American's In Toulouse

Well, I now know more about foie gras than I ever wanted to. Good lord. But let’s not start there shall we. Let’s start with some meaningless chit chat first OK.

On Friday night S returned from Biarritz early and we headed for the ‘commercial center’. Hard to believe but we went to IKEA, yes again. We find that there are still some things around the house that are not quite finished and so we go to our favorite place, IKEA. I love that store, it’s huge and crowded and overwhelming, but you have to admit they have a solution for almost any furnishing dilemma.

Anyway, we hit IKEA and decided that since A) we had plans for Saturday and B) shopping at the grocery stores on Saturday is a nightmare at best, we would do our grocery shopping on Friday night. It was wonderful, no crowds, no long lines, that’s how we’ll always shop from now on.

We were both pretty tired by 21hr and decided to breakdown and eat at ::gasp:: McDonalds (I know, I know) but it was right there in the mall it was almost like we had no choice.

The French McDonalds experience was entertaining. The menu items are almost all in English. Hamburger, Cheeseburger, Big Mac etc. Fries are just ‘frites’ (no ‘French’ in there because THEY ARE NOT FRENCH). There is a burger called the ‘Enorme 280’ which is apparently a burger made with 280 grams of beef which is equivalent to about .6 pounds (No I didn’t have that). The more interesting menu items were the McMexico and McArgentina. I kid you not. I don’t know what these burgers are but they were on the menu. You can also get gazpacho. The Value Menu is called the ‘Best of’ menu and it includes your burger, your choice of medium sized drinks and a choice between fries, potato wedges or a salad. Ok enough about McDonalds.

Last night we went out for Chinese. There are two local restaurants and we’ve eaten at both. When you sit down at your table there is a plate full of these white poofy round things. They look almost like pork rinds in the way they’re puffed, but they are absolutely white, perfectly round and taste like chicken soup. It’s the strangest thing and I cannot figure out what they are. (Nor am I sure that I want to know. They could after all be something like deep fried tofu or something, eewww). They are yummy and I eat every one that S doesn’t snatch from me. This Chinese dining experience includes a salad to start off with, usually sprouts, lettuce, some assorted julienned vegetables and crab meat with a vinaigrette dressing. Wine with the main course. The main course includes some items which have some of the same names of what you’d order in the states but don’t look or taste anywhere near the same. And then you get dessert, coffee and you can finish off the meal with a quick shot of Sake. Altogether a different dining experience, but good none the less. And of course my meal always includes duck in some shape or form, last night it was kabobs.

Ok, Americans in Toulouse. First of all the club name is a bit of a misnomer. In actuality it is the ‘English-speaking ex-pats living in Toulouse’ club. I would have to say that at least half of the people we met on Saturday were British.

We met the group at a small village about an hour from our house. Gilbert, our guide is a French man who has some history with this group, but I don’t know what it is. The organizer of this outing, Sue, is quite a history buff and loves to organize these ‘peek into the past’ events. If we had known this wee fact before we registered, we might have abstained, though it wasn’t as bad as all that. We walked around the first village, Cologne, where we heard the history of the village and some background thirteenth and fourteenth century politics and facts about the role of the Catholic Church. The village was absolutely picturesque and we took lots. (of pictures… because it was picturesque…Ok, moving on then).

We moved on to the Abbaye de Planselve which is in the countryside not far from Cologne. It is currently going through some renovation (more like reconstruction). The two men who have started a trust and are taking on this project, very proudly showed us around. The main entry to this abbey, which is completely walled around the perimeter, has a model of what the original compound looked like. However, only the pigeonnier and a dormitory are still standing. The rest is rubble and some of the most beautiful parts of the abbey are currently residing at an abbey museum in New York (they had pictures). That seems to have been the fate of many ancient and historic French landmarks. They were sold off to other countries.

