Madame Nebraska

 

This weekend I spent one night at my friend Laura’s dad’s house in Lons le Saunier.  Lons is a little town in the department of the Jura, about an hour from Besançon.  The area is known for it’s wine – especially vin jaune, which is a golden-colored beverage known for its especially high alcohol content and it’s distinctive taste.  

(I could probably mention some things here about the subtle but slightly bitter nutty citrusy earthy flavor, but the truth is my palette is not that sophisticated.)  Let’s suffice to say that most people who taste it “ooh” and “ahh” before downing their glass. 

Laura’s dad is an Italian architect who told me that he has created his life around “beautiful things.”  You can see this in his home.  Each room is painted a different, slightly exotic, color and the walls are covered with works by his favorite artists.  As you drive through the Jurassien countryside toward Lons le Saunier, you are overwhelmed by breathtaking views of mountains, valleys, rivers, plunging cliffs, vineyards, and old chateaux. 

Mr. Baldiuni was kind enough to drive Laura and me up to Chateau Chalon to take photos of the view below.

Besides breathtaking views, Mr. Balduini loves delicious food.  That night he invited a whole host of people over for dinner: his Italian collegue, a French couple, a friend of Laura’s and her Spanish boyfriend, Laura (obviously), and me – the exotic American. 

Our dinner started out with a glass of sweet white wine, prociutto (straight from Rome thanks to the Italian colleague), olives, and bread.  As we progressed through the courses, the food became progressively tastier and the guests became progressively more talkative – thanks to the wine. 

Before I knew it, my new friends were asking me some all-too-familiar questions about the United States:

Who do you think is going to win the next election?

Do you approve of the death penalty?

Do you carry a pistol around in your purse?

You’re American… so why aren’t you fat?

Most of the questions were polite, even playful, so I answered honestly and with a sense of humor.  However, one of the French guests, a woman about the same age as my dear old mum, was grilling me in a surprisingly condescending tone. 

She considered herself an expert on the United States because she spent three weeks with a family in Omaha, Nebraska when she was 18.  Much to my annoyance, she proceeded to tell the other guests that all American families own guns, that all the women wash their hair every day (quelle horreur!), and that we all eat nothing but McDonalds. 

“Aren’t you so grateful to be in France?”  She asked.  “We have the best cuisine in the world.”

At this comment, I felt compelled to politely point out that we had just eaten a delicious Italian meal cooked by an Italian man with Italian ingredients. 

“Well…” She conceded.  “The Italians can cook as well.”

DISCLAIMER:  As an American, I see LOTS of things wrong with my country.  We still have the death penalty.  We have a high rate of obesity, especially among low-income groups.   We need more gun control.  We need to fix our health care system.  Our politicians are more interested in getting re-elected than in actually doing what’s best for our country.  The list could go on and on.

But when foreigners (like our lovely dinner party friend whom I shall call Madame Nebraska) criticize my home, without a proper base from which to do so, it drives me crazy.

It’s like being really annoyed at your brother.  You might say to the closest person who will listen, “my brother is such a jerk!  He did this and this and this. Ugh!” 

But if that person then turns to you and says, “yeah, your brother is really a class- A jerk.,”  you then reply, “Hey! That’s my brother you’re talking about! Say one more thing about him and I’ll punch you in the face!” 

Sure, he looks goofy.  But don't you dare insult him!  I'll fight you to the death!

 

Occasionally French people will ask me if I prefer France or the United States.  I never know how to respond to this question.  I love living in France – the beautiful buildings, the food, the language, the wonderful, kind people – my new friends.  But my entire family and everyone I have cared about for the 23 years of my life are in the United States.  That’s my home over there across that ocean.

For dessert, we had a galette des rois, which is a French cake eaten during the epiphany season after Christmas.  Inside is hidden a small figurine of some sort.  If your piece of galette has a figurine inside, you are declared “king” of the party. 

As we were cutting the cake, Madame Nebraska said, “I bet you don’t have anything like this in the United States.” 

I explained that in New Orleans, we actually do have a similar tradition called “King Cake.”  It’s a cinnamon cake with gold, purple, and green icing and a plastic baby hidden inside.  

“Plastic!”  she exclaimed, indignant.  “In France, it would never be plastic!”

I nodded.  She was probably right, I thought.  Oh well.  Gotta  love those plastic babies!

When I cut into my piece of galette, my fork hit something hard and… plastic!  I pulled out a small, white, plastic figurine of a wise man. 

I thought it best to let bygones be bygones, so I kept quiet.  But Laura, noticing my wise man, grabbed it and waved it at Madame Nebraska.

“It’s plastic!  It’s plastic!” She said. 

Let’s chalk it up to globalization.