So, Louise apparently thought that our lives would not be complete unless we had a loaf of decorated holiday sourdough bread . . . from France . . . cuz, you know, France isn’t famous for anything other than sourdough bread.
The decorations are inedible, so I think we’re just supposed to put the loaf on a plate and marvel at it. For the rest of our lives.
Gee, thanks Louise!
Yes, that’s a big mushroom decoration that’s shaped suspiciously like a giant phallus. I have no idea why.
And she also ordered us butter cookies. All the way from France. Because no one in the United States makes butter cookies, I guess?
Seriously, this is, like, globalization run amok: “I must send them butter cookies . . . from Paris! Because I can!”
The cookies are, at least, edible. And kind of cute. And ridiculously delicious. The bakery is called Poilâne, with two locations in Paris and one in London.
The only sharing will be of photos.
Note: Louise swears Poilâne is the best bakery in the world.
{ 2 comments }
“Yes, that’s a big mushroom decoration that’s shaped suspiciously like a giant phallus. I have no idea why.”
Well, the French did practically invent smut–it’s second nature to them now. At this point it’s not like they need a reason to bake up a little pain du braque.
“bread of directs” . . . “direct bread” . . . ? Is it just Babel Fish that isn’t making sense of “pain du braque,” or is it you?