Vegetable Ensemble
Tomato velouté? I wondered, staring blankly at the choices in front of me. I thought the word for soup was just “la soupe.”
Surrounding the carton were plastic bowls, glass carafes, and dehydrated packets of different varieties. I needed something easy to prepare, as I hadn’t eaten much during the previous days of travel; I desperately needed a fruit or vegetable element in my diet. On the plane, AirFrance offered a breakfast which included three forms of bread and two forms of dairy.
And an orange juice, thankfully.
Certainly, this has to be tomato soup. I grabbed the velouté from its spot on the shelf and cradled it in my elbow.
Turning, I walked down the rest of the aisles in the neighborhood grocery store, my first time in one since coming to France. Nothing stood out to me as particularly unusual, save the grand section of pâtés. I was glad to see everyone using their own bags to carry their items. I picked up some mushrooms and greens and made my way to the self-checkout.
On the tram ride back to my Airbnb, groceries in-hand, I felt the pang of hunger and worry hit my stomach at once. I became acutely aware of my aloneness, of the fact that I had to be the one to fully take care of myself. It helped that I was staying with a family until I found an apartment, but I couldn’t expect too much from them. Everyone already had their lives established here — it was my turn to figure out where I fit in.
—
Settled into my new place, I started with my tried-and-true: farfalle pasta with tomato, mushroom, and spinach cooked in pesto and garnished with parmesan. For breakfast, I had cereal and juice, sometimes eggs. Lunch rotated between lentils with sweet potato and take-away.
There’s only so much you can do with an induction stove and a sink.
The closest market near me was the Carrefour Contact, a 5-minute walk. Because it was a mini-version of the Carrefour chain, its selection was limited and prices were higher than they should be. Nevertheless, to my American delight, I could do my weekly shopping at half the price I was used to in the U.S.
And so I decided to become more ambitious with my cooking. French alimentation was known worldwide, after all. It would be a crime not to familiarize myself with the breads, cheeses, wines, and produce of the region. One of the best places to do so was the marché en plein air.
Every Sunday morning, dozens of vendors from nearby villages pitched their canopy tents along the main street of Libourne and into the center square, where serious grocery shopping took place. The first time I stumbled upon the market was by accident:
In an attempt to embrace the cultural values of French repose, I ventured out of my apartment for an aimless stroll. It was an ideal day for it, the Sunday before I was to begin teaching at the local high school. October had just begun, warranting a sweater and, as one might expect of the locals, a scarf. The pigeons were singing their soft coos atop the buildings, out of sight, creating a sort of soundtrack for the morning. I liked how the buildings melted into each other, composing one connected unit that informed the division of the streets. If I turned the corner, so did the buildings, which lead into more streets lined with more buildings. They were all the same color, too, a sandy eggshell.
As I walked, I noticed families and couples parking their small cars up and down the narrow alleys that had been empty during the week. They all seemed to be headed in the same direction, and my curiosity led me to follow suit. I turned onto Rue Gambetta and stopped for a moment to take in the activity buzzing around me.
Color splashed around town like I’d never seen it before. The rows of red and blue and green tents offered shade to focused vendors tending to their crowd of customers. Conversations swirled around me. As I ambled down the street, I peered into the individual universe under each tent. Worlds of lemon, eggplant, chestnut, mâche, pear, leek, and endless more converged on one stretch of cobblestone. On another, garlands of garlic, wooden crates of tomatoes, and sacks of rustic potatoes. There were entire trailers for the cheesemakers and butchers. One baking vendor in particular seemed to have a monopoly on Libourne, and her table was overflowing with loaves of sourdough, basil, whole wheat, olive, sesame, raisin, poppyseed, and an assortment of baguettes. The sound of paper bags being folded around fresh bread met my ears. Then, the clink of coins being dropped together into an open palm. Across from the baker, vendors from Madagascar, Egypt, Korea, and Lebanon sold homemade dishes, eager to engage in cultural exchange with their customers. I was especially enticed by these.
I circled the town square five times over, in a daze. Everyone was pulling trolley bags full of produce, moving from one table to another like clockwork. My nose guided me to the platform in the center where I found a van open with levels of rotisserie chickens on display. I sat down on a concrete slab to process. The ground was firm under my feet.
After some time, my gurgling stomach brought me back into the moment. With purpose, I stood up and made a beeline to the first produce vendor I saw.
—
That evening, I made roasted potatoes, sautéed with yellow onion, curry powder, and green peppers. I put on a playlist of frisky jazz, intended for cooking. I wiggled my shoulders to the tss-tss-tss of the jazz drum and grabbed the salt jar. Alone in my shared kitchen, I discovered there was only one pot, the handle entirely rusted off.
The music, concentrated around the measly speaker of my phone, suddenly stepped out of the device and filled the kitchen. The double bass occupied one corner, the trombone took up another, and the trumpet grew to the size of the ceiling. A full jazz band unfolded in that tiny space!
I rinsed, soaked, peeled, and quartered the potatoes to the beat. My fingertips were sticky with garlic, the pan streaked with olive oil. Next came the peppers — a resounding crunch with each slice. The saxophone’s big melody spun me around as I orbited the busted pot to find the safest spot to hold. The potatoes tumbled into the metal strainer. Everything was warm and fragrant. The onions crashed like cymbals in the pan, jumping and sizzling, their own accompaniment. We continued like that for a while.
After finishing my dinner-for-one, I could feel my body commending me from deep inside. Thank you for hand-picking these ingredients and preparing them well for me. I was going to be alright.
I slept soundly that night, nourished by the new space I had made my own.
