Thursday, December 17


Eggs crack.  Butter pops in a hot pan.  Her father is telling an abridged story of their flight, train stations, fearful crowds, omitting the stop in Evreux, but soon all of Marie-Laure's attention is absorbed by the smells blooming around her:  egg, spinach, melting cheese.
  An omelet arrives.  She positions her face over its steam.  "may I please have a fork?"
  The old woman laughs: a laugh Marie-Laure warms to immediately.  In an instant a fork is fitted into her hand.
   The eggs taste like clouds.  Like spun gold.  Madame Manec says, "I think she likes it," and laughs again.
  A second omelet soon appears.  Now it is her father who eats quickly.
"How about peaches, dear?" murmurs Madame Manec, and Marie-Laure can hear a can opening, juice slopping into a bowl.  Seconds later, she's eating wedges of wet sunlight."

Anthony Doerr

1 comment:

elizabeth said...

surely, I should read this book!

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