Do I dare write about it? Do I go there? Yes, I'm in a new relationship. One that seems quite different from what I lived for 2 1/2 years. It is calmer. He has children, two boys like myself. And thus from the get-go the kids are part of the equation. Mine are excited. Leo tells me (no doubt from this past year's experience with me thrice in the doldrums) that we are not to break up! It should be the right one. He is so sure of things at 13! Jonas follows suit. And, I must say that his kids have taken to me quickly. Now it's up to the adults to find their bearings, to see if we've projects in common, to contemplate what the future might bring. How gun-shy are we, how ready to believe, to trust, to go forth? I know that for myself the weekend thing will not be enough. I truly want to live as a family again, and why not with two more children? I do well with plenty of small/medium-size ones around and enjoy the nurturing, the observing, the educating. But he? We'll see.
And yet, I hold dearly to the independence I've regained, the joys of being more with my girl-friends, with myself, the projects I would like to develop here in Avignon, close to my home. I have my center, my integrity, myself and my personal dreams -- my vocational passion as Barbara Marx Hubbard states -- to nourish and bear.
There are books and articles aplenty these days on reformed families, familles recomposées. I browse through them, though I've definitely already contemplated the many variations and trials that such a choice clearly thrusts upon one. I'm up for it. I think.
And so, I observe how he raises his kids, I see his value system, I test his house rhythms and I check into mine. Will they dove-tail?
Slowly, slowly into the fray. Dancing gently and surely, allowing for space, contemplating, learning, communicating, testing. It's just not the same as when you're young and naive, ready to start a family, nor perhaps when you're older and established, the kids long gone from the nest.
Day by day.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Fall comes fiercely knocking
The wind is swirling as only the Mistral winds can do. My stone house clings to the ground, but dreams of sailing off to OZ fill my nights. I can sing this sound of the wind, as it buffets my windows and shakes and rattles the doors. It invigorates and sends me to bed at night feeling I've done a major day's work. But have I?
Now that the tourism season has come to a close (but for possible chocolate/truffle requests in the next few months) I have time on my hands. I return to my role as mother, home-maker, gardener and contemplate what next. There's a good translation on the horizon -- Joel Durand, the chocolatier, has his book to be put into English, and so I'll likely have that shortly in my hands; and there are house projects -- re-do the walls of Leo's room, build the chicken coop, and hopefully get a proper heavy wooden shutter between the north-side terrace and my single-paned glass/iron door onto the kitchen.
There is also my project for the school: to design a welcome/cultural adaptation program for visiting (and perhaps settling) Anglo-saxons. I await only the green light. I am also the new designated liason between Leo's teacher and the other parents. A meeting or two to be as yet scheduled.
I've been to the local farm to pick up extra cases of tomatoes for sauce -- and chopped, sweated, simmered and prepared jars for the season. I'm tempted to see if there are any more. Home-made sauce from truly ripe tomatoes is simply a thousand times better than using even quality/organic canned crushed tomatoes. Just no comparison. Hmmm
And of course bread was baked (as per my recipe in the post from February 2009. I've new takers now for my multi-grain, slow-rising loaves. They please at a certain home in Nîmes, and they serve as a thank you to my good friend who helps me every Monday to cope on Leo's tennis lesson, receiving both Jonas and our newest boarder for afternoon snacks till I come and pick them up.
Some chocolate muffins - as per my classic recipe with turned raw milk, baking soda and some mashed squash (from the garden) to moisten them. I also added 1/4 cup dark cocoa and switched from normal sugar to a rapadura brown sugar. Theme and variations is the name of the game.
Time for more syrup as well. The mint and elderflower from the spring are long gone. My year's yield of Lemon Verbena needs to be harvested. It won't last the winter (though the plant will, brown and sad-looking in the corner of my garden till green leaves emerge next spring). Blended with some garden mint and lemon slices it will be that little extra to get us through the next couple of months. Here again, I follow a standard recipe of 1:1 (1 kilo to 1 litre) sugar to water, bring it to a boil, turn it off and add my leaves and lemon slices. Leave to infuse overnight and then bring back to a boil and pour through a sieve into my bottles. When you banish sodas and juices from concentrate from your house, it is nice to offer a delicious alternative.
What leaves do not go into the syrup I will dry and use for winter herbal teas.
It's just that time of year. I feel the passage of seasons shifting all my rhythms, driving me to re-organize, plan, adjust, fix. I feel like a bear in need of collecting his winter stores and so live till another spring arrives. I've lit fires in my cast iron stove all day yesterday and today. I'll need to go and collect a few more cords of wood. My tomato plants still laden with fruit quite green are struggling in this wind. I've righted them twice now. Hoping?
Jonas and I are reading Laura Ingalls Wilder's Farmer Boy now. The chapters on harvesting and preparing for their long Northern New York winter resonate in me. However, I've not 5 hogs and a steer to butcher, no need to make my own candles from suet, nor shall I be filling the root cellar with potatoes, apples, carrots and such. I can rely on the neighborhood farm to have these for me till at least late January. But I'm hunkering down all the same.
Yesterday saw me preparing my missive to the world from Provence, and updating my web site. Time to re-arrange, adjust, improve, tweak. And time to say thank you to the many who came and toured with me in Provence this year.
As I worked on that HTML code, re-wrote sections, etc., my friend who's helping me build a chicken coop as a trade for being my dance partner for a tango workshop came by and together we devoted the rest of the afternoon to digging, afixing, preparing, and finally to pouring some cement along the trenches (to keep out the foxes). Little by little it is taking form. Though I'll likely wait till spring for my chickens -- caring for them through a cold winter can wait till I'm more experienced.
And yourselves? Where does this change of seasons find you? What rhythms shift and adjust, or are you in lives more adapted to the 21st century, un-ceasing rhythms that ignore these outside changes and simply keep you moving forward? It's been years now that I've lived the tourism and seasonal calendar. Myself who had no idea what was in season when during my childhood in suburban New York am now deeply attached to these cycles. I suppose I am odd now. Perhaps one of the reasons I so love the Little House books. Reconnecting with a time when the seasons dominated lives, when man was wise and skilled and worked with what was before him, even to collecting all the wild berries in the forest, all the beechnuts fallen from the trees.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Always the Observer
As a youngest child I was born with examples right before me to observe, mimic, identify with or not. I would look up to my elder sister and watch her navigate the world. Six years my senior, she had a handle on her studies (always a good student); she was knowledgeable and responsible; she knew how to get to Manhattan and see a play on her own when she was only 15. She could cook and taught me to bake cookies. And, as adolescence came upon her, she became grouchy, reactive, and yet always remained the good girl who -- whilst complaining -- did as was requested.
My brother was the funny and quiet one. Many a summer we were alone together and he made do with this and taught me to fish, to catch salamanders, to fillet, to climb trees, and later, to improve my pie crust, acquire a few frisbee throws, and juggle two balls in one hand. With adolescence he became somewhat sulky, sullen, long simmering then -- though never raising his voice -- overpoweringly mad, fed up. He started having difficulty getting up in the morning, was always causing my parents to yell up the stairs, making everyone late to school. He, the smartest of the family, started to struggle in school by sheer frustration and I think personality conflicts with teachers far less quick than he. He mastered the technique of always answering in the positive to requests from my mother, and then simply never getting around to getting them done.
You could call my elder siblings opposites. I spent many a year observing and considering their varying approaches to life. My sister, so efficient, obediant, good, but often bemoaning the degree to which she was put upon. My brother, mostly good-humored (when not contraried), wickedly smart, and off in his own world, fiercely stubborn.
In their cooking they differ as well. My sister cooks quickly, efficiently, as necessary for her family. Or she does take out. These days, super-busy as she is, home-made meals are a rather rare occasion in her home. But they manage.
My brother masters recipes. He takes the time to do them just so each and every time. He measures carefully, he follows the directions, he perfects his creations. I drive him crazy in my complete and total inability (some pastry excepting) to do likewise. As he would say, I've never seen a recipe I could actually follow faithfully.
Now that we're grown, and living in distant worlds, my siblings are far less the individuals I observe and consider. I've opened my perspective to a wider world. And when I travel back home (home?) to New York and I visit the friends I grew up with, or went to school with, or shared a first job with, I observe what they've made of their lives, the choices they've made, the values they reflect.
One dear friend is living a fascinating and demanding career, alongside a husband who is doing likewise and more. Perhaps he'll even be a senator one day? or she? They've their blackberries at the ready, tapping away throughout the day. They've good wine in the cabinet, elegant glassware, a gorgeous chess set from an art gallery, a country home up in the hills. Pretty awesome. But, they don't have much time. They don't seem to slow down -- can they? Family time is minimal, precious, and too quickly over. Stress and intensity seem to be a regular sensation. They've one lovely child: precocious, intense, demanding. Another wouldn't be possible. This year they'll be living mostly apart due to job choices. And next year?
Another dear friend is managing a toddler in her low forties. She's got a good corporate job, relatively flexible, with good benefits. She got her six weeks of maternity leave, and when it ended, back to work she went. Her husband works in a similar environment. They depend heavily upon their nanny, and are enjoying this late-in-life blessing. However, if she wanted to spend more time with her child, she could not. Her job's benefits are too essential to their situation. So, onward with the formula that no doubt many must choose till their child is of school age.
But then I visited friends who seemed to have found a magic formula: a balance of work, accomplishments and family: Nurturing of the next generation, time for each other, and success on the career front. Amazing. I met sensible and delightful and affectionate adolescents, solid and supportive adults, warm and welcoming individuals and families that reach inward to their own, and outwards to friends from afar. Ah, how did they manage to choose their partners so well? What portion is family values? What portion intelligence? What portion having a good example in their own parents to learn from?
Do I have a simple and clear response to all my observations? Have I learned the magic formula? No. I'm just -- perhaps, if I'm lucky -- a touch clearer on my own values of raising my children, and hopefully, being in a supportive, affectionate, equal, delightful partnership one day. In the meantime, I'll focus on the boys, and figure out which of my projects to bring to fruition.
My brother was the funny and quiet one. Many a summer we were alone together and he made do with this and taught me to fish, to catch salamanders, to fillet, to climb trees, and later, to improve my pie crust, acquire a few frisbee throws, and juggle two balls in one hand. With adolescence he became somewhat sulky, sullen, long simmering then -- though never raising his voice -- overpoweringly mad, fed up. He started having difficulty getting up in the morning, was always causing my parents to yell up the stairs, making everyone late to school. He, the smartest of the family, started to struggle in school by sheer frustration and I think personality conflicts with teachers far less quick than he. He mastered the technique of always answering in the positive to requests from my mother, and then simply never getting around to getting them done.
You could call my elder siblings opposites. I spent many a year observing and considering their varying approaches to life. My sister, so efficient, obediant, good, but often bemoaning the degree to which she was put upon. My brother, mostly good-humored (when not contraried), wickedly smart, and off in his own world, fiercely stubborn.
In their cooking they differ as well. My sister cooks quickly, efficiently, as necessary for her family. Or she does take out. These days, super-busy as she is, home-made meals are a rather rare occasion in her home. But they manage.
My brother masters recipes. He takes the time to do them just so each and every time. He measures carefully, he follows the directions, he perfects his creations. I drive him crazy in my complete and total inability (some pastry excepting) to do likewise. As he would say, I've never seen a recipe I could actually follow faithfully.
Now that we're grown, and living in distant worlds, my siblings are far less the individuals I observe and consider. I've opened my perspective to a wider world. And when I travel back home (home?) to New York and I visit the friends I grew up with, or went to school with, or shared a first job with, I observe what they've made of their lives, the choices they've made, the values they reflect.
One dear friend is living a fascinating and demanding career, alongside a husband who is doing likewise and more. Perhaps he'll even be a senator one day? or she? They've their blackberries at the ready, tapping away throughout the day. They've good wine in the cabinet, elegant glassware, a gorgeous chess set from an art gallery, a country home up in the hills. Pretty awesome. But, they don't have much time. They don't seem to slow down -- can they? Family time is minimal, precious, and too quickly over. Stress and intensity seem to be a regular sensation. They've one lovely child: precocious, intense, demanding. Another wouldn't be possible. This year they'll be living mostly apart due to job choices. And next year?
Another dear friend is managing a toddler in her low forties. She's got a good corporate job, relatively flexible, with good benefits. She got her six weeks of maternity leave, and when it ended, back to work she went. Her husband works in a similar environment. They depend heavily upon their nanny, and are enjoying this late-in-life blessing. However, if she wanted to spend more time with her child, she could not. Her job's benefits are too essential to their situation. So, onward with the formula that no doubt many must choose till their child is of school age.
But then I visited friends who seemed to have found a magic formula: a balance of work, accomplishments and family: Nurturing of the next generation, time for each other, and success on the career front. Amazing. I met sensible and delightful and affectionate adolescents, solid and supportive adults, warm and welcoming individuals and families that reach inward to their own, and outwards to friends from afar. Ah, how did they manage to choose their partners so well? What portion is family values? What portion intelligence? What portion having a good example in their own parents to learn from?
Do I have a simple and clear response to all my observations? Have I learned the magic formula? No. I'm just -- perhaps, if I'm lucky -- a touch clearer on my own values of raising my children, and hopefully, being in a supportive, affectionate, equal, delightful partnership one day. In the meantime, I'll focus on the boys, and figure out which of my projects to bring to fruition.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Cats in the Cradle
There are times when that song from my childhood, Cats in the Cradle, just streams through my head:
Cats in the Cradle and a Silver Spoon,
Little Boy Blue and the Man in the Moon,
When're you coming home Dad, I don't know when,
But we'll get together then son,
you know we'll have a good time then....
I suppose in many ways I'm living my life accordingly. Sensitive to the theme of this song, that the father who prioritized his work and had little time for his son, reaps his just rewards in that his son has little time for him in his old age, and hoping to avoid its message in my own family entourage.
Life is a cycle, or at least, I believe it is so. What goes around comes around. What we put into motion ever so unconsciously, can come back to catch us.
I felt this cycle in a strange way during these holidays. I went for a walk with my mother, and for the first time perhaps ever, she walked more slowly than I, frightened of slipping and falling in the icy snow. Mostly, I was able to slow down and walk at her speed, but I felt myself resisting, frustrated, and yes, a bit resentful. Why?
Scenes of my childhood when she was always in a hurry, out the door before me, honking the car, ahead of me by a few yards, urging impatiently for me to catch up, rarely waiting till I was actually ready... No, it wasn't all the time, but enough that the impression has stuck.
