The Displaced Nation

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Tag Archives: Memoir | Travel | Food Writers

Bon appétit, really? A TCK’s encounter with French cuisine — and culture

2 Comments Posted by on October 28, 2011

Our Third Culture Kid columnist, Charlotte Day, regales us with stories of encounters with France and French cuisine that piqued her curiosity somewhat more than her palate.

My experience of France and of French food consists of a miserable trip to Paris and the Loire Valley with my mother and stepfather in cold, drizzly March, and an even more miserable language exchange to Lyon last February.

The first experience saw us through innumerable cafés au lait, pains au chocolat and frothy miracles of haute cuisine in the Loire Valley. Afterwards, my mother went on her first raw food diet.

The second was a mandatory school trip for all French-language students at my boarding school in England, which I faced with more optimism than most. Two weeks in Lyon, two weeks back in England, dramatic language improvement and cultural interchange — why ever not?

From the moment we boarded the Eurostar, however, things did not look promising. Two boys arrived sporting Union Jacks and carrying paper cut-outs of Wills and Kate. The rest had already scoured their exchange partners’ Facebook pages and resolved to dislike them.

I suppose I ought to have anticipated this Anglo-French clash, given the historical precedents. Yet the English contingent’s narrow-mindedness unsettled me.

Yes, we were sacrificing a holiday to spend two weeks with a stranger. But their genuine unwillingness to learn, Anglo-supremacist attitude and lack of curiosity were a little disturbing.

As we descended into the arrivals hall of Lyon Part-Dieu station, the smiles of expectant correspondents ought to have rebuffed the querulous English students. Yet each went through his or her initial greeting with as pronounced an English accent as possible.

You are what you eat

My exchange partner and her mother drove me back to their beautiful old farmhouse, in a village known for horse breeding. My bedroom was large and warm, my French not as bad as I’d feared it to be.

And yet one anxiety still plagued me: sustaining a gluten-and-dairy-free diet in England was sufficiently difficult, but in France, I imagined, next to impossible. I sat in my room, weighing the relative merits of two weeks’ stomach cramps against starvation — and how to explain in French the effects of wheat, barley and rye on the small intestine?

What I found in the dining room occasioned raw joy: steamed vegetables, fish and salad. Likewise in the kitchen: a refrigerator shelf full of yahourt au soja. To their question “Ça marche?” I would have poured forth encomiums had I mastered a suitable vocabulary set. But I could not move beyond “Oui, c’est fantastique” before we sat down to eat.

This first meal was to be the most talkative of my two-week sojourn. As the breakfasts and dinners succeeded one another in an endless cortège of fresh fruit, perfectly steamed broccoli and silence, I felt that either starvation or stomach cramps around a more convivial table would have been preferable.

My exchange partner was kind, but icy. Her fastidious and sparing eating habits made me feel a glutton in comparison. Her mother ate protein powder in yoghurt more often than a solid meal. Eventually, my mornings were characterized by a solitary repast of fruit salad — no one else seemed to be eating.

Ghosts at the feast

The occasional apparition flitted around the dinner table — some closer to human form than others. The first was Pierre, the former lover of my exchange’s mother, with whom she was still sharing living expenses. He was tall and corpulent with a thunderous voice. She had cast him from her life — but only driven him out as far as the other end of the house, where he entrenched himself in a study strewn with half-smoked cigars.

At least he ate like a Frenchman — belonged to the cult of taste, before that of health. Yet he vanished soon after his first appearance, driving off to see his mother in a neighboring town. He returned after five days, at two o’clock one morning, and left again the next day.

The second apparition was my exchange partner’s boyfriend, Samson — a thin, pale young man with an unruly mass of curls; a maths prodigy who’d set his sights on attending one of the grandes écoles.

Samson, too, was slightly less given to subsist on lettuce and pumpkin seeds. My exchange partner lovingly provided him with a baguette and chocolate — which he would munch while explaining to me the superiority of the French educational system.

He cross-examined me on my plans for the future. I had got as far as a spectral PhD in Russian Literature, when he stopped me with a shocking rejoinder:

Il faut réfléchir, Charlotte! La vie est sérieuse. (In essence: “Life will pass you by before you have accomplished anything.”)

I refrained from pointing out that he had not planned beyond the classes préparatoires, or prépas — two hellishly difficult years spent preparing for university entrance tests. Instinctively, I commended his ambition and drive — yet felt him ill qualified to condemn my lack of perspective given his own determination to sacrifice two years of his youth to a virtually unattainable goal.

My tryst with moules frites

Midway through my stay, our funereal meals were interrupted by my exchange’s mother taking us on her weekend-long tryst in Brussels. She’d discovered that a childhood sweetheart was living in Belgium’s capital, and over the past months, they’d re-cultivated their relations. My exchange and I were invited along as third and fourth wheels.

José, the new lover, was almost as much the gourmand as Pierre, his predecessor.

Yet of his guests, I was the only one who ate at all.

Our meals together included lunch in a traditional Belgian restaurant, where I unadvisedly ordered moules-frites without the butter, causing a scandal in the kitchen.

We had Thai for dinner — a first for my partner and her mother — after which I turned around to see the latter and José kissing passionately on the curb.

Resolving to see something of Brussels at all costs, I accompanied the couple on a walk to the markets, while my partner sat sullenly in José’s penthouse apartment. There, I stared mournfully at beautifully packaged jams, cheeses and Breton biscuits — knowing that we were to leave for Lyon that evening, where another week of salad and silence awaited.

I returned to England appreciably thinner, with an improved French accent and a block of Belgian chocolate for my mother.

Though my experience of France did not come floating in butter, it was more French than I could ever have anticipated.

Readers, any questions or suggestions for Charlotte, should she have any future encounters with France?

img: Charlotte Day surveying Trafalgar Square in London.

STAY TUNED for Monday’s post, offering a few last-minute Halloween costume suggestions for Displaced Nation citizens.

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to subscribe to The Displaced Dispatch, a weekly round up of posts from The Displaced Nation, plus some extras such as seasonal recipes and occasional book giveaways. Sign up for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

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A further Parisian lunch, à la displaced author Elizabeth Bard

1 Comment Posted by on October 24, 2011

As we’re continuing this month’s theme where we celebrate all culinary things Frenchie (well, you’ve got to really, the French are such a retiring lot — they’d never dream of singing their own praises), it seems like now is the time to let you into my shameful, dark secret. There is something in my past that I cannot escape from, no matter how much I may wish to. That secret, dear reader, is that I am, in fact, a quarter-French. Yes, some of my genetic make-up is Frenchie. Being a proud Englishman, this obviously churns me up inside.

Now my Gran, or Bonne-Maman as I called her, like many a Frenchie, thought of herself a good cook. Unfortunately for her she moved to England shortly after the end of the First World War. She left the bucolic center of France and found herself in the industrial paradise that is Teesside. It is somewhat redundant to note, but I will anyway, that England in the 1920s and 1930s was very different from the England of now. This is a time pre-Ainsley Harriot. Look at what passed for cookery films — not a single mention of Sally Salt or Percy Pepper. Even in the leafy climes of Islington you would be hard pressed to find a sun-dried tomato or a tub of hummus. These were dark, Ainsley Harriot-less times indeed.

