Love in the Time of Corona -- 9

Sundays are usually quiet in Argelès. Early in the morning, the grocery store, bakeries, butchers and green grocers will stay open until noon. People go from place to place to buy their Sunday dinner.

Our schedule is Rick makes a big Sunday breakfast and I do a light lunch after picking up what we need.

He went out at my request for flour. I wanted to make oatmeal-molasses bread and our meal would be to fry four pieces of the dough while the loaf baked. When I lived on the Riverway, on Saturdays I didn't go food shopping at Haymarket, I would bake bread for the week. I would fry up pieces of it for my and Llara's lunch. We ate it with butter and syrup.

Making bread in France doesn't make much sense because the breads are wonderful. It is normal to buy it fresh daily and we often carry it home still warm from the oven. However, the oatmeal-molasses bread is not on offer.

Making bread is sensual. There's the smell of the yeast, the colors of the oatmeal and molasses mixing, the addition of the flour. And then there is the kneading. It starts out sticky, but then it becomes elastic. And lastly, there's nothing like the aroma of baking bread.

Our coffee table is tiles showing a Swiss mountain scene. It resembles where we used to go in the Alps. Before the lockdown I would look at it with fond memories and awareness, I could go there anytime, but now I can't. Technically two of us are not suppose to be in a car at the same time and it is a good seven-hour drive. I suppose I could hide under a blanket.

Also the borders are closed, but as official Swiss residents we probably would be allowed in. I don't want to take the drive in case they done. Meanwhile we are happy here.

I have a childish streak when you tell me I can't do something, I want to do it more and often do. Not with this. 

With the internet, email and phones we are in touch with friends.