The Days of Bread & Vodka

See this baguette? This is how it arrived home from the boulangerie, with its cute little crunchy end, the crouton, bitten right off. (Quel horreur! Now who would do something like that?)

Alll right…maybe I know who, but it was nearly eight at night, see, and way past a normal person’s dinnertime, and the bread was HOT, I mean, you could feel the crusty warmth right through the little paper bag that held it for that long, thirty second walk from the bakery to the apartment.

What was I supposed to do, not eat it?

So, out of great respect for the gastronomic traditions here in France, after I paid the 1.20 for my baguette, I walked out the door, then immediately chomped the end right off. Crunch crunch crunch as I went through the first set of doors into the foyer of my building. I tore off another bit to even it out. I crunched some more.

Then I realized that I might want to save some for dinner, which, as you can see, was of the pasta and tomato-sauce genre, which would definitely require bread for sopping.

The vodka, by the way, was for the sauce (really), from fellow expat/longtime Paris resident Patricia Wells’ great Italian cookbook, Trattoria.

This was my last completely indulgent carb-load prior to my trip to Parrot Cay, which I’ll be leaving for tomorrow. There, I’ll be studying yoga with one of the world’s most well-known and respected Ashtanga yogis, David Swenson.

Between walks with Rose the puppy and launching Cowgirl Tacos, I’ve hardly found time to get on the mat these last few months. I’m looking forward to some time away to reflect, and reconnect with my practice. I figure there’ll be plenty of baguettes waiting for me when I return.