releases my hand and I cover my confusion with another sip from my glass.
Didier gazes out into the darkness beyond the terrace, the lights in the valley below mirroring the stars above that seem magnified by the frosty night air.
‘I hate the fog,’ he says, with feeling. ‘I felt I was suffocating in it.’ His voice becomes quieter, almost as if he’s talking to himself… ‘And then, like magic, it melted away and you appeared. With the sunshine in your hair. As if it was you who had driven the fog away.’
Our eyes meet again and we smile, understanding.
‘Okay then, two compadres, united in our stand against Christmas!’ I say. ‘I tell you what, if you don’t have a better offer, how about joining me for Not-Christmas lunch on the twenty-fifth? I’ve already started planning the menu.’
‘After a meal such as this, how could a man possibly refuse? It’s a date! Thank you, Evie, this has been wonderful. Perhaps, if I promise to bring you some more kindling for your fire, we could even consider doing this again. Before Not-Christmas?’
‘With pleasure. I guess I still owe you for a couple of medical consultations too,’ I smile ruefully, holding up my bandaged finger. ‘This time next week, maybe?’
‘That sounds perfect.’ He pauses. ‘Can I ask you one more thing? For Not-Christmas lunch? I’ve always wanted to try Christmas Pudding, since one of my English patients described it to me. It sounds such a bizarre idea, but they said it was delicious and traditional. Does an American know how to make such a thing? And is it possible to do so in France?’
I grin. ‘I do love a culinary challenge! Of course I know how to make it, after living in Britain. I have the perfect recipe, as the result of a great deal of experimenting. Of course, it should really have been made about a month ago, and now be sitting steeped in brandy waiting for the big day. But I figure it won’t matter too much. And if I can’t find all the ingredients here then I can always improvise. One Not-Christmas Pudding coming right up!’
In bed that night, I lie awake mulling over the evening and our conversation. Each look; the touch of his fingers closing around mine; his smile.
In my head, I’m already starting to plan the menu for our next dinner together... And trying to work out how I can create a Franco-American traditional English Christmas Pudding in a fortnight.
A screech from outside, announcing the barn owl’s nightly hunting trip, interrupts my train of thought. It’s funny; it doesn’t sound terrifying any more, but quite friendly really. Like it’s just telling me it’s there, acknowledging my presence here. Happy hunting , I think, and smile as I pull the covers up around me, going back to drawing up my mental list of pudding ingredients.
I guess I’ll have something to report back to Rose on my next trip to the office at the top of the hill—and it looks as if I just might be getting my cooking mojo back again.
The Boar’s Head Carol
T he boar’s head in hand bear I,
Bedecked with bay and rosemary...
M athieu is a huge , shaggy, bear of a man. He looks as if he’d be capable of wrestling a grizzly and coming out on top. He’s also very, very shy. Whenever he sees me coming, he ducks his head and shambles off in the opposite direction, so all we’ve exchanged so far in the way of direct communication is a wave of the hand if he catches sight of me when he comes to bring the horse into the barn each evening. Eliane has told me they’re taking particular care of the grey mare as she’s in foal. Come spring, there should be a cute addition to the view from the windows of Rose’s house.
So I’m surprised when, early one evening, there’s a tentative tap at the door and I open it to find Mathieu standing there, blushing as pink as a boiled beet. In his hands, he wrings out the cloth cap which he’s just whipped from his head, in an agony of bashfulness.
‘ Bonsoir, Madame, ’ he
Didier gazes out into the darkness beyond the terrace, the lights in the valley below mirroring the stars above that seem magnified by the frosty night air.
‘I hate the fog,’ he says, with feeling. ‘I felt I was suffocating in it.’ His voice becomes quieter, almost as if he’s talking to himself… ‘And then, like magic, it melted away and you appeared. With the sunshine in your hair. As if it was you who had driven the fog away.’
Our eyes meet again and we smile, understanding.
‘Okay then, two compadres, united in our stand against Christmas!’ I say. ‘I tell you what, if you don’t have a better offer, how about joining me for Not-Christmas lunch on the twenty-fifth? I’ve already started planning the menu.’
‘After a meal such as this, how could a man possibly refuse? It’s a date! Thank you, Evie, this has been wonderful. Perhaps, if I promise to bring you some more kindling for your fire, we could even consider doing this again. Before Not-Christmas?’
‘With pleasure. I guess I still owe you for a couple of medical consultations too,’ I smile ruefully, holding up my bandaged finger. ‘This time next week, maybe?’
‘That sounds perfect.’ He pauses. ‘Can I ask you one more thing? For Not-Christmas lunch? I’ve always wanted to try Christmas Pudding, since one of my English patients described it to me. It sounds such a bizarre idea, but they said it was delicious and traditional. Does an American know how to make such a thing? And is it possible to do so in France?’
I grin. ‘I do love a culinary challenge! Of course I know how to make it, after living in Britain. I have the perfect recipe, as the result of a great deal of experimenting. Of course, it should really have been made about a month ago, and now be sitting steeped in brandy waiting for the big day. But I figure it won’t matter too much. And if I can’t find all the ingredients here then I can always improvise. One Not-Christmas Pudding coming right up!’
In bed that night, I lie awake mulling over the evening and our conversation. Each look; the touch of his fingers closing around mine; his smile.
In my head, I’m already starting to plan the menu for our next dinner together... And trying to work out how I can create a Franco-American traditional English Christmas Pudding in a fortnight.
A screech from outside, announcing the barn owl’s nightly hunting trip, interrupts my train of thought. It’s funny; it doesn’t sound terrifying any more, but quite friendly really. Like it’s just telling me it’s there, acknowledging my presence here. Happy hunting , I think, and smile as I pull the covers up around me, going back to drawing up my mental list of pudding ingredients.
I guess I’ll have something to report back to Rose on my next trip to the office at the top of the hill—and it looks as if I just might be getting my cooking mojo back again.
The Boar’s Head Carol
T he boar’s head in hand bear I,
Bedecked with bay and rosemary...
M athieu is a huge , shaggy, bear of a man. He looks as if he’d be capable of wrestling a grizzly and coming out on top. He’s also very, very shy. Whenever he sees me coming, he ducks his head and shambles off in the opposite direction, so all we’ve exchanged so far in the way of direct communication is a wave of the hand if he catches sight of me when he comes to bring the horse into the barn each evening. Eliane has told me they’re taking particular care of the grey mare as she’s in foal. Come spring, there should be a cute addition to the view from the windows of Rose’s house.
So I’m surprised when, early one evening, there’s a tentative tap at the door and I open it to find Mathieu standing there, blushing as pink as a boiled beet. In his hands, he wrings out the cloth cap which he’s just whipped from his head, in an agony of bashfulness.
‘ Bonsoir, Madame, ’ he
Similar Books
