How to Make a French Family

by Samantha Vérant

  “I forget nothing,” said Marcelle.

  The kids shifted in their seats.

  Marcelle commandeered a packet of Gauloise cigarettes from her wheelchair and started to count them. A woman scurried up behind her. “You can’t smoke in here,” she said, her voice a high-pitched whine. It was like she was the nursing home tattletale.

  “I’m not smoking in here,” said Marcelle with a perfunctory nod. “We’re going outside.”

  André wheeled Marcelle toward the doors, leading to the outside terrace, and we followed. Marcelle muttered under her breath, “I don’t like that woman. I know she stole one of my cigarettes. I only have three left. And I had four.”

  Once we were seated at an outside table, André reached into the front pocket of his plaid shirt, whipped out a pack of cigarettes, and handed her one. “You’re only allowed five a day, remember that.”

  Both of Jean-Luc’s parents had quit smoking for many years, but had recently picked up the habit again. Isabelle, Muriel, and Michel also smoked. Jean-Luc had never taken one puff in his life.

  “I know,” said Marcelle.

  “Maman,” said Jean-Luc. “Do you like it here?”

  “I do,” she said. “Papa comes to visit with me every day. The food is wonderful. And they give me snacks just like when I was a little girl.” She paused. “The only thing I don’t like here is that old fart, the one who stole one of my cigarettes.” She pointed. “Oh, look, there’s the cat. He lives here. Samantha, can you fetch him?”

  And so I did, placing the fuzzy creature in her lap. Marcelle smiled. “I love it here. There’s less stress on my husband, too. I was hard to take care of.”

  André’s posture straightened and his eyes brightened. Save for the fact it was hard seeing a wife, parent, or grandparent in this situation, this home was the best thing for Marcelle. Jean-Luc blew out a sigh of relief.

  Like Jean-Luc and me, Isabelle and Richard had a garden wedding at their home catered by un traiteur, the party preceded by a formal civil ceremony at the Mairie in La Ciotat. Isabelle wore a silver and black dress and was glowing with happiness. Richard looked dapper, dressed to the nines in a designer suit. Probably French, right? André was a fiercely proud Papa. Jean-Luc and the kids were happy, too.

  I understood the customs now. Yes, we waited, sometimes awkwardly, until all the guests arrived before making a beeline to the apéro bar. Yes, we swapped la bise with everybody, no matter if there were over one hundred people in attendance at a party. Yes, we danced until five in the morning. This was the way of the French. And, yes, I was even making all those ridiculous mouth sounds I used to make fun off—the raspberry farts, the breathless ouis, the pffftps, and the paf, paf, pafs!

  I still may have pronounced un pull (sweater) like une poule (chicken), which confused the woman at the local clothing boutique, but, even with the curveballs life had thrown at us, I was glowing in the independent phase of this Frenchified life. Which made the marriage of Isabelle and Richard all the more fun.

  At one point, I was expecting Richard to belt out one of his Elvis songs. He didn’t, but that didn’t put a damper on the evening. Especially when I considered Jean-Luc’s dancing. The man didn’t leave the floor until well after three a.m., the kids and me by his side. Elvire shot me a glance at one point. “Regarde Papa. Je suis morte de rire.”

  Look at Papa. I’m dying of laughter.

  “Oh, he’s just getting into it,” I said. “But he’ll never compete with our kitchen dancing.”

  “Um,” said Elvire, “he’s rolling his shoulders. And look at his face! It’s so intense.”

  “He was young once, too.”

  “I don’t even want to imagine it. Look at him now!”

  Jean-Luc was undulating like a snake, legs spread, knees dipping. He was surrounded by three of Isabelle’s friends, busting the moves of all moves. As much as I loved his enthusiasm, I couldn’t contain my laughter. “I love your dad,” I said.

  Elvire and I lost it, almost falling down to the ground.

  It was a beautiful night in the garden under the stars. I had to give props to Isabelle. She’d been completely creative. Over dinner, she’d hidden a paper chef’s hat under one of the place mats at every table. Whoever had the hat had to carve the main course, a gigôt d’agneau (leg of lamb), tableside. Every detail was perfect—from the table decorations she’d made herself, to the floral arrangements. Everything. Richard, my full-fledged and wonderful brother-in-law, was in charge of the wine. Let’s just say that it was beyond fantastic.

