Summer vacation in France

The summer house taken from the meadow.

On August 2, 2015, I posted a description of our summers in La Chapelle St. Sépulcre, France at the summer home of my in-laws.  Let me repeat the first few paragraphs to set the scene.

“La Chapelle St.-Sépulcre is a tiny village about 80 kilometers south of Paris near Montargis in the Loiret.   Montargis is known as the Venise du Gatinais due to its many canals. 

The house and its outbuildings were once the hunting lodge of Vincent’s great-grandfather.  The walls were two feet thick and kept the house warm in winter and cool in summer.  The main building was near the road, but was separated by a high iron fence and tall bushes.  Behind the house, to the South was a large meadow bordered by woods. At the time of the Allied Invasion this meadow was filled with the tents and campfires of the American troops chasing down the Nazis 

Meandering through the woods was a wide dirt path, l’allée.  To the East were tennis courts with orchards beyond. To the West was the “potager,” the vegetable garden.  The woods, the meadow, the garden, the orchard, all of it was surrounded by a sturdy iron fence.  This was the summer wonderland for my children.”

Back row: Hubert, Vincent, me, Laurence, Mère, Martine.  Front row: Kristin, Marie-Juliette, Jérôme, Charles, Olivier, Priscille and Christopher.

We were often there with my sister-in-law, Laurence and her 2 little boys, Jérôme and Olivier.  After breakfast the kids disappeared into the woods and played for hours.  There were no telephones, no TVs, few toys: just their imaginations, sticks, pine cones, leaves and flowers.  Laurence, Mère (my mother-in-law) and I spent hours just talking.  We gossiped about relatives and friends, discussed the children, the Catholic Church, French politics, Art, books and fashion.  You name it, we discussed it.

Marie-Juliette, Christopher, Jérôme, Charles and Olivier.

Depending on who was in residence the sleeping arrangements varied.  For a summer or two we had all four boys in one bedroom.  Needless to say, bedtimes were a trial.  At first there was a lot of giggling, throwing of pillows and eventually some crying.  Then one of the adults would go in and lay down the law.  Eventually we found that giving each child an Asterix or Tintin comic book would settle them down before lights out.  Are you familiar with these series?  In France the society at large knows every episode and character in these books.  Here are some titles translated into English.

Would you like to be in charge of putting these rascals to bed?

Relatives and acquaintances with nearby summer homes would come to play tennis and have tea in the afternoon.  There were trips to nearby Montargis to go to the swimming pool or walks in the woods.  Sometimes we drove to a fish hatchery to purchase a slippery, shiny trout for lunch.

Marie-Juliette, the reigning queen.

Charles and Chris loved this tractor.

One night Mère made rice pudding for dessert.  The children took one bite and pushed it away.  None of them wanted any.  So Mère scooped the remainder into a charlotte mold.  The next night we unmolded the rice pudding and covered it with chocolate sauce.  The kids were excited at the thought of chocolate cake.  They dug right in but when they realized they’d been duped their faces fell like little Pierrots.  I wish I’d had a cell phone to take their picture.  Laurence, Mère and I laughed till we cried.

A last memory:  Vincent was the eldest son followed by his brothers Etienne and Denis and his sister Laurence.  At the time of this story, Vincent, Etienne and Laurence were married.  We were all on hand when Denis brought his fiancée, Ines, to La Chapelle for lunch for the first time.  Sometimes conversation got a little raucous between Vincent and his brothers.  But that day we were told to be on our best behavior.

Everything went well until the cheese course.  Laurence had purchased a special cheese with a creamy interior.  She made sure to remove it from the fridge before the luncheon began so it would be soft. When it was time for the cheese course, we each served ourselves to a slice of cheese and passed the bread.  While we made polite conversation, Ines let out a little screech.  She was looking at the creamy interior of the cheese that had pooled on the plate.  It was alive with little worms who were swimming around.  Quickly my father-in-law grabbed the bottle of apple brandy he produced with the apples in the orchard.  It was about 150 proof.  We all drank a small glass.  The thought was the worms would never survive a tsunami of brandy. 

Lizelle, South Africa and La Torta di Noci

Aerial view of Cape Town.

