Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) (4 page)

‘I agree. We'll hide it in the cellar under the apple crates. No one but us ever goes down there.'

‘Okay, I'll fill in the hole today after lunch … quietly,' he grinned, holding his index finger to his lips.

‘Good idea. Now let's eat.'

Following a light and rather reflective lunch of tinned
Petits pois et carottes
(French peas and carrots) and bread, we both wandered down to the garage for one final look. There in midst of ancient rubble and dirt were the beginnings of our potential ‘Love tunnel'.
Jean
had uncovered the remains of an ancient spiral staircase, leading deep beneath the recently concreted, garage floor. It was such a shame to cover it up. I could hardly bare to watch.

‘What an anticlimax. There goes our “tunnel of love”,' I said defeated.

‘We're in France,
Marisa
… we don't need a tunnel,' he replied, an irreverent smirk on his handsome face.

So the garage floor was returned to its initial state and no one, except for
Jean
and I, would ever be any the wiser, we hoped. For several days, the mysterious pounding was the favourite topic of conversation at every local café and bar. Everyone agreed how annoying it had been at the time, yet now, after its mysterious disappearance, they missed its presence in a masochistic sort of way. You see, in sleepy French villages, not a lot happens. So any new topic of conversation, good or bad, is eagerly received and even though we had caused an almighty disturbance, we remained content in the thought that we had also given the villagers something new to complain about. For, as I have learnt during my brief stay, there is nothing more
pitoyable
(pitiful) than a blue-blooded Frenchman without a decent gripe?

Life at
La Maison de la Coquille
was hectic at the best of times. Spring saw the hefty restorations finish and the pandemonium of interior decorating begin. We had created three en-suited bedrooms for rental and another bedroom with separate bathroom, for ourselves. In an attempt to be constantly more original than the next person, I created name plates for each room, using exotic destinations as my theme and decorating them accordingly. They were ‘Isle of Skye', ‘Whitsunday' and ‘Koh Samui'. Created as tiny ‘islands of peace' floating merrily on our second floor, each one coloured with home invented, ochre-based paints and finished with my own hand sewn touches.

Situated on the first floor were two generously proportioned, split-level
salons
, both with
monumental
granite fire-places, one which bore an ancient coat of arms engraved upon its vast lintel, the other a giant slice of oak. A 15th century water chamber of solid granite sat suspended from the exterior walls of the salon and was considered quite a bonus. It placed our home in the upper echelon of village
haut-monde
, as interior water chambers were a true luxury in ancient times.

Further, a large dining room furnished with a three metre long
Couturier's
table and an ornate 18th century mirror, which had at one time graced the halls of some Provincial Chateau. Finally, on this floor, sat our vast country kitchen, which we filled with treasures and bric-a-brac purchased on our country jaunts. Copper pots and pans hung from an antique wooden ladder accompanied by bouquets of fragrant lavender and roses. Every room was given the personal touch and the walls had taken on the soft golden hue of yester-year. Antique shop owners and
Broccante
stores (second-hand stores) became our new best friends, as we searched for original fittings for each newly created space.

As the European summer approached at
Concorde
speed, so did my increasing paranoia.

‘Would it all be good enough? Were the curtains the right colour? Could I clean things until my knuckles bled? How disturbed could I become? Would I physically survive the summer onslaught, or would I die or be institutionalized before the first twelve months were up?'

Of course, to add to the generalised mayhem, I did what every sane and self-preserving person does in these circumstances. I purchased a puppy. And not just any puppy. No, I was determined to have the most distinctive puppy dog in town, so I dragged my ‘whyis-this-happening-to-me?' husband, to a breeder of rare
chiens
about 50 kilometres from
Treignac
in the rugged hills north of
Ussel
.

We returned with a sandy haired, pyjama wearing, Sharpei bundled upon my lap, whom we named ‘Guangzhou' or ‘Guang' for short. He was so timid and tiny and his grotesquely wrinkled skin often made it difficult to distinguish his top from his bottom.
Laurent
, our recently arrived, village Vet poked about for ages before finding the correct hole to place the thermometer. These Belgian vets have a lot to learn, I thought to myself, then realised it was his way of breaking the ice. ‘Guang' was a baby orb of sagging, silky skin, whom at close inspection resembled a hundred year old man, rather than an eight-week-old pooch. He was my pile of crinkled joy, though the little parcels of
caca
(poo) he left about the place, were not exactly the type of gifts I longed for, at present.

