Paris On Our Plates
By Rachel Nevergall
@rachelnevergall
Paris was every bit the cliché I thought it would be. My husband, Mike, and I had never visited, and the romance swept us away. The sex was beautiful, as you might expect from young lovers, tinted with a glow of possibility. In a cafe overlooking the City of Love, we decided to start trying for a baby.
But more than sex and romance and possibility, I remember the food.
Upon our arrival, we toured Paris by bike—gazing in wonder at Notre Dame, winding along the cobblestone paths of the Seine, entranced with the majestic Eiffel Tower. I was already in love with Paris. And then it started raining, and that sealed the deal. We ran for cover to a bustling corner cafe and plopped our dripping bodies into the nearest wicker seats. French onion soup seemed like the perfect order for my first meal in this city.
A trail of steam followed the waiter as he delivered the soup. Gruyere on top of the buttery slice of baguette bubbled from its tanning under the broiler. I tapped the crust of the bread as the aroma of the soup underneath wafted out. The sweet fragrance of onions and butter permeated the air. Mike, his mouth already full of steak, grinned knowingly. We both recognized that smell. Back home in our newlywed apartment in Chicago, it was routine for him to walk in the door after work and say, "Mmmm, what smells so good?" I didn’t have to respond anymore, only smile. "Ahh. Butter and onions," he would say, and then lean in for a kiss. That smell was the aphrodisiac to our flirtatious dance.
The rain outside pummeled the windows while we cocooned around each other and our meals. I broke up the crusty top and the bread slowly soaked up the broth as it bobbed in the soup. I want to soak up Paris this way, I thought as I let the soup warm me from within. I want this city to seep into the cracks of my body so I will always taste how I feel in this place—nourished and in love.
The taste of Paris became our tour guide for the duration of the trip—warm baguette from the local bakery, tangy Brie hand-selected by the cheesemonger, macarons sampled under the Eiffel Tower.
One night in a tiny cafe in the middle of a dark street, we found the best steak frites of our lives. The steak arrived cooked to perfection, the frites melted in my mouth, but it was the peppercorn-spiced, Cognac-laced au poivre sauce that I sopped up like a cat to milk. While we dined, we barely chatted. Delighting in food together was as intimate as sex. I wanted this taste to linger on my tongue for a lifetime.
My eyes wandered the room, in awe at the local diners who indulge in this as a part of their everyday. One table in particular caught my eye—a family with young children snuggled in their laps while they ate. I smiled at the children, imagining my own in my lap like that one day. I soaked up this memory like bread to soup, vowing to bring every flavor home with us and our newly growing family. We would always have Paris, on our plates.
We returned home, and four months later I was pregnant. Over plates of unlimited spaghetti from the neighborhood bar, we giggled in surprise at the test that told us our lives would change forever. But not too much, we promised. There were parts of life we wouldn’t let a baby take away, and an appreciation for good food was one of them.
Just not when I was pregnant, I discovered. In those first few months, I wanted nothing to do with food. Grocery shopping was miserable. Cookbooks made me ill. I lost my appetite for anything but bland carbs.
This should have been a sign.
***
"Mommy, this is too hot!"
"Ew. I’m not eating that!"
"Uh oh!"
Three young children sit at our table now. A cacophony of whines is our dinner atmosphere, boring kid food the dominating menu special. I blow on one child’s spaghetti while Mike jumps up for a rag to wipe up the milk spill. He keeps it close; he knows there will be another. Both of us ignore the complainer.
When children arrived, life evolved into what we promised to avoid. I struggled to find time to cook dinner while balancing a baby. Eating it was impossible. We tried to adapt, but the lack of creativity only led to a loss of taste. Flavors were muted, meal times rushed. Even when I felt a burst of energy to try something new, the children’s lackluster interest spoiled it for us. Food was eaten but no longer tasted.
We still share meals. But now we come to the table less as dining companions and more as bouncing levers in the game of pinball, trying to keep the ball that is dinner inbounds, ricocheting around the table to maintain order while mindlessly shoveling food into our own mouths. Our meals these days taste how we feel—tired.
I look across the table at my husband, painstakingly removing the minuscule green parts off of the meatball for the toddler who fears they could poison him, and I strain to see the same man I sat with in Paris.
"All done!" the baby sings, ripping me to the present. I lift him out of the highchair, wiping his face on my sweatshirt sleeve, and leave him to toddle away, resigned to the tomato fingerprints I’ll find on my couch later. I plop the bits left on his plate onto mine. I’m not hungry, but it’s hard to remember what hunger feels like anymore.