So when I was instructed that as part of this blog I would be making a Parisian lunch using Elizabeth Bard recipes here in the Dennys-loving part of California that I call home, I thought back on my Bonne-Maman. Living in another country now is so easy. On my phone I can read English papers, I can, for the most part, try and approximate dishes that I’ve eaten in other countries. I can go into a supermarket in your average suburban strip-mall and I can guarantee I can find some exotic fruit or vegetable that it would have been unthinkable for this supermarket to stock 15 or 20 years ago. So when I received my recipes for an Omelette with Goat Cheese and Artichoke Hearts and for what Elizabeth Bard titles Better than French Onion Soup (after today’s Rugby World Cup Final, I’m guessing she means it should be called New Zealand Onion Soup), I’m struck by how easy it is to find all these ingredients and how easy it would be to find them in my hometown, where my Bonne-Maman spent the next 60 years of her life after moving there from France as a young adult.

But, for the most part, Bonne-Maman wasn’t able to get everything that she needed and so would make do with local alternatives. As a child in the early 80s when Bonne-Maman was still able to live in her own house and do her own cooking, I saw the end product of all of her years living in the north-east of England (hardly the gourmet capital of the world) and the compromises she had to make to recreate dishes from her French background. There was a whole repertoire that she had. One, in particular, that I recall was that when she would make a roast she would have a little side-dish to go alongside it that consisted of sliced onion doused in malt vinegar. It seems curious, though the way she made it, not at all unpleasant, and I am sure it has some French classic as its antecedents and for years could probably only buy malt vinegar in Hartlepool. The other thing I remember is steaks. Her steaks were bloody, which I think the neighbors rationalized as her being French (and they are such an odd sort). I seem to recall this being a source of contention in my parents’ relationship as my Dad favored the bloody steaks he had been brought up on, but my Mum insisted that they had to be cooked well-done. It was a debate that was only ended when the crisis over British beef in the late 80s saw my family dramatically reduce its beef consumption.

So as I follow Elizabeth’s recipes, I am just struck by how easy it is to buy and prepare all the ingredients that I need to recreate a delicious Parisian lunch, but my poor grandmother had to make do with malt vinegar, pease pudding and her own ingenuity.

STAY TUNED for tomorrow’s post on classic displaced writing.

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My Grand Tour through Italy on an art history student’s budget

2 Comments Posted by on October 21, 2011

Today Monika Frise — the daughter of one of our Random Nomads, Helena Halme — joins us as a guest blogger. Monika is an art history student in the UK. Here she tells of her trip to Italy last month with another art history student friend — a travel yarn that makes a welcome change from all the French foodie posts we’ve been doing of late. (That said, Monika does start out by talking about food — it’s Italy, after all!)

At the end of my first year at the University of Birmingham, facing a stressful exam period, I decided to book a holiday to Italy with a friend of mine, Liz. We planned to go in early September, after the summer crowds had ebbed and the weather would be somewhat cooler. We organized to visit five cities: Verona, Venice, Pisa, Florence, Siena and finally, Rome.

Both Liz and I are studying art history. Neither of us is specializing in Renaissance art — I’m studying Eastern European architecture/art and 19th-century French art this year (concentrating on the period just before the impressionists). However, we both loved the idea of making a Grand Tour through Italy to see the Grand Masters’ works, following in the footsteps of European aristocrats of centuries past — we just wished we had their riches to finance our journey!

The trip came around sooner than expected and I for one felt a little apprehensive about what it would be like moving to a different location every couple of days, on a student budget.

Buon appetito

Italians are famously passionate about their food, and despite having to watch our expenses, we were determined not to miss out — even if it meant eating a lot of pizza.

We made a determined effort to avoid restaurants close to large monuments and museums and seek out local eateries instead. We were somewhat taken aback at the prices of food, though — especially in Rome, where we had to search for a long time in order to find a cheap restaurant that also looked good.

Our first night in Verona, the plump, friendly hostel owner recommended a restaurant, Bella Napoli, for “having the best pizza in town.”

She also told us to “touch the left breast” of Juliet’s statue for good fortune in life.

We took her advice on both counts and weren’t sorry. At Bella Napoli, we shared the house specialty, pizza al metro (pizza by the meter), which arrived on its very own table on wheels.

Venice, however, posed more of a challenge. But, on our first night, after walking somewhat aimlessly through the narrow streets for some time, we chanced upon a small osteria offering home-cooked food at great value. For a change, we didn’t have pizza. I ordered gnocchi with tomato sauce: delicious.

The service, however, left a little to be desired — our waitress dumped our change on the table without even a smile. Likewise in Rome, service was rather hit or miss. We had excellent service at a pizzeria where they roll the dough right in front of you, but at a café close to Termini station we waited for our bill for such a long time we could have walked away without paying (yes, the thought did seriously cross our minds!).

Another affordable yet delectable treat is the famed gelato. The best we tasted — and we tasted a lot — was at a place called Rivareno just around the corner of our hostel in Rome . They soften the gelato with a palette knife before spooning it into the cup. There were so many different flavors on offer, but my favorite was probably caramelized fig and ricotta.

“Roughing” it

We students will walk miles to save money, but in a country like Italy that’s not such a bad thing. As Liz and I soon discovered, going everywhere on foot was the best way to take in the local color (not to mention work off all that pizza, pasta and gelato!).

In the small winding streets of Siena, we encountered a small boy playing the drums in little side street whilst a group of old men and women chatted nearby, seemingly oblivious to the racket he was making.

In Verona one night, we happened upon Juliet’s balcony (which we’d seen the day before in the daylight). The bronze statue of Juliet in the courtyard looked completely different when illuminated. Gazing through the gates at her peaceful shape summed up this city for me: bright and vibrant yet calm.

Walking was also a way of avoiding unwanted curiosities in the hostels where we stayed. The hostel in Venice, for instance, had a very bad case of bedbugs — so much so that we spent our second night sleeping on the dusty floor, with only a sheet beneath us. But even that didn’t stop the little blighters. At one point one of the other girls woke up with one of them on her cheek. Unfortunately, despite the beauty of Venetian art and architecture, it’s the bedbugs that made the most lasting impression, rather literally!

That said, walking also exposed us to some humans who behave like pests. More than once did we have to hurry away from some overeager men who were making kissing noises at us, and outside the Arena in Verona, the city of love, a “Roman gladiator” gave Liz a pat on the bum!

Art coming out of our ears

Tourism in Italy involves an endless parade in and out of churches. I reckon we saw about three in every city, apart from Siena where we saw only one, the Duomo di Siena.

We ended up appreciating the cathedral in Siena far more than the Basilica san Marco in Venice, which overwhelmed us with its abundance of Gold Romanesque mosaics and small adjoining rooms replete with countless treasures. Our guidebook had advised us to make several visits, but for me, a single visit was more than enough. Both interior and exterior reminded me of an over-sweet, over-decorated cake.

