The Older We Get, The More French We Become
Have you ever thought about that? The older we get, the more French we become.
I've been thinking about this a lot lately. I'm approaching 63 and I work full time at a law firm. My weeks are full and fast. But Saturday morning? Sunday morning? Those belong to me.
I have been so intentional about this. Almost protective of it.
This past weekend I woke up as the sun was rising. The house is quite. I divorced 9 years ago and kids are out of the house. I'm dating. (That's another post) I first step onto my balcony and look at the sunrise. Then once inside I boil some fresh hot water. Lately I've been listening to Cigarettes After Sex ---> https://open.spotify.com/artist/1QAJqy2dA3ihHBFIHRphZj and if you haven't discovered them yet, go right now. They are so sultry and so completely mod. The kind of music that makes you move through your morning like you're in a black and white French film.
I make my Persian black tea in my porcelain black and white Virginia teapot. I add a spot of honey and a little dried orange. I let it steep properly. I don't rush it. I stretch. I do some yoga and my meditation. I watch the light come in.
April is here, finally. And something about April always does this to me. The windows go up, the candles come out, and I start dreaming about Paris again. I've been a francophile since I turned 40. I didn't grow up in France. I'm an American woman lived in DC and California. But France has lived in me for as long as I can remember. In the way I want to eat. In the way I want my mornings to feel. In the way I believe, genuinely believe, that beauty and pleasure are not extras. They are the point of living. Clean beauty. Clean food. Slower living. Ahhhhh
And I think that's what I mean when I say we get more French as we get older.
When we were younger we rushed everything. We ate standing up. We skipped the good olive oil. We saved the nice dishes for company and wore the earrings only on special occasions and told ourselves we'd slow down later. We'd savor it later.
The French girl over 40 never believes in later. She believes in now. In this cup of tea. In this particular Saturday in April, the light is doing something extraordinary, the windows are open, the music is low and everything, for just this hour, is exactly right.
I'm 62 and I have finally, fully become her. In my mind anyway. But I'm not done.
And then there is the croissant.
I strive to eat my croissant every weekend. And when I do, I do it right. A fresh one, still a little warm if I can manage it, with Irish butter and a good French jam. I'm not thinking about anything else when I eat it. I'm just there, in that moment, at my table, with my tea and my music and my butter and the morning light coming in.
This is the whole philosophy right here. This small moment. This is it.
While I eat I put on the French news. I'm learning the language, Or trying to. I have to be honest with you, I started with the accent. The accent felt like the right place to start. Something about the way French sounds in the mouth, the way it rolls and softens and drops off at the end of a sentence. I wanted that first. The vocabulary can catch up. There are worse ways to spend a Saturday morning than listening to French spotify channel and understanding very little and not caring at all.
After that I go to my stack of saved magazines and french books. I have a collection going. I pull them out and I do what I always do. I envision my French apartment Designed by American Designer Tara Shaw, but that's for another blog.
I know exactly what it looks like. It has come to me in pieces over the years, page by page, saved image by saved image, and it is very clear in my mind now.
Lots of white. The walls, the linen, the dishes. A clean canvas that lets everything else breathe. Some black to ground it, sharp and intentional, a lamp, a gold mirrored frame, a crystal chandelier; Green because you have to have something living, something that reaches toward the window. And yes, soft pink. Not loud about it. Just there, in a pillow, in a bloom in a simple vase, in the light itself on certain afternoons. And art. Lot's of art.
But the thing I come back to every time, the thing that is non-negotiable in this apartment I have designed a thousand times in my imagination, is the sunlight. Lots of it. Windows that go almost floor to ceiling and light that moves across the white walls all day long and changes everything hour by hour.
I don't know if I'll ever live in Paris. But I know that apartment. I know exactly how the morning would feel inside it.
And honestly? On a slow Sunday in April with my tea and my croissant and listening to Cigarettes After Sex playing softly and the windows open and the light coming in?
I'm already there.
Stay mod ~J
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Jam: Bonne Maman Jam https://bonnemaman.us/
Butter: KerryGold Irish Butter. https://www.kerrygoldusa.com/
Music: Cigarettes After Sex: https://open.spotify.com/artist/1QAJqy2dA3ihHBFIHRphZj
French: French is Beautiful. https://open.spotify.com/show/3nGBACAfLuCEOb0qasEmrt
