Pas grand chose- i guessed the meaning before i babel-ed fished it, really.
By Monsieur Beautiful Bread, oh how i wish for beautiful bread. Some warm brioche with butter and rich strawberry jam- sweet with a hint of sourness. All fluffy butterness- i can't think of brioche without smelling it; the sweet, warming smell.
The smell of sunshine and warmth. The sound of french being spoken. Alas Monsieur Beaupain, i have no idea of what you are saying in that typical male french singing voice. I say typical, typical i mean like Gainsbourg- more like speaking lyrically, beautifully in time with music. The choice for our now overplayed Mr. Beautiful Bread is a backing of pure piano, an instrument, till today seems so insurmountably difficult that i am in awe and terribly jealous of anyone who plays well. Any musical instrument really, because i am so inept in melody and ear, i cannot even harness my voice.
Oh truly, do i love bread. Mind you, germanic black bread doesn't set my heart a-flutter as pillow-soft potato bread nor does flour-less, sprouted seed bread that my mother used to buy us in a phased of lapsed tastebuds and health-food frenzy. We never got brioche at home, but if i ever have children i will be a baker and own a grand oven when they are mere playschoolers so they can watch with fascination as the wings of skewered chickens pop open as it goes round and round on the spit and smell the aroma of fresh baked bread, watching it rise as they play in the oven-warmed kitchen.
I miss home. The home that my parents semi-built with it's infinitely lofty ceiling in the living room that was impossible to cool. Where we had a massive oven and a corner of the kitchen that always smelt of rabbit food, even though we never own rabbits. The kitchen where i first baked cupcakes, the mix from a box with overly sweet pink icing and a Beano wafer on the top. The room that was all mine, with it's double bed that i rarely slept it, because i preferred sleeping in the tent pitched in my parent's massive room. The times when we had dinner on the porch, watching the fishes, trying to figure out which fish was eating which. The first floor balcony that was never finished because we left before it could be done. During a full moon the back garden was beautiful, especially during blackouts- he always took us on long drives then so we could cool off in the car and fall asleep to the radio. Would Air Supply still lull me to sleep?
No sleep tonight- i manage to finish a whole historical novel on dracula; the ending slightly disappointing and the story a little long, but i enjoyed it anyway. It is a long novel, about one and three quarters of an inch thick. The essay is far from done and not academic at all. I am fearful, for my adviser would not reply my emails.
Keep me company a little while more Monsieur Beaupain, while i wrack my brains and the internet for ethical and moral treatise for and against killing babies.
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