Setting the table has been something I enjoy doing since I was a little girl.
The fork on the left, the knife to the right with its cutting part of the blade towards the plate.
As I place the silverware alongside the plate, I imagine those who will sit around the table and dine.
Hoping their stories will easily unfold like napkins, that their laughter will be tossed about like a green salad. I smile anticipating stories that will be swallowed whole and digested later. (A dinner is a mixture of hot and cold, tender morsels, bites to chew, and just the hint of sweet and spicy.)
The sure thing in France.
The daily event.
The time taken. Dining in France is like breathing.
The rarely taken alone, unless you are alone. More often than not sitting at a table, one does not grab a bite to eat on the go.
"I have become French," I say to myself as I set the table.
What was for dinner besides Calazones of roasted red peppers and goat cheese?
French Husband, Sacha and a friend hiked from Marseille to Cassis by the way of the calanques. Twelve hours of walking, climbing and swimming.
While they were gone I thought about dinner, thought about words such as: Hearty, filling, rich and soothing.
Sacha was to tired to eat. He excused himself and went to bed before dessert. I tried to imagine being to tired not to have dessert.
French Husband was in rare form, the adventure being lost and climing rocks without ropes is his idea of a good day. Sacha rubbed in that, "... if they had known the way it would have be shorter and less fun."
I didn't even try to imagine that "...less fun."
After dinner I cleared the table.
Put the dishes in the soapy water.
Washed away the day as the flavor of it seeded my heart.
I stacked the dishes in the drainer, drained the sink, wiped off the counters, hung the towel.
And went to bed.
The joy of the everyday routine.
How was your weekend?