Free Bon Appetit by Sandra Byrd Page B

reposing on the sides of the Seine, and it brought to mind my favorite painting of the day,
A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of LaGrande Jatte
by Seurat.
    “What are they doing?” Céline pointed to men and women lining the banks of the Seine with paintings by their side.
    “Selling their original work,” Philippe told her. “Watercolors, mostly”.
    Both Céline and I looked longingly at the paintings as we walked by on our way back to the car park. I nearly pinched myself. I could hardly believe I was here, strolling along the Seine, looking at artists hawking their wares. In Paris.
    We drove back from Paris in the early evening, via the Champs-Elysées, and talked comfortably all the way home. When we got back to the village, Céline and Philippe walked me to my door.
    “Thank you for a lovely day,” I said. “It was much more enjoyable to have someone to share my thoughts and feelings with”.
    “It was our pleasure,” Philippe said.
    “It was our pleasure,” Céline copied, appearing very grown-up and very small at the same time. I laughed and ruffled her hair as she stood between us.
    They walked back to the car, and I waved as they drove away. Before I closed my door, I saw the lace in Maman’s sitting room window jiggle. I walked back into my house, looked at the chalkboard, and set out my Bible so I wouldn’t forget to read Jean chapter three sometime soon.
    First, I called Tanya. She didn’t pick up, so I left a message.
    “I went to the Musée d’Orsay today,” I said. “It was great. I think I may have found one kid in all the world that I like”. I mentioned nothing about Céline’s dad, but I knew Tanya would ask.
    Then I e-mailed Dan back and hesitatingly told him I’d like to see him in November and that he should send more details when he got them. I signed it,
Yours, Lexi
.
    The next week at school, bread week, was
fantastique
! We rolled up our sleeves and kneaded dough until our hands ached.
    I was stationed next to Désirée and across the huge work table from Anne and Juju. Anne’s breads, in particular, were lovely.
    “Your breads are so nice,” I said once when we were alone, cleaning up our station. “The dough is always pinchably plump. And why are your raisins so moist?”
    “Haven’t you seen me soak them?” she asked. “I put them in a cup of warm orange juice instead of water for about twenty minutes before I add them. It softens them and plumps them, and the orange flavor makes the bread even tastier”.
    “No,” I said. “I hadn’t seen you do it”.
    She put her last mixing bowl into the sink and pulled down the industrial overhead faucet to rinse it out. “Désirée saw. She did it to her loaves yesterday”. I heard an edge in her voice.
    We went back to our table and began rolling loaves for baguettes. I’d helped Luc with bread in Seattle, but here it was Philippe and his guys in Rambouillet or Kamil’s crew in the village who did the breads. I didn’t expect to specialize in breads, but I knew I had to be better than proficient in order to get and keep a job. So I rolled dough, watched the others, and learned from their strengths and mistakes.
    One day last week Juju’s loaves came out nearly flat. I thought she was going to cry.
    “Did the yeast bubble before you added it?” Désirée had asked, trying to help.
    “I think so,” Juju said.
    Désirée shook her head. “Maybe not. If it didn’t bubble after three or four minutes, maybe your batch was bad”.
    I’d said nothing, but that didn’t make sense. We all drew yeast from the same tins. If I’d had a death wish, I’d have asked Monsieur Desfreres, but I knew a report would be going out to my
patron
that week, and I didn’t want to draw negative attention to myself.
    We placed our baguettes in the oven. Today, both mine and Juju’s came out perfectly plump and tanned. We ate lunch with the cooking school—they were providing
soupe
and salade, and we were providing the bread. All of