My darling
Jean
set off to work each morning, breathing a hefty sigh of relief as he waved Mummy and pampered pooch
Au revoir
.

Well, this was my first attempt at running a business, so a little self-induced psychosis was an unquestionably normal condition in my opinion. Of course, I wanted everything to scream perfection. I am a self confessed perfectionist, have been most of my life. As a brave psychologist once informed me, ‘You are compelled to be everything to everyone, all the time'. How bad could that possibly be?

As a direct result of my delusional insecurities, I project myself as the ‘quintessential hostess'. Always the eager beaver; yearning to please. My success in my current role was solidly confirmed, as our widespread notability increased at ‘Mach 3' speed. Travelling journalists visited frequently, leaving us with positively glowing reports of their short sojourns. In no time at all, we were to appear in the national media and on the glossy, travel pages of ‘
Ailleurs
', ‘
Avantage
' and the Air France in-flight magazine. Scores of visitors came from near and far, flashing their cut-out magazine articles and beaming satisfactorily, as they handed over their French Francs and American Express travellers' cheques. All was well in the world and our
Crédit Agricole
bank account, for the first time in history, was affirmed ‘in the black'.

I found myself entertaining the Encyclopaedia Britannica of European who's who, as well as an assortment of unlikely, bordering on unsavoury characters, who tested my multi-lingual skills on a daily basis. From the urban Princess, to the projectile-vomiting Dutchman. From the arrogant American, who directed his questions via the interpretation of his wife, to the highly amiable, Belgian, nuclear-rocket Scientist. We greeted them all, regardless of race, age or creed. As my language skills improved, so did my enjoyment of French country life. I became more relaxed in my position as the ‘Hostess with the mostess' and as keen as I was to please, a newfound confidence encompassed me.

No more did the ugly, uncouth traveller walk all over me. I had written my new manifesto and intended on following it. I religiously defended my right to accept whom I felt deserved to stay at my elegant establishment. ‘Sorry, we're full tonight', was my new catch phrase. One learns the tricks of the trade quickly, if one wishes to keep their sanity in check.

The priceless freedom I gained from running this type of establishment was, that no longer could the nosey, ‘get-a-life' neighbours, question who was coming or going from my door. People entered and exited incessantly and even the most adapt sticky beak, found it difficult to keep up. My God, it must drive them insane with curiosity, I thought. Good. It'll give them a purpose in life, if not a slightly psychotic one.

Our friendship bloomed with the neighbourhood
Boulanger, René
, who enjoyed our regular morning custom and treated us with exaggerated respect. He was a jolly bloke from the ‘burbs' of
Aube
, a province just north of
Paris
, who spoke more slang than French and held a repertoire of jokes that border-lined on a triple X rating. I decided, that had he been born ‘down-under', he would certainly have been a beer swilling, pub-crawling, ‘Bondi boy'. His perennial joviality was refreshing and I was soon
au fait
with enough slang, to understand things that I shouldn't have. He baked the best
croissants au beurre
(butter croissants) in town and their deliciously intoxicating perfume, wafted through the lofty windows of our home each morning around 6am.

There's nothing like the aroma of freshly baked baguettes or calorie-laden pastries, to stir the loins of the average Frenchman or woman, as we soon discovered. Countless were the mornings that we woke to the wholehearted, verbal delights of our female guests. We soon realised that the acoustic linings we had employed in our renovations, were no match for the early morning throes of French lovemaking. Communal breakfasts were most amusing on those particular mornings, as we tried to guess, whilst pouring steamy
café au lait
, who the romantic culprits had been.

It's often the shy and unassuming that are the most raucous behind closed doors and often times, it was only as I made beds and vacuumed carpets, after my guests had departed on their daily jaunts, that I would giggle my way through the remnants of passion-strewn, lacy g-strings, or X- rated, battery powered toys. This could prove to be an educational experience, as well as immense fun, I decided.

Ah, the joys of the hospitality business. They are many and varied and in our case, wonderful, comical relief from the humdrum. It's not all glamorous. It's ugly and smelly and hideous at times. There are baffling events and bizarre occurrences that you'd be unlikely to impose on the even the worst enemy.

You see the best and the worst of human nature every day, in full, living colour. I have observed otherwise conventional human beings, turn into primordial beasts over the breakfast table. I mean to say, how much jam, can one person consume in the course of a continental breakfast? Well, allow me to draw you a sketch … enough to have it oozing from your fingers, down your wrists, until you finally lick it from your elbow joints, just before it attacks your armpits, and really does some damage. Believe me, it happens.

