Paris in Love (24 page)

On his first night in Paris, it looked as though Milo was planning to sleep on Luca’s bed (he used to be Luca’s dog). But to Luca’s dismay, at the last minute Milo waddled off to sleep on his red velvet cushion, on the floor next to Marina’s bed.

The following note—reproduced here without correction—was hand-delivered by Anna in the morning before breakfast: “Dear Mama, I don’t like barbies. That’s why before you tould me to, I looked at and shook a present from you and dad. And I’m REEALLY SORRY! PLEASE FOGIVE ME!”

Today Marina announced that she wants to buy Milo a raincoat as a Christmas present. So the family—sans Milo—trooped out to a shop in the Marais that sells accoutrements for small dogs. Anna snatched up a tiny, blossom pink confection trimmed with rhinestones (I might add that Milo is aggressively male, and fond of attacking dogs four times his size). Flouting the girlie stereotype, Alessandro inquired if the coat came in a larger size. The shopkeeper asked about Milo’s breed, in order to choose the appropriate coat size. “No, no, he’s not Chihuahua-size,” Alessandro told him. “He’s more like bulldog-size.” The shopkeeper looked most disapproving, and pointed toward three or four coats in the corner: the plus-size department. From these meager pickings, we chose a transparent raincoat with jaunty purple trim.

It’s December 23 and I feel glum. I don’t want the Christmas season to end, because it’s the only time I can legitimately indulge one particular addiction: glitter. When else can you pull out fourteen bottles of shining sand, glitter shaped like stars, glitter glue? Only in December does the floor around the kitchen table sparkle in the sunlight and a child’s hair gleam—no, glitter—as if fairy dust were caught in the strands.

On Christmas Day I cooked twice: first, a huge goose that had been blanched and air-dried for two days, stuffed, and presented in shallot Madeira sauce; then, in the late evening, a very simple risotto, the kind I can make blindfolded. The goose lost to the risotto, hands down, even though its crispy skin was perfectly set off by the Madeira sauce, which balanced the touch of wildness
lent by the bird. One of the hardest things for me to remember is that just because a dish takes six hours in the kitchen it will not necessarily make guests as happy as a familiar recipe done well.

I have decided to single out a few moments from this Christmas and try, mindfully, to preserve the memories. So here’s one: in a kitchen fragrant with the smell of roasting goose, Alessandro discovered me alone and grabbed the chance for a kiss and an enthusiastic grope.

An important part of preserving memories is deliberately letting some go. Careful editing, if you will. I plan to forget the moment when my sister-in-law surveyed the Christmas table and said, “Did you forget that I don’t eat meat?” (This, after eating copious amounts of prosciutto at lunch.) Ditto when she picked up her plate and dumped her sweet potato puree on her mother’s plate, saying, “I usually like puree, but this one … no.”

This morning we went to Mass at Notre-Dame Cathedral, which included two bishops, more incense than a hippie party, and glorious choral music. I confiscated Anna’s Skipper doll (you know, Barbie’s younger sister) at some point, and realized only after taking Communion that Skipper’s pink-and-blond head was sticking out of my bag and bobbing down the aisle with me.

Even though Alessandro bought himself three black sweaters just before Christmas, my present—a black sweater—was quite successful.
My husband employed precisely the same guidelines as I had when choosing his gift: he bought me a huge, gorgeously heavy Staub pot. He chose black.

We are all rather horrified to find that the transparent raincoat, designed for a French bulldog, does not fit around Milo’s ample middle. It doesn’t have a prayer of fastening. Marina has been forced to concede that perhaps Milo should go back on his diet. We keep pointing out the svelte, lively dogs who trot by us on morning walks: it seems that neither French women nor their dogs get fat.

We have discovered an enchanting bead and jewelry-making supply store, Tout à Loisirs, in the Marais. It’s designed as a series of alcoves; to the left, every alcove is distinguished by color. I fell in love with Venetian blue glass beads ornamented with twirly black lines. To the right, the alcoves represent different countries: for example, Indian beads of every shape and size, including shiny pendants of laughing Hindu deities. We bought tiny butterflies with translucent wings, flowers cut from superthin metal, and cameos with eighteenth-century heads.