(We Like to) Fuck the French Salade Nicoise
You know those days when you are so fucking surly that having clothes on your body makes you want to have a fit? Well, today is one of those days. I want to be naked and feasting on something light and lovely.
Ah, cherie, Spring is in the air. I hear Paris is lovely this time of year, but I never made it out of my inordinately ornate hotel room when I was there. Except to sneak off into the dark night with a gloriously random, random.
Was that the trip that you had a sausage or a baguette in your hand every waking moment? You know what? I don’t want to know. But what I do want to know, since you are so fucking french, is how to make a proper salade nicoise. Because I want a face full of tuna right now, and I’m not talking about eating at the Y for dinner.
In my hand? For clarification, just because I’m fucking (the) French, doesn’t make me French. The DNA isn’t transferable, even in France. And my name is simply lovely, the French connection is pure coincidence.
Well aren’t you a font of knowledge. So then I guess we’re on our own then, breaking all the rules with a sharp pair of kitchen knives and stilettos.
I can, however, make a Salad Nicoise. One that makes the French (and David Lebovitz) shudder and everyone else gleeful. “Fuck the French.” That’s what I say.
That’s what you say and you do what you say. It’s why I love you. Now go make me my fucking salad.