Joke's on me

April Fools Day has traditionally been the time for me to announce a fake pregnancy to my mother, who always believes me for a least a little bit, no matter how many times I've done it (which is what makes it so fun!). Since that perennial parental heart attack has become trite with overuse, in the past couple of years I've graduated to playing games with her heart in a different way. Last year I uploaded a series of pictures featuring my left hand sporting the various engagement rings of my coworkers. I never actually said I was engaged; people just drew their own conclusions.*

This year, the only natural thing to do was to break off my now real engagement-- at least for 24 hours. The time zone difference between France and the States gave us a major advantage, since at the time I posted it it was still March 31 on the West Coast. I immediately received a heartfelt message from my friend Ryan, who pledged to be there for me despite the ocean between us. But as the afternoon wore on people across the pond woke up and wised up, and within a few hours I had a number of comments on my changed relationship status from friends warning others that I was a big ol' liarpants.

Har har, hon hon hon, no harm no foul. Except here in France people don't seem to be as cruel to their mothers on April 1, beyond perhaps slyly taping a fish to her back (yeah, I don't get it either... but this is the same country where a flying bell delivers Easter gifts). So when my students saw my changed relationship status on Facebook, they believed it. And then they told their teachers, and their teachers believed it. One of my students confirmed to me this morning that I am the talk of the teachers' lounge, and when I poke my head in there Monday to get my mail I should expect a lot of sympathetic looks.

Thank goodness I decided against another pregnancy...

*The Dude ended up popping the question for realsies a few weeks later, and I had to swear up and down that it was da troof.

My next year's going to be total crêpe

Before we begin today, I need you to admire this insanely awesome sweatshirt I got in Paris at a store where everything was 10E or less:

The big print says, "South Dakota/ It's all yours/ School/ Master/ Scheludes" (yes, scheludes) and on the bottom left it says, "South Dakota Middle School." France, I love you so much sometimes it hurts.

OK. Back to our regularly scheduled programming. We learned on Monday that France doesn't celebrate Groundhog Day, but apparently the second of February plays host to its very own French fête. La Chandeleur has religious significance like pretty much every other holiday here, but secularly (and, more importantly), it's become the day of the crêpe.

Lore says you are supposed to flip your crêpes with a coin under your thumb, and if you're successful you'll be graced with prosperity for the rest of the year. Below is a photo essay of how my next 365 days are going to shape up:

That's right, my next year is going to be terrible and unprosperous because I can't flip a stinking crêpe. This one landed right-side up. Another legend says you're supposed to keep the first crêpe you make on the top of your armoire for the rest of the year, but I was so depressed at failing my flip that I had to eat my feelings.

A conversation about animals, translated for your amusement

Secretary: It's cold, no?
Me: Yes, I have much cold. But all the same, it pleases me to not be at home, where there is such snow and such temperature that is frigid.
Secretary: It's better in the summer. Even in the spring.
Me: Yes, I am in accordance. It's better for the promenading of oneself by the river. Listen, do you celebrate the little animal tomorrow?
Secretary: (blank look)
Me: In the United States on the second of February we have a celebration for the little animal who kind of looks like a rat, or a beaver, and he looks at his shadow. In English it's "Groundhog."
Secretary: No, here in France we don't celebrate animals. We mostly celebrate saints.
Me: This is true? I thought this animal was known by all the world. If he sees his shadow there will pass six more weeks of winter.
Secretary: No, in France we have some legends about animals-- for example, if you hear an owl sing and you are very sick, in three days you will be dead. Also, snakes. We don't like snakes very much.
Me: I am in accordance.
Secretary: Do you have an animal?
Me: I don't, but my fiancé's family has a dog who is called Ella. She jumps and she is a redhead. She is too cute and I love her.
Secretary: Me, I like cats. My cat sleeps with me in my bed every night.
Me: Yes, that makes you more warm.
Secretary: I think animals are more loyal than men because they will never betray you!
Me: I am in accordance...?

And.... scene.

My current fève collection stands at three

The Fête des Rois is a French celebration that merges two ancient traditions: the Roman Pagan celebration Les Saturnales and the Christian Feast of the Epiphany.

