French Twist Read online

  Now that I’m on to them, I love watching French kids relating to their food, and this is where I find the most inspiration for picking up our fondness for food at home. Clearly, the little Frenchies are bred to care about their meals. In fact, a lack of culinary appreciation can even be used as an insult for kids. I was watching the movie Les Enfants de Timpelbach on an airplane once and laughed bits of omelette au fromage out my nose when one of the movie’s enfants insulted another with the line “Ta mère, elle est une végétarienne comme les escargots!” I’ve got nothing against vegetarians, but that put-down was impossible to resist. Is a non-foie-gras-eating mom the French equivalent of our “Your mama is so fat …” jokes?

  With my new bright attitude, I realize that I have a lot more than determination on my side. I’m not sure if Michelle Obama had the timeworn French routines in mind when she decided to keep fresh fruit out for her own girls to cut down on other, less wholesome snacks, or if Jamie Oliver visited any Parisian school lunchrooms before he set out on Jamie’s Food Revolution, his 2010 television show that aimed to improve the sorry state of American dietary habits (often zeroing in on our school cafeterias), but something good is clearly going on. Farmers’ markets are popping up across the county like bubbles in a nearly completed beurre blanc sauce, there’s a movement here to ban soda in school vending machines, “locavore” is an almost commonplace word, and even Walmart is pushing organic produce. Vive la révolution!

  * www.​culinate.​com/​columns/​deborah/​french_​school_​lunch

  Chapter Six

  Les Plaisirs Simples or The Gift of Less

  If you were at all alarmed by the difference in accumulation tendencies between expecting French and American couples, I’m sorry to report that these inclinations don’t stop when the baby is born. What with all the bribing, celebrations, and general sense of entitlement bred into our kids, they tend to amass way too much. And the worst part is that they end up playing with about 2 percent of it, give or take the odd treasured Polly Pocket.

  They don’t have the same problem in France. This is due to the boundaries and discipline the French are so damn good at instilling. Yet, just because one is aware of how something is done, that doesn’t mean one can do it. I understand the basic physics of how an airplane flies, but there ain’t no way I am pilot material.

  This is to say that, with two kids who thought it was a constitutional right to have their every material desire fulfilled, I needed tips on elegantly (or not) denying them. When Oona and Daphne were tiny, it was relatively easy to keep their hearts singing with twenty-five-cent trinkets from gum-ball machines and dollar-store knickknacks. But then they graduated to slightly classier and more expensive obsessions. Still, I would say to myself, What’s thirteen dollars for a stuffed otter when it makes her sooo happy?

  Well, that love of an otter has now morphed into the painful need of a Nintendo DS. All of a sudden, poor Oona is now hearing from us, “If you want something, you have to earn it.” Not long ago I actually heard myself say, “Money doesn’t grow on trees.” Out loud. It’s no wonder that this isn’t sitting very well with Oona: She has never been introduced to the concept of financial responsibility. It is not because we have tons of money to toss about; we just didn’t want to disappoint. For instance, every time my kids mentioned a dream toy when the holidays were rolling around, I would secretly put it in my Amazon shopping cart, telling myself I’d edit the list later. But I rarely did. For the past six years, this is how the negotiations generally went down:

  Me: Mac, I have to buy the girls’ presents. Come look at my Amazon and help me decide.

  Mac: Oh, great work, babe. They will love this stuff. I say just get everything. You know my theory: If we can possibly afford it, we should give them the best Christmas and Chanukah possible. Also, you don’t need to get me anything.

  Me: Totally. And don’t get me anything either. Here I go. (Proceed to checkout.)

