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Postcards from France: Cassoulet
A Cassoulet Crisis Averted
Dear readers, by the time you see this post the storm will have passed and bright skies are prevailing again in my life. Rest assured that I am still very much alive, although I won’t lie, it was touch and go there for a while. The infamous ‘crises de Cassoulet’ has been averted.
In my darkest hour, I was ready to renounce my 58-year streak of gourmandizing. The end of any and all relationships with food seemed plausible and felt close at hand. I freely admit I may have done the exact same thing in a drunken stupor at least once before. We all have known those magical moments when you are genuflecting in front of the porcelain altar, praying to any and all gods listening that the room will stop spinning for just one single minute while you try to recoup. You begin making empty promises that you will never drink again and perhaps even live your life as piously as the Pope.
In this particular scenario, I was laying in bed after my eighth serving of cassoulet, drenched with cold sweat, vowing to never eat food again. My son Beaumont appeared as the serpent of temptation pleading with me to take him out to dinner for another round of cassoulet. He scared me because I think he actually was serious. My version of fatherhood has to be child abuse in at least a few countries.
