And no, I'm not posting a follow up to my Francoversary guidette photo shoot. Although another shoot is planned. Don't say I didn't warn you. When I say major cheese factor, this time it's literal.
I'm going to start off by disclosing yet another deep and dark secret about me. Here goes...after over three years in Paris, it was only this weekend that I had my first ever raclette. First. Ever. I know, absolutely ridiculous. I've said it before and I'll say it again: What kind of faux-risienne am I? Although raclette is not Parisian, as it is a dish that was originated in Switzerland and the mountainous Savoy region, I'm still a shameful addition to France and its culture! How could I have just tried it?
Popping my raclette cherry, Séb and I drove out to Fontainebleau for mulled wine, melted cheese mayhem, to meet some of his family who were in town from Toulouse, and to break the news that our wedding in New York has been cancelled.
Good times.
We brought over two bottles of wine (not stolen, might I add) to soften the blow. We figured that we'd hit them with it once everyone was nice and liquored up. Well that was the idea at least.
After sharing this unfathomable tale that has been imposed upon all of us (including you, readers!), his family had somewhat of a mild reaction. Naturally, his parents were offended. His step-parents and grandparents just nodded their heads in confusion, then disgust. His aunts and uncles quietly processed the information, holding back an immediate response. His 12 month old niece dramatically threw her baby bottle on the floor. And his younger cousins, I'm assuming were in complete denial because all they could focus on was that next summer's vacation in New York had been cancelled. You gotta love teenagers and their thoughtfulness.
After going into the details of this mess, within ten minutes, the conversation had shifted; there was laughter, my vin chaud mug was refilled, and slabs of cheese were melting to perfection in the special raclette machine on the table, regressing back to the simplicity of my Easy Bake Oven days.
I love the French and their reactions to drama. They listen, state their opinion, make a few huffy noises and a few putains (or putaings from the Toulousians), some leave to have a smoke - and it's done. I have a feeling that it will never be spoken about again, as they were already on to plan b: our wedding in Paris.
Masking my embarrassment over my family drama with wine and melted heaven slathered on potatoes, I felt the comfort of this dish exercise its power over me, rendering me completely helpless. Suddenly, I had no problems. I had cheese. Please be advised that raclette is not a force to be reckoned with, or to be taken at all frivolously. This traditional dish severely threatens your relationship with skinny jeans and all other form-fitting articles of clothing. For someone like me who has more of a fat tooth than a sweet tooth, raclette puts me at serious risk.
As we left his mother's house to spend the night over at his father's place, I wanted to thank her for my first ever raclette. What I should have said was: "Merci pour ma première raclette". This is where endings and the importance of pronunciation comes in to play because what I said instead was: "Merci pour ma première raclée"
Thank you for my first beating.
Thank God she's used to me by now.
