How to Make a French Family

by Samantha Vérant

  Bouts of homesickness occasionally set in, but on a quick trip home for Thanksgiving to recharge my batteries, they were cured, and I stopped idealizing my former life so much. Plus, when I was home, thanks to a few friends, I picked up a few freelance gigs—a couple of logo designs and a website. My confidence was back on track.

  No longer hiding underneath my covers, I’d leave the house with confidence, having finally figured out that staring, just like la politesse (politeness), was simply part of French culture. My fellow pedestrians weren’t trying to push me off the sidewalk and into oncoming traffic because they knew I was a foreigner—the sidewalks were just much narrower, and you simply had to hold your ground. I even started to answer the phone. Did the telemarketers understand me when I told them we had une ligne rouge (unlisted number) and to take us off the list? Maybe. Maybe not. Who cared?

  Formerly, in the throes of my mouse-voice phase and intimidated by the idea of speaking with anybody other than my French family, I’d attended only one of Max’s rugby games. This situation was rectified with my new, positive attitude. If people laughed at my accent, so be it. I’d laugh right along with them. Hey, Joey from Friends always got a chuckle with his manner of speech (“How you doin’?”). My life, at times, felt just like a sitcom. Might as well play my part.

  Adieu, mouse voice.

  Under the clear cerulean sky, after exchanging pleasantries with the other parents, I whipped out my camera, taking shot after shot of my little man and his friends in their red and black uniforms, only pausing my clicks to cheer and clap and scream, especially when I captured a grand moment. Max scored un essai (a “try,” or as I liked to say, a goal).

  A fiercely proud rugby stepmom, I showed the pictures to Max and he grinned like crazy, but the green-eyed jealousy monster inched into Elvire. I could tell she wanted some picture love, too, especially after she invited me to watch her acrogym performance at school. I sat with the mothers of her friends, making small talk, and captured the spectacle—a combination of light gymnastics and cheerleader-like pyramids.

  I was the keeper of their youth now.

  This new outlook had me thinking: maybe it was finally time to try for a child of my own? Tightly wrapped in Jean-Luc’s arms, I whispered, “I think it may be time to stop being so careful, if you know what I mean. Would that be okay with you?”

  “’Oney, I want what you want,” he said.

  8

  DRIVING FORWARD

  Ever since I’d received my temporary driver’s license, Jean-Luc and I had taken the car out to refresh my memory, since I hadn’t driven a car with a manual transmission in over twenty years. I didn’t grind the gears of our silver Ford (too badly), and it all came back to me—like riding a bike (sort of). But our C-MAX had an electric brake, which meant I couldn’t play around with it in case I was stuck on a hill with another car riding my tail. Jean-Luc teased me by placing his hands over his eyes when I panicked on a road with a small dip (minuscule, really), but I forged ahead, balancing the clutch and gas pedals while holding my breath and making a mental note to avoid any inclines—great or small—at all costs.

  A postcard arrived in the mail, stating that my permis de conduire was ready for pick up. Jean-Luc, of course, offered to accompany me to the préfecture. I thanked him, but said no. Instead, I took the bus to the metro station that would get me to Toulouse, saying “Bonjour” to the driver when I got on and “Merci, au ’voir,” when I got off, just like everybody else.

  At the préfecture, the helpful and understanding woman I’d met the first visit stepped out of the back office and handed over my license with a smile, which I returned with a hearty “Merci mille fois! ” The permis de conduire was a pink piece of paper folded into thirds with my nonsmiling photo stapled into it. I could now legally drive in France. And, a few days later, I was the one taking Elvire shopping for clothes, not her dad. Let the adventure begin.

  “I don’t want to go to Portet,” said Elvire. “I don’t like the stores there. Can we go to the centre commercial in Blagnac?”

  I shot Jean-Luc a nervous glance. The shopping center she wanted to go to was located about half an hour away, instead of the one ten minutes from our house. “Are there any hills on the way?”

  “It’s mostly highway—so the route is flat.”

  “Okay,” I finally said, and Elvire smiled until I asked Jean-Luc what her shopping budget was.

