There are phrases that regularly come out of my mouth in French that I’d never say in English. Bonne journée. Bonne soirée. Bon dimanche.Â
When was the last time you heard some one say “good day” or “good evening” in English? And even if you are a frequent watcher of shows or films based on Jane Austen novels, when were those phrases used as a synonym for “goodbye” instead of “hello?”
But more than either bonne journée or bonne soirée, bon dimanche is as foreign to Americans as it is natural to the French. I’m pleased to say that I’ve nearly integrated it, now, as I pass by the butcher’s, fishmonger’s and greengrocer’s near my work on Sunday morning to pick up groceries for a weekend filming. They smile and joke with me; I’m familiar in that neighborhood now, known for ordering only the most expensive — and often out-of-season — ingredients for our chefs. As they hand me my bags, they offer a wave and a “Bon dimanche.”
The things that were foreign to me when I first moved here are natural now. It’s been a very long time since I passed a day without speaking French, without taking something in stride — two-hour lunch breaks, odd opening hours, the very small size of a “normal” beer — that would have struck me as strange in my home country. But this is a newer one for me, possibly because it’s hard to understand the magic of a Sunday when you don’t have a Monday-Friday job.
Sunday here — regardless of the secularness of France that my father is all too keen to point out on a regular basis — is still important. It’s still a day where you can feel good about doing nothing at all, if you want to. The Country Boy and I had lofty intentions of heading out to the library today, but after a leisurely dim sum brunch in the 13th and an even more leisurely stroll, we decided that all we wanted to do was hang around the house and do nothing.
Nothing is something that I sometimes have a hard time doing.
I run at a very quick clip during the week that’s hard to slow down, even when I know I can. My weekdays have quickly escalated to 12 and 13 hours a day without my full permission or even awareness. As a college student, I took far too much advantage of my increased free time and 1PM classes and ended up destroying what was so nice about Sundays before: the surprise of realizing around 4 in the afternoon that you’re still in your pajamas. The freedom to put on a second movie. The ability to drink beer in the afternoon.
I’m not saying that my Sundays are like everyone’s Sundays. Far from it. But I think that somewhere in my discovery of a somewhat intense work ethic (OK, let’s call it workaholism) and incapacity to sit still for more than two seconds, I’ve come to appreciate the French vision of a long and relaxing dimanche.
potiron, lardons, thym, fromage de vache
1 onion
100 grams lardons or bacon
300 grams pumpkin
50 grams Saint-Marcellin or other soft cow’s milk cheese
fresh thyme
salt and pepper to taste
Thinly slice the onion. Meanwhile, put the lardons in a cold pan and slowly bring it up to a medium heat. When the lardons have rendered their fat, add the onion and increase the heat to medium high. Cook until browned. Remove, leaving the fat in the pan.
Cube the pumpkin and add to the pan. Sauté on all sides until browned, then add 2-3 Tbsp. of water and cover. Steam until tender, about 10 minutes.
Add the lardons and onions back to the pan and stir to combine. Add the cow’s milk cheese and thyme and immediately remove from the heat. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Enjoy in your pajamas and hope for a fall thunderstorm.
