Free Paris in Love by Eloisa James

take my Parisian Christmas with me back to New York City in the fall. My cocottes will remind me that food is meant to be served to others, to be beautiful, to be original (even violet-colored), to be dreamed over. They will remind me that indulgence is not a virtue we should keep for the holiday season alone, and that saving time—when it comes to food—is more sinful than virtuous.
    My Parisian December went a long way to mending a crack in my heart caused by the words “the biopsy was positive.” To eat as the French do is to celebrate life, even to indulge in it.

    Galeries Lafayette has put up its Christmas lights! The huge building has been transformed to a glowing set of rose windows that hark back to eighteenth-century Russia, or Versailles: a time when the display of beauty, its gleam and luxury, was of paramount importance. Of course, Alessandro pointed out that these windows beckon not to worship but to shop.

    My favorite Galeries Lafayette holiday window is set with an exquisite dinner party scene: crystal chandeliers, fabulous dishes, tiaras scattered between the plates, wine glasses draped in pearls—all of it being enjoyed by assorted marionette bears. One has a wineglass in each paw and a tiara tipped over one ear. He raises the glasses drunkenly, toasting all the children outside the window.

    The streets are suddenly filled with men selling chestnuts, roasted over oil barrels. Alessandro and I bought some, wrapped in twists of newspaper. They split open from the heat, showing sweet yellow insides. We walked along slowly, nursing the warm packages in our hands, eating smoky, slightly charred nuts.

    Due to my disinclination to chop off chicken heads, my butcher whacks them off for me, but he leaves the knees: black and red, hardscrabble knees for running hard. Parisian chickens aremuch more chickenlike than Mr. Perdue’s; furthermore, eggs come ornamented with tiny feathers. My children shriek: “Butt feathers!” Having grown up on a farm, I like remembering the sultry warmth of newly laid eggs.

    Anna and I were in a department store, weighing the merits of a stuffed penguin over a stuffed possum, when we were accosted by Santa Claus. This skinny, insistent Santa just wouldn’t quit; he wanted a picture with Anna. Having been a micro-preemie, she’s quite petite. But in her head she’s a young lady of eleven, and young ladies do not sit on the laps of strange Santas. “You know what, Mama?” she said when he was finally banished. “That man was weird.” And, a moment later, “I bet French Santas drink too much wine.”

    The rain comes down every day here; my umbrella is as crucial as my wallet. My favorite adaptation to the wet weather is babies in bright red backpacks that have four posts to hold little red canopies over their heads. They look like plump Indian rajas swaying along, atop paternal elephants.

    Anna and I walked past yet another homeless man and his dog today. “He’s a wiener dog!” said Anna. One look and I said, “No,
she’s
a mama wiener dog.” A wild scream followed. “Mama! She has puppies! Tiny puppies!” Sure enough … nine—
nine
—tiny, tiny puppies were inside the box on a warm grate. Two days old, according to their owner. We gave him all our change.

    We went with friends to the Champs-Élysées tonight for the first time since Christmas lights were put up. Trees all the way down the avenue are lit with tiny pale blue lights that slide downward, as if a lazy, bluish rain were falling.

    Back in the States, we had a terrible time getting the kids up in time for church, often ending in most impious battles. Here we employ the mighty power of chocolate. I announce that if they rise immediately, we have time to go to a café for hot chocolate and croissants … then we walk through the chilly morning to a café and sit, fingers curled around big mugs of sweet chocolate, before we run to Saint-Eugène–Sainte-Cécile.

    Our comfort food after a tough