Still Packing

And an Omelet

You will forgive my silence, I do hope, as I continue to pack and remove myself and my family from our house. It’s a process that is leading me to comprehend the true meaning of the word overwhelm, an odd double-word I didn’t really understand until I looked it up.  It turns out that whelm is the feeling; “over” just hammers it home.  

No matter. Being whelmed, over or not, isn’t something I’m accustomed to,  As I remember years of juggling deadlines, kids, cooking classes, meals, burnt toast, and homework that went on into the wee hours, it seems like “doigt dans le nez,” or “finger in the nose,” (translation: easy-peasy) , compared with moving out of a beloved house.

The kids are here to help, juggling their own lives as they do, and it’s so great to enjoy their special alchemy of hilarity and sweet emotions.

The most fun part is, you guessed it, mealtimes.  We don’t set an alarm, yet our coming together is like clockwork when simultaneous hunger causes each of us to emerge.  Yesterday at about 1 p.m., the hunger pangs struck, and I turned to the instant meal, an omelet. I realized as I mixed it up and proceeded to cook that my children are like the cobbler’s kids with no shoes, because they hovered as I pulled the eggs from the edge of the pan towards the center, plying me with questions so they can go home and prepare an omelet. I thought to myself “How could I have raised these beautiful people without teaching them to make an omelet?”  Then, I remembered all the times I tried, and they rolled their eyes as they struggled upstairs heaving backpacks filled with homework.   “Right mom,” I could almost hear them say.  “Like I want to learn how to make an omelet right now.”  Appreciation, and life needs, never appear at the right time.

I am just loving right now, as we slip seamlessly into our old ways. They stumble downstairs in the morning in severe need of coffee and tea; like well-exercised dancers, one goes out to get croissants while the other gets out the jam and the butter.  Yes, my kids sometimes like butter on their croissants.

There are cigarette breaks, coffee breaks, tea breaks, cookie breaks (I prepared for their arrival with their favorites).  Last night Joe made cocktails and our oldest family friends came over for grilled duck breast and tarte tatin.  They are the friends responsible for us living in Louviers and we have shared much together over the years; last night’s dinner was the symbolic period at the end of the sentence.  I’m only moving to Paris, just over an hour away, and will return often I’m sure, but we all felt a tingle of nostalgia. 

The conversation was wide ranging, and it landed on the issue of Mother Tongue.  Both my kids are French educated, but at home we insisted on speaking English, so they’d be fluent which they are.  Yet they both consider French their mother tongue. They didn’t know how to make an omelet, and they are more comfortable in French than English. What do I, their mother, surmise from all of this…?  For now, nothing, but I’m sure the thought will come back to whelm me.

As I take a short break from taping and organizing, I must agree with Fiona as she looks out at the window and says, “You know, mom, I know every leaf in this garden.” And I so empathize with Joe who comes down the stairs after going through the game cupboard and retrieving a few things for his family, dabbing at his eyes. 

We are an emotional lot, and we are absolutely making the most of this time, talking about the past, the now, the future.  Each of us is in the process of cutting the cord, and each is about to embark on the unknown, life without this house which is, I have come to understand, not just beams and chaux, but a sentient being. What we know beyond doubt is family ties are strong, friendships we care about last forever, new leaves and new gardens will always be there somewhere.   And we all agree on how great it is that a whole new story is about to begin for this most amazing house. 

Let me segue into my omelet recipe, which is so very simple. This one has no filling, no bacon or potatoes to bulk it up, nor red peppers or air-cured ham to exotify it.  This recipe gives you the omelet you order at a French café.  Oh, I season mine with mint more often than not, and sometimes a tablespoon of Parmigiano mixed in with the eggs, but mostly it is plain, seasoned with salt and pepper.  I’ve thought about the “why” of this pure simplicity in the French omelet, and of course the reason is clear: eggs here taste like heaven and have little need of embellishment because they tumble out of chickens that scratch and run around annoying each other.  The egg is revered in France as a perfect food, and why mess with perfection?

OMELET

OMELETTE AUX AROMATES

6 large eggs

1/4 teaspoon fine sea salt

1/3 cup (loosely packed) peppermint leaves

Pinch hot paprika

1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil

1.  Whisk together the eggs and salt in a large bowl just until they are broken up.  Mince the herb leaves and whisk them immediately into the eggs.  Season lightly with hot paprika.

2.  Heat the oil in a 9-1/2 inch non-stick skillet over medium-high heat until it is hot but not smoking.  Add the eggs, which will puff up, and cook, using a spatula to pull the eggs back from the edges of the skillet as they solidify, allowing the uncooked egg from the center to run out to the edges.  When the omelet is evenly set on the bottom but there is still a fair amount of uncooked egg on top, cover the pan and let it cook until the surface of the omelet is nearly cooked through, about 4 minutes.  To serve, hold a warmed platter near the pan and let the omelet slide out onto it, folding as you do.  Et voila!

4 to 6 servings