In which I take a sentimental journey

This week, I think about where and what is home, get sentimental in front of a crowd, and make a delicious chicken à la normande.

Normandy chicken.

I’m in England for a few days. I’m struck that each time I leave France, as I pack my case and check I have my passport, my Carte de Séjour, a decent lipstick, a notebook, a pen, as I scrawl the vet’s number on a PostIt for the house sitter and take out the rubbish and recycling, it feels more and more like home. Even when I’m excited about where I’m going, I’m always sad to leave and I drag out the rituals of leaving as slowly as I can.

On Thursday, we flew out from the bright blue skies of Barcelona to the inevitably grey skies of Manchester, the compensation for the change in the weather being the warmth, friendliness, humour and unstoppable helpfulness of almost every Mancunian I’ve ever met. I was there to do a cookery demonstration at a big travel exhibition and I started my interview by saying that the warmth of the welcome in Manchester made up for the lousy weather, and the city’s residents were its sunshine. Even as the words left my mouth, I thought that was a bit schmaltzy even for me. I looked out at the rows of faces looking back at me, many of them looking a little puzzled, a little doubtful, a little “Who is this woman and has she been drinking already?”, perhaps regretting leaving the caravan stand for this, whatever this was.

Setting fire to things again.

And then I soldiered on, opening oysters, chatting and chopping, trying my best not to slice into an artery. The sauce for the huitres gratinées (grilled oysters) boiled over and stuck to the induction hot plate, but other than that, people were kind, nodded and laughed in the right places, and we all got out of there alive.