THE CANNERY

Continued from Modesto, first look

We left Yosemite Park and returned to Modesto: after taking in the view from Glacier Point, mingling with very friendly écureuils, and driving through a giant sequoia it was time to get back to civilization and get ready for work. We were settling in Modesto for a few weeks to fulfill one of our business school requirements: we had to work for one month en usine, performing blue-collar tasks. Some of our friends had done seasonal work in California canneries during previous summers and we had a visa that authorized us to be employed. The procedure was straight forward: show up, sign up, and wait to be called. Hence the importance of having a domicile fixe and a phone number.

We drove to the apartment we had agreed to rent a few days before only to find out the manager no longer wanted us to be tenants: she had called the cannery and realized we would be leaving after a month. Que faire? We had to find another place. We hooked up with other students: they were renting an apartment on Paradise Road and another unit was available. We rushed over there to check it out and it was perfect: spacious and furnished, with laundry facilities and a swimming pool! Only ten minutes from the cannery with our Torino! It would truly be paradise.

A couple of days later, I was starting my first shift as a sorter: basically, I spent eight hours standing in front of a moving belt carrying loads of tomatoes. My job was to look for and remove any fruit that exhibited black mold and to discard anything that did not meet the definition of tomato: weeds, soda cans, small animals, etc. Since tomatoes were harvested by giant aspirateurs, everything that was present in the field would get sucked in. I must say it was the hardest job I ever had. Although I was assigned to the morning shift, August temperatures routinely reached 95ºF and the sorters’ lines were set outside, under a metal roof. Standing in one place for eight hours was uncomfortable and staring at tomatoes continuously moving before my eyes was making me dizzy and mildly seasick. To add insult to injury, my supervisor was not very impressed by my performance and kept urging me to “try to be a little faster with your hands.”

After a couple of days, she thankfully moved me to another position (clean up duties) and we eventually became good friends. We chatted during lunch and breaks; she had three French students working in her shift and she was curious about our native country and our travel plans after our stage. One day she asked me where we were staying; I happily shared our address on Paradise Road. She was absolutely horrified. Unbeknownst to us, our “paradisiac” apartment was located in one of the worst neighborhoods. In fact, a dead body had been found in our dumpster the week before we moved in! I’m happy to report that none of us got killed or maimed. We didn’t interact with our neighbors very much (we worked 6 days a week) but I’ll never forget that day in August 1977 when Elvis died: everybody seemed to congregate outside their apartments in disbelief and talk about what The King meant to them. Of course, all the radio stations were playing his songs. For some reason, it felt like the end of an era; we were not Americans but I felt we were all sharing a significant moment.

We spent four weeks on Paradise Road while working at the cannery. Tomato is still one of my favorite foods. I discovered turkey lunch meat, American cheese, and Mexican salsa. My coworkers looked at me with amusement at first but, eventually, took me into their fold and brought me plums, figs, and peaches from their gardens. They even threw a mini lunch party on our last day at work, bringing home-made sweets and cookies. As we were getting ready for our big road trip across the United States, I said goodbye to my supervisor. Five years later, she became my belle-mère…

Vocabulary
L’écureuil: squirrel
En usine: in a factory
Le domicile fixe: lit. a permanent home, a residence
Que faire: what to do
L’aspirateur: vacuum cleaner
Le stage: internship
La belle-mère: mother-in-law. Also, stepmother

MODESTO, FIRST LOOK

Continued from The Torino.

The trip had been planned in great details. After landing in California, we would purchase a car, drive to Modesto to register at the cannery where we would work for one month, then start our road trip across the USA, staying at campgrounds along the way. The itinerary was set and dates were nailed down so we could pick up mail from France at General Delivery in some of the cities we would pass through. Our own version of “If it’s Tuesday, it must be New Orleans…”

After buying our mustard yellow Torino, we were chomping at the bit: still in Oakland (nothing to see), so close to San Francisco (lots to see.) We decided to drive across the bridge for a first taste of the City by the Bay. Spectacular! We spent most of our time around Fisherman’s Wharf, admiring Alcatraz surrounded by jade waters, and trying out a sandwich at Boudin's. We realized that French bread, like French dressing, was not really French after all. Late afternoon, we picked up some groceries at Safeway in the Marina district and headed out to the Berkeley Hills: our California map showed a tent icon there, indicating the presence of a campground.