If you want more information about the historical significance of the celebration you can go here. But the most important thing you need to know is that there is a special frangipan-filled cake, La Galette des Rois, that is eaten throughout January. Inside this cake is a fève, which used to be a bean but is now usually a small figurine. If you get the slice of galette with the fève in it, you are crowned the king. In other words, this tradition is like a game. A game you can win. And I LOVE winning.

I went to Charolles to visit my besties last Thursday at the end of what the French would call a bad, dirty day. I broke the chain of my most precious necklace that I've worn every day for three years. I had one class that never showed up and I ended up waiting for them for an entire hour. Most tragically, I received the news that in three days I would have to temporarily leave my grand palace of a two-bedroom apartment and go back to the cell-- the tiny, cramped studio I lived in when I first moved here.

We got a galette at the local bakery and I made it abundantly clear to everyone that the only way my day would turn around was if I got the fève. After dinner, Thomas hid himself under the table (traditionally the job of the youngest in the room) and directed which slice should go to whom. This is done so the person cutting the cake doesn't intentionally give the slice with the fève in it to someone-- you can often feel it with your knife as you're cutting into a piece.

As Missy started eating her slice, she chomped down on something hard. Woe! It was the fève. I was devastated. But then, oh, but then, I chomped down on something hard too! There were two fèves, and one of them was mine! I won!

Bonus: When you win you get to wear a crown.

Fève count: 1

Two nights later Missy and I were at my buddy Suzanne's house for dinner. After a scrumptious meal of raclette (melted cheese atop potatoes and charcuterie), she busted out her own homemade galette. I again informed everyone of my burning desire to win, and tried to blast magic mind powers into Suzanne's daughter Elise as she covered her eyes and doled out the pieces.

Alas, the winning piece went to Elise's boyfriend. And the fève was a really excellent one too: Hermione Granger.

He insisted on giving me the fève, and I protested, saying he won it fair and square. He countered that he was the king, and the king could do what he wanted. As one of his loyal subjects I didn't deign to argue.

Fève count: 2

Suzanne then took out her extensive fève collection. She has one box for regular fèves (movie characters, a family of ducks, Vercingétorix), and one for those that are meant for a nativity scene (Jesus in a cradle, a donkey, the town lazy bones). She's been collecting them for awhile, so she has quite a few. I was in awe, and to use a new vocabulary word: "J'ai bavé d'envie." (I drooled of envy.)

Because she is one of the most generous souls known to man, Suzanne told Missy and me we could each have one of the fèves from her collection. Missy chose another Hermione, and I chose the town lazy bones because he's lying on a couch. I really miss couches.

Fève count: 3

Bonne année, 2011!

I can't remember ever having a good New Year's. I remember plenty of bad ones: the one I spent being a grossly underpaid babysitter; the one I spent alone watching The Hangover, taking a bath, and packing; the one I spent watching a movie about a Palestinian suicide bomber the night before flying to Israel; the one I spent fighting with an ex-boyfriend outside in sub-zero Minnesota weather....

But last night reversed that NYE shame spiral. Last night was awesome.

Nick and Kelly invited some of their French and American friends over to their apartment, where we feasted on my ever-present pear and goat cheese crostinis and toasted each other over Fruit Star Expresses, my love-magic-and-danger-filled signature cocktail brought out of a long retirement for the occasion.

At 11:00 we left clutching two bottles of champagne and plastic cups as we made our way to Montmartre via the métro. We were worried we weren't going to make it to the top of the hill by midnight, so we scrambled up the steep sidewalks and staircases as fast as we could until we arrived, panting, to the hillside just below Sacre Coeur.

A cheer went up at midnight, as the people around us lit their flares and firecrackers and fireworks. Our new French friends let the corks pop on the champagne, and poured a glass for everyone. We couldn't see the Eiffel Tower through the fog--the reason we had come up to that elevation in the first place--but that didn't matter.

In France, instead of kissing that one special person at midnight, everyone does "les bises." As I kissed the cheeks of my friends, old and new, French and American, and wished them a "Bonne Année!" I felt so happy, so lucky, so grateful.

Wishing all you Francey Pantsers a 2011 filled with health and happiness.

