Hey Pumpkin! I could eat you with a spoon.

Last Thursday, while my family feasted on Aunt Tina’s ambrosial pies and fresh beans from Aunt Sue’s garden, I was telling the Thanksgiving story ad naseum to a bunch of kids whose response to pumpkin pie was, “That sounds disgusting.”

Paging Aunt Tina, you’re needed in France.

I explained that we eat pumpkins and sweet potatoes because they are delicious autumn vegetables, and who doesn’t love celebrating autumn with orange vegetables? I told them the abridged version of the Pilgrim-Native American relationship and one unknowing student hit the mark when she concluded, "And that's why the Pilgrims ate the Native Americans."

The ohhhh’s were unanimous when I pointed out the “thanks” and the “giving” in Thanksgiving. “I thought it was sanksgiving,” said one. No, little lady, that’s just your accent.

The pumpkin pie and sweet potato antagonism had me thinking more than usual about the French notion of food. The French are not all snobs, but when it comes to food… let’s just say, they know they’ve got it going on in the kitchen.

When I told someone I love making couscous, she asked me if I make real couscous. I replied that I don’t know quite what real couscous is, but I make mine using the vegetables in the fridge, the spices in the pantry, and the couscous in the pretty box. It tastes real – and real good – to me.

I suppose the attitude stems from tradition. The French take immense pride in traditional dishes, and a strong food culture penetrates every region. But there’s something distinct about the way people here view food and decide what constitutes Good Food. With my mouth full of Thanksgiving quiche oozing butternut squash and Gouda cheese, I realized the wide-reaching legacy of ol’ grandaddy René Descartes.

In a Cartesian Plane, divisions are distinct and utterly black and white. A point lies in one of four quadrants and its placement is indisputable. The French mindset concerning food is strikingly Cartesian: a quiche means a Quiche Lorraine and is made with gruyere cheese, little bacon cubes, and eggs. Anything else is not a quiche. Sure, you can make a quiche au something else, but it needs that specification and goes straight into the “other” quadrant.

The lines are blurring as fast food leaves its greasy fingerprints in France. Not even the French can resist those golden arches, and it terrifies them. But that's a whole 'nother can of snails.

Because life, like quiche, is surprising and wonderful, an unfortunate event led me to some dynamic and curious French students in Lyon, who've become mes amis. They were thrilled at the prospect of taking part in a real Thanksgiving celebration. And so two days after my family feasted in St. Louis, a kitchen in Lyon smelled of sweet potato casserole, prune-leek-sausage stuffing, the aforementioned butternut squash quiche, a succulent pumpkin pie, and roasted butternut squash seeds.

Our pumpkin pie, made in a tarte pan, was a pleasing visual blend of French and American desserts: larger in circumference than an American pie and with a thin bottom crust and no crust on top, it was a pumpkin pie with tarte aux pommes (apple tart) feathers.

This Thanksgiving, I am grateful for old friends and new friends, old foods and new foods, and for my family who loves me and feeds me sweet potatoes and pumpkin pie.

These Clogs Are Made for Walking

In two months time, I’ve learned some important cultural lessons here in the land of cheese and strikes.

1.      French beauracracy is worse than the sound of one million nails on one million chalkboards.

2.      Americans are alone in our appreciation of peanut butter (nectar of the gods, in my book).

3.      The French do not wear clogs, nor do they support the wearing of clogs, unless you are a poor peasant. Women wear boots or Converse sneakers.

I’m generalizing, of course, but it’s easier that way. And everybody does it.

The clog lesson is one I learned the hard way – that is, through the stares and comments of strangers wondering what could have compelled me to wear clogs.

Confused – what did I do wrong this time? – I turned to a highly-acclaimed French literary source, Le Wikipédia. The clog entry shed linguistic light on the roots of the French anti-clog mentality. And so I share it with you, gentle readers.

The French word for clog is sabot. Ever since the shoe gained popularity among factory workers in the Industrial Revolution, the French have associated clogs with the lower classes. Frustrated factory workers were prone to throwing their shoes, their sabots, into the machinery – intentionally damaging it – and this is how we came by the word sabotage.[1] Brilliant! 

The online Oxford English Dictionary mentions but does not support this story (they’re all snobs anyway). And since I’m the omniscient narrator here, I’m accepting Wikipedia’s explanation and presenting it as fact.  

So back to the story. I arrived in France with my clogs, some sneakers, and a pair of boots. After a few weeks of fast walking, my boot soles needed repairing. I took them to the cordonnerie and an unsmiling woman with rough hands told me it would take three weeks. No problem, I thought, I've got my clogs.

I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary at first, but before long my feet morphed into flashing arrows saying, “Hey, I’m not French! Ask me about my clogs!”

Incident 1: It all started when a French boy stopped mid-sentence, after glancing down at my feet, to tell me he thinks clogs are ugly. Shocked into silence, I recovered enough to ask, “Oh, and why’s that?” He told me, simply, that they’re peasants’ shoes. He was wearing high-top basketball shoes and nylon sports pants, so I asked him if he plays any sports. He said no. I responded that we can all be dreamers.

