American Onion Soup

I don't like to cook, which is unfortunate because I love to eat.  I can't quite put my finger on what it is about cooking that I don't like.  Maybe it's that I always think I'm doing it wrong.  Why do the recipes tell me it will take an hour when it clearly took me three and a half? Additionally, I think I'd like cooking more if there were some sort of guarantee that what I make would be delicious.  Otherwise, I whittle away three and a half hours (somehow) and my creation tastes like Tums-flavored cookies (which, incidentally, is not a joke - Matt once made me a whole batch of peanut butter cookies that tasted like strawberry Tums - and my polite sister ate them all.  Although, this wasn't because he did something wrong, per se.   He intentionally added the Tums to work as a leavening agent instead of baking soda, which he didn't have at the time.  Something about the chemistry behind the two being the same, so he knew it would work.  In the end, he was very proud of his scientific thinking, and I was very sad at cookies that tasted like science).

Needless to say, neither Matt nor I are great cooks.  Since getting married in September, my mom often asks me "What are you making your husband for supper?" to which I respond "Uhhh...... (silence)"  Since moving to France, Matt and I rotate three different dinners: pasta and sausage, rice and turkey cordon bleu, and vegetable soup.  After awhile, this gets boring.

Last weekend, while sitting down to a meal of pasta and sausage, there was a knock on our door.  Matt got up to answer it, and returned with a large bowl of homemade soup from our friendly neighbor Chris.  "She gave us this onion soup to eat," he told me.  Looking in the bowl, I saw the familiar onion and beef broth concoction with cheese on top that one can order all across the USA known as "French Onion Soup".  Apparently, our neighbor Chris, a Frenchwoman, only knew it as "Onion soup".  (Perhaps in other countries, there is a meal known as "American Chicken Noodle Soup".)

Needless to say, the soup was wonderful.  In the first place, I like French Onion Soup quite a bit.  More over, when you're accusomed to eating the same three meals on a rotation, it is amazing to have an unexpected new food option! 

The next day, I was disheartened by the fact that we would have to return to our usual dinner choices as we were out of soup.  "Wait a minute," I thought, "We have a whole bunch of onions and some beef bouillon.  I'm going to make French Onion Soup today!"

After looking on the internet for a suitable recipe, I began the process.  Cut the onions.  Saute the onions. (Incidentally, sauter is the verb "to jump" in French).  Add the beef broth.  Reading ahead, I realized I needed two key ingredients.  Bread and Cheese.  "Matt, could you go buy bread and cheese?"  I asked.  He agreed, knowing that the store is literally a 15 second walk from our apartment.  Unfortunately, it was Sunday afternoon.  No stores are open in France on Sunday afternoon.  And we live in Paris, not some rinky-dink little village.  P-A-R-I-S.  But it doesn't matter.  Nothing is open.  No grocery stores.  No bakeries.  No cheese shops (of which there are many).  After an hour, Matt somehow found a baguette.  But no cheese.  "But we need cheese!  It's French Onion Soup!" I whined, saying the words "French onion soup" as if they contained the word "cheese", making the connection between the two obvious.  "Ok", Matt replied.  After a second failed attempt at cheese buying, Matt returned, empty handed.  "There's no cheese to be had today, and I'm done looking" he growled.  "Ok, ok" I said.

As it turned out, the soup was pretty good even with out the cheese.  Basically, it became more of a condiment for the bread, but hey, what is soup really, anyway?  The fact of the matter is, I am now an expert chef.  However, I'm not sure that the soup qualifies as "French" onion soup.  It's true, it was made in France, but it was made by an American.  With no cheese.  A cheese-less American, if you will.  And so, our new, fourth meal in our rotation is now "American Onion Soup".

My walk to work

Recently, one of my favorite singers has become Adele, a young British singer-song writer who has enjoyed quite a bit of success in the past few years.  A few days ago, in a bit of a gloomy mood, I turned to www.youtube.com to play me some of my favorite "bad mood" songs, one of which is called "Someone like you" by Adele.  A typical pop music ballad, it features Adele's unhealthy and scratchily beautiful voice with piano.  Noticing there was an accompanying music viceo, I clicked on it.  As I began to watch the video (which is made up of shots of the singer walking down deserted streets), I thought "Hmmm, those roads look so familiar".  About halfway through the video, I caught a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower in the background, but I had already figured out that it was shot in Paris.  What had caught my attention wasn't so much that it was filmed in Paris, as many things are, but the exact roads and bridges that were used.   As it turns out, Adele was filmed walking along the exact same route that I walk when I go to my afternoon job on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays!