I've had pampered, thoroughbred poodles pee in my corridor, rubber-legged fishermen, stomp soggy-footed through my lounge and jodhpur-clad horsemen, walk manure-riddled boots over my off-white Berber carpets.

Then there are those odd individuals who prefer the verbal form of attack. Who for no manifest reason, shout verbal abuse or foul language whilst managing to slurp on their
Yoplait
yoghurts. It's extraordinary. Tell me, who in their right mind chooses to discuss the significance of the religious wars or American politics, over aromatic
Pain au Chocolat
and freshly brewed Arabica?
Quel sacrilège!
(It's sacrilegious!) It should be illegal and so should discussing one's bowel movements, whilst buttering
tartines
of warm baguette.

I can't believe the diplomatic tact I've acquired. I have found the perfect inflection or reply for every mention of constipation or biliousness.

I've become the Queen of all things below the belt. The
Comtesse
of the coffee machine. The
Princesse
of the ironing press and the
Marquise
of mayhem.

It was a sweltering July weekend and my in-laws had invited us to lunch. That sounds simple enough, you say. You obviously haven't met my mother-in-law. She is, in fact, my step mother-in-law, as she is
Jean
's adoptive mother. His real mother died when he was only a toddler and his relationship with his father's second wife has never been one of deep affection.

It's a long, sad story. One which I don't wish to delve into, at this point in time but now that we reside in France, we have taken it upon ourselves to mend bridges and bury hatchets, so to speak.

Dédé
and
Ginette
live on a quaint, rural property about fifteen kilometres from
Treignac
. Their hamlet is a dear, little farming community named
Le Puy Grand
and the fields that surround their homestead are laden with swathes of golden barley, oats and lush grazing pastures. Theirs is a modern home, built in the 1970's and has all the creature comforts, although both
Dédé
and
Ginette
are loathe to make use of them.

Ginette
is ‘
Normande
'. The daughter of a stonemason; she was raised in the Normandy township of
Saint Hilaire du Harcouet
and was sent to work as a housemaid at the tender age of twelve. She is rake thin and yet, she manages to devour kilo upon kilo of high fat, cholesterol-laden dairy, as any genuine
Normande
can. Normandy is the land of milk and butter, oozing
Camembert
and 45 Proof
Calvados
. No true
Normand
recipe would be authentic without lashings of saturated fats and smotherings of thick, creamy sauces. Lactose intolerants beware!

We have therefore prepared our minds and stomachs for today's onslaught. A light breakfast and lots of water to counteract, if possible, the toxic effects of
Ginette
's ‘
cordon bleu' repas
.

She is an extraordinarily talented cook. She makes up for any other faults of character by being a wizard in the kitchen. Her adept and innate knowledge of the culinary arts is wonderment. Having grown up during bleak wartime conditions, one is surprised by the lavish richness and elegance that her dishes bear, befitting of any
Michelin
star establishment. Indeed, her lacklustre youth has only made her more determined to engage in supremely decadent gluttony as an adult. Her appetite is voracious and her ability to devour unheard of quantities, astonishing. Her pantry is an Aladdin's cave of every nameable conserve and delicacy. What it doesn't contain simply doesn't exist. On one of
Jean
's rare visits to his father's house, whilst still living in Australia, he was shocked to see the only shower cubicle in the house being used as cold-storage for dozens of free-range eggs.

Jean
's father must have been instantly besotted by
Ginette's
gourmet skills as a young widower, for she is sadly devoid of good looks or soft, feminine charms. The time-honoured adage of winning a man via his stomach stands victorious and well proven within this couple.

We arrive under a blistering, white sky. The air is breathlessly still and the straw-coloured fields shimmer lazily under the midday sun.
Jean
's father,
Dédé
, awaits us, aperitif glass in hand under the welcoming shade of an ancient Cherry tree. It's the perfect setting and I giggle to myself as I realise the pure, unadulterated typicality of the scene before me. The ruddy faced French farmer, beret, baggy blues and checked shirt, hand-rolled
Gaulloise
in one hand, ‘
Kir
' in the other, idly resplendent and picture-postcard perfect.

‘
Salut les enfants ça va
? (G'day kids. How's it going?)' he calls.

‘
Ça va, Papa
. (Fine, Dad.),'
Jean
replies, ‘though it's bloody hot.'

