The night before we drove the four and half hours to Provence to spend Christmas chez Isabelle and Richard—Jean Luc’s sister and her partner—Jean-Luc suggested opening the boxes that had miraculously appeared under the tree, considering the car was going to be overloaded with suitcases, a case of champagne, gifts for Jean-Luc’s sisters, his nephews, and a few smaller packages for Jean-Luc and the kids.
“Who are they for?” I asked.
“You. And it’s better to leave them here. We won’t have room in the car, so open them.”
“But I already have my gifts,” I said. “And I’ve already used them tonight.”
“Sam, a food processor isn’t for you. It’s for the kitchen,” he said, handing me two boxes. “This is from me.”
I opened up the packages to find a docking speaker for my iPod (so I could listen to music in the kitchen and dance when I cooked!) and a bottle of Chanel’s Coco Mademoiselle. I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him. “Merci.”
“Donne-lui nos cadeaux,” said Elvire. Give her our gifts.
“This is from Elvire and Max,” said Jean-Luc, handing over a heavy box.
A large 10 x 14 eggplant-glazed Emile Henry casserole dish with fluted edges! The matching Emile Henry square 8 x 8 baking dish! I knew that Jean-Luc had picked the items out (and paid for them), but the light in the children’s faces for the fact that they’d made me happy was priceless. I kissed the kids on both cheeks, and then wiped away the tears threatening to explode from my eyes. “Merci! Merci! Je les aime beaucoup! ”
I loved them!
“You’re spoiling me,” I said, turning my teary-eyed smile to Jean-Luc.
“Not as much as you’ve been spoiling us. The meal smells incredible.”
“Oh my God. I’ve got to check on it,” I said, scrambling off the couch.
“Attends. Wait. We’re not finished yet,” said Jean-Luc, pulling me back down. “This is from the cat.”
We all laughed when I opened up a small box to find a set of escargot serving trays, complete with tongs and tiny forks. No wonder Jean-Luc had suggested that we pick up the box of frozen snails loaded with garlic, parsley, and butter at our local Picard. “Who wants an appetizer before dinner?” I asked.
“On mange quoi ce soir? ” asked Max. What are we eating tonight?
“Une casserole au thon,” I said, and Elvire’s jaw dropped open in disgust.
“Je te taquine.” I’m teasing you. “On va manger du boeuf bourguignon,” I said, hoping it turned out okay. I’d combined three recipes, one of Julia Child’s and two others I’d found on the Internet, along with my own additions. What could I say? I liked to get creative in the kitchen.
Elvire nodded with approval. Max licked his lips. Jean-Luc smiled. My heart soared.
Oh, and this experimental dinner was a hit. “I could eat this every night,” said Max.
Yes, this recipe had scored un essai.
Even months after moving to France, some of the cultural differences still came as a surprise, like the never-ending cycle of kissing. Kids kissed kids. Men kissed men. Women kissed women. Everybody was kissing everybody, when we said hello, and when we said good-bye. Every region had different customs, like how many times to swap cheeks. Two, three, or four kisses? Some people kissed from the left, some from the right. Jean-Luc told me to stick to one direction, so that there was no confusion—like accidentally meeting lips. Did I “faire la bise” with people I’d just met? If a friend or family member introduced me, the answer was yes. At parties, at social events, and even at Max’s rugby games, everybody swapped la bise, no matter if there were ten people or over one hundred. Plus, at a party, one waited for every single guest to arrive before touching one appetizer or cocktail. That was interdit (prohibited). But la bise was a habit of mine now, which led to some very awkward moments when I was back in the States.
Even with some kissing confusion, I loved the French way of life, the long meals, the appreciation, and the discussions—especially when it included food and family. I also loved the fact my husband loved to cook and could do it very, very well (when I let him in the kitchen). Food is a reason to live and breathe in France. Jean-Luc’s family was big, and meals were always an event. For Christmas Eve, Jean-Luc was in charge of the main course, preparing one of his specialties—langoustes à l’armoricaine, or crayfish flambéed in cognac and then simmered in a tomato base infused with shallots, garlic, and parsley.
