27 novembre 2005
The Cookbook*
Dear Readers,
I know, I have been missing from Blogland lately. This is due to my attempts at writing stuff that I feel good about and not producing anything AT ALL. I need help. Here's a piece I'm working on. Note: IT IS NOT FINISHED. I'm open to suggestions for where it should go. I have so many ideas but can't settle on just one.
I appreciate your patience and please, do not even think about stealing this because it's copywrighted.
Yours,
Suzanne
*names have been changed
The best cookbook in the world is sitting in the kitchen drawer of Madame Hélène A_____, of Grenoble, France. It measures approximately five by five inches, and its yellowed pages contain recipes written in several colors of ink, by several different hands over the past forty years. Its covers are adorned with faded black gift-wrap paper, added at some point to protect against the elements. The book was created by an older female neighbor who became a mentor to Hélène during the early days of her marriage. It began as just a simple notebook whose first couple of recipe entries were intended to guide the young matriarch, yet its significance was immeasurable. Hélène was unlike most newlyweds in 1960’s France. In addition to fulfilling the role of devoted housewife, she had the added task of raising two school-aged children, Francine and Mattieu, who had recently emigrated with their widowed father from war-torn Algeria. The cookbook served as a foundation of recipes as Hélène struggled to build the foundation of her new family.
I sit in Hélène’s kitchen, as I have most afternoons for the past couple of months. I have a standing invitation to come over for the midday meal, prepared lovingly by the 83-year old grandmother of my petit ami, Gérald. While we wait for Francine to return home from work for her two-hour lunch break, Hélène asks me, “do you want to see the Bible?” with a jocular twinkle in her eye. I assume that my less-than-complete grasp of the language is leading me to confusion, because she would never try to push her Catholicism on me. I look to Gérard for help. He smiles, knowingly, as Hélène instructs me to open up the drawer behind me. Inside, among several coupons and receipts, I find the small notebook lined with wrapping paper. I open it, thinking, this is a funny-looking Bible, when I realize the joke: the cookbook is their recipe Bible. Many of the recipes are written in handwritings I find challenging to decipher, but I recognize telltale French dishes such as tarte tatin and ratatouille, both of which I have tasted in this kitchen.
A couple of months ago, I finished my program as an English teaching assistant in three local elementary schools. Since my lease was up, and I wished to stay and explore the region, Gérard offered to share his room with me, rent-free for the spring and early summer. The only catch is, the apartment belongs to his mother, Christine, who sleeps on a pull-out couch in the living room while another American, Hank, rents what used to be her room. Needless to say, it’s a tight squeeze. When Hank first moved in, at the rentré (beginning of the academic year), Christine slept in an apartment upstairs that she rented to her boyfriend at the time. But theirs was a volatile affair, as French romances are rumored to be, and after several years of splitting up and making up, Christine finally limited relations with her upstairs tenant to strictly professional matters. Since the break up, whenever she is not at work or at the market, Christine can be found watching TV or reading on the convertible leather sofa in the living room. Were I not out of a job and slightly in love with her son, I would never have imposed myself on the three of them.
Luckily, since I moved in, Hélène and Francine, who live just down the street, have been inviting me to dine with them at midi almost every day. At first, I would just come with Gérard when he didn’t have a class to go to, but then I started showing up daily, as I had no job and enjoyed the company of the two women. Francine and I have bonded in a way that I cannot seem to share with her younger half-sister, Christine, who is generous and kind, but has difficulty reaching out to others (even her own family). Francine, the worldlier and more intellectual, yet humbler of the two, shares with me her knowledge of books and music, and is an easy conversation partner, despite the slight language barrier. Often after a meal, we sit in the kitchen with our cafés—mine with several sugar cubes to compensate for the intense bitterness, hers accompanied by a hand-rolled cigarette—discussing world religions, or French poetry, or her travels before marriage. Never the erudite, when Hélène cannot contribute to a conversation, she either looks on tacitly, changes the subject, or finds something that needs doing. After meals, that something is taking her coffee to the salon to watch the news on TV. When Gérard is there, he joins her, less interested in his aunt’s opinion than what’s going on in world politics.
On this particular day, the day of the cookbook-bible, Francine and Hélène both remain in the kitchen after lunch, as I am fascinated by the little family heirloom and the treasures promised by its pages. They appreciate my interest in their traditions, yet are a bit surprised at my fervent round of questioning. “So who added this recipe?” “How often do you make this one?” “Where do you find that ingredient?” “What’s a quenelle?” The women suggest I return one afternoon for a cooking lesson. I agree, excitedly, adding that I would pay for any ingredients needed, which they both pooh-pooh with a wave of their hands, as if that were the most absurd idea they’d ever heard. Still, I feel that I should do something for them.
One or both of them prepare a hearty lunch for us daily, without asking or expecting anything in return.
In France, lunch is the main meal of the day. Employees and students are often given a two-hour break in the middle of the day to come home and ideally spend time with family. This, of course, is not always possible, and lunch breaks are getting increasingly shorter and less relaxing as people work longer hours and live farther away from their places of work. However, Hélène is a woman who respects tradition, and as such, she puts a substantial meal on the table every day, regardless of how many guests are there. Putting a meal on the table requires going to the farmer’s market every day to find fresh ingredients. While French cities and towns are espousing more and more American-style supermarkets, you can still find local greenmarkets almost everywhere. Regional farmers, butchers, florists and cheese mongers bring their goods to Grenoble’s marché de l’Estacade six mornings a week, and locals arrive early to get the “cream of the crop,” as it were. Hélène frequents the same vendors each time she goes to l’Estancade; she knows what she wants and she knows who best to buy from.