Since we are both interested in Renaissance art, Florence had a great deal to offer. My wise mother had advised that we pre-order tickets for both the Uffizi Gallery and the Accademia Gallery — the latter of course being the home of Michelangelo’s David.

After smugly walking past the long queue for the Accademia, Liz and I took a seat on a bench close to the David and watched as people circled around it, discussing its various aspects. (We even managed to sneak a picture of the statue whilst the guards weren’t looking, saving us a few extra cents on a postcard.)

At the Uffizi Gallery I particularly loved seeing Flora by Titian — so much better seeing it in a photo for appreciating the colors and brush strokes.

By the time we reached Rome, our enthusiasm for the Grand Tour had flagged somewhat. The Sistine Chapel, where everyone was herded around like sheep, especially disappointed us.

The best part of Rome was our trip to the Pantheon — fantastic! As we wandered around this circular building, I couldn’t take my eyes off the ceiling. I was transfixed.

First of many tours?

I would definitely like to return to Italy one day soon, and perhaps even try living there for a while.

Of the five cities we visited, I could really see myself in Siena even though it wasn’t my favorite place. It’s just that the atmosphere made me feel at home, I think because there were fewer tourists. (I particularly enjoyed my trip to the local supermarket, full of hustle and bustle and the smell of freshly baked bread.)

My Italian, which was very basic, got better as our trip progressed. However I would have to take a lot of classes if I were ever to brave living there!

NOTE: You can read Monika Frise’s art reviews on her new blog, Post Raphaelite, and/or follow her on twitter: @Shmonn.

Images: Juliet’s statue in Verona by night; from the foot of the leaning Tower of Pisa; flower sellers in streets of Florence, near the Duomo; three flavors of Roman gelato: pistachio, caramelized fig and ricotta, and crema mediterranea (a Rivareno speciality).

STAY TUNED for Monday’s post, when founding contributing Anthony Windram reports on his attempt to make a Parisian lunch in California, following the recipes of Elizabeth Bard (see also ML Awanohara’s attempt).

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to subscribe to The Displaced Dispatch, a weekly round up of posts from The Displaced Nation, with seasonal recipes and occasional book giveaways. Sign up for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

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RANDOM NOMAD: Jennifer Greco, Writer & French Cheese Specialist

4 Comments Posted by on October 19, 2011

Born in: Spokane, Washington, USA
Passports: USA and France
Cities/States/Countries lived in: Washington (Seattle): 1987-99; Louisiana (New Orleans): 1999-2003; France (Cesseras*): 2003-present
Cyberspace coordinates: Chez Loulou | A taste of life in the south of France (blog)
* A tiny village in the Languedoc-Roussillon region

What made you leave your homeland in the first place?
I’ve been a devoted Francophile ever since I was a teenager and knew that one day I would live in France. My husband and I bought a small holiday house in the south of France in 2001 and decided to move here permanently in 2003.

Is anyone else in your immediate family “displaced”?
I have no immediate family members who are “displaced”; however, my grandfather moved to America from Italy with his family at the age of 10.

How about your husband?
My husband was born and raised in New York City. He wasn’t a Francophile when we met, but as soon as I introduced him to Paris, he was hooked.

Describe the moment when you felt most displaced.
It wasn’t just a moment, but every single frustrating minute I had to spend in the the sous-préfecture, arguing with the woman behind the desk who didn’t want to do her job by helping me with my carte de séjour paperwork [visa for staying in France longer than a year].

Describe the moment when you felt least displaced.
The summer night that my husband and I sat at a long table in the center of the village with our neighbors, sharing wine, food, stories and laughter.

You may bring one curiosity you’ve collected from each of your adopted countries into the Displaced Nation. What’s in your suitcase?
From Seattle, Washington: If it wouldn’t spill, a caffè macchiato from Caffe Ladro.
From New Orleans: Mardi Gras throws and Crystal Hot Sauce.
From France: An olive wood Laguiole corkscrew.

You’re invited to prepare one meal based on your travels for other Displaced Nation members. What’s on the menu?
We’ll start out with a specialty of the Pacific Northwest: cracked Dungeness crab and clarified butter. Then we’ll each have half a Charentais melon filled with Muscat de Saint Jean de Minervois — a wonderful dessert wine from Narbonne, close to where I live in the south of France. For the main course, I’ll serve a jambalaya from New Orleans. Then we’ll have (mais oui) a Languedoc cheese course — including Roquefort, Pélardon and Tomette des Corbières. Dessert will be a New Orleans classic: bread pudding with Bourbon sauce.

You may add one word or expression from the country you’re living in to The Displaced Nation argot. What will you loan us?
From New Orleans: Makin’ groceries — meaning going grocery shopping. It’s one of the many colorful expressions that’s part of the local vernacular. I simply love it!
From France: Oh la vache! (Oh my gosh!) This one cracks me up — the literal translation is “Oh the cow!” I can’t say it without smiling.

It’s French Cuisine month at The Displaced Nation. Who is your favorite French chef of all time?
I love Jacques Pépin. He is an honest, down to earth chef, writer and instructor, and his recipes are always delicious. One of my favorites of his is the Skillet Apple Charlotte, a melange of Tarte Tatin and French toast. C’est délicieux!

Like you, Julia Child was an American who moved to France and fell in love with the food. (We have just now inducted her into our Displaced Hall of Fame.) Of the following three Julia Child quotes, which do you most identify with?

1) The only time to eat diet food is when you’re waiting for the steak to cook.

2) The only real stumbling block is fear of failure. In cooking, you’ve got to have a what-the-hell attitude.

3) Until I discovered cooking, I was never really interested in anything.

I most identify with: “The only real stumbling block is fear of failure. In cooking, you’ve got to have a what-the-hell attitude.” I believe in living life to its fullest and sometimes that means taking risks and ignoring the fear, whether it be in the kitchen or in life. Our decision to move to France meant leaving our comfort zone and embracing the challenge of learning a new culture. It hasn’t always been easy, but it’s definitely been worth it! As for the kitchen — readers of my blog will know that I’m now on a mission to taste every single French cheese. I’ve now tasted 205 (there are 600-1,000, depending on who’s counting).

Readers — yay or nay for letting Jennifer Greco into The Displaced Nation? Tell us your reasons. (Note: It’s fine to vote “nay” as long as you couch your reasoning in terms we all — including Jennifer — find amusing.)

img: Jennifer Greco in Paris, in front of the Louvre (April 2010).

STAY TUNED for tomorrow’s installment from our displaced fictional heroine, Libby, who is taking last week’s advice from Maggie to heart and discovering that Woodhaven is her oyster. (A good thing she’s not allergic to shellfish like her husband, Oliver!) What, not keeping up with Libby? Read the first three episodes of her expat adventures.

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A Parisian lunch in Manhattan, à la displaced author Elizabeth Bard

3 Comments Posted by on October 17, 2011

I have a confession to make. I have a bit of fluff on the side. I’ve had it for many years now — and the flame of my passion never diminishes. The love burns in my soul, aches in my flesh, and ignites my nerves.

Why am I revealing this now, and in such a public way? As you may know, the Displaced Nation is dedicating many of its October posts to the joys of moving to France and learning French cooking.

