Waiting for Krusty

It's day six of my bittersweet trip to France.

Bitter because it's hard to be away from my husband (who I realise I haven't been separated from for almost a year). And sweet because, well, where do I start?

First there's the pleasure of watching Oscar interact with my mother, now known as Lady Gaga for the noises she makes when she sees him, and my father, who Oscar seems to find hilarious. I watch them play and fuss over him and I imagine being a baby myself. This is how they must have been with me. It's mindblowing in a way.

There's also sweetness in my bambino, of course, as usual. Since we have arrived, he has really found his voice, adding brief, sharp squeals to his repertoire of coos and gurgles. He has also realised that those two things on the end of his arms are actually his hands, and his to control, and he keeps delicately grabbing his own fingers like one of those claws that grab teddys in arcade machines, and smiling proudly. It's a far cry from that day I had to remove his hands from his face because he couldn't understand that he was in control of whether they were there or not.

And, it goes without saying, the sweet, sweet pleasure of finding French food again. Oh my. There are peaches that taste of raspberries, bread that tastes good from the moment you buy it and even for a few more days after that (if it survives that long without being eaten). There are tomatoes that have the colour, texture and TASTE of tomatoes, there are my mother's desserts, cooked from my grandmother's recipes. And there are mussels. And melons. And and and. Oh how much we are missing...