Hey guys,
Here’s a holiday favorite that this year I’ve been able to put on the Huffington Post.
Take a look. If you know him you’re going to smile and if you don’t, well, I think you’ll want to.
The big French guy who stole my heart — and then hijacked my favorite meal!
Cheers!
PS. REAL men use pink rubber oven mitts! Bam!
xox
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/how-my-french-husband-hij_b_8547286.html
“People in France have a phrase: “Spirit of the Stairway.” In French: esprit d’Escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer but it’s too late.
So you’re at a party and someone insults you. You have to say something. So, under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party . . .
As you start down the stairway, then – magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should’ve said. The perfect crippling put down. That’s the Spirit of the Stairway.”
― Chuck Palahniuk
I love this quote. I’ve lived this exact scenario.
My husband and his family are French and a French insult is like no other in the world. Much like fashion and food, they have elevated it to an art form.
What other culture has an entire phrase dedicated to it?
A French insult is subtle, cloaked in a back-handed compliment, and always accompanied by a smile. Well, a smirk really.
“That dress is very pretty…so much better than the one you wore the other night.”
Smirk, double cheek kiss and…scene.
Ouch.
It’s just that my take on this is a little bit different.
Although I’m the first person to utter bitch under my breath, I don’t waste my time searching for the crippling put down.
Listen, don’t get me wrong, I can eviscerate you verbally, I’m a writer.
It’s just that a put down or a jab seem… pedestrian—like the easy choice.
I’d rather be ironic and humorous.
It defuses the situation immediately. Magic comes to those that are funny, not insulted.
Besides, the French don’t know what to make of humor. Let’s face it— they wouldn’t recognize it if it bit them in the ass (now that’s funny)—they laugh at Jerry Lewis for godsakes!
If I get pissed, I get stupid. End of story.
You have to stay smart to be funny, and when the whole room laughs…no one remembers the insult. That’s magic!
“Thank you” leaning in, “I’m so comfortable—I’m not wearing any underwear.” Wink, double cheek kiss…and out.
You get the idea.
And don’t leave the party until you say your piece.
You can double back, there’s no statute of limitations on a party insult.
It doesn’t have to be “spirit of the stairway”. It can be “spirit of the driveway” or “spirit of the hallway.” “Spirit of the back patio” and “spirit of the powder room” work too.
Doesn’t matter. Let ‘em it have it.
With humor.
Carry on my crazy tribe,
xox
It happened over several years, with the subtle finesse we’ve come to expect from the French.
He entered our family just under fifteen years ago.
He is a foodie extraordinaire and an accomplished cook in his own right, but he ingratiated himself in the beginning, acting as the sous chef for my mother who is the culinary queen of our family—then slowly, skillfully, and sneakily—He hijacked Thanksgiving.
The only demand he acquiesces to is that it must be an ORGANIC turkey.
“No antibiotics, no hormones…no taste” he sing-songs sarcastically under his breath as he places the order every year.
I suppose we should be grateful that he hasn’t decided to switch fowl on us yet. Next year it could be pheasant or duck in the center of the table.
See, that’s the thing, we, my siblings and I, we LOVE and crave all year ‘round, my mom’s traditional Thanksgiving feast.
The one we ate as kids. The meal whose perfection is so sublime it should never be messed with. EVER.
Yet…the now reigning chef in our holiday kitchen—the one with the red passport—HE little by little, year after year has modified each dish so completely that it bears little if any, resemblance to the original.
And my mom doesn’t give a hoot!
She’s just so thrilled that someone has taken over the culinary heavy lifting; along with the fact that I finally found a husband—and he’s French—that she sits back and happily eats what she is served; doling out the compliments like Tic-Tacs at a cigar shop.
Benedict Arnold.
This European guy feels no sense of urgency—he doesn’t start the turkey until late morning.
I remember waking up as a child, the house already heavy with the aroma of a turkey that had been in the oven for hours. Now I sit and watch the Thanksgiving parade, eyeing him suspiciously as he lingers over his coffee and sudoku.
You can’t rush the French—about anything, most especially cooking—it shows disrespect and they just won’t stand for it.
Yet…he shows the old hen no respect. He’s rude to her, slathering her with butter and olive oil and then flinging her, breast down, legs in the air (the turkey, not my mother) into a 500-degree oven for the first twenty minutes.
His mashed potatoes are loaded with creme Fraiche, truffle salt, and a pound of butter…yet oddly enough—not a single calorie. Oh, the French.
