One of the reasons we were drawn to moving to Belgium was Eric’s family history. He was born to Belgian parents in the Congo , but his father died when he was quite small. His mother remarried an American working for the U.S. State Department in Africa , and he adopted Eric and his two brothers. Thus Eric Jean Schietecatte became Eric Jean Deschambault and a Belgian boy became a U.S. citizen.
In 1986, we had traveled to Europe to visit Eric’s Belgian family, his natural father’s siblings and their children. Over the years, I kept in touch with his Aunt Monique and Uncle Wilfred and their daughter, Francine, who is a year younger than I am. When we moved to Belgium , Francine and her husband Philippe warmly welcomed us and helped us find a house to rent. Andrew and Emily immediately forged a bond with their teenage son and daughter, Gilles and Aurelie.
On Saturday night, Francine and Philippe invited us to dinner with his cousin Katinka and her three sons, Kevin, Joren, and Remko. We thoroughly enjoy these family dinners, which are both casual and elegant.
As always, there are fresh flowers in the dining room and living room. Francine has deep pink roses floating in a crystal bowl on the coffee table and individual blooms floating in a row of curving votive holders on the dinner table.
We start in the living room, where the first bottle of wine is uncorked and an appetizer tray of smoked salmon, caviar, and cheese and crackers is set. The kids dig into a huge bowl of potato chips and a plate of cherry tomatoes. Conversation starts to perk as we catch up with Katinka, whom we haven’t seen for 20 years, and get to know her companion Charlie.
Around 8 p.m. , we begin dinner. As always in Europe , it starts with soup. Francine has prepared a pumpkin soup, perfect for a fall evening. Topped with homemade croutons, chopped herbs, and a drizzle of fresh cream, it’s beautiful as well as delicious. Philippe is busy at the grill and soon chicken breasts and potatoes arrive on our plates. Later, the salad bowl is passed, and then Philippe arrives with grilled steak strips and sausages, which Francine serves with a spicy vegetable casserole Katinka has prepared.
The pace is leisurely, the wine keeps flowing, and the conversation starts to bubble as Charlie begins telling jokes and sharing golfing adventures. Francine and Katinka, who jog together in the park, relate a story of a group of male runners they know that run on Sundays and drink champagne in crystal flutes afterwards in a tailgate party of sorts. (We’ve seen Belgians marching in parades while drinking mugs of beer, and during road races the runners have the option of “loading carbs” instead of water at the refreshment stands.)
My kids, used to early bedtimes, are heavy-lidded and slow on their feet by the end of dinner but are determined not to miss dessert. Francine has made tiramisu and Katinka’s twin sons have made a Moroccan lemon tart. We drink coffee from tiny white tea cups and laugh and chat until the children fall asleep on the sofa. Only then do we realize it’s 11:30 p.m. and we’ve been at the table for hours. Cheeks are kissed, jackets and sleeping children gathered, and we step out under the stars, grateful for the gift of family and hospitality in Belgium .
© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.
October 3, 2005