he would be visiting. Next week. He arrives on Friday. I wondered if I may have a few days off”.
Maman motioned for me to follow her to the break table outside. She sat down and lit a cigarette.
“Normalement,”
she said, “this would be fine. Everyone should have a few days off now and then. But this week …” She inhaled her cigarette and shrugged her shoulders. “It will be difficult. Someone has quit. We will try to hire someone very quickly, but I may have to move someone to mornings from afternoons till we get a permanent morning bread baker hired. Which leaves me needing you in the afternoons”.
“My dad was a marine,” I said, hoping to appeal to her patriotic side. “He wants to visit Normandy”. As soon as I mentioned Normandy, a thought occurred to me. “I do have one small idea,” I offered, although a little discomfort popped into my mind as soon as the sentence had fled.
“What would that be?”
Too late to take it back now
.
“I have a friend at the school. She is an excellent baker and worked at a bakery in Normandy for many years”. I felt a little like I was offering my own head on a platter. “She has a letter of recommendationfrom her
patron
at that bakery. Perhaps she could fill in for me for a few days?”
Maman finished her cigarette. “She’s experienced, you say?”
I nodded.
“Bon,”
Maman agreed. “Have her come with you on Thursday so she can fill out the paperwork for a temporary employee. And you can return to Rambouillet on Monday next week. Enjoy your papa”.
I thanked her, took off my apron, and walked home. Anne’s breads were better than mine. She made a perfect chouquette—not too eggy. Her tartes were delicious. My petits fours were better, but there was little call for them at the bakery. We had yet to compare cake baking, but Patricia did all the cakes at Rambouillet.
Inside, I felt sick. Anne was French. Anne was experienced. Anne would do better than I, and they’d see her skill up close and personal.
As I walked up the driveway of Maman’s house, I saw Céline running toward me. Philippe was heading toward his car.
“Lexi!” she called. “Why weren’t you at church?”
“I had to work,
jeune fille,”
I said, teasing her.
“I missed you.
We
missed you,” she said, looking at her papa. “Gabby didn’t”. She giggled, and so did I.
“Can I stay with you instead of there?” she asked, motioning toward the big house.
Philippe joined us. “Céline, that is impolite. You don’t invite yourself to someone else’s house”.
“Non, non,”
I said. “It’s fine. I get lonely sometimes. I plan to make a salade for my dinner. A kind of salade niçoise, only Seattle style”.
“I
love
salade niçoise,” Céline said.
“You do not,” her father teased. “Every time we’re in Provence and it’s served, you pick at it”.
“I’d like Lexi’s”.
I flushed with unexpected pleasure, something akin to maternal pride, but not quite. Perhaps its next-door neighbor.
“Would you like to come to dinner?” I asked, emboldened by Céline’s insistence and weary of dining alone. “Both of you?”
“Oui
, we gladly accept. Thank you,” Céline answered demurely.
“Normally, we eat the family meal on Sunday with my aunt and uncle and my sister. Today, I guess I have no choice.
La Patronne
, the boss, has spoken”. Philippe winked. “I will bring some wine, some mint water for Céline, and a dessert from the bakery. I must go in for a few hours and make sure everything is okay there”.
“Of course, we’ll be fine, Papa,” Céline said, tugging me toward my door. “See you soon!” She turned to me. “Now, let’s do girl things”.
I looked down at her small head. Her hair, while pretty, needed a woman’s touch. On the way in the door, I noticed the phrase on my board,
Hunger savors every dish
.
Céline was hungry for girl things because she had no maman. I was hungry for company because I had few friends and no
Maman motioned for me to follow her to the break table outside. She sat down and lit a cigarette.
“Normalement,”
she said, “this would be fine. Everyone should have a few days off now and then. But this week …” She inhaled her cigarette and shrugged her shoulders. “It will be difficult. Someone has quit. We will try to hire someone very quickly, but I may have to move someone to mornings from afternoons till we get a permanent morning bread baker hired. Which leaves me needing you in the afternoons”.
“My dad was a marine,” I said, hoping to appeal to her patriotic side. “He wants to visit Normandy”. As soon as I mentioned Normandy, a thought occurred to me. “I do have one small idea,” I offered, although a little discomfort popped into my mind as soon as the sentence had fled.
“What would that be?”
Too late to take it back now
.
“I have a friend at the school. She is an excellent baker and worked at a bakery in Normandy for many years”. I felt a little like I was offering my own head on a platter. “She has a letter of recommendationfrom her
patron
at that bakery. Perhaps she could fill in for me for a few days?”
Maman finished her cigarette. “She’s experienced, you say?”
I nodded.
“Bon,”
Maman agreed. “Have her come with you on Thursday so she can fill out the paperwork for a temporary employee. And you can return to Rambouillet on Monday next week. Enjoy your papa”.
I thanked her, took off my apron, and walked home. Anne’s breads were better than mine. She made a perfect chouquette—not too eggy. Her tartes were delicious. My petits fours were better, but there was little call for them at the bakery. We had yet to compare cake baking, but Patricia did all the cakes at Rambouillet.
Inside, I felt sick. Anne was French. Anne was experienced. Anne would do better than I, and they’d see her skill up close and personal.
As I walked up the driveway of Maman’s house, I saw Céline running toward me. Philippe was heading toward his car.
“Lexi!” she called. “Why weren’t you at church?”
“I had to work,
jeune fille,”
I said, teasing her.
“I missed you.
We
missed you,” she said, looking at her papa. “Gabby didn’t”. She giggled, and so did I.
“Can I stay with you instead of there?” she asked, motioning toward the big house.
Philippe joined us. “Céline, that is impolite. You don’t invite yourself to someone else’s house”.
“Non, non,”
I said. “It’s fine. I get lonely sometimes. I plan to make a salade for my dinner. A kind of salade niçoise, only Seattle style”.
“I
love
salade niçoise,” Céline said.
“You do not,” her father teased. “Every time we’re in Provence and it’s served, you pick at it”.
“I’d like Lexi’s”.
I flushed with unexpected pleasure, something akin to maternal pride, but not quite. Perhaps its next-door neighbor.
“Would you like to come to dinner?” I asked, emboldened by Céline’s insistence and weary of dining alone. “Both of you?”
“Oui
, we gladly accept. Thank you,” Céline answered demurely.
“Normally, we eat the family meal on Sunday with my aunt and uncle and my sister. Today, I guess I have no choice.
La Patronne
, the boss, has spoken”. Philippe winked. “I will bring some wine, some mint water for Céline, and a dessert from the bakery. I must go in for a few hours and make sure everything is okay there”.
“Of course, we’ll be fine, Papa,” Céline said, tugging me toward my door. “See you soon!” She turned to me. “Now, let’s do girl things”.
I looked down at her small head. Her hair, while pretty, needed a woman’s touch. On the way in the door, I noticed the phrase on my board,
Hunger savors every dish
.
Céline was hungry for girl things because she had no maman. I was hungry for company because I had few friends and no
Similar Books
