I savor every moment of our early morning adventure, beginning with waking in the morning in our large bedroom whose walls we painted with such surprising success. Lying there warm and cozy under the down comforter, it is almost unthinkable to get up and dress and go out, yet there is a deliciousness to it, too. I tiptoe into my swimming suit and clothes then slip out of the house with my towel under my arm. Still half asleep, I fumble for my car keys and get in the car to drive through the empty streets to Edith’s. The only people about at that hour in our town and her village are early morning workers. Even the bakeries aren’t open yet, though the air is filled with the aroma of fresh bread.
Edith and I look at each other and shake our heads, agreeing that we are a little nuts to have left our respective beds. Then we get on the bicycles and head out for our ride, which is almost completely flat until right before we get to the lake when it rises and falls a bit. It is hardly a physical challenge, however, but instead pleasant exercise.
In May we still start out in the dusk of early morning, when the sky usually looks like the mottled skin of a purple eggplant. The bicycle ride takes about 20 minutes, so by the time we get to the lake the sky is almost all pale blue with traces of night sky still on the horizon. The vast lake is the central feature of the Base de Loisirs de Léry-Poses, a recreation area that includes picnic sites, mini-golf, a small animal farm, and a running and bicycling path. Beyond the lake on the horizon are lush green foothills punctuated by white clay cliffs, like the cliffs of Dover. The train to Paris runs by one side of the lake but other than that it is a haven of calm. When the weather is good it is, as the French say, noir de monde, so popular that it is black with people.
Save for a lone fisherman or two we’re the only ones at the lake early in the morning. Often, there’s a heavy mist shrouding the shrubs and trees and hovering over the water, which makes me feel like the Lady of the Lake risking all to walk in. We know there are no man-eating beasts in this lake that was once a quarry and is deep and cold, though Edith is continually coming up with stories about huge big-toothed fish, infestations of various noxious weeds, unusual algae blooms, all calculated to send a frisson up my spine. She knows I have an intense intellectual love of water, and a physical fear of its wetness. I am terrified of drowning, I hate feeling underwater plants against my skin, I worry about something pulling me under the water, yet I love to swim.
Once we’ve begun this spring and summer ritual we don’t stop until the coldest days of October (except for the various vacation periods during the summer when one or the other of us is away). Not every morning is warm but we go anyway, unless the rain is falling too hard to see. There’s a challenge in going, and the bike ride serves to warm us up, so even if the air and water are cold, it feels good to get wet.
We often start out in long pants with heavy scarves around our necks and we judge the temperature by the point at which one or the other of us begins to feel warm, pedaling for all we’re worth. Usually, the middle of the village of Léry right before the boulangerie, which emits its mouthwatering aromas each morning, is where the blood gets going. That’s about halfway through our trip, so we know that by the time we reach the water we’ll be warm enough to go in.
Still, it’s not always easy, once the bikes are parked, to peel down to the bathing suit and actually put a toe in the lake. The lake bottom is small stones that hurt the feet and it’s a challenge to walk out far enough to dive in. Edith is always the first in the water, tiptoeing her way in as I cautiously follow. On mornings like these I ask myself, and we ask each other, why on earth we’re not home in our cozy beds. Then she dives in. I wait a bit, certain I’ll die of shock if I submerge myself too quickly, then finally jump in, too. It is so cold we shout and scream sometimes, laughing so hard, so hysterically, that if anyone were around they would think us crazy. Twenty strokes later we’ve convinced ourselves the water is warm. Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn’t. At the start and toward the end of the season it simply isn’t, but it still feels wonderful. It wakes you up to your toes yet your heart stays warm and beats fast, a reminder of all that is good and wonderful in life.
Often, a brace of ducks swim far out on the lake and their quacks filter through to us. We quack back, acting like kids for the quick twenty minutes we’re in the water, swimming to our goal, which is a huge oak tree that leans out over the water. We reach it, and if there is time we go farther. My schedule is more restricted than Edith’s, so I usually determine what we should do. Some mornings, those that herald a hot day, we both wish we could just unfold easel and writing tablet and stay at the lake all day.