 That's a lie. I wish I had said that. In reality, I mumbled something about clogs being popular in the U.S. and how different people have different styles. But next time I'll be ready.

Incident 2: One morning on the train to Lyon, I was lounging with my legs propped up on the seat next to me, peeling an orange, when I heard a male’s voice. It was 7:30 a.m. and this orange had a thin, fussy peel, so I didn't catch the complete comment. But I heard the words beaux sabots and detected a hint of sarcasm in the voice.

I looked up and observed the speaker: a young man in athletic pants, a sports jacket, and dress shoes. My age and not threatening in the least.

“Pardon?” I asked him to repeat his comment and pointed to the orange, suggesting that peeling one takes a great deal of concentration.

“I said, those are some nice clogs you’re wearing.” Again, that sarcastic tone.

I was not amused. I glared at him. In hindsight, perhaps I heard more sarcasm than was there, but I wasn’t going to stand for this clog mockery again. “I don’t get the joke. What’s wrong with my clogs?”

“Nothing, nothing. It was just a way to start a conversation, really. You’re not French, are you? So where are you from?”

I said nothing for a moment, then calmly replied, “No, I’m not French. I’m American. In America people wear clogs. And insulting people’s shoes isn’t generally a good way to start a conversation, wouldn’t you say?”

He stared at me. I stared back. I moved my clogs back and forth like windshield wipers and dropped the orange peel, now a single, elegant swirl, onto my lap.

He shrugged. “I guess they’re ok.”

Clogs: 1. Un-smooth operator: 0.

This weekend I was a guest at a teacher’s home in the beautiful countryside surrounding Roanne. I walked in and, seeing some clogs in the entryway, told her of my encounters with the clog antagonists. “That’s ridiculous,” she said. She told me that ten years ago she was wearing her pants tucked into her boots and people gave her strange looks.

If E.T. dropped down today for a fashion survey, he’d think that females are born with their pants tucked into their boots.

Fashion is like an orange peel, twirling round and round, styles disappearing and then reappearing in different times and places. I hope that the next time those clog haters start to hate, they’ll hear my voice and reconsider.

My boots are back from the cordonnerie, looking better than ever. But my clogs haven’t lost their place in front.

---

[1] http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clog_(shoe)

Lend me that bicycle? I am your neighbor.

My first day in Roanne, I put a note on the announcement board in the teacher’s lounge: Does anyone have a spare bicycle to lend the American assistant? She’s far from home, missing her maman et papa and beloved red Schwinn.

I got a response right away but the bike was much too small, resulting in a sore back and bottom region. Deflated, I tried to convince myself that walking's just as good. But frankly, it's not. It felt like I was missing a limb.

Everything changed on November 11, which – surprise! – the French take as a national holiday. The timing gods gave me a nudge mid-morning and I decided to take out the recycling. On the way out I ran into my downstairs neighbor, Michel, cleaning out a storage room.  Michel is handsome with wavy, gray hair, quiet and always smiling a calm, non-toothy smile. We were chatting about the odds and ends in the room and I made a comment about the gorgeous bike, a shiny black Peugeot, leaning against the wall. I mentioned that I was borrowing a teacher's bike but that it was too small and hurt mes fesses (in French we have plural bottoms). He responded just as I hoped he might, Well this one's mine but I never use it, would you like to borrow it? Before he could blink an oeil I shouted Yes!

Experiences like these are sweet rewards for stepping out into the world and meeting people – I wonder how many good people and bikes are waiting to be discovered. This particular bike has a boy’s frame (like I always say, starting now, equality begins with a girl riding a boy’s bicycle), a bell, thin tires with fenders to keep the mud off mes fesses, and cruiser handlebars. It sparkles and I sit upright when riding, so I feel like a queen riding her crown jewels.

This weekend saw 60 degrees, sun galore, and leaves of all imaginable shades of red, orange, and yellow hovering somewhere between hanging onto the branches and falling softly to the ground. I had no choice, the weather gods pushed me out the door and onto that bicycle.

I convinced another assistant to ride with me on a footpath hugging a canal of the Loire River. Within a few miles of leaving Roanne we entered farmlands and passed pastures with cows and sheep grazing, front yards with chickens and ducks playing alongside children on swing sets, and bright green vegetable gardens. Women hanging laundry on clotheslines waved as we rode by. While gazing absentmindedly at the cows, I realized that what appeared as a bunch of cows munching happily was actually an entire industry at work – the cows in this region are raised for their meat. The countryside was at once serene and awesome in its functionality. moowow.

We passed spandex-clad cyclists and whole families on bikes. I beamed at them and sang Bonjour! Our destination was flexible and I kept pushing us farther until our stomachs declared it was lunchtime. We stopped at a little brick hut with a pool inside, constructed as a place for women to do laundry, back before girls rode boys’ bikes.

