23. Le Jardin chez nous
The FEDEX truck has rung the doorbell, and they are dropping off a dozen big, thin square boxes. Table pliable it says on the outside. Elizabeth is up to something. Her trips to the brocante have yielded lots of goodies, and I have noticed a great deal of—to be sure—very nice, heavy linen tablecloths, napkins, and general table accoutrement (weights for napkins, napkin rings, little metal devices to hold an etiquette (from which we get the more general idea; it’s actually a small printed card bearing the name of who is to be seated).
Back in Dallas, Elizabeth started a French Affaires cookbook club. The twenty or so ladies, guided by Elizabeth, would choose a cookbook. In groups, they would choose which meals each subgroup would prepare, including starter, main dish, side dishes, cheese, dessert and wine. I recall our house being transformed into SW France, for example, with the regional dishes for which it is known. Cassoulet, truffles, foie gras, pork, sausages, walnut cake, raspberry tarte, champagne and regional wines for each course. You get the picture. Armagnac, I left out (SW France cognac). Not to be missed.
There’s a store in the 7th where you can buy a bottle for your birthday, with year and date stamped on the front. Ryst Duperon, on rue du Bac.
Now that we are in France, it’s time to have a French Affaires cookbook club event chez nous. I have memories of several of these in France, Elizabeth surrounded by her many friends, excited to show them our house and our new manner of life.
The lodgings of Pierre d’Histoire are also perfect for this. The various maisonettes can be connected via shared doors, thus turning the place into one big buzzing cooking event. Plenty of ovens and cooking areas (each unit has their own) as well as our own house just across the lane.
Depending on the size of the group, we would gather in our own dining room to enjoy the finished product (all the courses), which could accommodate fourteen all nicely squeezed together. Once with a Pierres d’Histoire group, she just spilled out in the Japanese Garden and set up tables there. Two assistants from the village to bring dishes and fill glasses. What’s not to like.
Now I get it. This was the thought behind the stack of cardboard boxes newly deposited in our courtyard. Each one contained a sturdy eight-foot-long table, when set up (deplier) and latched tight. You throw gorgeous heavy linens on top of them, with silver clamps to keep them in place. Linen napkins. Etiquette holders. Flowers. Silver place settings. The bleu Delft from Thierry May Antiquités. A designer from Paris to aid some extra flair.
Our garden area is transformed. Seating for as many as twenty-four, or more if desired. Tables set at angles, filling up the laid lawn space behind Elizabeth’s transformed potager, full of Ravel ceramic pots with plants. Bells from the church. Marcel chasing bees. Music. Champagne.
It is September. The angle of the light is perfect—there is a reason painters came to our area and formed the Barbizon School—with the daytime temperatures in the low seventies, and no humidity.
It is hard to overemphasize the enjoyment and pride this brought my wife. We were living in a magical quartier. Our house is now filled with nice furnishings, and the walls are bearing paintings and etchings and historical scenes that she has found on her brocante adventures. The chateau grounds are there for strolling.
There is a sort of “lottery” for larger groups than the Pierres d’Histoire lodgings can accommodate. The winners get to stay in the chateau itself, in a two-story wing set up for guests but able to be accessed for French Affaires clients due to Elizabeth’s impeccable taste and attention, and the trust she has earned with Patrick and the Marquise.
Friends from Church and our village neighbors are invited for an apero or glass of champagne. They try out their English or find one from our group wanting to speak French. The cookbook club concept also means that everyone involved is also a sort of host to the others, each in their turn. The starters prepared by sub-group one, are brought out by the proud cooks in charge of this segment. Sub-group two is next, and so forth. They compare and applaud or say, next time more salt, or whatever. It isn’t a competition. Chaqu’un à son tour. Everyone at their turn.
The house doors onto our garden are propped open. The northern latitude means fewer flying insects. There isn’t a screen in the house. Because the masonry walls are so thick, you open the windows at night when the temperature drops. In the morning, you shut the big exterior wooden volets (shutters, French blue of course) and the cool is trapped throughout the day. In the evening, one can then open the doors for the cookbook club traffic, shuttling in and out of the kitchen, through the large sitting room, and into the garden decked with such beautifully decorated tables.
And of course, I am the proud husband and host. I know half of the guests, and get to know the other half. We have assistants helping, so I needn’t fill glasses or bring in new dishes. I can leave my seat at the end of one of the tables, next to Elizabeth, and pass from table to table saying hello and greeting old friends, and introducing our French guests. Our neighbors. Our family.
Marcel makes his own rounds, of course. He is on strict orders not to expect any food, though of course people cheat and sneak him this or that. He takes commands in English and French. He is bilingually disobedient. He is part of our family and also of our village. He eventually settles in a corner of the garden he likes, in the shade. Thoughts of his field trial conquests keeping him company, his eyes heavy with contentment. Happy to see so much joy and abundance.
All that is left is for every carefully wrought portion of the feast to unfold and conclude. It is nice no one involved has to go any distance, or get behind the wheel of a car. We are in a village of 250 people. Their French home is across the street. Night has fallen. Stars are shining down. Quiet and cool descend.
It has been a very good day. Elizabeth’s French dreams now all a reality. For her, and for all the many friends she has gathered.
Bonne nuit. A demain. We close the wooden gate to our home and find our bed.
A day full of friends, food, and rich blessings.