meats expectations

Saturday, March 15, 2014

aorura borelais (rovaneimi march 8th 2014)

Monday, February 3, 2014

Friday, January 3, 2014

So I never knew my biological grandparents. They, with everything else, were left behind when we came to the States only to be known to me through some old black and white photos. These photos of my maternal grandparents stood on the alter watching over our living room. Every year I was told to offer them food on the anniversary of their death following the Buddhist tradition. Afterwards I was to say a prayer with my eyes closed, head down with burning incense between my fingers. I never knew what to say. Did it really matter as the girl who spoke words in an unfamiliar language was probably as unfamiliar to them as they were to me.

My paternal grandparents celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary when I was in high school. We shared in the occasion through a video they sent documenting the event. I watched trying to mask my detachment to the vaguely unfamiliar scenes of vaguely familiar people in a world far away. I remember the poverty hidden behind the colorful flowers and grandiose ribbons of red and gold – colors of luck and prosperity.    At the end of the video my grandfather spoke to us, his decedents now in America. I don’t remember what he said but I remember his striking resemblance to his son. I watched my dad full of emotion making up for the fact that I myself felt none.

My paternal grandfather died not long after and I put on white clothes and chanted in temple help him move on to the afterlife.

I was first introduced to my husband’s grandparents when they unexpectedly dropped by on a hot summer’s day in Normandy as I was lounging around in in t-shirt and boy-short underwear. Later his grandmother would teach me how to knit. “This is all we did during the war. We had nothing. We couldn’t even go outside.” “Ah bon?” I said in response not knowing how to relate as I awkwardly moved from knit to purl.

“You should come to Houlme” my husband decided one day. “You should see it, at least once”. Houlme is where his grandparent’s live and have lived their entire lives. It’s a factory town and their house used to be lodgment for factory workers.

So it was decided that we would to Houlme to have lunch on New Year’s day. We drove through the Normandy countryside past the church where my husband’s parents were married and turned into the street where they shared their first kiss.

We pulled up to a row of red brick houses. In front of one of them stood my husband’s grandfather waving us in.

“Welcome” he said greeting each of us with the customary kiss on both cheeks “And Happy New Year”.

We followed him past the small garden and out of the grey depressing exterior into the bright and warm living area. Two worn reclinable sofa chairs on our left faced a tv on our right. The walls were decorated with clocks, paintings, and handmade metal art. To the far back of the room stood a long chest of drawers filled with pictures of their children and their children’s children and their children’s children’s children.   Wedged between an old lamp and some baby pictures was the album of our wedding I had given to them the Christmas before.

In the middle of the room was a dining table, already set just waiting for us to be seated.

But first I was offered a tour of the place. We walked into the back past the toilet, bathroom, and ended up in the tool shack.

“This didn’t exist before”, said my father in law motioning to all but the living room area. He turned around.“The bathroom was outside.” He paused and looked back. “It took us 6 months to complete”.

I stood with him and took in at what they, this family, had built together.

“Impressive” I said in one of those rare occasion where social convention expresses actual feelings.

The popping sound of the champagne cork brought us back into the living area where we took our seats to begin our first lunch of the New Year.

Monday, November 25, 2013

cucumbersone

So the other day I went to pick up a cucumber from our local grocery. When I got to the counter the cashier informed me, in an annoyed manner that I need to weigh my purchase to know the price so he could ring me up. Oh, I said, in my best polite French used to handle disputes in order to assert oneself without insult. Monsieur, is it not indicated that the cucumbers are sold by the piece?

Madame, this is a zucchini he informed me the irritation in his voice growing.

Really, I said as we both stared at the long cylindrical green vegetable that laid on the counter between us. It’s strange as it was in the basket marked “cucumbers” I remarked.

I can’t say were you go it but this is a zucchini, he replied as to suggest my entire story was suspect due to my inability to distinguish the fine nuances between a cucumber and a zucchini.

Defeated I went back only to find the basket full of long cylindrical green vegetables that look exactly like the one in question.

Exasperated and ready to move on with my life I picked up a sample set and returned to the cashier.

They are all the same, I informed the cashier.

Then they are all zucchinis, he informed me.

At this point I was ready to buy any long cylindrical green vegetable whether it be a widely cultivated plant in the gourd family Cucurbitaceae or a summer squash that belongs to the species Cucurbita pepo.

Ready to concede I opened my mouth only to be interrupted.

That, madame, monsieur is a cucumber! proclaimed someone behind me.

Complicated dissecting of the long cylindrical green vegetable in question ensued in which I could not partake due to lack of French vegetable related vocabulary.

In the end it was concluded that the vegetable in question was in fact a cucumber. I paid and left.

Cucumber in hand, I got back to the apartment and opened a glass of wine reflecting on how only in France could buying vegetables be such an exhausting experience.

That night husband and I had the following conversation:

Me: What's for dinner.
Husband: [looks in fridge] How about chicken and zucchini.
Me: ...
Husband: What?