Les Vacances

Some days - some times - I hate being a grown up. Like the first of every month when my rent is due; the days that my insurance, car, utility, or phone bills come in the mail; the moments when I realize I haven't been to the doctor in a while, and I don't have my parents around to make appointments for me; the Sundays when I have to boot up my computer to get ready for the work week; the glances in the mirror when I spot a gray hair; and when I get where in the world are my parents (without me) text messages from my Mom.

I hated being a grown yesterday morning, Bastille Day, on my way to work, when I saw an email come through from my Dad that read, "dining al fresca in Angers, France."

18 years ago, as a kid of 11-years old, I would have been dining al fresca with them, having my first sip of Loire Valley sauvignon blanc, looking forward to quaint countryside inns, tours of the Normandy Beaches, rides down the Seine on a Bateau Mouche, frolics through Monet's garden at Giverny, surprised-this-is-so-not-G-rated first glances at bare breasts on the beach, lessons in how Cointreau is made, and smelly arm pits pushing down my head in an overcrowded Eiffel Tower elevator.

But yesterday, and today for that matter, I was in a cube far from France, far from summer vacations past, wishing I got that golden kid ticket.

So I did the only thing that could make me feel better - I pretended I was in France with my parents. I wore my black and white, high-waisted Nanette Lepore skirt that bells out and spins, and I continued to make it do just that, spin, each time I dramatically went to the bathroom and returned to my seat. I put on my little green French shoes that I got in Paris when I traveled there with Nicole. I read all five of the Bastille Day culinary e-newsletters that were delivered to my in-box yesterday. And of course, I planned a Frenchie feast for dinner - Salmon with stewed leeks and for dessert, classic French Madeleines - and served it on my new French China.

I thought I did a good job being a grown up about it. But I was still little jealous - a little sad that if even everyone else couldn't go, I wasn't able to wiggle my way into being my parents' third wheel. Until I did the most grown up thing of all - I thought about it. I thought about how many wonderful summer vacations my parents gave to my brother, sister and I over the years - how much fun we all had together over the course of more than two decades. And I thought about how at least once, or twice, or a dozen times during each of those vacations, my parents probably looked forward to the day when they could vacation just the two of them - have a romantic trip for two, instead of a rowdy trip for five.

So while I'm sure there are full family vacations in the pipeline, I'm happy that my parents are having their own private vacances en France right now - a vacation they've worked hard for, that they deserve, that will bring them back to the time that my Mom and Dad first met, right when my Mom returned from her study abroad in Angers, France. 

And because you're off to Belgium next, Peter and I are gastronomically traveling with you via steak frites this evening.  And I'll be embracing that other amazing part about being a grown-up - no one to tell me to stop at three - I'm going for four (or five) Madeleines tonight.

Lo.