Happy 1970s Birthday!

Yes, that's seven bowls of different kinds of candy, and I guarantee you, not one of them is filled with organic, fair-trade, artisan bonbons. That's what we're dealing with here folks. These are birthday parties before the health-food craze, before the advent of $800 rental and entertainment fees, before party favors  became as nice as the gifts themselves. The only proof that this birthday party didn't happen in the 1970s, when I was this age, is that among the favorite party games is "Just Dance" on the Wii, whereas we used to just dance on the floor.

 

How's a San Franciscan to survive? Just fine, it turns out, and I'm pleased to report the girls don't even eat that much of the birthday candy. Gigi's birthday party is today and, after the smack-down I received from throwing last year's sleepover half-birthday party ("Really," you're saying at this point, "you just brought that one on yourself"), we've kept it a French-ish, simple afternoon affair. Last year, I felt the need to do something really big and American, but this year I've Frenchified. We have a backwards-themed party with five good friends. Gigi doesn't like cake, so we buy éclairs from the local pâtisserie, and I can't say I'm complaining about how easy that is. Naturally, because it's a topsy-turvy, backwards, upside-down party, they eat their non-cake under the table, before singing "Anniversaire Mauvaise (Birthday Un-happy)..."

 

I organize a treasure hunt -- making up French-language clues, if I can toot my own horn -- and also a very popular backwards-dressing, backwards-reading-of-tongue-twisters relay race that I base entirely on a birthday party my sister threw for me when I was about Gigi's age.

 

  

 

And here's the proof that this birthday party didn't happen in upstate New York, where I was living at this age. Just look at this setting for the relay race!

Though the backwards party may have been complete and total plagiarism on my part, it is very novel for the French guests, whose main birthday party theme is "sugar". The French parties my girls are invited to tend to be simple two hour affairs with cake, sodas, and lots of candy. There is absolutely no pretense at putting out apple slices and carrot sticks. Only I would do something that mortifying. The girls point that I am the ONLY parent who offers milk at a birthday party (but really, what else would go well with brownies or éclairs?). The French send the kids off with party favor bags of mostly -- you guessed it -- candy. The San Franciscan in me can't quite bring myself to send home the children with sugar, so our party favors are things like colorful pens/pencils, pretty notebooks, little bracelets, stickers, that sort of thing. The kids all seem to like it, and for some reason this does not embarrass my own children as much as does my tendency to offer people snacks of crudités and hummus.

Photos of the dreaded half-birthday sleepovers. Note: Wii dancing, brownies, children in the bed but not sleeping, and green vegetables on the dinner table (quelle horreur!).

 

By coincidence, the same day Gigi has her birthday party, Pippa is invited to a sleepover birthday party of a French-raised American friend, inspired by Pippa's half-birthday sleepover party last winter (because yes, I was stupid enough to do that twice). Even though I will pay the price tomorrow, when Pippa is a tired monster, I'm laughing now, because it's somebody else's headache tonight! I fear I will become a pariah for introducing the American-style slumber party to their little French school.

 

 

Life-changing, Mind-blowing...

Fill in the blank:

A: My husband is away on a business trip in China. I have encouraged him to have life-changing, mind-blowing ____________ while he's there.

B: And while the cat's away, the mouse will play, so I take the opportunity to have some life-changing, mind-blowing ___________ myself.

Answers to above:

A: dumplings
B: macarons

I have always claimed not to like macarons. It should be noted I don't like Oreos, either. Or whoopie pies. Or buttercream frosting, all of which I find cloying and gritty. But at a friend's house this week, she introduces me to Pierre Hermé macarons. And even though I've always said I'm not that kind of a person, I must admit I not only love it, I just cannot get enough. More! More! The "cookie" part has a pleasant crackle as you bite through it, and then a sticky chewiness that's just right. But it's the filling that makes the biggest difference to me: intensely flavored, creamy smooth, and not too sweet. The flavor tastes like real salted caramel, or real raspberry, or real (you get the idea) and not fake-frosting.

This picture, by the way, is not of Pierre Hermé but rather of the only other macarons I've ever tasted that I liked. And that's because I helped make them! My friendly neighbor Loredana, who has a baking degree from le Cordon Bleu, invited me to watch, learn, and "help". So some of that handiwork is mine. But given how much time, effort, and expense it takes to make them, I think I'll stick to buying them on special occasions at Pierre Hermé, and turning up my nose at them the rest of the time. Though I think now that I've crossed that threshold, I may re-try the famous Ladurée to see if I give them my stamp of approval as well.

Anthony, meanwhile, has been gorging on dumplings, every which way. He's had them fried, steamed, boiled, salty, porky, seafoody, sweet, soup-filled, custard-filled, and -- of course -- Shanghai style. He's had them for breakfast, he's had them for dinner, he's had them late into the night. And he threw in some noodles just to spice things up a bit. Oh, and he's had them spicy. Here's a picture of who my husband has been seeing a lot of during his week away from the old ball-and-chain:

But still, I am relieved to report that even after the most mind-blowing dumplings of his life, he comes back to me in the end. He arrives off the plane with a gift of...bean-paste mochi dumplings.