  We set out at nine in the morning. Elvire turned on the radio, loud. I turned it off, explaining I had to concentrate. “Should I plug in the GPS?” I asked. “Or do you know how to get there?”

  “I know.” Elvire blurted out directions. Droit. Gauche. Droit. Right. Left. Right. “Tout droit,” she said, and I made a right. “Non, tout droit,” she said, and I took another right. “Noooooo. Tout droit! Tout droit! ”

  “I am turning right!” I said, pulling the car over into a parking lot. “All rights!”

  She pointed straight ahead. It was then that I figured out that tout droit didn’t mean to take all rights; it meant to go straight. Exasperated, I yanked the GPS out of the console. Elvire pulled out her iPod and plugged in her earbuds. I could hear the bass thumping like a herd of wild horses—right in tune to my nervous heart. The voice on the GPS barked out instructions like an angry drill sergeant. At least I understood her.

  On the highway, Elvire said, “Tu conduis comme une grand-mère.”

  It was true. I was driving like a grandmother, about twenty kilometers under the speed limit. In fact, grandmothers were passing us on the route, a few of them glaring in our direction. But we made it to the shopping center alive.

  My worst fear came true at the mall. There was no outside parking, no space I could just pull right up into. Nope, I had to wind up in one of those circular parking structures with another car riding my bumper. “Merde, merde, merde,” I said under my breath and white-knuckle gripped the steering wheel.

  Elvire took out her earbuds. “Y’a un problème? ”

  “Oui. Oui.” Yes, there was a problem. As I held my breath, I tried to explain in between panicked gasps for air that I was petrified of rolling backward into another car. “Balance the clutch and the gas,” I said over and over again as we circled up four levels until finally seeing a sign indicating free spaces. I pulled into a spot, with shaky, tired, and sweaty hands. It took a few minutes to regain my composure. I broke out into laughter. One tiny victory for immigrant kind! Elvire looked at me like I had three heads.

  “On y va? ” she asked.

  “Oui, on y va.”

  Let’s go.

  Shopping with Elvire was like shopping with my mother; the girl couldn’t make up her mind. She knew she had a budget, and even if she liked something, she held off on the purchase just in case she loved something more. After visiting five stores two times over four hours, we ended up with three T-shirts, one blouse, and two pairs of jeans. We still had to buy her shoes. On the other hand, I loved the happiness lighting her eyes and the fact that she seriously considered each and every one of my opinions. There was nothing like shopping to bring a would-be stepmonster and stepdaughter closer together.

  Finally connecting with Elvire was cause for celebration, and I believed it was important to celebrate all moments great and small, so I began planning my first dinner party for the following night, a pre-Christmas get-together—but not of the tuna-noodle-casserole variety. Along with the four of us, I asked Jean-Luc to invite Christian and Ghislaine, the witnesses at our wedding in France, their daughter, Anne, and her boyfriend, another Jean-Luc, who, at well over six foot five, we called Grand Jean-Luc. Christian had sparkling blue eyes and a huge smile, and like Jean-Luc, he came complete with an infectious laugh. Ghislaine, his wife, had a warm and cheerful face, cropped blond hair, and wore funky glasses with orange frames. Both of them, I guessed, were in their early sixties. They’d had us over for at least four meals and it was high time we returned the favor.

  The night was going to be all about
food—the French way, where course after course was served, starting with an apéro (appetizers and drinks), followed by an entrée (the small first plate), then the plat principal (main plate) with a side dish, which, bien sûr, was followed by a selection of cheeses or a salad, and a dessert, which, thankfully, Christian and Ghislaine had offered to bring along with a bottle of chilled champagne.

  I had finally become familiar with the finer points of French cuisine. The kitchen was now my domain and would soon smell of France—sweet and salty, warm and delicious. I was queen of the quiche, a creator of crêpes. I could make moules à la marinière with my eyes closed. One day, I would even try my hand at flambéing—once I got over my fear of singeing my eyebrows off or burning down the house. True, there had been minor confusion at the butcher when I’d asked for a tenderloin de porc, thinking that pork tenderloin was the same in English with French pronunciations, which oftentimes worked. Nope, not this time. In France, when I wanted this cut of meat, one asked for a filet mignon, which had me wondering about steak. But no matter. Supplies in hand, I became a Tasmanian devil of a chef—chopping and slicing, whipping and whirling.

