We spent a day in the kitchen making sugar cookies with sprinkles and baking shortbread cut into festive shapes.
There may have been a glass of something festive involved as well, just to make things a little easier.
The cookies were then popped into little festive Christmas bags ready for delivery.
I felt proud that the cookies actually tasted as good as they looked and self-righteous at my attempted Canadian-ness.
Yay, for the love of life in France!
Husband was then dispatched to share the wealth.
His French was better than mine and I was happy in front of the fire with a glass of festiveness and a snug ‘I’ve done my bit” grin.
When he returned he looked a bit downcast and when I asked how it went he said that they didn’t really get it.
What do you mean, they didn’t get it? I asked.
They didn’t know why we were giving them English cookies. He replied
WTF! English cookies? Was all I could say
Our neighbors, the farmers, gave him a bewildered “what the hell are these” look, but took them anyway because it was the only way to get him to leave.
The village mayor looked at them as if they were foreign…which they were, clearly.
Maybe we should have given her a donation instead!
The local bike shop gave “we’re humoring you because you give us a lot of business and therefore we can’t say they’re awful” looks.
And the Postman, well he changed his route soon after.
Guess tradition doesn’t travel so well across the pond.
Nada, they didn’t get it.
I was gutted after all that effort, a failure.
My baking prowess denied again.
In my over active brain I could see them all very clearly, holding my little bag of Christmas goodness in the air shaking their heads in true Gallic style while muttering “Wat is zis English sheet?”
I was done, reputation down the dunny, never to climb up the culinary ranks again.
I would be forever an English “cook” who couldn’t cook.
What a over sensitive soul I was to think that it was all about my shortfalls when the only issue was a difference in culture and knowledge.
The English bring out the mince pies as their tradition and the French bring out the chocolates.
With that the chin went out, the shoulders came up and the heels dug right in.
Dammit, they were going to get cookies every year, regardless of their tradition.
It was time to “man up”, get over it and stop being a princess.
So, they DO get cookies every year, like them or not.
We call it Christmas Cookie Bribery but least everyone knows who we are and won’t forget us.
After all, we are being kind in our own way even if they don’t understand why we do it.
We secretly chuckle when delivering now and I bet they cringe when they see us coming through the door in December.
The neighbors still look at us funnily and probably give the cookies to their chickens.
The mayor, seems to like the offer but we don’t really know as we haven’t put in a building permit or anything.
The bike shop think the “Sables Anglais” are “tres bon” but most likely pawn them off to unsuspecting customers saying that the English chick calls herself a chef but doesn’t know how to cook.
The postman keeps changing, I think the word is out.
Cookies anyone? I got lots to spare!
Happy Christmas, Joyeux Noel, Bonne Fetes