French Kids Eat Everything (27 page)

With the chocolate nicely melted (and having stirred in just one spoonful of
crème fraîche
, so that it wouldn't stick or get hard), I left it to cool. I took my time separating the eggs (and, for once, didn't break any shells into the bowl—another reason my mousse was usually crunchy). And I remembered to add a pinch of salt before I started beating the whites (something I often forgot in my rush) to help keep them firm.

As the girls hovered eagerly, I (slowly!) mixed the chocolate with the yolks and (gently!) folded the mixture into the whites, noting that the mousse looked more fluffy and firm than usual. Heartened, I spooned the mixture into little
ramequins
—small ceramic (or glass) bowls that the French frequently use to prepare and serve food. This is another French food innovation that is both beautiful to look at and clever (automatic portion control!). With the girls happily licking the beaters, I popped the
ramequins
into the fridge to set during the couple of hours before dinnertime.

Then I checked my timer. Out of curiosity, I had decided to time our Slower Food episodes to see how much we were really slowing down. The timer surprised me—thirteen minutes! Usually a mousse took me at least ten minutes to make (in part because I wasted so much time fishing tiny pieces of eggshell out of the bowl). I had added only three extra minutes, but the experience had been totally transformed.

A similar magic was at work at dinner when I pulled the mousse out of the fridge. It was the only time I got up during the entire meal. Usually, I got up and down about ten times to fetch things I'd forgotten, but this time I had prepared the table as if we were going on a long car ride on the highway—I put out everything we would possibly need and only called the girls when I was completely ready. It was remarkable what a calming effect this had, as I was no longer jumping up and down to grab forgotten utensils, bibs, napkins, paper towels, salt, butter, water, or whatever else we needed. I even set out a candle and dimmed the lights. It had a hypnotic effect on the girls, who spoke in hushed tones throughout the entire meal.

“Now, girls,
on va déguster
,” I said, reminding myself to speak cheerfully. “What does that mean?” I prompted them.

“
Mangez leeentement, Maman!
” they replied, almost in unison. For a second, I had one of those inspiring moments of parenthood when the children seem angelic, and you can delude yourself about the extent of your parenting skill.

My reverie was predictably interrupted. “Claire got
more
than I did!” Sophie whined, her face crumpling. I looked, and it was true. Claire's
ramequin
was
slightly
fuller on one side than Sophie's (another advantage of
ramequins
is that they enable precisely equitable servings—no more sibling disputes about who got a bigger piece). A little extra dollop of mousse solved the problem, and we began eating.

Or, rather, we began our
dégustation
. After a false start, in which they dug in for their usual huge bites, Sophie and Claire delighted in taking the tiniest possible morsels with their spoons and ever-so-slowly bringing them to their mouths. It even became somewhat of a game:
Who could finish last?
Sophie, competitive as ever, tried to trick her sister into eating faster, but Claire was following her papa's lead.

Eating slowly allowed us enough time to actually talk about the mousse. What did it feel like when you put it in your mouth? How long did it take to dissolve if you held it on your tongue? Was it slightly bitter? Salty? Sweet? Was it less crunchy than usual? Why? Was the mousse less fluffy at the bottom of the bowl? Why? How does it feel when it travels down to your tummy? Sophie had lots of observations to offer, and even Claire had something interesting to say:
Papa, it tickles my tummy!

“
Oh, la grosse gourmande!
” my husband replied teasingly. I had recently figured out what this word meant: someone who is enjoying, savoring, delighting in their food (perhaps slightly to excess, so when it is used to refer to children, it has a warning yet indulgent undertone).
Glouton
(literally, a glutton), on the other hand, was someone who loves to eat, even overeat, and not necessarily good food. And a
gastronome
is someone who likes—and is educated about—the right way to eat food well (Molière's “
Manger juste et bien
”).

Another lightbulb went on. I finally realized why the French were so insistent that ordinary people could be
gastronomes
: these are simply people who
appreciate
food. The best translation I could come up with was “fan” (like a sports fan). From the French point of view, everyone could (and should) be passionate about food, just like Americans with football, Canadians with hockey, or the British with soccer. Eating is France's national passion, just like sports back home—except that everyone gets to play.

Philippe laughed when I told him about this idea later that evening. “Don't get too intellectual,” he warned. “It's just food!” We were sitting in the salon, enjoying a
tisane
(French herb tea) after putting the kids to bed. It had taken a little longer than usual, as an unexpected side effect of our
dégustation
was that the girls had been smeared with chocolate—especially Claire, who had gotten a second, unanticipated post-dinner bath. But we had still all enjoyed the dinner—especially Philippe.

Until now, meals with our children had been one of the low points of his day. Coming home tired from work to a house with hungry children whining at the table almost invariably gave him a headache. Now I understood why: he expected the family meal to be a moment to relax and unwind, but instead it was stressful and unfulfilling. And I had been making it worse by rushing around the kitchen, expressing my tension (and, if I'm being honest, my resentment) by slamming cupboards, dropping things, burning pots, jumping up and down, and rushing everyone through the meal. Usually, he retreated to his computer after the meals, in silence. Tonight was one of the first happy evenings we had spent together in what felt like weeks.

