excerpts from a homemade life, by molly wizenberg (orangette)

molly wizenberg writes with such whimsy in this section, that i just had to post a couple excerpts from this chapter to my blog:

la boule miche (pages 59-64)...on molly's first trip to paris

" our hotel was on a skinny street lined with tall stone buildings that seemed to sit too close to the curb. they reminded me of men in starched suits, puffing out their chests. our room was a sparse, compact cube crammed between a spiral staircase and a central courtyard. it had the usual amenities, but each looked somehow askew, sort of muddled in the translation. the bedspreads were dusty brown, and i'd never seen a bathroom so small. you couldn't open the door without scraping the knees of the person sitting on the toilet or smacking the rear end of someone at the sink." (describing her hotel in paris)

" he pointed through the window to a shelf where flat, floury discs were propped side by side, like books on a shelf. 'but boule might also be short for boulangerie. that's what they call a bakery.'" (molly's dad introducing her to a parisian bakery)

"we stepped inside. a gray-haired woman was standing behind the cash register, busily arranging a stack of long paper bags, the sleeves that clothe baguettes when they are sent out into the world."

"'he pulled a few coins out of his pocket. 'deux croissants et un pain au chocolat, s'il cous plait," he (molly's father) said haltingly." " on the wall opposite the pastry case was a copper counter with a long mirror mounted above it a row of black, velvet-topped stools squatted in front of the counter like spindly mushrooms. we sat down, watching ourselves in the mirror, and ate our pastries: the croissants for him and my mother, the pain au chocolat for me. it crackled when i bit into it, but underneath the shattery crust, it tore into dozens of stretchy layers and strands. the chocolate inside was still warm, and it oozed out the side until i caught it with my finger and brought it back to my mouth. i was sold."

"each morning after that, while my mother was getting dressed, my father and i would walk around the block to the backery. it was always the same order for me: a pain au chocolat and a chocolat chaud. i'd perch myself atop one of the black mushroom caps, kicking my feet against its stem, and lean over the counter to sip the hot chocolate from its white ceramic cup."

"sometimes, for an afternoon snack, he (her father) bought me one of the small, oblong breads-pain passion, they called them-from a basket by the register. later in the day, if i got hungry before dinner, i would stuff a little square of chocolate, the kind they give you in cafes when you order coffee, into itts doughy center. my father beamed."