That means, ‘my perfect Sunday’, but technically I should have titled this post, ‘mon parfaite dimanche de printemps‘, which means, ‘my perfect spring Sunday’, because this type of Sunday really only applies to Spring and Summer. If it was winter, then this would all be malarky.
When spring is in full swing in Le Petit Village, as in when we get all of those pesky April showers out of the way (I swear, April is ark building weather here), I like to get out and about on the weekends. The Husband not so much. It’s not like he likes to spend sunny days huddled up in doors or anything, but for him, sitting outside on the terrace or going to a barbecue is enough for him. Me, I like to go out, out. And by out, out, I mean strolling through a market or having a coffee or apéro at a table outside a cafe.
Luckily, I had the perfect excuse to go to the market and to drag The Husband with me; our upcoming trip to Dublin (only three more days!) means I need to buy little presents to bring with me, and the market is the perfect place for that.
In the spirit of marital compromise, we breezed through the market fairly quickly, got the goods and left. Heck I was just happy to have gotten him there in the first place.
The next stage in my perfect spring Sunday, is to take an apéro outside somewhere. (Me saying, ‘take an apéro’ instead of ‘have an apéro’ is an example of how my English has altered since living in France. I also now say that Gregory ‘does his sport’ instead of ‘works out’. I have a feeling that I’ll have to start taking English lessons soon.) But in another moment of marital compromise, we had our apéro outside on our terrace instead of at a cafe (The Husband likes to keep the purse strings pulled tight). It was still lovely though. It’s hard to complain about sipping a Martini Bianco in the Provencal sunshine even if it is on my own terrace. What I can complain about however is Gatz calling for the third time that day (barely noon and three phone calls… somebody needs a hobby).
Gatz’s multiple phone calls aside, my perfect spring Sunday continued with lunch at Papa’s house. I love having Sunday lunch over there, it beats spending my morning cooking. I show up with a bottle of wine, set the table, and voila. Easy peasy pudding pie.
After Sunday lunch, we rolled home with happy bellies full of poulet rôti romarin et citron and I got to have quiet time while The Husband and Fifty took a nap. For some strange reason I decided to use my quiet time to clean the kitchen. It felt like a good idea at the time but writing about it now I kind of feel like berating myself for being such a fool. Oh well, at least it was sparkling clean when I cooked dinner… seafood linguine and another bottle of Rosé because why not, it’s Sunday, it’s sunny out, and it’s Provence. I’m pretty sure it’s the law around these parts.
One episode of Grimm, and one of Nashville later it was a little after 9PM… just in time for us to curl up on the couch while The Husband watched Gladiator on the telly and I read my book (Winter of the World if you’re interested) #maritalcompromise.
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