Incidentally, my love affair with French culinary culture -- food sourcing and preparation, wine, and, of course, the panache of consumption – began well before my knowledge of this stowaway-story (which, by the way, is a story that should be rendered into screenplay by those more talented than I). The story itself has made for a great deal of posthumous humor by my husband, Thomas Frederick (a German), including his remarks that my French culinary exploits (I prefer “experiments”) do indeed reinforce our own more intimate, contemporary interpretation of the Franco-German Alliance…*blushing.
I unknowingly provided more humorous fodder recently upon my rejection of what I term, “the poached-egg cheater”…which, of course, meant I had to subsequently prove I could poach eggs successfully on the first try using basic culinary equipment – a pot, hot water, and slotted spoon. I attributed my success less to my ability to read and follow a recipe (which I dislike doing anyway, because I do not like being told what to do, in general), than to dormant knowledge of my heritage.
I felt more comfortable relating to the “stowaway narrative” of survival; where one reappropriates whichever resources are available to make things work, whether in the kitchen, or in life. My make-shift double boiler from mismatched pots and pans, as example, perhaps pays more homage to the discovery of my immigrant past, thereby making my efforts successful (if only in the eyes of my most precious German ally…)
