December 12, 2017 – Passoire – pronounced [paswar]

         Cleaning up the kitchen today, I noticed that my passoire was in the wrong place. I moved it where it belonged. I know some of you will say,

         “A what?”

         “It’s what you carry out to the garden to pick green beans in and it’s what you put the grapes or tomatoes in when you rinse them with water.”

         I won’t keep you in suspense any longer – it is the French word for colander.

         My father’s mother was ‘imported’ from the outskirts of  Paris, France, as a World War I bride and she spoke little English when she arrived at Ellis Island.  My Grandfather’s heritage was Canadian French and they could communicate well enough to fall in love while he was a solder in World War I stationed in France.

         As a new bride, my Grandmother spoke French while she slowly learned her English from Grandfather, and the local butcher who was French, and by learning to read the newspaper. My Dad was her first-born child and hardly spoke much English until he went off to school.  All her life, Grandma had a charming little French accent, but rarely spoke French when I was young.  She would use a word here or there, but never use French phrases or sentences.  Too bad, it would have been lovely to learn a second language from her. But, no, when she became an American Citizen she was adamant about speaking English, even when pressed. As a child I would ask,

“Say something in French, grandma?”

“No, I’m American now.” Was her answer every time.

When it came to kitchen items, passoire was the word for the colander at my Grandparents home and everyone used that word for it.

When my parents set up housekeeping, my Mom quickly learned the word, passoire from Dad and it is the only name our family uses unless there was an “outsider” in the kitchen.  Dad would call for the passoire as he was heading out to the garden to pick beans and Mom would fetch it for him.  If an outsider was present they would always ask,

“What’s that?”

         Our entire family, on my Dad’s side, knows what a passoire is. When I got married, I taught my husband what it was, “It is a passoire!” I declared and taught him to call it that.

         So, I had put the passoire in its right place and then I couldn’t find the “granny fork” when next I was cooking.

         “Where is the granny fork?”  I ask my husband,

         “I haven’t seen it, isn’t it in the knife block?” he suggests.

         The granny fork is one of those “tined forks” that you pierce and flip meat with when you are searing it, or poke the potatoes or other veggies to see if they are tender when you are boiling or steaming them.  Also, I whisk eggs with it, and make biscuits with it.  I use it for lots of things.  If I am cooking any meal in my kitchen, usually my granny fork is used for some part of it.  Work in the kitchen comes to a screeching halt when it has gone astray!

         Of course, Mom had one in her kitchen, that is where I learned to cook and when I set up housekeeping, she gave me a brand new one.  I think she gave one to each of us kids when we set up housekeeping.  I simply cannot properly function in a kitchen without one.

         And, I remember when I left home, she also gave me a little black metal fry pan, perfect for a fried egg for a sandwich [fits the sandwich bread perfectly] or to make an omelet for one or fry a single slice of bologna - YUM.  [I know she gave one to each of us kids when we all got married, and I know all three of us kids knew how to make all those items.]

         “Ah, here it is in the dish drainer, slipped down under.” I finally call out, as I locate it.

         All is well in the kitchen again, my passoire is hanging where it belongs, and I have my granny fork and little fry pan in hand. I am ready to whisk my eggs and make fried egg sandwiches for a quick lunch.  All is good again in my little “French” kitchen.

         Voilá.