La Boulangerie

written on Friday, July 15, 2011 at 3:12am 

A few years back, I found myself in love and  boarding a very large plane headed for France. In preparation, I had managed to take one semester of French which added all of about six words to my sad arsenal. I was resolved to being the quiet american girl at every gathering. 

Leaving my Chicago students happily to their summer, I arrived in the south of France in June and instantly fell head over heels. Toulouse with her beautiful bridges, rosy buildings and periwinkle blue shutters immediately claimed my heart.  I was fascinated by the outdoor markets and tiny windy roads, all of which seemed to lead back exactly to where they started. Each morning, Jonny would hop on his bike and head off to work while I would meander aimlessly through town. I was fortunate that our apartment was next to the river as my first truly comfortable phrase in french became “Ou est La Garonne?” (Where is the Garonne river?)  As long as I could find the river, I could find my way home.      

Shopping was truly terrifying as every occasion to open my mouth merely exposed my ignorance.  I started at the larger grocery stores, the Champions and Carrefours where one can remain more anonymous and can read the amount owed at the checkout on the register. The entire event would require nothing more than a mere “Merci.” Eventually though,  the tiny inviting shops of Le Quarter Sept Deniers (our particular neighborhood) drew this painfully slow witted (in French only...) girl through their doors. 

‘Le Petit Jardin’  (the little garden) with it’s brightly colored fruits and vegetables was my first hurdle. The lovely shop owner with her frizzy grey hair and lawn chair perch repeated tirelessly the cost of my two tomatoes until at which point she got out her own money and counted out with me the paltry amount owed. I suspect that by the next day I had been a part of the local gossip as when I ‘Bonjoured’ my way into the boulangerie (bakery) for the first time, the beautiful thin woman behind the counter seemed prepared.  As I pointed to each object, she slowly stated the name, then waited patiently for me to repeat after her... “millefeuille” mill fweeee, “chocolatine” shaw co lah teen, “pain” paaaaayn. I visited her often and each time her smile grew more broad as my pronunciations came closer to not outright insulting her beloved language. On one such visit, a new item in a tiny terra cotta dish caught my attention. As I pointed in that direction, my impromptu teacher smiled knowingly and said “Creme Catalane.” I had been introduced to heaven.  Later that evening, I spooned tiny, smooth, richly creamy bites slowly into my mouth, letting the taste melt away before beginning the next blissful bite. I savored. 

When I bought the next bit of Creme Catalane, I told myself that I only wanted to have another pretty terra cotta pot to take home.  When I bought the next two, I said firmly to myself that a set of four pots was plenty.  When I wandered in, a few days later for the fifth, the lovely skinny shop proprietress stated with censure  “Plus!!?Vraiment??!?” (More? Really?)

Life has shifted as it tends to, and Jonny has become a past love. Not long after our parting, he left France for the familiarity of his home in Bristol.  I have since returned to Chicago, married and my husband and I have happily begun our adventure together.  Occasionally though, my mind wanders back to that lovely summer. However, I don’t feel the need to dwell on lost love.  Rather, I daydream of balconies overflowing with leafy color. I dream of being surrounded by a musical language while eating delicious cheese that looks (and smells) as though it had, that very morning, been excavated from an ancient tomb. I reminisce of a sweet afternoon demi peche (cold lager with peach syrup) and of evening glasses of warmth inducing wine.  I am nostalgic for friendly neighborhood "Bonjours" and I ache to overindulge once more with multiple pots of creme catalane.

Sometimes I catch a fleeting smell of my Toulouse; fresh baked bread, the river and rosemary hedges. To this end, I have planted an entire balcony’s worth of rosemary ...As a result, my husband suspects that I may be unbalanced ;) We are planning a trip next summer and while I can’t wait to share with him the beauty of Toulouse and her Pyrenees to the south, I worry...will one trip ever be enough?