It might surprise you to know that the best croissant we’ve ever had, was not in Aix en Provence, nor Paris, but San Francisco. We congratulated them. French butter, they said. It was perfection. Nothing added. No cookies or chocolate stuffed in the middle. No pistachio cream. Just a simple butter croissant. When things are done well, no additions are required.
And isn’t it the same with living? The best that we can offer is often without flare or fanfare. An open door. A seat at the table. An understanding that doesn’t require explanation, only a place, a presence.
We all know people who are struggling. Sometimes I think we imagine that we have to offer an answer. A solution. Most people really only want to know that you care — they want to taste the richness of your simple French butter — to step into the warmth of your heart’s kitchen, and simply sit down.
If you made a line of every bike ride. Every walk on gravel. Every stroke in one of 10,000 lakes. And if you swept that line through golden fields, and trudged it through snow that spilled into boots. Then climbed it through grades and classrooms. Danced in through gymnasiums. Drove it through the DMV. Set it into the sky and released it to an open door. That line would form the shape of Minnesota.
I learned pretty early on, what could be taken away, and what couldn’t. There is no physical home for me to go to in my birthplace. No scratches of growth marked on a wall. No cedar chests. Gravel driveways have been paved. Empty lots over-filled. Schools torn down. But I am not sad. Everything that has given me form remains. My heart will ever know the way.
My friend from the first grade, and friend still, gave me a Minnesota cookie cutter for Christmas. Yesterday, here in France, with the spring of a schoolgirl, I rolled the sweet dough and cut out the shape of my heart.
I am part of the roads that lead to and from here,
I never saw my grandma holding a camera. The thought of her turning down the flame beneath the gravy so she could take a photo of the meal to come would have seemed ludicrous. The kitchen stove was in constant rotation, as was the table. If she did have a matching set of dishes, I never saw them. And the thing is, we never wanted to match. We sought out our favorite color from the aluminum juice cups, or one of the coveted A & W Rootbeer bear glasses. And maybe the images that roll through my head are more vivid than any photo could ever be. Heart captured, heart carried. Ever.
Yesterday I made bread and raspberry jam. The scent of bread baking that wafts through walls and stairs is only visible from the back part of my brain, the part with strings that pull at the corners of my mouth. My fingers have grown accustomed to the heat, just like grandma’s, as I lightly grab the bread just out of the oven. I laugh as I place it on the cooling rack because we won’t wait. We never let it cool. I make the too-soon cuts and add the French butter that melts in cracks and nooks. Then the jam. A sweet river of rouge. When the taste hits my tongue and my eyes roll back, it is then I can see the strings that are pulled tight against my smile — a smile that struggles to keep it all in. This is the photo I didn’t take. Nor did I shoot the one where Dominique got up in the middle of the night for one more slice. But these are the images I share with you, and will carry with me forever, right beside my grandma’s stove, my grandma’s table, my grandma’s hands.
I don’t think it makes me a serial killer just because I like my dishtowel to hang neatly. (They seemed to imply this in the movie Sleeping with the Enemy.)
I suppose I could have gone either way. My grandma’s kitchen was always, well, I’ll say it, a mess. Dishes piled head high. Pots still on the stove. My mother liked a clean sink. The dishrag hung alone over the faucet, testing the humidity level of her apartment. It was a good day for her if she woke to a dry rag in an empty sink.
It’s funny what brings us comfort. An ironed dish towel hanging neatly in the kitchen is enough to start my day off right. And it doesn’t mean I love my grandma any less, I just know what works for me.
There was a tiny plaque by my grandma’s stove. Above the picture of a very pregnant woman it read, “I should have danced all night.” Perhaps my mother took that advice to heart. She never taught me how to cook, but she did teach me how to dance. Her kitchen recipes included “Slow, quick-quick. Slow, quick-quick. 1-2-3, 1-2-3. A heel and a toe and a polka step.” And so we danced in that clean kitchen, never disrupted by a boiling pot.
I suppose there’s a little of both of them in my French kitchen. I know my grandma is watching as I boil the fruit from our trees to make jam. And it is my mother’s hand that gives me the slight nudge to change direction as she dances me through my clean kitchen.
When my son-in-law washes his hands and leaves the towels in a heap, I don’t really want to kill him. But I would like to tell him a story. Of a chubby woman laughing, a tall woman dancing, both leading me in love.
It’s a crazy world. We all have to find our own joyful way. Do what works for you. (And don’t forget to wash your hands.)
