Lightly gracing the dull carpet of my room are the soles of a pair of brown leather oxford shoes, laces undone, thin tongues slightly turned in, and interiors looking prim and neat.
I purchased the shoes here, in the US, but I find that they represent some part of me that still resides in Paris... mentally at least.
Before I left that city, I scoured each window display (of which there are many) for the perfect pair of oxfords.
And I won't be the first to tell you, a window display can break your heart.
But this blog isn't about shoes. It's not about those little tears at the seams that occur when normally reticent thoughts somehow submerge around midday. No, no. It's about food, but somehow those lingering Parisian thoughts kept me from coming back here for months to describe my new home turf.
And these days I find myself humbled by a simpler cooking routine, inspired more so by the homely than the ambitious. You'll find me hovering over a small pan, filled about one inch deep with steamy water. Small bubbles hesitantly release themselves from the bottom of the pan, only to hover haphazardly upwards towards the choppy surface. They invariably dissipate into the air.
I pinch the egg shell open with my hands and watch as the mass of transparent protein plops into the water. Magic ensues. I fish the poached egg out of its incubating bath, splay it out against a rough bed of grainy toast, and devour it whole. Then I put on my oxford shoes and bound out into the world.
I promise that I'll be returning shortly. For both of our sakes.
