A Little Rome Before I Go Home

The only real Gelato in Roma

♫Ancient Rome, It's Not Like Home-- COLOSSEUM!♫

This post is dedicated to the Ratburns out there and all the brilliant Arthur Read fans (girl Ryan, and boy Ryan). You know, I do think I may have seen Julius Cesar deliver pizza to the Senate on a Hang glider, that is, before he met up with Russell Crowe.

Flying into Ciampino airport, I ceremoniously noted in my little tete that this was indeed my last trip whilst still living in Paris. Not to say that every passing day in Paris is not a potential candidate for an adventure, but the Euro-hoping, my friends, has come to an end, at least for now. And where better to mark a finale than the epicenter of our ancient western civilization--not to mention a possible Pope sighting. Eh eh? Vatican City! Rome and Paris they sing of, but a three days visit, let me just give you a taste.

I met up with an ancienne amie from my University in the US (my freshman roommate) while she was on a little mother-daughter summer tour of Italy. We will call my friend Tittlywinks, and note now that our rendezvous was at the hotel at n'importe lequel hour. I was the first to arrive, and awaited the rest of the party to show slumped over unconscious on a lobby leather couch due to the previous nights one hour of sleep (you were all there, Salty's birthday, he parties hard that little poisson) Our meeting was wonderful--it truly is great to know that true friends are still there for you, as if nothing has happened, even after an entire year of separation. Our first order of business: food.

Why yes Italian food is pasta pasta pasta. But I didn't have a problem. Antipasta is an understatement. Put cheese, ham, olives, eggplants, tomatoes, and artichokes in front of me and i'm a happy little bubbly girl ready to clap. While every restaurant did in fact incorporate the word "pizza" into the name, i was able to find much more. Beef dishes, veal dishes, anchovies and risottos. Anything swimming in olive oil, such as baked zucchini in Parmesan and a tomato red sauce and all thoughts of lasagna fade. Coming from a french red wine lover--Italian reds are amazingly sweet and surprisingly refreshing. Italy may be known for the lemoncello, but the wine industry, let us hope, is continuing to rise. A bottle between two did make for fun conversation seated at night on the warm crowded steps of the Trevi Fountain--you know, the one she swims in--in la dolce vita.

Enough talk of food--where is the ice cream. The first day after visiting myriad churches, shopping alleys, and oh look the Pantheon, we search out gelato--real gelato. On any one street in Italy there may be up to as many as 10 gelatarias, bright, bubbly, illuminated by flashing neon lights and plastic ice cream cones screaming "Ice cream ice cream here!" Any sign that ever assaults the eyes not only with such colors, but in English is a joint to be avoided. The gelato in these cafes is piled high in mounds that appear to almost ooze into the compartment next door. Your lemon sorbet has been french kissing the hazelnut chocolate crunch.

The colors of many sorbets and gelatos in these displays are putrid--bright, artificial, nothing that is grown organically should be that color. And a cone--my friends, say no to the cone. Gelato is taken in a little cup, with a little spoon, never, never on a cone. You say avoid all the gelato mallory? Well where are we supposed to eat! There are 2---TWO establishments in Rome for you to taste--they are the same, but two different locations for your convenience. But once you do try real gelato, you too as well will snub your nose at the carnival freezer mounds of slush. The name to remember: Gelato di San Crispino, the real gelataria of Rome.

Walking into San Crispino I gasped--holy shit i'm in Mora. What!? The metal bins, the smooth counter, the baskets of colorful gelato spoons, the crisp looking ice cream server (was I crisp looking?) the white, professional, flaalvor-speaks for itself no-nonsense ambiance of the little ice creamery on Bainbridge Island (near Seattle) was present in this little cafe on a tiny street in Rome. Hmmm, I toss around in my head, I think the bosses must have eaten here. Either way--influence comes from somewhere, and reading the list of flavors and "mission statement" at San Crispino, i knew that this, in fact, was real, natural, pure gelato. Crispinos creed: use only the best natural ingredients, nothing artificial, experiment with new flavors while still maintaining the classical charm of the old, and, surprise the taste buds. Sounds an awful lot like the older brother of dear Mora.

