Paris in July: Too hot for baking, except in books

But still, I remembered this shop exactly. And now I knew what all of the cakes were. I knew some of them quite intimately. Suddenly I wanted to hear the words in French. I pointed at one of the beautiful, exquisitely detailed desserts. ‘Qu’est-ce que c’est?’ I asked. What is it?'
‘Américaine?’ the baker asked.
‘Oui,’ I said.
The baker grew serious then. He looked at me and then at Julien. He seemed to want to ask a question…but he didn’t. Instead he described the framboise, a raspberry mousse with pistachios and two layers of genoise soaked in a raspberry syrup.
I pointed to the next and asked again.
He described, patiently and reverently, the tarte citron, a lemon curd in a sugar pie crust.
I asked about the next and the next — the tiramisu, where the almond jacond was soaked in coffee syrup; a pear pinwheel, poached in white wine; a hazelnut meringue with buttercream and chocolate ganache; a white circular mango-topped cake that involved rum, sautéed mango and toasted coconut; truffles with spongy layered centers and bitter , dark-chocolate ganache; and tarts, one with chocolate, nut, and marzipan.
I repeated the words in a quiet voice, almost mouthed them. I loved the feel of the words themselves: framboise, mousse, pistache, citron, coco …

— From The Provence Cure for the Brokenhearted, by Bridget Asher

{I've hung this painting, by Janet Hill, on the wall just outside my kitchen}

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