When last in Paris, my mom made a lunch of spaghetti with an egg cracked into the sauce, turning it a bright orange. I remember eating it in our small apartment on Rue Bourg-Tibourg and being as happy as a child. That same week, we went to Les Mariages Frères, a tea salon in Paris. The scent upon entering was like breathing in something more than air. It was cold that week, and damp. There is something special about Paris when it is cold.
There is always something special about Paris.
Montreal, for all her glories, is not a moveable feast.
It is amazing what thoughts a simple bowl of pasta can stir up.