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 something over the stove in her soft cream sweater that she would hug around herself 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 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 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.