Philippe sat with one hand on her head and one on the phone, speaking vigorously and with emotion, like most Frenchmen.
I hoped he hadn’t found out about my
faux amis
mistake.
On the way to the train, I thought about the mistakes of the day and about false friends. Something bugged me. It wasn’t the mistake, it was the phrase.
It suddenly struck me there might be other kinds of false friends I hadn’t recognized.
Four
Bread deals with living things, with giving life, with growth, with the seed, the grain that nurtures. It’s not coincidence that we say bread is the staff of life
.
Lionel Poilâne
T he next day at school, thankfully, was uneventful. We spent a lot of time measuring things and took a written test on baking science. I had plenty of my own pencils, and I aced it. So did everyone else in my foursome, and we congratulated one another on being so fine. It was a good start to the week. I meant to ask Désireé if she wanted to visit the Musée d’Orsay over the weekend, but a flier on the bulletin board caught my eye, and I stopped to read it. While I did, she slipped away for the weekend.
Learn English
Want to practice your English speaking skills? Its proven that those who have excellent bilingual skills have more business opportunities. Perhaps your hotel/restaurant/bakery will have an international clientele. Perhaps you’ll travel overseas to work.
Please call the Anglican Church of Versailles and ask when the next English practice group meets.
I jotted down the church’s phone number. Anne sidled up behind me. “Need to practice your English skills?” she teased.
I laughed. “No. But I’ve been meaning to go to church, and, well, it might be nice to be in a church that speaks English. Kind of homey”.
Anne unwrapped her apron and headed toward our lockers. “Not me,” she said. “I’d like to practice my English but not on Sunday. I sleep on Sunday”.
An hour later I’d taken the train back to the village and presented myself to Maman.
“How goes the schooling?” she asked as she bustled about in the back.
“Bon,”
I said, wondering when the family would get a “report card” on me, and what it would say.
Maman pointed to a stack of dishes. “After you’re finished with these, you can make some
goûters
for the front. The kids will be outof school at three, and we need some chouquettes. I hear you can make them. Easy on the eggs. Measure exactly—the same weight of eggs as water”.
“I will”.
“And then,” Maman said, “you can mix up the dough for the
biscuits
. I have left the recipe in the back. Bring a chouqette to me and to Odette before setting them out”.
I sighed. Great. Odious would pass judgment.
I made both batches, the chouquettes and the sable biscuits, or cookies, and let them cool. First I brought a plate to Maman. She bit into a chouquette. “Nice,” she said. Probably her highest praise. “Céline says you make good chouquettes, and it takes a light hand. She should know a good one. In spite of her supposed dislike of pastries, she’s been eating good baking her whole life”.
Maman bit into the sable cookie. “All right. Next time take them out sooner and let them finish baking for the last minute or two on the pan. It’ll be fine here in the village, but in Rambouillet too many would go dry too soon, and we’d have to throw them out”.
Maman turned back to her work, muttering that if she had her own grandchildren, she’d make the
goûters
herself.
I brought the samples to Odette.
She bit into the chouquette, leaving a waxy orange print on one side. “Mmm. It figures you’d make a perfect chouquette”.
Wow!
I tried not to faint.
She finished it off and tasted the sables. “Too dry. You have to do better than that”.
I couldn’t help myself. “Maman said they were okay, just take them out a bit sooner next time”.
“Of course,” Odette said. “You’re free labor. She’s not going to be hard on you. But when
I hoped he hadn’t found out about my
faux amis
mistake.
On the way to the train, I thought about the mistakes of the day and about false friends. Something bugged me. It wasn’t the mistake, it was the phrase.
It suddenly struck me there might be other kinds of false friends I hadn’t recognized.
Four
Bread deals with living things, with giving life, with growth, with the seed, the grain that nurtures. It’s not coincidence that we say bread is the staff of life
.
Lionel Poilâne
T he next day at school, thankfully, was uneventful. We spent a lot of time measuring things and took a written test on baking science. I had plenty of my own pencils, and I aced it. So did everyone else in my foursome, and we congratulated one another on being so fine. It was a good start to the week. I meant to ask Désireé if she wanted to visit the Musée d’Orsay over the weekend, but a flier on the bulletin board caught my eye, and I stopped to read it. While I did, she slipped away for the weekend.
Learn English
Want to practice your English speaking skills? Its proven that those who have excellent bilingual skills have more business opportunities. Perhaps your hotel/restaurant/bakery will have an international clientele. Perhaps you’ll travel overseas to work.
Please call the Anglican Church of Versailles and ask when the next English practice group meets.
I jotted down the church’s phone number. Anne sidled up behind me. “Need to practice your English skills?” she teased.
I laughed. “No. But I’ve been meaning to go to church, and, well, it might be nice to be in a church that speaks English. Kind of homey”.
Anne unwrapped her apron and headed toward our lockers. “Not me,” she said. “I’d like to practice my English but not on Sunday. I sleep on Sunday”.
An hour later I’d taken the train back to the village and presented myself to Maman.
“How goes the schooling?” she asked as she bustled about in the back.
“Bon,”
I said, wondering when the family would get a “report card” on me, and what it would say.
Maman pointed to a stack of dishes. “After you’re finished with these, you can make some
goûters
for the front. The kids will be outof school at three, and we need some chouquettes. I hear you can make them. Easy on the eggs. Measure exactly—the same weight of eggs as water”.
“I will”.
“And then,” Maman said, “you can mix up the dough for the
biscuits
. I have left the recipe in the back. Bring a chouqette to me and to Odette before setting them out”.
I sighed. Great. Odious would pass judgment.
I made both batches, the chouquettes and the sable biscuits, or cookies, and let them cool. First I brought a plate to Maman. She bit into a chouquette. “Nice,” she said. Probably her highest praise. “Céline says you make good chouquettes, and it takes a light hand. She should know a good one. In spite of her supposed dislike of pastries, she’s been eating good baking her whole life”.
Maman bit into the sable cookie. “All right. Next time take them out sooner and let them finish baking for the last minute or two on the pan. It’ll be fine here in the village, but in Rambouillet too many would go dry too soon, and we’d have to throw them out”.
Maman turned back to her work, muttering that if she had her own grandchildren, she’d make the
goûters
herself.
I brought the samples to Odette.
She bit into the chouquette, leaving a waxy orange print on one side. “Mmm. It figures you’d make a perfect chouquette”.
Wow!
I tried not to faint.
She finished it off and tasted the sables. “Too dry. You have to do better than that”.
I couldn’t help myself. “Maman said they were okay, just take them out a bit sooner next time”.
“Of course,” Odette said. “You’re free labor. She’s not going to be hard on you. But when
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