The children came home for lunch today. Accompanying them was Olivia’s best friend before she met the other Olivia, Clemence Barre. For some reason she is never known simply by her christian name, notwithstanding the fact that as far as I know there is no other Clemence within a ten-mile radius of here.
I am always nervous about feeding French people. They seem to have this food thing so sussed. The first time Clemence Barre came to lunch my husband fed her baked beans on toast. She was not impressed. So today I went shopping and bought lovely hams, cherry tomatoes, salad, cheese and of course a baguette.
Half-way through lunch Clemence Barre said: “I don’t really like my salad.”
“Why not?” I asked
“I prefer my salad with a little vinaigrette,” she replied. Of course if I put vinaigrette on salad my children won’t eat it, it’s too strong, so I had left it out. I put some balsamic vinegar aux fruits rouges from Fauchon in Paris on Clemence Barre’s salad which she then ate happily. How is it that even aged seven the French are so much more sophisticated than us?
For those of you following the Heathcliff saga, I wasted no time in booking our summer holiday to stay with my mother and have sent him a text telling him we’re coming. This was about seven minutes ago and I haven’t heard back, but won’t go into terminal decline just yet. I’m bursting with curiosity to see what he’s like now. Funny to think that when I last saw him mobile phones weren’t invented. How old does that make me feel?
Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007