April’s Fish

This coming Sunday may be April Fools’ Day in the United States, but in France it will be le poisson d’avril.  Translation: April’s fish.  It has the same traditions of trickery and jokes and takes the meaning of the translation literary; a common gag is to tape a paper fish on someone’s back and shout “poisson d’avril” when discovered.

The origins of the day is not altogether clear, but the most popular belief is that it started in 1564 when King Charles IX decided the New Year will start on January 1^st rather than the current practice of April 1^st.   Before the change, the New Year was marked by exchanging presents, which was commonly food.  Given the date often fell during Lent, the most common gift was fish.  After the king’s change of date, certain individuals continued to give presents of fake fish on April 1^st to perpetuate doubt.  Eventually, these presents were transformed into small gifts intended to trick or gently tease others.

So, watch your back this Sunday.  You never know when a poisson d’avril will arrive.

My Top 10: The Pros and Cons of Living in France

I get a lot of questions about what I enjoy about living in France, and what I miss about being stateside.  The truth is, there’s a lot of pros and cons on both sides, so I decided to put a list together.  Not included on these lists are the obvious, the questions that make me roll my eyes when asked: yes, I moved to France to be with Christophe, so he is the first reason why I like living in France; yes, I miss my family and friends terribly; no, this was not an easy decision; yes, I miss my job; yes, it’s hard to leave after our annual Christmas visit; and yes, I wonder and sometimes hope that we’ll move to the United States.  Until then:

Top 10 Things I Like About Living in France

1.      Universal Healthcare.

2.      Food Diversity.

3.      Cheeses.

4.      The patrimony, gastronomic and otherwise.

5.      The scenery can dramatically change within minutes, which makes road trips interesting.

6.      At times, there is absolutely no concern for “the rules”; even the most law abiding citizen disregards them at one time or another.

7.      People still use and swear by folkloric methods and old wives’ tales.  This explains why I sometimes see staples in trees.

8.      Okay, okay I admit it: the wine.

9.      I can take wild mushrooms to the pharmacy and they can tell me if I can eat them or not.

10.  There is no Target.

Top 10 Things I Don’t Like About Living in France

1.      Bank charges – for everything.

2.      Losing my humor. (It’s not that I don’t find things funny, it’s just that language makes things difficult.  By the time I get the joke and formulate a response, the moment has passed.)

3.      There are taxes on taxes, literally.

4.      “Customer service” is non-existent.  Don’t expect help with a defective product after it’s purchased.  You’re on your own.

5.      Everyone takes vacation at the same time.

6.      Stores are closed between noon and 2 pm.

7.      Strikes; and bowling is not popular here.

8.      Toilet paper does not come with the phrase “number of sheets or yard length included”, so there is no comparing a regular roll to a jumbo roll.  This gets me upsets every time I go shopping.

9.      The French could be a bit ridged with their language.  Try speaking a few phrases to a French person and you’ll know what I’m talking about.

10.  There is no Target.

Time Change; Rhythm Change

Saturday night, we changed our clocks.  Daylight Saving Time in Europe is two weeks after the “spring ahead” in the United States.  In Europe, “summertime hours” was standardized in 1996 versus the US counterpart which dates back to World War I. 

Truly, I find pleasure in this change.  The lingering evening hours are often spent in the garden, sometime just tinkering with one plant or another.  Sunday, it brought a burst of energy that motivated both of us to tackle new projects and work until the fading light. Lunch was the sole interruption: our first bar-be-que of the season. Surprised, we walked into the house close to 9 PM, slightly sunburned, covered in dirt, and exhausted, but highly satisfied with what we accomplished.

Perhaps it’s the change of temperature, and not just the change of time that propels this momentum to get things accomplished, but the extra evening hours are a positive change.  It only seems to compel me to throw the windows open, run outside, and do something that, at the end of the day, I can look at with my dirt covered hands and feel like I’ve made a change for the better.   The next day, I want to feel my stiff muscles creek a bit as I crawl out of bed, knowing the stiffness comes from labor, and not just from sitting around.  I want my muscles to slowly find the rhythm of the day spent outside working and merit the calm evening of a glass of wine while dozing in front of the television.  I like the change of time, the change of rhythm of living with the seasons and finding pleasure in what new season brings.