The goal of being home, cleaned, and dressed by 8 A.M., so that I can walk Joe to school governs the morning, however. I walk gingerly out of the water, bruising my feet on the stones. “I must talk to Bernard about these stones,” Edith says each morning. “He should put sand in here, just for us.” Bernard is the genius behind the development of this manmade lake, and he keeps a close eye on it, helping supervise the crews that maintain it. We don’t really expect him to order sand for the lake bottom, though it would make our morning swims that much nicer.
Back on our bicycles, refreshed and invigorated, we speed home through the villages, waving at acquaintances on the way as they make their morning trip to the boulangerie, or head off to work in their cars, all dressed up. We imagine their lives, smugly thanking our lucky stars that we each work at home (Edith painting her canvases and me writing and cooking) so that we can be out at 7:30 in the morning bicycling instead of driving off to work.
When I return home after a swim, Michael and Joe are usually just finishing breakfast. I race upstairs, my skin still cool from the water even on the hottest of days, and change into my working clothes—usually a skirt, blouse, and sandals. A quick cup of tea and it’s time to walk Joe to school. Everything seems brighter, clearer, more effervescent on swim mornings. Joe and I laugh as we walk along, and I return home after seeing him line up at the ring of the bell, hungry to start my day.
Sometimes Edith and I go swimming on a Wednesday, which is not a school day for Joe. Since he sleeps in on those mornings, I can take more time. We swim longer, and we often vary our route home to stop at our friend Michel’s bakery, for a freshly baked baguette de campagne, a long sourdough loaf made with part whole wheat flour, which is still warm when we arrive there. We take it to Edith’s, where I make the coffee and she assembles breakfast—butter, jam, and big bowls to sip our coffee from. We set ourselves up in her huge back garden under the apple trees. Her children are still asleep, the dog, César, is jumping to catch the fresh, warm figs that hang heavy on the tree in the corner of the garden, the few chickens Edith keeps are mercifully quiet. It’s heaven. We always “remake the world” as the French call discussing and solving the current issues of the day. By 9 A.M. a pleasant drowsiness begins to take hold of both of us.
Tempted to stretch out on one of the chaises longues in the garden, I instead kiss Edith good-bye and head for home. These mornings are delicious but not geared for efficiency as once I’ve slowed down it’s hard to pick up the pace again. But that doesn’t really matter, since Wednesday is our weekend.
When I began swimming, Michael looked askance at this early morning ritual. He didn’t quite understand why I would give up an hour or more of precious sleep to go swimming in a freezing lake.
But one morning last summer when Joe was staying with friends of ours in Burgundy for a week and the two of us were alone in the house, I convinced Michael to go to the lake with me. Instead of driving to Edith’s as I do, to save time, we bicycled the entire way—about a half hour trip—met her, then continued on to the lake and plunged in. The water was relatively warm—if it hadn’t been, Michael would never have gone. An early morning mist hung over it, and the ducks were out and quacking. By the time we had done half our swim the mist had evaporated and the sun was out. The three of us were alone in the lake. It was pure, peaceful heaven.
I looked at Michael
. He was swimming and diving like a loon. “This is fabulous,” he exhaled, water dripping from his head. He swam off, way out into the center of the lake, while Edith and I did our usual route. We stayed for an hour, swimming, talking, enjoying the peace and solitude.
Then we got on our bicycles and rode by Michel’s to pick up a baguette. He and his wife, Chantal, think we’re crazy and when they saw Michael with us they just shook their heads and laughed, “You too?”
We went to Edith’s and prepared our usual breakfast, taking it out under the apple trees. It was bliss, and we lingered until mid-morning, dunking lengths of baguette slathered with butter and jam into our bowls of coffee. Finally, Michael and I roused ourselves to get home, so we could get some work done. On arriving at the house Michael parked his bicycle and came in, ruffling his hair.
