“Get Up. Beau needs food for school”
Those were the exact words that shook me from a deep, heavenly dream of walking through the Sunday market in l’Isle sur la Sorgue with a rustic baguette from the wood burning oven bakery and transported back to my bed in La Quinta. “Honey, get up, Beau needs lunch.”
Half awake, sipping my morning cafe au lait, holding communion with distant plantations and tranquil pastures as Antoine St. Exupery once wrote, The joy of living. Those first swallows of steamed milk and espresso.
“The joy of living, I say, was summed up for me in the remembered sensation of that burning and aromatic swallow, that mixture of milk and coffee and bread by which men hold communion with tranquil pastures, exotic plantations, and golden harvests, communion with earth.”
The smell of garlic and red chili flakes sizzling in olive oil. I have been up four minutes and the house is filled with the sensual aromas of magic happening on my stove. The act of transforming raw ingredients into the poetical act of love. Fresh basil splatters and sputters. adding to the amazing bouquet in our house. Two little feet running circles around me, still only half awake, I stir the pot.
Chopped fresh onion from the La Quinta farmer’s market and some San Marzano tomatoes and just let it simmer. AS I do, I look over and notice Beaumont is mimicking me, cooking on his little fire engine red toy kitchen range. He notices me glancing over and brings a spoonful of imagination for my me to taste and compare to my tomato sauce. Shit, his is better.
I finish preparing his lunch of Spaghetti AOP with freshly grated Reggiano Parmesan and a drizzle of Mere Goutte olive oil lovingly known in my kitchen as “Mother’s Milk”. Within three seconds they are gone… The house is empty except for the sweet memory of preparing something so simple, with so much love, for someone I love so deeply.
Whoosh, they are gone!