  Not only would the kids end up with way too much loot, but Mac and I gave each other bupkes—a really bad way to keep the home fires burning, if you know what I mean. Up until now, the kids have never asked for anything extravagant (except for the traditional request for a pony, but I was easily able to explain that Santa does not roll with livestock). After speaking with French parents, I realized that our approach, although motivated by love and a wish to see our kids go gaga with glee on Christmas morning, has been irresponsible. On my last trip to France, I struck up a conversation with a French couple on the TGV (one of the fastest trains in the world). These parents of eight-year-old twin girls were on their way to meet their children at a grandparent’s house in the countryside, and I ended up describing a typical Christmas morning in our house. They were a bit scandalized. “Oh, I don’t know,” said the French dad. “You should not get them so much, I think. No. Maybe you are not helping them this way. You are just making people who want everything. This will not be so fun for anyone.” The French certainly are opinionated—but often spot-on when it comes to this sort of thing.

  What about Chanukah? My husband’s family is Jewish on his mother’s side. However, it was mostly his grandmother who kept the Jewish culture alive (and still does, with the Chanukah checks, alarmingly delicious brisket, and genius gallows humor). In the thick of his childhood, Mac’s parents were both practicing Sufis, regularly zipping off to meetings and meditation sessions with fellow followers of the philosophy. His dad was raised Protestant, and his mom’s family, while Jewish, were practicing atheists. That’s all to say that he celebrated both Christmas and Chanukah—so, similarly, with our kids we decided to throw it all in there. Double happiness! Fun! Eight days of Chanukah booty in addition to Christmas would ensure great childhood memories, our thinking went. I can now tell you what it does ensure: a stockpile of plastic crap in every corner of the house.

  I laughed one September when Oona came home from school ecstatic because she’d learned that Yom Kippur was coming up. “Mommy! I’m part Jewish, so I am supposed to celebrate. What do we get?” She dropped the subject when I told her she was entitled to fast for twenty-five hours.

  I remember exactly when my feelings of squeamishness about all this curdled into something much more rotten. In a conversation with Juliette, a French mother from Normandy, I asked, “How often do your kids receive presents?” She thought for a moment and responded, “Three times a year. They will get a present on their birthday, one on the last day of school—that’s a little something I do because they have worked so hard all year—and then on Chanukah.” Juliette was raised Catholic but her American husband is Jewish, so she converted, and they’ve chosen a side when it comes to the balls-out holidays. Balls-out here in the United States, anyway. My husband and I aren’t religious, but we do like the lively traditions. Still hoping that I wouldn’t feel like a complete hedonist, I asked Juliette to describe the types of presents she gives. “On the birthdays they get one nice thing, usually. My son wanted that video game you can hold in your hands, so that is what we got him.”

  “Um, anything else?” I had to ask.

  “Well, yes,” Juliette said.

  Aha!

  “His father’s family sent a big box of things from the States.”

  Deep sigh.

  Juliette’s end-of-school-year-blowout present sounded like something I would get my kids if they’d been tolerable at the end of a long drive—a game or stuffed animal.

  What really got me, though, was what she’d given her son for Chanukah the previous year. “He was crazy for this big, expensive Star Wars Lego set. So we bought him the set. I separated the pieces into seven bags, and we gave him one each night. Then, on the last night, we gave him the instructions so he could put it all together. He was so happy.”

  If I gave my kids partial presents, they would tie me up and poke me with the pick-up sticks that Oona demanded on our last trip to Target. Oona and Daphne’s expectations are way too high for that kind of parceling, and I’m not sure we will ever g
et there. But Juliette did make me reconsider the routine frenzy that went on in our house on Christmas morning as well as the letdown that always occurred when, inevitably, one of my kids sheepishly mentioned something they were hoping for but didn’t get. You kidding me?

  That’s the part I always blocked out. It was time for some unpleasant, honest introspection. Real talk, as it were. I saw our overindulgence as vulgar; these were not the values I wanted to pass along to my kids. There is a way to have great memories without guaranteeing the need of a new landfill every December 25. A little French bird (okay, dad) mentioned that in France they set limits on the gift-giving. So for the holidays last year my husband and I made an agreement—we shook on it!—that we would buy the girls three things each for Christmas (not including stockings, but I went old-school on those—candy canes, toothbrushes, and socks). We did the Chanukah candles every night as well, and Oona and Daphne each received only one small prize on the eighth night. Fini.

