Sixth, Naming Names

“We'll call her Marie Fita,” the shackler said, staring at a tub of biscuits at the cupboard.
“No,” I said, “It sounds like the name of a child who gets dragged by the hair by an unkind mother.”
“Then after the two grandmothers: Julia and Rose. Julia Rose. Julie Rose.”
“No. No, no, no. Maria Bonifiacia. We'll call her Bonnie, at least it means a pretty face,” I said.
“No,” he said.
Then this is when the cookbooks come with a second purpose besides helping you how to cook.
“Rosemary?” he asked.
“No.”
“Sage?”
“No.”
“Please don't tell me you'll suggest Parsley and Thyme.”
“Ok. Julienne.”
“And when she has siblings we'll call them Paysanne and Brunoise.”
Silence.
“I like Julienne,” I said.
Silence.
Then I continued. “It should have something short after. Like, Frannie- May. Anna- Lee. Julienne- blank. Hmm... Julienne, Julienne... Roux. Julienne Roux.”
“I like that. Settled, then.”

We asked a Frenchman from Nice how to pronounce the name properly in French.
“Ju-yen Rwoo,” he said, with the scratchy “r” of the language.

Then some weeks later, we took the baby to the clinic for the vaccines. After playing coo-coo with the kid, the nurse finally asked for the records, “What's the baby's name?”

“Juyen Rwoo,”
“What?” The confused look.
“Here, let me write it down for you.”

And that's when the real fun begins.