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
Two pairs of brows knit. However, earlier that morning at 2:00 A.M. under the stars, I had claimed the French had a critical spirit and never saw anything done that they couldn’t do better. Colette and Titi had denied this and so had to take a deep breath and keep their mouths shut, in order to prove me wrong.
Justine and I set to work in the dim, old kitchen full of dark beams, while Colette loaded the dishwasher and Mamie re-washed all the supper dishes that had just come out of it.
“Mom, isn’t the dishwasher working properly?” Titi asked.
“I thought I saw a speck on one of the plates,” Mamie said. “You never know with dishwashers.”
Titi rolled his eyes and went to put in a load of laundry, in the little alcove between the kitchen and the downstairs bathroom. From the mild cursing sounds that followed, we guessed that someone had dumped the clean laundry into the mop bucket again.
In the kitchen, only one tiny window over an old sink let in light, helped by two feeble lightbulbs and the huge door onto the garden. The door partially blocked mobility around the kitchen when open, but we left it that way in good weather, both for the light and because people liked to sit on the three steps that descended there from the garden. I hated cooking in this kitchen by myself; it was too dark, too cramped, too poorly equipped. I knew I hated it when by myself because a few days ago I had spent at least five minutes alone slicing up things for dinner before three people wandered in to help and a couple more sat down on the steps to smoke and watch and keep talking. Once the family was there, cooking in this kitchen became the best job in the world.
Justine and I were making American desserts at popular request. Fortunately, I had made great strides in my France packing method. Where I had once stuffed dental floss, antiperspirant, and black clothes into my suitcases, now I had, well, still black clothes—let’s not get carried away—but also a wedding dress, habaneros for Jean-Charles, maple syrup and buttermilk pancake mix for Martine, Oreo cookies for everybody, chocolate chips, evaporated milk, mini-marshmallows, and a thermal bag of cream cheese. We dumped the dessert material on the tiny table in the kitchen and set to work.