Conquering Vertigo

The Bread of Life

Dateline: Paris, France, any one of a kajillion small boulangeries filling the streets with the aroma of baking bread and pastries.

Real French croissants, made in France by a boulanger with the secret ingredients of the ancient Celts, are deceptive for first timers. It looks so big, yet as you bite into it you encounter cascading layers of air and love, kissed with a soupcon of butter.

Mmmm... the warm soft fresh croissant implodes on itself as artisan love fills your soul. And your mouth, belly, all the way down to your tired little toes.

And the baguettes and ficelles. Ahh, it is all about the crust, baby.
Stop in on your way home, and pick up the genuinely inexpensive but a bargain at any price fresh loaf. The man or woman behind the counter smiles with pride and joy as they select a warm baguette for you, twirling a small nearly transparent piece of paper around the middle -- the way to hold it as you walk down the street, inciting the lust and admiration of all Parisiens.

Do your best to refrain from eating it while you walk (but there is no shame, as half of Paris eats in the streets, carrying their freshly made food in one hand, their cell phones in the other), so it arrives home in one piece. Finally home, break it open and raise the steaming middle to your face, inhaling the love. Then scoop the soft yeasty innards out and sneak them onto your husband's plate, leaving the thin crust for yourself. Hallelujah!

If you think this is purple prose, exaggerating an experience, well clearly, you haven't been to Paris.

All my life, I've heard people quote -- in fact, I think I've preached on it myself -- John Chapter 6, wherein Jesus repeatedly describes himself as the "bread of life." He had to have been talking to the French, for only they can understand what he means.

French bread is life. It sustains, fills, pleases, encourages, satisfies like nothing else.

Walk down the cobblestones in the morning, stopping to call out "Bonjour Madame!" as you pick up your morning croissant.
Lunch, take the metro to a patisserie or boulangerie and get a baguette fresh out of the oven -- eat it plain or perhaps with tomatoes, cheese, basil and an olive tapanade.
Dinner? A fresh grana ficelle, a bottle of wine, really what else do you need?

And the French miracle, thanks to thousands of steps a day on streets and metro staircases, is that you lose weight while crunching bread and quaffing wine. I am so moving to Paris.

So back to Jesus. I think the French, despite their fiercely, proudly secular state, have the best chance in the world of becoming sympa with Jesus; only they understand bread as life.

Did I tell you I'm moving there? They need pastors, I need the bread of life. 5% flour, 5% butter, 90% love. Amen.

posted by Woman In Love @ 9:51 AM