Mom, Can You Believe the French Season Their Salad With… Butter?

A peek of winter through a window in Bretagne

Photo by Thanh Ly on Unsplash

Nothing comes to my mind when I try to remember my former boss’s name. Her name escapes me — Ashley? Abby?

Something like that.

But her voice, her commanding stride, and that sharp gaze linger in my mind, as vivid as ever. I close my eyes, and I’m back in Bretagne, northern France, watching her cross the frozen garden between the mansion and the little stone office, snow crunching beneath her boots.

Through the enormous windows of that stone house, I see her translucent figure, the bluish coat, her blonde hair, and her sharp white face blurred by the mist touching the glass.

My bedroom is on the second floor, to the right of a spiraled wooden staircase that winds up from the ground floor, its steps polished smooth from years of use.

The house is nothing like those I know in Portugal — its heavy stone walls, steep rooflines, and labyrinthine layout speak of a history and climate utterly foreign to me.

The lower floor boasts a vast living room with sofas huddled near an immense fireplace, while the older daughters claim the two rooms at the far end. The couple’s bedroom dominates upstairs, to the left, exuding…