French Mountain Oysters

Yesterday, my husband and I drove to Monsieur Dardennes' farm, arriving a quarter past eight in the morning to pick out our troupeau, flock. His mother, who was serving breakfast, in her rustic beamed dining room with the giant fireplace, to a gite guest, was willing to go out and look for him. She must have been at least seventy-five years old but the woman bounded out of the house and searched in several directions until her son appeared.

Monsieur Dardennes drove up on a huge tractor with his three grown sons hanging on for a ride. He took us out to the sheep barn, where he had already picked out four females for me; but he had a group of about fifteen male lambs penned up for me to make my selection.

I wanted one with lots of black on his face, and my husband pointed out one that had a lot of black, and a black "smile" so we chose him, and Monsieur Dardennes grabbed the chosen one by the hind leg and pulled him out of the group for us to inspect.

I've been to several bull sales in Montana, where they always broadcast the scrotum dimensions of the bull before starting the bidding, so trying to appear as if I was an old pro at purchasing breeding stock, I asked Monsieur Dardennes if I could see the lamb's testicles . . . a word I tried to pronounce with a "French" accent since I didn't know the French word for testicles. He knew what I was saying because, as luck and the evolution of language would have it, the French word happens to be testicules.

Monsieur Dardennes flipped the lamb up on his rear end, and then grabbed the stunned animal's scrotum, massaged it a bit, to show me that he did have deux testicules. I asked him if they were good ones, because they were small, and I was a bit skeptical, since the mature bucks have testicles that hang down virtually to their ankles . . . and I'm not joking. Monsieur laughed heartily and then made some gesture with his hand regarding his own testicles . . . and I laughed nervously not knowing what he attempting to convey to me.

Having chosen our buck, Monsieur called over one of his good-looking sons, and had him cut off the tail of the lamb. Monsieur held the buck upright, while his son took a clamping tool and broke the tail at a length modest enough to cover the lamb's rear end . . . but short enough to show off his testicles should they ever grow. Then the son twisted the tail until it came off. I wanted to ask to keep the tail, to put in the buck's baby book, but my husband restrained me from asking.

Having happily concluded the deal, we'll give him the check when he arrives with the troupeau
on Monday, Monsieur invited us in for coffee and cookies. We sat around the long walnut table as I wrote out the directions, in French, to our house.

I embarassed Monsieur by asking if his family was nobility since his name was DARDENNES. (Which I interpreted to mean d'Ardennes, the de in front of his name signifying nobility.) He turned red and shrugged as I pressed him on the question, then adamantly shook his head non.

Now this was an interesting phenomenon, because when an American explains their European roots, they are ALWAYS proud to tell you that they descend from nobility. But this man was very embarassed that I would even suggest such a grotesque possibility. I dropped my teasing when I saw that he wasn't handling it very well.

His father walked in the door . . . a youthful looking septegenarian who seemed to me to be coming in to fetch his son for more work, since he walked in the door, said bonjour and then just hovered above us without saying a word. I took the cue and initiated the au revoirs and Monsieur the Younger let me know that he'd be expecting coffee when he delivered the sheep on Monday at 10am, and an aperitif -- some whiskey would be preferrable. (I'll make him an apple tart too.)

As we were driving away, and I was discussing the visit with my husband, it dawned on me why Monsieur Dardennes does not want anyone to think that he might be Comte d'Ardennes . . . he's the DEMOCRATICALLY elected mayor of his nearby village . . . and in the countryside, they don't elect nobility to office. That's only done in the big city . . . the reason you end up with a de Villepin or a Giscard d'Etaing.

So, I learned about another social faux pas to avoid. It's okay to discuss testicules with a farmer in the countryside, he might even bring his own into the discussion, but DO NOT suggest that he descends from nobility. He is a citoyen and very proud of that fact.

Ironically, my husband and I drove directly to an auction where the most expensive item that sold was the head of a bishop, hacked off a statue of a nearby cathedral during the FRENCH REVOLUTION . . .a vivid reminder of why one doesn't brag in the countryside about one's noble roots.