All those crêpes last week made me think of French camp and the awesome breakfast of baguette and chocolat chaud we got to have every morning. I got to thinking, why not? I am a grown-ass woman who eats a giant piece of leftover almond tart from a dinner party for breakfast if I feel like it. Why not have a tranche of baguette slathered with butter and dipped in hot chocolate like I did when I was eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…. yeah, yeah, I became a counselor. I told you, I loved French camp with an ardor that scares me now. I went every summer from eleven to seventeen. It was my glee club.
As luck would have it, I’ve been experimenting with baguettes.
“Experimenting” is, perhaps, a strong word. Last week I started baking some French bread. My dashing husband and son both love baguette, and after the whole “Mama can make crêpes?” episode, I’ve been in a bit of smack-down mode. “Yeah, not only can Mama make a mean crêpe, but she can bake a baguette, too – booyah.”
The problem is, I’m not so terribly great at baking a baguette. They were tasty enough, but look at those things! They stuck to the floured kitchen towel on which they were raised, I had to untangle them to get them into the oven, and I ended up with these mangled, twisted sticks. But wait – what was that first part? – oh yeah, they were tasty enough. That is what matters. The family gobbled them up – I ate mine with plenty of butter. Dipped in hot chocolate.