Sometimes three times a week, I am a bad wife. In lieu of a nutritious meal, I slave over the stove go to Gourmet Garage and wind up with a cutting board full of treats. John does not mind eating cornichons, olives, the 'good' Balthazaar bread with butter, brie, and wine for dinner. He is a tiny Frenchman trapped in a huge American body and the next step is a pencil thin mustache.
Wait, too late. Ok, a beret.
One day, I will show my (brother's) children this picture and explain to them how John and I used to be interesting New Yorkers, who ate like poor French people.
Going thrifting tomorrow and I've 'convinced' John to come. He loves it. I hope he finds his beret.
Bon Soir!
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