  The following day, we were in the pool waiting for the méchoui (a full grilled lamb stuffed with couscous), a traditional meal in Provence after a marriage, when I noticed it skimming the waters: a blue libellule the size of my fist. I raised my arms into a touchdown position. The dragonfly darted over my head, and then performed a gravity-defying act over the pool. They may not have had hummingbirds in France, but that didn’t stop me from appreciating the tiny, beautiful things in life. I raised my arms again. Repeat.

  “What are you doing, Americaine ?” asked Richard.

  I pointed to the dragonfly. “Look! It’s so beautiful. A libellule.”

  His eyes crinkled with mischievous delight. “Your French has gotten worse.”

  Jean-Luc’s sister, Muriel, poked him in the ribs. “No! It’s much better! She’s almost fluent. Do you remember the first time she came to the house? She didn’t understand a thing. It was impossible to communicate with her.”

  “She still doesn’t understand anything,” said Richard, bumping my hip with his.

  The dragonfly buzzed Richard’s head.

  “Tu vois,” I said, shaking my finger. You see? “Even the dragonfly doesn’t agree with you.”

  While my French may have gotten better, sometimes my accent still got in the way. I offered to help the man tending the méchoui. He was short and tan, his skin scorched by the sun, and he wore white chef’s pants, a black T-shirt, and a checked chef’s apron. I’d never seen a barbecue like this before. He turned the lamb on the iron spit by hand, roasting the meat until perfectly golden, the juices dripping into a tray.

  “Do you mind if I take a few pictures?” I asked, trying to make up my mind if this tradition, which came from North Africa, was beautiful or barbaric. “I like sharing my French life with my family.”

  His jaw dropped in shock. “You’ve never seen a méchoui?”

  “Nope.”

  “Go get your camera. Share, share, share! This is one of the best meals in the south of France. Soon, I’ll be stuffing the lamb with couscous.” He brought his fingers to his lips, blowing a kiss. “Delicious.”

  After I took a few shots, Gustave handed me a platter with small brown blobs on it. Instead of offering my family members the kidneys (les reins), I offered them queens (les reines) and reindeer (les rennes) and received many confused looks. Yes, all these words had slight pronunciation differences that mattered, but thankfully, my French faux pas didn’t have a sexual innuendo attached.

  Jean-Luc called everybody to the table. As I sat, he kissed my shoulder. “Love you,” he said.

  “Je t’aime, aussi, honey,” I replied.

  Richard eyed me wickedly as he poured me a glass of rosé. “Alors, Americaine, what do you call Jean-Luc? Besides ’oney?” (The whole family made fun of me when I called Jean-Luc honey. They repeated it over and over again. ’Oney! ’Oney! Seriously, I was the one who should be making fun of them, considering the French don’t pronounce their Hs.)

  With all the home renovations we’d been doing, only one word had come to mind: hammer. “Quelque fois, je l’appelle le marteau-piqueur.”

  Whoops.

  I didn’t say “hammer,” like I’d meant to, which was marteau. I’d said “jackhammer,” which had just as strong a sexual connotation as in English. There was only one thing to do before the familial hazing continued: tease myself and laugh right along with them. I wrapped my arm around Jean-Luc and said, “Mon bonobo.
”

  As the laughter died down, I thought back on all the moments I’d experienced in France, especially when the going got tough, and I just had to giggle. My French life wasn’t so different than my former life after all. The food may have been different, the landscape may have been different, and some of the customs may have been different, but the love I had for this home and my family wasn’t so different at all.

  “What’s so funny, Americaine? ” asked Richard.

  “Some days are so perfect, I just have to laugh.”

  Richard raised his glass. “Tchin-tchin.”

  26

  FRIENDSHIP IS ALWAYS IN SEASON

  Strawberries—specifically the sweet, little plump delights known as gariguettes, a small, tasty, and expensive hybrid cultivated in the south of France—were in season. We’d come back home from the market with two full barquettes of the sweet and scarlet beauties. I cut off the stems, helping Jean-Luc make his delectable strawberry soup—a blended concoction made with crème fraîche, strawberries, sugar, and maybe a little vanilla extract and/or rum.

