On a scale of one to ten…

Growing up, this was my father’s favorite phrase.

“On a scale of one to ten, how do you think you did on that test?”

“On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate this pizza over Patsy’s?”

“On a scale of one to ten, where does this camp rate? How about the one from last year?”

I abhor that phrase so much that, when I dislocated my shoulder skating in high school and the nurse asked me how much it hurt, “on a scale of one to ten,” I almost punched her with my good arm.

“I don’t know!” I wailed. “It hurts!”

I’m not good with numbers–I never have been. There’s something to be said for the belief that your brain works in a certain way, making some things come easily–languages, writing, spelling in my case–and other things nearly impossible, like physics. (Izzy, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry for having physics-related meltdowns in your room nearly every night between 2003 and 2004.)

The point is, a scale like “one to ten” works well for my father, who has made his life revolve around numbers, working in finance for the past twenty years. As for me, the one who tried to send my first “novel”–21 typed pages of teen romance and drama closely modeled after the Alice books I’d just finished reading–to the address on the back of one of my Yearling Paperbacks, I can say unequivocally that a scale that revolves around words is much more useful for me.

For example… how much do I miss Paris? So much that, while watching Chansons d’amour on DVD late last night, I started crying when I recognized the cinema they went to. I sobbed when they pronounced the Chateau d’Eau metro stop. I craved the huge windows that pull in like French doors and close only with insistence and urging, windows that people open and smoke beside with an ashtray balanced on the rail, because everyone in Paris has an ashtray. Hell, when one of the characters shouted up to be let into a building and the other responded with a door code, I missed that.

I missed my door code.

I don’t know where that hits on a scale “of one to ten,” but I’d say it’s a lot.

Today, when going through pictures for my blog, I realized that my cache of Paris pictures is nearly empty. I have a handful left from the jardins de Luxembourg, a few from the parc Buttes-Chaumont and some from the Cite des Arts. There are a handful of the chateau in Chartres as well, but that’s not Paris. Not really–although at this point, it’s close enough. I’m nearly scared to post them–some is better than none.

I rode the New York subway yesterday reading a pilfered copy of The World According to Garp in French that I found on the bookshelf of my rented apartment years ago, and if I stared hard enough at the pages, if I held my breath to not smell the relative cleanliness of the New York subway and pretended I could smell that disgusting mix of stale urine and staler cigarettes, it was almost as though I were back.

I could remember jumping on the train to get back to my old market, the one in the 15th where, last year, I bought endive and ate them in the metro stop at La Motte Piquet-Grenelle. I bought bunches of asparagus with dirt still on them–last year, I mixed them with pasta and pesto. Last night, I picked some up at the Food Emporium, and my sister and I ate them roasted, slurping the skinny ones up like spaghetti. It wasn’t the same.

How much do I miss Paris, “on a scale of one to ten?”

Eleven.

Pasta with Pesto and Asparagus
1 lb. spring asparagus, the tough ends trimmed, cut in thirds
1 tsp. olive oil
2 cups dry pasta
3 Tbsp. pesto

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees. Toss the asparagus and olive oil together, and lay flat on a baking tray. Roast 15-20 minutes, until the tips of the asparagus are charred.

Meanwhile, bring a pot of salted water to a boil and cook the pasta until al dente. Drain the pasta, reserving some of the cooking water, and toss with the pesto, adding water if needed to thin the sauce. Add the asparagus. Eat on your Parisian balcony with a glass of white wine.

Roasted Asparagus
1 lb. spring asparagus, the tough ends trimmed
1 tsp. olive oil
1 hefty pinch salt
freshly ground black pepper

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees. Toss the asparagus, olive oil and salt together, and lay flat on a baking tray. Roast 15-20 minutes, until the tips of the asparagus are charred. Season with black pepper and eat hot with your fingers.