Giving thanks, not too late

Aaah, I may be a few days late to the Thanksgiving feast but gratitude still reigns supreme in this quirky heart of mine. Valiant of stomach, I hied myself through a bristling Mistral wind to see my friends at a wonderful restaurant, Première Édition, here in Avignon. I actually hadn’t been given any choice in the matter as my food-writer friend, Marc Fournié, told me simply that I had to try cheffe Aurélie’s chicken. Yes, Marc, ok, twist my arm, but…I was in a conundrum. For I had also seen something on this week’s menu that especially tempted “les papilles,” aka Yee Olde Tastybuds.

As gluttony was inherently excused in honor of the celebration, after a brief discussion with the cheffe and her sous-cheffe, I went full monty (all while keeping my clothes on).

For what I really had come to try was the pita. No, not the college dorm version of yore for it was not cardboard stiff but outright pillowy, even though it had been just barbecued “à la minute.” When it arrived, I lowered my face far nearer to the plate than sheer politeness would allow to take in the perfume of the creamy goat cheese, cooked raclette-style and…truffles. Truffles. Just let that word roll around on your tongue a bit and even if you have never had the pleasure to try these particularly pungent fungi, you might get a whiff (pun-intended) of how luxurious they are. All of this was hidden under fresher than fresh greens from the Alpilles (and knowing Aurélie they might have been picked that morning). I would bite and savour slowly, on repeat.

As I did, with the arrival of patrons a mounting cacophony of gossip and laughter ensued at the surrounding tables. “Jonathan?” I asked of the co-owner/reliable charmer, “Do you know what I hear when I listen to everyone?” “Well, I don’t have the time to hear them myself, really…” “No, not word-for-word but in general,” I interrupted. “I hear contentment, people letting go and relaxing. You know, that doesn’t often happen in France…not quite like this.” He nodded. “A happy face,” he responded. Yes, a happy place too.

Alright, then now on to the afore-mentioned stand-in for the big turkey: an even-finer chicken. One that comes from the farm of “Elisabeth” and of course is as organic and cossetted as they come, served here with deep cooking juices, a citrus ouzo oil, along with mandarine shiva mikan (don’t worry, I had to look them up as well). As if that wasn’t enough, on the side was a bowl of corn polenta that was truly more like a porridge that I wanted to close my eyes and have my Mom spoon-feed to me, even at 53.

Food is such a delight. Isn’t it? Literally, like Turkish Delight, which I first read about in “A lion, a witch and the wardrobe” and was startled to learn as an adult that it is actually something that exists in the world. When food is this deeply satisfying (or as dynamic as in the cooking of Florent Pietravalle in my previous post), we are not only eating other people’s thoughts, we are eating their dreams.

So perhaps that is why it was especially perfect to finish with something so simply lovely as my dessert. I did try to convince myself not to have it. I did. But Jonathan assured me that it would “help me to digest” my previous indulgences (insert snort of laughter here) and Marc had also insisted about this so here we go: pear and tea-infused sorbet with mandarine keraji flakes (shrug), whipped yogurt and candied crunchy hazelnuts. As if I needed to say anything possibly more than that. Sweetness rendered.

And it was doubly so, as a lovely young person stopped by my table on her way out. She told me that she recognised me and loved what I put on Instagram. As she turned to go, I nearly blurted out, “Wait, wait, tell me more please!” Isn’t that beautiful? I might have blushed but shh.

So here we are at the end of the meal. Jonathan had brought me my espresso WITH my dessert without any judgement. The music was good, the cacophony rendered into a lullaby symphony. And while I was sitting there technically “alone” – the chair across from me, empty – the feeling during the entire meal was that I had been anything but. Not only was there the very palpable “bonhomie” extending from everyone at Première Édition but also all of my personal loves, right there beside me, right up close in my heart. They are great company.

It has been a hard time – sorry, hard times – for my tribe. My wonderful man L would have been with me if not for having just contacted COVID (again). I have been going through some things that are not appropriate for me to talk about fully but he has unfailingly been my rock. The tougher the times, the more solid he is. If that doesn’t make you want to do a turn about, what does? My family were there with me too. There is so very much on the table (again, sorry for the pun). And yet they still joke when needed and listen with the same sincerity. I try to do likewise for I love them so. I have had an unimaginable gift of reuniting with a nearly lost for forever friend. And yes, there is all of you. I did declare as much via Instagram on Thanksgiving but there are many of you that have still held on to this blog, no matter what. Forgive me if I have tears in my eyes as I type that for “my heart overfloweth.”

It is certainly lovely that there are happy drops on my keyboard just as I am grateful that my belly is full after such a wonderful meal. I don’t take any of it for granted. Not one tiny bit. It is never too late to say thank you, so to everyone at Première Édition, my love, my family (including those gone) and my friends known and unknown all over the world, I do.

Be well, stay safe and be kind,

Heather