  “You know,” said Jean-Luc as he pulled the food processor out of the cabinet. “You’re not supposed to faire la bise with our vegetable vendor.”

  “Well, we hadn’t seen him a while,” I said. “He didn’t seem to mind. Plus, he gave us two free avocados, parsley, and a couple cloves of garlic.”

  “Guess he likes you,” said Jean-Luc.

  “He likes us, mon petit chou. You two were chatting up a storm. I kept hearing the word pigeon.”

  “He used to raise pigeons. Then, he got divorced. His wife hated the birds. Now, he’s remarried.”

  “Are you sure he’s French?”

  “Why?”

  “Well, that’s a lot of information to share.”

  Jean-Luc laughed. “Do you remember that English couple I told you about? Nicola and Martin? They just moved here from Singapore? Their son, Aidan, plays on Max’s rugby team?”

  I nodded.

  “I was thinking to invite them over for dinner. They live in Cugnaux and I don’t think they know too many people. They have another son Elvire’s age.”

  “Pourquoi pas? ” I said. Why not?

  We’d recently finished our kitchen renovation, which also included putting a new tiled floor in the foyer and installing new pine floors in the living room. I ran my hand over the countertops and cabinets that Jean-Luc and I had installed last month, proud of our accomplishment. We’d demolished the old kitchen, built sometime in the 1970s, only to find a ten-by-three cement base we’d had to jackhammer down to lay the new pale gray ceramic tiles. We’d constructed every single cabinet by hand, and then hung them on the freshly painted gray walls.

  Although frustrating at times, the backbreaking effort was definitely worth it in the end; the kitchen is my favorite room in the house. It’s where I sing and dance while cooking with Elvire, where I happily prepare Max his new favorite meal, an American breakfast of homemade hash browns and cheesy scrambled eggs, and where Jean-Luc and I discuss future plans and dreams over a glass of wine, the places we’d like to see, the adventures we’d like to experience.

  I was proud of our endeavor—and the fact Jean-Luc and I didn’t kill one another during the process. Bricolage meant construction or creation. Just call me Bricowoman—although we did have a few issues. When we cut the work surface for the sink and stove, it got chipped. Rather than let that get us down, we got creative and bought small tiles to cover up the damage. And I may have put together the cabinet for the sink wrong—the interior bar askew. And Jean-Luc may have accidently drilled two holes straight through to the living room. But in the end, everything worked out. We definitely had a one-of-a-kind kitchen. Oh, and joy to the world, I had an ample amount of cabinet space for my expanding collection of kitchen tools.

  “Should I make something French? Or something English?” I asked.

  Jean-Luc grimaced. Like most Frenchmen, when he thought of British food, Jean-Luc thought of boiled meats, jellies, greasy fish and chips, and sausages came to mind. In 2005, French president Jacques Chirac had delivered his infamous put-down: “You can’t trust people whose cuisine is so bad.”

  Even I’d been subjected to the food snobbery of the French, like when every person I’d ever met asked me if I cooked American. And I was like, American? What’s that? Hamburgers and hot dogs? Yes, I cooked these meals, but give me some credit. So did the French! While I avoided bringing up tuna noodle casserole or cooking it again, I politely explained that America—land of the free, home of the brave—was a melting pot, infused with Spanish, Mexican, Cuban, Indian, Italian, Polish, Greek, Chinese, Korean, French—the cuisine of basically every country on this beautiful planet of ours. I’d end my monologue with, “Unless I’m hosting a dinner party, I cook simple meals: quiches, lamb, chicken, spaghetti, fajitas…”

  Once this information was processed, the typical response was: “Alors, tu prépares les repas familiaux, comme nous.”

  Yes, I prepare family meals, just like you.

  Jean-Luc texted Martin and invited his family over, also asking if there were any dietary restrictions. Nicola offered to bring dessert.

  “I hope she doesn’t bring a dry pudding,” said Jean-Luc.

  “Honey, when my family lived in London, the food was amazing.”

  My parents had moved to Hampstead in 1989 while I was attending Syracuse University. That was the summer Tracey and I decided to travel Europe while we had the opportunity. This was the summer I’d met Jean-Luc.

