I do not think that word means what you think it means

Tom and I made our way to France for a long weekend road trip through Picardy and along the Normandy coast. It was fantastic, made all the better by the sheer impetuousness of it all.

Friday we rented a car, packed Rabito in the back, made a last minute hotel reservation in Boulogne-sur-Mer and hit the big, wide road. We caught our first glimpse of ocean in Calais and took a break to frolic in the sand before driving the rest of the way.

We got to Boulogne just in time for dinner and fell into the classic trick spinning in circles trying to find a restaurant as our blood sugar spiraled downward. We were there during the Welsh festival (cheese, fried egg, ham on toast) and every place featured a sign with a smiling egg yolk, which seemed to mock our hunger. We wound up going to a strange place that specialized in food of the Alps region - raclette and fondue and such, which was perhaps a bad decision in retrospect. Tom was curious about the Welsh, but the terrine made with rabbit, pork, chicken, etc. sounded good too (especially the way I described it - all put together in a nice hot stew pot like a cassoulet but without the beans), and since the waiter wouldn't let him order two main courses (!), Tom eschewed the Welsh and went with my suggestion, as well as ordering an appropriate entree. Order! Garcon in French chain restaurant must have ORDER!

It ends up that terrine isn't a nice stew at all, but a cold gelatinous meatloaf, and Tom was not the happiest camper in town. He valiantly ate some, as I picked at my duck salad (my vegetarianism took a holiday too). It was not our finest meal, by any stretch. But it was a meal, and sometimes that is enough. And we were in France on a Friday night, which is always a good thing because you know what happens on Saturday mornings in France? Markets!!!

And that will come tomorrow.