Let the fête begin...
Jim's Musings from Paris December 2024
I remember my dad always hated this time of year. His birthday was November 15 and from then until after New Year’s Day, he stayed crabby. He would make excuse after excuse to avoid hanging the outdoor lights and putting out the other yard decorations that my mother would concoct each year—maybe this year a plastic Santa or Snowman from Polk Brothers or several smiling reindeer posed for running. Every family in every prefabricated, cookie-cutter house on MacArthur Drive watched the same commercials and shopped at the same stores for their prefabricated holiday cheer. No one really tried to outdo anyone else, but my Mom was always a little bit in the forefront. I remember clearly the year when the holiday lights suddenly changed from the large, glass, colorful bulbs of my childhood to the tiny, sparkling “Italian” version of my adolescence. As our house shimmered with a new, more subtle, glimmer, I, too, began to display a more discreet persona, cloaking my real desires and sensibilities, putting my “self” in the closet and focusing my “light” and passion on school and, especially, theatre.
My brother and I would try to help Dad. He perched on the ladder, placed precariously in the snow, and expertly tacked the decorations along the modest house’s eaves or gutters. Tim and I were, however, pretty much useless—our mittened hands trying to hold the strings of colored lights so they wouldn’t tangle as we passed them up to Dad or clumsily replacing the burnt out bulbs without breaking one off in the socket or jiggling the ladder (that we were holding for Dad’s security), as we hopped from one foot to the other in the Chicagoland cold. He would gruffly yell at us to “cut it out.” Eventually, he told us to just get inside.
Inside, where it was warm, I could lose myself in a book or movie, or prepare a holiday performance with my little brothers. My Mom was, undoubtedly, baking Christmas cookies, making fudge and Divinity, and taking sporadic trips outside to make sure things were going to her specifications. Once cooled, she placed each cookie or bar carefully between sheets of waxed paper, in old Burny Brothers fruit cake tins, and hid them away (in a closet, actually) until Christmas was really upon us. There were several years when a tin would be forgotten and not found until spring cleaning. But Heaven help us if we got caught sneaking a cookie before Mom decided it was time to bring them into the light. Or I should say Heaven help me! Who could resist a dozen containers of holiday sweetness? Hershey kiss cookies, lemon bars, frosted stars and bells with sprinkles, something we called cheesecake cookies, and I already mentioned the fudge and Divinity. There was often a trail of crumbs leading to my bed. And no matter how much I protested, I became known as the cookie bandit in the family.
Even though ours was often among the last houses in the neighborhood to light up our yard for the holidays, it was always one of the prettiest. My Dad did good work and got the job done—under my mother’s supervision, of course. I think deep down he took a certain pride in his ability to provide a holiday experience for his family, something he didn’t really have as a kid growing up. I like to think that eventually, in his later years, I was able to hold the ladder steady for him as he tacked up the remnants of his life well-lived. I know his support (often silent, but always present) helped me when I took my light out of the closet and let it shine. I’ve been thinking of him often this year as we make our preparations here in Paris for our fourth holiday season in our adopted city and country.
The festive season in Paris this year began with our Thanksgiving dinner on the Sunday before the actual holiday. I prepared the traditional desserts (pumpkin pie, pecan pie, and cranberry apple pie), but I used gluten-free crusts this year since one of our guests has an allergy. In a move toward a more French-friendly meal, instead of the usual pumpkin cheesecake, I made a pumpkin flan, which was much easier to make than the cheesecake. I was able to use my soufflé dish that I had received as a gift 40 some years ago and had not been put to much use lately. The flan turned out really well and I especially liked the caramel topping. In fact, I have to admit that the flan made the “healthy” pumpkin pie look like a poor relation—I’ve already decided it’s not getting another invitation to the Thanksgiving feast. The chorus I’m in had a holiday party last week (actually it was only the baritones), and I made a Burnt Basque Pumpkin Cheesecake to share. Definitely a keeper. Between this delicious, creamy, (and easy) take on cheesecake and the pumpkin flan, making a move towards a more French-friendly Thanksgiving meal makes a lot of sense.
November ended and December began with MéloMen’s fall concert. Last year’s repertoire had a holiday theme, but this year, the group was celebrating its 30th anniversary with a selection of songs that explored the passage of time and included some “hits” from the group’s past. I struggled a bit with learning the music this time. MéloMen sings everything memorized, no scores in hand. We were singing in five languages (French, English, Spanish, German, and Latin), and the music ranged from very classical (Schubert and Debussy) to very contemporary (Sting). There were French and Hungarian folk songs, a Latin drinking song, and a few contemporary compositions by noteworthy composers. One of the highlights was a Latin Medley that included some “simple” choreography. All of those years teaching group dances and coordination actions for the Shaker songs came in handy as 40 or so mature men struggled to move together on the crowded risers.
Here’s a video of the choir singing “Algo Me Dicen Tus Ojos,” text by Manuel Gonzalez Prada (1848-1918), music by Rosephanye Powell.
The concert went well. Léo liked it. And Jairo sat through it—twice. I think we sounded pretty good, but still a bit under-rehearsed. We have another concert, with a Women’s Chorus, in January and are preparing to sing a requiem at Saint Sulpice (my favorite Paris church) in June. In October, the group plans to travel to the UK, Manchester, for several concerts in collaboration with a group there, The Sunday Boys.
