When I first met the Country Boy, he spoke no English.
OK, that’s not fair. The night I met him, he demonstrated quite a bit of skill when it comes to certain concrete nouns.
“Table!” he said to me, slightly inebriated, as he tapped on the table. “Teeth! Chair!”
And then, later, “Semi-detached house! Orthopedic shoes!”
(Yeah, I’m still not entirely sure why he knew those ones.)
This evening took place nearly two years before we finally became a couple, but although he had spent six months living in the States, his English hadn’t progressed much past that in that time. To give him credit, though, from the moment we got together, he made a concerted effort to learn. The problem, of course, is that neither one of us wanted to sit down for formal English lessons at the end of the day: he’s not much of a student, at least not in the traditional sense, and I was already teaching English during the day for work; I didn’t want to come home and do even more.
Luckily, I had done a course in bilingual children at university, and I had an idea for a technique we could use: while most bilingual parents each choose a language to speak at home to ensure their kids grow up speaking both, some parents decide instead to define languages based on place, i.e., the car is a German-speaking zone; the dinner table is an Italian-speaking zone. In our home, English became the language of the kitchen, which is how my Country Boy – who had no particular interest in cooking (even though he loves to eat) – learned how to say “frying pan” and “spatula” long before he knew how to say “shoelaces” or “pocket.”
(An aside that is neither here nor there: pocket has since become one of his favorite words, along with jacket, ticket, and wallet.)
A large part of TCB’s success in learning English came from his desire to learn. He would come into the kitchen whenever I was cooking to chat; he would willingly pass me anything I asked for, and even ask for the words for things I didn’t. Whenever he had something complicated to say, he would first try in English, and if he couldn’t make himself understood, he would step out into the hallway to use French. It was funny to hear him trying to converse with me from several feet away, but it worked: we never broke the rule of speaking English in the kitchen, so he progressed.
Of course, another large part of his success came from his willingness to try, even at the risk of sounding foolish. He would make up words when he didn’t have the one he needed at his disposal, which is how we ended up calling a belly button a “borning hole” (because it’s a hole you’re born with, apparently) or toes “finger feet.” (He’ll probably kill me for writing that, but I have to say, I admire it – I’m much more fearful about making mistakes in another language than he ever was in English.)
I didn’t realize, at the time, how important it was for me that he speak English. There are moments when you really need to fall back on your native tongue: when you’re tired, when you’re angry. I needed him to be able to understand me (and not just approximately); he intuited that before I knew it myself.
“C’est normal,” he says now, even though I tell him that not all bilingual couples both learn to speak the other’s language, that his efforts are far from normal, but rather exceptionnel.
Today, we’ve abandoned the English kitchen rule. His English is far from perfect, but we make ourselves understood, usually by speaking our own pidgin. I’d say about 80 percent of the time, I speak in English and he responds to me in French: we’re able to say exactly what we mean that way, and we each understand the other’s language enough to be able to respond. When I want to make sure he understands, I say things twice – once in each language.
That said, there are certain milieux where our non-native language has a word we need – for example, when he’s talking about work, or I’m talking about administrative issues. That means that we’ll fetch that word and either carry on in the other language or switch back. This can happen multiple times in a conversation; at his point, I hardly notice it anymore.
And when I was in Montreal, I saw that we weren’t the only ones.
Everywhere you go in Montreal, people greet you with, “Hi, bonjour.” Whatever language you pick is the one the conversation continues in. But on the street, you hear languages blending even more. We heard a group of girls talking to one another, code-switching – often mid-sentence – so often that a monolingual person wouldn’t have been able to make any sense of the conversation.
“Chéri, they sound like us!” I said to TCB, giddy. “On dirait nous, don’t you think?”
I’ve only ever seen Montreal in summer, but I’ve been to Toronto in winter, so I know that language isn’t the only dichotomy here. While Canada is famed for its cold and snowy winters, during the summery week that we spent there, this Greek salad would be the perfect ending to the day.
I love using marinated Mediterranean anchovies, as they have a pickle brininess to them. Even if you think you don’t like anchovies, I suggest you give these a try: they’re a lot milder than the little brown ones, and they add heaps of flavor to this salad.
Chopped Greek Salad (serves 2-3)
1 cucumber, diced
8 ounces cherry tomatoes, halved
1 small red onion, small diced (I used a spring red onion, bulb and tail)
1 15-ounce can chickpeas, rinsed and drained
1 red bell pepper, diced
1 green bell pepper, diced
5 1/2 ounces Mediterranean pickled or marinated white anchovies
1/3 cup pitted olives
2 teaspoons mixed herbs (I used the Primal Palate Super Gyro blend of Himalayan pink salt, oregano, marjoram, thyme, and garlic, but you could easily use herbes de Provence or a blend of oregano, marjoram, thyme, basil…)
3-4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
3-4 tablespoons apple cider vinegar
salt and pepper, to taste
Combine all of the ingredients in a large bowl and toss to combine. Allow to marinate at least 15 minutes and preferably a half-hour before serving.
Eye catching looks insisting to try it.