an-american-in-france

Ah, bread, for me it’s something I occasionally splurge and eat during a nice meal at a restaurant, smeared with a slab of butter. It’s definitely not something I eat daily and I never considered myself deprived if it was missing at dinner. But now I’m in France. It’s not just part of EVERY meal here. It’s a table ritual, a topic of passionate conversation, a gift from the Gods. Everyday, every French family sends someone out into the streets to their local Boulangerie to find that perfect ‘flute’, that gorgeous ‘baguette,’ that warm sensual ’soft inside, hard outside’ phallic symbol of France. It is more than a ritual, more than a tradition, it is a Sacrament. As an American, I’ve had some trouble adjusting to this tradition. Not intentionally, mind you, just purely because the ‘bread culture’ is not ingrained in my brain yet. To this day, I still occasionally forget to take the bread out of its special cabinet (yes, a bread cabinet specifically designed for bread cuddling), cut it and place it in its basket on the table. The unforgivable sin.

Once I made the mistake of trying to ‘improve on bread.’ I cut it open, lovingly drizzled sauteed garlic, butter, olive oil, Parmesan and parsley on it, and baked it to a crispy brown. I placed it on the table and received looks of horror from everyone. I had ruined their precious bread! How could I do such a thing! So day by day, I’m getting a better grasp on the bread culture. I must admit the oppositional side of my personality occasionally wants to freeze some bread, defrost it, serve it and see if anyone can tell the difference. But my more cautious side says that’s too great a risk to take. What if I’m caught? So off I go to the Boulangerie to find that sacred staple of life.

Hallelujah. Amen.

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