Un Oeuf is Enough

Everything was fine until they brought the runny egg. Well, not fine. We were down a Rich from food poisoning the night before and though my cold had dissipated I still had my people-scattering cough (my current superpower). Actually, The Husband was raging with fever and Ashley’s back was sore. Otherwise, everything was fine.

I had forgotten Judy’s nearly hysterical reaction to soft egg yolks when they brought us our galettes, all of them with runny eggs. Judy’s gag reflex went into overdrive. She couldn’t eat her galette because egg yolk had touched it. I won’t say how old she is but she’s older than 6. There’s a joke about why the French call an egg an “oeuf”(pronounced uff)— because un oeuf is enough. Or too much if you’re Jude.

After lunch, Rochelle went back to stay with Rich and the rest of us went on a guided tour of Montmartre. We learned a lot about the various artists who had their comeuppance in this very neighborhood.

We don’t want to be this way but when the “teacher” tells the “students” that Saint Denis lost his head, picked it up, walked seven miles up hill both directions in the snow, got some groceries and finally died (THAT’S HIS SAINTHOOD MIRACLE!), one of us cried foul on the story. Most of us had perched ourselves on the centuries old wall and steps near the statue. We were in stitches. Since ours was not a private tour, one particular young lady, chicly dressed in all black, did not laugh with us. Enough is enough.

Tomorrow Mont Saint Michel. Maybe Rich will be back among the living and this time we’ll be a big “enough” group to have the guide to ourselves.