I asked Mr. P if he wanted eggs for breakfast. “No, I am having my new hot cereal,” he said, his nose slightly aloft in typical Gallic refusal. He had purchased the hot cereal while grocery shopping the day before, and he was all excited to try it out, which I found very cute. Hot cereal isn’t a typical French foodstuff, but some years ago after an ordeal, I had gotten him to try, accept, and even crave oatmeal as the perfect winter morning repast. It was gratifying to see him expand his breakfast repetoire beyond toast, muffins, and the occasional left-over cake binge. Who says you can’t change your spouse?
“So what’s this intriguing new hot cereal?” I asked him as he stirred his porridge on the stovetop. Mr. P pointed to a huge cellophane bag full of tan-colored, grit-size grains, which I seized upon with no small horror.
“EWWW! Cream of wheat?” I said in disbelief. “Why the hell did you buy all this cream of wheat? Have you ever even tried cream of wheat before?”
“No,” he said, eyeing the contents of the saucepan.
“I loath cream of wheat,” I said frankly. “There’s nothing redeeming about it. It’s heavy mushy texture, worse than oatmeal, like baby food with dense lumps of sand. There’s nothing to chew. It just sits in your mouth until you swallow it and then it sits in your stomach. Eeek. You’re going to hate it.”
“Well, it’s made from wheat, so it’s healthy,” Mr P said.
“Even if I accepted the notion that a bowlful of wheat is healthy, which I certainly don’t, nothing is healthy if you have to put one cup of sugar in it just to make it edible,” I said. “And besides, if it’s wheat you want, why not just have toast? It’s not like you’re going out today to plow fields and raise barns.”
Mr. P seemed a little surprised by my reaction — I usually refrain from passing judgement on other’s meals, as it is beyond rude — but I knew he would hate it. As if determined to defy me, Mr. P grimly spooned the cream of wheat into his mouth. Indeed, I could tell his distaste from the way he glumly stared at the gelatinous cluster of lumps in his bowl, his lips pursed into a pucker, but he made it through half the bowl before pushing it away. “I made too much,” he said, when I pointed and nodded knowingly.
Americans have the dubious talent of being able to eat anything that is placed before us, no matter how bland or unappetizing. French are quite the opposite. Typically, they will go hungry rather than ingest anything that doesn’t meet their high quality standards. That is why you can get a better meal at a highway rest stop in France than 90% of restaurants in America. Because they will only eat food that is freshly prepared, tasty, and bears a semblance of nutrition (“… and for dessert, it’s peach tatin!”)
Two years ago, we were breakfasting in England with my French in-laws at our bed and breakfast. We were given the choice between cold cereal or a “full breakfast.” We all innocently ordered the “full breakfast” and were presented with heaping plates of eggs, french fries, fatty bacon, baked beans, fried tomatoes, and toast. My mother-in-law was aghast. My father-in-law was disgusted. You could see their repugnance plainly on their faces, like what kind of animals can eat this at 8am in the morning! Not even our hardy, well-made American daughter-in-law can stomach baked beans before noon ! They nibbled at the toast and sipped their juice, visibly recoiling from the bounty of greasy, heavy food splayed in front of them.
(Me, I was horrified after the waitress asked us if we wanted any “sauce.”
“Sauce?” I exclaimed, flummoxed. I was picturing, like, béarnaise. “What kind of sauce?” I asked.
“Oh, red sauce or brown sauce,” she offered.
“Red sauce?” I asked, voice dripping with suspicion. “Well, I don’t know what that is, but I’ll try it!”
Of course, “red sauce” turned out to be ketchup.)
Anyway, my point is… well, I don’t really have a substantive point, aside from: French people have delicate stomachs, not particularly suited to cream of wheat. Strangely, so do I. Yet Mr. P brought home two pounds of it, and he’s trying very hard to eat it. He calls it “creamy wheat,” as in “The creamy wheat is sitting in my stomach,” as in “The creamy wheat is killing my joie de vivre,” as in “I’ll trade you the rest of my creamy wheat for your eggs.”
