Breakfast at La Pitchoune


Brief note: This was originally written to submit to AirBnB for a free stay at Julia Child’s house in Provence. Affectionately named La Pitchoune (the little one), it now functions as a cooking school, and is available for rent via AirBnB. I was never able to submit this piece because I wrote it thinking there was a 500 word limit, it was actually a 500 character limit. 

I rise as the first tendrils of sunlight are gently caressing my husband’s face. I can never quite sleep like he does. The newness of the day holds too much promise for me, I begin to feel guilt if I allow myself to sleep any of it away.

I relish the chill of the floor on my bare feet, it electrifies me. My body, usually ravaged by jet-lag after a transatlantic flight, is buoyed by the excitement of being in Provence. This place, this home, it is exactly where I am meant to be. The morning air embraces me like an old friend when I walk out into the garden.

I take a brief tour to see what I can look forward to harvesting for tonight’s dinner, and many more to come, before returning inside to make breakfast.

It isn’t an elaborate dish, but an omelette is the perfect way to settle into our first morning. There is something about watching the steam escape as you slice your fork into a fresh omelette that evokes “home,” more than anything else. I grab a few fresh sprigs of parsley to chop before I go inside.

I worry my husband may not be awake before I am finished, and consider waking him up. It’s not worth it. I will just eat the first one I make and savor it for myself. I deserve to relish that first bite, fresh off the stove. He won’t even know the difference.

I get to work, chopping the parsley, beating the eggs and setting out my pan and plates. To my delight, we remembered to get some fresh butter. I drop a sizable amount straight into the hot pan. It sizzles, and the tangy, toasted fragrance envelops the kitchen. I pour the eggs into their butter bath, and swirl the pan around with precision until they are ready to be flipped on to the plate. My husband still has not risen. It appears that I get to enjoy this one for myself. I sprinkle a bit of parsley on top of my omelette and head to the garden.

As soon as I am about to place my plate down on the table, I remember that I forgot to make myself a coffee to sip on. I look up, and to my delight, there he is, coming in through the gate with two espressos in hand, he must of slipped out without me noticing. He beams at me as soon as he notices me looking.

“Paul!” I exclaim, “How is it that I got so lucky?”

“Julia,” he says, sternly, “How many times do I have to tell you that I am the lucky one? Look, you’ve even made my favorite.”

He plunges the fork in, and offers me the first bite. Breakfast for two is always better anyway.

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