Setting the table has been something I have enjoyed doing since I was a little girl.
The fork is on the left, and the knife is to the right, with the cutting part of the blade towards the plate.
As I place the silverware alongside the plate, I imagine those who will sit around the table and dine.
They are hoping their stories will easily unfold like napkins, that their laughter will be tossed about like a green salad. I smile, anticipating stories that will be swallowed whole and digested later. (A dinner is a mixture of hot and cold, tender morsels, bites to chew, and just a hint of sweet and spicy.)
The meal is
A sure thing in France.
The daily event.
The time is taken.
Dining in France is like breathing.
A given.
They are rarely taken alone unless you are alone.
More often than not, sitting at a table, one does not grab a bite to eat on the go.
"I have become French," I say to myself as I set the table, "Or maybe I was always French? Nah, I was too picky of an eater to have been French."
After dinner routine:
Clear the table.
Put the dishes in soapy water.
Washed away the day as the flavor of it seeps in.
Stack the dishes in the drainer, drain the sink, wipe off the counters, and hang the towel.
Take one more bite, then put away any leftovers.
The joy of the everyday routine.
Which one is yours?
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