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<\/p>\nOne of my fondest memories of living in France was walking into the boulangerie<\/i><\/b> (bakery) down the street from where we lived. I can vividly remember the sudden burst of hot air I felt every time I stepped inside. The temperature outside the bakery didn\u2019t matter, les fours<\/i><\/b> (the ovens) never stopped working to bring you the freshest bread at any hour of the day. The heat was tolerable but it was the smell that was so enticing. I made the mistake of walking into a boulangerie on an empty stomach a few times and proceeded to leave with empty pockets but with arms full of warm breads and delectable p\u00e2tisseries<\/i><\/b> (pastries).<\/p>\n
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One day my mother hastily sent me to the bakery to pick up some bread as we were expecting guests pour le d\u00e9jeuner<\/i><\/b> (for lunch). \u201cBonjour madame. Une baguette, s\u2019il vous pla\u00eet,<\/i><\/b>\u201d (Hello, ma\u2019am. A baguette, please) I said to la femme du boulanger<\/i><\/b> (the baker\u2019s wife) standing behind the counter. \u201cDeux francs<\/i><\/b>\u201d (two francs) she answered. I handed her la monnaie<\/i><\/b> (change) worth two francs and she handed me the warmest, most crispy baguette I had ever beheld. I was smitten and my stomach started growling immediately.<\/p>\n
\u201cMerci et bonne journ\u00e9e<\/i><\/b>\u201d (Thank you and have a good day) was all I could muster as I ran out the door into the cool air. My goal was to get home as quickly as possible to avoid la tentation<\/i><\/b> (the temptation) of devouring one of the quignons<\/i><\/b> (the ends of a baguette). I made it only a couple blocks before giving into temptation. I could no longer resist the lure of le tr\u00e9sor dor\u00e9 et croustillant<\/i><\/b> (the golden and crisp treasure) I held under my arm. However, to avoid any possible reprimand, I tried to hide my misdeed by picking away at a small portion on the underside of the loaf and right in the middle. I knew that bread was always cut from either end, so I figured I had a chance of getting away with it if we only ate un tiers<\/i><\/b> (one third) of the loaf. I very delicately began picking at la cro\u00fbte<\/i><\/b> (the crust) but this was not enough to satisfy me, and before I knew it, I was clawing at the warm and soft mie<\/i><\/b> (the soft part of the bread) on the inside.<\/p>\n
It took me longer to get home than I thought, and as they say in France, I had juste le temps de mettre les pieds sous la table<\/i><\/b> (just enough time to put the feet under the table). Our guests had arrived and I placed the loaf on the table. My father picked it up and quickly noticed that it felt plus l\u00e9ger que d\u2019habitude<\/i><\/b> (lighter than usual). He turned it over and my face turned red instantly. La honte<\/i><\/b> (the shame)!! What was I thinking? Why couldn\u2019t I resist? And why did I think I could get away with such a heinous crime? The guests laughed it off and so did my dad. My mother, however, gave me a piercing look and immediately sent me back to la boulangerie to rectify my mistake. I remember le sourire de la femme du boulanger<\/i><\/b> (the smile of the baker\u2019s wife) when I returned less than une demi-heure plus tard<\/i><\/b> (a half hour later) and sheepishly said \u201cUne autre baguette, s\u2019il vous pla\u00eet<\/i><\/b>\u201d (Another baguette, please). From my expression, she knew exactly what had transpired. She did not say a word but simply smiled.<\/p>\n
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One of my fondest memories of living in France was walking into the boulangerie (bakery) down the street from where we lived. I can vividly remember the sudden burst of hot air I felt every time I stepped inside. The temperature outside the bakery didn\u2019t matter, les fours (the ovens) never stopped working to bring…<\/p>\n