You’ve probably seen it if you watch the Food Network, or Youtube. To test the new students or employees, the head chef asks them to make a French omelette. It sounds simple. I suppose we’ve all thrown eggs in a pan. What could be the big difference, right? I decided to give it a try. I melted the butter in the heating pan. Whisked the eggs with just a pinch of salt. Poured them into the hot skillet. Using a spatula, moved the eggs around, almost in a scramble. Then flattened it out gently. While the top remained a bit wiggly, I gently made the first fold. Then the second. And the third, rolling it onto the plate. Just a glossing of butter on the top, and as we say, “Voilà!”
Almost anyone can tell you a story that is plot driven. Fill it full of noises and sounds. Oooohs and aaaaahs! The big stories! The big events. But for most of us, our lives contain only a few of these. The majority of our stories are Tuesdays and Thursdays. Not holidays. Not the trips of a lifetime, but the ones to the grocery store. This is not sad. Well, I suppose it could be…if you choose not to find the beauty of the ordinary… you know, if you’re just going to throw the eggs in the pan…
But I don’t want to live like that. I want to Voilà even the simplest of tasks. The simplest of days. I want to be in love during the week. Be excited at home. Find the story along the gravel path. Don’t get me wrong, the Eiffel Tower is pretty spectacular. And it still takes my breath away, but I can say with joy, and certainty, so do the eggs in a pan.
She yelled, “Sur la table!” We all sat down for the evening meal. The conversation began immediately. It was when I first arrived in France. When they still took the time to translate. Dominique’s cousin said they were talking about food. I smiled and looked at the full table. “Oh, not just this food,” she explained. “You see in France, while we’re eating the meal, we talk about the last meal we had, the one in front of us, and the next meal we’re going to make.” Food is life here.
I was never really a fast-food American. Some of my favorite memories with my mom included the slow intake of small portions over a long evening in my apartment. I would buy the best of what I could afford. The tiniest cut of cheese. Bread from the Great Harvest. A bottle of red. We gathered in the memories of the day that moved between laughter and tears, back to laughter again, all tender. Then decaf coffee with a morsel of chocolate. There were no left-overs to settle, but for the occasional giggle. From my bedroom, I could hear her rustle in the living room. She could hear a giggle burst down the hall. This continued until I squeezed her air mattress next to my bed, and we finally went to sleep.
Even with this, the transition to the art (and it is an art) of French cooking and eating took some time. As much as you will find paint on my everyday clothes, you will find handprints of flour. Traces of sugar, or jam. I am a part of it now. The meal before. And the ones to come.
It was 105 degrees yesterday. Yet, I knew I needed to bake cookies. French cookies. I mixed the dough. Rolled it on the table. Cut out the circles. Used my fork to make the criss-crossed lines. Brushed with egg yolk for the golden color. The test cookie came out perfectly the first time. My mother-in-law lay passing just a short-drive away. The last meal was over. But our house is filled with the scent of butter, sugar and sweet memory.
Dabbing the crumbs with fingertips, not to miss a taste, we speak of what’s to come. The next meal. This is life. And it is delicious!
The scent reached me before I reached the door. I had seen it in cartoons — this wave that traveled through the air, curling at the end to make a hook, and then pulling you in. That was the scent of my grandma making shiskis — fried dough covered in sugar. Sweet and warm it gathered you in. In my five years, I had been to the bakery on the corner of main street, but I had yet to see how things were baked.
That summer I was taken to the Douglas County Fair for the first time. The baby barn. Little tiny pigs and cows. All explained away by “it’s a miracle.” My heart still in the lead of my brain, it was enough for me, and I believed it.
When my grandmother showed me the dough for the first time, I was amazed at how that runny batter turned into something so delicious. So golden. Birthed in that very kitchen! “Is it a miracle?” I asked her. “Yes,” she said. And I believed her.
I mentioned the other day the cookies we stumbled upon at a tiny boulangerie. I wanted to recreate the happiness, so I searched the internet for a recipe. The dough didn’t look right. I checked the recipe again and again. I made the test cookie. It was nothing like what I wanted. It looked like white rubber. I closed my ipad and channeled my grandma. She never measured anything. She tweaked. And so I began. Adding sugar. A pinch of salt. A little vanilla. More butter. Test cookie. Again. A little more butter. Test cookie. Closer. More sugar. Test cookie! Golden. Delicious. I finished the batch. Curled them on my rolling pin so they resembled the French roof tiles they are named for. My miracle.
I am currently re-reading “To the lighthouse,” by Virginia Woolf. She writes,“What is the meaning of life? That was all- a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years, the great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead, there were little daily miracles, illuminations… here was one.”
I don’t know what today will bring. But I do know this — there is a plate (temporarily) full of miracles on our kitchen table.
