I've been picturing myself stationed at the end of a Freeway ramp near LAX. The sign I hold aloft will read, WILL WORK FOR FRENCH FOOD...IN FRANCE.
So I'm dreaming of fall drizzling into winter in a little village near Carcasonne...and of course Mr. Ex prys his way into my fantasy. Our love felt infinite twenty-five years ago when we toured the ramparts in the rain and had our umbrella turned inside out as we sloshed over the cobblestones to dinner in a little candlelit restaurant with walls made of stone.
I had tarragon ice cream for desert.
Why do I remember these things?
How much cheese do I need to eat to harden a few arteries and reduce the bloodflow to my memory banks?
WILL WORK FOR FRENCH CHEESE...ANYWHERE.
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