A French Country Tale

By Judith Garfield

Life was so simple before I ever heard the words French Country.

I mean, technically I knew about French, because I took it in high school, and I knew about Country, because I live in one, but I had no idea stringing the two together could cause me such anxiety.

B.F.C. (before French Country) I lived in a lovely apartment in New York decorated eclectically, although I think quite nicely. I leaned toward weathered, chipped antiques, and in my high-floor Manhattan apartment with a spectacular view, shabby looked chic. In the country it just looked shabby. Something got lost in the translation.

So I realized I needed some decorating ideas for my farmhouse. I poured over shelter magazines and internet articles about pretty interiors for my new setting. Believe me, it’s not easy finding your way in a world fraught with terms like toile, anduze, and Quimper. (that’s keem-pair for all you city folk)

I have since learned the following…. Roosters are F.C.; chickens are not. Grapes are F.C.; raisins are not. Brittany is F.C.; Britney is not. There was a definite learning curve, and many times S. had to pull me back when I was about to go too far with the roosters. The French probably think roosters are tacky. This is pure speculation, but I suspect you would not find roosters in a high-end French kitchen.

My mismatched dinnerware always looked interesting and bohemian. Now it was just looking second hand, and not in a good way. I became enamored with Quimper-style pottery and ordered dinner plates, serving pieces, trivets, and candlesticks, not to mention sconces. I couldn’t stop myself. I was bingeing. On French Country. Mon Dieu!

I finally got things under control with help from my family and friends. I admitted I had a problem, and that was the first step. Now I can casually browse through any Pierre Deux catalogue, the authority on all things French Country, and put it down with very minimal yearning.

But that wire breadbasket sure looked cute.