All the usual suspects were at Isabelle and Richard’s. In total, there were eighteen family members, including Jean-Luc’s youngest sister Muriel and her husband Alain. Both of his sisters were gorgeous with long straight hair and beautiful smiles. That rumor about French women being effortlessly stylish was true; they had a certain je ne sais quoi about them. Whereas Isabelle had a penchant for designer brands like Burberry, Muriel’s tastes gravitated toward rock-star chic. Fashion aside, everybody had his or her duty when it came to preparing this large feast.
Isabelle took charge of setting the fifteen-foot-long dining room table, her final decorating touches the sparkling, silver votive candles, which I’d given her, and confetti stars. Then she and Elvire arranged the thirteen desserts—a tradition in France representing Jesus Christ and the twelve apostles, always displayed and enjoyed until December 27—consisting of a combination of dried fruit, fresh fruit, nuts, and sweets, like Calissons d’Aix, a cookie made from almond paste and candied melon, and fougasse à l’huile d’olive, a Provençal cake made with olive oil. Richard, Isabelle’s partner, brought out his homemade foie gras with a fig compote, proudly showing it off, and then he shucked oysters, the trick being to wear a glove and wiggle the knife. Muriel and Alain prepared a verrine of grapefruit, shrimp, and fennel for the apéro. I helped Jean-Luc, playing sous-chef, cutting up shallots and dicing the garlic. And since I was already chopping, I made a mignonette sauce for the oysters—red wine vinegar, sugar, and shallots. The kitchen was madness, a scene right out of a busy Michelin restaurant, but with laughter. And I loved it. Yes to all the chefs!
Isabelle and Richard had an insanely beautiful collection of Santons de Provence. Santons, or “little saints,” were hand-painted terra cotta figurines depicting Provençal villagers. The setup was about five feet in width by eight feet in length, featuring three different sizes of the characters. Isabelle and Richard had well over one hundred of the beautiful figurines—the villagers on their way to visit Mary, Joseph, and Baby Jesus (who, per tradition, would be placed in the crèche by the head of the family at midnight on Christmas Eve). During our apéro, I was pretending to admire the nativity scene when Richard walked over.
“T’aimes nos santons? ” he asked. You like our santons?
“Oui,” I said, trying to hide my mischievous smile.
It took him a minute to notice the giant rooster from the larger santons terrorizing the villagers in the smaller setup. His laughter started out soft, then it boomed. He grasped his belly, his brown eyes watering. He poured some champagne into my glass and wrapped his other arm around me, squeezing me tight. “Jean-Luc, ta femme est une vraie vilaine! ”
Your wife is a real villain!
Dinner started at nine o’clock, and we didn’t leave the table for three hours. Then madness ensued. In France, or at least in this family, when the clock struck midnight, eighteen excited people ripped open packages, wrapping paper flying everywhere and floating down to the ground. Somebody had given Max a creepy plastic horse mask that covered his entire head, and he was running around, wearing it and a new sweatshirt, and holding the iPod Touch he had received from my parents.
Jean-Luc always told me that he thought Christmas gifts were for children, but his eyes lit up when I took him aside to give him the black cashmere sweater, new socks, and a bottle of Armani cologne from Max, Elvire, and me. The kids had pitched in twenty euros each and, thanks to a small freelance job designing a website, I’d had a couple of bucks to spend.
Per tradition, Richard, the head of the hou
sehold, placed the baby Jesus in the crèche and Isabelle called everybody back to the table for dessert, because no French Christmas was complete without a bûche de Noël, a cake shaped like a log and made of sponge cake or ice cream. Our family gathering was so big we had three of them.
After dessert, I joined the traditional game of charades called Time’s Up, which we played girls against boys. Thankfully, I picked really easy words out of the jar: ouvre-boite (can opener) and tendon d’Achille (Achilles tendon). But Jean-Luc wasn’t as lucky. He stood in front of us and brought his arms in front of his chest, extending them up and outward, and stretching them to his sides, his facial expression intense. He wiggled his fingers and undulated his body from side-to-side. Isabelle and Muriel spit out their laughter. Laura, the fiancé of Isabelle’s son Steeve (yes, with an extra e) and I rolled off the couch onto our knees, clutching our stomachs. Finally, somebody yelled, “Time’s up.”
