on alone, slowly developing systems. He would often come home after a materials-buying trip so frustrated he could hardly speak. ‘People here just don’t want to give out information,’ he would fume. ‘In the States if you have a question you go in a store and ask the people working there and they fall all over you trying to answer it because they want your business. Here, there are a bunch of no-nothing Napoleonics working in the stores and they hear my accent and act like they can’t understand a word I’m saying even if they did know the answer.’
Over time Michael learned to avoid the larger stores, where prices were generally lower, and head for the smaller ones, which were somewhat more expensive but were more likely to have someone who knew something.
Within a few months of his starting work on the house the plumbing was functioning, the electricity installed. After we had decided which room would be my office Michael went after it, cleaned it up and installed enough electrical outlets for all my machines. Edith and I painted it one afternoon, and the next day I moved in. What a relief it was to move my office out of our bedroom in that tiny little house on the river. Now, we wouldn’t be woken up by those late-night faxes from the States.
I had two phone lines installed, arranged my file cabinets and Michael painted a lovely wood panel turquoise and laid it atop them as a temporary desk. He built bookcases and put strips of wood on the wall next to the desk. I pounded tiny nails into the strips and hung a bulldog clip on each one, so that I could hang up current projects to keep track of them. Once all the machines, from fax to answering machine to computer and printer, were installed I settled in to work.
From then on, the minute I dropped Joe off at school I went to work in my office. There was no heat in the house but if I got really uncomfortable I simply plugged in a powerful little space heater and aimed it at my feet.
I loved working in that clean room amidst the mayhem, with its window looking over the garden, the street and the side of the church. I would shut the door and revel in the white walls and the desk and get to work, stopping occasionally to look out the window. The church bells, which ring on the hour, quickly became a beloved sound. I came to distinguish the funeral dirges from the regular bells and whenever one began I would look at the scene spreading out before me, as the hearse arrived along with the florists and their massive bouquets. Far from being morbid the funerals are simply part of the church’s daily commerce, right along with the weddings which become a nearly daily event in the month of June.
I am a lapsed Catholic but I enjoy going to mass from time to time. I expected to go once in a while since it occurs within fifty yards of our front door, but somehow, hearing the hymns and organ music and occasionally the congregation praying was enough.
I do delight in watching weddings, though, and the wedding tradition in France calls for a civil ceremony at the town hall, which is up the street from us. Once that is over, the wedding party makes a procession to the church, stopping at the side door, directly across from my office window. When the entire party is assembled it proceeds inside. For large weddings a set of double doors is opened which affords me a view of the interior all the way to the altar. I can see the glint of candles and the outlines of everyone inside. It’s lovely.
Joyfully ringing bells signal the end of the ceremony, and moments later the bride and groom come out the front door onto the parvis, or square in front of the church, followed by the crowd and a storm of tissue-paper hearts, many of which float on the wind into our front yard. When Joe was small he loved to chase them all over the garden, carefully hoarding his handfuls. The wedding parties gather outside to await the gaily decorated cars that come to pick them up and whisk them away to what will be hours of eating, dancing and eating again. Some days there are two or three weddings in a row. If I’m in my office I see the priest finally emerge from the church at the end of the day and lock the door with a satisfied flourish before going on his way.
After my office, the next room to be finished was Joe’s room, then our room, then the bathroom and finally a temporary kitchen, which meant the house now had a working fireplace. All of this took a full year, during which time we stayed in our little cottage on the river. We continued to love it, often taking long walks along the river during summer evenings, when it is light until 11 p.m. I worked steadily on the book throughout, continuing to travel at least one week a month and sometimes more. That first year I drove the winding wine routes of Alsace, knocked side-view mirrors with another car in the Pyrenees as I went to visit a cheese-maker, shivered in the cold waters off the coast in Brittany during a visit to oyster beds, and had the thrill of harvesting mussels right outside of Bordeaux. After each trip I would return laden with specialties – bottles of fruity Alsatian Riesling and an assortment of sausages, an entire Ardi Gasna (Basque sheep’s milk cheese) weighing just over two pounds, or cannelles – custardy little pastries from Bordeaux. We tasted these as I recounted my adventures, making them real for everyone.
EDITH’S ENDIVES ROLLED IN HAM Les Endives au Jambon d’Edith
Every time I talk with Edith in winter, it seems she has just made and served this typical Norman dish. ‘Tout le monde aime ça!’ she exclaims each time – amazed, I think, that she’s hit upon a dish her four nearly-grown children like as much as she and her husband, Bernard, do. (Edith is no longer a vegetarian, as she was when I first met her.) Joe and Michael ate this dish once at Edith’s when I was out of town and both told me how much they liked it, so I’ve included it in my repertoire. Not only is it delicious, but it is easy to make as well. Serve with a simple red Bordeaux.
2 lb (1kg) Belgian endives (chicory)
21/2 cups (625ml) whole milk
2 dried bay leaves
4 tbs (2 oz/60g) unsalted butter
4 tbs (1 oz/30g) plain flour
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
10 oz (310g) thinly sliced ham, cut in 11/2-inch (4cm) wide strips
2 oz (60g) Gruyère or Comté cheese, grated
1. Place 3 inches (7.5cm) water in the bottom of a steamer and bring to a boil. Steam the endives until they are tender and have turned a flat blue-green, about 20 minutes. Remove from the steamer and let drain for several hours.
2. Preheat the oven to 450°F (230°C/gas 8–9).
3. Scald the milk with the bay leaves in a heavy-bottomed pan over medium heat. Remove from the heat, cover and let sit for at least 10 minutes. Remove and discard the bay leaves.
4. Melt the butter in a medium-sized, heavy-bottomed pan and when it is foaming whisk in the flour. Let the mixture foam and cook for at least 2 minutes. Whisk in the milk and keep cooking, whisking constantly, until the mixture thickens enough to coat the back of a metal spoon, 8 to 10 minutes. Season with salt and pepper and remove from the heat.
5. Lightly salt the endives. Lay the strips of ham out on a worksurface and roll 1 endive up in each ham slice. Lay the endive and ham in a baking dish with the end of the ham underneath, so it doesn’t unroll. When all of the endives are rolled in ham and placed in the baking dish, pour the bechamel sauce over all, making sure it evenly covers all the endives. Sprinkle with the grated cheese and bake in the centre of the oven until the cheese is golden and the dish is hot, about 30 minutes. Remove from the oven and serve immediately, being careful not to burn yourself.
Serves 4 to 6
HÈLOÏSE’S APPLES
