Nice legs, Kermy baby

The news hopped in over Sunday lunch. “Tonight we’ll eat cuisses de grenouille.”

Two words, my friends: Ribbit. Ribbit.

I was seated across the table from Annie and Yvon, the early-afternoon sun doing pirouettes on my shoulders and two glasses of rosé dancing the tango in my stomach. Lunch had been a lamb’s lettuce salad with mustard-vinaigrette dressing, some white fish in a light butter sauce, soft goat cheese on crunchy baguette, and des oeufs à la neige, or eggs in the snow – meringe swimming in vanilla custard and caramel.  

It was while we sipped our petits cafés that the chef herself calmly informed me, “Tonight we’ll eat frog legs.”

I knew I liked the idea of eating frog legs in France. But did I actually want to eat frog legs? It didn’t much matter at that point, because I was staying for dinner, and dinner was frog legs. I chuckled at how stereotypically French it was, and therefore how decidedly eeeexcellent.

I didn’t notice them at first, soaking in a bowl of milky water off to the side of the counter. Twenty or so, just havin’ a soak. I thought instantly of a scene in the animated French movie The Triplets of Belleville in which a set of triplet-musicians scarf down bowls of frog soup, slimy green legs spilling out of the pot, falling off their spoons, and dangling out of their mouths. It is truly revolting. 

The bowl of legs in Annie’s kitchen was not revolting, per se, but I did squeal quietly upon pulling one out of the water by its little webbed foot. Annie looked over and smiled. Ca va, t’as pas trop peur? Not scared, are ya?

The funny thing about frog legs is that they look like miniature chicken legs, about one inch wide and two inches long when you stretch the legs out. When you buy them (as opposed to, say, catching them in your backyard), the legs are folded like pretzels and look like crossed arms. I pictured the frog mid-sentence: “No thanks, I’ll just hold on to them, I’d really rather not –”

Sorry, Kermit. France likes your legs. France wants your legs.

The first thing to know is that frog leg meat has very little taste, so the dish is all about the persillade –  a sauce composed of parsley, garlic, and butter, in which the legs are cooked.

I watched Annie scoop three generous lumps of butter into the pan. Note: This is the part of French cooking where you look away and whistle, pretending the butter just adds color, or better yet that it’s a figment of your imagination.

As the imaginary butter was heating, she rolled the little leggies in flour so that they would turn golden brown when cooked. Then she carefully placed each mini pretzel-leg package into the pan, and let them sizzle away for a good fifteen minutes before sprinkling on the dried parsley and finally throwing in a heaping handful of garlic cloves. Needless to say, I didn’t pick up any chicks, nor was I assaulted by vampires later that night.

We ate them with our fingers, clasping the little feet with a thumb and forefinger. I should say we nibbled, really – it was a delicate affair that required a tall stack of napkins. In the end, frog legs taste like parsley, garlic, and butter, with a texture somewhere between chicken and shrimp. I ate two.

The whole time the leggies were kicking – er, cooking, – Yvon was glued to the TV set, watching a bad American movie (dubbed) called “The Stepfather,” about a kid whose new stepdad turns out be an assassin. I didn’t join him (the legs were my peep show for the evening), so maybe I’m not a fair judge. But I’m going to judge based on what I overheard: this movie was not worth its weight in dubbing fees.

And thanks to Mrs. Singer’s sophomore year English class, all I could see were two fancy-pants SAT words in flashing neon lights: IRONIC JUXTAPOSITION! Because I can’t think of many things more culturally contradictory, more ironically juxtaposed, than consuming frog legs in your kitchen and exported American rubbish in your living room.

I commented on it to Annie and she just laughed. Effectivement, ils sont bêtes, les films qu’il regarde. Yep, the [American] movies he watches are beastly (literally)/silly/stupid. American movies are not all beastly, but somehow all the beastly ones get eaten up in France.

What strikes me is that the rules and regulations of French cooking are left cold at the kitchen door; the quality controls don’t seem to apply to movies and TV shows that people watch – the stuff people feed their brains! From my spot at the table, I see fierce national and gastronomic pride in one room, and an unquenchable fascination with American culture in the next.

I'll hang here in the kitchen.

These are a Few of Their Favorite Things, Part II

Way back in October, I made some observations about things the French love. Three months later, a wee bit savvier and god knows how many pounds of cheese given the grand tour of my digestive system, it’s time for an encore.  

C’est parti. Here we go. The French love:

1)    Coffee breaks. The school day goes from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. (for the students, not for me), and at 10 a.m. it’s time for a ten-minute pause and a gobelet of coffee. (It’s not what you think, if you’re thinking what I was thinking. A gobelet is a little plastic cup that pops out of the coffee machine, not the decorated medieval goblet I was picturing.) During the morning pause, my favorite group of handymen comes into the teachers’ lounge for some coffee talk. They see me and smile, saying jovially, Bonjour! Comment vas-tu, la petite américaine? We stand by the windows with our gobelets, shooting the breeze like seasoned coffee drinkers, watching the students run around like maniacs. We chat about the weather and they ask me about life in Le Mee-soo-ree. They lament the fact that young people aren't learning to cook, because this means the demise of French culture.

