Why is it that in 2 year of high school French and 6 months of hell on a French farm, all that sticks with me is the Lord's Prayer?
Anyway. One of our weekly rituals is the Catonsville Farmer's Market: every Wednesday, we roll up in the 10-yr old SUV with our cloth grocery bags and buy up the best of what Local has to offer. This week, the Sungold cherry tomatoes were super sweet, the lima beans were deelish, and the corn was creamy well before it encountered the butter dish. But arguably, our favorite stop is Atwaters Bakery, where they sell amazing breads, cookies, scones, and general yumminess.
Yesterday, Cecilie was on a mission. "Can we get the Rosemary Italian bread please?" and then in line: "Is that one the Rosemary Italian bread?" So I figure, what the heck, we'll shake it up and get the Rosemary Italian loaf. And a baguette. (You can take the girl out of the French farm, but you can't take the French farm out of the girl...)
At dinner, I slice the baguette, and the kids grab a hunk of bread. "Is this the Rosemary Italian bread, Mommy?" "Um, no, its a French baguette." [heavy sighs from the eldest] "Just try it, Cecilie, I think you'll like it." The bread passed muster, but it was quite clear that I hadn't gotten it right.
So tonight, still following the Anti-Atkins Diet, I sliced some Rosemary Italian bread, thinking that I was going to get SuperMommy kisses all round. And sure enough, "hey! Is this the Rosemary Italian bread, Mommy?!?!" "Why yes, my cherubs, yes it is." Repeat of last night: grab the hunks of bread, tear into it with tiny pearly white teeth.... Silence. "What's wrong Cecilie?" "Mommy, are you sure this is the Rosemary Italian bread?" "It sure is, sweetheart." "Oh. Then it's not the bread I was thinking of."