One would then imagine the creamery to be packed, lines queuing out the door down the cobblestones, and snacking all the way to the Pantheon's front gate. But there was never a line. 3 times, and there was never a line. Rome in the summer and there is no line? I will tell you, bright neon signs DO in fact attract mosquitoes. So, trip advisory: don't be a mosquito. While the flavor selection is no where near 45, they are still quite diverse and sure to spark some hidden scent of curiosity. They range from walnut and fig (no goat cheese) to ricotta, whiskey, pistachio, hazelnut, cocoa, Italian liqueurs, and many others.

Their signature flavor is the San Crispino, which is made with honey (Tittlywinks' favorite). However, for me I was drawn like a fly to 5: licorice root, ginger and cinnamon, armagnac, chocolate with meringue, and caramel with meringue. Those flavors, those are the ones worth dying for. Meringue incorporated into a gelato is a cry short from genius--crispy and soft, Mora, you must take this into note. Their sorbets also take advantage of the regional flavors--melon, lemon, grapefruit, peach, Isabella grape, Seville orange, and others. Needless to say, going to Rome? Go to San Crispino.

Two locations: Via Acaia 56 Roma, Via della Panetteria 42 Roma.

We visited both locations. The second day was a full day strolling through the ruins of ancient Rome-- the Palentino, Circo Massimo, the Colosseum--through the hot hot heat with dust blowing everywhere, hills covered in poppies, and ancient piles of rubble just...there. Rome transports you to another time, causing one to think, hey where's Russel Crowe! Of course, hot archaeological work must be followed by a gelato.

The last day in Rome was spent at the Vatican. Yes. The Popes palace. No Pope sighting on this trip. But the imense awe and grandeur of St Peters Basilica can not be given full effect through words. The 500 some step climb through the narrowing spiral stairs to the cupola of the Basilica started the journey--through Saint Peters, down into the crypt, around into the Vatican museum, and then, finally, into the Sistine Chapel. Amazing? Yes. 500 steps? hmm. Let's go back to San Crispino. Poor scooper though--made him scoop during the Italy France game and answer my silly questions. I left by sadly shouting, allez les bleues! But gazie for the gelato!

Paris and Rome, Paris and Rome, but it really is almost time to go home. Next airport: Charles de Gaulle.

à bientôt

We Have Been We for One Year

Happy One Year Birthday Little Salty Cod
This will be dramatic and long. But even Tony had a weak-heart-to-heart once--did you not catch the end of the Sao Paulo episode? Reader be warned.

Already a year? A year? Have you really known us a year? No, most of you have not, perhaps the majority out there reading this today maybe have known us a day, a week, maybe a month, a few perhaps a demi-year, and even fewer since la naissance. The Salty Cod was born 15 June 2007 lying bottoms up with feet kicking the air on the floor of my parents sitting room with many jars of freshly canned cherry jam strewn around me. I want a blog, I pleaded myself, after months and months of faithfully following my two standout gastronomique blogs: Clotildes Chocolate & Zucchini and Beas La Tartine Gourmande, why could I not have one? If it flops it flops, who cares. If no one reads it pas grave--it can just be for me then. That is how Salty came about; it was for me, he still is for me. My selfish creation, my companion. But, we all do eventually learn to share ourselves.