Before leaving Milan and moving on to Brussels,  I wanted to mention my South African friend, Lizelle.  We met by chance at the park.  I recognized her as a fellow foreigner.  She was tall, fair and dressed differently than Italian women.  They had a tendency to be more sleek and chic.  Lizelle was a bit dowdy.

I was strolling around the park, pushing a baby carriage when I noticed her.  She was sitting on a park bench rocking a pram with her foot.  I took the plunge and said hello.  She smiled and seemed thrilled to meet an anglophone.  Her little girl was the same age as Marie-Juliette. In the months to come we did a lot of strolling and had lengthy discussions about babies, diapers, sleep schedules and the like. 

The two little girls playing at the park, Marie-Juliette on the right.

Lizelle’s husband Pieter was second or third in command at the South African Consulate.  They led a very busy social life and Lizelle often complained.  They attended parties almost every night.  There was the 4th of July party at the American Consulate, the Bastille day party at the French Consulate, Kenya’s Independence Day festivities and the Brazilian Dia de Tiradentes reception.  You get the idea.  Pieter and Lizelle were expected to attend every party.  She complained that it was always the same people making the same guarded conversation.

One evening we were invited to their home for dinner.  As it turned out it was not simply a friendly gesture.  It became evident that Pieter had an agenda.  After the dessert of canned mangos and a scoop of vanilla ice cream, he made a strong pitch to us to move to South Africa. At that time, apartheid still had it’s grip on the country. The whites wanted to maintain their dominance and they encouraged educated whites to move to South Africa to populate the country.  Since Vincent was an engineer with a masters degree, they offered him airplane tickets, a job, a house with a pool and servants to cook and clean.

Surfers at Muizenberg, South Africa. Wouldn't you think they would bump into each other?

In retrospect, maybe that was Pieter’s job: to recruit educated caucasians.  He had great pictures, strong arguments and a winning personality.  Nevertheless we didn’t take him up on his offer.

Before I leave Milano, I must mention a totally unrelated delectable treat:  La Torta di Noci.  In a salumeria located near the Duomo di Milano, I discovered this savory torta that consisted in layers of gorgonzola, mascarpone and walnuts.  It made a nice addition to a cheese board.  It was creamy, delicious and probably contained one jillion calories! 

This Torta di Noci looks similar to the  one I remember. Maybe I should try making one.

Elena and Beatrix - Two German Friends

Lovely view of Lake Lugano, Switzerland.

When living in Milan I made two German friends.  I’ll call them Elena and Beatrix.  Elena was from Munich in Bavaria.  She was short with dark hair and eyes. Her laughter was contagious, her smile genuine.  I passed her when I went in and out of of the entrance to our apartment complex. One day I got up my nerve and invited her to tea.  Her Italian was excellent and she helped me improve.  As I remember she had worked at Siemens in Milan where she’d met her husband, Nino.  He was from Bari in the south of Italy.  The town of Bari is sometimes called The Paris of the Mediterranean.

Bari, The Paris of the Mediterranean.

Elena told me stories of the American occupation after WWII.  Both of her parents were killed during the war and she was raised by her grandmother.   She told me they mainly subsisted on sauerkraut and potatoes. After the war, Elena lived in fear of the occupying American soldiers.  Her grandmother told her to run and hide if they came down the street.

Every couple of weeks, Elena, Nino, Vincent and I would have dinner  together.  First we would have language lessons.  I taught Nino English and Elena taught Vincent German.  After that we would have dinner.  In addition, the four of us went on excursions to Venice on the Adriatic or to Lugano in the Pre-Alps. 

Elena and me in Venice.

Elena visiting us in Verona with her little girl, Chris and Charles.

Another view of Lugano.

I met Beatrix through Elena.  They were acquaintances but not close friends.  Beatrix was tall, blond and perfectly groomed.  She wore her hair in a chignon and dressed in neat, conservative clothes.  When I had coffee at her house there were delicious cakes on pretty plates and linen napkins.

I don't have the recipe for this chocolate cake.  It looks pretty and delicious.

