Summer in Paris - Rue de Passy

As I mentioned in my last post, we left Milan and spent the summer in Paris while Vincent worked on an appraisal in the area.  We rented a furnished apartment on the Rue de Passy.  This is in the very chi-chi 16th Arrondissement.  It was in an ancient building with a wooden door large enough to drive through with a horse-drawn carriage.  In modern times a normal-sized door was carved into the entrance.

   

Our apartment was in a building like this with a wide door which was once used for a horse and carriage.

Once inside you found yourself in a large stone-paved courtyard.  At one time a wealthy family owned the entire building or maybe an entire floor.  Our apartment was on the second floor.  There was a dark bedroom, bath and kitchen in the front that gave on the courtyard.  But the living/dining room was a wonderfully elegant, high-ceilinged room decorated with period furniture.  There were three french windows that opened onto a hidden garden at the back of the house.  It was magical, like a secret garden surrounded by apartment buildings and we had access.

At this time I was 5-6 months pregnant.  For some ridiculous reason, we had acquired a Brittany Spaniel puppy.  It was undoubtedly my idea since I’ve always had a dog to share my life.  Bonnie was easily potty-trained because I could whip her down to the secret garden.  I spent hours down there, knitting baby sweaters,while the puppy sniffed and scampered. I also enjoyed taking long walks in the neighborhood and beyond.  What could be more wonderful than summer in Paris?

A Brittany Spaniel puppy...pretty irresistible!

I had obtained a French Passport and as a French citizen and soon-to-be Mother, I was entitled to Mothers Money through the French Social Security Administration.  Initially Mothers’ Money was to provide assistance to women whose husbands drank away their paycheck. The social security money was doled out to a mother each month.  There was a double amount in September  to help with the purchase of school supplies and in December for holiday gifts and treats.  To become enrolled, I needed a myriad of papers and stamped forms.  The process was tedious and frustrating.  There was no actual list of the documents necessary.  Each time I took the Metro to the maternity offices, I was told I was missing document  B.  When I went back with document B, I was told I was missing D. And of course those government workers were rarely patient and understanding.  There was always a long line of very pregnant ladies with bulging bellies and sore feet, waiting patiently for an hour or more.

The system was ludicrous if you think about it.  The government taxed Vincent, let’s say, 4,000 francs.  They spent 2,000 paying the government workers for shuffling the papers and stamping the forms, then they gave me back the other 2,000.  These funds were provided for married mothers as well as certified concubines.

Maternity garb in 1970s.  I had a yellow dress like this one.

Sometime in July, I invited my in-laws for dinner. I was in a real tizzy.  My father-in-law, André, was somewhat of a gourmet.  Or perhaps he just knew what he liked and what he didn’t.  Once when a dish did not meet with his approval, he pushed back his plate, threw his napkin on the table and stomped out of the room.  So this dinner would be a challenge.  I knew he loved a potato soufflé as a first course. I made up my mind I would prepare a perfect soufflé.

The next day I accosted my landlord on the landing.  She lived right across the hall.  She was a thin woman often dressed in a Chanel suit with pearls.  Her grey hair was pulled into a tightly coiled chignon.  Her grey eyes were clear and piercing, her manner reserved.  She was a formidable woman but I plunged ahead.  “Bonjour, Madame.”  We shook hands.  In French I said, “I need to prepare a soufflé for my father-in-law, who is coming to dinner.  Can you help me?  I need a soufflé pan and a recipe…etc.”  Her face broke into a warm smile.  She drew me into her apartment. An hour later I walked out after a cup of tea, with a recipe, instructions and a soufflé pan.

Now that I felt reasonably comfortable about the first course, I wondered what I would cook for the rest of the meal? I didn’t want to stress myself out.  So I bought a fruit tart from the pâtisserie, some green beans, a chicken and a can of Campbell’s mushroom soup.   This foreign contraband along with peanut butter, was hidden off in a corner in a minuscule supermarket down the street. I cut up the chicken, browned it, poured in a little white wine and dumped on the can of soup.

That night was a big success.  My soufflé was nicely browned on top with a moist interior.  But that wasn’t my triumph.  My persnickety in-laws kept raving about the chicken.  “Debbie, cette sauce est exquise. - This sauce is exquisite!  How did you make it?”  