  The reduction of material offerings did nothing to shrink everyone’s enjoyment. It may sound illogical, but Oona and Daphne seemed happier with what they received and there was no discernible anticlimax. Who knew?

  Not all French families are as restrained as Juliette—who is financially very well off, by the way—when it comes to doling out the goods. Even so, most other familles françaises don’t even begin to approach the kind of material blitzkrieg that takes place in a typical American household during the holidays. When it comes to Christmas, the French tend to concentrate on the food just as keenly as on the gifts (which makes perfect sense for a country that spends more time eating than any other), and in many households the gifts are not exchanged until Christmas evening (again not surprising, as people in France also spend more time sleeping than do people in any other country).

  I can easily make myself merry in June if I think about Christmas morning, so I’m not about to mess with our schedule; I am just going to try to modulate the windfall a bit. When I’m feeling weak, I love to conjure up Juliette and her treatment of the Star Wars Legos. Last year, my nephew’s Christmas list had ninety-two items on it. If he played with each of them during his waking hours on Christmas, that would leave about ten minutes per present. I get dizzy thinking about such a whiplash playing pace. Oh, and I’m not saying that it is French style for multi-culti families to pick a team and ignore one side of the family’s heritage. I’m only advocating for some self-control all around. We are so intensely focused on guaranteeing that our kids’ dreams come true—even if those dreams involve bottling unicorn breath from an island made of rainbows—that we tend to lose our minds. I want my kids to remember the magic of affection and tradition around the holidays, not just the piles of plunder. And this year I think I’ll redirect some of those funds and get something nice for my husband.

  Certainly of note, by the way, is Pre Fouettard, French Santa’s manager-like sidekick. A bit of a disciplinarian, this character flies around with Père Noël on Christmas night, gleefully reminding him of the children who do not deserve presents because of some shoddy behavior. He sounds like a total dick, but I kind of wish we had one here.

  Of course, if I am going to redesign Santa’s parameters, I’m also going to need to renovate our Easter tradition. Instead of the resurrection of Christ, Easter has somehow become more like the rebirth of Christmas for my kids. Last year, their enormous Easter baskets still weren’t roomy enough for the mountain of toys and candy I tried to cram in. Then I had to go and ask a French friend, Marc, about Easter in his country: “The kids have the eggs and nice chocolate, and there are baskets, but it is not so extreme as I’ve seen for you in the United States. Actually, nowhere in the world is as extreme as for you. Oh, except for the Philippines at Christmastime.” All right, take it easy, Marc. And I’m not sure I’ll go with the flying bells that French kids are told bring on the goods (makes about as much sense as the Easter bunny), but I am certain that Monsieur Cottontail is going to chill out on the spoils a bit. From what I gather, the French focus almost entirely on fine chocolates for the kids. This I can do.

  Then there’s Valentine’s Day, another tradition of growing immoderation brought to American kids by Hallmark. I am going to have to stay strong—and French-ish.

  If you are tempted to pity Oona and Daphne here, don’t. They’ve been at sea in an ocean of extravagance for too long. I knew we had hit a wall when we experienced what is now known as “Lunch-Box Waterloo.” One day when Daphne was in kindergarten, a decorative flower fell off her beloved Hello Kitty lunch box. Because the girls get new lunch boxes every year, I assured her that she had a few backups for the choosing. I’d forgotten, however, that one lunch bag (super cute, with pink polka dots) had been committed to hold the birdseed for our parakeet, Marvin Montandon. When I offered two choices to the kid for replacing Hello Kitty, you would have thought that I was suggesting she carry her lunch to school in a bedpan. “But—but—but—that’s not fair! I want to have three more! That’s what I need.” At the risk of sounding all “I walked six miles uphill to school in the snow,” I used a brown bag when I was a kid—not a trendy twenty-two-dollar hand-stitched monogrammed satchel, or a customized “modular lunch box system,” or even, God forbid, something metal covered with lead paint, with a matching BPA-riddled thermos.

