Dancing in the kitchen again. It is something we do. As children my mom dance with us in kitchen. That is were I learned to jitterbug, do dishes and of course cook.
On another note:
In France one rarely walks into the kitchen when entering a home: An entrance hall yes. A living room yes. A bathroom no. A kitchen rarely.
When you walk into our home you walk right into the kitchen. Open the front door and the kitchen is there to greet you. It makes me have a manic attitude. Dirty dishes are not what I want others to see when they first walk into our home.
The dancing man was home with his girlfriend, he rarely does dishes.
One of my blog goals this year is to show more personal photos of our day to day life. I plan on using cell phone photos more and more, and not worry if they are "good" or not. I wouldn't think to take a photo in the evening, indoors, with the lights on, nor use a blurry photo. But I am challenging myself to let that go and snap a photo for fun.
The flowers were from Thierry for Valentine's day. When he came over for lunch with that beautiful bouquet of lavender colored roses, I gasped! Yann moaned, "Oh no I am doomed."
He was.
Dancing as a way of life.
They danced in the kitchen to the best song ever… I don't know what the name of the song was. But I do know what it feels like to want to dance: To have the music roll through your body, to feel it as the best song ever, 'cause it corresponds with something within that does not have a name.
While they danced, French Husband stirred the pot on the stove while I prepared a dessert. Not just any dessert. A dessert that we were to take over to Chelsea's boyfriend's parent's house.
How serious does that sound?
I fretted over that dessert as if I were giving birth. Gee, I have made that dessert to the point where I do not need to look at the recipe, and STILL I was sure it was going to flop. It didn't.
Chelsea's boyfriend's parent's house.
How serious does that sound?
And Chelsea? Is it serious?
Well she just danced.
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