Double Dutch

Perhaps this piece deserves a disclaimer or even a warning:
Adult readers only. The writer refuses any responsibility for lost innocence.
When ever I tell people this story they want more, but I cannot invent more than what happened, much as I try. They say it’s incomplete, unfinished. One reader said, “Hey, it’s not fair! Where’s the rest of the story? Where’s this shop and what’s the name of the saleswoman? Don’t leave ME hanging!”
Some, notably only Americans, have been offended. I think that proves my point so I consider the vignette successful. I was dressed down by an American school teacher who thought I must have better things to write about and just what did my husband think about this? (He, having completely forgotten the incident, laughed.) But then there are those who would burn books before even reading them. So it goes...

I enjoy buying clothes with my husband, his clothes that is. Because he belongs to the tallest race in Europe, he shops in his homeland, the Netherlands. There, pant legs are usually cut long and generously enough to accommodate the sturdy Dutchman’s leg (all cyclists, born with a steel bicycle pedal in their mouths). Virtually everything he tries on fits, and if it doesn’t he takes on the attitude taken by most men, i.e. the fault lies in the cut of the cloth not his body build. For example, take the last time we bought him a suit together. It fit rather well, except in one place.
“It’s too tight in the crotch,” he announced, coming out of the dressing room grimacing.
“That’s the style right now,” the saleslady explained.
“Could be, but they’re too tight for me.”
“Pants are cut differently this year.” Elaborating, she added, “One has to dress in the centre.”
“But 1 happen to dress to the left.” my husband replied matter-of-factly.
“It’s the jeans cut. To wear it, you must dress to the centre,” she insisted.
“That may well be,” he ventured, “but I still dress to the left.”
“You’re probably used to wearing pants with three folds. But this year there’s only one fold. You have to dress to the centre.”
“Could be, but I still dress to the left,” now my spouse insisted.
Did I hear correctly? Were my husband and a
saleswoman amiably, unashamedly and openly discussing the tilt of his genitalia? Trying not to let my North American sensibilities and all too Puritan upbringing show, I said nothing.
“There was a time when everyone wore boxer shorts and could let everything hang nice and loose,” she said, turning to me with a confiding look as if to say, just between us girls, we know what it is to hang nice and loose.
I gave her my best virgin spinster look.
Unfazed she returned her attention to my husband and dropped to her knees in front of him. What was she planning to do I wondered?
“Well,” hubby began, “I’ve never worn boxer shorts and these pants are still too…”
Now I doubted my eyes? The saleslady was reaching up with both hands towards my partner’s crotch.
“Oh no!” I thought. “She’s not going to?”
Then she did. With both hands she rearranged, pulled, patted and straightened his pleats.
“So what do you think, Maddy?” my mate appealed to me.
“I think,” I hesitated, still recovering from what I had just witnessed, “if you’re willing to walk around in a suit you have to pull on the crotch every few seconds to wear comfortably, then go ahead.”
“Can the pants be let out?” my husband asked.
“Of course,” the saleswoman answered brightly, but I thought I detected a certain reluctance in her tone.

Bon Appétit


It was just past dawn when I spotted them in the misty grey light. I am tempted to call them middle-aged, but are people in their fifth decade, "middle-aged"? We are not, all of us, going to live past one hundred years. Without ever completing the comparison, some would call them an "older couple". Let's just say they were in their late fifties, perhaps early sixties, both shod in gumboots, carrying a stout stick each and plastic shopping bags. Poking the undergrowth, they were avidly searching the ditches near our French Atlantic campsite. I wondered why? What were they looking for beneath the brambles? I hesitated to ask, for my French still fails me. I kept mum and walked on, my pooch scampering past.
On the return trip an hour later, the couple was still scouring the roadside where all the campers' dogs, including mine, relieved themselves. With regularity, the wiry little woman retrieved something round and brown that she gleefully popped into her plastic sack.
Could it be mushrooms I wondered? Surely mushrooms were more plentiful in the dung-splattered meadow from which I just came? Then I remembered that eighty percent of fungi grow near trees. Elder trees skirted the road, so perhaps they had found Auricularia auricula or Judas' Ear (named for Judas Iscariot, supposedly hanged on an elder tree). I could almost taste the sliced tree ears in a sauce made with onions, garlic and basil, thickened with crème fraîche then spread on toasted pain paysan.
Or, had they collected the versatile Bay Bolete? (Boletus badius for purists, but who could forget such a name even in Latin?) Could they have picked the highlight of the mushroom season, the fabulous-tasting, Chanterelle? No, I supposed not since the Cantharellus cibarius prefers mossy clearings, it had to be another variety.
Yes! I had it. They must have come across the Shaggy Ink Cap a.k.a. Coprinus comatus, another hard-to-forget name. Everyone knows this common fungus grows on grassy banks and road sides. How had I missed it? A couple of mushrooms, some onions, a little potato to thicken, sweated together and then puréed, made a simple, but sumptuous soup. But her catch was not white and certainly not shaped like the Shaggy Ink Cap. How could I entertain such a notion?
It had to be the Hedgehog Fungus, not your garden-variety mushroom, the
Hydnum repandum. Hard to find and much sought after this gem, but they were looking in exactly the right spot, a drainage ditch. That was it!
But no, wait, the Hedgehog Fungus is cream coloured; their booty was definitely brown. Exhausting my scanty knowledge of mushrooms, I regretted I could not yet accurately identify my prey, especially since I knew that one poisonous pick could contaminate the whole bunch. Fortunately, mushroom collecting is such a favourite and serious past time in France that pharmacists are trained to recognise the deadly fungi in collectors' baskets. However, this pair did not carry baskets.
"Bonjour Madame," I sang my greeting as I approached.
"Bonjour," she sang in return, sizing me up and clutching her precious cargo close to her body.
"What are you looking for, Madame? What have you got in your sack?"
Upon hearing my accent, obviously foreign and devoid of any gourmet undertones she relaxed and smiled, showing her ageing twisted teeth. I suspect she decided her treasure-trove would be safe from the likes of me.I would not return to mine the mother lode. Her husband joined us, the smell of cigarette tobacco lingering about him. Grinning wider, she opened her bag to reveal her find. Our heads almost touching, we stood and examined the loot.
Fifty or more Helix aspersa! Great gobs of slobbering, slippery, slimy invertebrates slithered about, each soft unsegmented mollusc leaving a mucousy trail for its fellow gastropods to navigate.
I have never much cared for snails—and living in France as I do, I realisethe blasphemy of my statement. This dislike is not based on prejudiceagainst all things creepy, crawly and crustaceous, but I've seen snails in their natural environment, and I've seen what they eat. Detritus, the encyclopaedia politely calls it.The fact is, I've always considered hot parselyed garlic butter infinitely more delicious than the rubbery creatures it enrobes, even when they are labelled escargots d'or. I admired the couple's abundant haul.
"Bon appétit!" I called, thinking "Garden snails... chacun son goût."