I am a murderer, I am a savior. I am the assassin, I am the redeemer. While one hand slices, the other one soothes.
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3 January 2015 - Lyon, France
After catching a whiff of lamb surrounded by two dozen garlic cloves, slow-roasting in its own juices, in the oven (the most recent class-favorite from my studies in culinary school at L’Institut Paul Bocuse,) I lovingly cradled the mug of fresh coffee and sat myself down by the second-story kitchen window overlooking the atelier of “The Artist-Who-is-Truly-Googleable!”
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I am going to begin at the very end – The Cheese Course. As we passed the cheese tray around the dimly lit dining room table seated full of strangers-turned-new friends, we silently (and correctly – afterall, we had just been taught how to accurately and politely slice and serve ourselves from a proper French cheese platter) cut our fair portion of each of the crumbly, luscious, dense, colorful & custardy choices while we concentrated on Lucy, our instructor/trained-pastry-chef/history-buff/masterful-story-teller as she began The Tale of the Cheese That Was Almost Lost.
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