I take this as a sign that the time has arrived for me to own up to my own rather torrid relationship with La Belle Cuisine Française — she of infinite variety, who makes hungry where she most satisfies.

Admittedly, I do feel a little guilty talking so openly about our affair while my husband, who is Japanese, is away on a business trip. (Because I’m so practiced at hiding it, I think he assumes that, like him, I would always choose Asian food over Western, Italian over French.)

But there you have it, my little secret. And now that it’s out in the open, allow me to report on my most recent tryst — a Parisian lunch I hosted in Manhattan yesterday using the recipes of Elizabeth Bard, who will be featured on this blog next week. A former New Yorker who now lives in Provence with her French husband, Bard is the author of Lunch in Paris: A Love Story, with Recipes.

Friday, Oct 7 — plotting my assignation

I download Bard’s book to my Kindle and retreat to bed — mais oui! — for a read.

I am instantly enchanted. Bard is a woman after my own heart: she went to Europe to study and then fell head over heels for the culture, a man, the food…

I’m having a hard time choosing among Bard’s recipes, though.

The guest list is easy: my sister (who will go into the hospital on Wednesday for an operation, after which she won’t be able to enjoy food for a while) and two foodie friends, a couple, with whom I’ve collaborated on some lovely meals.

Except this time I’ll be going solo, especially as my husband is away (though maybe that’s just as well as he tends to dismiss French food out of hand, and therefore out of kitchen, for being too rich and creamy).

Actually, it’s the main course I’m dithering about — not the starter or the dessert.

I know I want to do mussels for the opening course as that’s one of my sister’s favorites, and Bard has a classic recipe for Mussels with White Wine and Fennel (and fennel is now in season).

I see that on her Web site, Bard has a recipe for Spicy Chocolate Pots with Fresh Figs — and quickly decide to make that my dessert. Like most sane people, I consider chocolate (along with champagne and oysters) to be the perfect food for revving up the libido.

And figs — Bard says that every autumn, around this time, she stages her own mini Figapalooza. I like the sound of that orgy. The more I think about it, the more convinced I become that the Bible got it wrong: Eve must have seduced Adam with a fig, not an apple. Didn’t he cover himself up with a fig leaf afterwards?

Speaking of apples, the recipe of Bard’s I’m most attracted to for the main course is her Pork Tenderloin with Four Kinds of Apples. The only thing holding me back is that my sister has a pet pig. For a moment, I imagine being able to persuade her to partake of this forbidden meat. “Oh, go on, just one little taste…” But then I realize how offended I’d be, as a dog owner and lover, if I were invited to lunch at a Korean household and they were serving dog.

No, not a good idea. So I opt for Bard’s Pasta with Fresh Peas, Arugula, and Goat Cheese for my main. To be honest, I feel a little sheepish about it. Surely my infatuation with La Belle Cuisine should drive me to my boldest feats of exploration and invention?

But then I remember Bard’s story about her husband-to-be inviting her to lunch at a Parisian restaurant that specializes in du porc noir de Bigorre. She refuses to indulge, even (especially?) when the waitress tells her he’s a happy pig, ordering the cassoulet instead.

Pasta it is, even though the only thing French about it involves topping the pasta with extravagantly big gobs of goat cheese.

Saturday, Oct 8 — shopping for just the right ingredients

I head to the green market in Union Square very early, my two dogs in tow. Just before I reach the Patches of Star Dairy stand, which sells fresh goat cheeses and goat cheese ice cream, one of them, my cocker spaniel, scavenges a brussels sprout and someone asks me if he is a vegetarian. (I wonder if his English springer spaniel heritage is kicking in, and he’s registering his disapproval of my love affair with France?)

Other green market finds include freshly picked arugula (also for the pasta), onions and fennel (for the mussels), and heavy cream (for the dessert).

I see some blue salvia at the flower stall that remind me of postcards I’ve seen of Provence, and appropriate these for the table decor.

I still need to get peas (they aren’t in season), so leave the dogs at home and go out again. Bard makes a curious observation at the start of her pasta recipe:

Five years ago, if someone told me I would take this much satisfaction in shelling my own peas, I would have laughed out loud. How times have changed.

I guess I’m not quite there yet (or perhaps I was there when I was younger — am I getting too old for these affairs?), as I find myself heading to the Trader Joe’s on 14th Street for a bag of freshly shelled English peas (yes, English — apparently there are limits to my love).

Actually, waiting on the line at Trader Joe’s on a Saturday is almost as tedious as shelling peas, and I almost laugh out loud — but then console myself by noting that I’ve also managed to score the bow tie pasta. It’s not whole wheat, though, as Bard recommends. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen whole wheat farfalle, TBH. (I wonder where Bard gets hers?)

It still remains to get fresh pesto (from the Italian specialty store on E 11th St), Green & Black’s 70% organic chocolate and ras el hanout for the dessert. I find both of these items at the Indian grocery around the corner from Little India. The ras el hanout is labeled “couscous spice” and smells appropriately exotic.

I stay up late infusing the ras el hanout in the heavy cream and melting the chocolate in that mixture for the dessert. Heaven!

Sunday, Oct 9 (morning) — final mad preparations

Another early start. I swing by the East Village Cheese store for a fresh whole wheat baguette, and then it’s off to the green market at Tompkins Square Park, to buy fresh mussels at the fishmonger’s.

There’s a spring in my step as I approach his stall. I am a woman in love, a woman possessed. Little do I know that disaster is about to strike — he had only a small supply of mussels and sold them all first thing.

Aïe. I stumble away from his stall trying to hide my tears. But then, American ingenuity kicks in: why don’t I try using Bard’s recipe but for little neck clams, which are in large supply? I go back and discuss with the fishmonger, who’s a friendly sort, très sympathique. He ends up giving me 40 clams for the price of three dozen.

But I’m not out of the woods yet. I have forgotten the figs — those delectable little fruits that ooze with flesh and seeds when you cut them open. Despite trying three grocery stores, I can’t find a single fig in the East Village — and this is fig season. Go figure!

On this ingredient, I cannot compromise. I text my foodie friends who are coming to the lunch (they live in the West Village) and ask them to scour the shops for the fleshiest, freshest figs they can find. They come through for me, confirming my long-held belief that West Village is the city’s epicurean center.

Sunday Oct 9 (1 p.m. onwards) — ah, quel plaisir!

My sister and friends arrive, the wine (initially the Muscadet I’m cooking the clams in) flows, and conversation does as well, ranging from tales of our misspent youths to the Wall Street protests.

I produce the first course, and it’s judged a big success. Does anyone mind that it’s clams and not mussels, I ask? All agree that it’s the broth that counts — and the broth, a mix of fennel, onions, garlic and white wine, is divine.

Despite being a little tipsy on the wine — we have now progressed to a bottle of red from the family domaine of Robert Sérol, au cœur de la Côte Roannaise — I manage to make the bow tie pasta al dente. I stir in the peas and the pesto, divide among four plates and then dollop on the lightly salted chevre. My guests and I gorge ourselves on this latest creation, exclaiming as several nuances emerge and caress our taste-buds — oh là là!

