You Shall Be Mother
I’m supposed to be preparing a sprightly Indian dinner replete with mango rosewater lassi for my roommate (In answer to your postscript: I have (another) adorable Peruana living with me, do you not remember?), but I was out drinking vermut past the hour, and I wanted to write to you before I forget everything I have to say.
In regards to your France comment, the place was large and drafty (it was a farmhouse after all), and as I remember, we spent most of our evening hours not spent in our own beds, huddled together on the sofa under blankets in the living room with our books wishing for a fire. Or maybe it was just MB wishing for a fire. You know how she is about those things. She sends me a daily picture to remind me just how good she has it.
If she were sitting next to me, she’d want you to know that if you look closely you can see the plate in the back of the fireplace, which I believe might be Sant Jordi. She’d also want you to know that the logs leap out at random because they haven’t installed a screen yet and that Lau almost burned the house down while she was away. When I’m not getting texts with photos of the crackling fire, she’s sending questions about estimates on floor repairs. What does she think I do all day?
You know I don’t subscribe to television, but nonetheless, I prefer my British tele in the form of Miranda because, really, how can you not love that face?
Here’s to tea and British comedy.
Love and kisses,