I used to be in Paris* final week — no, I can not imagine I get to utter sentences like that so casually, both, pinch me — and it was actually, really, and surprisingly spring. The magnolia bushes on the Jardin du Palais Royal provided us with a lace curtain of fluttering pink shadows, the daffodils and hyacinth have been popping up from the bottom like they’d missed us, and everybody was outdoors and stayed out till after midnight and this vitality climbed inside me, evicted the entire seasonal malaise (turned out I used to be simply chilly!), and I did my greatest to deliver all of this heat and pleasure again to NYC with me. And although my grouchy (sorry, “weathered”) pals tried to warn me that we have been experiencing a “false spring” and “don’t fall for it,” la la la, I stated, it’s spring in my coronary heart now — and in my kitchen, and busted out a heat climate salad. Which is to say: I’m sorry, this sudden chilly spell is perhaps my fault.