Beatrix was a perfect hausfrau in the German sense.  When her husband arrived home she had his slippers ready and dinner on the stove.   She and her husband seemed to be able to control their very existence.  Beatrix told me they planned to have a baby on  such and such a day, let’s say May 1st. Lo and behold the baby arrived May 1st right on schedule.  That’s German engineering! 

Gnocchi alla Romana

For one of our get-togethers, Elena made Gnocchi Alla Romana.  It’s served as a first course instead of risotto or pasta.  It’s made with semolina flour but I have made it with American Cream of Wheat.

Gnocchi alla Romana

Ingredients:

1 1/2 cups Semolina Flour (Bob's Red Mill)

1 quart milk

Salt

Grated nutmeg

1/3 Cup butter

2 Egg yolks

1 cup Parmigiana

1. Heat the milk, adding a few tablespoons of butter, a sprinkling of salt and some grated nutmeg.
2. When there are bubbles around the edge of the pan, slowly sprinkle in the Semolina, stirring vigorously with a whisk to avoid lumps.
3. When all the semolina is added, switch to a wooden spoon and continue to stir as the semolina cooks and thickens.  Cook for several minutes.
4. Remove pan from stove.  Vigorously stir in each egg yolk and 3/4 of parmesan cheese.
5. Spread the semolina out on a buttered cookie sheet, about 1/2 inch thick.  Cover with plastic wrap and let cool.
6. Heat the oven to 425 degrees.  Cut out rounds of semolina with a biscuit cutter and place the rounds attractively in a buttered baking dish.  Melt the remaining butter and pour over the semolina rounds.  Sprinkle with the remaining parmesan.
7. Pop in the oven for 15-20 minutes.

I like to serve this with the basic tomato sauce I described in an earlier posting.

Milan: New Friends and Bottling Wine

An energetic pedestrian street in Milan.

Milano:  Vincent and I met people in our neighborhood and through the church.  Vincent was a devout Catholic and during our marriage I accompanied him to church. I was raised Episcopalian but I’ve always been a doubting Thomas or a questioning Kate.

One new friend was slim, dark-eyed Anna who gave me Italian lessons twice a week while her little boys were napping.  I spoke French.  Spanish was my minor in college.  As another romance language, it was relatively easy to pick up Italian.  When the children woke up, I tried a few words on them.  They rolled their eyes and giggled.

We met Carla and Camillo at the beginning of our stay.  They were in their 50s and took us under their wing.  Their large apartment took up the corner of a building.   French windows opened onto a wide terrace that extended the living space.  One side contained an outdoor sitting and dining area shaded by an awning.  Ficus trees and flowering plants grew in profusion. The other side was the kitchen/laundry area where pots of herbs flourished under clothes lines.

Marie-Juliette on the terrace.

Living with Carla and Camillo were Carla’s mother, la Mama, and her Uncle, lo Zio.  We were often invited to their house for a simple meal or a culinary extravaganza.  Both Carla and Camillo loved to cook and they invited me over to participate or observe.  I remember learning about Baccalà, which is a dish made from salted cod.  They liked to make their own pasta and created a variety of delicious sauces. We made brandy-spiked Tiramisù and creamy Zabaglione. As a neophyte housewife I had much to learn.

A fine dish of Baccalà

Creamy Zabaglione

This picture was taken several years later when we visited Milan with the children:  Carla, Charles, Camillo, la Mama, Marie-Juliette, lo Zio and me.

In the Spring when Marie-Juliette was about 5 months old, we all went on an adventure into the countryside to buy wine at the cousin of a cousin’s vineyard.  We stopped in a village and bought crusty peasant bread, salami and cheese.  We continued on through the rolling countryside covered with spring-green vineyards. Our destination was a farm at the foot of a hill.  We were met by two short, thin men with sinewy arms and tanned faces.  Their welcoming smiles revealed browned, crooked teeth.  After some small talk we headed into a cave where the wine was stored.  For the next couple of hours, we tasted wine, ripped off a piece of bread, tasted wine, chewed a slice of salami, tasted wine, bit into a chunk of cheese.  There was a great deal of conversation about the vineyards, the wines and life.  

