I get this odd sort of satisfaction from performing relatively mundane everyday tasks. I used to think that it was linked to language, that it was the satisfaction of employing phrases I had practiced over and over again in class in the real world.
“Combien coûtent les tomates?†I would casually ask the market vendor at Place Maubert Mutualité, even though I have mountains of tomatoes sitting on my counter at home.
“Donde se puede alquilar un bici?†I would finally ask the lady who works at the front desk at my language school in San Sebastian after practicing in my head over and over, even though I probably wouldn’t end up renting a bike: I like walking too much, even in the rain, and if I ride a bike, I won’t be able to wear my dresses, which are better in the rain… the hems of my jeans get too wet.
“Deux baguettes, ‘sil vous plait,†with a smile and an obligatory five-second conversation about the weather to the woman who runs the tiny épicerie in Paziols.
I had taken this explanation for my otherwise strange elation at asking these simple questions in stride; I had become aware of the fact that when I walked away from a social situation with a tiny smile on my face, the smile was a result of the use of my languages, pretty much the only thing I can do on a daily basis that makes it all seem worth it: the years and years I spent studying grammar (or pretending to) and asking everyone I knew to please, please, please correct me so that I could finally end up here–a place where I feel confident asking anyone pretty much anything in French or Spanish… though I may have to call blinds “the things that cover the window” in Spanish, and I’ll always ask for seven or nine of something in French so that they don’t have to hear me say “weet†instead of “uit,†pronouncing the number like a bread ingredient because I can’t for the life of me get my lips to make that sound (a high front rounded vowel, for those of you who care), at the beginning of a word. I have no problem saying “tu,” but I won’t say “huit.” I won’t.
But being back in New York, I realize that i’ts not a linguistic thing… not at all. There’s no reason I should be proud of my ability to speak English, and yet I live for asking the train conductor, “Does this train stop at Princeton Junction?†I love when people ask me for directions and to send them on their way, “Just make a right on 8th avenue, and head uptown four blocks.” What is it about these tiny, simple things that I love so much? I don’t know. My theory has been debunked, and all I can do now is enjoy it.
I shouldn’t enjoy making carrottes rapées this much either. This traditional French salad is nothing more than shredded carrots and vinaigrette… it’s simple and not terribly exciting, but I love making it anyway. I love making it because of the way we called it “raped carrots” (a little off-color… sorry) when we first moved to France. I love it because I’ve eaten it in every city in every region of France I’ve lived: it’s eaten in the north, in the south, in Paris… everywhere. Mostly I love it because it’s simple, and I think that’s as good a reason as any to love something.
Carrottes Rapées
3 large carrots, grated
1 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
the juice of 1/2 lemon
salt and black pepper
1 tsp. dried basil (this is not traditional, but I like it)
Combine all of the ingredients in a large bowl and toss to combine. Allow the salad to sit for at least fifteen minutes, covered, before serving. Can be kept, covered, in the fridge for up to three days.