I see as well my grandmother ten yards (or ten minutes) ahead of my grandfather, abandoning him as she strode strongly along while he trailed behind hobbled by weak legs. Was it so important to arrive minutes before the other?
I want to stop this. I don't want to be the impatient mom always urging her kids along.
And yet, I have been thus. I remember countless times zooming across Arles with Leo in tow -- thankfully, he was able to keep up most of the time, especially with his hand in mine. But when we had a friend of his with us, one who was far more dreamy and slow, inspecting every crack in the sidewalk, every piece of paper on the ground (no matter the cars that nearly toppled him over!), I would go, admittedly, rather batty. I have even thanked the stars that I've a son like Leo who can keep up. If I'd had a child like his poor friend no doubt it would have been torture for us both.
And so, how to stop this? Well, I'm trying. I'm making moves in this direction. We walk hand in hand, or if not, I look back when they dawdle, and stop when I sense they've fallen behind. Then simply, during those precious times when the clock isn't weighing upon me, I stand and smile as I wait for them to catch up -- rather than urging and berating and tapping a foot, or worse, heading off alone expecting them to keep up ...
It will come.
Cats in the Cradle and a Silver Spoon,
Little Boy Blue and the Man in the Moon,
When're you coming home Dad, I don't know when,
But we'll get together then son,
you know we'll have a good time then....
I suppose in many ways I'm living my life accordingly. Sensitive to the theme of this song, that the father who prioritized his work and had little time for his son, reaps his just rewards in that his son has little time for him in his old age, and hoping to avoid its message in my own family entourage.
Life is a cycle, or at least, I believe it is so. What goes around comes around. What we put into motion ever so unconsciously, can come back to catch us.
I felt this cycle in a strange way during these holidays. I went for a walk with my mother, and for the first time perhaps ever, she walked more slowly than I, frightened of slipping and falling in the icy snow. Mostly, I was able to slow down and walk at her speed, but I felt myself resisting, frustrated, and yes, a bit resentful. Why?
Scenes of my childhood when she was always in a hurry, out the door before me, honking the car, ahead of me by a few yards, urging impatiently for me to catch up, rarely waiting till I was actually ready... No, it wasn't all the time, but enough that the impression has stuck.
I see as well my grandmother ten yards (or ten minutes) ahead of my grandfather, abandoning him as she strode strongly along while he trailed behind hobbled by weak legs. Was it so important to arrive minutes before the other?
I want to stop this. I don't want to be the impatient mom always urging her kids along.
And yet, I have been thus. I remember countless times zooming across Arles with Leo in tow -- thankfully, he was able to keep up most of the time, especially with his hand in mine. But when we had a friend of his with us, one who was far more dreamy and slow, inspecting every crack in the sidewalk, every piece of paper on the ground (no matter the cars that nearly toppled him over!), I would go, admittedly, rather batty. I have even thanked the stars that I've a son like Leo who can keep up. If I'd had a child like his poor friend no doubt it would have been torture for us both.
And so, how to stop this? Well, I'm trying. I'm making moves in this direction. We walk hand in hand, or if not, I look back when they dawdle, and stop when I sense they've fallen behind. Then simply, during those precious times when the clock isn't weighing upon me, I stand and smile as I wait for them to catch up -- rather than urging and berating and tapping a foot, or worse, heading off alone expecting them to keep up ...
It will come.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Christmas in Séguret
The year of Jonas’s birth, we stayed in Provence for Christmas. He’d been due for Christmas week, so it had been out of the question to travel. In fact, he decided to come early, and greeted Christmas as a two-week-old in my arms. Two of my former au pairs, one living in Aix and another living in Paris, joined us. My mother came over from the States, and after feasting and a little bit of music on the piano, we all set out to the little hill-side village of Séguret to watch the all-Provençal re-enactment of the nativity by the villagers (amongst them one of my favorite potters).
I'd learned of this event on one of the many visits to the potter's shop, or perhaps a day we went to hike the hills behind the village. And, I just so wanted to experience this unique event that has been held in the village from medieval times.
The potter’s father got us tickets and saved us well-chosen seats. The potter’s mother guided us up to the church from her house where I'd been happily ensconced with Jonas at the breast, enjoying the delicious smells of their Christmas Eve repast. I just love their home with the view over the family from the front window, the tiny fireplace, the cupboards full of home-made jams.
As we made our way to our seats, my hostess fussed over my tiny baby, suggesting he might be called upon as a last-minute replacement for baby Jesus.
It turned out to be an over two-hour affair with every character in a santon display spouting in Provençal -- not too difficult to understand, but still.... Leo, just 4 ½, was under the chair after the first 45 minutes, and no amount of whispered scolding could bring him out. Jonas went from breast to breast, nursing, sleeping, nursing, sleeping. A local village baby – weighing in at a huge 8 months-old – weepily managed the role of Jesus. And all went relatively smoothly as each villager reprised his traditional role of the blind man, or Joseph, or a shepherd, or the inn-keeper.
When the last strains of a capella singing from the young teenage angels (who, contrary to the other roles, were permitted to sing in French) had drifted into the darkness, we made their way out into the crisp night air. Above our heads, in a marvelously clichéd moment, the stars twinkled brightly and all felt magical and possible.
It was over an hour’s drive back from the village to Arles. Erick got us home way after mid-night, no doubt a bit uncertain as to whether his crazy American wife had improved Christmas with this extraordinary production, or simply added more work to his already full schedule.
But still to this day, I can see and hear my potter in his role as a shepherd berating the inn-keeper, ‘testo duro’ or hard headed nut.
I'd learned of this event on one of the many visits to the potter's shop, or perhaps a day we went to hike the hills behind the village. And, I just so wanted to experience this unique event that has been held in the village from medieval times.
The potter’s father got us tickets and saved us well-chosen seats. The potter’s mother guided us up to the church from her house where I'd been happily ensconced with Jonas at the breast, enjoying the delicious smells of their Christmas Eve repast. I just love their home with the view over the family from the front window, the tiny fireplace, the cupboards full of home-made jams.
As we made our way to our seats, my hostess fussed over my tiny baby, suggesting he might be called upon as a last-minute replacement for baby Jesus.
It turned out to be an over two-hour affair with every character in a santon display spouting in Provençal -- not too difficult to understand, but still.... Leo, just 4 ½, was under the chair after the first 45 minutes, and no amount of whispered scolding could bring him out. Jonas went from breast to breast, nursing, sleeping, nursing, sleeping. A local village baby – weighing in at a huge 8 months-old – weepily managed the role of Jesus. And all went relatively smoothly as each villager reprised his traditional role of the blind man, or Joseph, or a shepherd, or the inn-keeper.
When the last strains of a capella singing from the young teenage angels (who, contrary to the other roles, were permitted to sing in French) had drifted into the darkness, we made their way out into the crisp night air. Above our heads, in a marvelously clichéd moment, the stars twinkled brightly and all felt magical and possible.
It was over an hour’s drive back from the village to Arles. Erick got us home way after mid-night, no doubt a bit uncertain as to whether his crazy American wife had improved Christmas with this extraordinary production, or simply added more work to his already full schedule.
But still to this day, I can see and hear my potter in his role as a shepherd berating the inn-keeper, ‘testo duro’ or hard headed nut.
Watching the pounds, aka kilos reappear...
What is it about coming home for Christmas? -- or rather coming to your Mom's house -- that just calls to the pounds to coming fleeing back to my tummy/butt? After all that virtuous shedding (yes, it was heart-sick/chagrin related, but still) this fall, and my pretty successful efforts (salsa and tango helped!) at keeping them off till my arrival just a week ago....
Can I fast for the next two days? Not likely. Tomorrow I'm the appointed cook for the goose, my oriental spinach dish (recipe shortly with photos, if I remember), and -- of course -- my dark chocolate raspberry yule log (bûche de Noël). Back on US soil I don't seem to be able to get away from the kitchen. Strange, n'est-ce pas? I seem to have this reputation as the cook of the family.
Meantime, I'm having fits and starts as I recognize the way too many things I have in common with my mother. Don't get me wrong, she's a great lady. I'm reassured that she too forgets things (granted, not a small child, but still, when over-extended there are details/errands/etc., that fall by the wayside). If she could run a university with this level of over the hill multi-tasking (thinking of my daily life with 6 kids) then I'm okay, right?
However, the tendency to not listen to the end of a sentance, to not read to the end of a sentance, to jump to conclusions (not always the right ones) and to be adamantly right... Well, let's just say I've new reasons to work on my own personal tendencies towards an excess of impatience, doing things too quickly, skimming texts, etc., I don't know if perfection shall ever be in my future, but a higher level of thoroughness would be a good thing.
Can I fast for the next two days? Not likely. Tomorrow I'm the appointed cook for the goose, my oriental spinach dish (recipe shortly with photos, if I remember), and -- of course -- my dark chocolate raspberry yule log (bûche de Noël). Back on US soil I don't seem to be able to get away from the kitchen. Strange, n'est-ce pas? I seem to have this reputation as the cook of the family.
Meantime, I'm having fits and starts as I recognize the way too many things I have in common with my mother. Don't get me wrong, she's a great lady. I'm reassured that she too forgets things (granted, not a small child, but still, when over-extended there are details/errands/etc., that fall by the wayside). If she could run a university with this level of over the hill multi-tasking (thinking of my daily life with 6 kids) then I'm okay, right?
However, the tendency to not listen to the end of a sentance, to not read to the end of a sentance, to jump to conclusions (not always the right ones) and to be adamantly right... Well, let's just say I've new reasons to work on my own personal tendencies towards an excess of impatience, doing things too quickly, skimming texts, etc., I don't know if perfection shall ever be in my future, but a higher level of thoroughness would be a good thing.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Borrowing dogs
When at a cousin's holiday party, there are always enough dogs to go around. While the range of adults (i.e. age 15 to 80) chit chat, catch up, share tidbits, learn about college/job/baby choices, the young ones find their four-footed friends. Drinks, food a crackling fire and a huge and wonderfully decorated Christmas tree round out the gathering.
Snow in New York
Well, Filou, I'm not in Provence any more. I'm here amidst a US East Coast snow storm. Obama came home early from Oslo, and we came home early from our cousin's get-together up in Connecticut. The world is white, moving slowly. I had to push Ma's car out of the gas station with the help of a friendly passer-by. As I walked home from her church where she was singing in the choir, I witnessed the ritual post-snow storm act in front of nearly every home: there is the father with or without sons of varying ages shoveling away. It is rather sociable actually. I smile and say "Morning" to them as I stroll on by. In one case I'm invited to join in, but I demure.
Back at Ma's house I'll help with the walkway, and likely dig out her parking spot so we are able to manoeuver tomorrow when no doubt the snow will be denser and icier. According to Leo and Jonas, it is not a good texture for making a snow man. Hmmm, I may have to test that. But perhaps it's true. It felt rather powdery coming down, not lumps of dense moisture only barely frozen.
The birds flock to Ma's feeder for her generous supply of sunflower seeds. Jonas helps me finish decorating our Christmas cookies. A short session of yoga calls. I'm in that surreal space of being in my childhood home. Here, under my mother's roof, France seems far away, except when my children bicker and fight, cursing each other with a flow of vulgarities learned in the school yard back in Avignon.
Back at Ma's house I'll help with the walkway, and likely dig out her parking spot so we are able to manoeuver tomorrow when no doubt the snow will be denser and icier. According to Leo and Jonas, it is not a good texture for making a snow man. Hmmm, I may have to test that. But perhaps it's true. It felt rather powdery coming down, not lumps of dense moisture only barely frozen.
The birds flock to Ma's feeder for her generous supply of sunflower seeds. Jonas helps me finish decorating our Christmas cookies. A short session of yoga calls. I'm in that surreal space of being in my childhood home. Here, under my mother's roof, France seems far away, except when my children bicker and fight, cursing each other with a flow of vulgarities learned in the school yard back in Avignon.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
The stove is hot
As I sit here enjoying the warmth of my cast iron stove I'm noticing the melted wax on the carpet and on the seat beneath me, the strange forms painted??? on the windows of the stove, and various other minor damages to my house caused by over-active pre-teens. At least two of these are easily handled with a hot iron and lots of newsprint -- a learning moment, n'est-ce pas?
Over the past couple of weeks a spurt of uncontroled anger by one has broken the ancient brass door knob on his door, and the corner of a table (his parents, I believe, are now aiming to repair and replace said items). My elder girl had a major tiff at school and has been grounded for two days. Flying off the handle, out of control emotions, losing it in front of teachers and others, taking everything to the utmost limit and feeling justified to physically react and respond to any and all insults or frustrations... Isn't this what growing up is all about? Getting ahold of yourself? Learning to master your feelings so that they are not master of you? Allowing yourself to feel, not denying, but, not over-reacting either?
Their parents deal with them as they choose. In both cases they are making efforts to be attentive. I'm the outside parental influence, the one that has them living with me, but who doesn't have the emotional connection. Am I non-biased? No, I can't admit to that. But I can hope to teach them some elements of simple human behavior -- or at least what I find to be useful and best adapted to coping in this world. In general, slamming doors, breaking walls, bursting into tears, freaking out, haven't proved successful operating procedures for me. But then again, I rarely cry, and have struggled to be calm and to let things pass from early childhood. Anger rarely got me anything worthwhile, nor tears, so I learned my lesson, and aimed toward a more subtle mastery of manipulation. Ah, that is communication...
And life goes on. Perhaps I'll get the Christmas decorations out today?
Over the past couple of weeks a spurt of uncontroled anger by one has broken the ancient brass door knob on his door, and the corner of a table (his parents, I believe, are now aiming to repair and replace said items). My elder girl had a major tiff at school and has been grounded for two days. Flying off the handle, out of control emotions, losing it in front of teachers and others, taking everything to the utmost limit and feeling justified to physically react and respond to any and all insults or frustrations... Isn't this what growing up is all about? Getting ahold of yourself? Learning to master your feelings so that they are not master of you? Allowing yourself to feel, not denying, but, not over-reacting either?
Their parents deal with them as they choose. In both cases they are making efforts to be attentive. I'm the outside parental influence, the one that has them living with me, but who doesn't have the emotional connection. Am I non-biased? No, I can't admit to that. But I can hope to teach them some elements of simple human behavior -- or at least what I find to be useful and best adapted to coping in this world. In general, slamming doors, breaking walls, bursting into tears, freaking out, haven't proved successful operating procedures for me. But then again, I rarely cry, and have struggled to be calm and to let things pass from early childhood. Anger rarely got me anything worthwhile, nor tears, so I learned my lesson, and aimed toward a more subtle mastery of manipulation. Ah, that is communication...
