“What is better than the smell of gratin — of cream slow-cooking anything, but especially potatoes?” my friend Anne softly said. She set up her station: a damp towel, a wooden cutting board, a mandoline for slicing potatoes.
Recipe: Pommes Dauphinoises (Creamy Potato Gratin)
Outside, an early summer wind shifted the flax fields, rippling them like waves in the small, quiet French village where we found ourselves.
I agreed and ran my hand across the large farmhouse-style table in the center of the kitchen, swiping baguette crumbs from our lunch into my hand. I lingered on the wood, its texture so deep that some crumbs fell into the crevices.
I gave the table a bit of an acknowledgment, rubbing it like the belly of an old dog. How many hundreds of years had it been serving lunch to tired cooks? How long had it supported hands and bodies making a simple gratin or a humble lunch? How long had it stood between two women as they sliced vegetables and talked about all the ways a heart might best make its way in this world?
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