My Morning Music

Not a bad way to start a Friday.

What’s the matter? Are you Chicken?

During Sunday’s lunch of Coq au Vin, there was a lot of chicken talk, that is, about raising chickens.  I’ve been kicking around the idea for some time, and it only seem natural since we have the space and France has that crazy fascination going on with the egg  At times, my mind gets off track and I imagine myself working through dozens of French recipes with all the fresh eggs I’ll have on hand.  Christophe warns the egg fanaticism is a slippery slope that, once on, is hard to get off.  I’ve contemplated his warning, and decided that I’m willing to take that risk.  Heck yeah – fresh eggs!

While Christophe might not be much a big fan of raising chickens, he’s slowing coming around to the idea of having some.  He knows chickens from his uncle’s farm, and is starting to discuss where we could build the chicken coop.  He knows what to feed them and why.  Christophe confirms what everyone has been telling me all along, “they are no work at all.”  Well, I don’t think that all true since they are animals that need to be feed and properly sheltered, but what I think everyone is really saying is they are very little work with fresh eggs in return.

As with any investment, there are risks.  In this case, it’s foxes.  Our neighbors had five chicks picked off one by one over the course of a week in broad daylight.  Clearly, they weren’t happy.  Foxes tend to prowl at twilight hours, so this one was particularly brave, or hungry. Raising chickens presents the responsibility of being present daily; a quick tour to close their coop and make sure they are safely inside only takes a few minutes, but it means being here.  With few exceptions, we are.  We don’t eat dinners at restaurants and when we do pass an evening with friends it’s almost always in the village.  In some way, this should be a no brainer, but there are weekends when we go elsewhere, so I hesitate.  I’ve been told the chickens could be left outdoors in their enclosed areas, but there are risks, and I’m balancing that with the payoff. 

Fresh eggs versus possible chicken massacre: strangely, it’s not an easy choice.

Monday's Leftovers: Coq au Vin

In France, Sunday lunches are sacred.  They are a time for family and friends to gather together, put the work week on hold, and come back to the table to the things that inspire.  Monday’s Leftovers is a periodical series that recaps those moments, the lunches, and the memories that are left long after the dishes are done. 

Sunday morning arrived without the sun; clouds hung low on the mountain ridge bringing with it damp air and cold drizzles.  It was not a day to work in the garden, so I decided to attack the neglected house that desperately needed cleaning.  After breakfast dishes were cleared away, Christophe got busy preparing lunch: coq au vin.

Considered at one time to be “peasant food”, coq au vin is made from the old farm rooster that has just gotten too old.  Unlike supermarket chickens, which are sold at 6-8 weeks after hatching, an old coq is firm and can withstand stewing.  In fact, slow cooking in wine is required to render the meat tender and less stringy.

The origin of the recipe for coq au vin is unknown.  Some say it’s from the Bourgogne region of France; others say it dates back to Napoleon who was served the dish at an inn when no other food could be found; and the most popular myth dates from when Caesar conquered Gaul.  As tribute, the inhabitants presented him with an old rooster, which his chef cooked with wine to make it more palatable.

Regardless of where and when it came from, its roots remain provincial, modest, and rustic.

As I cleared away the cobwebs that decorate the beamed ceiling overhead, Christophe finds a compilation jazz CD: Ella Fitzgerald, Etta James, Sarah Vaughan, and Dinah Washington.  Their sultry voices start to mix with the odors of braised shallots and wine and I’m suddenly hungry, but it’s only 10 am.  I’ll have to wait a few more hours until I can taste what’s in the pot.  It’s going to be a long, anticipation filled morning.

After several dust filled hours, I’m finally invited to the lunch table.  I’m served a glass of wine and a heaping plate of coq au vin filled with a rich sauce, caramelized shallots, and meaty mushrooms.  I look at Christophe and all I can say before I dive into the plate is, “Why haven’t you served this before?”

He just smiles.

The Peach Blossoms

There is a growing pink haze starting to take over the barren fields: peach blossoms.  These early bloomers often follow almond and apricot trees which have already started to flower, but are predecessors to other local fruits, such as cherries, apples, and plums.  The region is full of orchards, particularly peach orchards, and their glowing pink hues are a welcomes sight as a countdown to the official first day of spring.

