A short post tonight, as we are all pretty tired... the kind of happy tired you get at the end of a long, productive but restful day.
I opened up a container of creme fraiche while fixing dinner and was happy, because we had found creme fraiche at Wegman's. They don't always carry it. I was pleased in the abstract, but then I dipped my finger in to taste.
Suddenly, it's as if I was catapulted back almost nine months.
After we brought our daughter home from the hospital, one of the things my mother brought to us was a pre-made meal of chicken breasts, green beans and creme fraiche. It was July, and very hot. Cooking was so far down on the priority list, I really wasn't sure I'd cook again--or, at least, not until my daughter was old enough to sit down and read a book while I did. I won't try to explain my state of mind, except to say that I, myself, forgot just what it was like until tonight.
The taste of that creme fraiche on the hot July night was a balm to my soul. It was the taste of good food, not complicated, but fresh and with quality ingredients. It was the taste of my mom taking care of me in one of the ways she does best. I remember being surprised at the tang and creaminess of the creme fraiche at the time, and how perfectly it complimented the chicken.
Tonight may have been a chilly, damp April night, but for all I noticed, it may as well have been 95 degrees. Thanks, mom.