So here we go, I guess. The back-to-school thing. We did it, I think. Although no one will say that it was easy. But as if by magic, you’ll notice that I am back here, after two months of complete silence. I wonder what that is all about. Having my four kids around, 24/7? You don’t say. I had the best intentions, though, as one always does. I was planning on posting two or three times this summer – nothing overly ambitious. Nothing I thought I couldn’t do. But even that proved to be too much. And to be honest, the mere thought of this blog had completely disappeared from my mind by July 15. If you had mentioned it to me, I would have looked at you with utter and complete bewilderment. Looking back, I don’t even know how I made it through eight weeks with the whole family in tow, at all times. I don’t know how I did it the previous summers, and I don’t even know how I enjoyed it at times. But I did. Although towards the end, it has to be said, I didn’t as much.
My husband had to work more than expected in August, and I found myself wandering the deserted streets of Paris for a week longer than anticipated. To put it mildly, I was pissed. No one else seemed to be bothered by this state of affairs, mind you. Which undoubtedly made it worse. My teens were ecstatic to be back in their own bedrooms after weeks spent in camp and various nomadic abodes in the United States. My husband, ever the homebody, was mostly sharing this view. As for my little boys, they seem to be happy wherever they can share Legos, roll themselves on the ground like puppies and otherwise wreak havoc to their physical environment, so everything was fine in their world. Meanwhile, here I was, dragging said puppies to various empty, dusty parks and playgrounds in my shut-down neighborhood, trying but failing to recover from jetlag while my teenagers enjoyed their rooms so much they didn’t emerge from them until well into the afternoon. We did end up leaving for the beach after ten days of this regimen, but at that point I was already on the brink of burnout, and the prospect of more family time was downright daunting. So when my husband announced, mid-stay, that he would need to go back to Paris three days early because of an emergency at work, I was ripe like the figs hanging from the tree in the tiny courtyard that was sold to us as a “garden” by the Airbnb description I probably read too quickly. I debated whether to stay on the island by myself, but the picture that kept popping up in my mind was that of sulky teenagers refusing to go to the beach and collapsed children by the side of the road after a wrong turn on their bikes. Without a TV or a remotely acceptable Wifi network to bring vital relief and support. After considering it for about two minutes, I decided against it. So we all took the boat back to the sleepy mainland beach town where our trip started, and I braced myself for the seven days, - which at that point seemed like years, - that stretched between us and what will rank as the most anticipated back-to-school in my personal history of back-to-schools.
As I'm sure you are aware by now, when school started on September 4, I was READY. And if I was starting to wonder if I hadn’t fell into outright depression and needn’t schedule an appointment with a psychiatrist as soon as humanly possible, my first day alone in my empty apartment immediately dispelled that notion. I enthusiastically cleaned the post-breakfast filthy kitchen and meticulously tidied up all the beds. I almost ran to the grocery store in my eagerness to enjoy my first supermarket run BY MYSELF. I started scheduling the school year and found myself daydreaming about our next vacation, as if the three previous weeks hadn’t happened at all. I made two batches of iced tea – one for grown-ups, one for kids- and elaborated grandiose plans for this blog. For a few days, I was on a kid-free cloud, marveling at the wonders of school cafeterias and late afternoon dismissal times for teens. I could have kissed my boys’ kindly “maîtresses” and benevolent preschool staff. All of a sudden, Paris seemed welcoming and kind.
Until my husband casually asked what activities I was planning for the boys this year, and I was reminded of this unfortunate side of September. Until I suddenly remembered that the deadline for dropping off all soccer class applications was almost passed. And that my five-year old needed to be present “in swim trunks, by the edge of the pool, health certificate in hand, at 5:30 pm on Thursday”, according to the sports club website where I had completely forgotten I had registered him a few weeks before. A doctor’s note due the next day was obviously going to be a problem. The amount of paperwork required by French authorities for any given activity, is another topic that I’m sure I will broach at some point, as it has led me to the verge of breakdown more than once. But for now, suffice it to say that after about 48 hours of back-to-school bliss, I was soberly brought back to the reality of September madness, and wondering why on earth I had decided to leave our quiet Atlantic island three days earlier than necessary. Before I knew it, my daughter needed new gym shoes and a modern jazz class registration, not to mention a brand-new Fall wardrobe. My tenth-grader was calling his dad in tears, informing him in quick succession that he had just bombed a science pop quiz, just before his phone got confiscated for a week and right after the French teacher expelled him from class for not having the required textbook. Not to mention the Top-Gun style of the grade director’s back-to-school speech that had everybody thinking they wouldn’t make it past the second day. It was week three and my son was ready to call it quits, making me long for the sleepy August Parisian days when I complained he wasn’t doing anything with himself. So here I am, slightly shell-shocked and most definitely frazzled, on September 29. How come I ever forgot about this sneaky month? I know perfectly well that September, December, and June are the hellish triad of all parent’s lives – unless they live in the Southern Hemisphere where I’m sure school is on a different schedule. And yet, in my eagerness to offload my kids to the rightful authorities at the end of summer, I forgot all about it. Soon enough, my glee took on the familiar tint of scheduling exhaustion. A season that is “mi-figue, mi-raisin”, as the French say. Only so-so; happy but only a little bit. “Half-fig, Half-grape”, like the fruit that happen to be on all farmer’s markets stands this month.
Of course, in the middle of the September madness, I decided I HAD to bake a fig tart, because it wouldn’t be right not to honor this fruit, which I am actually the only person in my household to enjoy. So, as I do every September, I purchased and discarded three batches of figs before I actually got to baking that tart. Telling myself everyday that today was the day and I was not going to let the purple fruit go bad again. Until I felt really too bad about wasting more food and frantically searched for the easiest, quickest recipe I could find. And indeed, the tart was a cinch to whip up and ended up being EATEN and, I think, almost APPRECIATED by all the fig-haters in my house. Which is saying something. This is nothing fancy and, as usual, nothing I invented. Just some random Internet page that ended up doing the job at the end of a random Tuesday when I was already at the end of the proverbial rope, trying to juggle dinner with the kids Zoom piano lesson with the teacher from the U.S that I should really let go. Aside from quartering a handful of figs, there is absolutely nothing you need to do here – that is, if you buy one of those pre-baked pie crusts that are ubiquitous – and surprisingly good - in French grocery stores. The frozen equivalent in the U.S. would also be fine. And if you feel brave and are one of those moms who is still brimming with youthful energy at this “mi-figue, mi-raisin” time of year, we won’t hold it against you: you can of course make your own crust. Which I usually do, but not in September.
Ingredients:
· One basic pie crust (store-bought if you’re September-lazy, or find recipe here)
· 800g to 1 kg / approximately 2 lbs fresh purple figs · 3 eggs · 100 grams/ about ½ cup mascarpone · 125 grams/ about 1 ¼ cups almond flour · 3 tablespoons sugar
Preparation
Preheat your oven to 180°C/400° F
Set your pie crust in a tart pan. Wash the figs and pat dry.
In a mixing bowl, mix the egg with the almond flour, mascarpone, and sugar. Spread this mixture on top of the pie crust.
Just slice the figs cross-wise, or fully quarter them if you prefer, and place them on the mascarpone and almond mixture.
Bake for 35 minutes.
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