As established, the character of our interest has a rather demanding appetite. Take it to heart when I say, for I'll say no more than this, that it wasn't always this way; our dear girl had had much work to do to turn over the mulch and and the shit and the worms, to plow and to plant and weather the weather in order to cultivate her faculty and develop her capacity. She did this and does this, and she won't mind you knowing, but out of respect and for the sake of our story, as I said, and I'll say it again, I won't say it again, so you better remember.
Now, having already gone off about the mother, let it be said, and please appreciated, that the emphasis which the mother has been paid is not at all to diminish the influence borne or love shared by our character and her sister, father, aunts, uncles, pets, and friends. The fault may be rested upon your scribe for lacking ingenuity, you see, it is the symmetry of mother and daughter long sung by bards and those with romantic inclinations, (and it is supposed I may have) that draws one to harp upon this bond. Among the things learned her by her father for instance, a love for meringue, for philosophy's questions, and that act itself of correspondence remained dearly in her bosom and attributed to him. For as much as her mother (and this I promise you, dear reader, to be the last you shall have to hear of her), labored and implored her to write out the notes of gratitude every year at her birthday, and under such pressure it was felt to be a tedious chore, and it was. From her father, however, she saw the thoughtful and compelling letters sent and received from overseas, and there entered the romance sorely lacking from her thank-you-cards.
This is all well and good, but we are charged to return to the pearl of the clam, the point of the story, and what I've to tell you. In her first letter home, nearly two weeks too late, our friend the adventuress, had this to say:
Now, as our friend is not, by training, practice, profession, nor choice, a writer, I shall relate the rest in bearable bites so that you may enjoy without effort the story she has for telling, though not the skill.
She told of how she found herself sorely self-conscious at Saturday's market, overcrowded, it was, she said, and felt cagey and shy, and removed herself instead to a cafe for a coffee. She told as well, about developing the habit of greeting others on the street, a habit well to be developed indeed, and how upon her mumble of "bonjour," an elderly madame, hesitant on her feet, asked her for her hand across the street. Taken with the pleasure that we all know of too well that comes when we feel needed, and also perhaps from sensing ourselves better off than another. With memories of her own grandmother, a recognition of this universal fear of a fall, and pride in her understanding, she took the hand of this elderly madame who asked for her help and said, "bien sûr!" The madame was prattling, in French obviously, quickly, and nervously, and perhaps apologetically. Our darling girl, sympathetically said to her that her French is quite bad and not to offend her, but that she didn't quite know how to attend to her. The woman stopped shuffling her swollen feet and looked up to the girl so their eyes could meet and she asked if she was Argentinian.
Now, it may be an awkward place for a pause, but let me explain this question's cause.
Our girl is attractive, that's to be sure, with features quite darling, though not always the confidence to carry them. Red's her best color, and she knows it well, with the dark hair and dark eyes set deep her face which are bridged thick with the brows. Her skin is the key here, an anomaly, truly, for it darkens quite nicely when plenty exposed, but brightens as well as the winter grows colder. It's a game many play at and none have yet to pin her, where her ancestors had originally been from. Indeed, she tells us the very following day, interrupted in her coffee, she was accused, as she said it, of being ashamed of being from Iran. Though at times, as you can clearly see, this chameleonesque attribute can be quite the fuss, but it happens sometimes, as she tells us, it's also quite nice to be mistaken as someone belonging.
A few days just hence, our darling attends another such class as was quoted. This time, however, was cooking, not baking, and as such, a savory mess. The class was gathered at market (marché) and given a lecture on what was fresh, tallied the votes of their hunger's sway. Lapin au
moutarde, as she tells us, is rabbit leg boiled in mustard, delicious she says, and not difficult, so long as the rabbit is legitimate!- Apparently, she writes, here's the story: After the war had been ended, most people were rather hard-pressed for money and food, and so many boucheries swapped their meats. Apparently, she writes, women hurriedly purchased their cuts, and hurriedly cooked them, at that, but once in a while a woman would notice, the rabbit she bought had the tail of a cat! One time too many this happened, and the government ordered a law that all butchers vending rabbit must prove it to be so by leaving a paw, or the skull.
After 2 hours in the pot, the rabbit was tender, and the sauce was thicker than blood. The cheeses delicious though mild, their textures varied between wrinkled old handskin and mud. The dessert was a lovely concoction, she says, of almond powder, butter, and figs. With a white wine in hand, and the Seine through the glass, she sat down ate like a pig.
