Rue de Stalingrad
On Thursdays my gym opens at noon. Unfortunately I arrived at 11:45, the coldest day, so far, of the year. I headed directly to a bar kitty cornered to the gym and had one grande cafe (which is still sort of small).
I sat at the bar next to a gentleman doing a crossword puzzle. Behind me an elderly couple with hearing problems discussed their bill. The door to the kitchen was open where I could see the cook slicing a loin of pork. She held the loin in one bare hand, sauce and oil dripping all over it.
She reminded me of my grandmother making turkey gravy. Her spoon spinning in clockwise motions while she added flour and pepper little by little and her bright red lipstick smile. What was she thinking? How much happiness did she get out of making comfort food?
This year I'm spending Thanksgiving with friends, rotisserie chickens replacing stuffed turkeys. No pumpkin pies, instead French pastry. And no grandmothers making gravy. Except in my mind, while I drank my coffee, waiting for the gym to open.
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