How the Grinch (ahem… the French Administration) Tried to Steal Christmas and Failed, Miserably. Also, Magret de Canard.

This is only the second year in the nearly eight that I’ve lived here that I’ve spent Christmas in France, but it’s the first time it happened at least partially by choice.

I could have gone home this time. It was physically possible. I suppose that last time, when the French administration let me decide between going home and giving up my visa or staying and keeping it, I also had a choice, but it didn’t feel like a choice, not at all.

This year, I didn’t have the choice in the way that many people feel like they don’t have the choice every year. My work didn’t want to give me vacation, but I bet if I’d whined enough and to the right people, I would have gotten a few days, even if I would have had to fly back to Paris on the night of the 25th. I could have, in August, when my status story was still unclear, said “To Hell with it” and booked the ticket back anyway, knowing that I’d likely be in the throes of visa woes (I was) and would have had to work customer service anyway while I was home (a grand total of 1 [one] e-mail this year… *harrumph*). But I didn’t.

It’s not that I didn’t want to spend Christmas with my family. I really can’t stress that enough. It’s that life got in the way. It’s that some things seemed more important, this year, than three days back home. And I guess it didn’t scare me as much as it used to, to know that I would be far, because I have a family here, now.

As a writer, I try to hold on to memories. To feelings. I try to relive them as often as I can, because true experience is at the heart of a really meaningful work of fiction, and if all of those awkward, terrible, wonderful experiences are just fleeting moments… then really, what’s the point of writing anything down at all?

So I keep them. My first day of school, the way my wool socks kept sliding down my legs, how scratchy the grey jumper was.

The first time I felt ashamed, when a friend threw french fries over a second story landing in our favorite diner.

The first time I decided I was going to be kissed, the orchestrating that took place leading up to it, the piece of Big Red gum I chewed and spit out two blocks before I got to the place I’d chosen.

I can remember all those things, but I don’t remember what it was like to feel nervous in the moments leading up to meeting the Country Boy’s parents. I know, intellectually speaking, that I was nervous. I remember asking my boss at the time what sort of wine I could buy for people who lived in the Loire Valley, and him recommending a Saint-Joseph, and not caring how much it cost. I remember not being sure of how to give the wine to them and finally just plunking it gracelessly on the kitchen table. I remember that I spent years afterwards avoiding saying tu or vous, because TCB had told me that vous made them uncomfortable, but they had yet to tell me, to my face, to say tu.

But I don’t remember the moment of meeting them. I don’t remember knowing them in any time that wasn’t jovial and fun and sweet, TCB’s dad making fun of me for drinking more than any girl he’s ever met (and holding it together — no worries, Mom), and TCB’s mom shows me pictures of little TCB growing up and telling me all the stories I never would have known to ask about from when he was small.

The first time I was stuck in Paris for Christmas, I was fully intent on spending it in my apartment, alone, eating Speculoos spread with a spoon. I told TCB not to tell his parents I was here — I didn’t want them to be burdened by my administrative crisis.

But TCB is a really bad liar. And when his mom asked if my flight had gone well, he couldn’t lie.

His father told me that I had a day to find a train to Gien, or he was coming to get me in his truck. This, from a man who hates Paris.

So I didn’t spend my first French Christmas in Paris. I spent it in Coullons, where it had snowed, and we went to the Christmas market and saw the small church lit up with a life-sized Nativity. That’s where I spent this past weekend, celebrating Christmas with the people who were not only willing to write a letter to the French administration (my sworn enemy, at this point), telling them of my language prowess and cultural integration, but then admonished me for thanking them with a bottle of nice wine.

“C’est normal.” It’s normal. She’s like a daughter to us, they said to TCB.

Well, that turned the water works on. Luckily, they weren’t there to see.

This year, because TCB’s brother wasn’t going to make it for the 25th, we had two Christmasses. We had one in Paris, with mass at Notre Dame and a truly excessive meal, which I did take pictures of and will post, someday. This is what TCB requested we eat – magret de canard and grits. I’d already bought veal, but it feels appropriate to post this recipe here, if only because for our second Christmas, on the 27th, we did eat duck — albeit confit and not pan-seared magret, with the traditional foie gras and scallops and ice cream for dessert, but we were all far too full for more than a clementine. 

We opened presents by the tree — my almost-in-laws gave me a book on the Normandy débarquement. We drank too much. We ate far too much. We laughed.

If I wasn’t going to have Christmas in the States this year, having like that was really the next best thing.

Magret de Canard with Pan-Fried Apples and Grits (serves 2)

1 large duck magret
salt and pepper
2 Golden delicious apples

.5 cups uncooked grits
.5 cup water
.5 cup milk
2 Tbsp. mascarpone
salt and pepper

Score the fat side of the duck breast with a knife, not going all the way through to the meat. Place it in a cold skillet and slowly bring it up over low heat. Pour off the fat as it renders off (save this for duck fat potatoes).

Place the grits, water, milk and a pinch of salt in a saucepan. Heat over low heat. Don’t worry too much about them, but give them a stir every once in awhile.

After 20-30 minutes, depending on the heat, start checking the underside of the duck. You want the fat to have become thin and crisp. Once most of the fat has rendered, you may have to turn up the heat a bit to get it to look like this:

When it does look like that, season the meat side with salt and pepper and flip it over. If you haven’t turned the heat up already to color the fat side of the duck, do it now. At some point while the duck is cooking leisurely and you’re on your second or third apéritif, peel and slice your apples. Leave about a tablespoon of fat in the pan, and add them in with the duck.

Cook until the duck is medium-rare. This will take about 3 minutes on the flesh side over a medium-high heat. Remove the duck and let it rest for about 10 minutes. I like to heat up my toaster oven a bit, turn it off, and leave it in there, where it’s warm but won’t keep cooking. Finish cooking the apples, stirring them occasionally until soft.

Stir the mascarpone into the grits and taste for seasoning. Slice the duck into slices. Serve on warm plates.