His vegetable of choice is the brussel sprout. The recipe is so elaborate, with shredded bacon and gruyere in a balsamic reduction; that he’s only allowed to make them every other year.
That allows us to have the green beans in mushroom soup with the dried onion rings on top for the alternating years. He would never deign to eat that slop. We, on the other hand, squeal with delight in gleeful anticipation of this mushy mess of soupy goodness while his face assumes that pinched look of French disapproval.
Maybe the worst atrocity against the holiday is the stuffing; or lack thereof. He was raised in France. They don’t know from stuffing. They have bread pudding.
This year he is repeating the mushroom and leek bread pudding that he served last Thanksgiving. It really is delicious, don’t get me wrong, it’s just not my mom’s stuffing and it doesn’t go well with gravy – if you can imagine that.
As long as we’re talking gravy. His gravy is ridiculously smooth and savory, I’ll hand him that.
No one can figure out how he does it and I still haven’t caught him in the act of making it. I’m convinced it is delivered by Trappist monks to the back door just before we sit down.
Yams and sweet potatoes are not his things either so he’s given us the okay to make my mom’s killer Sweet Potato Casserole. It is heart-stoppingly delicious. La petite mort— it is THAT good.
It’s been ten years, and I’m just getting over it.
Nope, no Norman Rockwell moment at our house.
Instead, with knives so sharp they can slice a tomato, he carves the turkey up in the kitchen like a skilled butcher, arraigning it artistically by sections on a white platter; placing the drumsticks on the sides like exclamation points. I’ve actually come to appreciate the expediency of serving the bird this way.
White meat on the left, dark meat on the right.
Voila!
But this is a day about giving thanks and although He has hijacked this most American of meals, I must admit that we are lucky and ever so grateful to have this Frenchman in our family.
Every. Single. Year. He takes us on another culinary adventure, expanding our palates by spending weeks shopping, hours chopping and delivering to our family such a carefully thought out and meticulously prepared and delicious feast.
We love you!
Now let’s eat!
Happy Thanksgiving!
I prefer my food gluten-free and my life drama-free.
This goes for family as well, and THAT can be a tall order, just like getting gluten-free anything outside of urban areas.
“Wanna go to New York for the weekend in October? My cousin is having her first US art exhibition. She and her sister are going to be there for the opening, with their adult kids,” husband asked this spring.
I share the love that he has for these women; AND I will go to New York for the opening of an envelope.
“Uh, letmethinkaboutthatYES,yesIwould!” I said all in one looooong exclamation.
It was so dear and also enlightening to sit back and watch and listen as they got caught up. It’s been over ten years since we’ve seen them.
Let’s be clear, my understanding of French, especially spoken fast and with enthusiasm, is similar to my grasp of Mandarin – nonexistent.
But I understand giggles and guffaws and misty eyes and hugs.
Hours of stories and memories shared.
Seems the old guard are almost all gone, everyone is allowed to exhale. This old French family is passing into very capable, progressive, and dare I say less dysfunctional hands.
Every family has their “stuff” and his family is no different; except their drama and family neurosis has style.
A certain je ne sais quoi. It wears better clothes, and is dripping in that sardonic French wit.
It’s the Coco Chanel of families.
A mistake a lot of us make is that we look at other people’s families who seem to have it all together; very beautiful and glamorous lives, all the trappings of success and we think: I wish they were MY family. I’d be SO together if he/she were MY parent.
I call bullshit.
It’s all the same in every language, in every country. It’s Universal. Family shit runs deep.
You think your family’s cornered the market on crazy? Think again.
The eccentric, wild-eyed, cousin who never wears shoes, the snarky, judgmental, bitchy family member – they’re the same worldwide. The only difference is they may wear a sari, a Metallica t-shirt, or couture, and have a funny accent.
Seems it’s just a part of the human condition.
Walking around this weekend, it was all becoming clear.
New York is such a culturally diverse city; there were families, parents and children of various ages and ethnicities everywhere we visited. I was a witness to global love and global dysfunction; as they do go hand in hand.
And you know what?
You can’t make it to adulthood unscathed.
Family bestows on us its greatest traits (his family has an inordinate amount of successful, gifted artists) and its darkest, stickiest, secrets.
It damages us all to varying degrees.
Whether it’s through therapy, hypnosis, running away, or just the grace of God, it is my belief that we end up with the people with whom we share compatible damage. Funny is a bonus.
That’s all it is.
I did a very exhaustive, comprehensive weekend study – it really is THAT simple.
Love you my compatible people,
Xox