I responded, “You know, a handful of mushrooms, a little wine, a little cream…”  That is how I earned my bona fides as a cook!

La Bella Sardegna

A beach in Sardinia; the water an exquisite aquamarine.

I spent the first month in Milan settling into our apartment and my new married life.  Vincent was working for the American Appraisal Company doing industrial appraisals.  He had a lot of work in and around Milan but some of his jobs took him out of town.  I accompanied him to Genoa for a few days on the Mediterranean and spent a week in Spoleto.  This town is known for its international art festival which takes place in June.  But this was March and it was cool and rainy.  I wasn’t able to enjoy the sights.

A view of Spoleto and its acquaduct.

During the Spring months, I was preparing for my Master’s Exam in French Literature. I was buried under in study notes, text books and copies of Lagarde et Michard. I had completed the course work the previous fall.  The plan was that I would return to Evanston, Illinois in late May to take the exams.

This series of books are a compendium of French Literature.

In March I learned I was pregnant, a happy surprise.   I was not feeling well and I was incredibly tired.  So after trying to work at my desk and feeling nauseated,  I lay down on the bed with a textbook propped on my knees.  But the next thing I knew I was fast asleep.  For a few weeks it was a constant battle.  

In late May, I traveled to Northwestern University and passed my written and oral exams.  Later in life I would be glad I had completed the degree. Shortly after I returned to Milan, we took off for Sardinia.

Sardinia to the West of mainland Italy, is the 2nd largest island in the Mediterranean after Sicily.

Vincent was assigned to appraise a petrochemical plant near Sassari.  We had a room in a resort-hotel on the coast.  We were there for a  about a month.  Vincent went off to work each day and I hung out at the hotel.  What a lucky girl!  I was grateful for the time to relax after studying for 4 months.

Our hotel was a vacation destination for the British.  Each week a new group of vacationers would arrive.  At that time there were financial constraints on travel for British citizens.  They were required to pay for their vacation upfront at home.  I believe there was a worry that too much money was pouring out of the country.

The tourists arrived at the hotel on the Saturday, pale and washed-out.  Two days later, they were bright red from the sun and sea breezes.  Each night they went nuts in the Disco, dancing and drinking.  I spent time on the beach, went water-skiing, read novels and took naps.  Each week, I made some short-term friends.

A View of Sassari

One Saturday we went to Sassari to visit the town.  On a street corner, we asked a man where the post office was located.  He had black hair, a swarthy complexion and brilliant blue eyes.  His coloring was reflective of Sardinia’s rich history.  It had been taken over by the Romans, the Vandals, the Spaniards, the Arabs and the Austrians to name a few. The fellow was an attractive mix of all these cultures.

He accompanied us to the post office and then gave us a short tour of the town.  After a stop for an espresso, he invited us to his apartment to meet his wife.  They were a young couple about our ages and we spent several weekends with them and their family.  Let’s call them Maria and Roberto.  Maria’s father was the local tax collector.  Need I say more?  He had a very nice apartment. Definitely a big man around town. We were invited there for dinner a couple of times.

A heavenly Sardinian Beach.

However what I remember the most was a Saturday picnic on a beautiful beach in a hidden cove.  Maria and Roberto were there with their brothers, sisters and assorted children.  For the first course of the meal, Roberto’s 12 year old brother took me by the hand and led me out into the rocky water.  We were wearing rubber beach shoes.  He was carrying a knife.  When we were out a ways the boy bent down and with his knife dislodged some shell fish which he cracked open and slurped out of the shell.  Then he opened one for me.  We ate several sea urchins and bivalves, our feet in the crystalline Mediterranean. That had to be the freshest sea food I have ever consumed.

After this sojourn in Sardinia, we went briefly back to Milan and then to Paris where we would spend a couple of months.  Vincent had an appraisal job there.  We invited Maria and Roberto to come for a week.  It was the first time they had ever left the island of Sardinia.  At home, they were big fish in a little pond.  But Paris overwhelmed them.  It was too big, too busy, too cosmopolitan. They were lost. 

I remember that they didn’t like the food or the wine.   However what they missed the most was some good broth!  We think of Italians and their pasta and pizza; but flavorful broth is also essential to happiness.