I suggest that we take a short break before the dessert. My cocker spaniel is nipping at my pant legs — signaling that it’s time for the guests to go home as he needs my full attention (and some treat toys with the leftovers).

But my other dog, who is mostly poodle, is having the time of her life (bien sûr), making several rounds with the guests for extended petting sessions.

Enfin, it’s back to the table for my chocolate dessert, which, I’m sorry to say, falls a little flat because — absolument incroyable! — it’s too chocolatey. Is that our fault (we don’t know chocolate from chocolate) or could the recipe use some sugar?

But the purplish-brown figs, which are ripe and ever-so-sweet, save the day.

Over little cups of coffee we all agree that my Parisian lunch at the hands of Elizabeth Bard has been an affair to remember.

Monday, Oct 10 — the morning after

My husband calls in the wee hours of the morning. He is now in Tokyo, with another week to go on his business trip.

“How was your Sunday?” he asks.

“Well, I had some my sister and some friends over for a little lunch,” I reply, thinking to myself: what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

I go back to bed and awaken several hours later, at around 8:00 a.m. I lie there for a few minutes, basking in the afterglow of yesterday’s tryst.

When I at last rouse myself and face the mounds of dishes still to be done, I realize that this little flirtation of mine has its costs (not to mention my exhaustion at having to clean the apartment).

At least the hole in my pocketbook isn’t too bad. I reckon this particular fling has cost me around $80, including the wine — not bad considering what it would cost for four people to go out for a proper French lunch in Manhattan.

Hmmm… I wonder if I can fit in one more quickie meal before my husband gets home on Friday?

As Mario Cuomo, former New York State governor and father of our current governor, once said:

When you’ve parked the second car in the garage, and installed the hot tub, and skied in Colorado, and wind-surfed in the Caribbean, when you’ve had your first love affair and your second and your third, the question will remain, where does the dream end for me?

Touché — only I don’t think he’s ever been seduced by French cuisine à la Elizabeth Bard?

Images (top to bottom): Friendly fishmonger at Tompkins Square Park; little neck clams in fennel; an enthusiastic canine participant; chocolate pot with figs.

STAY TUNED for Tuesday’s post on classic displaced writing.

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RANDOM NOMAD: Mardi Michels, Elementary School French Teacher, Home Cook, Writer, Photographer & Traveler

10 Comments Posted by on October 12, 2011

Born in: Adelaide, South Australia
Passports: Australia (by birth), Britain/EU (through my dad), Canada (I became a citizen in 2007)
Countries lived in: France (Paris): 1995-2000; Canada (Toronto): 2000-present
Cyberspace coordinates: eat. live. travel. write | my creative refuge from academia (blog); eatlivtravwrite (Twitter handle)

What made you leave your homeland in the first place?
I left Australia because I was working on my PhD in French literature and felt it made a lot more sense to be in the country of the language and culture I was studying. Soon after moving to Paris, I began working in a restaurant (Woolloomooloo Restaurant Australien — now closed) to supplement a meagre scholarship. About a year after moving to Paris, I got a job teaching English at Université Paris X and I was hooked on teaching English (I was already qualified to teach French) so I undertook my Dip TEFL [professional diploma in Teaching English as a Foreign Language] at the University of London Institute in Paris, eventually scoring a full time teaching job at the British Council. My PhD? Incomplete…

Is anyone else in your immediate family “displaced”?
My sister also left home when she was in her early 20s to complete a PhD at Oxford (which she did), and from there she worked in banking all over the world (England, Singapore, Japan). She has also traveled extensively in South America. She, too, has ended up in North America (New York City), teaching math!

How about your husband? Is he displaced?
He was when we first met — in Casablanca in December 1999. I was on a vacation in Morocco, and after that two-week jaunt, Mr Neil followed me back to Paris for a visit. He is the reason I am now in Canada. Six months after he visited me in Paris, I had a job teaching in French in Toronto lined up for the 2000-01 school year — and the rest, as they say is history. Neil is originally from Vancouver but has traveled the seven continents to some “out there” places. I mean, how many people do you know who have been to Easter Island?

Describe the moment when you felt most displaced.
The first time I had to do lunchtime outdoor yard duty the first year I was living in Toronto. I was ill equipped for the cold, wearing leather boots and a wool coat that was more than adequate in Paris. Not so much here. It was five years before I succumbed to the puffy coat and winter boots.

Describe the moment when you felt least displaced.
Honestly? Stepping off the plane this past summer when I arrived in Paris. I try to get back there every year or so (I completed my MA in Second and Foreign Language Teaching a few years ago, requiring me to take courses two summers in a row in Paris). Even though I have lived longer in Toronto now than I did in Paris (and I love my life in Toronto), and I don’t have any family there, Paris is still a place where I feel curiously “at home.”

You may bring one curiosity you’ve collected from each of your adopted countries into the Displaced Nation. What’s in your suitcase?
I’m thinking cookware from Mora (a treasure trove of ring molds, tart pans and other French pastry equipment) or A Simon (good selection of glassware and heavy-duty white French porcelain) — both on rue Montmartre; or else baking ingredients from G Detou, one of the world’s great food shops, in Les Halles.

You’re invited to prepare one meal based on your travels for other Displaced Nation members. What’s on the menu?
The meal I would prepare for you would include a dish inspired by each continent. My husband and I have visited all seven continents, and we actually hosted this luxury dinner last year, as documented on my blog:

  • Moroccan spiced chick peas
  • Vietnamese caramelized chili prawns
  • Italian polpette d’uova
  • Australian micro meat pies
  • Mexican tortilla chicken soup
  • Cuban ropa vieja
  • Panamanian (coconut) rice with pigeon peas
  • Jamaican jerk chicken
  • Île flottante

You may add one word or expression from the country you’re living in to The Displaced Nation argot. What will you loan us?
I couldn’t pick one specific one but some words that have crept into my vocabulary (and that of my students’) include hop là, aïe,  oh là là, et hop, and ouf — words that sound ridiculous removed from the context of everyday French vocabulary but that have turned out to be very useful in the context of my classroom 😉 Surely The Displaced Nation could use a few more interjections?

It’s French Cuisine month at The Displaced Nation. Who is your favorite French chef, living or dead, and why?
Whilst she is not French, it has to be Julia Child, mainly for her “can-do” attitude.

Julia Child is the role model for our posts this month — and has just now been inducted into our Displaced Hall of Fame. Of the following three quotes by her, which one do you most identify with?

1) The only time to eat diet food is when you’re waiting for the steak to cook.

2) The only real stumbling block is fear of failure. In cooking, you’ve got to have a what-the-hell attitude.

3) Until I discovered cooking, I was never really interested in anything.

I have to say the quote I most identify with is “The only real stumbling block is fear of failure. In cooking, you’ve got to have a what-the-hell attitude.”

