We may live smack dab in the middle of an abyss of corn and soy fields, otherwise known as the Midwest, notable for little else but tornadoes, gusty wind from January through November, and torturous humidity. BUT (!) an unfortunate Frenchman trained in the fine art of pastry making happens to have set up shop just down the road (someone must have clubbed him and brought him over the ocean before his delirium broke and the realization that he was most definitely not in France any longer settled in - I can think of no other reasonable explanation for his being here). No matter. Too bad for him, yippee for us. His shop is full of pastries and chocolates (and even gorgeous bread, although anyone familiar with the French tradition knows that no self-respecting pastry chef bakes bread, and no self-respecting bread baker attempts pastries) which make me want to burst into happy tears. And if I close my eyes...and ignore the fact that the knee of one of my pant legs is being used as a tissue at the moment by who knows which one of the kids...I can almost imagine myself sitting in Les Tuileries garden on a green metal chair. E and I did this almost daily when we last we there (too long ago, sniff). So for now, I'm just happy as a clam with our resident pastry maker, because he's the next best thing to the real experience.
3 comments:
Oh, that is SO not fair!!!! And here I am, eating mac and cheese with hotdogs with Miss M!
A :(
Your French baker married Brianna who dragged him to the land of perpetual tumbleweeds.
It would be bad for E were he to sit on chairs and eat fine French pastries, because he would need too much gym time.
And you occassionally entertain the idea of moving to the cement jungle. I'm sure you could find this all there at 4 times the price and you'd probably be mugged getting there.
Post a Comment