Normal

It’s incredible how quickly something that was foreign and bizarre can become a natural and normal part of your daily life. It’s even more strange how quickly something that used to be normal can seem so far away.

I live in Paris: I’m used to it by now, used to saying it, used to going about my daily life with La Poste and Champion and the Paris métro as frequent players in my day to day. But when I first moved to Paris, everything seemed new and exciting and shiny. I craved the days where I would get to say to someone, nonchalantly, of course, though I was jumping with excitement on the inside, “I live in Paris.”

After three months back in the South, Paris–and everything that goes along with it–seems so far away. Gone are days filled with minutes that were just for me. Gone are afternoons of walking around and discovering new things. Gone are early evenings of apéro and Le Grand Journal–the news program I slowly became addicted to over the last few months of being in Paris.

Normal, now, is dinner at nine on the terrace. Normal is buying enough potatoes to feed an army without blinking an eye. Normal is throwing ten or so packs of jambon cuit into the caddy at the supermarket–it doesn’t matter if we don’t have sandwiches planned on the menu… they’ll get eaten by someone eventually.

Normal is translating every five seconds what someone around me is saying into another language. Normal is trying to find ways to reword the French jeux de mots printed on the inside of Carambar wrappers, that French candy that gets devoured the minute I walk into the house with a pack.

Normal is running into the woman who runs a program for French teenagers in our tiny town while in line at the tinier supermarket. Normal is upping the count for dinner from 17 to 25 when we decide to have these guests over just a few hours before we plan to sit down to eat.

Normal is throwing several dozen sausages on the grill and preparing a few pounds of tomatoes for a salad.

Normal is selecting about seven cheeses for a cheese board, knowing everything would be gone by the end of the night.

I’m aware, somehow, that soon this will all seem faraway and hazy, in the same way that Paris has become. I know that once I’m back home in the States this August, Westhampton and driving everywhere and taking the New York City subway will be my new normal, and I know that that too will fade when I leave after just one short month for Spain. I know that this is the essence of the life that I have made for myself, and I know that normal, for me, will never be just one thing.

But for just a few weeks, I like to pretend that this is the way that my normal life will always be, that mornings of making French toast in bulk and evenings of serving up tart tarte au citron will always be a part of my day-to-day. I know that it’s a lie, but even for me–“tell me like it is, even if it hurts”–I’m going to tune out the whisper that tells me that I’m just kidding myself, have another glass of Muscat de Rivesaltes and hide behind the chirp of the cicadas for just a little longer.

Tomato Salad

6-8 on-the-vine tomatoes in various colors, vines reserved
1 spring onion, minced
2 cloves of garlic, pressed
3-4 Tbsp. olive oil
salt
1 tsp. dried basil

Cut the tomatoes into chunks and mix in a glass bowl with the onion, garlic, olive oil, a generous amount of salt and the basil. Add the vines and allow to marinate at least one hour outside the fridge. Remove the vines and toss before serving.

Tarte au Citron

4 large eggs, cold
1 1/4 cup sugar
1 cup fresh lemon juice
1 Tbps. fresh lemon zest
12 Tbsp. butter, cold
2 refrigerated pâtes brisée

Prebake the pie crusts in a 350 degree oven until just crisp, 5 minutes.

Whisk the eggs, sugar and zest together. Heat in a double boiler until the eggs begin to foam. Add the lemon juice, bit by bit, whisking constantly. When the mixture has the consistency of loose lemon curd, remove from the heat and mix in the butter.

Pour the filling into the crusts and heat under the broiler until just set. Refrigerate until ready to serve.