Muses

Cowards and cow’s churned cream.

Spent the day with my mom. She is having her house on the local Christmas tour. I ferried her up to Athens to procure garland, redbirds, wreaths and a case of Charles Shaw.

While having lunch, I ordered the baguette with my salad.

And then I buttered my mini baguette and . . .

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I heard a voice that has haunted me for over three decades.

“Only cowards butter their bread!”

Oui?  I was 20ish and having dinner at a professor’s house. I adored her and her husband and took every class each one taught. It didn’t matter I could care less for medieval history, I practically minored in it just to sit in one of their classes.

Well, my classmates and I were seated around an almost Elizabethan table in a darkened room and all eyes were on me.

I who had been called out for buttering her bread.

I take it the French don’t butter bread as much as use it sop up everything else on their plate.

For me, you could throw every chocolate truffle in the Seine — or in the Thames for that matter. Give me warm fresh bread and soft unsweetened cream and I am as a wee clam in tons of salt water.

Still not sure what she meant. “Only cowards butter their bread?”

Believe me I twisted that mental Rubik’s Cube it for almost 30 years. All the while buttering and eating my bread.

Thoughts?

 

 

 

 

           

           

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