A proper French meal

I have given myself all kinds of trouble by moving out of my flat before actually quitting my job. Some of them are minor, like what the hell am I going to do with my washing machine and my cooker that I still haven't managed to get rid of (tried eBay that generally sucked at selling anything and another spot on the internetz which was better but not for those two said items). More importantly, where do I store all the excellent wine that I bougth in the Loire valley in May? I could obviously keep them in my office along with all my other stuff (not allowed so don't tell the head of the lab) but due to the temperature fluctuations, I don't think that would do the bottles any good.

So on Friday afternoon I asked a colleague if she had a proper cave (cellar) where could store the goods. She does indeed and told me I could get the bottles over during the weekend. I thought I could just as well invite myself for Sunday lunch since we had such a good time a couple of weeks ago (yeah, I know it's not well behaved but if I hadn't I would probably again spend the entire weekend without talking to anyone and I'm tired of that).

Showing up at her house today I met one of her longtime friends she had also invited over. She said she had made a typical French meal and I believe her. Kir as apéritif, salad with haricot verts, white beans, tomatoes and hazelnut oil as starter, roast beef and oven-baked creamy potatoes as main, cheese (including a properly aged brie) and crêpes suzettes for dessert. All so I could get a typical French meal before leaving. Very sweet.

And as the wine started wandering around in my blood and inhibiting some of the inhibitors in my brain I could actually take part in the conversation and even -at least according to myself - come up with some relatively intelligent statements. But who knows, maybe they were just being polite (the French are indeed).

After the meal we, myself and these two fifty something women went for a long and lovely walk on the cliffs and the wheat and corn fields. And I totally forgot I had work to do and a flat to clean. Is this what it's like to have a real life maybe?

And while driving home I thought oh fuck it's been a couple of hours since my last glass of wine but I surely hope the police is elsewhere. But I guess that's part of the French experience; driving home from an excellent Sunday lunch, blood slightly diluted?