Eclaire, no scratch that, Frites Day

I decided that after weeks of self-denial, namely don't eat that chocolate drenched, butter filled cookie here have a nice piece of fruit instead, which is an instruction I find myself giving every January, like clock work, that today would be a day of indulgence. I had planned to go to the bakery and get an eclair of the chocolate or coffee variety, whichever struck my fancy in the given moment, Buddha style, as I haven't eaten said pastry since september. However, instead of a sweet fix, I was sung the sweet siren song of the French frites, and sailor, I was dashed upon those rocks like the fated souls of the wandering mariners, weak of mind and will, how came before me! Oh, it was good, soooo worth it. At any rate, we were already at the friterie, which offers nice little sandwiches too, but I couldn't tear my ravaged senses away from the smell of the frying deliciousness wafting up from the huge vats right behind the counter. We met up with a friend's little sister on a drizzly grey corner, before high-tailing it over to shelter. Helia, the fanciful little miniature of her sister, came bounding up to us and leaped upon her waiting chaperon. The heating is out in the cafeteria at her elementary school, a quick walk away, and so Marine took pity on her and brought her off to lunch with the high schoolers, delegates from the land of freedoms and responsibilities that little girls sleep perchance to glimpse in dreams. Well, Helia wasn't going to let her afternoon go to waste: she made quick friends with one of her sister's comrades, and was whisked up to her lap. From this exalted perch, she ate three quarters of the meal shared between her and her sister, consisting of french fries poured over a large steak sandwich on baguette, and a drink. Yet despite all this, she still found it within her capacity to benevolently finish off the last french fries of another friend. Then she joined us in the library to take a quick look at the children's reference books, before she was borne away through the wetness back to her everyday world, leaving a trace her warmth and infectious excitement in the air; the remnants of day marked in the pages of sisterly deification.
a bientot


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