La Bise

The kiss or la bisous.

It’s about as awkward as a moment can get for a foreigner in France: la bise (pronounced BEEZ) or the kiss.  Well, it’s not really a kiss, it more of a little cheek to cheek embrace accompanied by a small kissing sound that says hello, and everyone uses it.  It’s replaces the good ole American handshake or hearty pat on the back.  It’s not sexually, but crosses a line of personal space we Americans have drawn for ourselves and places us in a world where physically personal greetings are the norm.  It takes some getting used to and is, at times, complicated.

 La bise is used all over France and depending on the geographic location, the number of “kisses” can vary.  The trick is knowing the number.  For example, in Paris, la bise is two; one on the left cheek and one on the right.  La bise in Toulouse is four, Provence it is three, and where I live, two.  This does presents some problems.  Christophe grew up with the “3 kiss bise”, so naturally, I followed suit.  When greeting friends who have a “2 kiss bise” there is always an awkward moment between the second and third bise.  Do we kiss again, or do we stop there?  There’s generally a pause and a comment, “oh that’s right, you do three” and then an uncomfortable third kiss arrives before we can move on with a discussion.  Other times, I’ve stopped at two, but that always add confusion when we leave (which is also accompanied by a bise and follows the same rules) or the next time we see each other again.  It’s a predicament.

What do I do?  After flipping back and forth and having too many cumbersome kisses brush my check as I’ve stared to speak, I’ve decided to stick to my guns and follow the “3 kiss bise”.  I’ve taken charge of the situation, got over the awkwardness and made the third kiss mandatory.  I sometimes get a look, but then I give nod, a sturdy pat on the back, and a firm American handshake.  Then, we just move on to the conversation.

Cheese: Brie

Paris: paradise for Brie cheese.  Brie gets its name from the region of Brie, which is situated just east of Paris.  The different types of Brie get their name from their origins of production, such as the cities of Meaux or Melun; however, it is also produced in Germany, England, Canada, and the United States.

Brie can be made from both pasteurized and unpasteurized cows’ milk.  It is a soft rind cheese, covered by a fine, eatable mold and characteristically is mild, aromatic, and lightly acidic. Both the brie de Meaux and the brie de Melun carry the  l'appellation d'origine contrôlé (AOC) label which means the brie must be made within those territorial limits to carry the name.

Brie has unclear origins; however, was considered a favorite by Charlemagne, nobles, and royalty. It was so popular within dignified circles that in 1815, the Congress of Vienna officially recognized brie as the roi de fromages or king of cheeses.  The brie de Meaux was ordained Prince des fromages et premier des desserts (prince of cheeses and the first of desserts).  Popular among all social classes, it was said that, “Brie, liked by the rich and the poor; preached the equality that we never imagined possible” (1793).

Seedlings

Spring is arriving, albeit, slowly, and it has gotten me in the spirit of thinking about the garden.  Every year, I get excited about the potential of what can be, and get lost a little bit in fantasy of a super lush garden with overflowing bounty.  I start out strong, but often lose steam somewhere in the process of weeding and vow to myself the next year will be different.  So, here I am, the next year, and I’m looking at my seedlings to give me a jolt of enthusiasm.

Last night I seeded 40 pots of tomatoes and hot peppers.  This is the most I’ve done; we get most of our garden from a neighbor who has such a green thumb she can make plants live just by willing it.  She seeds everything and has moved from numerous hot boxes on the ground to a full blown greenhouse.  It is her passion and her air of making it look so easy that has encouraged me to seed what I can. 

So, here I am, without a greenhouse and weather that is too cold to use my single hot box, and I have 40 pots of dirt sitting on trays in my living room.  I wish I could say I’ve got a set up in the basement with growing light, but I don’t.  I don’t even have a permanently unoccupied sunny table top to let them grow in peace.  Instead, now starts the 2 month run of me chasing sunlight around the house with trays of dirt in hopes some plants will appear.  I know, this is an idea that seems absolutely ridiculous when sitting in a bright sunny house build to maximize sun exposure, the problem is, I’m not in that house.  I’m in an old Catalan house in Southern France.  These houses were build centuries ago when windows were small and scarce.  The fewer openings there are to the exterior means less heat loose and exposure to the howling winds.  Our house has had some renovations, but not enough to remove the challenge from this task.

