A feeling no one can ever reprise

The feeling I get from eating exquisite food on a Saturday evening, sharing with friends, in celebration of friends – it’s a feeling of thankfulness for being able to afford said food and, most of all, for having dear people in my life. I feel quite blessed.

"Is this my birthday?" he asked.

And the feeling of accomplishment that comes from baking Julia Child’s gâteau a l’orange et aux amandes, or just from smelling the combination of butter, almond and orange intensifying during its 30 minutes in the oven, or from being praised by foodie friends for having made such a confection: I could live off those good feelings (and frankly, the cake itself) for days.

Featuring apricot glaze with pulverized almonds.

But clicking “Confirm” to book our tickets to Paris: THAT was a feeling that produced goosebumps, nervous energy and excitement. Our hearts beat happily, our feet danced jumpily, and our Pernod-scented mouths sing-songily exclaimed, “We’re going to Paris!”

French toast!

The song “April in Paris” asserts that a person never really knows the charm of spring or the warmth of an embrace until they’ve visited the city during that month. That’s a pretty mighty claim. But I am more than delighted to report back as to whether this is true, since that’s when we’ll be there.

As of now, though, I already feel different. One of my new year’s resolutions was to only allow myself one day per month to be grumpy (this is especially key during the winter months). But now I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever need to use my G-days. Even this morning, as I dragged our garbage can through the mud and nestled it in a pile of stale snow on the side of the road, I didn’t stomp off to the car in disgust over the mid-January forecast. When I eat a 40-cent baked potato for dinner or peanut butter on stale bread for lunch, I dine happily, knowing it’s only temporary as I save up for the meals I will eat in the land of wine and cheese. Paris is already making a Pollyanna out of me.