I had Marie-Juliette in tow so I was in and out of the cave and I didn’t want to drink too much. We had brought the stroller and I walked up and down the road enjoying the day.   After much deliberation, we bought several types of wine.  The owner filled large plastic containers with the chosen vintages.  At home, these were stored underground, in Carla and Camillo’s basement.  We were waiting for the propitious moment to bottle the wine.  There had to be a period of dry weather and a full moon.  When the perfect day arrived we went over to their house in the evening for a quick supper.  Then we all got to work in the large bathroom off the laundry.  The plastic kegs were put in the tub.  Working as a team we rinsed bottles, siphoned wine into them, plugged in the cork and slapped on a label.  It was a memorable evening.

Siphoning wine from plastic containers.

La Mama or Lo Zio were probably babysitting Marie-Juliette during this event. They were superb nannies. Often la Mama would stroke the bridge of Marie-Juliette’s nose with her thumb and forefinger.  The goal was to create a nose with character like Caesar Augustus or Marcus Aurelius. Heaven forbid that she develop a small up-turned nose when she grew up.

La Mama and Marie-Juliette.  La Mama does have a nose with character.

A Bouncing Baby Girl

Adorable Marie-Juliette in a sweater and bonnet knitted by her grandmother.

Marie-Juliette was born on December 1st in a large maternity hospital in Milan.  It was a public hospital rather than a private clinic.  At the time we didn’t know the difference.  The experience was very different from the births of her brothers in Evanston, Illinois.

Ospedale Macedonio Melloni today.

I arrived early in the morning at the Macedonio Melloni hospital. The baby was to be induced.  After being prepped, I was wheeled into a large room where 20 or 30 other women were in labor.  It was a very noisy place.  We were tended to by nuns.  Many of the women were groaning and crying out.  The nuns were shouting: “Spingere, spingere” - “Push, push.”  

The mothers-to-be were screaming “Aiuto, aiuto, mamma mia.  Dio!”  “Help, help, mommy. God!”  If they became too crazed the nuns came over and slapped their faces so they would put their energies into the birthing process rather than their histrionics.  Needless to say, this scared me to death so I never uttered a squeak.  I was hooked up to an IV which contained oxytocin to induce labor.  Nothing happened.  After about 6 hours a nun realized the tube was pinched closed.  Once they resolved that problem I went into labor and Marie-Juliette was born shortly before midnight.  Immediately after her birth they whisked her away to the nursery.

I was taken up to the maternity ward and wheeled into a large room with 5 beds.  I was given the bed on the far side by the window.  Some of the ladies greeted me sleepily.  In the morning I met my 4 roommates.  All of them had several children at home.  The woman right next to me was a mother of 9.  These women were wonderfully helpful.  They told me how to care for my baby and helped with the process of breast-feeding.  We had a lot of laughs and although it was noisy when the families came to visit I was happy to have the company.

When I was admitted into the hospital I was told to bring a mug from home, baby clothes, cotton baby blankets and my own nightgown. These items were not provided by the hospital.  Each morning a couple of nuns wheeled a large metal vat of cafè-latte down the hall banging on it’s sides with a ladle.  We got up, walked to the door and held out our mugs.  We received a ladle of coffee-milk and a couple of vitamin-laced biscotti. 

Our cafè-latte  in the maternity ward was a very different libation indeed.

The rest of our meals were WHITE.  Apparently, the old wives’ tale was that a nursing mother should only eat white food for the first week after giving birth.  So the hospital acquiesced to tradition. We were fed fish, rice and mozzarella.  However when my bedmates had visitors, they brought bottles of red Lambrusco wine which was supposed to be ideal for lactating mothers.

A glass of Lambrusco, an effervescent Red Wine from Emilia-Romagna.

The babies were kept in the nursery and were only brought for feedings 5 or 6 times a day.  They were wrapped up in their little blankets like sausages and piled on a metal cart.  The nuns would shout the last name of the baby and just about toss it to the mother who was waiting by the door.   After a half hour, they came back to pick them up.

Marie-Juliette in a pensive mood.

As I remember I stayed in the hospital for about 10 days.  My Italian improved and I was ready to embrace motherhood.