I don't mean to sound redundant, lovers, but there is nothing on this earth quite like making breakfast in a sunny kitchen, surrounded by the playful glow of vintage French jazz, and sipping on a steamy cup of foamy, frothy espresso.
Breezy nightgown, oversized lengthy cardigan sweater, and winking Sock Monkey slippers.
Birds chirping, and I know this, because I have the sliding glass door open to let the fresh air and glorious sunshine in.
Julia style omelettes (Madame Child, I have you to thank for so much of my passion), I added a wee splash of milk this time, instead of water, and my egg sort of resembled a light, surprisingly yellow, puff pastry. I filled it with fresh tomatoes, fresh spinach, diced green onions, mozzarella cheese (we are currently lacking feta) and topped it with more butter and a small grating of parmesan.
God, I missed this.
Halfway through the omelette, I remembered the jar of pesto hiding in the back of my fridge. Rats. Next time, for certain.
I have nothing on my agenda for the rest of the day.
In the back of my mind, I am remembering my lifelong desire to make real Creme Fraiche from scratch. 24 hour process, or something like that, yes?
I have suddenly begun to dream of oven roasted pears, bathed in vanilla, cinnamon and red wine, and served with an airy dollop of Creme Fraiche.
And duck. Roast Duck Confit. Or Cornish hens. Possibly a vegetable ratatouille. Arugula salad. Lemon Honey Vinaigrette?
Somebody take me to culinary school, quickly.
Remember the time I made Boeuf Bourguignon, and I blogged about it, proudly?
Out tumbles Mastering the Art of French Cooking voluminously from the bookshelf of cookery books in our kitchen. Nimbly my fingers fly through the velvet pages.
I have all day long to play in this empty house, in this glorious kitchen, to create, to devour, to fantasize about Provence and old bicycles, Marseilles and the Mediterranean fish markets. To experiment with the white truffle oil I got for Christmas, allthewhile dreaming of the day when I can accompany a wizened, old Frenchman and his snouted, piggy companion on an exciting, adventurous hunt for the elusive black truffles.
Bon Appetit, lovers.
And Bon Voyage for me, because this wildly imaginative, wide-eyed dreamer has set foot on a vessel of succulent destination, and will not be coming home anytime soon.
Au Revoir.
Xx,
Hannah
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