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French family. My mother-in-law in particular (but my husband, too) has
manies
(obsessions), mostly concerning vegetables. For example, washing salads. In my family, my husband has washed lettuce leaves for the past twenty years. This was after he discovered that I hadn’t mastered the technique and probably never would. The technique is separating the leaves one by one and looking at every single leaf to make sure it is perfectly clean and void of those little fleas that prove the lettuce came from a field, then washing the good ones and ripping (not cutting) each leaf one by one into just the right size.My husband flips out at the sight of an imperfect leaf of lettuce, so, hey, he gets to clean them!
    Then there are carrots: You cut out the pithy green inside. Tomatoes: My mother-in-law peels them and gently squeezes out the seeds when preparing a tomato salad. (When I do this, it looks like an ax murder. Her salad is a perfect jewel.) Roasts: Slices have to be thin, never thick. My husband, bless his artistic French heart, would never let a boiled
potato
out of the kitchen unless it had a bit of parsley sprinkled on it. Color! Oh yes, and if you serve a baked potato to my husband or any other Frenchman, he will cheerfully remove every single bit of skin before attacking it. “Only hogs eat potato skins,” exclaims my husband, watching me in horror as I eat the potato,
peau
and all.
    Now, in all truth, I
do
actually put on two meals a day, but I am the first to confess that my husband is the one who has the talent and the ideas. In this, he is an exception. I don’t know a lot of other Frenchmen who are so gifted in the kitchen. His
blanquette de veau
is to die for. His potato omelette is perfect. He also makes crêpes. (I can make them, but he can both make them and flip them just so.) Whatever he rustles up is simply delicious. And he does it all with that perfect French nonchalance. I admit I am just a teeny bit vexed when, after years of valiant efforts of thinking up menus and making major meals, people say, “Oh, Philippe is such a wonderful cook!” I shouldn’t be, though, because he’salso the soul of hospitality and has what we laughingly refer to as the
“syndrome du chef”
—that is, he
likes
to feed people! In fact, I should thank my lucky stars that when guests come, he often does the whole deal and I get so relaxed, I think I’m at someone else’s party.
    Things are
much
better, though, than they once were. A year after I got married, I decided to take the plunge and invite French guests to dinner. Like a general going into battle, I planned my attack. My strategy was to think out the meal from back to front—that is, retreating from the dessert course methodically back through to the starter (which probably violates all principles of gastronomy, but that’s okay). Nerves are nerves, and my first attempt was fraught with errors. My first course was a simple lettuce salad with chicken livers and bacon tossed with a vinaigrette. I didn’t consider that not everyone likes chicken livers and some people even hate them. So much for the hors d’oeuvre. I tried not to look crushed as the guests pushed those tender bits to the edges of their plates. I thought the French loved liver!
    As for the chicken and rice, I mean, how can you go astray when you serve something as basic as a roast chicken? You can in France. One of my guests, a French friend, kindly requested the sauce, which, in the heat of the moment, I had forgotten to serve. Then there was the cheese course. Since the cheese had been stinking up the kitchen, I had put it in the fridge and had forgotten to take it out. So when it arrived at the table, it was coldand had congealed—a major booboo at the French table. The crème caramel of course didn’t have enough caramel. To top it all off, I hadn’t realized how much bread French guests can consume, and I’d had to escape