Petite Confessions, Vicki Lesage [top books of all time txt] 📗
- Author: Vicki Lesage
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Well, assuming they understand each other.
“What’s he saying?” my mom asks, surprised at my two-year-old son’s language. “What are you teaching that boy?”
“Don’t worry, Mom,” I say. “It’s his word for garbage truck.”
See, in French “caca” means, well, “caca” but for some reason it sounds better in my French-American son’s accent. “Vroom-vroom” is his word for car or truck, since that’s the sound it makes. Pretty logical, actually.
The kid is obsessed with garbage trucks, so it’s “caca vroom-vroom” 24/7 around our house. Our apartment overlooks a busy street and we have the good fortune of watching the garbage men come by EVERY day. Leo never misses it. For someone who doesn’t ever seem to hear me when I say “No!” he sure can hear the distinct sound of the garbage truck pulling up in front of our building.
It doesn’t end there. If we’re out running an errand and see the garbage men, we have to pull the stroller over (not an easy feat among piles of dog poop and hordes of harried pedestrians) so he can admire his favorite workers doing his favorite job. You get a new appreciation for these dedicated employees once you’ve spent 10 minutes whiffing trash-truck air.
Yet Leo is oblivious to the embarrassment, the stench; he couldn’t be happier as the odor of rotten bananas and dirty diapers smacks him in his smiling face. We’ve done this so often the garbage men know us, waving as they pass.
“Grandma! Look at my camion poubelle!”
The smelly days have blurred into one another and before I know it, Leo is now calling the garbage truck by its correct name. Side note: How can the French make something so gross sound so beautiful?
“Be careful, honey,” my mom says to me on FaceTime, as Leo waves his toy garbage truck in front of the screen. “He’ll be better at French than you before long.”
“I think he already is!”
At that point, I’d lived in France for nearly 10 years and my son could probably hold a more coherent business meeting than me. Well, as long as the meeting was at the Annual Garbage Truck Convention.
“Why don’t we put the garbage truck away and read a book, sweetie?” I suggest. “Let’s show Grandma all your new words.”
As we read a book about baby animals, I’m reminded of an embarrassing slip-up I made when I first started dating Mika.
“Je t’aime, ma puce,” he had said. I love you, my flea, is what it meant. Surprisingly, this is a common term of endearment in the French language.
“Je t’aime aussi, mon puceau,” I replied. I love you too, my little flea. Or, that’s what I thought I’d said.
You see, many baby animal names in French are simply the adult name (e.g. eléphant) with an “eau” added to the end (e.g. eléphanteau). So I’d added the “eau” sound, thinking I’d called him a baby flea. Hey, it’s no weirder than a full-grown flea!
He burst out laughing. “Honey, that means ‘virgin’ not ‘baby flea’.”
Oh. Ahem.
“And what’s a baby seal called?” Grandma asks Leo from the iPad screen.
I cringe as I wait for the response. “Seal” is the unfortunately-pronounced “phoque,” so I can only imagine what a baby seal is called. Phoqueau? I really hope my son doesn’t say FU to my mom.
“Blanchon!” he shouts.
Whew. That was way better than I’d thought it would be.
One day, probably well after Leo does, I’ll learn the French words for all the baby animals. In the meantime, I’ll giggle about the ones I do know.
Virgin Banana Daiquiri
What do you get when you mix a virgin-name-calling mishap and the odor of bananas coming from the back of a garbage truck? Ew, actually I’m not sure I want to know! Oh wait, it’s this cocktail. Whew.
1 banana, frozen
2 oz. orange juice
3 oz. lime juice
1/2 oz. simple syrup
1 cup ice
1. Slice banana.
2. Add all ingredients to blender and blend until smooth.
3. Serve immediately, preferably before the garbage man arrives.
Makes 1 serving
“Would you like some more charcuterie?” Sebastien asked me.
“Why yes, thank you, that would be lovely,” I replied to my five-year-old French host.
Mika and I were dining at a friend’s house, where the two children—this perfectly well-behaved Sebastien and his older sister, Marine—were proving the merits of French parenting.
The meal was raclette. In case you’ve never had the good fortune of enjoying this amazing dish, let me explain: You melt cheese on a heated contraption in the middle of the table, then pour the gooey cheese over potatoes on your plate. You eat cold cuts on the side (ham, saucisson, salami, and every other way they’ve found to prepare pork) and sour pickles. With copious amounts of wine.
Please, you had me at cheese.
The meal requires a bit of work for the guest, because you have to slice your own potatoes, melt your own cheese, and dish out your own cold cuts. Plenty of adults bump elbows and come dangerously close to setting the house on fire. It’s not a meal I’d recommend for kids, certainly not the American munchkins you often see running around restaurants in the U.S.
Yet here was a kindergartener who could not only melt cheese without burning the tablecloth, he served his guests and ensured the entire night ran smoothly. He even drank his juice from a wine glass.