‘
Eh, Oui … la chaleur
! (Oh, yes…the heat!) I'll get you both a cold drink,' he says, calling to
Ginette
who is apparently behind the stove, ‘
L'apéro. Les enfants sont arrivés
… (they're here).'

Ginette
rushes from the back kitchen door, brushing a stray wisp of hair from her humid brow and wiping her sticky palms upon her cotton apron. She is flushed pink and slightly agitated in her manner but she jumps to his command. After kissing us both several times, she sits us under the tree and runs back to the house to fetch our drinks.

‘Can I help?' I call, feeling somewhat guilty.

‘No, no
Marisa
.
Ginette
has it all under control. Here,
Chérie
, rest in the shade a moment,'
Dédé
replies, patting my arm in complete ignorance of his wife's discomfort.

‘
Voilà, les enfants
. Drink up,' she says as she places a plastic tray of icy, raspberry coloured beverages before us. There is also a large plate of her famous Normandy style
tourtous
or buckwheat flour
Crêpe
s, which she smothers in goose
rillettes
(a type of
pâté
) and rolls into cigar shape canapés. Here goes the waistline, I think, as I tuck into the first of many.

‘I hope you haven't gone to too much trouble
Ginette
. These alone would be enough for us,' I say, observing a trickle of sweat on her throbbing temple.

‘
Mais Non
! Just a light summer lunch … besides it's cool in my kitchen so the heat hasn't bothered me at all.'

‘That's good,' I reply, totally unconvinced.

We chat for half an hour under the verdant shade of the wild cherry and I admire the melodious melting pot of mid-summer colour, which envelops us. They are both avid gardeners, although I suspect
Ginette
is the true green thumb and the delightful hotchpotch of plantings is pure bliss to the senses. The strawberry plants are a mass of mighty red globes oozing with sugary sweetness and as I raise my eyes, I am overwhelmed by the profusion of deep red fruits hanging heavily above me. The pungent perfume of cinnamon-scented tea roses wafts by us, now and then, ignited by the intense midday heat. It's like a daydream. So perfect. So serene. So entirely French.

‘I must check on my salmon,' gushes
Ginette
, as she scrambles for the kitchen door.

‘Can I help you?' I ask again.

‘No,
Marisa
. Drink your
Kir.
Lunch won't be long now,' replies
Dédé
.

I turn awkwardly to
Jean
, a questioning in my gaze. He shrugs, shakes his head and I remain where I am, compliant to my Father-in-law's wishes.

Within minutes of us having almost devoured the entire plate of canapés,
Ginette
calls us to dine.

‘
A table…à table…c'est prêt.
(To table…to table…it's ready.)'

‘
Allez…à la bouffe!'
jests
Dédé
, using his Parisian slang to invite us to eat.

We enter the shuttered comfort of the large dining room. Our eyes take moments to adjust from the extreme glare of the garden to the shaded cool of the interior. The table is dressed in all its finest apparel.
Ginette
has even brought out her gold plated
Christofle
cutlery, I note with a nod of appreciation. She knows how to lay a table and she has exquisite taste in her choice of linen and glassware, for such a simple peasant's daughter. This setting would sit comfortably in the great dining halls of the Versailles Palace and I find it hard to imagine that a simple summer lunch is to be served in the presence of such refinery. I suddenly feel quite underdressed.

‘What a wonderful job you've done
Ginette
. The table looks divine.'

‘
Merci Marisa
,' she blushes, I thought I might as well bring out the good stuff. What's the use of keeping it locked away? Did you know
Dédé
gave me the
Christofle
cutlery for Mother's Day last year?'

‘How generous,' I reply stunned.

‘
Oui
(yes) … it costs 40,000 Francs.'

‘
Mon Dieu!
(My God!)' gasped
Jean
. ‘I hope it's insured.'

‘
Oui, Oui
(yes, yes) … photographed and insured,' she replied proudly.

For a woman who bore no children of her own and who never truly raised her stepchildren, she has done exceptionally well with the Mother's Day gifts. I ponder on how bizarre the situation is and see the look of discomfort on
Jean
's face, as we seat ourselves around the table.

Ginette
then rushes from the room returning with an entrée of thickly sliced
Foie gras de canard
. It lies generously upon a
Royal Limoges
porcelain platter and is accompanied by still warm, wafer thin toasts and a chilled, sweet
Monbazaillac
wine. My own liver quivers in joyous anticipation.

