Marchand de Couleurs

In pairing food and life stories, there is one particular dish that consistently stands out throughout all my “adult life,” or more specifically, my last 30 years.

When I first arrived in New York City, coming from France some three decades ago, I had never heard of Matzo Ball Soup.

My only exposure to Jewish food had been at Jo Goldenberg’s restaurant in the Marais in Paris (it closed in early-2000 after serving Ashkenazi fare for nearly 50 years). A colorful joint catering mostly to Gentiles who wanted  a taste of the “real thing,” “authentic” and so inevitably touristy and featuring dishes that many local Jews thought were a far cry version of the simple delights and daily offerings of a Jewish family kitchen.

So the first time Matzo Ball Soup appeared in my life was upon my first meal with a new friend I had met two weeks before (and who eventually became my husband), at Fine and Schapiro, an Upper West Side neighborhood deli, and accompanied by his three brothers and one cousin (the poor guy! I realized since that he would have much preffered to ditch them that day…).

Little did I know the significance of the moment when I first got a whiff of the steaming, home-evoquing, mouth watering concoction.

The Soup, indeed significant in cementing our relationship, and Peter (who became my boyfriend), both jumped in my esteem the day Peter brought me a bowl of the hot and fragrant, Cure-All-Blues-And-Ailments Jewish Penicillin and set me up comfortably in his own bed less than an hour after I had two wisdom teeth extracted.

Multiple times followed when a flu, a rainy day, or simply the urge for warm comfort demanded a prompt serving of The Soup.

I’ll just name a few, some momentous and some less so: Coming home from the hospital 48 hours after the arrival of each of our four children; during a couple of  New York City’s paralyzing historic blizzards and hurricanes; and at the end of  many of the long hauls back from Europe and being greeted by an empty fridge.

But don’t get me wrong, The Soup has also been part of larger festive occasions: At Peter’s grandmother’s Passover Seders, surrounded by her large family, when we were still living in New York, and later, in our own efforts to follow the tradition, at our Seders at home in our predominantly Gentile New England State.

So in some ways it is, and I believe always will be, the cement and symbol for the bonds that Peter and I, our children, their school and college friends, and our  handful of close non-Jewish friends who have shared The Seder with us over the years, very much treasure and intend to nourish for life … with a bowl of the “Liquid Gold.”

I made a batch this past weekend and finished this plate right after I took the picture*.

*I would not dare give you my own recipe knowing that it will pale in comparison with the many delicious and “genuine” versions one can find online and which are almost as numerous as the different spellings of the word “Matzo.”

Earlier this month I went to Paris for a week, staying at my childhood and best friend Véronique’s apartment in the up and coming ultra cool 9th arrondissement, just a few minutes south of Montmartre and its old neighborhoods.

I know. How lucky!

Well, believe it or not, I look forward to these trips overseas the same way a Once-In-a-Lifetime visitor does, bursting with excitement and anticipation even though I used to live there.

When I am in Paris, I walk for hours, day and night, with or without a friend, revisiting neighborhoods where I used to live and discovering with curiosity how they have evolved and changed. I take it all in, look at everything, try, taste, listen to  as much as I can.

I walk into courtyards, ateliers, old apartment buildings, churches and anything that has an open door. I talk to people on the street, at the markets, in shops, galleries and cafes.

This is something I have always done ever since I was about 18 years old, out of school and living in Paris. It feels completely natural to me, I have never felt lost, unsafe or out of place, even in the various ethnic neighborhoods of the city.

Increasingly during my last few visits, I noticed that my attitude, my questions and my demeanor provoked a reaction I had never experienced before , and I should say to my dismay, it  suddenly dawned on me that I had turned into a “foreigner”. Man! Was I mortified!

My expressions where dated, my innate knowledge of how things worked and people interacted had been frozen at a time long gone, some 30 years ago and as a result I was OUT.

Little everyday things… For example, buying metro tickets did not invlove a teller anymore, I had to read the instructions on the darn machine! Or, when in a grocery store, I would spend hours studying the “new products”.

Even the language subtleties had evolved and escaped me. (What Is Verlan???)  It was as if I had stepped out of a time travel machine into a future version of my old city.

Of course, I was the only one noticing this… Until my friends started to tease me about my syntax and intonations. Oh My Shame!

Now I would argue that technically, my French is correct. But, as any Parisian would point out, it IS slightly off and dated. In other words, I can’t pass as a native speaker anymore…

I confess I am rather piqued by this.

Speaking with an affectation or pretending to be a local… Please! I can’t stand those people.

“Well, face it!” I told myself. ” You can’t fix it. So accept that you are an outsider and fine! Be ready to discover, learn, observe  and listen.”

And this feels just right! Now I am truly a wide eyed out-of-towner and enjoying it! (Okay, as long as I am not  too often confronted or reminded of it…I have my pride still)

In the next few posts, I plan to report on my last month’s trip and where my absolutely, genuinely and perfectly up-to-the latest Parisian Girl and Best Friend Véronique took to me to discover.