***
On Friday night we head to our local pizza joint. We long for the buzz of a restaurant, but going out to eat feels like a waste of money—expensive food is still tasteless around children. Pizza, however, is the exception to this rule. I saw a bumper stick once that read: "Sex is like pizza. When it’s good, it’s really good. And when it’s bad, it’s still pretty good." So after thirteen years of marriage and parenting through eight of them, this is why, on Friday nights, we go out for pizza.
We sit in the corner booth of a thankfully loud restaurant balancing the normal dinner routine. One won’t stay in their seat, another whines about the spicy bites, and a milk glass just spilled. I look beyond our table of chaos and spot another family. The parents sit on either side of two teenage children, empty laps, full beers at their grasp. They chat, laugh, engage, as if they are enjoying themselves. I am baffled. I know they say this is our future, that one day children will take pleasure in a meal, and therefore so will we. But as I shovel the crusts from my child’s plate into my mouth, the taste of bland carbohydrates makes this future seem as far away as Paris.
***
On Saturday night, we heat up chicken nuggets, quarter grapes, and add carrot sticks and ranch to the plate. This is for them, not us, although admittedly we snag a few rogue nugget ends and dip them in the ranch. Even bland food is hard to resist.
We reserve the ritual of feeding them a separate meal for date nights. That’s when we taste food now—away from them. While it once meant putting on the nice jeans and jumping into a cab, in the midst of a pandemic we learned the art of a new luxury—date nights in.
He handles teeth brushing while I pour us wine and start dinner preparations. I scrape garlic cloves across the wooden cutting board with a hefty sprinkle of salt, the effort pulverizing the day’s tension. The garlic pulp goes into a mason jar, followed by the zest and juice of a lemon, the bright smell awakening my senses. With a hefty dollop of dijon and a glug of olive oil, the salad dressing is ready to shake.
The crooning of Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue album floats into the room. Mike dances toward me, imitating the trumpet "beeda ba bop bop." He leans over my shoulder to refill my wine glass and kisses me on the neck. Date night has begun.
I turn the heat to high under the cast iron skillet and begin to crush up a handful of peppercorns. I let him season the steak, and by let him I mean he does it, and then I tell him to add a bit more. My overbearing tendencies in the kitchen don’t surprise him anymore.
Pepper and salt crusted ribeyes hit the hot pan with a crackle. Smoke and spice permeate the air. We almost don’t hear the child sneak into the kitchen asking for help finding a lost stuffed animal. On another night, this would irritate us. But we are already under the enchantment of date night. Forgiveness of the interruption comes by more easily. I retrieve the teddy bear while he flips the steaks.
When I return, he plates the salad and I take over the skillet for sauce preparation. We are dance partners in the kitchen once again, finding our way back to the synchronized sway of a tango through our shared cooking.
Diced shallots and a pat of butter sizzle in the pan, loosening up the browned bits.
"Mmm," he whispers. "Butter and onions."
"I should market a perfume scented with butter and onions," I tease.
He kisses me again, this time lingering. I could blame the influence of wine or anticipation of a soon-to-be-devoured steak. But the magic of date night is indisputable. It has the power to transport us to a place we once knew, a place in which we promised to always come back.
He plates the steaks as I pool the pan sauce. We sit at a table smeared with ranch not yet wiped clean, toys littering the floor below. Yet in the low light of a lit candle, this goes unnoticed. Tonight, at our table for two, we discover Paris is not as far away as we once thought.
Later, he will sneak into their room for one last check, and I’ll finally wipe up that ranch. We will crawl into bed, stomachs and hearts full, the taste of how we feel still dancing on our tongues. The sex will be good, too. We’re still in Paris, after all.
Guest essay written by Rachel Nevergall. Rachel lives in Minnesota, not Paris, with her husband Mike and three children. She is the curator of family adventures, lover of all of the library books, mixer of fancy cocktails, and writer in the in-between. She shares her stories as a regular contributor at Twin Cities Mom Collective, other online publications such as Coffee + Crumbs, The Kindred Voice Magazine, and Kindred Mom, as well as on her own blog RachelNevergall.com.
This essay was the second-place winner in the Love After Babies essay contest for Exhale, our creative community. To learn more about Exhale, visit www.exhalecreativity.com.