No Pastry for My Dowry

Some ancestors languish in my files on "probationary" status. I know it's very likely that they are my family, but until better sources present themselves, they are stuck waiting.

And, since I have 1492 known ancestors, plus Mike's 141 ancestors (non-American research is tougher) - and by "ancestor" I mean grandparents of multiple-greats, not aunts and uncles and cousins (people who use "ancestor" to mean "any family member from before my time" need to be bopped on the head) - sometimes those high branches of the family tree needing confirmation are left in limbo longer than I'd like. Maybe that's what Catholic Limbo really is - St. Peter getting behind on the paperwork.

Last summer (was it a whole year ago?), Mike and I went to Salt Lake City where Mike hit an almighty progressive jackpot on the ancestral slot pull, and I was left with nothing to do but blow on his dice for luck. (Mixed gambling metaphors are just part of the service here.) Granted, he was looking at neat German recordkeeping from the 20th century, and I was staring helplessly at the water-damaged 17th-century scrawl of seemingly drunk village priests full of words I never learned in junior high French, but still.

One thing I was able to do, though, was confirm some sources. Sometimes I had to shake my head over "facts" that ended up being no more than conjectures or misinterpretations of previous researchers, but most of the time the double-checking paid off.

And that's how we come to Charlotte Jolivet.

Word around the cat's water dish is that sometimes family members flick through this site when the Tylenol PM isn't cutting it, so for them, I will explain my (our) specific relationship to Charlotte Jolivet:

Dadaw -> his father Adrean Pettaway Stockman -> his mother Eugenia Montpellier (aka Jane) -> her mother Elenor Charpentier Nezat (aka Helen) -> her mother Julie Felicie Barré -> her father Charles Alexandre Barré (for whom the town of Port Barré, Louisiana, was named) -> his mother Marie Jeanne Girardy -> her father Joseph Girardy (who came to Louisiana from Quebec) -> Charlotte Jolivet.

For the rest of you sleepless people with nothing better to read, it's enough to say that Charlotte Jovilet is my 9th great-grandmother, (Ten generations separate us, plus the two that make up ourselves.)

Getting through the first nine generations was cake. (Mostly because of Rev. Hebert's Southwest Louisiana Records, and the fact that the library where I lived in the mid-1990s had a set.) The last two generations were easy to confirm as well. (Three cheers for Cyprien Tanguay and Rene Jetté.) It was proving that Marie Jeanne was the mother of Charles and the daughter of Joseph that was dodgy territory.

As it turned out, this was easy as well - if you knew where to look. But of course I had to be suspicious when so many were claiming these relationships as fact yet not citing any sources. After a century or so, traveling down unsourced roads often leads to brick walls with big murals of milk and honey painted on the side... then you get close enough and - whomp! - broken nose. Also, wild bears lurk.

Wouldn't it be splendid if people remembered the finger-wags of their English teachers and cited their sources? Wouldn't this hobby be something spectacular if we weren't constantly having to re-research other people's uncited finds and could focus on new research instead? (Read all of the above in a cheerful-but-forced "not going to go on a rant" voice.)

At the Family History Library in Salt Lake, entire shelves are devoted to Sacramental Records of the Roman Catholic Church of the Archdiocese of New Orleans, which is where I was satisfied with proof. I can tell you that the relevant call number is 976.3K2s*, but what I can't tell is, other than Charles' birth record, what page anything is on because, like a total stain, in my haste I neglected to take photos that included page numbers. Okay, I did scribble them down, but those notes lie somewhere in the bottom of a tote bag in the back of a closet.

But I swear I'm not a bad source-citer. For one thing, the books are all organized alphabetically and by year. Also, check it out, I can provide photos to prove that I really did look this business up.

 

 

At the time I only had the iPhone, not my way-cool wand scanner, but it got the job done. I love not having to make copies of this kind of thing. By "thing" I mean transcribed records, as opposed to the actual originals. I know some people at this point are thinking I'm a bad researcher because I'm not looking at the originals, but I would be surprised if the diocese even allowed the originals to be subjected to the light. I know when I've ordered church records in other parts of Louisiana I've had to settle for modern certificates with typed information.

(And yes, I need to use said wand scanner on that baptism certificate linked above. In 1996, GIFs were standard for faster loading on dialup, and screen resolutions were so low that the certificate filled the screen. But at least you can see that I have proof for the connection between Eugenia/Jane and her mother Elenor/Helene/Helen, both part of this line between me and Charlotte Jolivet, and I swear we're going to get back to Charlotte Jolivet any moment now...)

So, as we can see, looking back at the three images above, this records extraction/transcription names Marie Jeanne as Charles' mother and also names her parents in the course of describing her marriage to Charles' father, Paul. SLC = St. Louis Cathedral, in New Orleans. Here's a lovely photo of the cathedral taken in 2008 by Kevin Labianco to make up for my shoddy snaps to come:

St. Louis Cathedral

Oh, I should mention that the original St. Louis Cathedral burned down when Charles was in his 40s. But, according to the cathedral's website, it was still pretty impressive when Charles and his parents and his grandparents were living life in Bayou St. John and English Turn.