The ride home proved a bit trickier, as Tine – my bike partner, the Chinese assistant – had one pedal that was threatening to fall off. Luckily she had a roll of Scotch tape in her bag so we wrapped the pedal in tape and, miracle of miracles, it held until we reached home. Lesson learned – never leave home without Scotch.

Sunday morning I woke up early and hit the road again, this time as a lone rider. Seeing a path on my map, I thought I’d follow a small tributary of the Loire called La Renaison. I had had trouble finding the path’s entrance so stopped a friendly-looking gentleman to ask, where's this path, eh? He pointed me in the right direction and said to follow the river. I thanked him and he asked the customary, “You speek-eeng Eeng-leesh?” I said yes and smiled as he re-stated his directions: “You follow zees rheever, you no looze yorch-self!”

This path was bumpy and took me through some woods. I enjoyed the shadows of the tree cover and the crunching and crackling acorns, fallen leaves, and branches under my tires. I passed people jogging and walking their dogs, and like the day before, everyone was in high spirits. If people still offered sacrifices, the weather gods would have been feasting on cheese all weekend.

The path ended and I found a country road, Chemin des Moulins (mills path, roughly) that was smoother and, it being Sunday morning, free of car traffic. I rode toward the rolling hills surrounding Roanne, past more pastures filled with cows and bulls who were perfectly content to graze all day long. Cruising past, I remarked how happy I was to be a gal on a bicycle, not a cow.

And with that, I think I hear my neighbor knocking.

‘Eez a Schmoozer

Yves Béal knows everybody – he’ll tell you. Je connais tout le monde, et tout le monde me connait! I know everybody, and everybody knows me! was what I learned soon after meeting him.

Yves (“eve”) is a lovely gentleman despite the gold rings, bracelets and necklaces that somewhat lend him the look of a schmoozy salesman. He has a round belly, well-coiffed gray hair, a round nose, and permanently shiny shoes. Like any self-respecting 63-year old Frenchman, he is happily retired and spends his days talking about football (soccer) with all the people he knows and who know him. He used to be the top footballeur in Roanne – he’ll tell you.

Yves is married to Annie, the radiant secretary at Lycée Albert Thomas who I’ve made my French godmother. I met Annie my first day in Roanne, jet-lagged and without any luggage. She smiled sympathetically and cooed, “la pauvre!” (poor thing!), and I waited for her to pinch my cheeks, but instead she just kissed them à la français. She told me later that when we first met, she knew we’d get along well because I smiled despite being luggage-less.

Every afternoon I stop by Annie’s desk in the administrative offices. We chat about what we each cooked for dinner the night before, and she gives me a small chocolate from the bottomless ceramic bowl of bon bons on her desk. She knows I like the 70% and 75% dark chocolates so she saves them for me. Annie has no children or grandchildren. I think she’s been waiting for one to appear at her desk.

I’m sure Annie was a Jewish bubbe in a past life. She asks me if I’m eating enough and is my bed comfortable? She’s an excellent cook and sews many of her own clothes. Yves will tell you that she used to be much thinner – I can picture her as a waifish girl of the seventies, and her flair and class have not left her even if she's no longer waif-like. She has long dark hair that she dyes and pulls into a leopard print clip on the back of her head. Her mocha-colored skin is wrinkled from years of gardening in the sun. She wears all black or gray-black, black eye makeup, and silver hoop earrings and bracelets that clink when she gestures with her hands. She’s always clinking.

Annie took me winter coat shopping and tells me where to find the best deals on boots. I brought her my coat when the buttons needed re-attaching, and then she got angry when I brought her a box of jasmine tea. I’m never to bring her gifts, she said.

Annie drives a tiny white 4x4 (quatre-quatre), in French pronounced like “cat cat.” Yves prefers his Peugeot sedan with leather seats and a GPS system.

The day I ate lunch chez Béal, the sun was shining and Yves wanted to eat outside. Annie had already set the table inside, and insisted that we enjoy the sun from behind the glass. Sorry charlie, er, Yves, but the food will get cold outside, she said. Secretly on Team Yves-Outside, I stayed quiet. Yves continued to grumble but it was clear that we’d be eating indoors. Despite the small disappointment of sitting inside on a beautiful day, I was happy that Annie had the ultimate say, considering she had prepared the meal, had it ready when Yves returned at noon, and then cleared everything when he left an hour and a half later. It's clear who's the chef (le chef = the boss).

One morning I had coffee with Yves and Annie. We walked into Le Clemenceau and Yves personally greeted every person at the bar, including the barista. Their conversation began like this:

Ca va?

Ca va, et toi?

Ouaais, ça va, ça va.

Roughly, that’s:

You good?

I’m good, you good?

Yeeaah, I’m good, I’m good.

For all the striking and complaining that goes down in these parts, the French are surprisingly insistent on how good they are.

Annie and Yves are excited to meet the Emmons clan in January. I told them my family doesn’t  speak much French, and Yves responds confidently, “Eetz ok! We speak-eeng eengleesh. Hah-lo, I love you, bye bye!”

Zees meet-eeng ees go-eeng to be zoh good.