Here is a recipe for Stracciatella Alla Romana.  It is considered a special Christmas soup, but it is a simple heart-warming dish to enjoy anytime.  The essential is some really flavorful homemade broth. 

Stracciatella Alla Romana

Ingredients:

1 quart of delicious low-sodium broth

3 eggs 

1/2 cup grated parmigiano reggiano

1/3 cup dried breadcrumbs.

Salt and Pepper

Chopped parsley

Preparation:

Bring the broth to a boil.  Beat the eggs, parmigiana and bread crumbs together in a bowl until thoroughly mixed.  When the broth is boiling slowly pour in the egg mixture and beat with a wire whisk or a fork.  You want the eggs to break up into thin strands.  Boil for a couple of minutes. Taste and add salt and pepper to your taste.  Sprinkle in the parsley and serve.  

Washington, Torremolinos, Paris, Milano - What a fabulous life!

Il Duomo de Milano - a gaudy birthday cake of a cathedral.

I’m going to backtrack.  I’ve written about my life in Verona when we moved there in 1974 with 3 children, but Vincent and I had actually lived in Milan for a year and a half after we were married.  Marie-Juliette was born there.  In between these two Italian adventures, we returned to the Chicago area.  I feel blessed with the life I've had, the places I've been and the people I've met.

Vincent and I arrived in Milano after an international wedding in Washington, a honeymoon in Spain and three wedding receptions in Paris. 

Wedding with my parents and Vincent's mother who came over from France.  I made this dress with satin I bought at Sears for $25.  It was trimmed with Belgian lace.  I viewed it as a 1-day costume.

Torremolinos on the Costa del Sol.  We also visited Granada and Madrid.

Paris

These receptions were carefully orchestrated.  I wore the same turquoise dress each night and was introduced to more than a hundred people.   It was like being on stage or maybe Cinderella at the ball.  Each night, there was a wonderful buffet and many coupes de champagne.

The first night the country cousins (les Provençaux) and acquaintances of the lower social strata were invited.  The second night it was the upper class bourgeois and aristocrats.  The third party was for young friends and acquaintances of Vincent and his brothers and sister.  Of course, this one was the most fun. As I remember we danced the night away. 

After each event, the family sat around nibbling on the remains of the buffet and dissecting the guests:  what they wore, what they said and the latest gossip.  There was a lot of clever repartee, searing criticism and much laughter.  I began to get a feel for this Parisian family that I had joined. 

Milano - Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II - The Galleria has an ornate glass roof. Note the marble floors and Ristorante Savini.

Our furnished apartment in Milano had a large living/dining room, a kitchen, a bedroom and bath.  It was on the ground floor and had a balcony.  The complex included three 10 story apartment buildings.  A high wrought-iron fence surrounded the complex with a gatehouse and a portinaia (female doorman) who manned the entrance.  She was a major gossip and shared her personal woes.  I heard about her abortions.  She had a couple and I was appalled that it was so easy to get an abortion in that very Catholic country.  I also learned about my neighbors and their tangled lives.

Two absolutely gorgeous girls lived on one of the top floors.  I would see them walk by in full-length mink coats. They were kept by their sugar daddies.  The portinaia told me that they were allowed to have a social life but they were supposed to be available when their lover needed them.  One guy showed up on Saturday afternoon in a large, chocolate brown Mercedes with children in the back seat.  He would hand them a lollypop and tell them to be good.  Then he would pop upstairs for a quickie.

One couple with a little girl lived on the 4th floor.  The wife’s parents lived on the 5th floor and the husband’s family lived on the 3rd floor.  Every day they would have lunch with one set of in-laws and dinner with the other…lots of togetherness.  There was always much yelling, arguing and laughter when they exited the building.

We moved to Milano, the second week of January.  I was learning to be a house wife, learning how to cook and trying out recipes.  One day I needed some yeast.  I went to the supermarket and looked for a package of active dried yeast.  I couldn’t find anything that looked familiar.  A shop assistant asked me if she could help.  At that point I had practically no Italian.  I gestured and tried to demonstrate rising.  She looked baffled, then smiled and led me to the baking aisle and handed me a package of baking powder.  I smiled but shook my head.  How to explain?  I wanted to say that it was alive…not a powder.  I said “No, sono piccoli animali…vivo. ”  “They’re like little animals…alive.”  The young woman looked at me as though I was nuts.   She went over to the check-out counter and jabbered to another employee.  The two of them wondered what this weird foreign lady wanted.  Then after some more chatter there was an “ah-ha” moment. They both started to laugh.  My helper took me over to the refrigerated section and took out a cake of live yeast. “Ecco, Signora.”  “Here you are, Mam.” We all were laughing by then.  After that I had two friends at the supermarket who greeted me whenever I went in.