 

Surviving Patrimoine with Children

Last weekend: les Journées de Patrimoine. This weekend: la Fête des Jardins. And here is the lesson learned: Forget maximing visits. Forget mapping out the best routes. Each day we pick one big thing that seems as interactive and kid-friendly as possible, that happens to be within walking distance, and the rest of the day is education-free.

 

Our first patrimoine day, we visit the grounds of la Garde Républicaine (the Guard of the Republic), which just happens to be across a bridge from our island, towards the Bastille. At first, we walk into a museum of the history of the Guard's uniforms, and the girls give me the stink eye. But then we are allowed to wander off freely, by the outdoor track and into the stables, and I am forgiven. The highlight is petting the horses and feeding them sugar cubes.

 

 

 

 

Watching the dressage practice is also mesmerizing, and we all agree that it beats watching the official horse show at Versailles. The only thing that would have improved the dressage demonstration is if they had been wearing some of the fancy costumes we just found so boring.

 

 

 

 

We also see a horse being shod. (I tell this to a friend, who hears "horse being shot" and wonders how that could possibly be family-appropriate)

 

 

 

 

Then, after dropping the girls off, I go out by myself to see a local 16th century building, said to be the former residence of Marie Touchet. There is a long wait, a longer lecture that includes an even longer list of French royalty and their wives and mistresses, and then a tiny courtyard with very old colombage, mullion windows, and century-old shutters. Thank goodness the girls aren't with me.

 

 

The second day of patrimoine is the day we visit the college des Bernardins and see the beehives. But outside the building, they also have a demonstration of stone cutting. Using the same simple tools used throughout the ages, the girls chisel and saw away at limestone. This is their second time cutting stone, and each time they marvel at how Notre Dame -- and, frankly, the rest of medieval Paris -- could possibly have been built.
 

  

La Fête des Jardins -- a weekend where certain gardens have special activities and some normally hidden gardens are open to the public --  sees us at the Jadin du Clos des Blancs-Manteaux in the Marais, conveniently located near excellent take-out falafel. Once there, we spend a couple hours using recycled materials to make plant-holders. And we get to choose our own little plants. Pippa takes sage, Gigi takes mint, and I take a long creeper of purple green beans. Given my track record with plants, this shows great optimism on our part.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

French Kissing

Chers amis,

The art of French kissing -- the bise -- that is. No tongue is involved in this kind of French kissing, but rather the bise or bisou is the cheek-to-cheek kiss for greetings, and also a common sign-off on friendly letters (much like we would sign "Love,...." even it wasn't a love letter).  You can plant them firmly on the cheek, but for more casual acquaintances, often the lips are in the air, making a "mwa" sound, while the cheeks are pressed together.

The American in me finds it funny to see Anthony cheek-kissing people, but yes, even men do it. It also feels slightly odd to have 11-year old boys happily come up to kiss me hello, since I can hardly imagine American boys of that same age who would be half as willing to give out hugs to adults ("ugh, you're embarrassing me...").

But how many kisses? That is the question.

Below, my friend Christine greets her mom Liliane in Normandy. Christine is not, in fact, flipping me the bird (British style) but rather counting the number of bisous with which she greets her mother -- two in their case.

Christine's brother-in-law is from somewhere else and goes with three, and I have a couple friends who go with four. The minimum nearly everywhere in France is two, so basically you just go in for the one, two, then sit there bobbing like one of those colored-water woodpeckers till you figure out if you should keep on keepin' on, or if you're kissing is done.

photo from: http://www.gettyimages.fr/detail/photo/drinking-bird-toy-on-office-desktop-side-view-image-libre-de-droits/200354337-001

 

The best explanation I have seen for this -- by far -- comes with a color-coded map. No, this has nothing to do with recent elections in France (Sarkozy vs. Hollande). Check out http://bigthink.com/strange-maps/210-french-kissing-map for explanations of this:

 

 

 

Bisous,

Kazz

 

 

 

Mainely Started

Just a quick note to let you know that I am finally caught up enough on la rentrée (back to school time) that I can blog about our summer in New England, in which Family by the Seine returns to the US to see family, charming New England towns, nature, old-timey Americana, and gigantic lobsters. The first post is up, with others to follow soon. As always, you can check the site itself or, if you're a lazy SOB, you can sign up to have all new postings sent directly to your inbox via e-mail.

Pommes et Miel

Pommes et Miel, for those of you who don't speak French, means Apples and Honey. And for those of you that aren't members of the tribe, the reference is to the Jewish tradition of eating apples and honey today, on Rosh Hashanah -- the Jewish New Year. As little as I follow Jewish traditions, I generally forget about the holiday and then realize only after the fact that I was coincidentally eating honey and/or apples just at the right time. In the DNA, perhaps? Or just seasonal abundance?

