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When I was 16 I spent a month living with a wonderful family splat in the middle of France. The village where they spent their summers was tiny. Really tiny. It was composed of about 70 people, all of whom were related in some way or another, so, as an extraneous bit of DNA in their midst, it was hard to know what to do with myself or how to fit in. Every night in this tiny village one of the families hosted a soiree, a party that usually started in the middle of the afternoon and went on well into the night, usually involving the cooking of a whole animal and the preparation of innumerable side dishes and desserts, and seemingly endless informal chatting and gossiping. I tried to help the ladies with the cooking, but I just didn’t have the social graces or the patience to do that kind of meticulous artisanship and socializing every afternoon. So, not infrequently, I would sneak off to behind the barn where the men of the village would be gathered, drinking pastis and shooting |