French Kids Eat Everything by Karen Le Billon Read Free Book Online Page A

was not an unusual scene in France. Se faire la bise translates as “to give a kiss,” but a bise is really more of a delicate brushing of cheeks with a vague kissing action made in the air close (but not too close) to the other person’s ear. I had a hard time with this, as I was brought up in a culture where your face was as private as your rear end: only a few very close family members have the right to touch it. But since everyone gives les bises every time they meet in France, I realized I had to start getting used to it.
    Les bises made me nervous for another reason: they are unpredictable. When people meet one another in France, they may shake hands instead of exchanging les bises . Sometimes men kiss men, but sometimes they don’t. On some occasions, I was expected to kiss people I was meeting for the first time (mostly family), but with other people (even those I saw frequently) I never got past shaking hands. In some parts of France, people exchange only one or two kisses, but in other parts of the country, people kiss three or even four times. Sometimes, people start with the left cheek, but sometimes with the right. All of these decisions have to be made in an instant, based on a complex calculation about the relationship you have with the person, the location of the encounter, their gender, who else is with you, how much of a rush you’re both in, and some strange sixth sense about the social pecking order. I never quite figured out the logic.
    All I knew was that you could get les bises really wrong. I had seen this with my husband. Soon after we met, we flew back home so that he could meet my relatives. My uncle John came to the airport to pick us up. In the arrivals hall, surrounded by people, Philippe did what comes naturally to French men: he gave Uncle John a big kiss on each cheek. John’s stunned look was promptly misinterpreted by Philippe. “Oh,” said my husband-to-be, smiling, “you must be giving three kisses in Canada!” As Philippe dove in to give another kiss, Uncle John ducked, and the two ended up in a locked-lip embrace.
    Their relationship eventually recovered enough for Uncle John to give me away at our wedding. But bises still made me nervous. And they made Sophie nervous too; even with our relatives, she would balk, although she knew that refusing to give a bise is the gravest of insults. As her turn to meet the teacher approached, Sophie began to fidget. “ Bonjour! ” said Madame, smiling. Sure enough, Sophie hung her head, let go of my hand and slunk into the classroom. Madame frowned. Now was clearly not the time to mention my worries about food. But I worried all day. And it was a long day. French kids go to school from 8:30 to 4:30 (and many stay in after-school “study time” ( études ) until 6:30 or 7:00). Sophie’s classmates would be used to this, as it was their third year in school (French kids start formal schooling part-time at two and a half, and full-time at three). They were cantine veterans, but Sophie was definitely not.
    Sophie’s face told me everything as she left the classroom. She bolted into my arms, wailing. When she calmed down, I heard the story. She had eaten nothing all day. Lunch was inedible (according to her). Unlike her day care, there was no morning or afternoon snack. And no one had allowed her to get a drink of water, even when she raised her hand.
    Fuming, I put her to bed early and decided to show up at school early the next day with a packed lunch, water bottle, and some strong words for the teacher. I planned my comments carefully: “Sophie is having enough trouble adjusting to a new culture. At home, children can drink when they want to, even during class. Could she please bring her lunch from home until she settles in?”
    Leaving Philippe to get Sophie ready for school, I rushed over half an hour early in order to get a chance to speak with Madame. But Madame was not