Frenchitude Lesson #58 (aka "The Confession"): I’m A Fraud

Remember how I was going to make a great Buche de Noel for Christmas dinner this year?

After all, I am the girl who regularly doles out Frenchitude lessons, so I had to inject our Canadian Christmas dinner with a bit of Frenchitude, n’est-ce pas?

Just in case you were harbouring any delusion that I was like a Canuck – Franco version of Martha Stewart, just contemplate what my buche looked like;

Note my last ditch attempt to add bark-like texture and a “knot” with a fork.

Yes, you can laugh now.

I swear to God I followed the instructions. I was even listening to Boney M’s “Petit Papa Noel” when I was trying to roll the putain de truc as it disintegrated in my hands.

Never one to throw away perfectly good chocolate, butter, sugar, or eggs, I decided that the only solution was to ice the mess within an inch of its life and brazen out the inevitable outcry.

Je m’en caliss,” I muttered to myself. This is my new favorite expression by the way, now that my Quebecois brother-in-law has taught me to say it with just the right Quebecois inflection.

I couldn’t quite decide if Meme Germaine, la reine des buches, was laughing her head off up in heaven, or sobbing that her precious grandson had married a woman incapable of providing a decent Christmas Buche.

Probably both.

Franck very helpfully (please insert requisite sarcasm here) decided that this historic culinary moment had to be preserved in a series of lovingly staged portraits.

The side view is even more fetching than the top view, non? Needless to say, I had run out of icing.

Here is my sweet Brother-in-law Mark trying to comfort me (even though his Grandmother Beaudry was known for making a stellar buche in her day).

“It sort of looks like a very large knot…or maybe a burl,” he says. “And anyway, I’m sure it tastes good.”

What on earth am I doing writing posts about Frenchitude? My buche should force me to ponder this question.

Problem is we are all still laughing too hard about my buche and coming up with alternative names (i.e. Christmas Merde On A Plate) for me to really stop and consider the matter in any depth.

In my defense, I did briefly start to reconsider my role as the maitresse of Frenchitude, but just then the plum pudding came out of the kitchen, looking like this;