I teach a once a week cooking class to nine-to-eleven-year-old boys, called Les Petits Chefs; and though my students are pretty young and cannot be expected to know a lot about cooking (yet!), I found myself thinking of them as I read this quote. What continues to amaze me about my group of little chefs is their willingness to try new things and their (mostly) complete lack of fear about being in the kitchen (well, science lab, in our case!). Yesterday, for example, I had five little boys cutting up raw chicken (thighs, no less, so much messier than neat clean breast meat), and I watched them attack the task with great gusto. No fear (though a few “ewws!”) — they just got on and did the job, trusting me that the icky meat would be turned into something delicious in about 30 minutes (it was!).

Readers — yay or nay for letting Mardi Michels into The Displaced Nation? Tell us your reasons. (Note: It’s fine to vote “nay” as long as you couch your reasoning in terms we all — including Mardi — find amusing.)

img: Mardi Michels and her mari, Mr Neil, at the Fêtes de Bayonne (2008).

STAY TUNED for tomorrow’s installment from our displaced fictional heroine, Libby, who seeks advice on her unexpected second pregnancy from someone who is older…if not altogether wiser. What, not keeping up with Libby? Read the first three episodes of her expat adventures.

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Finding Paradise in Provence, Part 2: Our expat foodie asks – Patisserie or Pudding?

7 Comments Posted by on October 11, 2011

In the second of her guest posts this month, Joanna Masters-Maggs talks more about her recent culinary discoveries in France, as we ask her, “Is the foodie capital of the world everything it’s cracked up to be – or does the emperor need to put his clothes on?”

“I’m tired of these perfectly-glazed French tarts”, my husband declared last night. “I want a big, fat, English pudding.”

I looked up sharply. Was he making some untoward comparison between chic French ladies and less well-presented English women, such as myself? I hoped not, for his sake. But he was ruefully regarding the Mille Fueille on the plate before him.

“Some custard too. That would be nice.” He looked at me sadly.

I wasn’t sure how to react. “Get me some Golden Syrup and I’ll make steamed pudding,” I offered. Sixteen years overseas, but how English we are!

Just desserts…every Sunday

We have only been in Aix for six weeks and have held to our plan of finding the best food and drink it has to offer. Part of this includes buying a cake or tart from a patisserie each week for Sunday dinner. I reflected on what we have so far sampled: a chocolate Opera for the weekend of my daughter’s birthday, an open apple tart, another filled with patisserie cream and topped with fruit and, yes, glaze. We tried the Tropezienne which hails from St Tropez and was named by Brigitte Bardot.

Now this “thousand leaves of pastry” sat before us. Like its predecessors, it was pedigree in origin. Only the most shameless “bring–a-dish” guest would try to pass this off as homemade. Perfectly cut, evenly browned, you just knew it would not suffer from a soggy bottom or any similar such indignity.

So why is it that with these desserts fastidious restraint is so easy to find? My husband is right. If we had a steamed syrup pudding and some custard before us, we would have been slavering for second helpings. With this aristocrat, to do so would seem uncouth and unnecessary.

The proof of the pudding…

Perhaps, dare I even suggest, in terms of flavour and texture, if not the skill required to make it, Syrup Pudding and its like are superior as a pudding to their French counterparts. I am ducking the missiles I feel may be coming my way. But if I am unrefined in my tastes, surely I cannot be alone? Syrup Pudding may be simple, comfort food but it is also a divine comination of textures and flavours. The addition of custard, Crème Anglaise if you will, serves to cut any possible cloyingness of texture or the risk of oversweetness. Surprisingly light, but pleasingly substantial, there always seems room for another serving.

I have, on occasion, offered to clean up after dinner, singlehanded. Not some heroic act of self-sacrifice, offered at the shrine of my family’s comfort. Rather, the siren call of the dish the pudding was steamed in, enticing me to scrape it out. Can the same be said for the tin in which a Tarte Tatin was made? I fear not.

Leave it to the experts – or leave it to Mum?

I have been told that no French person would take along homemade pudding as a contribution to a dinner to which he or she had been invited. Such a thing would be to insult the host with a poor quality, amateur offering. Why take some ramshackle amateur affair when there are professionals to do a proper job?

It seems that we English – well, at least, my husband and I – feel differently. The “homemadeness” is what we enjoy. The time spent making it, the compliment to the host. As I cast my mind back to adverts for cakes and packaging for various factory-made cakes and puddings, it is clear that supermarkets and manufacturers are keen to stress their product is “Just like home” or “What Mum used to make.” The Brits will remember Mr. Kipling and his extraordinary cakes, which he liked to bring out for village fetes and cricket matches. It’s just that Mr. Kipling was a factory, somewhere fairly industrial in England, churning out Battenbergs by the thousand.

I have enjoyed and will continue to enjoy my foray into French patisseries. However, I feel it will not end my love of the home-baked, and what I will enjoy in most French bakeries are the comfortable croissants and brioches.

The best of both sides (of the English Channel)

For me food seems less about style and more about comfort and general “toothsomeness”. Is this another difference between England and France? I think it may be. I count myself lucky that, at the moment, I can enjoy both attitudes. But this weekend, my husband will get his syrup pudding and custard. Not, not just custard — make that “Crème Anglaise”!

Related posts:

Finding Paradise in Provence, Part I: An expat foodie’s views on French cuisine for the very young

Displaced Q: in modern French cuisine, who wins the race — the slow-food tortoise or the McDonald’s fast-food hare?

When a Julia Child-like curiosity about French cuisine leads to a displaced life — bienvenue au October theme

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to subscribe for email delivery of The Displaced Dispatch, a round up of the week’s posts from The Displaced Nation. Sign up for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

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Finding Paradise in Provence, Part I: An expat foodie’s views on French cuisine for the very young

4 Comments Posted by on October 5, 2011

Continuing our theme of French cuisine, today we bring you the first of two guest posts from Joanna Masters-Maggs. Joanna and her husband are originally from England and have four children aged between seven and fourteen. Over the last fifteen years they have lived in seven different countries, and this summer they achieved what is considered by some to be the Holy Grail, the Paradise of company transfers: a two-year assignment in France. Despite her nomadic lifestyle, Joanna has stayed British at heart, and her post therefore is written in British English.

Oscar Wilde once famously said:

“When good Americans die they go to Paris.”

Paraphrasing him, I like to say of the employees of the company for which my husband works that

“If they are good, they will finally be transferred to Paris.”

After living in six other countries during our 15-year marriage, our family has been lucky enough – or perhaps well-behaved enough – to be transferred to France. Not Paris but, in terms of Paradise, close. In fact, some would say we have been even luckier, because we are now based in delightful Aix-en-Provence.

Having spent the last two years in Saudi Arabia, I was more than ready to reacquaint myself with the delights of French charcuterie and wine. While a six-week period of hotels and temporary apartments offered plenty of opportunities to try restaurants, bistros and cafes, there is no point waxing lyrical about Michelin-starred restaurants and the quality of basic ingredients in markets and delicatessens. It’s all been said before, and by people far more qualified than I.

Thankfully, more prosaic matters had piqued my interest before I was invited to write this guest post.

Developing a French palate? It’s child’s play.

One of our first purchases in France was a couple of board games for family game night. Not the usual Monopoly and Trivial Pursuit, however.

“How interesting!” I thought, as I looked at these things in the shop. “Tasting games and smelling games for children? I’ve never seen that before.”

