My French Revelation - Real food, real life.

There are so many questions when one moves to France. Will it be hard to learn the language? How should I dress? And, most urgently, how will I not “wear” all those pastries and calories, never having been raised on French cuisine? I can’t be the first one to obsess over these things, right?

I did some investigating and data collection after a house viewing trip that coincided with my Birthday. We stayed in a tiny village in Provence, with nothing in it, aside from a few farms and the chateau hotel, which thankfully had a restaurant. The roads were equally as tiny with one steep drop on one side without guard rails and a rocky, jutting mountain on the other with no lights or lines, so going out at night seemed like risking one’s life. No thanks, I was on a mission…

Lo and behold, this restaurant was incredible. Five courses, each more butter-infused and picturesque than the last…home made bread and cheeses to top it off… This was not my norm to say the least, but what the hey-who, I’m another year older and in France. Live it up a little. And we did! For three nights!! I did mention there was nowhere else to go…

I came home, thinking I was going to be working out for weeks on end to counter-balance my three day indulgence, but noticed I lost 2 kilos (4.4 lbs. for those friends) What?!! Are you serious? Did our dog sitter break my scale? (Not that crazy a thought, since she blew through 2 vacuum cleaners and a tea pot). Thank you, but really?! That trip was 3 years ago and I’ve done some observational digging since.

Our first week of actually living here, we did a huge market shop to stock up for the week, stuffing our fridge to the gills. By mid-week, our tomatoes looked like they needed Botox, our bananas were destined to become banana bread, the baguette was as hard as a baseball bat awaiting an intruder and my celery took on a listless and lethargic attitude asking to be put out of it’s misery.

It dawned on me… “Oh, my God! This is real food!!” Tomatoes aren’t supposed to live for weeks on end. Eggs can sit on the counter. This must be why the French don’t have huge American style refrigerators and choose to go to market several times a week. Let’s face it, bread really shouldn’t survive a generation... It’s sad that we are now living in a world where this came as such a shock. But, honestly, it did and not just to me…

A friend was visiting and equally worried on another front. On a previous visit she said she couldn’t find “organic” posted on any of the vegetables in the market, that she would surely starve. I shared a bit of my story and  thought “hmmm, why do they need to mark something as organic if there isn’t anything that isn’t organic?” Oh, the freedom! No longer reading labels, looking for the organic flags in the veggie section. I was free to choose whatever I wanted to eat, without a PHD. Just not too much at one time, please.

Here’s my takeaway… The body knows how to digest real food. Butter is not the enemy we were told, olive oil is a gift not a curse. The doggie bag was (originally) intended for our K9 creatures waiting patiently for us at home, not ginormous portions to be microwaved throughout the week. When you eat a meal and each individual ingredient represents what was meant to be tasted, the flavors enhanced by centuries old, yet modernly perfected, culinary skills, this is how it was meant to be. Food is honored by seasons and regions, carefully curated and combined to make each course sing, not compete. The farmer at the market will give you a wonky looking veg over a perfect looking one, because this one is ripe this very moment, and perfect in its imperfection, not to be wasted. Time is taken to prepare and even more time spent to savor.  That, my dears, is French cuisine. I love the pride in their gastronomic culture, the richness, the ceremony and the authenticity of it all.

So what actually happened? Well, for one, I wasn’t counting calories (an impossible task in any French restaurant). Nothing I ate was pre-packaged; I walked far more than usual — especially after every meal — and, most importantly, I wasn’t stressed. Where I would normally give myself 30 minutes to cram in a sandwich, was a 2 hour sit-down, laughing with our new-found friends, maybe even a power nap after… Whilst I would love to give all the credit to the ingredients alone, I do believe my mindset has played a much bigger role. I no longer need a scale to tell me how I feel. I’m here to experience and live in the moment with joy, acceptance and fascination and yes, the occasional indulgence and still, my jeans fit. Go figure…

Disclaimer: It goes without saying that, should you come here and abandon all logic, plow your way through the local patisserie and become less active, your results could vary. This is a recap of my personal observations and experiences, it is neither intended as medical advice nor is it meant to insult the food growing/preparing practices in your country.