Jairo and I took what has become our annual trek to La Cartoucherie to see the latest production by Théâtre du Soleil, directed by Ariane Mnouchkine. This year the work is the first part of what will become a several part epic about the war in Ukraine, Ici sont les dragons. The performance tells the story of events leading up to and immediately following the Russian Revolution in October 1917. All of the world’s leaders of the time make an appearance, including Lenin, Stalin, Trotsky, Churchill, and even young Hitler and Goebbels. The cast consists of many young performers, who struggle a bit with the complex staging and maskwork. The masked performers speak in the characters’ original language, using amplified voiceovers and the translation of their dialogues appears as projected subtitles. Beautiful images of snowy streets, a miniature train chugging across the desolate landscape, and many closed door meetings of men, men, and more men. Always men. Always making decisions that affect the lives of thousands. Mnouchkine argues that the basis for the current conflict was laid out in these dark days of strife and revolution as these very flawed men bargained with borders and economics for their own political ends. One can’t help but see the parallels with today’s political situation in Europe, USA, and the Middle East. The result is a flawed, but potent production, that illustrates history from its particular point of view in a vital and searing manner. I am eager to see the next chapters.
For some reason, there’s been a recent influx on social media and elsewhere of Americans living in France complaining about living in France. These articles often come from couples or individuals who moved here with very little preparation and are surprised when things are different than what they expected—the time-consuming bureaucracy, the difficulty of learning a new language, the differences in cultural behaviors, and, especially, the lack of sunshine in Paris. It’s true that this fall and early winter have been especially gray and rainy in the City of Love, but to listen to some of these cry-babies you’d think that the world was ending. I’ve mentioned The Paris Syndrome before—the psychological phenomenon and deep depression that occurs in individuals or groups when one’s expectations of a place do not match its reality. Apparently, the Paris Syndrome is approaching epidemic proportions in Paris this year. Even I have succumbed a bit, waking each morning to the darkness of mid-winter, and hopefully peering out the window for a glimpse of blue sky and sunshine.
Today, on the eve of Christmas Eve, the sun has arrived. We are resting contentedly after our close family Solstice dinner and gift exchange yesterday. Preparations have kept us busy over the past few weeks, decorating the tree, setting up our Nativity scenes, ordering the meat, and searching for gifts. We had an excellent meal (if I do say so myself) that included a delicious beef tenderloin roasted to perfection.
I bought the meat at a local boucherie with the best customer service of any business I’ve found in Paris. First, upon entering, you are greeted by at least six handsome butchers eager to serve you. The one who comes to your aid, explains things carefully, always with a big smile. For the holidays, this place made ordering meat and charcuterie a breeze and everyone at dinner yesterday was impressed by the quality of the tenderloin. On Christmas Eve, I’ll pick up a couple of charcuterie plates to take to our extended family Christmas Day déjeuner. I expect the quality and value to be excellent, as well. When I got home with the order last Friday, Jairo and I laughed to find two chocolates in the packet with photos of two of the butchers—Simon and Anthony. If you go to the website, you’ll see them all! One of the songs we sang in the recent MéloMen concert is all about Janos Viraq, the handsomest butcher in the world, who likes to knock on “my” door and demonstrate his tap dancing skills. Vivent les bouchers de la Boucherie Moderne!
For our dinner yesterday, I made another Burnt Basque Cheesecake (no pumpkin this time, there’s a sudden shortage of canned pumpkin in France) and we had a variety of hors d’oeuvres and entrées, such as boudin blanc, smoked salmon, paté, and a Christmas tortellini soup. Opening gifts with Léo is always an experience, as he still approaches each moment with high expectation and wonder. His gratitude is genuine and deep—if fleeting—as he moves on to the next moment of here and now, the new adventure. He makes each moment a pleasure, for us, too.
I mentioned our Nativity scenes—Jairo has one and so do I. Mine was made for me when I was at Macalester (in 1974?) by my girlfriend at the time, Miriam, an art major. Jairo’s crèche consists of miniature figures that he purchased in Naples. The other day, at the home a friend, I saw an interesting figurine crouching among the shepherds and animals of their crèche. This fellow had pulled down his pants and was pooping, taking a gigantic dump. My friends told me that this figure comes from a Catalan tradition to include always a blasphemous figure in the nativity scene. The tradition has spread throughout Spain apparently, and you can find the caganer or “pooper” figurine in most Spanish nativity scenes these days, often sporting a celebrity’s face. Imagine Emmanuel Macron as a pooper. I looked around Paris, at all the various Christmas markets I visited, but could not find such a blasphemous figurine. Maybe I’ll find one on our trip to Portugal in the spring or when we get to Barcelona someday, but I definitely plan to include one in our collection.
Happy Holidays everyone.
I remember Christmases at your home with much love. Being an only, spending time with family and Christmas traditions was incredibly special.
Thanks for the link to the Pooper article! I love learning about new things! And I also love reading about your life in Paris with Jairo. Sending peace and love for a new year ahead!