Just like previous years, I take the trays from room to room following the sun.  If it’s warm enough, I even bring them out to the terrace in the afternoon, I just make they’re back inside before the sun dips behind some clouds.  Don’t get me wrong, I willingly participate in this sunlight marathon, but am happy when the day comes that the seedlings can be permanently transferred outside as they wait to be transplanted into the garden.

Promises Kept

There may still be snow on the mountain peaks, but spring is starting to show its promise. 

…enfin.

Unwelcomed Suprises

I found an old box of bullets in a neglected closet in my house this weekend.  Not kidding.

I’ll first clarify that Christophe does not hunt, so they do not belong to him.  He bought the house 12 years from a widower who left everything in it from dishes to furniture and all stuff in between.  Christophe has sifted through most of it, but a dilapidated built in closet dating from Napoleon’s era was never fully explored.  Its frame and mantel were badly damaged and the left-side door could not be opened without damaging it further.  After long deliberation, Christophe finally decided to remove the heavy oak doors and repair the damages, which ended up being so extend that part of the old frame had to simply be removed and reconstructed.

My task in all this was to clean out the closet once the doors were off.  I had shoved some clothes in there along with things I don’t use often, but over half of the closet was filled with stuff we have never seen before.  Among other things, we found a coffee pot, a butcher’s block, a stack of pans, serving trays, and an odd little box tucked away in the corner.  I froze when I opened it. 

I think my heart skipped a beat as I looked down and found over a dozen hunting bullets nestled in the tiny tin.  We have no idea when they were put there, but the newspaper lining the closet shelves was from 1969.  Gulp, that’s over 40 years ago.  My mind flashed to something about old bullets (or was that dynamite?) being extremely fragile and I acted as if I had a bomb in my hands.  Christophe was less apprehensive than me, and thought they were harmless, but we still had no idea what to do with them. Should we soak them or throw them away?  Could they spontaneously go off if jostled?  Should we tell someone?

I decided to call a friend who hunts and ask him for advice.  Once I rectified my vocabulary error, (“No, no I found bullets, (cartouche) not a gun (carabine) in the closet”) I was reassured they were harmless, but was told to put them in a safe place until he can come over and get them.  I’m thinking about putting them back in the closet.  They passes over 40 peaceful years there, and this way they won’t be staring at me from the kitchen counter as they currently are doing.  Who knows, maybe that is how they got in the closet in the first place.

Time

I have to admit, I’m a bit tense about time.  Not just time as in, “I wish I had more” or “Is it already Friday?”, but as in being on time.  I do not hate being late; I am actually scared of it.

I have memories of worrying about getting to school on time and arriving at my job astronomically early.  My stomach still ties itself in knots if I’m late, and this makes me a horribly nervous traveler.

Growing up, my family was painfully on time.  My father would wait for us in a running car and threaten to leave without us if we weren’t in it when it was time to go.  Perhaps this is the root of my stress, but I’m not going to over analyze my childhood.  Who would? 

As a young adult, I dealt with this stress the same way I did as an adolescent; I arrived early for everything and then waited.  I calmly flipped through magazines, looked out the window, or just sat there.  I felt serenity in knowing wherever I was going, or whoever I was meeting, I was keeping up my part of the bargain of being there when I said I would.  Then, I moved to Southern France and my calm, my Zen, my how-to deal with not being late was thrown out the window.  No one, and I really mean no one, is on time.

Sadly, Christophe is as guilty of this as any other Southern Frenchman.  He is late for most everything, at least the way I see it.  The term “2-ish” is not 2 to 2:15 as I define it, but rather sometime before 3, or maybe 3:15 or perhaps later.  When we’re invited to lunch, he says it’s considered impolite to arrive on time in Southern France.  “You want to give the host time to prepare”, he says.  My stomach is knotting up just thinking about this.

He knows I stress, and he tried to reassure me that this is normal here.  No one is going to start the aperitif, let alone drive off without me, but I still can’t help it.  I have a need to be on time if not early.  But, time is different in France, at least the southern part of it anyways.  Apparently, there is an abundance of time here, so there is no need to arrive early and no need to stress; however, I am clearly the only one not aware of it.