As might be expected, my deep Louisiana roots that begin with my great-grandparents ("Mamaw and Dadaw") eventually almost always wind their way back to France... so it was actually a bit exciting to discover that I had Canadian relatives... and they weren't even Acadian. Just straight-up Québécois (always a really fun word to say).

Even after I found proof of the link Louisiana and Canada last summer, I just sort of sat on the info to be enjoyed at some always-later date when I would be less concerned with less interesting things.

Then, this past weekend, as I was continuing to clean up my genealogy file, for whatever reason I Googled a little on Charlotte Jolivet (Jolivet is another really fun word to say). I hadn't really looked at the family since knowing there was a truly documented connection. Maybe some exciting new record had come online since then? The wealth of online primary and credible secondary source data is growing by the day.

Well! One of the first hits that returns on such a search is my own genealogy website, where I noticed that I had put some notes in about Charlotte that apparently I found interesting at the time then completely forgot about entirely.

How completely did I forget? So completely that I only just now bothered to look at my own website notes (written during a time when I was updating my website more than my database - something I've learned not to do). And now that I've looked at them, I have to erase the following:

"It turns out that Charlotte Jolivet was a "filles du roi," something I never heard of until about 48 hours ago."

What can I say? So many lines, so many things to "look into later." The part of my brain that knew she was a filles du roi way back when probably didn't save the data to my noggin drive because I don't like to get very emotionally involved with an alleged ancestor until I know a connection to myself is solid.

Continuing with fresh eyes...

In the early days of New France, aka Canada, the land was populated with many a bachelor and very few ladies. So, the ever-helpful King of France, understanding that it takes little baby colonists to make colonization really stick, sent over somewhere around 800 (accounts vary) women from France to help get the Canadian gents (available at a ratio of 6:1) busy with the marrying and the babymaking.

The king provided a dowry (50 livres), all travel and housing expenses, plus worldly goods, such as scissors and taffeta handkerchiefs and 1000 pins and, lest we forget, two knives. This website has an interesting account of all the goodies. The day after the marriage, the couple got even more loot: a pair of chickens and pigs, an ox, a cow and two barrels of salted meat. Plus, if you had 10 children, you got a bonus of 300 livres.

(You couldn't add enough zeroes to that number to get me on board with having 10 children. Not if I had to keep them and look after their poopy britches.)

Accounts exist of the "selecting" process, where men would come to the convent dorms and pick out someone they like. However, the women could refuse, or even not marry at all, and several did not. Some went home and some simply stayed. Armed with two knives and a thousand pins, I suppose you had options. Sounds like the beginning of a great story.

Charlotte was one of the minority (around 25%) who had a dowry beyond the 50 livres (or twice that if marrying an officer). I like to think it was because she was Just That Cool, but it could also be because she was the ugliest stump in Rouen and shipping her off to the wilds of Montreal was her only hope for marriage. I don't know if additional dowries came from the king (as one site says) or the family (as another says), which would be interesting to know.

According to Many-Roads.com, many of the girls were orphans who were selected by the parish priest. But since Charlotte's parents' names are known, I wonder if that was the case, or if perhaps they died when she was older but still a minor. (This is where those scrawly French records would come in handy.) I look forward to having such an interesting mystery to explore.

This site lists all of the filles, their ships, and when and from where they came. Charlotte (here called Charlotte-Catherine)'s ship, the Prince Maurice, arrived on 30 July 1781. By this time, hundreds of tiny Canadians had been born, and France rather needed its money for more traditional government pursuits, like war. A few months later the beginning of the end of the program was afoot.

I don't really speak French, so how about this instead:

The YouTube links go on and on, because apparently everyone knows about the filles du roi except for moi.

Inspired by my ancestor who was not afraid to sail across the ocean in the hope of meeting a similarly adventurous man (or at least to get two knives and 1000 pins), I decided to honour my French roots by making a chocolate-hazelnut tart that I pinned to Pinterest ages ago.

Bonus: I poked around the blog housing the tart recipe and discovered that the author is one of the current Masterchef USA contestants. Mike and I are big fans of Masterchef Australia (and are watching it now), but despite being based on the Australian show, MC USA is a very different program, with lots of sensationalism and mean-spiritedness. Plus, it only has a dozen or so episodes, compared to the 80-something episodes in a Masterchef Australia season. (They aren't afraid of character development and putting aside the competitive format from time to time for episodes with master cooking classes, etc.) In the past we avoided MC USA but happened to catch it the other night, including this blogger's audition, and since it didn't seem as bad as previous years, we're going to give it a fresh try.

(Update: Masterchef USA has this thing where, very unlike the Aussie version, the judges can boot you out at any time for any reason. On Tuesday they had an episode where they looked at - but did not taste - everyone's dish. Then they picked something like one third of the dishes that looked the least appealing/interesting and sent those people home. Again, without tasting. These were people who had just made it through the audition process and received their aprons. Bam! Drama! You're out!

