Writer's Notebook

It hit my nostrils the moment I got into the house. This was going to be one very special evening. It wasn't so much a case of practice making perfect as one of the true craftsman coming to the fore. And the craftsman had been preparing for this moment for a long time. Strangely enough Morgana had never really cooked for me before. Of course, we had eaten out on more than one occasion and we had sometimes shared a quick lunch together, but that doesn't count. Not in France at least. The quicker you go, the less likely you are to get anywhere. That just about sums up the French attitude to dining, so I knew we were in for a nice long evening. In fact, we would only be alone for the first part of the evening. Morgana had invited Thérèse and Guillaume around to share desert and all that came after. So the likelihood of getting away any time before the early hours was not very high.

I was just about to settle myself onto the sofa when I saw the little reminder Morgana had prepared for herself lying on the coffee table. No bread, no wine, then forget love. Or was it a reminder to herself? It just might be... I needed no further prompting. I had ten minutes to go before the wine shop closed, but I knew once I was in there, Mme. Sachetou would so pump me with questions, I'd have more than enough time to choose at leisure. All I had to do was to encourage her with a few vague and general answers. I picked a local Chardonay to accompany the hors d'oeuvre and then went for a more full-bodied Bordeaux to bring out the richness of the dinner. On my way home I stopped by the local gardens and persuaded M. Gardou to let me pick a magnificent bouquet by promising to come back tomorrow and pay twice the regular price. Love knows no skimping. I attached a pretty little card to the flowers on which I'd painstakingly written the words "Truth is the spice that seasons any meal: Je t'aime."

Morgana's reaction was far from indifferent and it set us back another thirty minutes or so, but neither of us were complaining. When we finally did get up off the sofa I realised how true the old saying was: More you have, more you want. But all that was left for me to do, was to pour us both a deliciously cool glass of white wine.

Our meal began with something extremely hard and Morgana's face was a true picture as she saw me puzzle over how to get inside my cucumber-crab wraps. To get to the almond you have to crack its shell, dear. Promptly slicing her way through to the tender delights within. Eventually, I too succeeded, but before our wedding I reckon, I still had a fair bit of practising to do. Happiness knows no bounds and the Beef Daube Provencal soon had us both well on our way to that great culinary paradise in the sky when, suddenly, we heard Thérèse and Guillaume burst in on us. But since they had brought not only a wonderful blueberry tart but also a bottle of Champagne, we saw no reason to turn them out again.