“That was fantastic,” he said. “I’m not saying I’d do it every day, but I get it now.”
RED PEPPER AND TOMATO SALAD
SALADE DE POIVRONS AUX TOMATES
This salad comes from the mother of a friend of ours, Michel Amsalem, a baker and pastry chef who is a French Algerian Jew. She came to France in the sixties when many French Algerians were repatriated, bringing with her family recipes for food that is colorful and savory. I had heard about her cooking long before I tasted it, particularly this salad, which Michel says he eats by the bowlful. It is traditionally served as an accompaniment to couscous, though I’ve found lots of other ways to serve it. One of my preferences is to warm it with slivers of air-cured ham and delicious black olives from Nyons, though I also like to simmer eggs in it, serve it simply with slices of fresh, crusty bread, or alongside roast chicken or lamb, where it lends a bright, flavorful counterpoint.
21/2 pounds/1kg 125g red bell pepper, grilled
1/3 cup/75ml extra-virgin olive oil
1 large garlic clove, green germ removed, minced
1 pound/500g fresh tomatoes, peeled, cored, half the seeds removed, and diced
Fine sea salt, optional
1. Remove every speck of skin from the grilled bell peppers without rinsing them, because you don’t want to rinse away any flavorful juices. Remove the core and white pith inside and scrape away all the seeds, then slice the flesh into strips that are about 1/4 inch/.7cm wide. Reserve.
2. Heat 1 tablespoon of the oil and the garlic together in a medium-size skillet over medium heat. When the garlic is sizzling add the tomatoes, stir, and cook them until they have given up almost all of their liquid. They will still be a bit chunky, which is fine. Remove the tomatoes from the heat and stir in the peppers and the remaining oil. You may season the salad lightly with salt if you like, though it really doesn’t need it. Let cool to room temperature and serve.
4 TO 6 SIDE-DISH SERVINGS
Grilling Peppers
To grill a pepper, place it on a gas burner with the flame turned up high, and turn it frequently until its skin is black and blistered all over. Transfer it to a paper bag and close it, or to a tea towel and wrap it up, and let it cool to room temperature. Slide off the skin and remove the stem and the seeds from the interior.
Alternatively, place the pepper under the broiler—about 1 inch from the heat—and turn it frequently until the skin blackens.
MICHE’S APRICOT JAM
LA CONFITURE D’ABRICOTS DE MICHE
I thought I already had the best recipe for apricot jam until I tasted Miche’s. Miche is Edith’s aunt and she lives about five minutes away from us in Louviers. In her eighties, she is the voluntary grandmother to all of Edith’s children and nieces and nephews, which numbered twenty-eight at last count, and in summer she buys kilos of apricots to make this jam for them. This is a favorite for spreading on buttered bread after one of our early morning swims.
Miche is categoric—she makes the jam in small batches, uses as little sugar as possible, and cooks fruit for as short a time as she can get away with. She also refuses to put apricot pits in her jam—a typical French custom—for in her mind, anything that interferes with the pure, fresh apricot flavor is blasphemy. She’s right; her apricot jam is out of this world.
3 pounds/11/2 kg apricots, pitted and halved
1 pound/500g sugar
1. Place the apricots and sugar in a nonreactive pan or bowl, stir, cover, and let macerate for at least 12 hours.
2. Transfer the fruit and sugar to a large, heavy saucepan and bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Reduce the heat so the mixture is boiling merrily and cook for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. Remove from the heat and ladle the jam into sterilized canning jars, leaving 1/4 inch (.7cm) headroom. Seal according to the jar manufacturer’s instructions.
ABOUT 10 CUPS/21/2 LITERS
SIXTEEN
Too Good to Be True
MICHAEL, JOE, AND I were walking to a neighbor’s house for a Bastille Day party. It was hot and I was wearing a lightweight blue and white polka-dotted skirt with red and white buttons, my most patriotic item of clothing. I’d had the skirt for many years and it had always been on the large side. This day it felt tight, a phenomenon I’d noticed all too frequently recently.
