I couldn’t sit down with teething monster, of course, but when Franck cracked open the first bottle of chilled Pouilly–Fuissé, I very gratefully accepted a glass as I jiggled.
We talked about Rome, where Père Frot had gone to the Seminary for four years, and China where he had recently travelled, and finally Clem fell asleep and I put her to bed.
I sat down and we started in on the second bottle of wine – a red Hautes–Côtes de Beaune from Domaine Naudin–Ferrand in Magny–les–Villers and began to feast on Franck’s delicious chicken, which was ever bit as good as it smelled. The gratin dauphinois was also perfect – creamy and garlicky. Certainly no aesthete the Père enjoyed it every bit as much as we did. There is nothing as gratifying as cooking or someone who truly appreciates good food.
I was feeling quite a bit more relaxed by this time, and our conversation meandered over to past Saint Vincent Festivals and all of the funny incidents that happen, such as forgetting a bishop in Nuits-Saint-Georges.
We were making serious inroads to our third bottle, of what I can’t quite remember now, when we pulled out the baptismal booklet and started planning Clem’s ceremony.
Even though I am an undecided / lapsed Anglican who describes herself as “still searching for something”, Père Frot doesn’t make me feel the slightest bit self-conscious. He possesses one of the most admirable traits in a clergyman – the will to welcome anyone who wants to be let in.
As we were doing the dishes, Franck and I chatted about what a pleasant evening, against all odds, it had turned out being.
So next time I have a day from hell, I’ll know to invite our priest over.
Next post – Photos from Clémentine’s baptism…