  Now, mercifully, we are deep into detritus detox, scaling back and talking A LOT about excess. The French don’t worry too much about lunch boxes, what with those five-course meals served at school, but when I looked into their approach to backpacks, I found that the same backpack can last a long time. You also don’t see many television characters and cartoons adorning their gear. If Daphne were French, she’d have to be sporting La Petite Mermaid on her back for the next four years.

  I received a surprise lesson in teaching the value of money from a French pal, Christiane, who lives on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. I happened to be over one day when her parents were visiting from Lyon. Both Christiane and her mother were engaged in a very serious conversation with Christiane’s eight-year-old daughter, Marie, who was dying for an American Girl doll. Marie looked stricken—I could tell that her dreams of acquiring a Kit Kittredge or a Julie Albright were being dashed—but after a long, hushed conversation, she wiped her eyes and gave both her mother and grandmother a kiss. Later, I pressed Christiane for details. What was the problem? “Well, quite frankly, that is just too much money for a doll. My mother would like to get her a present, and she doesn’t mind spending money—but how will Marie ever understand the value of money if we are spending a hundred and twenty dollars on one doll? It is really too much. This is not easy to explain to a child, but it is necessary. It was a big deal for her, but it’s also an important idea for her to understand.” Cringe moment No. 927 for me. When my four-year-old asked for an American Girl doll, I merely passed along the wish to her grandfather, who happily complied, as he was desperate for a birthday-present idea. (Note: This is my husband’s father, who I believe owns one pair of pants and saves on his water bill by not showering. Daddy Warbucks he most certainly is not—but no one stateside is immune to fiscal fever, particularly when there are kids involved.) It didn’t even occur to me that this was inappropriate or could be a learning opportunity for my children. Oona ended up getting one of these very dear—and, yes, very well made—dolls as well. The French are all about teaching the respect of money to their children, in private, because money is unmentionable in polite society. I felt like a bit of a boob after watching the care and responsibility Christiane brought to the subject. A few months later, however, my boob-o-meter flew way off the charts. That’s when Daphne took her Julie doll to a friend’s house, covered her with makeup, and gave her a haircut. I felt more negligent and profligate than ever.

  Christiane’s example has really stuck with me. I no longer hand out change from the glass jar in our kitchen every time my children ask for money, which happens often when they are deep in a fantasy game of “grocery store” or “library” (Oona,
ever the creative entrepreneur, likes to make her dolls pay fines). Daphne has no idea what a dime is worth, and I’m not even sure what she did with the coins I so casually doled out when she finished playing. We now talk about the responsibility that comes with money. It seems so obvious and important to me now, but this is the kind of thing that gets overlooked in our current child-rearing climate of “make them happy!” at any cost. Believe me, Christiane did not enjoy declining Marie’s request, but she did it in an attempt to create a thoughtful, conscientious person. Funny part is, the mother of one of Marie’s wealthy schoolmates ended up giving Marie her first American Girl doll—figuring the poor kid wanted it so much and needed it, really, for the girls to play together.

  The first time Oona asked for an allowance, she was three years old. I’m not even sure she knew what the word meant, except that it was something she should have that would allow her to get more things that she wanted. She must have heard about it at day care or in an episode of Scooby-Doo. This, of course, was well before we attempted to get French—so Mac and I thought the request was precocious and cute (made even cuter because she used to talk with a little lisp), and we ceremoniously gave her fifteen cents from that kitchen change jar every Friday, which she would dutifully transfer to her Hello Kitty bank. As she and now Daphne grow older, we’ve tried to make them earn the ever-growing sum (at around age five, Oona caught on that fifteen cents wasn’t getting her anywhere and most recently asked for five dollars a week. For doing nothing. At least I had the sense to deny that one). Regrettably, neither of my girls is tremendously fond of chores. And yet they thought a weekly handout was a privilege that naturally came along with being a kid. Sorry, lovies—not so in France!