Well, the instructions claimed these pastimes were suitable for young children, but little did I realise how demanding the games would be. I am not four years old (the lower end of the suggested age range for players) but I had trouble distinguishing between liquorice and aniseed. More trouble than I care to admit.

We travel to experience different cultures. But even after living in such various places as Holland, Brazil, and Saudi Arabia – among others – I realised with the purchase of these games that resettling in France with four children was going to be quite the cultural experience.

Out of the mouths of babes

This hunch was confirmed a few days later. My 7-year-old son, Patrick, recently started a new international school here in Aix. As we walked down the leafy lane that leads to the kind of shuttered and shabby chic building this part of France does so well, we met David, one of Patrick’s new friends.

During the ensuing conversation that covered the unoriginal topics we mums tend to ask about, I learned that David had spent his first year in a mainstream French school before attending international school.

“It was hard,” he solemnly informed me. “No one spoke any English, and they were strict. But I miss it.”

“You do?” I asked in the sing-song, too-bright way that mothers always adopt when talking to small children. “Why is that?”

He turned serious eyes on me.

“Well, the food, of course,” he replied.

He was too polite to add “stupid” but it hung in the air.

“The French, you see. They’re good at food. It’s nice here, but in French schools they have three courses and lots of different cheese. We get less cheese,” he added sadly.

If you cook it, they will come.

I was already impressed with the food served at the two international schools my four children attend, so I understood this was praise indeed from David. My children’s schools have resisted the usual route of chips, nuggets and pizza, and instead serve mainly simple grilled meats with vegetables and salads. Wednesdays tend to be more indulgent days, involving cheesy gratins and so forth. Puddings are sparse, and at their most indulgent involve only a small patisserie. No one is allowed second helpings, but fruit is plentiful.

The French are rightly proud of their reputation for good food and believe that appreciating it should form a part of the educational system.

School lunches: a social occasion, and rightly so.

Not since our days in Brazil have I been so enthused by a system of school lunches. Brazil took the whole process one step further. From the ages of 4 and 5, my children sat down at one table with their classmates, teacher, and assistants, and ate together, passing the vegetables and pouring water for one another.

How wonderful to take the time in the middle of the day to eat together and socialize in this way.

Between Brazil and France, I have spent a lot of time in various schools, agitating for better food and a more pleasant way of serving it. Jamie Oliver would have been proud of me. Time and again, though, I was told that the schools had tried switching to healthier food on the menu, but the children didn’t eat it.

“Children must have choice,” the mantra goes. Thus the healthy food, unappealingly presented, is placed next to the chips and baked beans. After a week or so of throwing it away, the contracted caterers stop serving it, to save money and maximize profits.

What the French and Brazilians understand, however, is if the choice is between eating well or going hungry for a few hours, most children will eventually adapt their tastes into healthy eating habits that will last a lifetime.

Good food, small portions, and time given to it. Simple.

Other countries could learn so much from this philosophy, especially those who constantly bewail an obesity problem among their population.

After all, it’s probably no coincidence that I see so few large French people – or saw so few large Brazilians.

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Img: Exhausted but happy! Joanna on her first afternoon in France.

STAY TUNED for tomorrow’s episode of Libby’s Life, when Oliver returns from Vancouver to some news from Libby. Good news — or not?

Related posts:

DISPLACED Q: In modern French cuisine, who wins the race — the Slow Food Tortoise or the McDonald’s Fast-Food Hare?

When a Julia Child-like curiosity about French cuisine leads to a displaced life — bienvenue au October theme

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to subscribe to The Displaced Dispatch, a weekly round up of posts from The Displaced Nation, plus some extras such as seasonal recipes and occasional book giveaways. Sign up for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

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When a Julia Child-like curiosity about French cuisine leads to a displaced life — bienvenue au October theme

9 Comments Posted by on October 3, 2011

The first time I was introduced to the Slow Food movement was in the land of its birth, Italy. My husband and I were in Florence for the wedding of his niece, and we ended up befriending and dining out with a couple of the other guests: a Chinese-American brother and sister from California who were serious gourmets and would only go to Slow-Food restaurants.

Ever since then, I’ve been puzzled.

Not by the concept of Slow Food itself. I get the idea of savoring a meal that is cooked from fresh, locally-sourced ingredients and that has not been prepared in advance — we’re talking the anti-Fast Food.

What’s more, I had enormous fun in Florence peering at all the restaurant doorways to see if they had a snail symbol. “No snail? Well then we’re not eating there,” I would declare to my husband.

No, what I find confounding is that the movement started in Italy, not in France.

For me, Italian food, with its pizzas, anti-pastas and gelatos, comes fairly close to being the fast food of Europe.

That could never be true, of course, of French cooking. (And what better symbol of French cooking than a snail, btw?)

I feel certain Julia Child would agree with me. An expat in Paris for many years, Julia belongs in the Displaced Nation’s Hall of Fame because of her refusal to be satisfied with her native country’s Anglo-derived plain food consisting of meat and potatoes and two veggies — let alone the fast-food version: meat (as it were), bun, French (quel insult!) fries, no veg.

Addressing just one of these nefarious ingredients, Julia once said:

How can a nation be called great if its bread tastes like Kleenex?

For Julia, France was a spiritual as well as culinary homeland. As she wrote in her memoir, My Life in France:

I fell in love with French food — the tastes, the processes, the history, the endless variations, the rigorous discipline, the creativity, the wonderful people, the equipment, the rituals.

A date with destiny

Julia’s first forays into foreign cuisine occurred when she worked for the Office of Strategic Services (the precursor to the CIA) during World War II.

She was posted first to Kandy, Ceylon (now Sri Lanka), and then to Kunming, China. Along the way, she met, and fell in love with, Paul Child, an early example of a foodie. At Paul’s initiative, they entertained themselves by exploring Ceylonese and Chinese cuisine and culture.

The pair married the year after the war ended, and Paul went to work for the American Embassy in Paris — a move that proved fortuitous in the extreme for his wife’s career.

For their first meal on French soil, Paul ordered sole meunière. For Julia, it was an epiphany — “the most exciting meal of my life.” The scales fell not just from the fish but from her eyes. She could see what American WASPs like herself were missing out on: sauces made with fresh herbs, butter, wine, and so forth.

The rest is history.

Bon appétit — say what?

Well, not quite. To be honest, I don’t think Julia’s approach to French cooking ever really took hold here in the U.S. We pretended that it did because we loved Julia so much. We loved her for her jolly-jape sense of humor and melodious voice.

But half the time, we didn’t understand what she was wittering on about.

Now, Julia knew that her fellow citizens were mostly flimsies (her word for people who aren’t serious about food). But she thought that the key to converting us was to provide a step-by-step outline of the centuries-old techniques that the French learn like a language: how to make foundation sauces, how to do a roux, how to lay in flavor, how to be patient.

The blogger Julie Powell tried to cook all 524 recipes in Child’s encyclopedic Mastering the Art of French Cooking, in a single year. Some say it was a gimmick, but I say, hey, she deserves the fame — including the honor of having Amy Adams play her in the ensuing Nora Ephron film, Julie & Julia.

