Yesterday Julian's school had its annual Fall Market, a fundraiser organized by the parents' association. Notices had hinted at the possibility of wild mushrooms, but even though it's been quite rainy, there were none by the time we got there. For sale at tables arranged in the schoolyard was anything anyone could find at home that someone else might buy. A table of books and small stuffed animals. A table of turnips, black radishes, and leeks, along with a few jars of pureé de carrottes. A table of chestnuts and walnuts gathered from someone's orchard. The woman who's in charge of cantine tickets was making waffles sprinkled with sugar, which Nellie and Julian dove into with abandon.
There was an old woman who had brought a dozen eggs, a fuschia, and a three pigeons in a small cage. Julian saw one of his classmates buy one of the pigeons and take it away in a plastic bag. Julian reports that this classmate gets into fights more than anyone else.
While Chris was buying a cake, I was inspecting the jars of jam covering one table. "It looks like chutney," I said to him in English.
"Non, c'est la figue," said the woman next to me. We both picked up a jar and looked closely. "Non," she said, "Pas figue. Je ne sais pas ce qu'elle est."
"Moi non plus," I answered. She laughed at hearing me speak French. Then she found me a jar of fig preserves.
"Merci," I said.
"You're welcome," she answered, and then we both cracked up laughing. I know, it's not actually funny, but there's something about using another language that's funny before you even say anything. It was like we had just met and were trying on each other's clothes.
