Ratatouille and The Church - Part I

Living next to a church can be hell. Don’t get me wrong, I like churches. I even like church bells. Occasionally, when the atmospheric conditions are just right, I can hear the bells of Our Lady of Loretto, clear across Novato. I find the sound soothing, in an Old World way. But living next to a church can sometimes be hell, even for the faithful.

I spent two summers in France, staying with the Cailles family in the French Alps and working as an au pair. Actually, the job was sort of made-up – I think that Grand’mere Cailles just thought it would be interesting to have an American student live with her extended family, who all came to spend their summers at the Serpenoise, as her home was known. I cleaned house for a couple of hours each morning, set the table for lunch and dinner, and then helped clear the plates after.

Other than that, I was free to relax, explore our picturesque town of Menthon St-Bernard, take advantage of the family’s private dock, go sailing on the scenic Lac d’Annecy in one of their two small boats, or venture into the nearby mountains. And for this, I actually got paid $100 a month in addition to room and board, which at the time was remarkable for an au pair.

The house was smack dab in the center of Menthon, next to the church, befitting Madame Caillles’ status in the town. The Serpenoise was an impressive 3-story stone building with at least 6 bedrooms upstairs and two on the ground floor, which were occupied by the eldest grandson, Arnaud Delaubier, and myself. My room was tiny, but it was quiet and had a bed with a horsehair mattress and two French doors (okay, I suppose they were all, technically, French doors) that opened out onto the gravel patio where we played the local version of table tennis, which resembled musical chairs. I couldn’t have been better situated if I tried.

Right off the bat, I saw that I would need a bike to get around. And with Arnauld’s assistance, I acquired a well-used Mercier ten-speed from one of his buddies in Annecy. I would take it out nearly every morning for the 22-mile tour around the lake, returning in time to eat my breakfast of bread, jam and cocoa, before starting my chores. Many afternoons saw me climbing the cols (mountain passes) to our east, or clawing my way up the nearly four thousand foot massif of the Semnoz, directly across the lake from us to the west. Many of the climbs I recognize today as I watch the Tour de France on T.V.

The weather in our region was often dramatic. We had some of the heaviest rain I can remember and regular thunder storms. At times, we would sit on the veranda outside the living room and watch lightning bolts strike the summit of the Semnoz. One evening we even witnessed a pair of strikes on the gazebo at the bottom of the yard, not more than fifty yards away. Fortunately, the bad weather seldom lasted long, so I really didn’t pay much attention to it when I went out for my afternoon rides.

That is how I happened to be climbing the Col des Marais in a driving rainstorm. When the deluge hit, I was halfway into a 35 mile ride and only part way up the 2,765 foot climb. I sought refuge under a tree, but that turned out to provide little shelter, so I ventured back out onto the winding mountain road. After all, it was getting near dusk and I still had quite a ways to go. The rain was so torrential, it made me laugh out loud. It pooled on my back and sent up a veritable shower of spray from my tires. I was cycling at the bottom of a swimming pool that went clear up to the clouds.

The storm broke momentarily as I reached the summit and descended into the village of Thones, but hit again with full force as I got onto the main Route d’Annecy and rode up the Col de Bluffy, the last obstacle before descending to the lake. By this time, due to the low cloud cover, it was practically dark. Fortunately, all the traffic was heading away from the lake, so I had the descending lane all to myself. Still, as I sped down the hill with the rain in my eyes and near zero visibility, I remember repeating to myself not to get caught between a pair of headlights as cars pulled out to pass each other in the long line. The short ride along the lake back to Menthon was anti-climactic.

Mme. Cailles must have heard my arrival in the courtyard and was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. She started to admonish me for being late to supper, but then she got a good look at me - shivering and soaking wet in just my cycling shorts and jersey - and held her tongue. Instead she instructed me to get dried quickly and come up to supper. It was clear she had been very worried.

Everyone was already at table when I arrived, but Grand’mere insisted that I get some hot food into my body right away. Tales of my adventure could wait until later. And that is how I was introduced to my first bowl of ratatouille. As I ate greedily, the warm vegetable stew began to thaw my frozen body and made my battle on the Col des Marais seem very long ago and very far away.