  Elvire noticed how busy I was and offered to play sous-chef, helping me prepare the tomato and zucchini tarts for one of the appetizers and snapping the tips off the green beans.

  “We must speak in English,” she said. “I want to improve. One day, I’d like to live in another country.”

  “What about my French?”

  “You’re doing better.”

  “I am?”

  She nodded. And then she mimicked my French accent, speckled with Chicago and a hint of Californian valley girl.

  “I don’t talk like that,” I said with a laugh.

  “Yes, you do.” She glanced at her watch. “I have to go. I have a rendezvous at the aesthetician. And I’m late.”

  It is true. French women don’t shave their legs or armpits; they either get lasered or waxed. And they start young. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. It hurt just thinking about it. I cringed. All my spa experiences had been complete nightmares. The first time I got waxed, the woman ripped off my skin, bruising my entire bikini line in the process. The first time I had a massage, I swear the male therapist tea-bagged my head, muttering a guttural oof in the process. And the first time I had a facial, the aesthetician dislodged my contact lenses. Suffice it to say I wasn’t a fan of being “serviced.” But Elvire was a well-put-together French girly-girl. Sometimes, she even gave me makeup tips. Bonjour, cat eyes!

  “Thanks for your help,” I said.

  I spent the entire day cooking, ironing our tablecloth and napkins, and setting the table, knowing that when Max and Elvire did it, they transposed the knives and the forks and knocked over glasses. I collected red berries and sprigs of rosemary from the garden to decorate the plates.

  Our guests arrived. Jean-Luc popped a bottle of champagne open, and I brought out the appetizers. Phase one of the dinner was going swimmingly. The entrée, soup of roasted potimarron—a chestnut-flavored squash—was a hit, warm, sweet, and peppered. The pork roast was tender, bursting with French flavors of garlic, parsley, cream, and spicy mustard. I exhaled a sigh of relief. I was actually hosting a dinner party for real live French people. And, so far, they seemed to love it. Knives and forks clattered on plates.

  Over dinner, the conversation turned to a recent trip I’d taken back home for the Thanksgiving holiday. I could handle the questions. On the return trip, I had packed my suitcase with solid deodorant, panko, hot sauce, Vigo black beans and rice, and red pepper flakes, as well as a reasonably priced set of pots and pans from Costco—ones that came with lids. I left all the emotional baggage behind me. I was equipped as I’d ever be. “C’était super-bon. Et c’était moi qui a fait la dinde.”

  My statement was followed by laughter. What had I messed up now?

  Jean-Luc nudged me in the ribs. “You just said you did the turkey.”

  “But the verb faire means to make or to do. So I made the turkey.”

  “Ouf. You should say you prepared the turkey. Unless you go around impersonating turkeys. Glou, glou, glou,” said Jean-Luc, clucking like a turkey the French way and flapping his arms.

  Instead of letting embarrassment blush my cheeks and slinking lower into my chair, I said, “First of all, turkeys don’t say glou, glou, glou. They say gobble, gobble,” and then I told our guests about another faux pas I’d made, when the kids had asked me what was for dinner and I replied “connard.” Connard was slang for dickhead or asshole. And I’d meant to say canard, duck. For once, my humor translated and our laughter was boisterous, unrelenting. This former mouse voice of a girl smiled from ear to ear.

  “Qui veut du fromage? ” I asked. Who wants some cheese?

  Before they left, Ghislaine took me to one side, thanking me for a lovely evening and letting me know how thrilled they were to see Jean-Luc and the kids so happy, how thrilled they were that I was a part of all their lives. “Nous te considérons comme notre propre fille,” she said, giving me the tightest of hugs.

  I blinked back the tears in my eyes. They thought of me like a daughter? With my parents being so far away, being accepted into their family warmed me from the inside out. Whoever started the rumors about the French being rude, unfriendly, snobbish and hard to get know hadn’t been embraced by the loving spirit of the south of France.

  The more I settled into change instead of fighting it, the more positivity ruled my world.

  I was on a roll, or rather, a baguette.