  “I don’t believe you,” said Jean-Luc.

  “You’re being impossibly French.”

  And he was. Because Nicola brought over the most delicious strawberry torte we’d ever tasted. From the apéro—chips for the kids and an artichoke-parmesan dip for all, served with bread, and small bites of olives and tomatoes, to dinner, a pot-au-feu, to that wonderful, flaky strawberry dessert—everything flowed, even the conversation. At one point, I swore Elvire was flirting with Prentice, Nicola and Martin’s older son. She flipped her beautiful, auburn hair over her shoulder and then she giggled. Also, she was trying her best to speak English. Tall, with dark hair, big blue eyes, and a cute accent, Prentice was a teenage girl’s dreamboat.

  I smiled to myself, remembering what it was like to be her age. Then, I turned to Nicola. “Your boys go to the International School in Toulouse, right?” She nodded. “Do they like it here?”

  “It’s been a big change for them. They really miss their friends in Singapore.”

  “What about you? Are you having a difficult time? It’s a bit of a struggle at first, yes?”

  “It’s been quite the challenge.” Nicola seemed nervous and out of sorts. Just like I had been in the beginning. I told her about my difficulties integrating, especially those first few months. She nodded, hanging on to my every word. We were one. She knew I “got” her. “I was worried that nobody in Cugnaux spoke English because we don’t speak French,” she said. “Thank you so much for inviting us over.”

  I nodded with understanding. When your world is thrown off kilter, family and friendships meant more.

  I raised my glass. “Here’s to our families and to new friends. And I have tons of people to introduce you to! There’s Kathy, another American the next town over. She makes an amazing tian Provençal ! I met her through my first French friend, Caro, who also lives in Cugnaux. She used to be married to an American and speaks English. Plus, there’s the Toulouse Les Chicks. We just started a book club. You should come to the next meeting.”

  In fact, so many people had come into my friendship mix, I had more friends than I knew what to do with. There was Melissa, an American who had moved here from Star City in Russia with her aerospace husband; Zoe, a yoga teacher from Australia; Lindsey, a veterinarian from Canada; Kristin, a teacher from South Dakota; Charley from England; and two other French girlfriends—Céline, a teacher in Toulouse, and Elodie, an attorney. I’d joked that we should start a gang and come
up with some kind of initiation. Instead, we started a book club—really more of an excuse to get together and drink wine.

  “I’d love to go,” said Nicola.

  “Great! Our next get-together is in two weeks. We meet on Sundays, so we can head into Toulouse together. Plus, I’m having lunch with Kathy and Caro next week. I’m hosting it. So, you’ll definitely have to come to that, too.”

  The worry vanished from Nicola’s kind face, her eyes brightened, and she blew out a sigh of relief.

  By the time August rolled around, my manuscript was ready for the world. It had been polished, fine-tuned, and polished again. I’d been a writing workhorse. Jay connected me to an agent, telling me to offer her an exclusive. I wasn’t so sure about that. I’d always been told to query widely. But he knew the business. And I did not. So, I just hoped. And I prayed. And I opened up a bottle of wine. The agent emailed me back the day I queried her. She was looking forward to the read.

  This is the one! This is the one! She’s going to join team Seabiscuit!

  I liked to call myself Seabiscuit, after the little horse that proved all the naysayers wrong when he finally found people who believed in him and became a champion. Like Seabiscuit, I had my team. Max noticed my excitement. “Did you sell your book?”

  “No, not yet. But there is a chance.”

  “Am I in it?”

  “Of course. It’s a memoir.”

  “You used my name?” he asked, and I nodded. “I think I should get paid. Or you can’t mention me.”

  I took a sip of wine. “Fine, how much?”

  “Two hundred euros.”

  I raised a brow, took another sip of wine. I was being strong-armed by a twelve-year-old. Admittedly, I found it hilarious. I laughed. “Fine.”

  “I’ll be right back with the contract.”

  Max ran upstairs. A few minutes later, he thrust a paper in my hands. There was one line written on it, reading that I, Samantha Vérant, would pay Maxence Vérant two hundred euros if my book was published, followed by a bunch of squiggly marks, filling the page, and a place for both of us to sign. He handed me a pen. “Here.”