Why? I really don't think the American viewing public needs so much edginess to get interested in watching a long-term cooking competition. The Australian version of MasterChef is full of heart, and while the judges may sometimes be strict or wary or unimpressed, they are never queening assholes for the sake of it. People always say that Gordon Ramsey is nowhere near as much of a jerk when he's on non-American shows, so all of this drama must be to suit American tastes, but is this really what we like? It makes me think of those British shows which have significant American followings but then "mysteriously" fail when ported into brash, canned, uptight American versions. That's right - I'm still not over what they did to Coupling.)

(Oh, but what I meant to say in the previous parentheses was that the tart women was one of those eliminated in the sudden chef-o-cide. Still, I don't think her leaving the show has anything to do with what happened next.)

I played my own sous-chef, getting everything ready in advance so that when I felt like making the tart, it would be as easy as it is on TV. You know - when the chefs just dump in pre-chopped ingredients from their little ramekins, never worrying about spending ages chopping or having to tidy up while working.

Tart Preparation

If this photo (which is awkward because I was trying to quickly take a pic and not derail my cooking mojo with worrying about light and angles) were on a place mat at a family-friendly restaurant, you might be encouraged to look for the following:

  • Mike's beloved last linzer cookie from Bon Jour bakery at Flamingo/Rainbow. (He's going to be cross that I shared the location of his linzer dealer.)
  • The edge of Lauren's hamitat.
  • Both graham crackers and hazelnuts, pulverized for the crust.
  • Ten dollars' worth of 60% cacao chocolate (Ghiradelli) because I couldn't find 55% that didn't look dodgy. Add in $5 worth of hazelnuts, cream, unsweetened cocoa powder, eggs, butter, local honey, and Honey Maid-brand graham crackers (because I thought for Mike's first taste of graham cracker it had to be Honey Maid), and just buying a big choc tart from Baguette Cafe ($27) was looking like a more sensible option.
  • The Ghiradelli brownie mix that Mike bought "just in case."
  • Pyrex measuring cup that we got for free at Kohl's because we're the only people in the neighbourhood who dig those "$10 off $10 purchase" gift cards that come in the mail... and we dig for all the gift cards our neighbours recycle.
  • The knife that gets used for everything, and the knife that gets used for meat when Mike can't be bothered to properly wash the usual knife that gets used for meat (or so goes my theory).

And this is my finished tart alongside the last bit of absolutely delicious, light, silky, not-at-all-bitter chocolate tart from Baguette Cafe, which is possibly the best place for a nom in Las Vegas. (Despite eating all over the valley, it's BC that has raised my standards for soup, quiche, sandwiches, lemonade, and - alas - chocolate tart.)

A Tale of Two Tarts

My tart (pictured up top) was icky. Bitter. So bitter. So bitter that, despite being made of chocolate, all but two slices and one bite (mine, Mike's, and Mike's game attempt at a second chance) is still in the fridge, and this was four days ago. (A few days have passed since I started this post.) Keep in mind that the celestial file on me includes footage of the time I, in desperate need of a choc fix, ate baking chocolate, and I wouldn't touch this tart again after my miserable slice was woefully nibbled away.

A few hours after I made the tart, Mike happened to mention the "Songify" app, which takes your speech (or singing) and autotunes it. I downloaded the "Bollywood" add-on sound and this happened:

Listen to Chocolate Tart Bollywood.

(If your browser doesn't support links to .m4a files, don't worry about listening. If I thought the world would be missing out, I would've converted it to mp3. Mike's inability to reassure me about the tart without laughing is pretty amusing, though.)

You already know I never touched the tart again, but the day after, I had some second thoughts. It was chocolate! How could it be that bad?

Also, I discovered another autotuning app from the Songify people: Talkapella. You can hear how much I wanted some chocolate:

Listen to Chocolate Tart Aftermath.

(Or, again, not, if you're not set up for .m4a links to simply play.)

And yet, I didn't succumb. That's how terrible my chocolate tart was.

So, I apologize publicly to my arrière (x9) grand-mère for shaming her memory with this tart. Maybe that's the real reason she agreed to go to Canada: those Normandy men had unreasonable expectations when it came to tarts.

The packaged brownies were, however, delicious. Good job, Mike.

Also, Mike took his last (he hopes) uni exam yesterday. Good job again!

And I couldn't finish this post because I became addicted to yet another app, The Tribez, for two days. What a fine use of my break from teaching. But then last night The Tribez stopped working (gnash! wail!), which sent me back to my genie database, which means I checked my genie email for the first time in two days and - va va voila! - I've finally been invited to take one of the new Ancestry.com DNA tests!

So, back to cleaning up my file so it will be ready for DNA linking. Go 21st century, with your science-based genealogy and your brownie mixes and cafes that sell tarts already made! Charlotte Jolivet, how I wish you could see us now.

14 June 2012 |



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