A couple of days later we were driving to Paris to meet friends for a picnic on the Champ de Mars. I was suddenly struck with a headache and general malaise that lasted well into the picnic then disappeared as suddenly as it arrived.
Over the next several weeks I experienced the malaise more frequently and it always seemed to disappear as suddenly as it arrived. My clothes continued to feel tight, my head a bit light. I didn’t think a lot about it except that it was odd and that the symptoms seemed a bit familiar, like when I’d been pregnant with Joe.
But I couldn’t be pregnant. Michael and I had wanted a second child and had tried for nearly three years without success before I went to see a doctor and get some tests. The doctor told me I couldn’t have more children because I was so advanced into menopause that pregnancy was virtually impossible. It didn’t matter that I was young—facts were facts, and tests were tests. As a double check I went to see our family doctor who put it to me like this. “You are past child-bearing age. It is time for you to say good-bye to that phase and to prepare yourself for the second half of your life.” While it broke my heart to hear that, I thought it a considerate way to tell me.
But I had these strange symptoms. Without saying anything to anyone I went to the pharmacy for a pregnancy test kit, a pharmacy where I knew no one, of course, as news travels fast in Louviers. The test was packaged with a tiny gold heart, which was, I guessed, for the happy mother. It was as if the makers of the test didn’t envision the possibility that the test results could be negative. I imagined women hoping against hope for positive results, finding them negative, and hurling tiny golden hearts out of windows.
Unbelievably, my test results were positive. I bought another test to be sure and it was positive, too. Oh my goodness. Michael and I had wanted another child but after trying for such a long time we’d given up, put it behind us. I was forty-three, busy, satisfied to be a family of three. This was totally unexpected and I was ecstatic.
When I told Michael he looked at me, his brain working. “I’ll be sixty-five when the baby goes to college,” he said, then we threw our arms around each other. We were too old, over our heads in every aspect of our lives, and just a year before we had finally given away all of Joe’s baby things. We were deliriously happy.
I had a blood test to confirm the situation, then called a friend who had just given birth to ask her what was the protocol in terms of the clinic where she had had her baby. She told me I needed to reserve a space immediately, that the clinic was so popular it was booked for months in advance. I called right away and was told that there were no more rooms for the period when I thought my baby was due. I called another highly regarded clinic and was lucky to find a space there. The receptionist briefly described the clinic to me, informing me that midwives delivered the babies, though a physician was always on call, and that I would need to schedule a meeting wi
th a midwife immediately, as well as with an anesthesiologist, if I thought I wanted anesthesia during the birth. I told her I was ready to schedule both appointments. She told me all the appointments were full for August, since most of the staff was on vacation, and the computer couldn’t schedule anything yet for September.
She then told me I needed to see a doctor immediately to initiate the necessary paperwork, so I tried to make an appointment with one of the clinic’s doctors. Same story. “You must see a doctor before the tenth of August, but we have no one here until mid-September.”
I called our family doctors who were both on vacation. I called doctors suggested by friends and they were all on vacation. I called the few gynecologists in the area and they were gone. How was I supposed to schedule an appointment with a doctor if they were all on vacation? Finally I called another clinic and, miracle of miracles, their doctor was not only working but had time to see me.
Michael and I went together. The doctor was visibly shocked when I told him my age. He looked at me, scribbled a few things on a notepad, and said seriously, “Madame, you will have to have an amniocentesis you know.” I said I did know that. He looked at me again then told me he had to give me an ultrasound because the paperwork required it. It seemed awfully soon to be doing that, but I was delighted.
“You are twelve weeks along,” he said as we looked at the little form on the screen. “You didn’t get here a minute too soon.”
We were stunned. How could I have been pregnant for so long without realizing it? Both Michael and I paid rapt attention as the doctor measured every possible part of the fetus. “The neck is thin, this is a good sign,” the doctor said. “It means there is little chance the baby has Down’s syndrome, which is something we worry about in women of your age.”
On Rue Tatin Page 23