‘Fess up: when was the last time you cracked open Julia Child’s magnum opus and gave her recipes a try?

Food writer Regina Schrambling wrote in a post for Slate just after the film’s release, analyzing the problem:

Consider the boeuf bourguignon depicted so romantically in the movie… The ingredients and instructions for its recipe span three pages, and that is before you hit the fine print: The beef stock, braised pearl onions, and sautéed mushrooms all require separate procedures. Step 1 involves making lardons and simmering them for 10 minutes in a precise amount of water; seven steps later, the fat is finally skimmed off the sauce, which is either boiled down to thicken or adjusted with liquid if it’s too thick.

And this is considered an entry-level recipe….Even simple sautéed veal scallops with mushrooms involve 18 ingredients and implements and two pages of instruction.

TDN’s October theme

Still, if expat blogs are anything to go by, a Julia Child-like curiosity with France and French cuisine has continued unabated since Julia’s own time. There is no shortage of Americans (also some Canadians and South Americans) who have relocated to France and intend to stay for as long as it takes to learn the art of French cooking at some level.

Partly out of curiosity, partly out of jealousy, The Displaced Nation will peer into the lives — and kitchens — of several of these expats during October.

What is it actually like to make the Ultimate Slow Food your focus? It any less daunting because of living in France and adopting the French lifestyle? And like Displaced Hall of Famer Julia Child, do today’s expats have (or hope to have) a spoon in the soup back here: are they planning to stir things up and convert us?

Readers, do you have any questions you’d like us to explore on this theme? Vas-y! Let us know!

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to subscribe to The Displaced Dispatch, a weekly round up of posts from The Displaced Nation, plus some extras such as seasonal recipes and occasional book giveaways. Sign up for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

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The road trip and the teenage soul

2 Comments Posted by on September 30, 2011

Beginning today, Charlotte Day joins The Displaced Nation as monthly columnist and will comment on our themes from her third culture kid (Australia-US-UK) perspective. September, of course, was road trip month. Though Charlotte has yet to earn her driver’s license, the prospect of free time between high school and university has begun to fuel her imagination…

Sitting at my English boarding school desk, with English boarding school weather drizzling down from the sky outside my window, the idea of a road trip seems utterly foreign. While I’ve been putting together my application for English universities over the past week, which involves a disgustingly trite “personal statement,” the post-exam summer has been jeering at me from behind an ever-growing pile of books.

The road trip represents all of a stressed and stifled sixth former’s ideals, the first being absolute freedom. This freedom is born more of security than anything else — exams finished, hopefully a university offer in the bag, five whole months to dispose of, no looming responsibilities. The image of the angst-ridden teenager is romanticized and misguided: we do not seek malaise and uncertainty but rather comfort and certainty.

Evaluated in this sense, the road trip is akin to a ghost story. The pleasure we take in listening to ghost stories comes from the knowledge that, though the tale itself may threaten, secure reality encircles and protects us. Teenagers nowadays go adventuring in South America, more often than not supervised by charitable organizations and subsidized by their parents. Setting off into the wilds, they seek a future that doesn’t seem vulnerable to any current of chance. Rather, adventure is a brief detour from a pre-set plan.

I have often contemplated my own post-exam adventure in the form of a road trip across the Australian desert with one of my oldest friends. Yet, I am tempted to wonder, what is the point of venturing into the unknown, if only to return to the comfort of the known?

A true coming-of-age adventure would take courage — and would not end in merely turning the van around and arriving home with several memory-sticks full of photographs. That said, I do not cancel the possibility of driving through my native country — an experience that would very likely prove both enjoyable and “life-changing” in a tame sense. But my phantom road trip, eschewing tameness and security, is, undoubtedly, more interesting material for this column.

Let us begin, then, with the road. (I can’t say I know much about roads, save that hairpin bends on a mountainside are as hair-raising as country dirt roads are romantic.) Given that this is the Displaced Nation, familiarity with the territory is out of the question. I will forcibly displace myself — ruling out the United States, England and Australia.

Setting out to conquer … Western Siberia?

This still leaves a huge selection of countries — and having done the electronic version of sticking a pin at random in a world atlas, I have settled on Western Siberia.

Given I am a passionate Russophile and speak a modicum of Russian, my cursor couldn’t have landed on a better country. But confronted with the expanse of Western Siberia, it is doubtful that either of these qualities will be of much use. Perhaps it is telling that Google maps cannot plot a journey from Yakutsk, through Irkutsk and Krasnoyarsk, to Novosibirsk.

One dilemma instantly presents itself: where would I stop and spend the night? I would doubtless end up sleeping in the car for the vast majority of the trip, which brings us to the car itself. In my perhaps misguided road-trip fantasies, I had always pictured one of those old Volkswagen vans — slightly falling apart, squeaking along an endless highway.

But the prospect of breaking down in the middle of Western Siberia does not appeal to me. I must settle for a more prosaic Winnebago-type vehicle, and seek excitement elsewhere. And, as traveling through a wooded desert of sorts, alone, would be not only foolhardy but isolating, a companion seems necessary.

But who, of my sensible friends and relatives, would jump at the chance to travel Siberia in a Winnebago with an insane Russophile?

Given this journey is a child of my fancy, I will not scruple to add another fantastic fabrication: someone whom the power of affection has persuaded to join me on my ill-advised quest. In short, a boyfriend: thoroughly idealized, as a genuine boy in his late teens would prove a terrible nuisance, stuck in a Winnebago from Yakutsk to Novosibirsk. (But of course, the conceit of the comfortable Winnebago is also absurd: such things are found with difficulty in Russia.)

Relishing the … monotony?

You may ask, save an endless parade of trees, open space, greyish vegetation, what would I hope to see? Just that, smattered with the odd town, church cupola, river, lake, blue sky, grey sky, sunrise and sunset.

Unlike Konstantin Levin of Anna Karenina, I do not see myself losing my heart to the Russian land, and devoting my future to wheat threshing. I would become an unfulfilled Chekhovian heroine, stifled in the provinces.

But I believe the fields must be seen, just as we must eat bread, where macaroons would bring more pleasure to the taste buds. Macaroons, far from nourishing, make us fat and complacent. Bread sustains, and makes us grateful to be alive and fed.

I would like to see land in all its endless, characterless glory, to drive from sunrise to sunset, and to talk the night through (although not literally, as I would be loath to crash my Winnebago through exhausted inattention).

I envisage some sort of talisman, suspended from my rear-view mirror—and not one of those scented pine trees, seen so frequently dangling from the rear-view mirrors of American cars. Perhaps an Australian gum leaf on a string, as a reminder of my greater journey’s starting point, now eleven years in the distance.

After all, if I am not to return to the known at the end of this journey, I must bring a fragment of it with me, into the dangerous, the blank, the uncharted space, from which discovery springs.

Readers, any questions or suggestions for Charlotte, before she sets out on any phantom — or real — road-trip adventures?

img: Charlotte Day surveying Trafalgar Square in London.

STAY TUNED for Monday’s post, the first in a new series on the joys and challenges of being an expat in France and attempting to master French cookery.

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