Francegiving 2010: The Turkey's Revenge

Last week I asked my students if they knew what was happening in America this Thursday. Blank stares. It's a big holiday, I hinted. Nothing. It's a big holiday that happens in America but not France, I said. Eyes glazed over. "It's Thanksgiving!" I stage-whispered. A light bulb went on over some students' heads, who turned to explain it to their still-confused comrades. "C'est Noel pour les américaines," they said. "Tout le monde reçoit des cadeaux." (It's Christmas for Americans. Everyone gets presents.) Where they are getting this idea, I do not know.

My favorite muggle Missy and I decided it was high time to show the Frenchies what Thanksgiving was really about. We planned a grand feast, and invited all our Burgundian BFFs: Suzanne and Christian; Baptiste, Bonus Jonas, and their parents; and Thomas, an English teacher at Missy's school.

Decorating tools at our disposal: seven sheets of construction paper, one black gel ink pen, and a pair of children's left-handed scissors. All things considered, I think the turkey turned out pretty well, despite his unfortunate feet and lack of gobble.

Missy arrived on Saturday so we could start plotting the next day's feast. After getting the necessary preparations out of the way (a viewing of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, natch), we set out in the drizzle for LeClerc, a supermarket 30 minutes away, on foot. We spent more than an hour finding and considering the most succulent ingredients known to Digoin. Whole turkeys wouldn't be available until December for Christmas, so we had to make do with turkey legs. It was just as well, really, since the size of my oven is better suited for elves than human beings.

By the time we had finished amassing all our other ingredients (50 kilos' worth, give or take a few grams), it had begun to rain in earnest, and the prospect of lugging all our loot back to the lycée was thoroughly unappetizing. We resorted to accosting patrons leaving the building, pleading with them to take pity on our feeble selves and ferry us home. One kindly gentleman at last relented. I've said it before and I'll say it again: God bless Diggy and all her lovely, non-serial killer, ride-giving inhabitants.

Our table may have had mismatching plates and a rather ridiculous clementine pyramid as centerpiece, but at least it had what was really important: wine.

We got up early yesterday to gather a few remaining items (such as scissors and construction paper for decorations), and then set to work cooking. We had to get a bit creative, as my kitchen here isn't home to the luxurious gadgets I'm used to in the States. In lieu of a masher, we overboiled the potatoes and used a pair of forks to get our mashed potatoes nice and creamy. Since we didn't possess a roasting pan or even a baking dish, we had to divide our turkey legs among three metal pans and constantly rotate them through the two oven racks to ensure even cooking. We didn't have tongs to flip the turkey, so we made do with half a plastic salad tosser and a slotted spoon-type instrument. We didn't have a beautiful cornucopia for a centerpiece, so we made a tower of clementines.

Our guests started to arrive at the all-American dinner time of 6 p.m., and since I don't have a sitting room they were forced to congregate awkwardly in my entrance hall as Missy and I made the finishing touches. They brought me not one, not two, but three bottles of champagne, some homemade crème de cassis, a bottle of Burgundy, and luscious chocolates. Nom.

This little elf oven is where all the magic happened.

With the call of "A table!" we ushered our friends into the dining room, and urged them to serve themselves, American-style. There wasn't a whole lot of room on the tiny plates for anything but the massive turkey leg, meaning we had quite a bit of leftovers. Over the delicious pear cake that Thomas brought, we went around the room and said what we were thankful for. My French was at a dastardly level all evening due to my nerves (mainly fear that the turkey was undercooked and I was going to kill everyone with salmonella), and I was feeling a bit emotional after the Burgundy and the champagne, but I managed to make it through my thanks for my family, friends, the health of the same, having such wonderful faces around my table, and the opportunity to be in La Belle France. A bit more heartfelt than last year's thanks for indoor plumbing and the fact that I'm a vertebrate.

Suzanne was thankful for Facebook, which had brought us together. Bonus Jonas was thankful for his intelligence. Baptiste was shy and said his thanks in English so half the table wouldn't understand: "I am thankful to be feasting my first Thanksgiving, and I hope to feast Thanksgiving next year in the United States." 

Missy et moi, Francegiving hôtesses extraordinaires

And with that, Father Thanksgiving swooped through the water heater and showered us all with maize and French's onion topping.

PS: My Thanksgiving care package from the 'rents was held up at customs and thus is arriving today, a wee bit late for my feast. If anyone has any ideas of what, besides sauce, I can make with a gigantic bag of cranberries I'm all ears.