It was dusk, and then it was dark. We were still trying to find that campground. Eventually, we noticed a wooded area with some picnic tables and a couple of parked cars. We had arrived. We turned our flashlights on, unloaded the gear, set up the tents, cooked some pork chops and rice, and called it a day. The next morning, it quickly became obvious that our first camping night had been sauvage: there were no facilities of any kind save for the picnic tables. But we were prepared for everything: teeth were brushed and business was done, in a very ecological manner. We boiled water for coffee, fried some eggs, and devour them with untoasted white bread. We packed our gear and headed out to Modesto.

We arrived in the middle of the afternoon and filled up the Torino at a station service on 5th Street. As soon as we got out of the car, we were immediately welcomed by the infamous Valley heat, a prelude to the temperatures we would contend with during the whole month of August. We drove to the cannery, signed up at the personnel office and told Kathy (personnel manager) we would give her our address and phone number as soon as we had secured an apartment to rent. We spent that night camping at the Modesto Reservoir, a legit campground. Taking a shower was wonderful, watching young Americans brush their teeth under a running faucet was surprising: I was the only one using a plastic goblet. Does your father own the water company?

We drove to town early, had breakfast at –the now defunct– Smitty’s coffee shop on 9th Street, picked up a copy of the Modesto Bee, and poured over the “For Rent” ads to find an apartment. We only needed a place for one month and there were seven of us but, in reality, we would be working different shifts: a two-bedroom apartment would suffice. We drove to Villa Verde South on Coffee Road, had a pleasant meeting with the manager where I pretended there were only three of us: me, my “brother," and my “boyfriend.” We were quite impressed by the spaciousness of the apartment, at least, by Parisian standards! I signed on the dotted line, paid the security deposit and one month rent. We congratulated ourselves for finding a place so easily and arranged to get phone service tout de suite. We knew the cannery would not need us for a few days and we drove off to Yosemite. What could possibly go wrong?

To be continued...

Vocabulary
Le camping sauvage: lit. wild camping; setting up your tent in an area not specifically designated for camping.
La station service: gas station
Tout de suite: right away.

AMERICAN GRAFFITI

Everybody who grew up in Modesto during the 1950s has fond memories of cruising, that adolescent rite of passage immortalized by George Lucas in his 1973 film American Graffiti. Yes, the force is strong in Modesto but car culture is stronger yet! A spontaneous Friday night activity for teenagers anxious to show off their cars and pick up some dates, cruising originally took place on 10th street but had already moved to McHenry Avenue –the “new” main drag– by the time Modesto became my home; instead of a weekly happening, it had morphed into a once-a-year celebration (Graffiti Night) held on Saturday night right after graduation.

I personally never joined the bumper-to-bumper parade: I like to keep a bit of distance from noxious fumes… Rick and I preferred to walk down the street and admire the shiny classic cars and custom hot rods. Besides, the street offered terrific entertainment as well: 50s and 60s music, girls in poodle skirts, cops on horses, the very heavily tattooed guy who showed up with a huge python coiled around his neck year after year.

The City Council banned cruising in 1993 as the event had become too unruly. There were several dark years where Modesto seemed to forget its rich car history. Graffiti Night was finally resurrected into Graffiti Summer: throughout June, car aficionados from all over descend upon Modesto to enjoy several classic and custom car shows, festivals, Hula Hoop contests, and a “regulated” car parade that once again extends to McHenry Avenue. Maybe it’s no longer spontaneous enough for George Lucas; maybe he’d rather keep the memories of his youth intact. The Native Son has attended only once.

I did a double-take last year when I was in Paris: there was a car show right behind the Hôtel de Ville and all vehicles on display were belles américaines, like the legendary Chevys and Fords of American Graffiti, the true stars of the movie. Guess what: George wasn’t there either.

Vocabulary
Les belles américaines: the beautiful American cars (i.e. classics)

MICHELLE'S CHOCOLATE MAYONNAISE CAKE

Truth be told: I didn’t start cooking until my twenties. I had plenty of opportunities to learn from the best: my mother and grandmothers were all excellent, intuitive, confident cuisinières who whipped up two meals a day without the aid of any book. I just wasn’t interested. My desire to know how to cook developed quite suddenly, after my second trip to California, but I’ll save that story for another time.