2)   Kissing. No no, not that kind. The other kind: la bise – the Kiiiiiss. Upon saying hello and goodbye, the French faire la bise by exchanging kisses on alternating cheeks, touching cheek-to-cheek, not lips-to-cheek – an important detail to avoid sending mixed signals. You also have to be careful not to swipe lips as you go for the other side. La bise is done by old friends and complete strangers alike – two people introduced by a mutual friend often faire la bise, particularly young people. Consequently, I’ve been in shockingly close contact with more French garcons (dudes) than my mother would probably care to know. For them, c’est normale, c’est la politesse. The amusing part comes when a person joins or leaves a large group and is expected to make the rounds, often taking four or five minutes to cheek-air-kiss each person goodbye. A word of advice: build some time into your departure if you’re on a tight schedule. Or say you’re sick.

3)   Singing in English. Just picture it: International Karaoke Night. The players: American, Bolivian, English, German, Italians, Taiwanese, and a handful of French representing the Motherland. After snacking on quiche and Italian-made pizza, I stood up and popped in the karaoke DVD. Alright, who’s going first? I asked. No one moved a muscle. I clicked through the songs, choices were slim! and landed on “Like A Virgin.” How’s this? I asked, and got a collective nod of approval. Turns out they knew EVERY word. Same thing happened with Alicia Keyes and the Beatles. Edith Piaf and Claude Francois (wrote "Comme d'habitude,” the original version of Sinatra’s "My Way”) were also hits, but what was the loudest-sung song of the night? Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody.” France (and the world, dare I say) is inundated and infatuated with English music. What does it mean? Analysis forthcoming. 

4)  Pronouncing foreign words with heavy French accents. You can’t get the full effect here, but I can offer you a few to try on for size: Mar-tahn Lu-ter Keeng (the man). Le bon fee-leeng (to have a good feeling about something). Look-y Strike (cigarettes). Le pla-neeng (a schedule). Sahn Louie (gateway to the west). Wait – that's French that we make a mess of. And then there’s renday-voo, day-zha voo, bon appa-teet…and zee leest gohz on.

5) Vacation. Everyone loves vacation, but the French LOVE vacation. They have quite a lot of it and talk about it nearly as much. The calendar revolves around les vacances scolaires (granted, I'm working in a high school). But I do think there's something behind this Spanish proverb: "It is best to be born in Italy, to live in France, and to die in Spain." I can't speak to an Italian birth or a Spanish death, but I can say that life in France is slower than the on-the-go lifestyle many Americans lead. Slower doesn't mean better, but it does mean more coffee breaks.    

Well would you look at that, time for a goblet o' Joe. I'd kiss you all goodbye but I have somewhere to be tomorrow.

Tomaydo, Tomahto

A snowy month has passed since the Festival of Lights and now it's a whopping 50 degrees outside. This won't last, they tell me. "Don't like the weather? Wait five minutes." They say it over here, too.

My Hanukkah socks are worn-in and the Christmas lights are gone. Thus begins the home stretch to May flowers and bike rides. 

I learned a great French idiom for “home stretch” the other day: Champs Elysées. After a run (un footing, as say zee French), a man in my running club exclaimed, “Bah, dis donc! ["Well, I do declare!"] I really pushed it out there on the Champs Elysées!" Wanting to be part of the conversation, I asked when had he run on the Champs-Elysées? A marathon, maybe, or a triathalon? 

Nothing like it. He meant the last half mile of our footing. I laughed loudly and heartily to show I had accepted my mistake in good spirits. Then I quickly stored it away in my brain's Department of Idiomatic Expressions.  

I’m starting 2011 with a powerful tool on my belt: Le Grand Livre des Expressions (The Big Book of Expressions). This little Tree of Knowledge contains the origins of a couple hundred French expressions, along with their proper usages. My plan is to speak only in idioms by the end of April.

What exactly is the difference between an expression and and an idiom? was the question your humble narrator posed. To save you a few clicks, an idiom is an expression with a figurative meaning.  In other words, it needs a native speaker's translation and explanation.

French is rampant with wonderful idiomatic expressions. One of my favorites is avoir un coeur d’artichaut – to have the heart of an artichoke, meaning to fall in love easily. The idea is that there are lots of leaves surrounding your heart and you give each one to a different person. Who doesn't like artichoke hearts? They're delicious. Motion to start saying it in English; all in favor say “artichoke.”

Language is sneaky, the way it swirls around without minding country borders or cultural boundaries. The winter vacation had my mind swirling.