The first posts were adrenaline rushes--not that they still sheepishly aren't--I didn't want to sleep, didn't want to eat, tea...milky tea kept me going, my eyes bloodshot and fixated on the computer screen (le pauvre Hamilton, RIP) photoshop, blogger, how do they get their photos so bright? so edible looking? Ryan, my sister, help me design a logo, a faux professional emblem to paste on the site and on the jars and bags I will never sell. My first readers--undoubtedly my parents and sisters--i would rush to their rooms or their computers and say read read agora! (well the Portuguese comes into the story later) What do you think of that picture? They would smile, convincingly in my mind and with no doubt wondering, what crazy little phase has mallory gotten into this time? Clearing off a desk in the game room to set up little halogen lights as a "photo shoot" prep poised around little ceramic plates gently loaded with this or that--a banana bread, a quinoa cookie; I am working do not come in! I would shout to the passers by as I straddled a rolling office chair with my other leg dangling from a bookshelf, aiming for that "aerial view". Did I think this would all be here a year later? In my mind yes, in my mind things that I want never end. But is it a shock to some? Perhaps yes, perhaps even to me.

This blog I refer to in third person, "he" "little salty" but really, the blog is me, I am it, you don't like it you don't like me, and vice versa. It is my birthday, and I am one years old. A baby? Why yes I am. But babies grow astronomically in their first year of life, and we, salty and I have as well. As a person and as a writer. Looking back we know we have grown as a writer--the writing from the first months is absolutely atrocious. And a conceited note on the photos--i will go ahead and say I've quite improved.

In one year this blog has made this writer a different person, it has made her herself. But, with help of course. She knows she won't stop writing, a slight step closer to the answer of that diabolical question; what am I going to do with my life when I grow up? At the beginning it was just us, Salty and me, but now we cannot be so selfish. Now, we must at our birthday party, in hobbit fashion--allusions to Tolkien which I attribute to the moral wisdoms given to me by my dear old dad--give gifts to you, our guests. So we thank you--because you are part of Salty, whether you think you are or not. We think we can do it all alone, but the truth is, no one can.

The entree presents go the the fellow bloggers out there who either follow me or are followed by me--the inspirations for our commencement, and the fuel and encouragement to keep us going throughout all our posts, even our dullest moments. I have no reserve in calling many of these people friends. Nuria from Spanish Recipes-gracias, Isabel from Cinqo Quartos de Laranja-obrigada, Ryan from And the Bell Rang (though not a foodie)-thank you, Moira from Tertulia de Sabores-obrigada, Bea from La Tartine Gourmande-merci, Clotilde from Chocolate & Zucchini-merci.

The main course presents, the "plat" go to my family--the first readers, the always readers. My parents, sisters, uncle, aunts, cousin, and grandparents. My Kingston family as well. Oh yeah, and the old man in Suquamish. Presque famille.

The final group--the dessert; the prize course for salty and I-- are my friends and acquaintances who have literally been a physical part of Saltys existence, for we cannot exist without your stories. The American girls, the poker playing waiters, the mexican chef possy, coworkers, chefs, vendors, servers and diners in restaurants from Seattle to San Fransisco, Dublin to Munich, and Prague to Porto. A few, who have been vital in recipe thoughts, tasting, and encouragement--Tara and Diogo from school you are irreplaceable guinea pigs. And then there is poulet, who--though still in blog name guise--you have been a more vital contributor to the direction of us; both the blog me, and the me me, more than I can say. But you already know that. Well, perhaps 10% of the profits should be cut for you. Wait, we don't make money. Guess I'll just have to get that cake to you.

A birthday cupcake for you all, and for all of you who have ever spent a quiet, hopefully entertaining eye-rolling read with us. Agradecemos a voce preferência, thank you for choosing us.

You're baking cakes for a blogs birthday? Yes. Yes I am.

How exactly does one celebrate a blog's birthday party? Well there must be a grand dinner of course, and a cake. Always a cake. The Salty Cod loves cake above all other sweeties. For the dinner party--at Le Laurier of course. A few Americans, a couple Brasilians, Mexicans, the Martinique-ian, and of course, a few frenchies. The cake: the cake bah bien sur is a cherry, as the first post was, after all, a cherry jam. Coconut is the preferred flavor of this baker, and as the baker does not eat gluten, neither does Salty, therefore tapioca flour, the superior flour, is at hand. Salty's Cake, Coconut Cherry Cups. Happy Birthday buddy, happy birthday us.

