My kids, of course.
My parents and family and friends.
But what things are gone from my life?
Until recently, bacon.
Bacon here in France is called poitrine, but it is more like Canadian bacon. It doesn’t crisp up.
British friends have given me streaky bacon, but again, it’s more ham like than bacon.
So I was overjoyed when I found poitrine fumée (smoked) fine (thin sliced). It looked like American bacon but I couldn’t be sure.
I took it home and threw it in the skillet one morning, along with French toast.
As soon as I saw it cooking, I texted two American friends with pictures. So happy to share my news that I let the bacon get a bit dark.
“Are there bones?” One American friend asked and I had to laugh.
We have had gristle or bacon in the poitrine.
What else do I miss here?
I tried my hand at making everything bagels, but I didn’t boil them as soon as I shaped them, so they rose again and didn’t hold their shape when I did boil then bake them. Still, they tasted good.
And sometimes I wonder how I managed to move from the 21st century to a place where most people don’t have clothes dryers.
I thought about that as I spread a white sheet over a radiator and imagined my grandmother being horrified that I’d given up the luxury of a dryer and fluffy towels, instead watching Earl hang clothes on the line on sunny days or drape them over river the drying rack.
It has been 10 months since I was in the States.
I might find bagels and bacon and even a clothes dryer, but more importantly, I’m about to spend a bit of time with two of my children.
They’re awaiting us in Dublin right now as Earl and I fly direct from Barcelona.
Who cares about bacon and bagels?