let’s rewind a few weekends back. to a saturday in lyon.
you wake up at noon.
and in france that means it’s time for apéro.
you can’t say no. so, with no food in your stomach for the last 15 hours, you have a kir.
nothing better than starting the day buzzed, right?
you are assigned a job.
spread some pâté onto some bread.
but your biggest pleasure is observing someone who knows what they’re doing. it could be a potter at the wheel. a dancer on a stage. a fisherman reeling in a fish. someone who can wrap presents.
there’s a certain rhythm that those people have. a swiftness that comes only because they’ve practiced. they’ve made mistakes long ago. and at this point, it’s all intuition with no hestiation. they never miss a beat.
and you’re lucky enough be watching one such skilled person cook.
as the french like to say, tac tac tac, c’est fini!
before you know it, your friend has finished making her cakes and is off to to the next thing.
afterwards, you write letters to santa. or in french, père noël. in france, you can mail a letter to him, and even if you don’t put a stamp, it will magically get to him and he will mail you a response.
but not lyon. you’ve got one more day.