Chapters (45)
- Cover
- Blame Iton Paris
- Copyright Notice
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Book One
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Book Two
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
“This is the life,” Sébastien said happily, gazing at his gastropods. “I don’t know how Laura survived until now. Do you know, when I was in the U.S., I saw this documentary on American sandwiches? You would not believe what those people eat. They even showed a sandwich that combined bacon, peanut butter, and bananas.”
The Elvis! That’s what my mother could make Sébastien the next time he visited. Sébastien really did need to experience a bit more of the U.S. soon, if you asked me. I didn’t want to keep hoarding all these culturally enlightening experiences to myself. Sometimes, especially when those culturally enlightening experiences included snails or hours waiting for my number to pop up in an immigration office, I couldn’t help feeling selfish.
I took a deep breath and poured the snail and its butter into my mouth. Interestingly, now that I had spent hours torturing snails and mutilating their bodies, my tongue, even through rivers of butter, could identify every part of this one as I hurried it through my mouth. Fascinating anatomy lesson, really.
“It’s the sauce that’s delicious,” said my skinny mother-in-law-to-be, dashing a shot of melted butter down her throat.
“Yes, but couldn’t you have put it on chicken?”
Sébastien’s family looked at me with polite tolerance and shook their French heads. “It just wouldn’t be the same.”
“That’s my point.”
They all exchanged glances. “Maybe she didn’t get a good one,” Jean-Charles said doubtfully. “Here, try another.”
“Another one?”
“Where’s my camera?” Sébastien asked gleefully.
“Wait for me!” Justine ran to get her own.
“You know, when I agreed to marry you, I never intended to become a zoo exhibit,” I told my fiancé. I took a deep breath and picked up the second snail, recalling vividly the impression of an eyespot on my tongue from the last one. I dumped the snail into my mouth and tried to concentrate on its butter and garlic while Sébastien and his sister captured a whole series of grimaces on film.
Sometimes you have to impress your future in-laws any way you can.