Now, having already gone off about the mother, let it be said, and please appreciated, that the emphasis which the mother has been paid is not at all to diminish the influence borne or love shared by our character and her sister, father, aunts, uncles, pets, and friends. The fault may be rested upon your scribe for lacking ingenuity, you see, it is the symmetry of mother and daughter long sung by bards and those with romantic inclinations, (and it is supposed I may have) that draws one to harp upon this bond. Among the things learned her by her father for instance, a love for meringue, for philosophy's questions, and that act itself of correspondence remained dearly in her bosom and attributed to him. For as much as her mother (and this I promise you, dear reader, to be the last you shall have to hear of her), labored and implored her to write out the notes of gratitude every year at her birthday, and under such pressure it was felt to be a tedious chore, and it was. From her father, however, she saw the thoughtful and compelling letters sent and received from overseas, and there entered the romance sorely lacking from her thank-you-cards.
This is all well and good, but we are charged to return to the pearl of the clam, the point of the story, and what I've to tell you. In her first letter home, nearly two weeks too late, our friend the adventuress, had this to say:
"Oh! to say what I want to say the way I want to say it! A blessing it is to be understood, and how rare it is, even in one's natural tongue! The loneliness of travel is sincere and unrelenting, but then there are these moments, where the words are inessential, and we all have dropped our jaws. In the kitchen, with Chef G., we learned a lesson in purity. She told us that the government of France has decreed all butter must measure at least 82% milk fat, and any less must be sold with honest labeling pointedly lacking the word, "buerre," and at the accent that she spoke with, and the word which smooths my skin, I swooned and sighed and almost died! thought I, "a country which legislates the sanctity of butter! Quel rêve!" Then we made the croissant dough, with fresh yeast, and don't you know- it smelled sour and crumbled like clay, and what a difference it makes! In the oven they went once shaped and filled, and we waited in turn to be filled ourselves. Having eaten and being satisfied, we packed brown bags in anticipation of having room again to fill. A darling Canadian and I found ourselves in each others' company for the afternoon, walking and marveling and talking in English. On the train home later in the evening, I was amazed at how quickly we became exceedingly comfortable with one another, and mused that language (and a glass of wine) can a short friendship make quickly."
Now, as our friend is not, by training, practice, profession, nor choice, a writer, I shall relate the rest in bearable bites so that you may enjoy without effort the story she has for telling, though not the skill.
She told of how she found herself sorely self-conscious at Saturday's market, overcrowded, it was, she said, and felt cagey and shy, and removed herself instead to a cafe for a coffee. She told as well, about developing the habit of greeting others on the street, a habit well to be developed indeed, and how upon her mumble of "bonjour," an elderly madame, hesitant on her feet, asked her for her hand across the street. Taken with the pleasure that we all know of too well that comes when we feel needed, and also perhaps from sensing ourselves better off than another. With memories of her own grandmother, a recognition of this universal fear of a fall, and pride in her understanding, she took the hand of this elderly madame who asked for her help and said, "bien sûr!" The madame was prattling, in French obviously, quickly, and nervously, and perhaps apologetically. Our darling girl, sympathetically said to her that her French is quite bad and not to offend her, but that she didn't quite know how to attend to her. The woman stopped shuffling her swollen feet and looked up to the girl so their eyes could meet and she asked if she was Argentinian.Now, it may be an awkward place for a pause, but let me explain this question's cause.
Our girl is attractive, that's to be sure, with features quite darling, though not always the confidence to carry them. Red's her best color, and she knows it well, with the dark hair and dark eyes set deep her face which are bridged thick with the brows. Her skin is the key here, an anomaly, truly, for it darkens quite nicely when plenty exposed, but brightens as well as the winter grows colder. It's a game many play at and none have yet to pin her, where her ancestors had originally been from. Indeed, she tells us the very following day, interrupted in her coffee, she was accused, as she said it, of being ashamed of being from Iran. Though at times, as you can clearly see, this chameleonesque attribute can be quite the fuss, but it happens sometimes, as she tells us, it's also quite nice to be mistaken as someone belonging.
A few days just hence, our darling attends another such class as was quoted. This time, however, was cooking, not baking, and as such, a savory mess. The class was gathered at market (marché) and given a lecture on what was fresh, tallied the votes of their hunger's sway. Lapin au
moutarde, as she tells us, is rabbit leg boiled in mustard, delicious she says, and not difficult, so long as the rabbit is legitimate!- Apparently, she writes, here's the story: After the war had been ended, most people were rather hard-pressed for money and food, and so many boucheries swapped their meats. Apparently, she writes, women hurriedly purchased their cuts, and hurriedly cooked them, at that, but once in a while a woman would notice, the rabbit she bought had the tail of a cat! One time too many this happened, and the government ordered a law that all butchers vending rabbit must prove it to be so by leaving a paw, or the skull.
 |
| Chevre, Comte, and Epoisses |
After 2 hours in the pot, the rabbit was tender, and the sauce was thicker than blood. The cheeses delicious though mild, their textures varied between wrinkled old handskin and mud. The dessert was a lovely concoction, she says, of almond powder, butter, and figs. With a white wine in hand, and the Seine through the glass, she sat down ate like a pig.
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