My friends and I could barely keep our footing as we trudged from the rock festival to the train station in defeat. I must have looked particularly soaked and sad, because a brown-eyed man in pink corduroy jeans stepped out of the crowd, smiled, and silently offered me an orange. That was Michel.
Had they only known how often this rebellious child of theirs would marry—five times in total—they could have saved all that cooking-school tuition money. But then, perish the thought, none of us would have had the pleasure of dining on Housecat’s most fabulous signature dish.