  9

  BRING ON THE MISTLETOE AND HOLLY

  Our little town of Cugnaux had some serious Christmas spirit going on. One day, after dropping Max off at rugby practice, Jean-Luc and I rounded the corner to find a giant crane in the middle of the town square, with arms like an octopus. Dangling off the arms, seven drummers dressed as nutcrackers beat drums and one super limber aerial artist dressed in white spun around gracefully, twisting her body. The arms of the crane spun around like an amusement ride, dipping and falling in an orchestrated dance.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Jean-Luc.

  “I guess they are practicing for tonight’s holiday spectacle,” he said.

  “We’re so going to the show.”

  That afternoon, as I wrapped Christmas presents, I played classic Christmas carols sung by Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, and Dean Martin, eyeing the clock, waiting for six o’clock with great anticipation. Finally, Max returned home from rugby practice.

  “On y va,” said Jean-Luc.

  “It’s time to go,” I repeated.

  “I’m not going,” said Elvire.

  “Me neither,” said Max.

  My lips pinched together. “Why? What else do you have going on?”

  “Ugh, c’est nul,” said Elvire. “It’s for kids.”

  They were at the age when everything was uncool. This didn’t stop me. And parental bribery (and threats) can get you anywhere. “Well, whoever comes with us tonight will eat tartiflette”—a baked potato dish with onions, lardons, and melted Reblochon cheese, and one of the kids’ favorite meals—“and whoever doesn’t will eat tuna noodle casserole.”

  Max threw his sneakers on. “Tartiflette?”

  “Oui,” I said.

  “Deux secondes,” said Elvire. “I’m coming.”

  We waited ten more minutes for Elvire, and as a family we walked the three blocks to the show. It seemed the whole town was in attendance, including the mayor. What I hadn’t seen in the practice earlier were the well-timed lights blinking on the drummer’s uniforms. The aerialist sat on a swing and soon flew through the sky, and I had to catch my breath. This free show in the center of town rivaled the Cirque de Soleil and reminded me a bit of a living Alexander Calder mobile, the performers responding to the movement of the crane. When the drumbeats and chanting settled down, the kids said, “That was super cool.”

  Sometimes you just had to open your heart to the magic of Christmas.

  This year, we were
not going to have a Charlie Brown Christmas “branch” at our house, like the one I’d witnessed last year when I’d only been a visitor. Although it was clear Jean-Luc had tried to be festive, I couldn’t handle a twig with four colored lights and a few pieces of multicolored garland thrown on it. Plus, this was our first Christmas together as a married family.

  So this year we were getting into the spirit of the holidays—mistletoe and all. We dashed to the local hardware store to pick out the tree—a Normandy pine, about five feet tall—and added a couple of strands of lights to our purchase. After I weaved the lights in and out of the branches, we opened up a bottle of wine, put some classical music on, and watched the kids go at it. As the kids trimmed the tree, I hung the monogrammed emerald green and burgundy stockings my mother had given us the year before—not on the mantelpiece, because we didn’t have a fireplace, but on the radiator in the entryway—with care. When Max and Elvire were finished, they smiled at their endeavor.

  “C’est super-beau,” said Elvire.

  “Alors,” I said. “It is beautiful, mais, l’arbre manque de quelque chose.”

  The tree was missing something. I ran upstairs and grabbed a bag of starfish left over from our “garden by the sea” themed wedding. After tying one of the larger starfish to the top of the tree with silver, wire-rimmed ribbon, I took the strands of blue, silver, and red garland and draped them around the branches in order of the colors on the French flag. When you eyed the tree from the bottom to the top, it was American. I grinned. “Now, c’est parfait.”

  The kids already knew what their big gifts were—their brand-new bikes were in the backyard, and I’d picked out a reasonably priced food processor for myself, along with an eggplant-glazed Emile Henry cocotte (Dutch oven) my mom insisted on sending to us from Amazon France. While the kids spent the last week of the winter break with their grandmother, Jean-Luc and I planned on freshening up their rooms with art for the walls (New York City for Elvire—a dream place of hers to visit; rugby for Max), new bedding, and whatever else I found within budget at IKEA. But there were still a few surprises to come.