I’d been thinking in French since the beginning of October and then BAM, just as Santa C. was making his last-minute deliveries, my family arrived on a plane in Amsterdam. We spent a weekend speaking English with a Dutch family (polyglots, the lot of them), traveled through Germany with Dad and Nathan speaking German and us ladies using English (without going hungry), then came back to France and spoke “American” (to-may-do) with an English family (to-mah-to).

One night we had dinner with Annie and Yves (remember them?), who don’t speak a word of English. Yet with my translation, Dad’s probing questions, and Yves happily shouting philosophe (philosopher)! at Nathan and infirmière (nurse)! at Thea, the conversation never dulled.

Upon returning to Roanne, Thea and Nathan came to my classes to get a taste of the exchanges I have with the students. One of them asked, What do you think of Obama? Nathan answered (call him for details) and then asked what the students thought of Sarkozy. One response: “Ee yeez a small sheet.” (read it out loud)

Little shit, small shit. Tomato, tomahto.

A few days after the Emmons Clan’s departure, I received another American visitor, Mr. Sandler of St. Louis fame. We spent a weekend in Lyon with Myriam (French), Vincent (French), Benjamin (French), Wu-Gui (Taiwanese), and Monsieur le Miew (Felis catus) and played a rousing game of Salad Bowl, a brilliant mélange of Taboo and Charades. We played in English – our lowest common denominator language, since Mr. Sandler’s Spanish only took him so far in French. He later commented, and I nodded my agreement, that it felt odd to have the upper hand in a foreign country. (Although, the others speak English and mime like pros. For a taste of our linguistic salad, try miming “ruthless crab.”)

Isn’t feeling lost and helpless part of traveling in a foreign country? I remember the first sentence we learned in Madame Berk’s French class: Au secours, je suis perdu(e)! Help, I’m lost! But the scary/comforting/sad/wonderful truth is – cue the movie music –  you’re not lost if you speak English. 

After our family’s winter travels and hosting non-French speakers in France, it has become that much clearer to me that English is everywhere. China may be on the verge of world domination, but English has become the Esperanto of the 21st century.

Fact (according to two Australians on a German train): It’s completely feasible to travel around Europe, and much of the world, speaking only English. Sure, our language has its roots in French, German, Latin, and Dutch (one word: apartheid). But who today speaks French, German, or Dutch, outside a few European countries, French islands, and former French colonies? A handful of eager-beaver high school and university students, that's who. And the French tourists in New York.

Qu’est-ce que ca veut dire?? What does it mean??

Well, for starters,

1) English speakers will probably not lose our reputation for being nul with foreign languages

2) the French, who share this reputation, should really reconsider dubbing all English films and TV shows 

3) English is taking over the world!!

4) I am an obedient cog in the Wheel of Anglophone World Takeover. And I'm ok with that.

As with all gourmet food for thought, I'm still chewing on this language question. For now I'll

1) continue preparing my lessons about Obama 

2) accept that the Dutch are linguistic geniuses thanks to natural selection – their survival depends upon it

3) continue registering French idioms until I can string them together into sophisticated paragraphs

4) start saying tomahto.

My artichoke heart beats with anticipation.

Happy Hanukkah to Ross & Monica

Hanukkah came and went discreetly in the land of stale baguettes. Last week it was Thanksgiving and then BAM! – the Hanukkah bells were ringing. (Can someone see about getting Hanukkah bells?) Now it’s the last night of our Festival of Lights, and I have no menorah or chocolate coins to show for it. What I do have is a kitchen that reeks of oil and a new pair of socks (Night #1, bought ‘em for myself).

From what I’ve witnessed in Lyon and Roanne, menorahs in French windows are few and far between, and plastic blue and white Stars of David in windows even fewer and farther. Two cars were spotted in Lyon with florescent menorahs on top, but that was exceptionnel, according to the menorah-car spotter. (In French, “exceptional” always means “rare and unusual,” not “unusually excellent.” Although menorah cars are nothing short of excellent.)

Hanukkah is not widely recognized or celebrated here. There aren’t loads of French Jews, and the gentiles don’t know loads about non-Christian, non “pure-French” cultures. Please excuse this sweeping generalization, but it was expressed by a number of French gentiles and I’m pairing their words with my observations.

For my students, I combined a Hanukkah lesson with some preposition work. Try this on for an ego-booster:

Hanukkah means “rededication” __ Hebrew and celebrates one ___ the greatest miracles ___ Jewish history. Only one small jar ___ oil was found in the Temple, normally enough __ last one day. But miraculously, the lamp stayed lit ___ eight days.

Most of the kids had never heard the word Hanukkah (rather, “ah-nu-kah”), much less did they know anything about it. A handful had a vague idea about lighting candles and getting presents. The Festival of Lights part was familiar, though, because in France, December 8^th begins the Catholic Festival of Lights, a religious celebration turned massive light installation honoring Saint Mary, who was Jewish (sorry, had to say it).