So the tour was decidedly long winded and full of historical trivia and there really wasn’t much to see. While everyone else packed into the small round pigeonniers (“We will all fit in here, come on in”) (No Thank You) I spent a good deal of time speaking to a quite elderly British woman who did not want to climb the stairs and go in either and who I think was a bit confused. She kept wondering where the animals were, didn’t abbey’s include a farming enterprise? And why were the pigeonniers not housing pigeons currently? Was she ‘having a go at me’ or was she slightly senile? She was old but not old enough, I’m thinking, to have any first hand abbey experience. I’m not sure but she kept me amused and awake so I played along. We did in the end find some cattle in a corner of the place, grazing contentedly. This invited a milking story and something about her brother who is buried on the family farm back in England. And oh yes, the short stone walls that delineated the pastures, reminded her of the time she visited Scotland and why are these places so rocky. I wanted to ask if England isn’t pretty rocky too, but was afraid to set her off on another tangent.

Next was lunch. It was nice to sit and eat with a noisy group of people who spoke English. (Of course Americans are known to be loud, so we were in fact fulfilling our role) Is was good to sit and talk and not feel that as S and I were chatting the people at neighboring tables were looking knowingly at each other and mouthing the word ‘Americans’ with a hint of disapproval. Not that we’ve run into any of that but still that is the picture that forms in my head. Anyway, there were 26 of us AIT people and we sat at three large tables.

We met Mike and Colleen who are from the U.P., Colleen has a slight Midwest/Michigan accent and worst of all, she’s a vegetarian, but I liked her anyway. We met a nice British couple whose names, I’m sorry to say, completely elude me now. We met Marylyn who came alone and her husband stayed home with the children. She is also often a widow, but she has kids, so she figured it was time for him to take a turn with the kids. Her husband works for a seed company too. Mike and the British gentleman work together at some firm that has something to do with aviation I think. It was comforting to hear the stories from the other women in the group. They were nice and very helpful. Most of the people at our table have been in Toulouse for at least 2 years. Mike and Colleen have been everywhere. Hong Kong, England, all over the states too. We met a British woman named Joy, who wasn’t. A beautiful woman named Lisa who spoke wonderful French and who could’ve been French. I didn’t talk much to her but she seemed to just radiate niceness and calm.

The meal of course was just delightful salad with goose, duck and mashed for the entrée, wine, bread, dessert was some kind of ice cream heavily doused with brandy I think. Then off to the Château de Caumont.

The Chateau was far more impressive from the outside. On a hilltop surrounded by a garden. On the inside it was in tremendous disrepair and we were only allowed into 4 rooms and the basement kitchen. The guide was hard to listen too. She just spouted off dates and names and blah, blah, blah, blah…

(Having a slice of lemon cake that I made yesterday. It was from a box mix, that I bought here, that had the instructions in French, that had measurements for ingredients in metric. Have you ever had to cook with a dictionary and calculator by your side? Or this conversions site is helpful. Yeah, a huh, I’m pretty damned awesome, I know)

One thing that did stick with me was a portrait of a little boy. A very small Spanish boy, under the age of seven. We know that he was under the age of seven because he was wearing a dress in the portrait. Boys didn’t wear pants until after they turned 7. And there are very few portraits of children in dresses because most children didn’t live to be 7. This also showed that he came from a wealthy family because they paid to have his portrait done when they didn’t even know if he’d live past 7. I thought that amazing, in our day when we have our children’s pictures taken every month their first year and at least every year after that. Where there is never a doubt (except in rare and sad circumstances) that our children will grow to be well over 7. How must it have felt to be a mother then, could you possible steel your heart for the inevitability that only 1 in 4 of your children would likely grow to adulthood.

Well, now we come to the part of the day where we visit the foie gras farm. First, bear in mind that we have been going all day. On our feet most of it.