And life goes on. Perhaps I'll get the Christmas decorations out today?
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Thanksgiving far from home
I have a strong attachment to Thanksgiving and all that it stands for. Wherever I've lived in the world -– Japan, Paris, Seattle, Arles, Avignon-—I've managed to put one together. In Japan finding a turkey was near impossible -– so I purchased two large chickens. It cost a fortune – all those exotic ingredients -— but I reveled in recreating it alone for the first time in my life, for those I wished to say thank you to. I managed it in the home and kitchen of my host family, and added just three people to the four already in the house: my boss, my best friend/office mate, and the man who had introduced me to my host family. And there, amongst those dearest to me in that strange country, many of whom had traveled far and wide, I heard what I’d hear again and again in the future; my, but I didn’t know American food could be so good!
From my first winter in France in 1995 – the year of two months of transit strikes in Paris – I tried to offer Thanksgiving yearly. That first year, I was in Arles with Erick, and he invited numerous friends who’d met me over the summer to join us. Nearly everything was a hit, except the pumpkin pie -- my mother's recipe have you! Erick had declared, “c’est pas bon,”after one bite and not a soul took another piece. Ah well, pumpkin pie is an excellent and nourishing breakfast, and so it was for me for the rest of the week.
Returning to Paris I had no worry of putting on extra poundage through eating all my own left-overs of stuffing, corn pudding and pie. In the city of lights I walked absolutely everywhere for the during that two month strike. Add in my sixth story walk-up and I think I've rarely had such great legs in my life since.
As my family celebrated Thanksgiving, and later my Seattle friends, it's a time when everyone cooks, everyone feasts, and everyone helps clean. No one goes home (or to sleep) till the dishes are done. We've never been a football-watching crowd, so this truly included everyone from the oldest to the youngest, male, female, you name it.
But abroad, that just doesn't work. It is the rare French guest who helps with the dishes. In France when you entertain you do the “totale," meaning from start to end, the hostess copes with everything. Guests bring flowers, chocolate, wine, cheese or pottery (should that be their specialty), and go home, happy and well nourished. The potluck (now known as auberge espagnole had yet to really catch on when I first moved here. And, being the owners of a large and well-equipped kitchen, noted for our expertise in the cooking arena … well, it just evolved into a rather large event where I did the maximum if not all the work. Most years, it was pure joy to invite the various artisans, vintners, farmers, philosophers, archeologists and more to my table. I wanted to thank them for helping me, and us, make our business so rich with the warm welcome they offered to me and my guests as I tour Provence and visit them -- often! The irony was not lost on a soul that they were invited to the Provençal chef’s house, and his American wife was doing all the cooking!
From 15-20, from 20 – 28, from 28 to 35 … it just kept expanding. From our dinner table that sat 12 to the b&b table that sat 20, and then to the addition of a long make-shift table of boards, with very wobbly home-made benches alongside. Kids crawled under the table to access their seats – and a few adults as well!
There was the year I wanted to do it Southern style, harking back to my father’s Kentucky roots, and add bourbon to the sweet potatoes, cranberries and pecan pie. Rather than go out and purchase me expensive imported bourbon at the store, Erick got to work distilling wine to pure alcohol in the kitchen. Out came the pressure cooker, some rubber tubing, a copper coil, and voila, I had my alcohol. Granted it wasn’t aged in toasted casks, but, it was pretty thrilling to have your own house alchemist make you pure alcohol on the gas cooktop.
There were years when my American au pairs contributed their favorite family dishes – baked beans, potato salad, green salad with dried cranberries and cherries.... There were years when a Dutch friend came to help out a couple days before the event with grinding the corn through the vegetable mill to prepare the corn pudding base. There were years when my father came and did his special sausage, apple and prune stuffing recipe.
Each year’s feast required an explanation and proper introduction to this strange American tradition. I would tell my version of the arrival of the Pilgrims, their meeting with the Indians, what it meant to learn to survive in the New World, to begin to tame it, to know it … Then I’d tell them what all the dishes were : corn pudding, turkey, apple and sausage stuffing, sweet potatoes, squash, mashed potatoes, corn bread, biscuits, cranberries, and of course, the pies. All these foods of the Americas (excepting the apples). All these amazing food stuffs brought back to Europe from the New World. I added to my old favorites special new recipes for mince meat pie from the New York Times, oyster cornbread stuffing from a book of Indian recipes, Indian pudding.
With such a list of traditional favorites I couldn't delegate, nor entrust the dishes to any one else. I became a bit of a control freak. And the fact that I’d calmed down over how Erick carved a turkey (unlike my WASP dad, he most definitely did not slice the white meat, but removed the entire breast and then cut it in chunks) was already a big deal.
In the last two years much has changed. My home is smaller, my budget minimal, and my energy much taken up by kids, rebuilding the business, job searching, etc., I managed a variation on a pot luck T-day last year at the winery. It was lovely, but required nonetheless grand orchestration. This year, perhaps I'll be with a friend who has an American husband? Perhaps I'll just make a couple special dishes for me and the boys? I don't know. But I'm ok with it. I'm grateful already for my friends, for my world, for good health, for happy and healthy children, for getting along better with Erick, for putting many a project in motion. I will give thanks, even if I don't roll away from the dinner table in doing so!
From my first winter in France in 1995 – the year of two months of transit strikes in Paris – I tried to offer Thanksgiving yearly. That first year, I was in Arles with Erick, and he invited numerous friends who’d met me over the summer to join us. Nearly everything was a hit, except the pumpkin pie -- my mother's recipe have you! Erick had declared, “c’est pas bon,”after one bite and not a soul took another piece. Ah well, pumpkin pie is an excellent and nourishing breakfast, and so it was for me for the rest of the week.
Returning to Paris I had no worry of putting on extra poundage through eating all my own left-overs of stuffing, corn pudding and pie. In the city of lights I walked absolutely everywhere for the during that two month strike. Add in my sixth story walk-up and I think I've rarely had such great legs in my life since.
As my family celebrated Thanksgiving, and later my Seattle friends, it's a time when everyone cooks, everyone feasts, and everyone helps clean. No one goes home (or to sleep) till the dishes are done. We've never been a football-watching crowd, so this truly included everyone from the oldest to the youngest, male, female, you name it.
But abroad, that just doesn't work. It is the rare French guest who helps with the dishes. In France when you entertain you do the “totale," meaning from start to end, the hostess copes with everything. Guests bring flowers, chocolate, wine, cheese or pottery (should that be their specialty), and go home, happy and well nourished. The potluck (now known as auberge espagnole had yet to really catch on when I first moved here. And, being the owners of a large and well-equipped kitchen, noted for our expertise in the cooking arena … well, it just evolved into a rather large event where I did the maximum if not all the work. Most years, it was pure joy to invite the various artisans, vintners, farmers, philosophers, archeologists and more to my table. I wanted to thank them for helping me, and us, make our business so rich with the warm welcome they offered to me and my guests as I tour Provence and visit them -- often! The irony was not lost on a soul that they were invited to the Provençal chef’s house, and his American wife was doing all the cooking!
From 15-20, from 20 – 28, from 28 to 35 … it just kept expanding. From our dinner table that sat 12 to the b&b table that sat 20, and then to the addition of a long make-shift table of boards, with very wobbly home-made benches alongside. Kids crawled under the table to access their seats – and a few adults as well!
There was the year I wanted to do it Southern style, harking back to my father’s Kentucky roots, and add bourbon to the sweet potatoes, cranberries and pecan pie. Rather than go out and purchase me expensive imported bourbon at the store, Erick got to work distilling wine to pure alcohol in the kitchen. Out came the pressure cooker, some rubber tubing, a copper coil, and voila, I had my alcohol. Granted it wasn’t aged in toasted casks, but, it was pretty thrilling to have your own house alchemist make you pure alcohol on the gas cooktop.
There were years when my American au pairs contributed their favorite family dishes – baked beans, potato salad, green salad with dried cranberries and cherries.... There were years when a Dutch friend came to help out a couple days before the event with grinding the corn through the vegetable mill to prepare the corn pudding base. There were years when my father came and did his special sausage, apple and prune stuffing recipe.
Each year’s feast required an explanation and proper introduction to this strange American tradition. I would tell my version of the arrival of the Pilgrims, their meeting with the Indians, what it meant to learn to survive in the New World, to begin to tame it, to know it … Then I’d tell them what all the dishes were : corn pudding, turkey, apple and sausage stuffing, sweet potatoes, squash, mashed potatoes, corn bread, biscuits, cranberries, and of course, the pies. All these foods of the Americas (excepting the apples). All these amazing food stuffs brought back to Europe from the New World. I added to my old favorites special new recipes for mince meat pie from the New York Times, oyster cornbread stuffing from a book of Indian recipes, Indian pudding.
With such a list of traditional favorites I couldn't delegate, nor entrust the dishes to any one else. I became a bit of a control freak. And the fact that I’d calmed down over how Erick carved a turkey (unlike my WASP dad, he most definitely did not slice the white meat, but removed the entire breast and then cut it in chunks) was already a big deal.
In the last two years much has changed. My home is smaller, my budget minimal, and my energy much taken up by kids, rebuilding the business, job searching, etc., I managed a variation on a pot luck T-day last year at the winery. It was lovely, but required nonetheless grand orchestration. This year, perhaps I'll be with a friend who has an American husband? Perhaps I'll just make a couple special dishes for me and the boys? I don't know. But I'm ok with it. I'm grateful already for my friends, for my world, for good health, for happy and healthy children, for getting along better with Erick, for putting many a project in motion. I will give thanks, even if I don't roll away from the dinner table in doing so!
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Staying with Friends
It's fascinating to me how we each approach the act of opening our homes and lives to a visitor, be he/she family, friend or new acquaintance. What is it to host? I was raised by a mother who opened our home every summer to a visiting French teenager, or to a family of five relatives on my father's side for over a week, or to the passing friend through NYC. We welcomed friends to our Christmas festivities. There was always enough food to go around, a spare bed or couch or a mattress on the floor, linens. It just wasn't that big an imposition.
Now, I suppose we had our unofficial guidelines. We preferred guests who helped with dishes, who were relatively independent transportation-wise, who were good company, but who could just as easily go out for a walk by themselves or pick up a book and read in a corner.
And when we went visiting, we arrived with gifts, we offered to make our own beds (if they hadn't already been made), we helped cook, carried babies, did dishes, had a stash of books so we wouldn't be a bother, went shopping with our hostess and purchased (this was my mom's thing) the groceries for the week we were there (particularly when visiting as a family in France). And yes, when the visit was concluded, we stripped our beds and brought the laundry to the laundry machine.
Whenever I go to the States for a meeting or conference, I check to see which cousin lives in town, give a call (or email) and of course I can spend the week. That's a given in our family. The response is always a strong affirmative. Hosting one of our cousins--as we are quitenumerous and we don't all know each other as well as we'd like--is a chance to knit together a stronger relationship with someone we are happy to know better.
When I lived in Arles the house was a veritable welcome spot for many a young cousin, au pair and friend. I remember one cluster of cousins -- all young men -- who from the moment of their arrival were a joy and a help. One took Leo on his lap and read him books, another emptied the dishwasher and set the table. And, before leaving, not only did they strip their beds, but they vaccuumed their room as well! I was amazed, praised these young men to their mother and simply sat back and wondered if ever I'll be able to raise my sons as well. Yes, we fed them great meals, and yes, I loaned them my car to go kayaking, got them maps, set them up for excursions, etc., But that's all part of it, right?
I think on all this as during the week I rented my house, I was a house guest a bit left and right. At the first home, the home of a relatively new friend, I clearly stayed one day de trop. And, I arrived with dog in a house inhabited by cats. Not a recommended act. Said dog was relatively well-behaved, and I, well, I came with gifts, tried to help, but out of sorts as I was, I was a weighty presence, not the helpful being I would like to think I can be (and normally am). I was clearly in the way by the second day. Two nights was one too much.
I then went on to Martine's, and there, I was put to work, and I was able to contribute and while I talked too much at times, I also shut up and simply worked in a zen state at other times. It balanced out. I also came with food, my rice cooker, and dog. The dog caused some issues with a neighbor, but was otherwise well-tolerated and well-behaved. We're still very close, and she is neither berating me for my stuck in my messed-up state-ness, nor does she seem weary of me and my current woes either. She is able to let me be where I'm at without it affecting her personal state too much.
My time at Mireille's was equally nourishing and warm. But there I heard stories of a childhood where friends weren't allowed further than the garage to play. Where sleepovers were unthought-of, and barriers set high. She's made a complete about-face from her upbringing, and whichever child is willing or absent sacrifices his/her bed to me willingly and easily. Warmth and welcome now come naturally.
For me, I think, the trick is not to take the act too seriously. I do what I am able to do. If I've 4 pre-adolescents at each other's throat, a broken-down car, and homework to get done with Leo, well, I'm not able to do much more than make up the mattress on the floor, pull out a towel, and perhaps serve a plate of fried rice. But, I'm okay with that. I have limits imposed on me by the house, the kids, etc., but I still have a spare spot on the floor of my room, and I'll do what I can do. I also have faith that the guest will help out too.
As such, I am perhaps not an elegant host, but I'm an easy host. I usually say yes, and will work it all out as I'm able. Only rarely have people over-stayed their welcome in my home. But it was an extreme case of three months of over-bearing presence, tactless behavior, minimal helpfulness, etc.,
I leave these thoughts unfinished. As they are and always will be. We each do as we can, linked to our cultures, our pasts, our traditions. There are the hosts who lay out the red carpet, and it is marvelous. But as I remember from my time in Japan, if you give too much the debt becomes too difficult to re-pay and the relationship tilts out of balance. But if this is the tradition you heark from, then that is the style of host you will likely be, and in this case, guests may quickly become a burden. ...
Yes, there's always more, and there is no right way. But the blending of styles and cultures will raise issues and occasionally, as when I over-stayed my welcome with my very generous and dear hosts... leave a sense of, oops, something's gone off.
Now, I suppose we had our unofficial guidelines. We preferred guests who helped with dishes, who were relatively independent transportation-wise, who were good company, but who could just as easily go out for a walk by themselves or pick up a book and read in a corner.