Other parts of the Hanukkah story were familiar for different reasons. Upon reading this sentence,

A small group ___ Jews, called the Maccabees, rebelled.

one girl exclaimed, “Oh! Ross talked about the Maccabees!”

For anyone without a TV or an issue of People Magazine (surely you’re better off without the magazine), she meant Ross Geller, a character on the show “Friends.” Ross and Monica, brother and sister, are the show’s token New York Jews. They bring a pretty authentic Jewish flavor to the show, whose production team is comprised largely of Jews. Holiday customs and Jewish guilt included!

I laughed and asked did she remember what Ross said about the Maccabees? No, just that he was wearing a strange costume (an armadillo suit, in fact) when he recounted the miracle of the oil that lasted eight days and the Maccabees’ triumphant recovery and rededication of the Temple (she only remembered the costume part). But for once, the exportation of American popular culture had helped my cause – name recognition goes a long way in the high school world! The others were impressed with Maccabee-Friends girl.

Back at the ranch, my German roommate knew a bit about Hanukkah and was delighted to learn that Jews eat latkes (potato pancakes, or potato fritters) – turns out they’re a popular German treat. Even better, the Germans also eat them with applesauce!

And so it happened that we hosted une soirée allemande-juive – a German-Jewish dinner featuring potato pancakes/latkes/Reibekuchen. We were an international group, as per uzh:  two English boys, and the gals, Italian, German, French, Taiwanese, and American.

I turned the lights off and set the scene with some klezmer tunes (traditional Eastern European Jewish music), telling them the story of Hanukah and how we light candles each night to remember the miracle of the oil that burned for eight days, affording sufficient light to rebuild the Temple. I told them how we play dreidel…which is about as interesting as actually playing dreidel. 1) Spin the four-sided top. 2) See which letter lands on top. 3) Put some chocolates in the pile, take some out, or do nothing, depending on the letter. 4) Repeat.

Don’t get me wrong, one round of dreidel is great. But to quote Howard Jacobson in his Nov. 30 New York Times op-ed article, “Hanukkah, Rekindled,”

How many years did I feign excitement when this nothing of a toy was produced? The dreidel would appear and the whole family would fall into some horrible imitation of shtetl simplicity, spinning the dreidel and pretending to care which character was uppermost when it landed. Who did we think we were — the Polish equivalent of the Flintstones?

All the same, I was kicking myself for not tossing a few into my suitcase.

I concluded with a favorite Jewish saying: They tried to kill us, we survived, let’s eat.

The others didn’t know if it was ok to laugh at this, and I assured them it was. It’s what Jews do, after all, and what we always talk about doing – we recount our tragic stories, then we laugh, then we eat. Take Ross in that ridiculous armadillo suit, telling the Maccabees’ tale: he’s nothing if not a tragically comic – or comically tragic? – friend.

The latkes were a success, every bit as oil-laden as the Maccabees intended them to be. I think my German Jewish Oma (grandmother) would have been happy to see us there, plates and forks covered in oil, enjoying them together.

And today the kitchen still smells like… the great miracle that happened there.

A doo a day keeps my troubles away.

We interrupt this regularly scheduled program to bring you something utterly lacking in sophistication or cultural insight.

A bird doo’ed on my head yesterday. Like an indiscriminate lightning bolt that offers no explanation or apology, the little birdie soared away without blinking an eye. 

And you know what, there’s nothing like a couple drops of bird doo to remind you to laugh at yourself and your lovely, doo-spotted tresses.

It was a chilly, squintably sunny day, and I had gone for a run that morning along the snowy banks of the Loire. I returned with a face covered in dried tears and a healthy dose of snot (no shame here, send the glamour scouts right over) and took a sizzling shower. I felt fresh, invigorated, and ready to conquer the world one baguette at a time.

I was walking with a big grin on my face and little kick in my step when PLOP! it started raining. And then it stopped… after two drops.

As it so happens, I was on my way to see my Italian friend, Arianna. Hey! I said excitedly, stepping into the kitchen’s warm embrace. In Italy, isn’t it good luck when a bird poops on you?

Oui, she replied. Mais c’est degoulase!  But it’s also disgusting.

C’est pas faux, as I’ve taken to saying. That is not false.

But I couldn’t help thinking how few people can say they’ve been pooped on by a bird. And this is actually my second gift from above – the first, I received at the zoo in eighth grade while on a class fieldtrip. Don’t think I’d forget that.

I think the lesson to be learned here is that we should all be like birds with their doo, happy to share with people of all nationalities and hair types.

This program will resume next week with “Oy gevalt, oh la laa! Teaching ze French how to spin ze dreidel.”

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)