I know, I have been missing from Blogland lately. This is due to my attempts at writing stuff that I feel good about and not producing anything AT ALL. I need help. Here's a piece I'm working on. Note: IT IS NOT FINISHED. I'm open to suggestions for where it should go. I have so many ideas but can't settle on just one.
I appreciate your patience and please, do not even think about stealing this because it's copywrighted.
Yours,
Suzanne
*names have been changed
The best cookbook in the world is sitting in the kitchen drawer of Madame Hélène A_____, of Grenoble, France. It measures approximately five by five inches, and its yellowed pages contain recipes written in several colors of ink, by several different hands over the past forty years. Its covers are adorned with faded black gift-wrap paper, added at some point to protect against the elements. The book was created by an older female neighbor who became a mentor to Hélène during the early days of her marriage. It began as just a simple notebook whose first couple of recipe entries were intended to guide the young matriarch, yet its significance was immeasurable. Hélène was unlike most newlyweds in 1960’s France. In addition to fulfilling the role of devoted housewife, she had the added task of raising two school-aged children, Francine and Mattieu, who had recently emigrated with their widowed father from war-torn Algeria. The cookbook served as a foundation of recipes as Hélène struggled to build the foundation of her new family.
I sit in Hélène’s kitchen, as I have most afternoons for the past couple of months. I have a standing invitation to come over for the midday meal, prepared lovingly by the 83-year old grandmother of my petit ami, Gérald. While we wait for Francine to return home from work for her two-hour lunch break, Hélène asks me, “do you want to see the Bible?” with a jocular twinkle in her eye. I assume that my less-than-complete grasp of the language is leading me to confusion, because she would never try to push her Catholicism on me. I look to Gérard for help. He smiles, knowingly, as Hélène instructs me to open up the drawer behind me. Inside, among several coupons and receipts, I find the small notebook lined with wrapping paper. I open it, thinking, this is a funny-looking Bible, when I realize the joke: the cookbook is their recipe Bible. Many of the recipes are written in handwritings I find challenging to decipher, but I recognize telltale French dishes such as tarte tatin and ratatouille, both of which I have tasted in this kitchen.
A couple of months ago, I finished my program as an English teaching assistant in three local elementary schools. Since my lease was up, and I wished to stay and explore the region, Gérard offered to share his room with me, rent-free for the spring and early summer. The only catch is, the apartment belongs to his mother, Christine, who sleeps on a pull-out couch in the living room while another American, Hank, rents what used to be her room. Needless to say, it’s a tight squeeze. When Hank first moved in, at the rentré (beginning of the academic year), Christine slept in an apartment upstairs that she rented to her boyfriend at the time. But theirs was a volatile affair, as French romances are rumored to be, and after several years of splitting up and making up, Christine finally limited relations with her upstairs tenant to strictly professional matters. Since the break up, whenever she is not at work or at the market, Christine can be found watching TV or reading on the convertible leather sofa in the living room. Were I not out of a job and slightly in love with her son, I would never have imposed myself on the three of them.
Luckily, since I moved in, Hélène and Francine, who live just down the street, have been inviting me to dine with them at midi almost every day. At first, I would just come with Gérard when he didn’t have a class to go to, but then I started showing up daily, as I had no job and enjoyed the company of the two women. Francine and I have bonded in a way that I cannot seem to share with her younger half-sister, Christine, who is generous and kind, but has difficulty reaching out to others (even her own family). Francine, the worldlier and more intellectual, yet humbler of the two, shares with me her knowledge of books and music, and is an easy conversation partner, despite the slight language barrier. Often after a meal, we sit in the kitchen with our cafés—mine with several sugar cubes to compensate for the intense bitterness, hers accompanied by a hand-rolled cigarette—discussing world religions, or French poetry, or her travels before marriage. Never the erudite, when Hélène cannot contribute to a conversation, she either looks on tacitly, changes the subject, or finds something that needs doing. After meals, that something is taking her coffee to the salon to watch the news on TV. When Gérard is there, he joins her, less interested in his aunt’s opinion than what’s going on in world politics.
On this particular day, the day of the cookbook-bible, Francine and Hélène both remain in the kitchen after lunch, as I am fascinated by the little family heirloom and the treasures promised by its pages. They appreciate my interest in their traditions, yet are a bit surprised at my fervent round of questioning. “So who added this recipe?” “How often do you make this one?” “Where do you find that ingredient?” “What’s a quenelle?” The women suggest I return one afternoon for a cooking lesson. I agree, excitedly, adding that I would pay for any ingredients needed, which they both pooh-pooh with a wave of their hands, as if that were the most absurd idea they’d ever heard. Still, I feel that I should do something for them.
One or both of them prepare a hearty lunch for us daily, without asking or expecting anything in return.
In France, lunch is the main meal of the day. Employees and students are often given a two-hour break in the middle of the day to come home and ideally spend time with family. This, of course, is not always possible, and lunch breaks are getting increasingly shorter and less relaxing as people work longer hours and live farther away from their places of work. However, Hélène is a woman who respects tradition, and as such, she puts a substantial meal on the table every day, regardless of how many guests are there. Putting a meal on the table requires going to the farmer’s market every day to find fresh ingredients. While French cities and towns are espousing more and more American-style supermarkets, you can still find local greenmarkets almost everywhere. Regional farmers, butchers, florists and cheese mongers bring their goods to Grenoble’s marché de l’Estacade six mornings a week, and locals arrive early to get the “cream of the crop,” as it were. Hélène frequents the same vendors each time she goes to l’Estancade; she knows what she wants and she knows who best to buy from.