And when we went visiting, we arrived with gifts, we offered to make our own beds (if they hadn't already been made), we helped cook, carried babies, did dishes, had a stash of books so we wouldn't be a bother, went shopping with our hostess and purchased (this was my mom's thing) the groceries for the week we were there (particularly when visiting as a family in France). And yes, when the visit was concluded, we stripped our beds and brought the laundry to the laundry machine.
Whenever I go to the States for a meeting or conference, I check to see which cousin lives in town, give a call (or email) and of course I can spend the week. That's a given in our family. The response is always a strong affirmative. Hosting one of our cousins--as we are quitenumerous and we don't all know each other as well as we'd like--is a chance to knit together a stronger relationship with someone we are happy to know better.
When I lived in Arles the house was a veritable welcome spot for many a young cousin, au pair and friend. I remember one cluster of cousins -- all young men -- who from the moment of their arrival were a joy and a help. One took Leo on his lap and read him books, another emptied the dishwasher and set the table. And, before leaving, not only did they strip their beds, but they vaccuumed their room as well! I was amazed, praised these young men to their mother and simply sat back and wondered if ever I'll be able to raise my sons as well. Yes, we fed them great meals, and yes, I loaned them my car to go kayaking, got them maps, set them up for excursions, etc., But that's all part of it, right?
I think on all this as during the week I rented my house, I was a house guest a bit left and right. At the first home, the home of a relatively new friend, I clearly stayed one day de trop. And, I arrived with dog in a house inhabited by cats. Not a recommended act. Said dog was relatively well-behaved, and I, well, I came with gifts, tried to help, but out of sorts as I was, I was a weighty presence, not the helpful being I would like to think I can be (and normally am). I was clearly in the way by the second day. Two nights was one too much.
I then went on to Martine's, and there, I was put to work, and I was able to contribute and while I talked too much at times, I also shut up and simply worked in a zen state at other times. It balanced out. I also came with food, my rice cooker, and dog. The dog caused some issues with a neighbor, but was otherwise well-tolerated and well-behaved. We're still very close, and she is neither berating me for my stuck in my messed-up state-ness, nor does she seem weary of me and my current woes either. She is able to let me be where I'm at without it affecting her personal state too much.
My time at Mireille's was equally nourishing and warm. But there I heard stories of a childhood where friends weren't allowed further than the garage to play. Where sleepovers were unthought-of, and barriers set high. She's made a complete about-face from her upbringing, and whichever child is willing or absent sacrifices his/her bed to me willingly and easily. Warmth and welcome now come naturally.
For me, I think, the trick is not to take the act too seriously. I do what I am able to do. If I've 4 pre-adolescents at each other's throat, a broken-down car, and homework to get done with Leo, well, I'm not able to do much more than make up the mattress on the floor, pull out a towel, and perhaps serve a plate of fried rice. But, I'm okay with that. I have limits imposed on me by the house, the kids, etc., but I still have a spare spot on the floor of my room, and I'll do what I can do. I also have faith that the guest will help out too.
As such, I am perhaps not an elegant host, but I'm an easy host. I usually say yes, and will work it all out as I'm able. Only rarely have people over-stayed their welcome in my home. But it was an extreme case of three months of over-bearing presence, tactless behavior, minimal helpfulness, etc.,
I leave these thoughts unfinished. As they are and always will be. We each do as we can, linked to our cultures, our pasts, our traditions. There are the hosts who lay out the red carpet, and it is marvelous. But as I remember from my time in Japan, if you give too much the debt becomes too difficult to re-pay and the relationship tilts out of balance. But if this is the tradition you heark from, then that is the style of host you will likely be, and in this case, guests may quickly become a burden. ...
Yes, there's always more, and there is no right way. But the blending of styles and cultures will raise issues and occasionally, as when I over-stayed my welcome with my very generous and dear hosts... leave a sense of, oops, something's gone off.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
What is a definition of Love?
Love? Infatuation? Fascination? Crush? Passion? What are these?
One definition I share with a number of girl friends is if you truly love another you are willing to share and accept his/her worries and problems alongside all the joy, strength, potential, and more that he/she promises. If it is truly love, you can't help but want to help, and you don't dread being drawn in, you just act.
However, infatuation or fascination is more a sense of being drawn and held by another's physical beauty, sex, an ideal, even the wishful-thinking version of that person. In this dynamic, reality can be off-putting and disillusioning.
In general, we all come with both. Right? Virtues are balanced by weaknesses. Worry is balanced by joy. Light is balanced by dark. Can you accept my weaknesses? or will they send you fleeing? Humanity is by definition flawed, right?
As I remember so well a teacher saying to me, "If we were perfect, we would not and could not love. It is in our imperfections that love can nest."
Nevertheless, and of course, we each have our limits. However, if your limits are so well defined that they cannot be wriggled around or through, how can you grow?
As my dear friends and I agree, I am porous. My limits are minimally defined. I am about saying yes, being there, adapting to situations, coping for myself, my friends, my family, my guests. You missed a train? ok, I'll come get you. You need a place to sleep tonight? Well, I've a mattress I can put on my bedroom floor. Your child needs to be picked up Wednesday? I'll make room, there's always enough for another person at the table.
I think that in a solid relationship I give, you give, I receive, you receive, and we're both stronger for it. No? I try to adapt without judgement. The universe throws me a curve ball and I tense my abdominals, flex my arms, and catch it, more or less gracefully.
And, while awaiting its appearance, I will revel and flourish in the love of my friends, the support and encouragement of my family, and in my two marvelous boys who think I smell good.
One definition I share with a number of girl friends is if you truly love another you are willing to share and accept his/her worries and problems alongside all the joy, strength, potential, and more that he/she promises. If it is truly love, you can't help but want to help, and you don't dread being drawn in, you just act.
However, infatuation or fascination is more a sense of being drawn and held by another's physical beauty, sex, an ideal, even the wishful-thinking version of that person. In this dynamic, reality can be off-putting and disillusioning.
In general, we all come with both. Right? Virtues are balanced by weaknesses. Worry is balanced by joy. Light is balanced by dark. Can you accept my weaknesses? or will they send you fleeing? Humanity is by definition flawed, right?
As I remember so well a teacher saying to me, "If we were perfect, we would not and could not love. It is in our imperfections that love can nest."
Nevertheless, and of course, we each have our limits. However, if your limits are so well defined that they cannot be wriggled around or through, how can you grow?
As my dear friends and I agree, I am porous. My limits are minimally defined. I am about saying yes, being there, adapting to situations, coping for myself, my friends, my family, my guests. You missed a train? ok, I'll come get you. You need a place to sleep tonight? Well, I've a mattress I can put on my bedroom floor. Your child needs to be picked up Wednesday? I'll make room, there's always enough for another person at the table.
I think that in a solid relationship I give, you give, I receive, you receive, and we're both stronger for it. No? I try to adapt without judgement. The universe throws me a curve ball and I tense my abdominals, flex my arms, and catch it, more or less gracefully.
And, while awaiting its appearance, I will revel and flourish in the love of my friends, the support and encouragement of my family, and in my two marvelous boys who think I smell good.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
My team of helpers is slowly coming together (or not)
Team spirit is a great concept. Americans adore it. Truly, we are huge fans of team sports, and consequently, they make up a goodly portion of the high school educational experience for many. We learn to work together, to value all the players, to suffer through painful practices, to party after a win, to shore up our morale after a loss. We discover the value of the group over the individual. We also learn a certain level of "shut up or put up." We learn to subjugate our personal feelings and just keep on doing what's expected and needed. We adapt to the demands of a strict coach. We seek admiration and respect from our peers. Our behavior, our view of ourselves, our ability to listen and be present, all these are enhanced by being on a team.
Team sports are not part of the French educational system. The academic day begins at 8:20 and ends at 4 or 4:30pm. There's an hour for lunch (or even two), but no time in the afternoon, and often not the facilities present, for organized school-based team sports. However, you can choose to join a team or activity outside of school. There are private non-profits that tap into national and regional subsidies offering kids the chance to play soccer (practice on Wednesdays, game on Saturdays -- for the rest of your life), or as in Leo's case, handball (practice twice a week, matches twice monthly on Saturdays, optional intensive practices over the vacations). Many students do take advantage of the numerous offerings out there. But, they will never have their classmates show up at a match to root for the home team, nor any pompom girls. Nor will they have the experience of practicing five days a week, three hours a day, throughout either a season or the entire year. Sports (unless you go to a special school specifically for one) are decidedly outside of the main curriculum.
In our home, I am aiming to create a team of helpers. It would be nice, no? Mothering six kids, you'd think that the pay-off might be more help stacking wood, burning brush, raking leaves, sawing branches, breaking up kindling... The list goes on.
In fact, our most successful group effort of late was to push our van so that it would start, thus permitting me to bring my brood to school. Our biggest and strongest, Gaetan, was already off -- he'd hopped on his bike before 6:30 as he had to be at school at 7AM, and I'm afraid my bringing him was just a wee bit out of the question. It was a 40 minute ride on the smaller roads between Avignon and Le Pontet, and he made it with nary a wrong turn.
So, as 8 o'clock ticked upon the clock, and my poor motor wheezed most faintly at me, we were just the five smaller children -- the eldest, my thirteen year old girl, the youngest, my seven year old Jonas -- and me. The task required pushing this old nine-seater van up a gentle and curved slope to the flat road by the Rhône, our Chemin des Canotiers, where we were finally able to push with more ease, and get it up to the speed where the motor would at last turn over.
Laughing giddily, weary, yet very proud, they hopped into the car. We were only ten minutes late to school. Pretty good, eh?
Nothing like a bit of adversity to knit a group of disparate beings together.
However, this was not the case for the brush burning party this afternoon. I was reminded of a French 'Survivor' inspired TV show, 'Kolanta.' I'm afraid our team would lose quite early in the game. The task at hand was to bring the brush from the back garden to the courtyard and burn it in the tin drum, as safely as possible. Add to this raking up leaves, etc., There was a lot of cane which needed to be broken down before being inserted, scratchy bay tree branches, leaves that hissed and whistled as they burned, butterfly tree bows needing folding and compressing, to then be pushed down deeply into the drum., etc.,
Being numerous (mostly me, Leo and the younger boy, M) I thought this task would go quickly. But I didn't count on the amount of sitting rather than doing that they meant to do. At long last, once Gaetan (having finished his homework) came out to help, and our older girl (neither my little girl nor Jonas were with us), I thought it was under control. The last wheel barrow full of brush had been brought out. It needed only to be added to the drum, followed by a bit of raking and cleaning up, for the job to be done.
So, I delegated and went to the back garden to mow. I then took a much needed shower and came back out. What? they're all gone and there's still stuff on the ground which needs burning? and the place hasn't been picked up? the wheel barrow is in the path of my neighbor's car, and the rake lying on the ground, and...
I was disappointed. Was it too much to expect that they actually finish the job before disappearing? But, monkey see, monkey do. Once one disappeared (perhaps only to pee), the others quickly followed. Not a one had it in him or her to properly finish the job. Yet again, it was left to Super-Mom (or Madeleine Croft as I've been called).
I don't know about this...
I did my schpeel of what it is to truly finish a job. I bitched and moaned a bit. And then I got over it. But, I didn't make dinner. They did. Crêpes anyone?
Next week, I bring out the saws for the branches... I've discussed with Leo the value of physical activity -- especially at his age -- in helping him sleep well at night. He immediately related to the sensation of being mentally tired, and yet having his limbs move and jiggle on him. I told him how traditionally, the tasks of a life fatigued us sufficiently to send us to bed properly, physically weary. But now, many go to gyms to achieve this. That I can either do yoga, or clean the house top to toe. Take a long walk, or mow the lawn. Etc., -- yes, I was working a bit towards positive brain washing. But wouldn't it be great if he learned this lesson too? (amongst many another).
By the end of the year, if I've enough projects, I might actually whip this group into a proper team. My aunt's family of nine they are not, but then again, I've not any walls to build, nor barns to shovel out at the moment. Nevertheless I am very tempted to put in a chicken coop and a bicycle shed. And then there's the vegetable garden... I'll just see what I can do. I may need to purchase some boxes of ice cream, or bake brownies. Sometimes when the work ethic is not yet ingrained, a carrot of sorts is necessary.
Team sports are not part of the French educational system. The academic day begins at 8:20 and ends at 4 or 4:30pm. There's an hour for lunch (or even two), but no time in the afternoon, and often not the facilities present, for organized school-based team sports. However, you can choose to join a team or activity outside of school. There are private non-profits that tap into national and regional subsidies offering kids the chance to play soccer (practice on Wednesdays, game on Saturdays -- for the rest of your life), or as in Leo's case, handball (practice twice a week, matches twice monthly on Saturdays, optional intensive practices over the vacations). Many students do take advantage of the numerous offerings out there. But, they will never have their classmates show up at a match to root for the home team, nor any pompom girls. Nor will they have the experience of practicing five days a week, three hours a day, throughout either a season or the entire year. Sports (unless you go to a special school specifically for one) are decidedly outside of the main curriculum.
In our home, I am aiming to create a team of helpers. It would be nice, no? Mothering six kids, you'd think that the pay-off might be more help stacking wood, burning brush, raking leaves, sawing branches, breaking up kindling... The list goes on.
In fact, our most successful group effort of late was to push our van so that it would start, thus permitting me to bring my brood to school. Our biggest and strongest, Gaetan, was already off -- he'd hopped on his bike before 6:30 as he had to be at school at 7AM, and I'm afraid my bringing him was just a wee bit out of the question. It was a 40 minute ride on the smaller roads between Avignon and Le Pontet, and he made it with nary a wrong turn.
So, as 8 o'clock ticked upon the clock, and my poor motor wheezed most faintly at me, we were just the five smaller children -- the eldest, my thirteen year old girl, the youngest, my seven year old Jonas -- and me. The task required pushing this old nine-seater van up a gentle and curved slope to the flat road by the Rhône, our Chemin des Canotiers, where we were finally able to push with more ease, and get it up to the speed where the motor would at last turn over.
Laughing giddily, weary, yet very proud, they hopped into the car. We were only ten minutes late to school. Pretty good, eh?
Nothing like a bit of adversity to knit a group of disparate beings together.
