French Kids Eat Everything Karen Billon (romance novel chinese novels txt) 📖

day.” I was thinking of school cafeterias back home, where kids always had a choice, although one that was often admittedly dubious from a nutritional perspective: between strawberry and chocolate milk, for example, or between pizza and hot dogs.

“Everyone eats the same thing, bien sûr!” replied my husband. I had already learned that the phrase bien sûr (“of course”) usually implied I had unknowingly committed some kind of social blunder about something that seemed blindingly obvious to the French.

“But what if the kids don’t like what’s being served that day?” I asked. This question gave rise to odd looks from the parents shepherding their children through the school doors.

“They go hungry!” Janine replied, looking impatient.

A story from Tra la lire (France’s most popular magazine for preschoolers) popped into my head. In the story “La journée du NON!” (The Day of Saying NO!), cheeky little Michel is having a “NO” day. He says “NO” to getting dressed and goes to school in pajamas. He says “NO” to eating lunch at the cafeteria (radishes, sausages, mashed potatoes, and ice cream) and then goes hungry all afternoon. Michel feels sad, but his little friends (who ate all of their lunch) don’t feel sorry for him, and neither do his parents. When I had first read this story, I had dismissed it as cruel and unbelievable. But I now realized with a sinking feeling that the French didn’t see it that way.

“But this is ridiculous,” I snapped. “Sophie only likes pasta for lunch. She’ll be starving!” This was true. Despite my best efforts, Sophie refused to eat anything but pasta at lunchtime. And it had to be made in precisely the same way: with olive oil (definitely not butter) and liberally sprinkled with Parmesan cheese. The fact that the local grocery store did not carry Parmesan had not deterred me from continuing to make Sophie’s favorite dish once we arrived in France. I was proud of my small triumph in charming the initially gruff grocer into placing a special order for “Sophie’s cheese.”

“School is about learning lots of things, including how to eat what is put in front of you,” replied Janine. (Note to self: Next time, don’t invite mother-in-law along for first day of school). I was cornered. The problem was that my husband and I had agreed that Sophie should eat lunch at school. This idea had originated with Janine. “Eating is central to French culture,” she declared soon after we arrived. “And Sophie will not make friends unless she stays to eat at the cantine.” So we had signed her up to eat meals there every day. At the time, it had sounded like a good idea. We had talked to Sophie about the cantine, and played it up: think of all the fun you’ll have with your new friends! Now I was having second thoughts. But it was too late to back down.

We walked down the hallway to Sophie’s classroom, where her teacher stood at the door welcoming the students. There was a long line, which moved slowly. As we got closer to the front of the line, I found out why. We watched as each child eagerly approached the teacher to be kissed on each cheek. Some of the parents kissed the teacher as well, whereas others shook her hand. This was accompanied by pleasantries about the summer holidays. After a few minutes, the child moved into the classroom and the parents gracefully retreated.

This was not an unusual scene in France. Se faire la bise translates as “to give a kiss,” but a bise is really more of a delicate brushing of cheeks with a vague kissing action made in the air close (but not too close) to the other person’s ear. I had a hard time with this, as I was brought up in a culture where your face was as private as your rear end: only a few very close family members have the right to touch it. But since everyone gives les bises every time they meet in France, I realized I had to start getting used to it.

Les bises made me nervous for another reason: they are unpredictable. When people meet one another in France, they may shake hands instead of exchanging les bises. Sometimes men kiss men, but sometimes they don’t. On some occasions, I was expected to kiss people I was meeting for the first time (mostly family), but with other people (even those I saw frequently) I never got past shaking hands. In some parts of France, people exchange only one or two kisses, but in other parts of the country, people kiss three or even four times. Sometimes, people start with the left cheek, but sometimes with the right. All of these decisions have to be made in an instant, based on a complex calculation about the relationship you have with the person, the location of the encounter, their gender, who else is with you, how much of a rush you’re both in, and some strange sixth sense about the social pecking order. I never quite figured out the logic.

All I knew was that you could get les bises really wrong. I had seen this with my husband. Soon after we met, we flew back home so that he could meet my relatives. My uncle John came to the airport to pick us up. In the arrivals hall, surrounded by people, Philippe did what comes naturally to French men: he gave Uncle John a big kiss on each cheek. John’s stunned look was promptly misinterpreted by Philippe. “Oh,” said my husband-to-be, smiling, “you must be giving three kisses in Canada!” As Philippe dove in to give another kiss, Uncle John ducked, and the two ended up in a locked-lip embrace.

Their relationship eventually recovered enough for Uncle John to give me away at our wedding. But bises still made me nervous. And they made Sophie nervous too; even with our relatives, she would balk, although she knew that refusing to give a