My choice to slow down had been focused on the kids, but it had also made Philippe happier. Tonight he'd been relaxed enough to want to chat. I was glad because the months since we had moved to France had been tense. More than once, I wished that we—that
I
—had never decided to move. Maybe, I thought, meals were an unexpected way to start enjoying each other's company again. While we finished doing the dishes in companionable silence, I picked up a marker and made one change to my motto:

Slow food is
good
happy food
.

—Radis et mirabelles
(traditional French children's song)

June had come, and summer had arrived early. We headed
to the beach almost every day after school and slowly forgot about the wet, miserable winter. Often, Jo would come over to babysit after we had put the girls to bed, and Philippe and I would head down to the ocean. The sky was light until nearly midnight, and we'd walk past other strolling couples, up and down the wide seawall that lined the oceanfront. Many of the villagers would turn out—the fisherman from the market, the local pharmacist, Sophie's teacher. Parents we knew from school would be there, and we would often run across our friends—Eric and Sandrine, Céline, Yves. We'd stop to chat and banter, usually about nothing much at all. These slow-paced, intimate evenings were some of my favorite moments in France.

I felt more and more settled. But I was still reminded, in countless little ways, that I was definitely not French. The most memorable incident of all started innocently enough, on one of our weekly visits to the farm. As I was leaving with Sandrine, Hubert stopped to tell us about an upcoming holiday: the National Day of Agriculture and Biodiversity (one of France's many official “National Days,” which happen so often that I gave up keeping track).

“Why not organize something at the school?” he asked shyly.

“We could donate food from our farm, and from other local farms, and have the kids learn about what is in season at the moment,” offered Joseph. “The strawberries are just ripening!” he added, his eyes sparkling. It was as close to bubbly as I'd ever seen them.

I thought this was a great idea. Sophie's class had been working hard on their little garden so the kids would have some fresh vegetables to share. They'd feel proud to host an event. And, if I was being honest, I would too. Used to volunteering at home, I had felt vaguely shunned at school. My offers of help had not been accepted. I hadn't been invited to accompany the class on field trips—not even once. Maybe this would break the ice?

A week later, I was in front of the school on the appointed day with wicker baskets stuffed full of strawberries, fresh homemade bread, homemade jam, and little jars of
crème fraîche
(a dairy product that is best described as a cross between sour cream and clotted cream). I smiled at the waiting parents and grandparents and began setting out the food on a little folding table covered with a newly purchased Provence-style tablecloth (olives and lavender printed on a cheerful yellow backdrop). On a large tray, I carefully arranged some of the produce from the children's schoolyard garden: tender garlic shoots, chives, baby lettuce, and tiny green beans that had been grown in the classroom (one of Sophie's proudest moments was when she realized that her bean plant was the tallest in the class.)

It was about ten minutes before the bell would ring; just time enough, I decided, to offer an advance tasting. Putting a wicker basket on my arm, I advanced toward the first cluster of parents.

“Would you like to try some strawberries?” I asked.

“No thanks!” came the reply. Not a single person accepted. Slightly surprised, I moved on to the next group of parents.

“Strawberries, anyone?” I asked, a little more timidly this time. Only one person accepted, taking one small strawberry with an apologetic smile. The third group I approached was similar: no takers.

By this time, I was starting to realize that something had gone very wrong. I looked around at the other parents, expecting to see encouraging smiles. But most people were looking away, and those whose eyes I did catch seemed to have frowns on their faces. I had the sinking feeling that I'd broken another one of those unwritten rules.

Still, I felt silly giving up now. Picking out an older, grandmotherly figure from the now sizable crowd of parents, I walked over with my basket.

“Would you like to try a strawberry from the local farm?” I offered.

“
Never
eat between mealtimes!” she snapped, so fiercely that I jumped. Wilting, I retreated back to my table and pretended to putter, organizing and reorganizing the food while tears welled in my eyes.

Luckily, the bell rang and kids started streaming out the doors.
They
didn't seem so resistant to the idea of snacking: the table was soon swarmed with eager kids who happily devoured the berries, cream, jam, and bread, and politely nibbled on the vegetables. But not everyone came to the table: out of the corner of my eye, I saw parents swooping in, grabbing their children by the hand and marching them briskly away, with their protesting offspring casting longing backward glances. I even thought I caught some glares from parents walking by.

This astounded me. That night, still bewildered, I related the incident to my father-in-law.

“Why do you think they were so upset?” I asked.

“Because you didn't ask their permission to feed their children,” he replied gently. “And because many of them believe that you shouldn't snack standing up, or eat between meals. You aren't going to make many friends by teaching American manners to French children,” he concluded.