‘My favourite,' I declare smiling.

‘Good. Then eat up … there's plenty.'

‘My goodness
Ginette
… we'll never eat all that.'

‘It's only light,' she replies in typical
Normand
fashion.

Maybe she's right, I ponder. Maybe it's all in the mind, I think as I jealously glance upon her slender limbs and narrow hips. Who am I to say what works and what doesn't?

We eat in semi-spiritual silence and total appreciation of the delicate, smooth flavours. No sooner have we placed our pâté knives upon our plates and
Ginette
jumps to her feet, eager to present her next course.

‘
Doucement Ginette. Il n'y a pas le feu!
(Slowly
Ginette
. There's no fire!),' says
Dédé
, whilst sipping on the honey coloured wine.

‘
Oui
, I know … but my
saumon
is ready and I would hate it to spoil.'

‘Okay … please yourself,' he replies unmoved. ‘She's an excellent cook you know,' he adds, grinning as he affectionately pats his well-rounded belly.

‘Yes, she's marvellous,' I reply, ‘I admire her natural
savoir faire
.'

‘
Ah, Oui
. She was known as
la Fée du Chateau,
the fairy of the castle, where she used to work. Not a thing that woman can't do.'

‘Really … that's quite a compliment,' I add, suddenly feeling quite sorry for the all-doing, all-achieving
Ginette
.

Ginette
returns, arms weighted heavily with an enormous fish platter. She has poached an entire, Atlantic salmon and it now rests in glorious splendour amidst Tahitian lime, fresh herbs and shiny balls of red caviar.

‘
Bravo!
' We cheer, applauding in genuine appreciation.

‘
C'est rien
… it's nothing really,' she says with a beaming smile as she places the platter centre stage. She has also whipped up an unctuous,
aioli
or garlic mayonnaise to accompany the delicious pink flesh. There's enough fish to feed a table of twelve and I hope to God, that she doesn't expect us to finish it off.

Dédé
passes a newly opened bottle of wine to
Jean
. Its chilled, white Burgundy, which he says, will descend beautifully with the salmon. I begin to gauge myself, knowing too well the results I'll suffer, if I pass the point of no return. The heat of the day doesn't help and I feel my interior temperature rising, despite the cool interior of the room.

‘Don't overdo it
Marisa
,' says
Jean
, as if reading my mind. ‘You know you'll suffer later.'

‘Let her eat
Jean
. She's enjoying herself,' declares
Dédé
.

‘I know my wife and her digestive system,' replies
Jean
adamantly.

Jean
has a healthy appetite, as I believe all French do and he can digest copious amounts when pushed. However, having resided for many years abroad, he has become a lighter, more health conscious eater. His French DNA seems to allow him the pleasure on overindulging on whim, with no apparent consequences. I've never seen him truly drunk or known him to be ill after a hefty meal, despite his consumption.

‘I'm just fine Jean … really,' I add.

Any French meal would not be complete without a pre-dessert serving of delicious cheeses and today's lunch is no exception. No true
Normande
woman of good repute would allow a meal of any description devoid of cheese.
Ginette
buys her cheeses in bulk size slabs. An entire shelf of her refrigerator is devoted to these varied, hand-wrapped chunks of gourmet dairy. A rich
Bordeaux
has been decantered in anticipation of this very moment. I feel ready to explode by this stage and smile at my intuition of having worn a cool, floral shift. It camouflages my ballooned stomach perfectly. My God, I look pregnant under this, I think to myself as I smooth the fine cotton over my extended tummy.
Dédé
catches my eye and winks.

‘You look lovely
Marisa
,' he says smiling, ‘don't worry. It'll all go down soon enough.'

‘Of course,' I reply smiling, hoping it goes down and moves along quickly, before it grabs hold of my Latin thighs and converts into lumpy, cellulite pocked bulges.

The cheeses disappear only to make way for the sweet aroma of a freshly baked walnut tart.
Ginette
tempts us with a slice, when all I can think of is taking a long, well-deserved nap under their giant linden tree.

‘All right … but just the tiniest slither,' I insist, as she cuts into the moist, brown heart of the sugary beast. She then continues her onslaught by placing a large bowl of thickly clotted cream by my plate.

‘
De la Crème, Marisa
? (Some cream, Marisa?)'

‘
Non, Merci
… I couldn't possibly.'

‘
C'est plus léger avec la crème!
It's lighter with cream!'