However, this was not the case for the brush burning party this afternoon. I was reminded of a French 'Survivor' inspired TV show, 'Kolanta.' I'm afraid our team would lose quite early in the game. The task at hand was to bring the brush from the back garden to the courtyard and burn it in the tin drum, as safely as possible. Add to this raking up leaves, etc., There was a lot of cane which needed to be broken down before being inserted, scratchy bay tree branches, leaves that hissed and whistled as they burned, butterfly tree bows needing folding and compressing, to then be pushed down deeply into the drum., etc.,
Being numerous (mostly me, Leo and the younger boy, M) I thought this task would go quickly. But I didn't count on the amount of sitting rather than doing that they meant to do. At long last, once Gaetan (having finished his homework) came out to help, and our older girl (neither my little girl nor Jonas were with us), I thought it was under control. The last wheel barrow full of brush had been brought out. It needed only to be added to the drum, followed by a bit of raking and cleaning up, for the job to be done.
So, I delegated and went to the back garden to mow. I then took a much needed shower and came back out. What? they're all gone and there's still stuff on the ground which needs burning? and the place hasn't been picked up? the wheel barrow is in the path of my neighbor's car, and the rake lying on the ground, and...
I was disappointed. Was it too much to expect that they actually finish the job before disappearing? But, monkey see, monkey do. Once one disappeared (perhaps only to pee), the others quickly followed. Not a one had it in him or her to properly finish the job. Yet again, it was left to Super-Mom (or Madeleine Croft as I've been called).
I don't know about this...
I did my schpeel of what it is to truly finish a job. I bitched and moaned a bit. And then I got over it. But, I didn't make dinner. They did. Crêpes anyone?
Next week, I bring out the saws for the branches... I've discussed with Leo the value of physical activity -- especially at his age -- in helping him sleep well at night. He immediately related to the sensation of being mentally tired, and yet having his limbs move and jiggle on him. I told him how traditionally, the tasks of a life fatigued us sufficiently to send us to bed properly, physically weary. But now, many go to gyms to achieve this. That I can either do yoga, or clean the house top to toe. Take a long walk, or mow the lawn. Etc., -- yes, I was working a bit towards positive brain washing. But wouldn't it be great if he learned this lesson too? (amongst many another).
By the end of the year, if I've enough projects, I might actually whip this group into a proper team. My aunt's family of nine they are not, but then again, I've not any walls to build, nor barns to shovel out at the moment. Nevertheless I am very tempted to put in a chicken coop and a bicycle shed. And then there's the vegetable garden... I'll just see what I can do. I may need to purchase some boxes of ice cream, or bake brownies. Sometimes when the work ethic is not yet ingrained, a carrot of sorts is necessary.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Steiner's Four Temperaments (aka the Medieval Humors)
Part of studying to be a Waldorf teacher includes learning about the four temperaments. As my father, a gifted medievalist and renaissance scholar, quickly noted, these are simply a reintroduction of the Medieval Humors. Though thankfully, our doctors no longer believe we should be bled to remove the excess choleric in us, nor plunged in an ice bath to startle the phlegmatic. I now see myself using this information when working with the children in my house, and when observing friends and colleagues. It is one of many tools for understanding a general tonality of a person, and for learning to accept differences. These differences can be so immense, and so basic. For instance, how we hear, how we interpret, our ability to sit still, our length of interest, and how to stimulate this last...
I see that my Leo and my elder female boarder, L, are definitely melancholic dominant. They are tall and willowy, intensely emotional, detail oriented, and potentially slow to get moving. When there's a crisis, emotions flow and sulking may ensue. They express this tendency in their own individual ways -- Leo is particularly sulky, brooding, and heavy to get out of bed in the morning, resistant to change and occasionally imobile. L is wildly emotional, feels everything as a personal attack, quick to tears, distraught. Apparently she is quite attentive to her school work, and has carefully and conscientiously decorated her room, surrounding herself with her own cocoon of emotional reassurance.
Gaetan has also a tendency towards melancholic: careful, detailed, discreet, tall and slender; he reacts emotionally but holds it all in, till he is nearly shaking with frustration and anger.
A typical melancholic adult might be your careful and long-winded professor who slowly and clearly explains the same idea to you in a multitude of ways. Precise, didactic, thorough. Either, you can relate to this type of person, and revel in his magnificent grasp of detail and the tremendous clarity he offers, allowing you to take the best notes you've ever taken in a class. Or, you fall asleep as he starts in on the third version of his discussion.
Or perhaps, you've a gentle and conscientious dentist who revels in rebuilding your broken tooth, working with the care and detail of the most gifted artist/scientist. She might, in her spare time, embroider a highly detailed wall calendar that you assume her grandmother made, but in fact, discover was her winter project.
Put next to them our other boy, M. Here is the epitomy of a choleric: short, compact, lively, quick to take umbrage, quick to initiate plans and projects, ambitious, direct, focused, revelling in challenges. Nothing will get him down! No one will beat him! He's up for anything. He needs little sleep, eats and stores his food on his tummy (and as an adult on his chest). He moves through life like a cross between a race car and a tank, pummeling much in his path. But, he gets things done. He doesn't mince his words. He is efficient, forward-looking, and perhaps just a bit egotistical, or you might interpret him this way as he's not necessarily looking right and left to see if he's done any damage to his entourage in his head-long flight forward.
Think of Sarkozy, or Hillary Clinton. We need cholerics, as otherwise, we might never get up and do things. The status quo would hold too dearly to us. A shove forward is a good thing. Ambition, challenges, clarity. These are strong virtues. And, getting over your anger as quickly as you express it. This too is a useful trait. No wallowing in emotional turmoil and angst.
I'm a dominant Sanguine. This is the personality that revels in the senses. Emotional, but fleeting as well. Deeply sensitive, sincerely touched and weeping at a funeral one day, I'm a Scarlet O'Hara the next, up and ready to move forward. Interested in the arts, revelling in beauty and the sensual, I can be creative, enthusiastic, light and social. I discover people, listen, ask questions, laugh, dance. On the flip side, I can become overwhelmed by the numerous aspects of the world and the people in it that interest me. I can be over-extended, and distracted. But I can also turn on a dime, be attentive to my entourage, hear the nuances expressed in voice or body language. As I child I danced, sang and loved artistic pursuits. I learned languages, music, history and a world of science fiction and adventure stories.
When I meet a fellow sanguine, I feel the click in a way that is quite amazing. My mother is dominant sanguine, one of the reasons we get along so easily. But so are many of my friends. We are generally people in motion, not as slender as the melancholics, but with perhaps more muscle tone.
The last temperament is one I've but little of: the phlegmatic. This is the person who is unflappable, calm in all crises, content to have a roof over his head and good food on the table. He is steady, assured, gifted at calmly attacking a complicated math problem that will take weeks to solve. He will state things as they are, with little emotional inflection. You can count on him, he is a good and faithful friend. However, getting him moving forward out of his comfortable cocoon requires thought, and creativity on the part of the teacher, parent, friend. The phlegmatic will have a tendency towards putting on weight, and will have remarkably few wrinkles on his face.
We all have all four in us, but in general have a tendency towards one or the other. It is rare to be equally balanced. And we are drawn to different temperaments for different reasons. My vintner has a strong tendency towards the melancholic (as did my father) but sufficient sanguine in him to not be driven insane by my love of conversation and stimulation. I am the light to his dark. I flutter like a butterfly and put him in motion, as well as in touch with feelings that he might have bottled up by preference a long time ago. I understand and enjoy cholerics -- often this will be the person who has little tact, but a heart of gold. They are quick to anger, but also quick to find a solution, help, be there. They are good leaders, and great friends in a crisis.
Jonas' teacher last year was a wonderful phlegmatic -- gifted at not saying too much. He was calm, present, sensitive to the needs of his students, rarely raised his voice, and knew just what to teach to keep them interested, but not overwhelmed.
This year, his teacher is a dominant sanguine. I appreciate her as well, finding her easy to talk to and relate to. I know that she has a tendency -- as do I -- to talk a lot, to be interested in everything, to jump all over the place in a conversation, leaping onto tangents and ideas as they pop out of the air or her head. She's learning to tone this down for her little charges, and I'm confident she'll manage.
The new accountant at the school is a calm phlegmatic -- perfect! and my dentist is a marvelously detailed and attentive melancholic who takes the time necessary to do a perfect job. What a privilege for us all.
So, whether I use these personality sketches to help me handle my brood of pre-teens at home, or to adjust my converstion with friends and colleagues in my professional and personal life, they are aids. Just a stroke more information to assist me in advancing through this life.
I see that my Leo and my elder female boarder, L, are definitely melancholic dominant. They are tall and willowy, intensely emotional, detail oriented, and potentially slow to get moving. When there's a crisis, emotions flow and sulking may ensue. They express this tendency in their own individual ways -- Leo is particularly sulky, brooding, and heavy to get out of bed in the morning, resistant to change and occasionally imobile. L is wildly emotional, feels everything as a personal attack, quick to tears, distraught. Apparently she is quite attentive to her school work, and has carefully and conscientiously decorated her room, surrounding herself with her own cocoon of emotional reassurance.
Gaetan has also a tendency towards melancholic: careful, detailed, discreet, tall and slender; he reacts emotionally but holds it all in, till he is nearly shaking with frustration and anger.
A typical melancholic adult might be your careful and long-winded professor who slowly and clearly explains the same idea to you in a multitude of ways. Precise, didactic, thorough. Either, you can relate to this type of person, and revel in his magnificent grasp of detail and the tremendous clarity he offers, allowing you to take the best notes you've ever taken in a class. Or, you fall asleep as he starts in on the third version of his discussion.
Or perhaps, you've a gentle and conscientious dentist who revels in rebuilding your broken tooth, working with the care and detail of the most gifted artist/scientist. She might, in her spare time, embroider a highly detailed wall calendar that you assume her grandmother made, but in fact, discover was her winter project.
Put next to them our other boy, M. Here is the epitomy of a choleric: short, compact, lively, quick to take umbrage, quick to initiate plans and projects, ambitious, direct, focused, revelling in challenges. Nothing will get him down! No one will beat him! He's up for anything. He needs little sleep, eats and stores his food on his tummy (and as an adult on his chest). He moves through life like a cross between a race car and a tank, pummeling much in his path. But, he gets things done. He doesn't mince his words. He is efficient, forward-looking, and perhaps just a bit egotistical, or you might interpret him this way as he's not necessarily looking right and left to see if he's done any damage to his entourage in his head-long flight forward.
Think of Sarkozy, or Hillary Clinton. We need cholerics, as otherwise, we might never get up and do things. The status quo would hold too dearly to us. A shove forward is a good thing. Ambition, challenges, clarity. These are strong virtues. And, getting over your anger as quickly as you express it. This too is a useful trait. No wallowing in emotional turmoil and angst.
I'm a dominant Sanguine. This is the personality that revels in the senses. Emotional, but fleeting as well. Deeply sensitive, sincerely touched and weeping at a funeral one day, I'm a Scarlet O'Hara the next, up and ready to move forward. Interested in the arts, revelling in beauty and the sensual, I can be creative, enthusiastic, light and social. I discover people, listen, ask questions, laugh, dance. On the flip side, I can become overwhelmed by the numerous aspects of the world and the people in it that interest me. I can be over-extended, and distracted. But I can also turn on a dime, be attentive to my entourage, hear the nuances expressed in voice or body language. As I child I danced, sang and loved artistic pursuits. I learned languages, music, history and a world of science fiction and adventure stories.
When I meet a fellow sanguine, I feel the click in a way that is quite amazing. My mother is dominant sanguine, one of the reasons we get along so easily. But so are many of my friends. We are generally people in motion, not as slender as the melancholics, but with perhaps more muscle tone.
The last temperament is one I've but little of: the phlegmatic. This is the person who is unflappable, calm in all crises, content to have a roof over his head and good food on the table. He is steady, assured, gifted at calmly attacking a complicated math problem that will take weeks to solve. He will state things as they are, with little emotional inflection. You can count on him, he is a good and faithful friend. However, getting him moving forward out of his comfortable cocoon requires thought, and creativity on the part of the teacher, parent, friend. The phlegmatic will have a tendency towards putting on weight, and will have remarkably few wrinkles on his face.
We all have all four in us, but in general have a tendency towards one or the other. It is rare to be equally balanced. And we are drawn to different temperaments for different reasons. My vintner has a strong tendency towards the melancholic (as did my father) but sufficient sanguine in him to not be driven insane by my love of conversation and stimulation. I am the light to his dark. I flutter like a butterfly and put him in motion, as well as in touch with feelings that he might have bottled up by preference a long time ago. I understand and enjoy cholerics -- often this will be the person who has little tact, but a heart of gold. They are quick to anger, but also quick to find a solution, help, be there. They are good leaders, and great friends in a crisis.
Jonas' teacher last year was a wonderful phlegmatic -- gifted at not saying too much. He was calm, present, sensitive to the needs of his students, rarely raised his voice, and knew just what to teach to keep them interested, but not overwhelmed.
This year, his teacher is a dominant sanguine. I appreciate her as well, finding her easy to talk to and relate to. I know that she has a tendency -- as do I -- to talk a lot, to be interested in everything, to jump all over the place in a conversation, leaping onto tangents and ideas as they pop out of the air or her head. She's learning to tone this down for her little charges, and I'm confident she'll manage.
The new accountant at the school is a calm phlegmatic -- perfect! and my dentist is a marvelously detailed and attentive melancholic who takes the time necessary to do a perfect job. What a privilege for us all.
So, whether I use these personality sketches to help me handle my brood of pre-teens at home, or to adjust my converstion with friends and colleagues in my professional and personal life, they are aids. Just a stroke more information to assist me in advancing through this life.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
An evening at the sea - Le Grau de Roi
A popular destination all summer long, and at a lesser rate through the year, Le Grau de Roi is the beach and beach town for Nîmois and Montpellierans. Pizza, sandwiches, shell fish, pasta and ice cream, not to mention lots of fried everything is the predominant food choice. This is a family place. Rent a tiny apartment, walk out onto the beach, and spend the day reading a novel, schmoozing, and watching the kids dig tunnels to China, sand palaces, moats by the mile. The evening can be spent wandering the neon-bedecked little streets, shopping, munching, taking in the scene. Dogs are welcome most everywhere, and kids rule.
This is a place rich in history for locals, many of whom have tales to tell of how dad first laid eyes on mom as she stepped out of the surf.
Over the past few years the tradition of the Paillote has definitely become vogue. These are temporary restaurants set up right on the beach. There are four in Grau de Roi, and others further down the coast. The fare is a bit better than in town, definitely more expensive, and you are greeted with an unrivaled view of the setting sun, rolling waves, and should the wind pick up, some tasty and crunchy sand in your soup.