Our first evening in Milan, we went out for dinner to a local restaurant.  It was a white tablecloth establishment.  I particularly remember the Saltimbocca alla Romana. Saltimbocca means “jump in the mouth.” It’s a fast, easy and  tasty dish.

Saltimbocca alla Romana

For 4 people you need:

4 slices of tender veal scallopini

4 slices of prosciutto 

4 large sage leaves

4 tooth picks

1/2 cup white wine

Butter and olive oil.

Maybe some flour.

Directions:

1. Between layers of plastic wrap, gently pound the scallopini until they are very thin. Be careful not to make a hole or tear them.
2. Place a slice of prosciutto on top of each scaloppini.
3. Place a sage leaf on top of the prosciutto.
4. Weave a toothpick in and out of the leaf, prosciutto and scaloppini to attach firmly.
5. At this point you can lightly flour the scaloppini on both sides or not.  It’s up to you.  The flour would make a more opaque sauce.
6. In a large skillet melt a  couple of tablespoons of butter and olive oil until fragrant.
7. Sauté the scallopini a couple of minutes on each side.  They will cook quickly.
8. Remove the scallopini to a warm plate.  Add the wine and scrape up the brown bits.  Cook down the sauce. Sprinkle with salt and pepper.  You could also add a couple more sage leaves for flavor.
9. Pour the unctuous sauce over the scaloppini.  

Some crispy sautéd potatoes would be nice on the side.

An Earthquake, a First Communion and Our Departure

An adorable poodle puppy, perhaps with innate psychic powers.

“The 1976 Friuli earthquake, known in Italy as Terremoto del Friuli, took place on May 6 with a magnitude of 6.5 and a maximum Mercalli intensity of X (Extreme). The shock occurred in the Friuli region in northeast Italy near the town of Gemona del Friuli.” (Wikipedia)

The earthquake occurred at about 9 at night.  Gemini del Friuli is 100 miles away from Verona but the shock was fantastic.  That afternoon I took the kids to the park.  I was having coffee with a group of ladies.  Remember the fortune teller swathed in scarves?  She had a little black poodle that usually sat quietly at her feet.  That afternoon the dog was up and pacing.  It whined and pulled on it’s leash.  The clairvoyant looked at us all and said, “Something terrible is going to happen.” I felt my spine tingle. Apparently the poodle had similar powers to its mistress.  Or perhaps he was sensitive to tiny vibrations in the earth?

At nine o’clock, I was alone at home with the 3 children.  They were fast asleep. Vincent was in a car driving to a dinner with some buddies.  He told me later that he didn't feel anything. When the earthquake occurred, I was shook-up and scared. I knew we shouldn’t get in the elevator but I hesitated to wake the kids and carry them downstairs.  I remained frozen in indecision.  Outside people were screaming and streaming into the street.  I ended up doing nothing.  There was a short aftershock and then it was over.  That night and subsequent nights, hordes of people slept out in the street, afraid to enter their apartment buildings.  To this day I feel guilty about not reacting differently.  But things turned out well, thank God. 

Gemona del Friuli : The destruction was enormous and hundreds of people were killed.

Marie-Juliette received her first communion while we lived in Verona.  The mammas were all in a twitter about what the children should wear for the ceremony.  There was a lot of high-level discussions before the final robe was chosen for the girls.  It was thought that this one was elegante. (I thought Marie-Juliette looked a bit like a mini-nun. )

For the week before the blessed event, the children were expected to go to confession every single day so they would become accustomed to the confessional.  I remember sitting with my daughter at bedtime each night talking about her day.  She was in a tizzy trying to dream up a sizable list of sins for the next day’s confession.

Not the best picture of the kids.  We needed an iPhone.  Our dear friend, Carla acted as Marie-Juliette's sponsor.

