Divorce can siphon off a person's joie de vivre. I've been waiting for Monsieur EX to sign off on the division of our community property so I can indulge my ooh la la in one of my favorite places. Lately
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.
old hilltop villages, crumbling castles, chateaux with towers, pretty much any French food I've ever eaten, a Kir before dinner, red wine, meals that take forever, French kissing, French fries (known in France as les frites, French doors, window boxes full of geraniums, Truffaut, Colette, French lavender, topiary, those crazily over-designed French gardens, fabulous lingerie, Manet, Toulouse Lautrec, Odillon Redon...