People are so worried about what they eat between Christmas and the New Year, but they really should be worried about what they eat between the New Year and Christmas.

Happy New Years!

Bobby says "imagine all the years I've wasted without capers."

Poetry Daily: Today's Poem: World Truffle

I will admit to being a little weird about food. Perhaps a little fanatical. Philippe says I'm a goldfish and will eat until I'm too big for my bowl. I'm more so in France which-- as I have said before-- if for eating. But in a weird way my enthusiastic eating has also been my passport into people's favor. Most French who have seen me eat like me. It's as if despite my continued mangling of every French word that comes out of my mouth, my joy at everything that goes in makes it okay. As if loving their food means loving their country.

The only exception I can think of is a small restaurant in Crèche, on the banks of the Soanne. Philippe and I were desperate for food, and it was the only place open we could find, as the two o'clock deadline for eating was near. All restaurants close by two, and many a half-hour before. Philippe and I have the dammnest time remembering to hit the deadline, especially if we have consumed a few croissant in the morning.

The restaurant was very simple. It was sort of long enclosed porch attached to the front of a hotel, wide enough for two lines of six tables for four, with a passage between, the outer set looking at the river and completely full and the inner set against a whitewashed wood wall-- probably once an outer one. No table cloths, paper napkins and condiments in packets in a small bowl. We sat at a table along the inside wall across from some rangers, and ordered the menu. I ate everything that was brought, as ever, and chose fromage to finish. I was delighted when the waitress left the cheese platter on the table for me to serve myself. I asked Philippe what was going on, and he told me "It's typical in peasant places."

The platter consisted of about eight cheeses, and I took a portion of all of them, and ate all of it: runny epoise and firm contal and chalky chevre all were plopped onto bagette slices and inhaled. The waitress returned to pick up the cheese just as I was considering eating more and making myself truly ill. She looked like a Valkerie with an eighties haircut; she had a hearty stern blond Alsatian look, rather than the short dark Burgundians who had been our waiters so far this trip. She was taciturn and a bit disapproving.

She asked Philippe where I was from (avoiding more of my mangled French?) and he replied "Americain-- San Francisco". They exchanged a brief torrent of rapid French, she looked at down her nose at me for a few silent moments, then carried the cheese away.

Philippe told me she couldn't believe I wasn't Dutch, German. That I ate too much cheese to be anglaise. "The English don't like cheese." I suppose she made some miscalculation when she left the platter which any polite French would have taken no more than three cheeses from, and an "anglaise" would have ignored it. Voila. Now she has a different view on Americans, anyhow.

It can be hard work representing my country.

When I met Philippe's uncle and aunt in Sucy-Brion they seemed pleasant before dinner, and very genial after. I had put it down to the scotch aperitif and two bottles of wine we consumed over the three hour repast. Philippe told me later they had been nervous about me. It seems they had visions of McDonalds and American cuisine, and thought I would not appreciate their cooking.

When they saw me peel a dozen boiled shrimp in order to carry glorious globs of aioli into my mouth, they knew I was okay. As I swiftly removed all the meat from the braised lamb, working my knife and fork in elegant concert as I have long observed my husband doing, and as I sighed over the fluffy pommes de terre it seems I became quite acceptable. I moved up to genial as I raised my glass to be refilled with Nuit St. George "for the sake of the cheese." By the time his aunt was threatening me with a second slice of frambois tart I was family.

Philippe's father also has been as skittish around me as I have been around him. But the night before last we went to dinner and now he smiles cheerily as we pass. Philippe's father's wife, Catherine has just from Beaujolais, her home region, and is planning to cook us a vraiment Beaujolais meal tonight. I look forward to displaying how French I can be.