It was inevitable.
How silly I was to assume after all the biking and walking, I could slather my baguette with butter, eat butter infused croissants for breakfast (and snacks), eat souffles and pastries at every whim. How silly to act like I had the metabolism of a twenty year old.
If only the butter wasn't so incredible. The label reads Buerre Gastronomique. Translation: Fancy butter. If only the two boulangeries in such close proximity to our apartment hadn't each been awarded "BEST BAGUETTE of PARIS in alternating years since 1292---before Columbus sailed for America.
Even though the mainstay of my meals has been vegetables (after the baguette and butter), they have mostly been cooked in a warm bubbly bed of butter. One afternoon, while walking to a patisserie, we stopped at the window that opens to a restaurant's working kitchen. The chefs were already preparing the delicacies for the evening menu. I watched as a chef unrolled a giant log wrapped in white paper. Some log it was--it was a butter log big enough to put in a two story, Yellowstone cabin for 30 guests, and it would burn a blazing hot fire the entire night.
The chef proceeded to cut the log into chunks the size of Christmas hams. She placed each butter ham in a pan that in my house would only get a squirt of PAM.
What a conundrum to be in: I know it's making me fat; I know it won't last forever. Carpe Diem the butter!
When I get home, I'll be going to butter addiction rehab.
**Why was it a mistake to wear tight pants to climb the Eiffel? Every step, every upward thigh shift, I was reminded my pants had gotten tighter--700 steps, 700 reminders.
***Ah ha! I just learned why French butter is soooo delicious. American butter is 80 % percent whereas, French butter is 85-87% fat.