OK, if I am going to call this blog "Confessions..." I have to confess something, right? So here I go....
When you move to another country, there are a lot of things that you don't know that the natives take for granted. I could not even give you an American example because I know how to operate here. Well, except maybe for Starbucks, but that's another blog. You need money, that I know, so I went to the bank with a French friend to open an account. It was kind of like going to the jewelry store here...a door inside a door. My friend opened the outer door and showed me how to buzz in to get permission to enter. I'm not sure what they use as criteria to let you in. There's just a glass door and the teller takes a look at you and then buzzes you into the inner sanctum of the bank. We must not have looked like bank robbers because they let us in. I filled out all the forms and got my checking account. I was told to come back in a week or so and get my checks. I guess they don't mail them, but that's OK . I lived across the street from the bank above the driving school, remember?
I went back to get my checks...like a big girl, all alone. When I got to the bank and pulled on the handle, the door wouldn't open.
Hmmmmm....today is Wednesday. It's afternoon. In my hometown when I was a little girl everything closed on Wednesday afternoon. That must be how it works here. I couldn't peer in the door...the glass was frosted. So I decided to come back tomorrow. Later my friend asked if I got my checks. "No," I replied, "the bank was closed. It's Wednesday afternoon. I pulled on the handle and the door was locked." He laughed. "You PUSH to go in! The only door in town that you pull is the Maison
de la
Presse and they have a sign saying "
Tirez" so you'll know." I felt so stupid! Then I realized...most of the time in the US you pull to go in and push to go out. Think about it. We very kindly
accommodate the shoppers who are laden down with packages. Maybe we should switch to the French system. I might spend less money.
I must admit that I don't cook much anymore. You probably wouldn't want my recipes anyway. I do make great collard greens, though. But that, once again, is another blog. So instead, I thought I would share with you one of the things that the French do so well and we can't copy no matter how we try...pastries. This is my favorite French pastry...a religieuse, which also means "nun." I never have figured that one out. It is a puff pastry with the most delicious custard filling inside. There's even custard inside the little topknot. I like the ones that are coffee flavored. You have to eat them a certain way by my rules. You must take the little topknot off and eat it in one bite and then you can start on the rest in ordinary fashion. You will think you have died and gone to heaven! Maybe that's why they call it "religieuse."
In France when there's company, the meals are gloriously l-o-n-g and require the changing of plates with the courses. It is necessary to have several sets of china for at least twelve or be prepared to wash dishes. Now please note that I lived in the country and NONE of my friends had dishwashers. It became part of the ritual for the women to gather in the kitchen at several points during the meal to carry out the process of changing plates.
Some of them were wonderful old dessert plates with different designs of fading flowers...those were my favorites. Some were very modern and reflected the puzzling attraction that the French had at the time for avocado green and bright orange...waaay too 70's for me...been there, done that. They reminded me too much of my harvest gold refrigerator in my first home...yikes!
Mine were white Limoges with wonderful grapevines complete with tiny grapes encircling the plates. I loved them so much that I actually enjoyed washing them by hand...the same pleasure I used to feel when folding my newborn daughter's tiny clothes fresh from the dryer. My apartment was over the auto-école (driving school) in town and I had to walk by the most fascinating little shop to go almost anywhere. Its display windows were overflowing with stacks and stacks of the most beautiful plates I had ever seen.
I could not pass by without stopping. I actually made a few purchases there, mostly gifts for friends. That was the most magnificent gift I could imagine. I bought what I wished I could have and was chided for spending too much. But I never bought anything for myself. The lady in the shop always waved and smiled. We practically became friends. Then I left when my grandson was born to be with my family. I wished I could pack up my plates and take them with me, but that was impractical. Besides, they have plates in the US, right?
But somehow it was not the same...those American plates. I have bought lots of plates trying to fill the empty spot left by my French plates but to no avail. It's kind of like that Krispy Kreme donut I had to skip when I was pregnant. We stopped by late one night when the "HOT DONUTS" sign was on and everyone got one except me. I couldn't have sugar. I don't care how many Krispy Kreme donuts I eat, I just can't make up for that time I had to do without...sigh. And so it began. I just can't make up for those plates I had to leave behind.
