I have always been a big reader. I remember pretending to be sick as a child so I could curl up in my room and read a novel from start to finish. (I will neither confirm nor deny occasionally using that same tactic as an adult.)
The Sweet Life in Paris by David Leibovitz hits me just right at this time of year. Chucking it all and being swept off to a cozy little life in Paris seems just the thing on a random Tuesday morning when the clock is ticking to get the dog walked before heading into my office for the day. And February, after all, is made for sweetness, non?
That afternoon, I had one of the most satisfying experiences of my life. It was particularly cold and even though, like most Parisians, I had wrapped and artistically double-knotted my scarf all the way up and around my neck, I couldn’t shake the chill that kept me shivering-cold. So I ordered a petit chocolat chaud. After the waitress set the clunky little cup in front of me, I blew away the cloud of steam that rose from the surface, peered at the dark brew inside, and cautiously brought the cup to my lips.
It took a moment for my brain to process what had just happened: everything I ever thought about hot chocolate was suddenly banished, dragged into the trash icon in the corner of my brain, and deleted for good. It was quite simply the best hot chocolate I’ve ever had, and the only one I’ve ever truly, madly fallen in love with.