This entire episode happened before I had kids. I remember thinking to myself something along the pretentious lines of: “Americans just don’t know how to raise their kids. My children will be half-French by blood, and by virtue of being born in France, they will be naturally well-behaved. Not to mention I will never indulge their ridiculous whims or cave in just because they throw a tantrum. Honestly, parenting is only hard if you let it be.”
Oh how I wish I could smack my smug, younger self. Admit it, don’t YOU want to smack my smug, younger self?
I mean, how judgy could I be?
In case you feel the urge to slap me now, though, trust me—I’ve outgrown this naïveté. You are hereby cordially invited to stop by my house any time, any day, and you will see that my kids are not the well-behaved angels I was certain my A+ parenting would ensure.
You’ll be greeted with screaming children, barbecue sauce handprints on the wall, and dried up hot dog slices stuffed behind the couch cushions.
At least my kids will always say “s’il te plaît” before asking for more food to throw across the room, and “merci” after you foolishly give it to them. It’ll be a madhouse, I promise.
But we’ll have some wine for you!
As long as you don’t mind smudgy glasses and the unending chorus of the same kiddie song sung over and over again.
In fact, I’ve grown to quite like it.
Spiced Mulled Wine
A wintry dish like raclette pairs best with red wine. But after the meal, prolong that cozy feeling with some spiced mulled wine. Sitting in front of the fireplace is optional, but strongly recommended.
2 bottles red wine
2 cups water
6 cloves
2 cinnamon sticks
2 oranges, cut into chunks
1. Combine all ingredients in a pot and bring almost to a boil. Let simmer.
2. Serve with a slotted spoon to avoid clove and cinnamon sticks getting into the glasses (but keep them in the pot for flavor).
3. Best served in slightly warmed mugs to keep the chill of winter far away.
Makes 8-10 servings
Looking down the barrel of three months on strict bed rest, I was dejected. This hadn’t been in my pregnancy plans.
Saying au revoir to work was the easy part. The stress of office politics was part of the reason I was in this predicament in the first place. (Unfortunately the stereotype of French offices being lax and lazy didn’t apply in my case.)
Keeping my butt glued to the couch for 14 weeks straight, however, would be much harder. But that was my doctor’s condition in order to release me from the hospital after going into preterm labor with Stella at 25 weeks and 3 days.
“This is sérieux, Madame Lesage,” the obstetrician had said. “No moving around or your baby could be born early. No walking, no lifting, no housework. Nothing.”
I thought about my sweet 18-month-old son who was back at home with Papa. Leo had been a preemie, so I knew from experience that I needed to take the doctor’s warning seriously, lest my baby fall out while picking up a baguette from the neighborhood boulangerie.
And speaking of Leo (and picking things up), I wouldn’t be allowed to carry him until I was off bed rest. Papa would have to take over the majority of his care. That broke my hormonal, sensitive heart. But what choice did I have? Stella needed to cook a little longer and the best guarantee of that happening was for me to park my booty on the sofa and chill. Something this energetic workaholic was not known for.
“Welcome home, Maman!” my French husband shouted when I returned from the hospital.
“Maman, Maman!” Leo chanted as he cheered at my much-anticipated arrival.
I settled in on the couch as Leo came over to investigate the situation. He patted my tummy, which had gotten noticeably larger during the four days I’d been in the hospital. He poked my protruding belly button and said “Boop, boop.” All was normal, just bigger.
Then he noticed that my legs and feet were covered with some weird, black stretchy material. Compression stockings. Since I wouldn’t be moving much over the next few months, I needed these contraptions to reduce the risk of blood clots.
To their credit, the French at least offer the stockings in a thigh-high, lacy-at-the-top, midnight black variety, as opposed to the nude pantyhose my grandma wears. As if I could possibly feel sexy with my huge belly and fat butt firmly planted on the couch. But I appreciated the notion.
Leo poked and prodded at the stockings, giving them a puzzled look. He tickled my toes and pinched the fabric at the arches of my feet. There was some correlation between these stockings, Mommy’s belly, and her absence the past few days. His young mind couldn’t quite figure it out (hey, I was still wrapping my head around the news myself), so he settled for resting his head on my lap, facing my belly.
All the better to keep his eye on it.
Fast forward 13+ weeks and my beautiful baby girl was born at 38 weeks and 5 days with no complications. Looks like Maman was better at putting her feet up than she realized!
Bed rest had been bearable, Leo and I had found activities we could do together (like reading the same book 100 times), and my compression stockings reminded me I would one day feel sexy again.
In the meantime, I guess I’d have to settle (geez, twist my arm) for time spent with my two healthy babies, followed by relaxing foot rubs from my sweet husband.
Aperol Spritz
Goodbye frumpiness, hello sexiness! An Aperol Spritz is the perfect cocktail to have your significant other (or that sexy someone checking you out from across the party) saying oh là là!
3 oz. Prosecco
2 oz. Aperol orange liqueur
1 oz. soda water
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