I made a small batch of raspberry jam last night. I’m surprised I even slept, with the excitement of having it for breakfast.
When the birds told me to open up the shutters, I donned my slippers and made the bed, quick as a wink. I clipped down the stairs and saw it — as red as Christmas morning. I brewed the coffee and toasted the bread (bread that I had also made).
“Look at that color!” I exclaimed to Dominique. The perfume of the raspberries lingered through each bite. I held up the small jar in wonder. Mid-song of my praises, I began to laugh. I was transported to my grandparents’ table. The floor above the countless jars my grandma had filled. With nine children, I can guarantee that there was never a time my grandma sat at the table, admiring her jam, saying, “Look, Rueben! Look at that color!” I’m still laughing.
It’s glorious to make things. I want to live in a world of makers. And we should take pleasure in it. Joy even! But before we get too full of ourselves, thanks must be given to those who made the paths. Those who didn’t have the luxury of the morning stroll, but those who labored so that we could!
My grandmother’s kitchen was always mid-boil, mid-brew. 9 children. 27 grandchildren. She didn’t have time to teach us recipes. She didn’t even have time to follow recipes. She just added, guessed, tested. So how is it that I remember the soothing rumble of her aproned belly, as I rode in the laughter of her lap. She still had the time. Took the time. For me. Perhaps the greatest gift of all!
So, I say go ahead and celebrate the morning jam! The morning coffee! The morning laughter! What better way to give thanks?!!!
We were waiting to be served. And waiting. Dishes were clinking and clanking from the chosen few that already had their meals. The Chanhassen Dinner theatre was filled in the dim theatre light. Table by table people were delivered their pre-play food. Of course all were appeased with a complimentary glass of wine. And then another. The kitchen must have been having a problem. No explanations were brought forward. We were getting so hungry, my mother and I.
We loved going to the theatre. We saw almost everything. It wasn’t just about the performance, we had a production of our own. The pre-shopping at Ridgedale or Southdale. The getting dressed while sipping skim vanilla lattes. Make-up. Hair. A dash of perfume. The excitement building. The drive to the theatre. Walking from the parking lot without wrinkling. Everything building toward the peak of receiving this meal. So the additional 30 to 40 minute wait seemed like a lifetime. The extra glass of wine was not in the schedule, and it started to take hold. My mom was getting chattier. Looking over this shoulder and that. “What could be taking so long? Are they ever going to serve us? I don’t understand. This has never happened before…” She couldn’t get the next line out without laughing — the “Don’t they know who we are???” line. Oh how we laughed. Laughed with wine. Laughed without worry. Laughed with the knowledge that we WERE important – the most important of all (at least to each other).
When the plates finally arrived, my mother napkined her lap, (a napkin that was already filled with laughter-tears). I did the same. She sat up straight. I followed. She smoothed out the sleeves of her ultra-white ruffled blouse. She was pure elegance, I thought. She balanced the fork in her polished hand. Lifted the vegetable to her mouth. She nodded in approval as she chewed. Swallowed, and said, “These are the best damn peas I’ve ever had!” I flung my napkin to my face to keep the laughter from snorting out of my nose.
I don’t remember which play it was. I’m sure it was good. But I will never forget those peas. My mother.
We think it’s the big things we will miss. I suppose it never is. Today, share something small with someone you love. A bit of your heart. A giggle. It may just last a lifetime.
You could see a cow from almost every window in my grandparent’s home. Maybe it was just too many reminders for my grandma on this particular day. I never thought of her having a middle name. I barely thought of her first name. She told me while sitting at the kitchen table – it was Gladys. Her middle name. She said she liked it. I could see a bit of a twinkle in the eye that rested above her curled lip. She was thinking about something… And I suppose it was the first time I saw her not just as a grandma, but a woman. A woman of this world. And she looked beautiful. “But Elsie is nice,” I said. “Ah, it’s a bit too much like a cow…You can call me Gladys if you like,” she said. And her apron started to disappear. I smiled, knowing I had witnessed something so very special. She slapped her hands on her thighs. The apron reappeared and she went back to the sink. I grabbed her from behind, and I hugged, again, and for the first time.
At our kitchen table here in France, I sit at the chair that faces my little cow. I painted it years ago. It rests just over Dominique’s shoulder. All of my worlds, open, with each morning croissant. The radio was playing Cabaret this morning. Liza sang “I used to have this girlfriend known as Elsie.” My heart grins. For, I too, for just a brief moment had, not just a grandma, but a girlfriend…who let me in, well beyond the kitchen, inside her private twinkle.