I've always thought while walking to or from work, passing the Louvre, Ile de la Cite, the Eiffel Tower, and the Seine, "Wow, this is the best commute I'll ever have."  I'm glad to see that someone else thought so too, and created a music video around it!

Selective Culture Shock

Tonight, as I swiped my magnetic apartment key in order to enter the building, I thought to myself, "I think there are some things about French culture that I will never get used to."  As I walked up the flight of stairs to my first floor apartment - because in France, the entry level is NOT the first floor - I contemplated my culture shock.

I can't get used to the fact that when I approach a store clerk to ask a question, it must be done in a deferential manner.  "Excusez-moi, Madame, " I have learned to say, "I'm so sorry to bother you."  Then, I wait for her response.  If it seems favorable, I continue with my question.  If not, I abort my mission and approach someone else. As an American, this seems ridiculous! Doesn't she want my money?  But, as multiple books and websites will tell you, it's not about the money.  In the US it might be the customer who has the power, but in France, it is the shopkeeper who reigns supreme.  This is something I just can't seem to wrap my mind around.

Another element causing me culture shock is that the French do NOT apologize, or in any way admit fault.  Example:  During choir rehearsal, someone invariably will sing a wrong note, or an incorrect rhythm.  When someone else makes them aware of their mistake, they actually refute it, explaining why they had committed an error - the music is too small, we had previously been in a different key and the music didn't properly indicate that we had modulated, etc - rather than just saying, "you're right."  As Matt so articulately put it once when ranting about this particular facet of French culture, "It's like they're five years old!"  By this, he was referring to their absolute denial of error, even when faced with facts and evidence to the contrary. In the US, not admitting fault is seen negatively.  When someone does not admit their mistakes, I usually assume that they're unaware that they've made a mistake, which leads me to believe that their learning curve is a flat line.  In France, however, to admit fault is to show weakness.  I absolutely can't adjust to this.

By the time I entered my apartment, I had decided that it is just these two things about the French culture that I can't get over.  As I began to put away the groceries that I had just purchased, I came across the bottle of wine that I had brought home.  The bottle of wine that I bought for 1 euro and 44 centimes.  The bottle of wine that I hadn't really wanted to buy, but the store was all out of the type that I usually get for 92 centimes.  "Well," I thought to myself, "I do like THAT part of French culture.  Wine is cheap."

Cheap wine then got me thinking (in more ways that one).  There are a lot of things that I really like and admire about French culture.  Other than the obvious plethora of museums, monuments, chateaus and art works of historical significance, I like the great planning that goes into everything they do.  The children learn to write in cursive, and never print.  They are taught to keep things neat and orderly, and that includes themselves.  France may be known for its high fashion, but even just taking the metro to work is a wonderful way to see some very beautiful clothes, which can all be purchased for a reasonable price.

While fashion, food, ad museums are all wonderful, what I really admire about French culture is the belief in the importance of community that they have, and the belief that individual acts play a crucial role in the creation of community.  Many Americans are adamantly against socialism, and it can not be denied that France is indeed a socialist country.  While I'm not much for politics, and don't wish to get into it here, what I have noticed is this:  The French help their poor, and they believe it is their civic duty to do so.  Certainly, the French are not overjoyed to see a bum on the street, however, they don't seem to have the attitude that many Americans have (myself included from time to time) of, "Get a job, whino!"  The French appear to think something along the lines of, "The poor will always be with us.  This will not change.  We should do what we can to improve their lot in life, as everyone has the right to life."  In fact, if someone sees a homeless person on the street who is in dire need - perhaps they have no blankets and it's very cold, or they are gravely ill, or starving - it is against the law for the passerby not to call the French equivalent of 911.  In addition to this, of course, is the universal health care guaranteed by the state.  As one French person told me, "It is such a terrible thing to be sick, or to have an operation.  One shouldn't have to deal with a heavy financial burden on top of that."

After reflecting on all of the things that I admire about French culture, I realized that I have not experienced one single bit of culture shock regarding anything that I view as positive.  Although occasionally it can be frustrating that the minute I leave my apartment, I have to speak French all day, I genuinely enjoy the challenge.  In realizing that I've only experienced culture shock regarding things I don't like about French culture - more specifically , things that I prefer about American culture - I feel much better about the whole thing.  After all, when you sell your old car and buy a new one, there will always be things you miss about the old car, even though you like the new one.  There's never going to be anything that is, in every single way, better than something else.  So, you just have to figure out what's important to you, and find something, someone, or someplace that is best in those particular things.  So, I guess it's okay that I've had to learn to maneuver through various levels of niceties just to buy a loaf of bread.  I never really cared about bread, anyway!