We are now on the final stretch before Christmas, and as I anticipated, my cheerful holiday mood did not quite make it past the one-week countdown. With only five days to go, I am afraid to say I have been subject to bouts of anxiety and dread, which take me by surprise every year, even though they come back every year and I should know better. Here I am, minding my own business, when my mind and body find themselves suddenly haunted with random childhood images and ancient physical sensations that come back to pay me a visit every December, no matter how hard I try to fend them off.
But I am still glad I was able to enjoy the holiday spirit while I could, and to collect the gifts that the season does offer, regardless of how roughly it can otherwise treat you. And speaking of gifts, I have an appointment of sorts tomorrow morning at the Dupleix/Grenelle market, with my beloved Italian “traiteur” – which officially translates as “caterer” in English but is anything but. At least in this case, as a “traiteur” can also be a caterer. But let’s not complicate things. I am talking about small stands selling anything Italian – usually mostly fresh pasta and lasagna, but also cheeses and biscotti – on Parisian markets. As I mentioned before, I am not particularly fond of this particular market. In fact, for a while I did all I could to avoid it, as I find its setting quite dreary, under the metro line stretching from Dupleix to the Motte-Piquet-Grenelle stations. That area of Paris, which, happens to house my children’s school, is not my favorite, and always reminds me of the grey atmosphere I associate with Patrick Modiano Post-War novels – or, rather, I should say, which is perfectly captured in Patrick Modiano’s Post-War novels, often set in those infelicitous areas of the French capital, far from the “City of Lights”. Read Dora Bruder, for example, and you might get a sense of what I mean.
So, I don’t really enjoy this market. But I once happened that small stand that sold fresh pasta and lasagna, I purchased a portion of the latter, and that was it. I just had to come back and regularly walk the dreary one-hundred yards or so from Dupleix, under the metro tracks that could almost send me back to New York and the Fairway on 125th street where I used to shop occasionally at some point. For a while, I was back almost every Wednesday. I tried all the lasagna there, and all the pasta. The tagliatelle with lemon I made the first time was enough to convince my then-reluctant teenage son that Paris wasn’t so bad, after all. This year, for some reason, I haven’t gone as much. Maybe because my husband happens to take the boys to school most Wednesdays, so that I can go to my Bikram class. But last week I found myself there and decided that lasagna would be the perfect thing to feed my crowd while I would need to be out at a school meeting that evening – don’t even get me started on the need to schedule two consecutive 10th- grade meetings just days before the holiday break. But that’s not the point. The point is that, as I eyed a big sack of Italian coffee negligently splayed across the dry-goods section of the stand, I naturally asked if there was any ground coffee for sale. It turned out there wasn’t, but the lady, who suddenly started addressing me with the “tu” form - sealing, I assume, the silent friendship we built over weeks of pasta purchases last year,- told me that she could have some ready for the following Wednesday. I joked that it sounded like a drug-dealing scheme, and her husband said, with a wink, that he would have “good stuff” ready for me when I came. And then, out of nowhere, there was a slice of Panettone in my hand. “I just cut myself some this morning,” the lady said. It was the pear-and-chocolate kind I had enquired about minutes before and ended up buying (and promptly eating the next day, thank you very much). “Perfect with coffee”, she said. Had she read my mind? Did she know Panettone with coffee has become one of the few of my favorite things this winter?
This is not the first time something like this happens. In fact, it happens all the time when I go to the market in Paris. Last year, I was given a free lemon, an orange, and almost always a bunch of parsley. A couple of weekends ago, as I left a morning show at Opéra Garnier early after my five-year old son miserably failed to cooperate and would probably have had us kicked out of the noble premises if I hadn’t anticipated our fellow spectators’ ire. Based on the looks they gave us and the frequent head-turning from the row before us, this was a wise move. Suffice it to say that I was drained and full of embarrassment, especially as my mom was there, probably thinking that I had been raising wolves in lieu of sons all these years. But when we got out of the subway, I found myself in the middle of our local Sunday farmer’s market, which I had forgotten about. For some reason, I hadn’t been there in months. So, I decided it would be the perfect time to drown my discomfort in a good lunch and a feeling of maternal foresight and productivity – I would get fish for the next day, saving me the need to get it from the big Monoprix across the street from my favorite dreary market in the 15th. We did get some fish from the first stand we saw, and then stopped at an organic bread stand. I got a loaf of this otherworldly fruit-and-nut bread that I am now planning on eating religiously every week. And after I had finished paying, the bread guy handed my son a croissant. As I was about to tell him that he had just been a monster all morning and got his mother half-expelled from one of Paris’ most sacred cultural institutions, a voice inside told me: “No, this is fine. This is beyond the realm of deserving and undeserving, good boys and naughty five-year-olds. This is the market gift, and I just need to accept it”. My son seemed to agree, and he promptly devoured his present. It was, after all, almost lunch time. This past Sunday I went back, by myself this time, and got a couple of breads, including, of course, the fruit-and-nut glory. And without a word the guy handed me a “chausson aux pommes” after returning my credit card. I was feeling a bit down that day, already half-engulfed by my holiday gloom. But this man’s gesture brought back a smile to my face, and when I told him that my son kept talking about the croissant he got a few weeks back, something lit up on HIS face. He wished me a merry Christmas, and the apple Chausson saved my day. So, there it is. Just another small treasure to add to my collection and carry me through the next few days. No Santa is needed for this, and no money. I will try to hang on to this pure, simple joy of giving, and receiving, as I disappear under the pile of Legos, Paw Patrol paraphernalia and various wrapping paper scraps I find myself under this December again, despite my best intentions. “Next year, I will simplify Christmas. The kids will just have to roll with it and accept that they are only getting three things, total.” Right. I’ve heard that before. Another resolution that comes crashing onto the hard reality of my maternal weakness and the naïve enthusiasm I carry with me for a couple of weeks after Thanksgiving.
Oh well. No need to think about next Christmas for now. Let’s just enjoy the market gifts until we go to sleep Monday night after a job well done. And on Tuesday morning, we will have fully deserved our morning Panettone.
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