Neige

I know, I'm supposed to be writing about le bilan de la colonisation francaise entre les annee 1830 et 1945. But there is something wildly entertaining going on outside and I can't help but turn away from my desk in my new apartment and cradle a cup of tea in my hands as I watch the French interact with snow. The night I moved in, I went out looking for a quick dinner, and it spat snow at me for about twenty minutes. Now, being a California girl, I'd of course rather be in the sun somewhere, but its gonna snow, it better friggin snow. None of this spitting shit. Years in Massachusetts made me appreciate the quietness of snow, the cleansing power, the stark colors, the communal inclination to go outside and act like a fool. I woke to the sound of someone scraping their car. I am now in my room, my window looking down onto the petit rue du nord, and have enjoyed watching the pristine sidewalks become speckled with footprints. Apparently, the plan for the day was for all fathers to come out with their little girls to take advantage of the first snow of the season. I didn't get the memo. The three mini cars parked out front of my building have been wiped clean of snow by tiny pink mittens and large black gloves, offering a respite from my paper every thirty minutes or so. Some father are showing their daughters the science of making a perfect snowball, who then carry the thing with wonder. Others simply pummel their little girls into giggling fits of oblivion.  I've got some perfect snow music on which seems to give a perfect soundtrack to the small balls of coats and hats that bumble around experimentally. I've got a recipe here also that provides distraction- Braised Rabbit with a Grainy Mustard Sauce. Perfect dinner for a winter day in the suburbs of Paris? Just maybe.