I officially have a French bank account, cell phone number, and library card. Anyone that has lived, or even visited, France will likely understand the associated bureaucratic nightmare and appreciate the fact that accomplishing such feats called for a well-deserved celebration. In other words, macaroons at Feuillette.
About three weeks into my eight-month stint here in France, I began craving almond butter. I missed slathering it on apple and banana slices, drizzling it on top of hearty smoothie bowls and, I’ll admit, eating it straight out of the jar with a spoon. At first, I tried to suppress these cravings because I had heard time and time again that any form of nut butter is extremely difficult, if not impossible, to find in France. I was just going to have to get used to it, or eventually convince my mom to send me some from New York.
It comes as no surprise that the French love bread. If it wasn’t for the baguette, they would have nothing to spread their fromage on every night after dinner and they wouldn’t have anything to dip into a hearty beef bourgonione. Ah, quelle horreur!
I reach out to grab what looks like a fugi apple but could also very well be gala or or McIntosh for all I know. Selecting one from underneath the pile, I run my finger vertically from the stem to the base and back up across the waxy surface.
The green skin around the stem slowly fades to a light pink right around the top curve of the fruit. Half-way down, the pink intensifies to a deep radish red only rarely permeated by thin ripples of green. Grabbing the apple by its stem, I prepare to give it one last spin to check for any major blemishes.
“On ne touche pas, Madame!”