But excellence had left the old recipes.
It was no longer possible to French dress
for an English audience, or con the locals
with the pallid mash of home tricked out
in fancy language. The chemical gastronomists
had plied their expertise until none of us
would set foot in the kitchen. Even the
traditional dishes had turned sour: milk
UHT, sometimes processed cheese,
faint tang of plastic at the back
of the palate. What all of us once knew
was hoarded in the snowy alpine province
of the few. Time to strike a blow
for — what, exactly? We couldn’t say
until that crisp autumn morning when,
after breakfast at the simple wooden
table, Jane picked up a paring knife
as we were thrashing through
the dishes of another dead-end
conversation and thoughtlessly began
her cack-handed, unfamiliar, apt
undressing of the familiar apple.