The Paillotes have their own showers. Why do I bring such a random detail up? Well, if you go swimming in the evening, as I do, and wish to rinse off the scratchy layer of white salt left by this most dense of seas, the Mediterranean, it is truly necessary to take a shower before dinner. But, the city-provided showers are turned off at 8PM.
At this time of year, end of August, the sea is warm as bath water, easy to slide into with nary a glance back.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Money: saving it and spending it
I was a very good home economist this year, or so I believe and so my collection of monthly receipts confirms. I managed to feed my horde of 5 kids and myself mostly organic, lots of fresh vegetables, and quite a few yummy treats on an average of 200E a month or just under. I started out the year by spending a whopping 450E at the organic wholesale market on the basics, filling the larder if you will:
15 kilos of various flours
3 cases of pasta (12 packets of spaghetti, 10 bags of fusilli and 12 boxes of lasagna)
3 kilos of green lentils
5 kilos of brown rice
5 kilos of basmati rice
3 kilos of couscous
3 kilos of quinoa
10 kilos of grated gruyère cheese (which I promptly stuck in the freezer)
a case of sweet butter (ditto, into the freezer)
10 boxes of rice cakes (6 packs to a box)
3 liters of soy sauce
3 liters of cold pressed sunflower oil
3 kilos of brown rapadura sugar
3 kilos each of sunflower seeds and pumpkin seeds
a case of crushed tomatoes
a case of plain tomato sauce
a case of ketchup
a case of plain puffed rice cereal
3 kilos of 5 mixed flakes (for granola, breads, galettes, etc.,)
and 30 eggs (something I try to get twice monthly)
plus household supplies:
5 liters dishwashing liquid
5 liters laundry detergent
6 liters wc liquid
I didn't need to return to the organic wholesale market for a while after this-- flour is the only ingredient I go through really fast making weekly batches of bread, brownies, muffins, pancakes, quiche, tarts, etc.,. Come December, I started spending somewhere between 50 Euros and 100 Euros monthly on organic basics.
I then made a pass by the huge grocery store near school, Auchan, for sponges, gloves, tea and coffee, chocolate, strawberry jam, salt, dog food, etc.,
Weekly I pick up fresh fruit and vegetables from the local farm (about 15-20 Euros a trip), jars of honey from Sophie, the beekeeper (a kilo lasts a month plus with us -- at 10 Euros a kilo), and on average twice monthly I collect 8 to 10 liters of fresh raw milk from the farm down by Erick's house. This the kids drink fresh, in hot chocolate (a breakfast standard till it became simply too hot), in cereal, and when it goes off, I use it to bake muffins, cakes, biscuits, soda bread, and more.
Once every ten days or so, I fixed animal protein. I keep a stash of some bacon or ham around for quiches, fried rice, etc., and then pick up a nice chicken or rabbit, or even tasty sausages or org. hamburger to enliven meals.
My girlfriend Pascale, returning to Switzerland once monthly with her boys to see their father, brings me back huge quantities of recycled paper for the WC and paper towels. Enough to last the year, and no more than 25 Euros for the year's budget.
With the above, we made do. Dinners were variations on a theme: lots of grains, vegetables and either cheese or eggs as a protein. Breakfast was generally my slow-rising multi-grain bread, but also the occasional batch of pancakes or soda bread. They were all addicted to basic strawberry jam, so this became a weekly staple. Throughout the winter I made large batches of vegetable soups with whatever was in season. All but Leo (not a lover of soups) ate their way through onions, fennel, turnips, rutabagas, squash, cardoon, cabbage, celery root, beets and (easiest of all) carrots. Lentils were a hit with some, not with others. Quiche was a very popular option, as long as there was nothing green in it. Squash required some hiding (a great addition to mac-n-cheese!) and went into cakes and muffins as often as on the table in its more identifiable form.
The nights I just couldn't face cooking -- generally after my weekends at the winery, or a particularly long day touring with clients -- it was pasta and salad, or even bread and butter and salad, or bread with melted cheese and and slices of melon. There were no complaints from the masses.
Afternoon snacks varied from the simplest: rice cakes with jam or honey or chocolade (an organic nutella); to whatever I'd been inspired to put into the form of a muffin -- with a constant stash of turned milk or whey, baking soda, organic sugar and flour, eggs and vegetable oil, I simply played around with extras like chopped dark chocolate, bananas, apple sauce, spices and carrots, cocoa, vanilla, apricot jam... whatever was at hand and tempted me. The rare batch of brownies never lasted too long, but there I had to resist all personal temptations to add spices or coffee... my boys were inevitably terribly distressed if the flavor wasn't pure chocolate. Vanilla was the only permitted additive. Fruit, particularly as spring and summer made their appearances, was a constant. During the winter, we went through kilos of tangerines and oranges.
Lasagna was quick and easy, and I always had the ingredients on hand. Chicken with honey and spices could be stretched into at least two if not three meals.
As for drinks. I didn't buy either fruit juices or sodas, ever. It was water, raw milk and my batches of home-made syrups with the garden herbs (mint, lemon verbena, elderflowers, lemon balm) and organic sugar. I enjoyed my evening glass of wine (a benefit of having a vintner as a friend). And voila.
If there were indulgences, they were rare, but appreciated: a case of organic chocolade was an investment at nearly 50 Euros, but the kids do adore it. And I brought back stashes of Tazo black chai from the States as my morning beverage.
When I decided to limit dairy in my diet due to my constant sniffles, I purchased a case each of rice milk and soy milk, plus bars of palm oil from the organic wholesaler. The former, being simply to add to my tea or for the occasional bowl of my home-made granola, last quite a while in their sterilized containers. The palm oil is great for baking, helping my tart doughs be flaky and my chocolate cakes purer in flavor.
And now. The house is nearly empty. I put what was left of the dry goods under the stairwell and brought the perishables with me to the winery. JP and I ate the last of my two kilos of organic lamb from Gaetan's father yesterday.
Come September, I'll start over again, with a different set of boarders, my kids a year older, and perhaps a different weekly rhythm of English classes, translations... we'll see. The first year could be classified as a successful experiment in living simply yet well. Non?
Just in case you're wondering, nearly all the recipes for the above mentioned foods (and house staples) can be found in earlier blog posts.
15 kilos of various flours
3 cases of pasta (12 packets of spaghetti, 10 bags of fusilli and 12 boxes of lasagna)
3 kilos of green lentils
5 kilos of brown rice
5 kilos of basmati rice
3 kilos of couscous
3 kilos of quinoa
10 kilos of grated gruyère cheese (which I promptly stuck in the freezer)
a case of sweet butter (ditto, into the freezer)
10 boxes of rice cakes (6 packs to a box)
3 liters of soy sauce
3 liters of cold pressed sunflower oil
3 kilos of brown rapadura sugar
3 kilos each of sunflower seeds and pumpkin seeds
a case of crushed tomatoes
a case of plain tomato sauce
a case of ketchup
a case of plain puffed rice cereal
3 kilos of 5 mixed flakes (for granola, breads, galettes, etc.,)
and 30 eggs (something I try to get twice monthly)
plus household supplies:
5 liters dishwashing liquid
5 liters laundry detergent
6 liters wc liquid
I didn't need to return to the organic wholesale market for a while after this-- flour is the only ingredient I go through really fast making weekly batches of bread, brownies, muffins, pancakes, quiche, tarts, etc.,. Come December, I started spending somewhere between 50 Euros and 100 Euros monthly on organic basics.
I then made a pass by the huge grocery store near school, Auchan, for sponges, gloves, tea and coffee, chocolate, strawberry jam, salt, dog food, etc.,
Weekly I pick up fresh fruit and vegetables from the local farm (about 15-20 Euros a trip), jars of honey from Sophie, the beekeeper (a kilo lasts a month plus with us -- at 10 Euros a kilo), and on average twice monthly I collect 8 to 10 liters of fresh raw milk from the farm down by Erick's house. This the kids drink fresh, in hot chocolate (a breakfast standard till it became simply too hot), in cereal, and when it goes off, I use it to bake muffins, cakes, biscuits, soda bread, and more.
Once every ten days or so, I fixed animal protein. I keep a stash of some bacon or ham around for quiches, fried rice, etc., and then pick up a nice chicken or rabbit, or even tasty sausages or org. hamburger to enliven meals.
My girlfriend Pascale, returning to Switzerland once monthly with her boys to see their father, brings me back huge quantities of recycled paper for the WC and paper towels. Enough to last the year, and no more than 25 Euros for the year's budget.
With the above, we made do. Dinners were variations on a theme: lots of grains, vegetables and either cheese or eggs as a protein. Breakfast was generally my slow-rising multi-grain bread, but also the occasional batch of pancakes or soda bread. They were all addicted to basic strawberry jam, so this became a weekly staple. Throughout the winter I made large batches of vegetable soups with whatever was in season. All but Leo (not a lover of soups) ate their way through onions, fennel, turnips, rutabagas, squash, cardoon, cabbage, celery root, beets and (easiest of all) carrots. Lentils were a hit with some, not with others. Quiche was a very popular option, as long as there was nothing green in it. Squash required some hiding (a great addition to mac-n-cheese!) and went into cakes and muffins as often as on the table in its more identifiable form.
The nights I just couldn't face cooking -- generally after my weekends at the winery, or a particularly long day touring with clients -- it was pasta and salad, or even bread and butter and salad, or bread with melted cheese and and slices of melon. There were no complaints from the masses.
Afternoon snacks varied from the simplest: rice cakes with jam or honey or chocolade (an organic nutella); to whatever I'd been inspired to put into the form of a muffin -- with a constant stash of turned milk or whey, baking soda, organic sugar and flour, eggs and vegetable oil, I simply played around with extras like chopped dark chocolate, bananas, apple sauce, spices and carrots, cocoa, vanilla, apricot jam... whatever was at hand and tempted me. The rare batch of brownies never lasted too long, but there I had to resist all personal temptations to add spices or coffee... my boys were inevitably terribly distressed if the flavor wasn't pure chocolate. Vanilla was the only permitted additive. Fruit, particularly as spring and summer made their appearances, was a constant. During the winter, we went through kilos of tangerines and oranges.
Lasagna was quick and easy, and I always had the ingredients on hand. Chicken with honey and spices could be stretched into at least two if not three meals.
As for drinks. I didn't buy either fruit juices or sodas, ever. It was water, raw milk and my batches of home-made syrups with the garden herbs (mint, lemon verbena, elderflowers, lemon balm) and organic sugar. I enjoyed my evening glass of wine (a benefit of having a vintner as a friend). And voila.
If there were indulgences, they were rare, but appreciated: a case of organic chocolade was an investment at nearly 50 Euros, but the kids do adore it. And I brought back stashes of Tazo black chai from the States as my morning beverage.
When I decided to limit dairy in my diet due to my constant sniffles, I purchased a case each of rice milk and soy milk, plus bars of palm oil from the organic wholesaler. The former, being simply to add to my tea or for the occasional bowl of my home-made granola, last quite a while in their sterilized containers. The palm oil is great for baking, helping my tart doughs be flaky and my chocolate cakes purer in flavor.
And now. The house is nearly empty. I put what was left of the dry goods under the stairwell and brought the perishables with me to the winery. JP and I ate the last of my two kilos of organic lamb from Gaetan's father yesterday.
Come September, I'll start over again, with a different set of boarders, my kids a year older, and perhaps a different weekly rhythm of English classes, translations... we'll see. The first year could be classified as a successful experiment in living simply yet well. Non?
Just in case you're wondering, nearly all the recipes for the above mentioned foods (and house staples) can be found in earlier blog posts.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Crossing the Rhône-Changing Values
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
I spent the first fourteen years of my French life on the Eastern side of the Rhône, in Provence, the hub of the former Roman Catholic Empire. Erick, the father of my boys, though an avowed atheist, has all the habits and mannerisms of a good Southern Catholic: distrust of the taxman, very generous, a bon-vivant; he can be chaotic, letting money burn the proverbial hole in his pocket. He lives in the moment, often neglecting his health, his future, but with few regrets.
His is a good personality for receiving people, for dealing with whatever comes up. And, I am the first to admit, a crazy and ambitious American wife 16 years your junior isn’t the easiest person to bring into your life, attractive though she’d been. I’d always said his gray hairs dated to my arrival… and the complexities and twists I added to his life.
With his skills in the kitchen, and his love of his region, plus my marketing skills, enthusiasm, and willingness to constantly try new things, to explore and seek.. we built our culinary tourism business centered on the cooking school and Erick’s recipes. Later we added the bed and breakfast, making everything from scratch, as organically as possible. With Erick's funky renovations, it all came together. The fun people who came to visit, the visits in themselves, the hikes, excursions, conversations, meals and more fully occupied my life for the over 10 years.
From Catholic Provence I crossed over the Rhône to the West, the Gard/ Languedoc-Roussillon and there found my organic vintner. Protestant France with its history, its traditions, greeted me. Here many battles were fought for the freedom to practice a different faith, and the over the years, a majority has chosen a simpler, more legalistic, restrained living style. This world is familiar to me. I'm living moments reminiscent of my Protestant New England background: waste not, want not – JP actually is willing to eat left-overs, something Erick would sooner let mold over than dig out of the fridge - and prepares just enough, never in excess. He keeps his house cool, spends a minimum of money, believes sincerely in “if it ain’t broke, don’t replace it)” and spends quite a bit of his time repairing old tools and vehicles. His house is spare, minimal, with no excess. No piles of books, mail, magazines toppling over on every surface, few but well-chosen art pieces on the shelves and walls. Old and serviceable, if not particularly good quality pots and pans.
Part of this world is comforting to me, but it's also disorienting. I was order to Erick’s chaos, and now I am apparently chaos to JP’s order. How far can and will each bend to accommodate the other?
You take up quite a bit of space, he said to me this summer. Yes, I agreed, I brought cooking utensils because I like to cook, and I brought a ¼ of my summer wardrobe, because I like to look well – which you appreciate as well I believe. I brought photos of my boys, and my dog, and my cat with her 5 kittens. And yes, I brought my boys for a time as well. OK. I don’t travel lightly. But, ahem, have you made room for me? Your closets are full, and what closets there are are small. Your kitchen is minimalist if artistic, built for two people who rarely cooked, or rather took small pleasure in cooking. And, forgive me, but I am simply amazed that you were able to share a closet of a meter’s width with the mother of your children …..
