/***********************************************/ /* HEADER */

It's a fine line between living for the moment and being a sociopath.

Patricia B McConnell: For The Love Of A Dog.

Pema Chodron: The Places That Scare You

Daniel Wallace: Mr Sebastian & the Negro Magician

All paths lead to the same goal: to convey to others what we are. --Pablo Neruda

Monday, September 04, 2006


When I flew home from Warsaw, Sunday a week ago, it was shoved in my face that the last summer of my 30s was gone. It was bad enough that I'd just spent a weekend with hundreds of hormone-fuelled 21-year-olds, reminding me, despite their supportive giddiness, that I was no longer any match for their body chemistry. I returned, in the late autumn of my youth, to Paris in the late autumn of, um, summer. It may have been August, still, for a few fleeting moments, but I immediately encountered two sure signs summer was over.

My flight touching down was exactly coincident with the annual French anti-climax called "the rentree". It means "the return." It is *the* day, each year, when the majority of French people, having taken much, if not all, of August off, clog the highways on their way back home from holiday.

Having fought the traffic bravely, from the back seat of a taxi, I eventually made it back into the welcoming arms of my Flame-Haired lover, who possessed a small secret. She was busy with a welcome-home dinner surprise, an unexpected treat found at the markets: cepes.

Cepes (boletus edulis) are mushrooms that shouldn't be in the markets, yet. The arrival of this meaty forest fungus is, in Paris, the surest sign that Autumn is in full flight, the damp and chill having brought it forth. This year, however, August was more than an antidote to a hot, dry July. And, having been cold and damp, the cepes got fooled.

Pissy about the prematurely cold weather, I am nevertheless loathe to look a gift horse in the chompers. And so it was that, last night, for a casual Sunday dinner party, I baked cepes tartes sallees. No pictures of those, though. They were gone before the camera could be got.

* * *

A quick poll. Which would you rather hear about: the types of French bus-stop ads that most frequently feature naked women, or the reason it's necessary for us to lie to our cheesemonger? Leave your preference, if any, in comments.


Comments on "Ex-cepe-tional"


Blogger la_pistola said ... (10:43 PM) : 

you know i'm greedy. i want both. but, having met your cheesemonger, i'm dying to know why you have to lie to him. plus, i see a naked woman every day.


Anonymous The Mauritian said ... (11:28 PM) : 

Naked women? cheese? cheese? naked women? My brain explodes


Blogger The Skiver said ... (12:17 AM) : 

Can I have naked women telling me to lie to my cheesemonger?

If not, can I be spared naked cheesemongers telling me to lie to my woman?


Anonymous another redhead said ... (1:22 AM) : 

Who cares about the cheesemonger or naked women, I just want your cepes tart recipe.


Anonymous JVF said ... (3:43 AM) : 

guilty of (at least) one of the seven deadly, i choose both --


post a comment