As I’ve discussed previously, Vincent worked at Gelati Sanson but at some point he left that company.  Beatrice Foods needed him to trouble-shoot at another company they owned in the Veneto. It was an industrial bakery called Barzetti which still exists today.  This company made Panettoni, Pandora and Merendine (individual snack and chip packets).  At the time the little packets contained a cheap plastic toy.  My kids thought they were the hot thing. 

Just as we had bags of polenta, boxes of pasta and bottles of wine in abundance, we soon had boxes of Panettoni and cases of merendine snacks in our larder.

The Pandoro was invented in Verona and has a high butter content.  The Panettone has dried fruit.  They both are Christmas cakes.  

The Barzetti company was not doing well.  The cost system that was installed was not effective.  Beatrice was dumping in thousands of dollars but things did not improve.  Part of the problem was that this small company was competing with state-owned Motta and Alemagna that produced similar products at lower prices.

Beatrice wanted to close Barzetti.  But at first they decided to lay off 350 people to save money.  It was nearly impossible to negotiate with all interested parties.  These included The  Communist Party, The Socialist Party, The Christian Democrats and The Catholic church.  Every political group felt they had a stake in the game.  Eventually, Beatrice paid off the provincial secretaries of the various organizations. Then they laid off the 350 people.

During these negotiations, it was decided that the children and I should move to Brussels, the location of Beatrice Foods’ european office.  I spoke earlier about the rash of kidnappings that occured in Italy at that time. There was some concern for our safety.  Within a short time we were moved to Waterloo, Belgium, a suburb of Bruxelles.

La Grande Place in Bruxelles festooned with flowers.

Family, Friends and Food

As I consider my previous posts, I realize that a meal shared with friends is a repetitive theme. As social animals, we delight in the communal breaking of bread.  Family birthdays, wedding receptions, holiday Barbecues as well as intimate dinners with a paramour are hallowed moments in life.  No wonder Jesus celebrated his leave-taking through the last supper.

We had many meals with friends and acquaintances while living in Verona.  Many Sundays we went to a restaurant in the foothills in Colognola ai Colli with a large group of friends...maybe 5 or 6 couples with their children.  We would partake of a lengthy Sunday dinner with lots of good conversation and laughter.  In front of the restaurant was a large esplanade where the children would play between courses.  I liked the fact that children were welcomed by all the guests. Nobody got up-tight about proper etiquette for children: to be seen but not heard.  Babies were passed from one set of arms to another.  Toddlers would toddle from table to table. Older children would giggle and cry and be consoled.  The restaurant was noisy and happy.

Friends on a Sunday outing.

Marie-Juliette and Charles at the farm house. 

Chris on a Sunday jaunt.

Debbie and friends.  Don't these guys look Italian!

Remember Signor C. and his wife who included us in many get-togethers at their ancient farm house?  

Me, children Signora, Signor C. and their daughter.

One year we received an invitation for lunch, the weekend of All-Saints Day in October. Traditionally this is a somber occasion as one remembers the dearly departed. People visit cemeteries and decorate graves. 

An Italian Cemetery.

The meal that day should be frugal and austere, in remembrance of the dead.  On this occasion there was the usual grilled polenta and plenty of wine, but maybe not the best wine since it was All Saints Day.  Twenty-five or thirty people were gathered around the ancient table.  I remember two dishes. One was an onion sauce on whole wheat pasta.  The sliced onions were cooked very slowly in a large quantity of olive oil for a couple of hours.  The resulting sauce was absolutely delicious.

The second dish was a large platter of steaming pork bones.  This was autumn and they’d killed the fatted pig and made pork chops and sausages.  The remaining bones were boiled in a flavorful broth and sprinkled with coarse salt.  We helped ourselves to a big bone and scraped the bits of meat off.  It was rustic and tasty.  I felt a little like Robin Hood and his men feasting in Sherwood Forest.

 “If you really want to make a friend, go to someone’s house and eat with him… the people who give you their food give you their heart.” – Cesar Chavez

RAW GUILT

One snowy afternoon changed Kate and Cici’s lives forever.  To alleviate the pain of guilt, they must navigate a road they never intended to travel.  This is a book of personal loss, gradual acceptance and ultimate hope.