Not knowing my way in the kitchen didn’t mean that food was unimportant to me. After all, it is hard to grow up in France and think about food as mere sustenance. I had definite ideas about what I liked and which ingredients usually combined in a tasty way. During my trips to England, Italy, and Germany, I also had the pleasure (or displeasure) to challenge my taste buds with the unfamiliar: beans on toast, grilled octopus, or cheese with music (look it up…)

In general, I was not surprised or offended by American food when I came over to the US. The notable exception was desserts: some of the ingredients just made me cringe. Mincemeat pie? Really? I never got used to that one. I had heard of carrot cake and it didn’t sound appealing. Luckily the first one I was served was baked by Debbie, my sister-in-law-to-be: her recipe is simply the best and it has become one of my favorite cakes. I also tried zucchini bread made by Terri (my other sister-in-law-to-be) and it was quite enjoyable. After a while, my mind finally accepted the notion of incorporating vegetables into baked goods.

At some point, Rick raved about Michelle’s chocolate mayonnaise cake and it just sounded gross to me. I had watched my dad make mayonnaise from scratch too many times to ignore that it contained black pepper, vinegar and –gasp– Dijon mustard. Quelle horreur! By now you probably know where this story is heading. Yes, Frank and Michelle invited us over for dinner. Yes, a chocolate cake was served. And yes, it was absolutely delicious. I asked for another slice and for the recipe. I learned a few lessons that night. First, one should always approach new foods with an open mind. Second, break down a preparation into its components: after all, mayonnaise is mostly composed of eggs and oil, the “usual suspects” in baked goods. Third, read the labels: American mayonnaise is made sans moutarde…

Michelle died of cancer while I was in France last month. Her Facebook page was flooded with tributes and memories. Her granddaughter Sara brought up the chocolate mayonnaise cake: judging from friends and family’s reactions, I think it’s safe to call it her signature dessert. Last Saturday I felt a sudden urge to bake (trust me: it’s not a normal state for me.) Locating the recipe was a cinch: I knew I would find it in my very first American recipe folder, the one I started thirty-five years ago. So, I baked my cake and cried. Losing a long time friend is hard but thirty-five years of shared meals and laughs and songs sparked many of those moments parfaits I love so much. Her famous chocolate mayonnaise cake is only one of them; the oldest one.

Vocabulary
La cuisinière: (female) cook; also, the stove
Quelle horreur: how horrible
Sans moutarde: without mustard

Michelle’s Chocolate Mayonnaise Cake

1 box Duncan Hines Devils Food cake mix
4 oz package instant chocolate pudding
4 eggs
¼ cup mayonnaise
½ pint sour cream
1 tbsp almond extract
½ cup vegetable oil
½ cup water
6 oz chocolate chips
1 cup almond slivers
Butter and cocoa powder for the pan

Preheat oven to 350º. In a large bowl, combine cake mix and chocolate pudding. In another bowl, combine eggs, mayonnaise, sour cream, almond extract, oil, and water. Add wet ingredients to dry ingredients and beat until smooth. Fold in chocolate chips and almond slivers. Butter a bundt cake pan and dust with some cocoa powder. Bake for about 55 minutes.

Sylvaine’s tip: I like to serve it with a raspberry coulis and a dollop of whipped cream.

I did not take the photo included in this post but I do not know whom to credit (if Frank lets me know, I'll update.) It's one of my favorites; it was used for an open house at their design/art gallery.

LOST IN ALMOND LAND

One of my favorite sights in the Central Valley of California is the blooming of almond trees in the early spring when the bare gray limbs disappear under a thick canopy of white blossoms. Almond production has increased at a frantic pace during the past two decades and new orchards sprouted in fields once planted with tomatoes or simply used as cow pastures. My ride to work takes me through country roads lined with dense orchards; this week, the low white skies and the thick white flowers enveloped me in a gauzy cocoon.

And yet, there is one almond orchard I still miss, the victim of another trend in the Valley: rampant urbanization. It was located in Manteca at the junction of SR 120 and Hwy 99, where the elevated off-ramp dips downward and curves South. Apartment buildings, storage units, and strip malls have replaced the huge almond orchard that was nestled within the ramp and extended as far as the eye could see.

On a clear February afternoon many years ago, Rick and I were driving back from San Francisco airport. As we left 120 to head home, my eyes lingered on the exploding blooms to my right, thick cottony pillows framed by deep blue skies. For a moment, I thought I was still on the plane, watching our descent from above the clouds and then through them. A second reentry. A second landing. Terra firma again.