It has been so warm outside that I had to fish out my shorts and summer skirts from the storage bins in my barn. I normally do this after Mother’s Day when I finally pack away the winter boots, parkas and mittens.

So warm that I have been drying my bed sheets outside in the sun. So warm that yesterday I played catch just before sunset on wet and muddy grounds with my son. So warm that I have been driving with all the windows down and have been tempted to set up the deck furniture to eat outside.

But wait, I normally do this when it’s close to summer! Something doesn’t feel right.

Yes something doesn’t feel right when all this is happening and there are no colors in the landscape.

The trees are still bare, shrubs look burned, no tender greens there, no dafodills, forsythias, blue jays or cardinals yet and the grass is like straw.

It has been so warm that I wish for true signs of spring now.

And colors…

I found this at DesignSquish a blog that I look at frequently and love.

I drooled over these in Paris recently…

And I knew when I took this picture of the field behind our house last May, that it would remind me of spring one day…

MESSAGE TO MY PEOPLE

I saw this little figurine waving at me in an empty storefront window in Paris earlier this month..

I have been back for a week already but have had no time yet to sort out my pictures and stories from that trip. So this is just a preview and I hope a teaser too.

More on my trip to Paris soon

Every year I look forward to our Northern New England winter with its cobalt blue skies, sparkling pure white snow and air so cold, clean and crisp that just one lungfull  early in the morning makes me feel  completely – sometimes violently – immunized from all respiratory ailments. In one word, invigorating.

Well not this year so far.

This season is gray, damp, too mild to want to cosy up inside with a hot chocolate and yet cold enough to shiver when I get in my car, with no snow for skiing or snowshoeing but instead plenty of ice and slush.

Gray sky, gray snow, gray mood.

Today, in silent protest and defiance, I decided to wear my most outrageous scarf. A wild bundle of wool and colors, so fluffy and thick you want to bury your fingers in it.

I made it a few years ago but rarely wear it because it is a bit over the top  for a scarf or in other words “so me”. I really love it. Not in public unfortunately. Only in New York perhaps.

Then this weekend I made this one:

From a secondhand turtleneck sweater found at a local charity shop and yarn found under a forgotten pile of wool scraps in my studio.

My nineteen year old daughter called it a “Decapitated Octopus” when I asked her what she thought of my newest creation.

And then she put this one on. I had made it for her sometime last year.

“Okay. I know that ALL  who read my blog (fewer than a dozen to be precise) know me personally. So the following exercise is moot, but I’m liking it.

Since no one asked, I feel compelled to post some info about me. Every legitimate blog I have read on line has some blurbs about the author(s) and I love to read them. So this might make my blog look more real and official. To me.

So here are the answers to my FAQs from a recent self interview.

Who are you?

Four children between the ages of 26 and and 16 say:

“She’s our mother” ( I spare you the details like: “She’s crazy”, “forgetful” and so on.)

One guy I Love might say:

“She’s the love of my life” (For full disclosure: it’s my husband Peter), “she’s a Saint” (he’s sarcastic), “she makes a good apple pie” “her car has several dents” and more.

My parents and siblings would say:

“She’s the one who moved to the United States some 30 years ago.”

My friends (a handful) might  say:

“She’s creative, funny”, ( yes I heard them say that to me) “generous and too often she prefers that you come to her house than to go out”.( For more, see my friends). But then again they ARE my friends.

My enemies (I assume the feelings are reciprocal) : Bank tellers, super achieving competitive soccer moms, so called francophile social climbers, organized and productive people who have no sense of humor and compassion for human frailties,  will say:

“She’s forgetful, disorganized, antisocial, lazy”…and much more that I don’t want anyone to know.

Where are you from?

I grew up in France: Reims, Paris and boarding school for 8 years. I came to New York City about 30 years ago to attend School Of Visual Arts, met my husband and lived there with our four children for 15 years until we all moved to Northern New England 15 years ago.

What do you do do?

I remember that as a little girl I used to say: “When I grow up I want to be a Mommy”. So luckily I became one. That’s what I do.

I also sew, knit and work with textile and colors.

These for example:

Hat and Scarf Made With Old Sweaters

Fabric Necklace

Fabric And Old Sweaters Bracelets

 Why this blog?

I wanted to be cool and with it…

No. I love reading blogs of all kinds and I thought that   writing a blog would be a good, fun way to express myself and use my creative energy.

And the name?

To avoid procrastinating too much, and knowing it could take me months to decide on a name I chose two words picked randomly from the pages of a magazine: Squat and Clamor. I checked their “background” on Google and nothing came up. So it was easy.

How do you see yourself in 30 years? 

As an old lady who doesn’t take herself seriously.

And this morning I saw a postcard with the quote : “I’m still hot-it just comes in flashes”. I liked it. It could be “About Me” somehow.