I ate an egg in Paris once that was so fresh I was transported back to my grandmother’s kitchen table. I could picture her stirring oatmeal on the stove in her soft cream sweater that she would hug around her body as she talked to me and yelled out to my grandfather. I always found her frustration with him funny and comforting. He could make her laugh until she couldn’t breathe.
It would be early in the morning and she would have been a bit chilly having risen earlier than me. I could see her vegetable garden in the distance, and the sunshine sparkle over her tree filled backyard.
She grew up on a farm and loved that life. She taught me how to shuck peas and the joy of picking strawberries in an open field. I remember the first time we trudged through the tall grass, and mud, not understanding why we had to walk so far carrying that awkward basket…that is until I discovered her handmade whipped cream!
Dipping the thin warm crispy buttered baguette into the soft hot yolk, I could remember the joy I felt when I ate this for the first time as a child. I could picture the farm where the egg came from. The chickens are happy there. They roam free…they wear berets.
That is why I love eating in Europe. It transports you to places you have never been, and if you are really lucky, sometimes it brings you to the past.