We get to the farm where we meet the duck farmer. A nice short gentleman with a very friendly open smile and very earnest manner. He was there to teach us a procedure from start to finish and he meant to do a good job of it. Of course he was an expert in his trade and his is one of the most sought out ‘brands’ of foie gras in southern France. He most wanted to impress upon us that stressed or unhappy ducks make bad foie gras. These ducks are not harmed in any way (well aside from the obvious unhappy end they will all meet) no matter what it looks like to us, the ducks are never harmed. Well this was the important message for the day, though Colleen the vegetarian looked dubious. I have to admit that there are parts of it that had me thinking, yeah right, the duck doesn’t mind when you do that?

(Hey good news, I’m an Aunt again! For the 6th time. David (no middle name yet) G#### was born at 2 am weighing 7lbs. 13 oz. 20 inches long. Congrats Z and Jav! Of course it’s now 10 am in California and I’m just hearing about it from La, but ok, I won’t be mad. But hey, send details woman, details!)

Ok, where was I, oh yeah. Do you sense foot dragging on this topic? Yeah, I guess I am a little reluctant to re-tell the experience. Ok, the adorable little ducklings start their short life on the farm, delivered at 1 day old. They spend their first few weeks in the warm and comfy nursery. Then they make the first of several transitions. They are moved to the main building where they are coddled for another few days and then transitioned to the outside world, where they can roam the huge yard freely and eat whenever or whatever they want. At about seven weeks they are moved to the second large pen and barn where they have no room for roaming and where they are fed only grain and only twice a day. At about 10 weeks they are moved again to the next pen and barn where they are fed only once each evening. This causes the ducks to lose some weight for what is ahead. A few weeks of that and then they are once again moved to where they are fed twice a day but as much as they can eat. You see the lesson of the previous weeks was that they are not sure when or if they may get fed again or if food may be withheld. The ducks stuff themselves at feedings causing them to fatten up and also causing their livers to get bigger. Also they begin to prepare for a migration that is not going to happen. They fatten up until in the last few weeks of their short, sad lives, they are moved to small pens where there is barely room to turn around, about 15 to a pen and the most bizarre part of their lives begins. The ducks are force fed. Yes ladies and gentlemen, force fed. The previous fattening process has also expanded their stomachs; this is helpful in the force feeding process.

The Force Feeding Process: A man sits on a stool, grabs a duck and holds it between his knees. He then takes a funnel that has grain coming to it from an outside source, and inserts said funnel with long hose attached into the ducks throat. The long tube at the end of the funnel reaches into the ducks stomach. Large quantities of grain are then deposited directly to the ducks stomach. The man monitors the size of the stomach with his hand on the outside of the duck and when he feels that the stomach is distended enough he releases the duck and moves on to the next.

The grain has been slightly cooked to soften it and a small amount of salt is added to the grain, obviously not for flavor since the duck never tastes it, but to make the duck thirsty so he’ll drink water, thus aiding the digestion process. This is done about three times a day. The duck handler/feeder guy feels for the stomach on the ducks belly and if it still feels slightly full, he doesn’t feed that duck again until later. Of course the ducks do not mind this process (right). I have to say that they were rather quiet about it all, no quacking or flapping. I’m not saying they enjoyed the process but rather that they all had that resigned air of inevitability about them. They seemed to accept their lot in life with ducky good grace. Of course they have no idea what is yet to come so they can afford to be complacent about their bizarre little lives.

Alouette, gentille Alouette Alouette, je te plumerai. Je te plumerai la tête Je te plumerai la tête Et la tête, Et la tête, Alouette, Alouette, O-o-o . . .

Alouette, gentille Alouette, Alouette, je te plumerai. Je te plumerai le bec, Je te plumerai le bec, Et la tête, Et la tête, Et le bec, Et le bec, Alouette, Alouette, O-o-o . . .

(Continue adding the following with each new verse...)

le cou le dos les ailes la queue les jambes les pieds

Those of you who know the meaning of the words to this song explain it to your neighbor who doesn’t. If neither of you knows, drop me a line and I’ll explain.

You can guess what happens next. I do not have the heart to go into detail about that. Let’s just say that the result is some of the most delicious foie gras you’ve ever tasted. Happy ducks make good foie gras!