[Moments, in the kitchen]
Sat at the table for breakfast. A breakfast that smells of toast and salted butter – the one with crisp fleur de sel – and, of course, coffee.
My grand-mère talks too much in the morning, but for all the gold in the world, I wouldn’t want to stop her from doing so. Her stories and her laughters. Our laughters, in fact.
She likes to peel tomatoes with bare hands. And a knife. No boiling water involved here. Add more garlic than you think you could take, a drizzle of olive oil, a squeeze of lemon and a sprinkle of sea salt, and the ultimate tomato salad just happened in front of your very eyes.
Not only it tastes how tomato really should; but you get a bonus made of juice and pips. Just enough, in fact, to be soaked with a slice of baguette. Or as I’ve been known to do – back in the good old nineties – drink from my plate, making sure to get all of my outfit, from top to socks tinted red.
And as evident as evident can be, an apple tart closes lunch-time. With its soft yet flaky crust, all about almonds and vanilla and butter, of course. Its mountain of apples: small ones, from the neighbour’s garden, and large ones, from the COOP (that organic supermarket where my grand-mère clearly spends too much time and cash). And enough eggy cream to cover it all.
Dinner, to come…