Life From Scratch by Sasha Martin Page A

blanc?”
    Fromage blanc is a mild form of cultured milk, like yogurt in texture but sweeter. The school typically served it with a dollop of raspberry preserves. Every day I’d scan the cafeteria, hoping to see it on the buffet line. Though it was my favorite dessert, I passed it to her without hesitation.
    From that moment on I was one of them. They taught me “argot” (French slang) by the wrought-iron fence after school as quickly as I learned proper French in the classroom. I could rarely distinguish between the two types of speech, and often offered crass comments to my teachers, only realizing my mistake when the class erupted with giggles and the teacher flushed.
    At recess my new crowd, the Doc Martens, clamored around me to gawk at the things I’d said. They slapped me on the back and taught me new words with knowing smirks, promising they were clean. Though this didn’t do much for my grades (which had now been eked up to 9/20), I liked being the “funny” friend.

    Before Toni left for college, she came in to my room and sat on the rumpled edge of my bed.
    “Sasha, I know you miss him. But be careful not to fall into the same trap he did. You can get through this.”
    “What do you mean?” I asked.
    “You just remind me so much of him, sometimes.”
    “That’s a good thing, right?”
    I watched her eyes, looking for a telltale wince. But before I could read her, she pulled me into a hug and tickled me until I laughed.
    “Of course, Sash.”
    In Toni’s absence the house fell silent. Instead of coming together in our grief, Patricia, Pierre, and I drifted apart. Pierre worked longer and longer hours, often not coming home until after 10 p.m. Business trips whisked him away for weeks at a time.
    When Pierre was home, Patricia would pack picnics and we’d eat in the car, juggling china plates, real silverware, and cloth napkins while rumbling along to some famed site, like Mont Saint-Michel—a good four-hour drive. The contortions of the gargoyles were the only therapy we had.
    But when Pierre left again, Patricia drifted through the kitchen, anchoring herself with French recipes. French cooking suited her. I think it’s how she mourned Michael and processed the fact that her youngest had left the nest. The grimmer her mood and the longer Pierre’s trips lasted, the more elaborately she cooked. Soon she was torching oblong ramekins of crème brûlée until their razor-thin sugar crusts all but shattered on sight.
    I’d find reasons to walk through the kitchen into the back garden just to catch a glimpse of her artistry. After my fifth appearance, she’d huff, “You’re letting the flies in!” or “Inside or outside, which is it, Sasha?” I’d tiptoe to my room or the fields beyond.
    Increasingly unsure of how to connect with the Dumonts, I sought out other ways to feel—something, anything. I took my first drink of whiskey at 13 in the girls’ bathroom with my new friend Monique. Being a little girl was no barrier to buying booze directly from French liquor stores.
    It wasn’t long before I was spending afternoons pouring bottles into myself at the local park with the Doc Martens. We’d lie in the grass, make daisy crowns, and watch the clouds spin. We interpreted our world through the lyrics of The Doors, The Cure, and Tom Petty. We called it science class.
    For “quatres-heures,” French snack time, we stumbled back to Monique’s house where she served up tartines au chocolat , her brilliant invention. To make the sweet towers, she toasted thick slices of brioche bread until the golden crumb swirled like henna art. Then she used a fat, paddle-shaped knife to slather them with Nutella.
    In those days, the chocolate hazelnut spread was not sold stateside so I goaded her to use more, and then more still, until half the jar was gone and each slice looked like frosted cake. Triple stacked, the heat made the Nutella slump into the crevices and drip over the crisp edges.
    Sometimes we ate