted our Independance and so we fought a war against them to win it. Husband then joined the conversation. And you know what, he said to Boy1, the French helped the Americans fight that war.

Boy1 looked at us and asked, why did the French help the Americans fight the English?

I replied, because the French LOVE to fight the English. Husband laughed and made no modifications to my explanation.

History lesson à la Nicole.