Alright the recette, that's why your here afterall eh?
Salty's Cake: Coconut Cherry Tapioca Cupcakes

ingredients: 250g tapioca flour ~ 100g coarse ground coconut ~ 2 eggs ~ 115g butter ~ 120ml (.5 cup) oil ~ 250g sugar ~ .5tsp baking powder ~ 1/4 can coconut milk ~ .25tsp salt ~ chopped cherries
method: beat the sugar, butter, oil, and eggs. mix the flour, powder, coconut, and salt. alternately add to butter sugar mixture and combine well. add cherries if making cupcakes--cook for about 20 minutes, you oven, as always, is a different creature than mine.

Frosting: butter, coconut milk, coconut, and a truck load of powdered sugar. beat the hell out of it.

This recipe, as its maiden voyage, should be, no needs to be tweaked. Dorm, foyer, backyard baking--as a very strong user of system D in in my baking career (which general is not an asset to a baker as the craft is much more precise than cooking) I do not have measuring cups, my oven is a pill box, i jimmy-rig almost everything i can, including a wine opener and a string to open an aluminum can, the cake is not perfect. It is slightly chewy and almost "undercooked" on the base, perhaps it is the oven, perhaps it is the tapioca, perhaps it is that I am a 22 year old (well in less than a month), never been to cooking school, experimental, imperfect girl and--I made it up. We'll work on this one together eh. Though it tastes obnoxiously delicious despite its lack of airy fluffiness. The frosting though--back off it is flawless.

What do one year olds do? Don't know. We haven't done it yet. We will continue to cook, travel, review, find, dissect, taste, moralize, humanize, romanticize, theorize, dramatize, and report on and in the gastronomic world. Other than that we are just a naive, vulnerable, determined girl and her fish ready to take chances. What we do know--is that on the profile page we must change that dorky photo with the fork, that the four purposes of Salty surprisingly have not changed, that though my age has changed, and though i have in fact had many more experiences in life, I still know barely anything of it at all. We still preach to study and do what you love despite the financial outcome and public opinion, to always make your own jam, to give credit and thanks where it is due, to always remember the cod, and how the smallest thing can push you in the farthest direction, and to write, write, and write. We've learned now that though we are continually discovering new things, we yet manage to run into ourselves at the end of the day. And finally, we know that though pink marshmallows are better than white, the green ones are even better.

Besides, what does a Cod Fish have to do with anything anyways...other than absolutely everything.

Happy Birthday Us! Joyeux Anniversaire a Nous! One year of charades! And hopefully many more. We invite you to stay with us. Where will we be next year in this world? Only the morue knows.

à bientôt

The BEST Baguette in Paris

The Beau, Bon, & BubblyTo bake or not to bake--that is the question that separates the few from the many. It is the philosophical question that guy on Iron Chef should be thinking when he bites into the pepper: damn, I wish this was a sesame cake...Baking is an art, the little Rattatouille squeaks that anyone can cook, but can anyone bake? Bourdain refers to them as the sadists, history the peasants and paysans--me, I refer to them as the demigods of course, morning maniacs with powdered cheeks and and chests and tight tennis forearms; yes baking is a passion of creation, and bread baking, well damn Zeus himself has appeared. Bread is a tedium, not an amateur sport, and while Paris is full of a hundred craftsmen in dusty whites, there is but one who can stand on the top of Gustave's Tower and claim superiority over the crispy little baton--the symbolic icon and lifeblood of France--and his name: Anis Bouabsa of Duc de la Chapelle boulangerie, the winner of the best baguette in Paris 2008.

How do I know this? No, I am not part of the Boulanger weekly news club (sadly) but rather from Elle a Table food magazine, in which an article in the Mai/Juin edition features a striking 'up close and personal' on the master baker. The article noted Bouabsa's long and impressive trophy record including his M.O.F (Meilleur Ouvrier de France) under the boulanger category in 2004 at the petit age of 24 when he received a medal from President Jacques Chirac himself. Chouette.

