"Cupcakes?!" "Oui, mais cupcakes de France!" you purr. We grin — that coarse word young Julia, post-war, would have scorned. Il n'ya pas un mot français pour ces… poofs of dough in pleated papers risen, this dozen like kisses you've brought to our table. The chandelier brightens their glaze — will we gulp down my second try at Thai ginger chicken? Both of you baked, you tell us, Lou (and "snitched more than enough!")— concoctions your émigrée sister schemed in Sauve (the cookbook hers, the restaurant hers), below steep hills couched low where a river indolently meanders not too far from Avignon, under suns of Provence, where once an Algerian boy, I recall, tugged at my sleeve and asked (not for centimes to buy bread, but) did I want to coucher avec sa mère? — across rubbled urban fields she waved me to her shack amidst the waste. But now?—here, Naomi, you offer us these, on a glass platter, incised, salvaged with her Yiddish by your great-grandmother from Grudno, viridian, silver-fretted with tendrils, meadow blooms: la présentation indeed! esteeming the hosts as it proves your arts. I almost taste the compliment, surprised to be so fetched that just the view of such slight rarities, these French cupcakes (not my folks' kuchen from Diesbach), elates me with a tang of fun I'd forgotten I'd wanted: saved by treats from Sauve! Prudence, you counsel: bite with intent; let the tongue distinguish each taste — vanilla, lemon, the two sugars and the caramel glaze that sheens the tart, thin slices of apple layered on top: in your mouth then mingle the ensemble. I'd like to say, "It’s your tales that lure me to your cupcakes — a town spared the two wars," a guestroom waiting, le Sud! the Mediterranean (my first frisson and transport) before the rough Atlantic journeys. But I'd be lying: I salivate. I'll gobble my share in chomps (even some of your share, Jane) and quite forget the wants of strangers at any city’s outskirts who wait for the midday dump trucks, hover to scavenge garbage, foods tossed by others.
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