The discussion brought me to look at my own house, my manner of living amongst my belongings, collected over multiple lives, in plain view. I have no closets, no attic, no basement or garage. Nor do I really want them. Why hide what I possess? Then it wouldn’t exist anymore, and what purpose would it serve. I am a visual. Either I see and use my possessions, or I might as well get ride of them. And yes, I have (had) cats, and a dog. They get on the furniture, and are frequently on the knees and in the arms of my children, warming their nights. My rooms are painted in different colors, and I frequently bake and have music blasting. Sights, smells, sounds. It is a lively place filled with warm and active bodies who leave their prints.
Meantime JP couldn't operate more differently than myself. Nothing goes to the Goodwill, nothing is thrown out. There is a huge barn on the property into which he's put everything from his past life with the mother of his children and his now-grown children. There it all stays, safely molding away, stashed out of sight. His closets shut with opaque doors behind which order is not always a primary goal (though he's definitely making progress on this aspect). Thus visually communicating a certain Zen ambiance. He lives and eats simply--not monastically, but terribly reasonably and rationally.
Though we have many elements in common, in many important ways we are trying out the cliché of “opposites attract”. Will I adapt to his more restrained ways? Will he adapt to my exuberance and more colorful existence? Lovely as this year has been, the future is yet rather uncertain. Time will tell.
I spent the first fourteen years of my French life on the Eastern side of the Rhône, in Provence, the hub of the former Roman Catholic Empire. Erick, the father of my boys, though an avowed atheist, has all the habits and mannerisms of a good Southern Catholic: distrust of the taxman, very generous, a bon-vivant; he can be chaotic, letting money burn the proverbial hole in his pocket. He lives in the moment, often neglecting his health, his future, but with few regrets.
His is a good personality for receiving people, for dealing with whatever comes up. And, I am the first to admit, a crazy and ambitious American wife 16 years your junior isn’t the easiest person to bring into your life, attractive though she’d been. I’d always said his gray hairs dated to my arrival… and the complexities and twists I added to his life.
With his skills in the kitchen, and his love of his region, plus my marketing skills, enthusiasm, and willingness to constantly try new things, to explore and seek.. we built our culinary tourism business centered on the cooking school and Erick’s recipes. Later we added the bed and breakfast, making everything from scratch, as organically as possible. With Erick's funky renovations, it all came together. The fun people who came to visit, the visits in themselves, the hikes, excursions, conversations, meals and more fully occupied my life for the over 10 years.
From Catholic Provence I crossed over the Rhône to the West, the Gard/ Languedoc-Roussillon and there found my organic vintner. Protestant France with its history, its traditions, greeted me. Here many battles were fought for the freedom to practice a different faith, and the over the years, a majority has chosen a simpler, more legalistic, restrained living style. This world is familiar to me. I'm living moments reminiscent of my Protestant New England background: waste not, want not – JP actually is willing to eat left-overs, something Erick would sooner let mold over than dig out of the fridge - and prepares just enough, never in excess. He keeps his house cool, spends a minimum of money, believes sincerely in “if it ain’t broke, don’t replace it)” and spends quite a bit of his time repairing old tools and vehicles. His house is spare, minimal, with no excess. No piles of books, mail, magazines toppling over on every surface, few but well-chosen art pieces on the shelves and walls. Old and serviceable, if not particularly good quality pots and pans.
Part of this world is comforting to me, but it's also disorienting. I was order to Erick’s chaos, and now I am apparently chaos to JP’s order. How far can and will each bend to accommodate the other?
You take up quite a bit of space, he said to me this summer. Yes, I agreed, I brought cooking utensils because I like to cook, and I brought a ¼ of my summer wardrobe, because I like to look well – which you appreciate as well I believe. I brought photos of my boys, and my dog, and my cat with her 5 kittens. And yes, I brought my boys for a time as well. OK. I don’t travel lightly. But, ahem, have you made room for me? Your closets are full, and what closets there are are small. Your kitchen is minimalist if artistic, built for two people who rarely cooked, or rather took small pleasure in cooking. And, forgive me, but I am simply amazed that you were able to share a closet of a meter’s width with the mother of your children …..
The discussion brought me to look at my own house, my manner of living amongst my belongings, collected over multiple lives, in plain view. I have no closets, no attic, no basement or garage. Nor do I really want them. Why hide what I possess? Then it wouldn’t exist anymore, and what purpose would it serve. I am a visual. Either I see and use my possessions, or I might as well get ride of them. And yes, I have (had) cats, and a dog. They get on the furniture, and are frequently on the knees and in the arms of my children, warming their nights. My rooms are painted in different colors, and I frequently bake and have music blasting. Sights, smells, sounds. It is a lively place filled with warm and active bodies who leave their prints.
Meantime JP couldn't operate more differently than myself. Nothing goes to the Goodwill, nothing is thrown out. There is a huge barn on the property into which he's put everything from his past life with the mother of his children and his now-grown children. There it all stays, safely molding away, stashed out of sight. His closets shut with opaque doors behind which order is not always a primary goal (though he's definitely making progress on this aspect). Thus visually communicating a certain Zen ambiance. He lives and eats simply--not monastically, but terribly reasonably and rationally.
Though we have many elements in common, in many important ways we are trying out the cliché of “opposites attract”. Will I adapt to his more restrained ways? Will he adapt to my exuberance and more colorful existence? Lovely as this year has been, the future is yet rather uncertain. Time will tell.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Another Rite of Passage
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
In a life lived, there are rites of passage. Birth, Marriage, and Death. We joyously accept and applaud the former two, and rarely escape the latter. I am not an anthropologist, and my examples are from personal experiences. Funeral rites, saying goodbye to the dead, sending our loved ones on their voyage as they depart this world, every culture, every people, has its ways of handling this meeting of the life force as they depart the physical body.
In the last few years I attended too many funerals and/or memorial services, both in the US and in France. A close cousin from cancer and my father from Parkinson's on the continent to the west, and in France, a nephew of Erick's from a heart attack, a delightful old uncle from old age (98), a much-loved potter out of the blue with a heart attack, and more recently, a colleague and collaborator from Châteauneuf-du-Pape after a long battle with cancer. As Leo, who accompanied me (and it was important to me that he do so) to three of the above, rightly said. Too many.
I am writing from experience and sentiment, curiosity and wonder. I was startled, after the memorial services of my American family to then participate in the ceremonies in France. In the former we chose to bring the individual we so sorely missed back into the room with us through poetry, personal reminiscences, music and song; yet, there was no casket sharing the space, and we did not go to a cemetery afterwards. We did however, gather together for a reception. We extended our time together, the service serving as a family reunion. In my family, spread out as we are, many of us see each other only at weddings or funerals.
In France the ceremonies were of two sorts. In two, religious rites and tradition dominated. The family attended, the priest spoke, we prayed, lit candles, and then followed the casket to the cemetery, no personal words or sentiments were expressed. The patriarchal church tradition orchestrated the day. For the others, to whom religion no longer had a place in their lives, the words were few, but the rites of burying the heavy and imposing casket in a granite tomb still of great importance.
A French friend once expressed her shock to me that John Kennedy Junior and his wife were cremated and their ashes spread at sea. How could they not bury them beside his parents? she exclaimed.
The ceremonies I've attended surprised me in their lack of personal words, as well as by the emphasis on the solid and lasting tomb. From a point of ignorance, and otherness, I observe and wonder.
I'm trying to come to terms with what seems most important to each culture. Soon after my arrival in Provence, I buried my father in law who'd lived the last year of his life with us. I have pictures of him with baby Leo throughout my house, I have memories of this dear man who so befriended me. I welcomed him to my home and cared for him as he ailed. Then, with barely two cents to our name, Erick and I buried him as we were able, with little ceremony in a little plot that we purchased for 30 years. We did gather at the site of his burial, speak a few sincere words, sprinkle bay leaves atop before departing. The burial was written up in the local paper and family and friends came out to the cemetery to bear witness with us of this event. However, we didn't at the time have the funds to build a proper granite or poured cement tomb, and since then, other necessities have definitely taken priority. A proper tomb has not been built above his burial mound.
Have I betrayed this dear father in law in not caring for his grave? I think his sister and niece believe this. Caring for the tomb, cleaning it, putting flowers on it, sweeping it, visiting it at least every All Saints' Day are important traditions to this part of the world. I've been busy with my babies and businesses. I did not adopt this tradition. But nor was I encouraged to do so by my husband. I cared for my father in law during his life, loved him and learned from him, included him in our little family. But no, I have not tended his grave. I have to believe that if it had been important to Erick, I would have done so.
The cemeteries around Arles are fascinating to me. All the stones, the granite, the poured cement. Minimal plants outside of a few ornamental trees. Plaques dedicated to the dead placed upon the tomb: "to papa, from his children;" "To Emile from his pétanque club;" "To Mireille from her loving husband." There are photos under glass, images of a man dancing the Farandole. Mementos and messages writ in stone. And in the cemetery on the far side of the Rhône, signs directing you to the grave of Jeanne Calment, the Arlesienne doyenne who died a decade ago at the age of 122, at that time, the oldest living person in the world whose birth had been officially registered.
In the old world, space is at a premium. The American tradition of each person having his plot of land with a small (or large) headstone is impractical. For families with means, a large and deep granite topped tomb is constructed. It is purchased for the years to come. Into this vault, you can lay up to 4-5-6 coffins. With time, the coffins below decompose, and you can add others above. At the time of his death, my father in law had been immediately preceded by a brother and a sister in law. There was no room for yet another new casket in that particular family tomb. Hence the need to find another spot for Papi. The bureaucratic and cultural maze that Erick and I traversed, baby Leo in arms, to bury Papi stays with me. It was all quite surreal, and I suppose I am still reeling from my incomprehension and unease.
Both my parents purchased small plots beside their parents ahead of time. My father's ashes are in Louisville, KY. My mother has let it be known that she wishes to be in the small cemetery beside our summer home in Michigan. It does matter where we end up. And yet, being so dispersed as a family, I suppose for myself, the place of burial has never held much importance. It is the memories of our loved ones, photos, stories, letters and more that I hold dear.
I bounced this strange idea I had of writing about my limited experiences in this domain with JP. He said to me, in what concerns the ceremonies, "few feel creative at such a time of pain," and "it would be unseemly and poorly viewed to be original." But he also corrected me and underlined my limited experience. When his father died, they decided upon a very personal service, without a pastor or priest, and with words prepared and spoken by the eldest son. They then played Fauré's Requiem as their father had requested, bringing this man back into their midst.
In a life lived, there are rites of passage. Birth, Marriage, and Death. We joyously accept and applaud the former two, and rarely escape the latter. I am not an anthropologist, and my examples are from personal experiences. Funeral rites, saying goodbye to the dead, sending our loved ones on their voyage as they depart this world, every culture, every people, has its ways of handling this meeting of the life force as they depart the physical body.
In the last few years I attended too many funerals and/or memorial services, both in the US and in France. A close cousin from cancer and my father from Parkinson's on the continent to the west, and in France, a nephew of Erick's from a heart attack, a delightful old uncle from old age (98), a much-loved potter out of the blue with a heart attack, and more recently, a colleague and collaborator from Châteauneuf-du-Pape after a long battle with cancer. As Leo, who accompanied me (and it was important to me that he do so) to three of the above, rightly said. Too many.
I am writing from experience and sentiment, curiosity and wonder. I was startled, after the memorial services of my American family to then participate in the ceremonies in France. In the former we chose to bring the individual we so sorely missed back into the room with us through poetry, personal reminiscences, music and song; yet, there was no casket sharing the space, and we did not go to a cemetery afterwards. We did however, gather together for a reception. We extended our time together, the service serving as a family reunion. In my family, spread out as we are, many of us see each other only at weddings or funerals.
In France the ceremonies were of two sorts. In two, religious rites and tradition dominated. The family attended, the priest spoke, we prayed, lit candles, and then followed the casket to the cemetery, no personal words or sentiments were expressed. The patriarchal church tradition orchestrated the day. For the others, to whom religion no longer had a place in their lives, the words were few, but the rites of burying the heavy and imposing casket in a granite tomb still of great importance.
A French friend once expressed her shock to me that John Kennedy Junior and his wife were cremated and their ashes spread at sea. How could they not bury them beside his parents? she exclaimed.
The ceremonies I've attended surprised me in their lack of personal words, as well as by the emphasis on the solid and lasting tomb. From a point of ignorance, and otherness, I observe and wonder.
I'm trying to come to terms with what seems most important to each culture. Soon after my arrival in Provence, I buried my father in law who'd lived the last year of his life with us. I have pictures of him with baby Leo throughout my house, I have memories of this dear man who so befriended me. I welcomed him to my home and cared for him as he ailed. Then, with barely two cents to our name, Erick and I buried him as we were able, with little ceremony in a little plot that we purchased for 30 years. We did gather at the site of his burial, speak a few sincere words, sprinkle bay leaves atop before departing. The burial was written up in the local paper and family and friends came out to the cemetery to bear witness with us of this event. However, we didn't at the time have the funds to build a proper granite or poured cement tomb, and since then, other necessities have definitely taken priority. A proper tomb has not been built above his burial mound.
Have I betrayed this dear father in law in not caring for his grave? I think his sister and niece believe this. Caring for the tomb, cleaning it, putting flowers on it, sweeping it, visiting it at least every All Saints' Day are important traditions to this part of the world. I've been busy with my babies and businesses. I did not adopt this tradition. But nor was I encouraged to do so by my husband. I cared for my father in law during his life, loved him and learned from him, included him in our little family. But no, I have not tended his grave. I have to believe that if it had been important to Erick, I would have done so.
The cemeteries around Arles are fascinating to me. All the stones, the granite, the poured cement. Minimal plants outside of a few ornamental trees. Plaques dedicated to the dead placed upon the tomb: "to papa, from his children;" "To Emile from his pétanque club;" "To Mireille from her loving husband." There are photos under glass, images of a man dancing the Farandole. Mementos and messages writ in stone. And in the cemetery on the far side of the Rhône, signs directing you to the grave of Jeanne Calment, the Arlesienne doyenne who died a decade ago at the age of 122, at that time, the oldest living person in the world whose birth had been officially registered.
In the old world, space is at a premium. The American tradition of each person having his plot of land with a small (or large) headstone is impractical. For families with means, a large and deep granite topped tomb is constructed. It is purchased for the years to come. Into this vault, you can lay up to 4-5-6 coffins. With time, the coffins below decompose, and you can add others above. At the time of his death, my father in law had been immediately preceded by a brother and a sister in law. There was no room for yet another new casket in that particular family tomb. Hence the need to find another spot for Papi. The bureaucratic and cultural maze that Erick and I traversed, baby Leo in arms, to bury Papi stays with me. It was all quite surreal, and I suppose I am still reeling from my incomprehension and unease.
