Confiserie du Vieux, Moulin
Charleville-Mézières
I promised myself that once I returned from France, as the SJG does, oh, once every 40 years, that the indulgence would stop, tout suite, and I'd return to petite portions -- a handful of almonds, a cup of nonfat Greek yogurt, a humble tablespoon of peanut butter, a bite or two of banana. And I've tried, nice people. I'm getting there, slowly. But one thing has tripped me up. The chocolate. Can you remind me why we brought back all those wonderful boxes meant solely as gifts? And kept more than a few for ourselves?
The other night, we tried to worship this box from afar, well, not that far, it was right there on the counter, and we failed. Longtime hubby and I decided to open it, and just "sample" one or two. We ate the whole thing.
And now there is one, the last and biggest box, a gift from Chloé's grandmother Françoise...
... full of amazing treats comme ça. I know what you're thinking. My French is so much better since my trip, thanks to my full-time access to Wi-Fi, and most importantly, Google, cruelly denied throughout my travels for reasons I'll never understand, no matter how many times "My Husband & The Millennials" (soon to be a series on SJG-TV) explain roaming charges and turning off data to me. Logic aside, the road leads here: Last night, when longtime hubby came home, I announced, "I hid the candy." "You did?" he said, fighting tears. "Do you want to see where I hid it?" Then I opened the cabinet door and revealed the hiding place.
How long do you think the candy will remain
hidden in this top secret location?
I give us till tomorrow night.
No comments:
Post a Comment