Eat and then eat some more

I’m missing France. I like my whole wheat toast but no matter how I slice it or squint my eyes, it’s never a croissant. I miss riding a bouncy old green bicycle with fat tires to the village and pretending I speak French and trees with mistletoe growing in their branches and castles the size of Rhode Island, just sitting there on the edge of a river.
So I am going to make a huge pot of stock and leave it to live and breathe on the edge of my stove for an afternoon with leeks, fresh sprigs of thyme and parsley, celery stalks, carrots, bay leaves, maybe even a tiny piece of bacon (a trick I learned from my good friend Bruce) and an onion studded with a clove. And after a while I’ll add a chicken and let it go for another hour. And I might eat it just like that with a side of sliced saucisson and and thin slivers of carrots, celery, radish and fennel tossed with a mustardy vinaigrette and some tiny capers.
I’ll put all the candles I own on the table and clusters of tender, fragrant flowers and turn on low and rusty Piaf. The thing about France is, it’s never not a good time for romance. In fact, it’s shocking to leave romance in the closet.
I’ll eat until I can’t eat any more and then I’ll eat dessert.

Leave a Reply