Nobody had guessed that Jean-Luc was a tree—a tree that, apparently, was sprouting and blowing in the wind. And nobody got his Mona Lisa either, when he indicated a frame, then tucked his hands under his chin, and blinked his eyelashes with a weird closed-mouth smile. I’d never laughed so hard in my life. Suffice it to say, the girls won the game and, at three-thirty in the morning, we set off for bed with laughter and love in our hearts.
It had taken some effort on my part, but I finally felt like I was fitting into this life.
On Christmas day, we visited with Jean-Luc’s parents, Marcelle and André, before dropping the kids off at their maternal grandmother’s. Michel, Jean-Luc’s brother, opened up the door to let us in, said hello and Merry Christmas, and then excused himself. He and Jean-Luc got along just fine, but Michel wasn’t the most social of creatures, especially when compared to the rest of the family. Jean-Luc was a true Marseillais, a native of the area, known to be quite loquacious. Sometimes when Jean-Luc launched into blabbermouth mode, not giving anybody a moment to put a word in edgewise, Elvire, Max, and I would make talk signs with our hands, flapping our thumbs against our fingers, and then pretend to fall asleep. But, truthfully, we all loved his excitement for whatever subject about which he was expressing his ideas and thoughts so passionately. Michel? Well, he was the quiet, slinking-off-to-his room type.
Jean-Luc’s father André—a kind man with a head of white downy hair, soulful brown eyes, and a mischievous smile—was his usual dapper self, but there was no mistaking that he was worn out. Upon seeing Jean-Luc’s mother, we knew the reason why. We hadn’t been expecting Marcelle to be in such bad shape. She was in a wheelchair, unable to move, her body bloated. An industrial hospital bed stood in her room. Still, her spirits were up, and she clapped her hands when she saw us and called us over for kisses. Unfortunately, she was also a bit confused and kept calling Jean-Luc by his brother’s name. Worry flashed in Jean-Luc’s eyes.
Since Marcelle and André hadn’t been able to attend the wedding in California, I’d ordered a photo album with all the pictures of the family for them. I handed it over to her, trying to lighten the mood. She looked through a couple of pages, smiled, and then asked for her book on wolves. André stepped into the kitchen to grab some drinks.
Jean-Luc whispered in my ear. “Don’t be offended. The older people get, the more they revert back to a childhood state.”
André handed the kids their Christmas checks and we sat down on the couch for juice and colas. He picked up the photo album and went through every page.
“I wish we could have been there,” André said with a quick nod to his wife. “But her health is getting worse every day.”
Just then, Marcelle announced that she wasn’t feeling well and wanted to rest. The kids’ eyes widened. André wrung his hands. “I have to help her,” he said, his face flushing with embarrassment.
“Papa,” said Jean-Luc, “we’ll come back to visit before we head back to Toulouse.”
“Please do,” he said, escorting us to the door. “I’m sorry.”
Jean-Luc kissed his father on both cheeks. “There’s nothing to be sorry about.”
On the car ride over to drop the kids off at Meme’s house, Jean-Luc gripped the steering wheel, huffing and puffing. “He has to put her in the retirement home or she’s going to kill them both. He can’t take care of her anymore.”
I squeezed his hand, glancing quickly at Max and Elvire in the rearview mirror. Some conversations, I felt, weren’t meant for children’s ears.
Jean-Luc had no qualms about discussing sensitive issues in front of them, telling me on more than one occasion that he didn’t want them to live with their heads in the sand, that they needed to experience life and come to their own conclusions. In a way, I agreed with him. But I didn’t want the kids’ heads to be filled with worry. Elvire was already paranoid enough with health issues because her mother had died of cancer.
“I’ll give Ghislaine a call when we get home,” said Jean-Luc.
