When I was younger we used to talk about compartments in our stomachs. How even if we couldn’t finish our green beans, our pudding section was still empty and we would still really like a chocolate yoghurt or a slice of Viennetta if we were at our grandparents’ house. It oft worked as a darling routine that afforded us a little sweet treat despite leaving some broccoli behind but I’ve come back to this idea having recently read Ocean Vuong’s On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous. Vuong’s semi auto-biographical epistle navigates his childhood and adolescence as a Vietnamese immigrant with an illiterate mother. The novel spans traumas of language, both understanding and misunderstanding but the one phrase that struck me hard was his mother telling him that he had a “bellyful of English”.
“You have a bellyful of English…You have to use it, okay?”
The phrase resonated with me so strongly as I definitely feel as if I have one, that is to say a “bellyful of English”. I would never have thought of it in this way before moving to France and having the full immersion treatment of living in a foreign language but I am now beginning to feel my compartments shift. Triteness aside, the words that we use each day are our nourishment, they feed us with information, they satiate our desire for knowledge (or gossip), language is food. So, when armed with my full stomach of English, how could there possibly be room for more?
The answer is bovine — we can add words to our roster, grow stomachs for new languages and cultivate relationships within these new dialects but I’ve found that it is the shift between them all that is the most challenging. Living in France with many English speaking friends forces a frequent switch between languages and when we flit between tongues like this, words tend to come and go like hors d’oeuvres at a party. You lose the word that you’re looking for in the language that you’re speaking and feel a sense of grief when you can’t remember the right word in your mother tongue. This practice of harvesting words and saving them for winter becomes easier as time goes on but the feeling that it will ever be second nature seems very far away.
Personalities change between languages and it can be a tough adjustment. I was told a little while ago that I was timid when I spoke French and this comment has stuck steadfast like a poppyseed between front teeth. It has made me wary of introducing myself to new people and conversing immediately in French as I don’t want to come across as shy, once someone knows my ‘English’ personality we can switch but this has become a vicious circle. Practice is the only thing that can fix this and luckily I am about to immerse myself in 3 months of culinary school, taught exclusively in French, during which I hope to kick my evasive habit.
For when it comes to talking about food (in any language), you really can’t shut me up. Conversations flow like wine and recommendations, recipes, and reviews become my social currency. I’m sure there is a way to paraphrase Duke Orsino without bastardising but for me it’s the love of food that is the food of love. Culinary vernacular tends to traverse language meaning that I already have a bellyful of kitchen stock phrases, you need only to think of ‘bon appétit’. I hope to come back to this email in three months time with my French stomach amply full of words and food but in the meantime the salvation and salivation of language will have to be enough.
French Omelette
Practice makes perfect in most walks of life and that must be emphasised when it comes to the French Omelette. A specific and refined skill that although satisfying when completed is painful along the way.
There is a particular choreography that you must adhere to when making a French Omelette and a colour palette that you cannot drift from.
My first attempt this week was delicious but in no language could I have called it an omelette.
Attempt number two was more structurally successful due to gout-inducing quantities of butter and a non-stick pan.
The tips / recipe for this omelette come from renowned French culinary connoisseur Antoni Porowski and calls for the very French utensil — chopsticks.
Simply start by putting a frying pan on a low heat with a large knob of butter
Whisk three eggs together in a bowl making sure that the whites and yolks are well-combined
Once whisked, add the eggs to the (really) low heat pan and let sit for a few moments
A slight edge will start to form around the eggs showing that they have started to cook and at this moment, with your chopsticks, move and manipulate the eggs around the pan (a figure of eight works well)
This motion will create very fine curds of egg resulting in a smoother, finer omelette
As the eggs start to appear opaque, form them back into omelette shape (flat and smooth against the bottom of the pan)
Add a handful of grated gruyère (or cheddar) to one edge and allow to melt slightly
Do not let it sit too long as the aim is to have no colouring on the egg whatsoever
Now the flipping — shimmy your omelette to the edge of the pan and fold one third back onto itself
Bring over a plate and flip the omelette from the opposite edge of the pan onto waiting plate
In theory you should have a perfectly rolled omelette to top with chopped chives (you may need to use your hands to get it into the right shape - no shame)
Also no shame in eating it with HP Sauce but that must be the English in me
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Hi Tori - hoping you have fun at culinary school :-)