An ode to Françoise

My French mother-in-law

My first Substack photo: perfect walnut cake

I had quite the lead up (four years) to my last post so for my second post I just want to write quickly to you about something light: my mother-in-law.

Lol. But in all earnestness, it is a breezy subject for me.

A few weeks ago my French mother-in-law, aptly named Françoise, flew from France to California to stay with us and meet her newest grandbaby (my daughter).

Here are just some of the things she did within 48 hours of arriving at our house.

On the first day she foraged some wild rosemary from our yard for a tisane. She mended a pair of her own socks and a pair of my husband’s pants. She practiced tai chi on our deck in light rain and managed to stay completely dry.

When her lost luggage was recovered and magically delivered to our doorstep by Air France in the middle of the night, she unpacked a veritable Mary Poppins buffet of goodies the next morning which included two loaves of our favorite bread, a homemade walnut cake, French pharmacy lotions and potions, a hand-sewn dress for my daughter, French kid’s books from my sister-in-law and an entire wardrobe of hand-me-down baby clothes from my other sister in law.

Françoise also insisted she was not jet lagged. It just doesn’t get more French MIL than to wave off long haul jet lag with a “C’est pas grave !” while doling out mint pastilles that are so strong they could strip paint and declining the offer to throw any dirty clothes in the wash (opting to hand wash them with savon de Marseille and air dry instead).

Later in the week, she baked us a second walnut cake (that’s the photo above), which was even better than the first because it did not travel on a plane squished between two paper plates. She also made soupe aux choux (cabbage soup) and baked a clafoutis aux cerises (cherry clafouti) using her mother’s secret recipe. For my birthday a few years ago she asked what I wanted and I requested a cherry clafouti, my favorite French treat. When I ate almost the whole thing myself she immediately made me a second one, no questions asked.

The most special part of this particular visit was her meeting my daughter. She sang to her constantly, giving her detailed tours of everything in the house en français of course, and saying “bada-boom” every time my daughter dropped a toy or knocked something over. With Françoise around, everything became easier: working, meals, walks, having friends over, cooking, etc. She has a way of being around, and being there for us, that feels just right. With a new baby and a lot of new projects, it was a lifeline.

For all of these reasons and many more, I love her. I grew up with a Mom who adored her mother-in-law (my Mema), so I always naively expected to have the same luck. Whenever a significant other’s mom didn’t embrace me, which happened twice, I felt momentarily rejected, yes, but mostly I felt like something was wrong with them. Nevertheless, I’ve now seen my fair share of difficult in-law situations and I don’t take it for granted that Françoise and I get along. We’ve also come a long way, from me not being able to say a sentence of French when we first met, to now being able to chat about anything.

I spent a lot of this past week preparing to host Thanksgiving, and Françoise stood next to me in the kitchen asking me questions about different ingredients and jotting down notes on a scrap piece of paper. As I was spooning cream cheese into a bowl she tried to figure out what it could be. Béchamel? Non. Fromage blanc? Non. I tested the limits of my French by explaining cream cheese to her but it didn’t land, so I insisted she try a bite. She was still perplexed so I googled “bagel and cream cheese” to show her cream cheese in context, only to learn that she has never heard of or seen a bagel. When I then tried to describe a bagel she kept insisting that of course she knew what this type of dessert was: a beignet (a donut). I gave up and focused on not ruining the cheesecake at hand.

Yesterday, after three weeks here that rolled on just like how I have described above, Françoise repacked her suitcases, this time with all the gifts we were sending back to France in place of the items she brought here. She also packed up Californian treasures: perfect avocados, juicy lemons and niche toiletries from the local health food store. I made her an enormous plate of Thanksgiving leftovers as a send-off meal and tucked a small bag of goûter (homemade cornbread, dark chocolate) in her carry on for her flight. I sobbed in the driveway as I said goodbye, knowing we won’t see her again for months and my daughter will miss her. We all will. Françoise held me by both shoulders, looked at me crying, and hugged me tightly.

The paradox of moving back to the US last year to be closer to my family has been that we are now so far from the other half of our family (and friends) in France and Europe. Sometimes I feel like no matter where I am, I’m missing someone or something. I could get lost in that grief but I know that life expands or contracts depending on how I look at it. So I want to choose expansion. Here’s how I’m trying to see it now: I feel at home in lots of places. I have family and friends all over. Lucky me. Lucky us.