Ghislaine was the director for a retirement home in Toulouse. In the past, family members had been required to provide for aging relatives, in accordance with French laws and their means. Plus, people were skeptical of nursing homes, and the majority of senior citizens wanted to remain independent as long as possible. But with the cost of living skyrocketing, it had become increasingly difficult for children to look after their parents under the same roof, and new benefits and financing programs had been put into place. The average cost of an assisted-living home is around two thousand two hundred euro per month, and seniors receive an average pension of twelve hundred euros, allowing family members to pay for the difference for the needed care, the homes staffed with round-the-clock doctors and nurses and all medicines and meals provided.
“Good idea,” I said. “And I’m sorry. I know this is tough.”
He cracked a withered smile. “It’s just life. We have to take the bad with the good.”
Thankfully, this season was capped off by something wonderful. I became Facebook friends with Cristina, the kids’ maternal uncle Thierry’s wife. She sent me a kind message, letting me know how Meme had noticed a huge difference in the kids’ demeanor and how happy she was that I was in their lives.
10
A BAGUETTE IN THE OVEN
Unfortunately, Jean-Luc and I had to cancel the romantic dinner we’d planned to ring in the New Year. On the morning of December 31, nausea hit. I ran to the bathroom dry heaving. Then, I crawled back into bed with cramps, unusual and stronger than I normally had before my period. My breasts stung to the touch, and my nipples were raw. Jean-Luc had left the house early that morning to pick up some papers he needed from his office. I called his cell.
“Hi, ’oney,” he said. “I’m heading back soon. I made the mistake of checking emails. There are over four hundred of them.”
I blurted out, “My period is five days late and I think I’m pregnant.”
“Ah bon? ” he said with surprise. “Do you want me to grab a test on the way back home?”
“No, I’m going to the pharmacy right now. What do I ask for?”
“Un test de grossesse.”
Although this was my first pregnancy possibility, I knew a test would be the most reliable with the day’s first stream. I had to pee like a racehorse, but I held it in—galloping the three blocks to the local pharmacy and then home. I could barely contain myself, wiggling on the toilet, about to explode. I ripped open the package, read the instructions, took the cap off of the unit, and got ’er done. I stared at the test. The results were supposed to appear within five minutes.
Two pink lines became visible in less than ten seconds.
Two bright pink lines.
There was no mistaking the result. I let out a gasp. I was thrilled. But I was also thrown for a loop.
My friends had always asked when I planned on having children, right after they’d scared me to death about the horrors of childbirth. My nipples would turn large and brown, possibly dangle like tiny toes, they said. And I’d say with a petrified smi
le and confess one of my biggest insecurities, which my good friends already knew about: “Well, that shouldn’t be a problem because my nipples are inverted.”
“They’ll come out,” they’d say. “But you’ll pass gas a lot and not at the most opportune times. Probably in yoga class while doing downward dog.”
My friends continued their spiel. “Mommy weight” and morning sickness were issues I understood. But green discharge and incontinence? And none of my friends lived here—they were all back in the U.S., too far away to provide much comfort. I knew I could get over the things that would happen to my body. But my parents were thousands of miles away too; I wouldn’t have my mother’s help when I needed her. Not even Jean-Luc’s sisters lived around the corner. Plus, no spring chicken, I was forty-one. What if the baby had birth defects?
The test shook in my hand. I sat on the toilet, staring at it for about ten minutes, until excitement took over. My heart skipped a beat. What would our child look like? Would he or she have my husband’s perfect mouth? My eyes? I pulled up my pants, picked up the phone, and I called Jean-Luc. “Well, you’re going to be a papa.”
“Are you sure?”
I stared at the test. “Ninety-nine-point-one percent sure.”
“That’s great news.” He paused. “But, until you see a doctor, let’s not get too excited.”
His reaction didn’t surprise me. A scientist, he needed undeniable proof. My mom, on the other hand, flipped her lid, her screams of joy reaching decibels high enough to carry from my former home in California all the way to Toulouse. I was surprised, however, the following Monday when Jean-Luc pulled our car onto a dimly lit street on our way to the doctor appointment. “Uh, where are we?”
How to Make a French Family Page 9