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

While we finished doing the dishes in companionable silence, I picked up a marker and made one change to my motto:

Slow food is good happy food.

9

The Best of Both Worlds

Quand on est tout petit

On peut cueillir des radis,

Des oignons, des échalotes,

Des salades et des carottes.

À cinq ans, on se hisse

À la hauteur des cassis,

des groseilles écarlates,

des framboises et des tomates.

Quand on devient un homme,

On récolte des pommes,

Des prunes et des mirabelles,

Les bras levés vers le ciel.

When we are very little

We can harvest radishes,

Onions and shallots,

Lettuce and carrots.

At five years old, we can barely reach

As tall as blackcurrants,

And scarlet redcurrants,

Raspberries and tomatoes.

When we are grown,

We harvest apples,

Plums and prunes,

Our arms raised to the sky.

—Radis et mirabelles (traditional French children’s song)

June had come, and summer had arrived early. We headed to the beach almost every day after school and slowly forgot about the wet, miserable winter. Often, Jo would come over to babysit after we had put the girls to bed, and Philippe and I would head down to the ocean. The sky was light until nearly midnight, and we’d walk past other strolling couples, up and down the wide seawall that lined the oceanfront. Many of the villagers would turn out—the fisherman from the market, the local pharmacist, Sophie’s teacher. Parents we knew from school would be there, and we would often run across our friends—Eric and Sandrine, Céline, Yves. We’d stop to chat and banter, usually about nothing much at all. These slow-paced, intimate evenings were some of my favorite moments in France.

I felt more and more settled. But I was still reminded, in countless little ways, that I was definitely not French. The most memorable incident of all started innocently enough, on one of our weekly visits to the farm. As I was leaving with Sandrine, Hubert stopped to tell us about an upcoming holiday: the National Day of Agriculture and Biodiversity (one of France’s many official “National Days,” which happen so often that I gave up keeping track).

“Why not organize something at the school?” he asked shyly.

“We could donate food from our farm, and from other local farms, and have the kids learn about what is in season at the moment,” offered Joseph. “The strawberries are just ripening!” he added, his eyes sparkling. It was as close to bubbly as I’d ever seen them.

I thought this was a great idea. Sophie’s class had been working hard on their little garden so the kids would have some fresh vegetables to share. They’d feel proud to host an event. And, if I was being honest, I would too. Used to volunteering at home, I had felt vaguely shunned at school. My offers of help had not been accepted. I hadn’t been invited to accompany the class on field trips—not even once. Maybe this would break the ice?

A week later, I was in front of the school on the appointed day with wicker baskets stuffed full of strawberries, fresh homemade bread, homemade jam, and little jars of crème fraîche (a dairy product that is best described as a cross between sour cream and clotted cream). I smiled at the waiting parents and grandparents and began setting out the food on a little folding table covered with a newly purchased Provence-style tablecloth (olives and lavender printed on a cheerful yellow backdrop). On a large tray, I carefully arranged some of the produce from the children’s schoolyard garden: tender garlic shoots, chives, baby lettuce, and tiny green beans that had been grown in the classroom (one of Sophie’s proudest moments was when she realized that her bean plant was the tallest in the class.)

It was about ten minutes before the bell would ring; just time enough, I decided, to offer an advance tasting. Putting a wicker basket on my arm, I advanced toward the first cluster of parents.

“Would you like to try some strawberries?” I asked.

“No thanks!” came the reply. Not a single person accepted. Slightly surprised, I moved on to the next group of parents.

“Strawberries, anyone?” I asked, a little more timidly this time. Only one person accepted, taking one small strawberry with an apologetic smile. The third group I approached was similar: no takers.

By this time, I was starting to realize that something had gone very wrong. I looked around at the other parents, expecting to see encouraging smiles. But most people were looking away, and those whose eyes I did catch seemed to have frowns on their faces. I had the sinking feeling that I’d broken another one of those unwritten rules.

Still, I felt silly giving up now. Picking out an older, grandmotherly figure from the now sizable crowd of parents, I walked over with my basket.

“Would you like to try a strawberry from the local farm?” I offered.

“Never eat between mealtimes!” she snapped, so fiercely that I jumped. Wilting, I retreated back to my table and pretended to putter, organizing and reorganizing the food while tears welled in my eyes.

Luckily, the bell rang and kids started streaming out the doors. They didn’t seem so resistant to the idea of snacking: the table was soon swarmed with eager kids who happily devoured the berries, cream, jam, and bread, and politely nibbled on the vegetables. But not everyone came to the table: out of the corner of my eye, I saw parents swooping in, grabbing their children by the hand and marching them briskly away, with their protesting offspring casting longing backward glances. I even thought I caught some glares from parents walking by.

This astounded me. That night, still bewildered, I related the incident to my father-in-law.

“Why do you think they were so upset?” I asked.

“Because you didn’t ask their permission to feed their children,” he replied gently. “And because many of them believe that you shouldn’t snack standing up, or eat between meals. You aren’t going to make many