There are some moments in which I feel connected most strongly to the multitude of Maries, Francoises, Madeleines and Genevieves whose genes I carry somewhere in my bones, in my tongue, in my nose. These are cooking gifts, often: an unexpected success, a strong response to a certain combination of flavors, to the scent of fresh thyme or good olive oil, a passion for a particular wine. I felt it the first time I made an edible omelette, the first time I made crepes; both times they came out perfectly without experience, recipe or effort. Last night was the first time I made quiche, and it came out perfectly. I had no recipe, no experience except on the eating end, and I even made my own crust – but somehow it just came out. I didn’t measure, or employ complicated tools, techniques or spices. I just grated & crumbled cheese, lightly cooked asparagus, garlic & mushrooms, scrambled some eggs, until it looked right. I guessed at the temperature and the timing, fully prepared for a disastrous failure, and it didn’t happen. It was delicious.

Now I know crepes and quiches are not difficult dishes to make. I know I often fail on my second through tenth attempts, as I seek structure for the reflexive choices that molded my first efforts. My point is not to brag about my fabulous cooking skills (I mostly cook and eat the simplest foods), but to comment on how traditional dishes connect us to our ancestors. When I make French food, I feel connected to my predecessors; as though they are all standing in the kitchen with me, talking about wine, about their children, about herbs and gardens and fish, about the changes I’m making to their familiar dishes, about money and leftovers. I feel their strong arms kneading my dough with me and dusting the flour off their little warm hands on my apron. I hear their laughter and the rhythm of their conversation.

I will never forget watching my mom make strudel. Huge sheets of pastry, thin enough to see through, hanging nearly to the floor on all sides of the big kitchen table – a pastry tent – stretching and stretching and stretching... she talked and talked about watching her Nana make strudel when she was a little girl, about her laugh, re-telling her stories. My mom wasn’t a baker, really, and never before or since have I seen her make any pastry at all, but somehow it came out perfectly, just as those little German phrases roll off her tongue when she talks about her family growing up. “I don’t speak German” she says to me; well I don’t really speak French either, but my hands know how to cook what my mind does not. We know more than we know.