Whisky and Nylons

The mother of my host dad (which I guess makes her my host grandmère) came to Toulouse last Saturday to participate in Pope related festivities. Because she lives fairly far from Toulouse, she stayed with my host family until this afternoon. Her extended visit was fine by me because I like her a lot. She calls all the girls ma fille, including myself, and all her grandsons mon fils. She also makes a particular point to speak with me, which I appreciate. Our conversations have covered a variety of topics, but my favorites have been the stories she tells about herself when she was young. She told me about the man who bought her her first pair of nylons, her American friend who only spoke old French and the trouble that got him into, and all of her children and grandchildren. We also had an in-depth discussion of all the plot lines to her favorite books and movies last night. For the most part, I’m able to follow the our conversations, but to understand her I have to be a very attentive, active listener: I lean forward, ask questions, and nod when I understand. I think she likes the undivided attention I give her, and for all intents and purposes, I really do hang on her every word, even if it is mostly to follow the conversation. But don’t get me wrong, I really do enjoy the stories. It’s in a history major’s nature.

In addition to these conversations, Grandmère has secured a place in my heart by taking it upon herself to ensure my wellbeing. It’s as if after only four days she developed an acute sense of my needs, needs that even I was unaware of. This gift first manifested itself Tuesday night. While sitting at the dinner table, one of my host sisters asked me if I wanted some more rosé. I hesitated for a second but grandmère knew better. She didn’t skip a beat and responded immediately with “Yes, of course she does!”

Yesterday afternoon she displayed her gifts again. She decided she wanted some tea and that it was clear I was in need of some as well. While I thought I had no desire for tea (I had just come from having tea with some friends), I couldn’t pass up the offer… in part because she was rather insistent. The scenario went something like this (just pretend it’s written in French):

Grandmère: “Ahh, Carrie, ma fille, would you like some tea?”

Me: “Oh, no, I’m fine.”

Grandmère: “Come, I believe the tea is right here. Now where is the water boiler? Do you know where the water boiler is?”

Me: “Euh…no, I’m not sure where it’s kept.”

Grandmère: “Maud!* Where is the water boiler? Carrie needs to learn how to use it!”

Maud: “Here it is, and here is the cord. Plug it in, flip the switch on, and wait for it to automatically shut off. When it shuts itself off, it’s done. But be careful, it’s very hot.”

Grandmère: “Oh good, Carrie needed to know that. Carrie, now you can have tea when you come home each day…if you’d like, of course.”

Me: “Thanks.”

*Maud is one of my host sisters.

To be fair, I enjoyed my cup of tea, it is good information to know, and I really didn’t know where they kept the water boiler. In fact, when I look back, it is as if she sensed I was an afternoon tea drinker and knew I would begin to miss it in a few weeks.

Another thing that’s great about grandmère is that she is a strong woman, which is made clear by her aperitif of choice. Before dinner she takes whisky straight up, one cube of ice. The woman does not mess around, she knows what she likes and she doesn’t bother with frills. Yet despite the fact she pulls no punches, she is also very caring and loving. When I came home from class yesterday, there were three large tins filled with different types of cakes she had made, all regional specialties of course. The first was shortbread cookies, and then followed almond biscotti, and to end with there were dense, orange cakes. My host mom explained that when grandmère’s three oldest sons went to college, they would stay for weeks without coming home (rarer in France than in the US). Each time her sons left for school, she would make for them their favorite cakes: the almond biscotti for one, the orange cakes for another, and the shortbread for my host dad.

So in summary, I think grandmère is pretty great and I’m sorry she left so soon. She invited me to visit her in the small town where she lives with her oldest granddaughter, so hopefully I will see her again. Until then, it looks like I’m fending for myself and looking after my own needs, but at least I know how to use the water boiler.