Both my parents purchased small plots beside their parents ahead of time. My father's ashes are in Louisville, KY. My mother has let it be known that she wishes to be in the small cemetery beside our summer home in Michigan. It does matter where we end up. And yet, being so dispersed as a family, I suppose for myself, the place of burial has never held much importance. It is the memories of our loved ones, photos, stories, letters and more that I hold dear.
I bounced this strange idea I had of writing about my limited experiences in this domain with JP. He said to me, in what concerns the ceremonies, "few feel creative at such a time of pain," and "it would be unseemly and poorly viewed to be original." But he also corrected me and underlined my limited experience. When his father died, they decided upon a very personal service, without a pastor or priest, and with words prepared and spoken by the eldest son. They then played Fauré's Requiem as their father had requested, bringing this man back into their midst.
Friday, March 20, 2009
What Makes a Life Complete?
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
My sister once said, that having found a good dentist, gynecologist and hairdresser, she couldn't ever move again. That's one way to look at life. And yes, it took time for me to find all three in Provence. I started with my hairdresser in Arles, to whom I now return from Avignon when time permits. It's not the perfect situation. In the beginning, hairdressing vocabulary was not a strong point for me. These things have to be learned (highlights=faire les mèches, bangs= la frange; layers=dégradé -- or at least I think so....) There've been haircuts I was not so pleased with, and highlighting jobs that were too extreme -- these last he redid on the house after seeing my forlorn expression, for which I am quite justifiably grateful. I just don't do platinum. He cuts my sons' hair (when I don't, and/or remedies my 6-10 months of dramatic trims) with nary a snicker. And well, yes, for those great head massages and his pleasant demeanor, and as now he's got the recipe down for my highlights, I have to say I would loath to have to change hair dressers again.
It took far longer and with many more trials and errors to find a good dentist. There too, though I could discuss art, culture, history and basic grammar in French, I was definitely lacking in dental vocabulary. My first in Arles wanted to replace all my old mercury fillings and did quite a few before I said enough already. I then went on to a second, recommended by a friend, but he was rather scary. Not at all attractive, over-talkative, and proudly of the old school. He oversaw the fixing, the breaking, and then the removing of my ancient root canal. I now have a hole in my mouth (which is only a little visible when I smile). At long last, I found a very attractive (yes, I was going through a divorce, having attractive men caring for me in my life was a very lovely thing... even if he was just poking around in my mouth) and able dentist in Arles, pleasant to go to, good with my boys. And all was well. But, that was just before I moved to Avignon, and, well, a 50 minute trip every time one of the three of us needs a dentist is really not very reasonable. So I said goodbye to my most attractive dentist.
I then discovered that the mother of one of Jonas' friends is a dentist. Joy of joys! We went to her. It certainly helped that she is a gentle, thorough, detailed and calm person, and a mommy. Jonas had two cavities to be filled that day. She's also amenable to making a particularly long rendez-vous for the three of us to go together, and since Leo never has a cavity, and with me she's just doing a good cleaning, Jonas' cavities get filled pronto. She has also delivered the bad news that Jonas has very delicate enamel and will no doubt have many a cavity as his life progresses. So, he gets to go see her twice as often as Leo. Good thing she is has good bed-side manner!
Over time, stumbling my way through the children's births, doctor's visits, ear aches, vaccines, and such, I've mastered the basic vocabulary for numerous child illnesses (varioles=small pox, rougeole=measles, varicelles=chicken pox, coqueluche=whooping cough... those are the important ones, right? ah yes, and la scarlatine, i.e. scarlet fever) by necessity, and female ailments as well. Some, thank goodness, are pretty obvious.
Now that I live in Avignon, close to my friend S, a nurse, I rely on her for recommendations. She came to my rescue for appointments with the gynecologist and the dermatologist-- a must with my English/Irish heritage and fair freckled skin, the annual look-over is now part of the routine. Her gynecologist is good, discreet and reserved. I tend to be a bit chatty, so that throws me a bit, but she is gentle and competent, so we'll see as time goes on. She has on file my family's history with ovarian cancer. And she was able to calm my worries over my changing body. She confirmed that yes, it is normal for your breasts to grow two cup sizes after 40, and your waistline too. So far, it's only the upper portion of my body that has me kafutzed. I'm rather proud that my waistline (thanks to Triangle and Side Angle Bend) is fine for the moment. But just to be sure I checked with my favorite lingerie seller for confirmation.
The dermatologist was the first doctor I met in France who quite obviously earns a good living and shows this off in the quality of his office furniture, and his navy blue leather upholstered door. With his good tan, and his elegant white poet's blouse, his wavy gray hair so perfectly coiffed, he efficiently had me strip down to my skivvies, looked me over, burned off a spot on my back, declared his fee, received his check and sent me on my way. -- Why do I stress this? Well, the GPs I frequented back in Arles were sweet, overwhelmed with paperwork, and answered their own phones. They were able to pay their bills, raise their kids, keep a roof over their heads, but, they certainly were not wealthy, nor in a position to have a receptionist or file clerk, forget an elegant office.
So, if my sister is right, I've got the basics down. But perhaps, she was speaking of life before children? It's been awhile since we had that conversation.
Now, as a mother, next on my list is the kids' school. And yes, we can check that off. As long as I can manage paying for it, I'm quite content with their being in the Sorgues/Avignon Steiner school. They may succeed that rare blend of being raised in France, proudly carrying their dual citizenship within them. That the school is also a source of a wonderful multi-cultural community is a major plus.
However, truly, I didn't feel attached to this country for many years. In spite of my giving birth here. In spite of having a husband, a business, a house, and the numerous years under my belt. Having a French passport didn't connect me to the country. Speaking the language ever more fluently made life easier. But it seemed to me that none of that truly counted. There were moments when I was quite aware that if I left for the US the next day, few here would miss me. There would be those who'd be angry at me for hurting Erick, and perhaps a few who'd say, remember that energetic American woman who used to come by with her clients? I wonder what happened to her... But, for a very long time, there was no one in my life who would have truly missed me if I had gone home to the US. And I felt that vacuum where a good friend should be.
I have traveled across the country, and even over an ocean, for a man (or two). Yet, where I am right now in my head--post-divorce, coping alone with the kids, trying to figure out who I am--it's my friends who keep me sane, comforted, warm and feeling truly loved. The kinds of friends who let you cry, rant, rave, but also be proud, happy, joyous. The friends who can lean on you, rely on you, who trust you, know you, believe in you. The friends who hear you and are there, who say you're free? You're alone? and if I came over this evening to be with you? The friends who remind you to believe in yourself, who give you little suggestions for making things easier, be it with the kids, or jobs, or life in general. And yes, the friends who accept and love you, and even wait for you as you spend most of your free hours and days with your new man. They're there when things don't go right, when you need them. And they let you go right back to your maybe not-so-perfect situation that you need to live and discover on your own terms and in your own time.
It took time to find these friends too. Years. Today I can say that I've two really wonderful friends. A few lovely and close acquaintances, and a bunch of people who know and like me. The first real friend dates to my arrival in the Steiner school -- our kids had a thing for each other in the kindergarten, so it was like, hey, they seem to like each other, and wouldn't it be nice if perhaps we all got together sometime? And from that point, through hardships and joys, and many an exchange of children, our friendship has grown and truly taken root. The second, is also indirectly via the school. An acquaintance from school introduced us to each other, and it just clicked. I've been in France since 1995, but the first real friendship dates to 2001, and the second from 2004. It took time.
Today I hear them telling me, now that you are important to me, that you've become an integral part of my world, that I've opened my heart and let you in, don't go back to the States...
Thus, is my life complete as it is?
My sister once said, that having found a good dentist, gynecologist and hairdresser, she couldn't ever move again. That's one way to look at life. And yes, it took time for me to find all three in Provence. I started with my hairdresser in Arles, to whom I now return from Avignon when time permits. It's not the perfect situation. In the beginning, hairdressing vocabulary was not a strong point for me. These things have to be learned (highlights=faire les mèches, bangs= la frange; layers=dégradé -- or at least I think so....) There've been haircuts I was not so pleased with, and highlighting jobs that were too extreme -- these last he redid on the house after seeing my forlorn expression, for which I am quite justifiably grateful. I just don't do platinum. He cuts my sons' hair (when I don't, and/or remedies my 6-10 months of dramatic trims) with nary a snicker. And well, yes, for those great head massages and his pleasant demeanor, and as now he's got the recipe down for my highlights, I have to say I would loath to have to change hair dressers again.
It took far longer and with many more trials and errors to find a good dentist. There too, though I could discuss art, culture, history and basic grammar in French, I was definitely lacking in dental vocabulary. My first in Arles wanted to replace all my old mercury fillings and did quite a few before I said enough already. I then went on to a second, recommended by a friend, but he was rather scary. Not at all attractive, over-talkative, and proudly of the old school. He oversaw the fixing, the breaking, and then the removing of my ancient root canal. I now have a hole in my mouth (which is only a little visible when I smile). At long last, I found a very attractive (yes, I was going through a divorce, having attractive men caring for me in my life was a very lovely thing... even if he was just poking around in my mouth) and able dentist in Arles, pleasant to go to, good with my boys. And all was well. But, that was just before I moved to Avignon, and, well, a 50 minute trip every time one of the three of us needs a dentist is really not very reasonable. So I said goodbye to my most attractive dentist.
I then discovered that the mother of one of Jonas' friends is a dentist. Joy of joys! We went to her. It certainly helped that she is a gentle, thorough, detailed and calm person, and a mommy. Jonas had two cavities to be filled that day. She's also amenable to making a particularly long rendez-vous for the three of us to go together, and since Leo never has a cavity, and with me she's just doing a good cleaning, Jonas' cavities get filled pronto. She has also delivered the bad news that Jonas has very delicate enamel and will no doubt have many a cavity as his life progresses. So, he gets to go see her twice as often as Leo. Good thing she is has good bed-side manner!
Over time, stumbling my way through the children's births, doctor's visits, ear aches, vaccines, and such, I've mastered the basic vocabulary for numerous child illnesses (varioles=small pox, rougeole=measles, varicelles=chicken pox, coqueluche=whooping cough... those are the important ones, right? ah yes, and la scarlatine, i.e. scarlet fever) by necessity, and female ailments as well. Some, thank goodness, are pretty obvious.
Now that I live in Avignon, close to my friend S, a nurse, I rely on her for recommendations. She came to my rescue for appointments with the gynecologist and the dermatologist-- a must with my English/Irish heritage and fair freckled skin, the annual look-over is now part of the routine. Her gynecologist is good, discreet and reserved. I tend to be a bit chatty, so that throws me a bit, but she is gentle and competent, so we'll see as time goes on. She has on file my family's history with ovarian cancer. And she was able to calm my worries over my changing body. She confirmed that yes, it is normal for your breasts to grow two cup sizes after 40, and your waistline too. So far, it's only the upper portion of my body that has me kafutzed. I'm rather proud that my waistline (thanks to Triangle and Side Angle Bend) is fine for the moment. But just to be sure I checked with my favorite lingerie seller for confirmation.
The dermatologist was the first doctor I met in France who quite obviously earns a good living and shows this off in the quality of his office furniture, and his navy blue leather upholstered door. With his good tan, and his elegant white poet's blouse, his wavy gray hair so perfectly coiffed, he efficiently had me strip down to my skivvies, looked me over, burned off a spot on my back, declared his fee, received his check and sent me on my way. -- Why do I stress this? Well, the GPs I frequented back in Arles were sweet, overwhelmed with paperwork, and answered their own phones. They were able to pay their bills, raise their kids, keep a roof over their heads, but, they certainly were not wealthy, nor in a position to have a receptionist or file clerk, forget an elegant office.
So, if my sister is right, I've got the basics down. But perhaps, she was speaking of life before children? It's been awhile since we had that conversation.
Now, as a mother, next on my list is the kids' school. And yes, we can check that off. As long as I can manage paying for it, I'm quite content with their being in the Sorgues/Avignon Steiner school. They may succeed that rare blend of being raised in France, proudly carrying their dual citizenship within them. That the school is also a source of a wonderful multi-cultural community is a major plus.
However, truly, I didn't feel attached to this country for many years. In spite of my giving birth here. In spite of having a husband, a business, a house, and the numerous years under my belt. Having a French passport didn't connect me to the country. Speaking the language ever more fluently made life easier. But it seemed to me that none of that truly counted. There were moments when I was quite aware that if I left for the US the next day, few here would miss me. There would be those who'd be angry at me for hurting Erick, and perhaps a few who'd say, remember that energetic American woman who used to come by with her clients? I wonder what happened to her... But, for a very long time, there was no one in my life who would have truly missed me if I had gone home to the US. And I felt that vacuum where a good friend should be.
I have traveled across the country, and even over an ocean, for a man (or two). Yet, where I am right now in my head--post-divorce, coping alone with the kids, trying to figure out who I am--it's my friends who keep me sane, comforted, warm and feeling truly loved. The kinds of friends who let you cry, rant, rave, but also be proud, happy, joyous. The friends who can lean on you, rely on you, who trust you, know you, believe in you. The friends who hear you and are there, who say you're free? You're alone? and if I came over this evening to be with you? The friends who remind you to believe in yourself, who give you little suggestions for making things easier, be it with the kids, or jobs, or life in general. And yes, the friends who accept and love you, and even wait for you as you spend most of your free hours and days with your new man. They're there when things don't go right, when you need them. And they let you go right back to your maybe not-so-perfect situation that you need to live and discover on your own terms and in your own time.
It took time to find these friends too. Years. Today I can say that I've two really wonderful friends. A few lovely and close acquaintances, and a bunch of people who know and like me. The first real friend dates to my arrival in the Steiner school -- our kids had a thing for each other in the kindergarten, so it was like, hey, they seem to like each other, and wouldn't it be nice if perhaps we all got together sometime? And from that point, through hardships and joys, and many an exchange of children, our friendship has grown and truly taken root. The second, is also indirectly via the school. An acquaintance from school introduced us to each other, and it just clicked. I've been in France since 1995, but the first real friendship dates to 2001, and the second from 2004. It took time.
Today I hear them telling me, now that you are important to me, that you've become an integral part of my world, that I've opened my heart and let you in, don't go back to the States...
Thus, is my life complete as it is?
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