Either way, once again, I find myself hot on the trail of apples and honey just at the New Year. This time, it's thanks to the weekend of patrimoine, happening across Europe. In France, what this means is that select places of historic interest that are normally closed to the public are open for one special weekend. Last year we went to a historic mansion (Hotel Lauzun) on Ile St. Louis. Among other sites, we also toured the Hotel de Ville. And while some of that building is open on a regular basis, we also got to see its beautiful library, which is not generally wide open for browsing.

This year, Anthony is out of town on a business trip (coincidentally, in China, so that the one completely non-Jewish member of my family is doing the most Jewish thing of all: spending a Jewish holiday eating Chinese food). So I take the girls alone to a couple events, and on Sunday, we find ourselves at the College des Bernardins, which is a restored 13th century scholarly building in the heart of the Latin Quarter, now used for conferences and exhibitions.

Because of the journée de patrimoine, however, today they have a special visit and lecture by an apiculturist -- beekeeper, that is. It's intended for children and families and is, frankly, both fascinating and quite delicious! There are tastings of about half a dozen kinds of honey. In a shocking turn of events, Pippa declares them all too sweet, and asks for a cheese stick. Gigi's favorite is the chestnut honey, which is dark and intense. My favorite is the honey made by the bees from the College des Bernardins' own ruche (bee-hive). Since the nectar is collected from whatever flowers can be found in the city, I guess you'd call it officially Paris-flavored. In any event, the beekeeper and I discuss it rapturously, because it has a fruity, acidic tang to it that cuts the pure sweetness. Too bad the bees can't make enough for them to sell it, because I'd buy it in vats.

Among the many interesting factoids we learn go into just one of these small jars of honey:
-about 7,000 bee hours
-enough distance flown that if you added it together, it would circle the Earth's equator
-accidental pollination of several million flowers (Bees pollinate about 80% of the world's flora, including fruits and vegetables!)

 

 

While we can't buy our local Paris-flavored honey, we do buy a jar of creamy white "spring honey" at the market, and we also run across a Southwestern France specialty market where they're giving away apples. This afternoon as I am preparing an after-school snack for the girls and one of Gigi's friends, I realize I've got all the makings for a Rosh Hashanah treat. I break out two kinds of honey and three kinds of apples to mix-and-match. The interesting coincidence, too, is that Gigi's friend is half-Moroccan, and her mother and I had just been talking about how amazing Morocco was in World War II to not have lost or deported even one single Jew (the King's famous quote when asked by occupied France to denounce the country's Jews: "We don't have any Jews; we have only Moroccans.") It may be the best example of Jews and Muslims living together harmoniously, both historically and still in the present.

 

Funny enough, when her mother picks her up, she excitedly tells her not just about the New Year, and the apple and honey, but also that we served her bread -- with butter! She raves about what a great idea this is. Still funny to me, even after all this time, that in France bread and butter don't go together like, well, bread and butter.

So, we are very happy to share this treat with our Moroccan friend and to wish all, as they write it in French, Chana Tovah (a Happy New Year)!

 

So Long, Dong Sarong

The sun is setting earlier, the leaves are starting to fall, and it is time to mourn not just the end of French bathing suit season, but -- perhaps -- the end of a French bathing suit itself.

Yes, it's another posting that discusses the European men's Speedo, which I recently named the Teeny-Weeny Monokini. However, in an epiphany that hit me like a bolt of lightning, I realized I should have titled it the Teeny Weeny MANokini, not MONokini. But are the days of the Banana Hammock, the Grape Smuggler, the Nantucket Nad Bucket, the Ballbushka, the Nugget-Hug-It, the Manberry Pudding Pack, the Daytona Dong Sarong, and the Saint-Tropez Truffle Duffle really over? (In case you're wondering where I got these names: The Internet truly does have everything and more.)

The Manokini's monopoly -- the Manokiniopoly? -- may indeed be over (except, of course, at all public pools, where it is still the only legal option, bien sûr). There are some distinct pros and cons of wearing the "new" American-style bathing suit:

Advantages:                                                             Disadvantages:                                                            
Comfortable when dry, like shorts                           Clings to legs when wet, so possibly less            
                                                                                              comfortable
Covers more surface area --                                    Upper thighs cannot get beautifully bronzed
                 less sunscreening, less sunburning
More room for patterns and designs                        Obvious when it's last year's pattern           
Leaves more to the imagination                               Can't display one's manhood in all its glory
Looks hip, like a California beach boy                      Looks sloppy, like a California beach bum

 

It's not just for the young, but also the young at heart:

 

All of these shots are, indeed, taken this summer on French beaches (Bretagne to be specific). But if you feel like hanging out on a beach in France with a man in an Ouch Pouch is the only way to really feel like you're in Europe, you're still in luck...for now. 

 

Will pants with the crotch down by the knees be next? Uh-oh....too late.