Saturday morning

You know what's amazing about France? Yeah, you already know. The food.
I am not a great cook. I can bake (but usually at the expense of the entire kitchen which resembles a battlefield), I use mixers and frothers but am still baffled by icing (why, oh why, does mine always look like pharmaceutical scalp cream? My poor cupcakes need no scalp cream). But who needs any skillz when you have great produce?

Every morning, I run up to the market place and buy five euros worth of produce. As a vegetarian, I eat a lot of starch too, but vegetables and fruit are the core of meals. The salespeople know my tastes and will usually coax me to taste, or take home, the most luscious looking things, such as purple-tipped asparagus, mysterious artichokes and rosy peaches.

Go home. Eat.

To me part of my Frenchness is the pleasure I take in lovely food, eating a tomato in the street, grinning because it's dribbling down my face, while the sun covers the hill where I live.