Today I was enjoying the last of my Thanksgiving Dinner leftovers — ย for breakfast — bread pudding. After I woofed it down, I stopped momentarily to think that I should be thankful for every bite, for everything about my simple bread pudding meal.
Happiness in France
For example, the bread. I made a special effort to choose that specific bread at Mr. Gaffier’s grocery store. There were many choices, but this loaf of sliced white bread was specially recommended by the young woman behind the counter.
“It will be perfect for croutons for your soup” she said in her perfect French.
My dear friends Paula and Rich gave me the raisins in the bread pudding when they left Uzรจs for the States. White raisins. Just right for bread pudding.
The eggs in the pudding came from the young man at the Saturday Market in Uzes. He picked the perfect fresh eggs and delicately placed them into a small box for me.
The sugar was left over in the sugar “pot” from Thanksgiving dinner. I purchased the sugar and creamer in the tiny village of Najac on my trip back from the Dordogne.
The milk came from Carrefour, the large supermarket I visited a few weeks ago to stock up on bare essentials.
Walnuts and pecans were in my freezer, leftover from aperos I’d made for friends when my son visited in October.
The baking dish was from IKEA, reminding me of the day I was lost trying to find the store in Avignon.
I had tea in a “proper” teapot I purchased in the British Cotswolds traveling from France to the US last year.
The teacup was from my favorite potter in St. Siffret. I bought it in the summer at a “pottery marche” in Collias.
When did you last look at your meal and consider every item on the table? Where did it come from? How much effort went into putting it in front of you?
It was a small lesson in humility for me. Just a simple bowl of bread pudding.
So much to be thankful for.ย