His celebrity status arises not just from his classic prize winning baguette, but also from his assortment of breads fused with exotic herbs and fruits, as well as his use of variant flours...variant flours, i.e. not wheat, i.e. not gluten. Corn, seigle, and sarrasin are prominent grains found throughout many of his creations, which he states the secret to as slow fermentation (rising en anglais? what country am I from?) of 20 to 30 hours. The article states his creativeness as a result of his Tunisian immigrant parentage--I state his creativeness as a result of being, well creative. An artiste, like any mozart or monet. Well, the best baguette in Paris, and gf bread on top? What wanna-be gastronomique writer could pass scouting that out? On y va.

Monday after class is the perfect day and time to quest a boulanger. Wanting this time a sidekick (yeah a sidekick, Tony has sidekicks, you just can't see them they are behind the camera) I ask Tartar to come along, and we are joyously made three by another friend who we shall call South Africa. Walking to the metro from our beloved university (you catch the sarcasm?), Tartar asks the ever devilish question, so how far is this? last time you dragged me to god knows where... Erm, not far at all.

North end of line 12! We're at the south! My dears, I plead to them, good things are worth waiting for, the harder it is to get, the sweeter it will taste. Fine, lead the way girl, I'll just follow that little blue bag of yours, you're like a walking j.crew add (that would be my professional camera bag, I mean coach bag.) Getting off at metro Marx Dormoy, one stop shy of the line end at Porte de la Chapelle (Paris note: you hear the word 'Porte', you know you are at the edge of the city) I lead the way through a new corner of town; not quite the Paris of Saint Germain and all that is chic Seizieme, the northeast of the 18th is more 'inner city' though it is on the outer. Tight streets cluttered with debris and litter, graffiti strewn walls and signs, dogs barking and babies crying, a different makeup of Parisians leaning outside coffee shop windows. Excellent. Are we in Paris? Tartar asks me as we walk by a chain link basketball court. Yes, yes we are.

20 minutes of walking...remember good things are worth the pain and strife! Here we are! The boulangerie is nearly empty at the hour of half past five, hello hello monsieur, I read in a magazine article that you had bread without wheat flour, like corn. Huh? What do you want? Bread without wheat, gluten, it said you had it. Uh, hold on. He comes back a few minutes later with...the man himself! Ahk! Bonjour, what are you looking for? I read you make bread with alternative flours...ah ok you want this one, its sarrasin, and so there's no gluten. Yes! Give it to me! And I'll take the baguette too of course. For photo purposes monsieur.

We grab the baguettes--and the dark black brown circle loaf Anis handed me himself. Baguette sword fight, if you have not dueled with a baguette baton you are severely missing out on life. Ahhh!!!!! we just met the most famous boulanger in Paris! Whatever helps you get your kicks mallory the others snigger...AS they eat the best baguettes of their life. I knew they were inwardly thanking me.

There we went, me in my tricolor suit of blue white and red---the bleu, blanche et rouge of the drapeau, liberté, égalité, fraternité--carrying my baguette through the streets and metro tunnels, almost as if I were really one of them. But I am not, I don't know what I am. I am just me. But sarrasin bread, let me say, honey, I can die now.

Bon travail Anis Bouabsa, for your Meilleure baguette de Paris. Little brother R--do you still like baking zeee bread? Maybe someday you'll come work for Anis, I'll introduce you. hehe.

à bientôt

Birthday Mousse à la Crème de Marrons

Coucou Kaitles, Joyeux Anniversaire

Do you have a baby sister? Not just a little sister, but one who for a while you but near acted as a second mother of? One who drives you nearly crazy but yet you want to do everything you can to help, protect, and make as happy as possible for some god-unknown reason? Well I do, and her name is Kaitles, and today is her 18th birthday, so, s'il vous plaît, I ask you my dear readers to wish alongside me a joyeux anniversaire to the baby blonde, my smart cookie and soon to be high school graduate on her way to her first year at the University of New England--bravo! Now have some birthday mousse.

Why mousse? I can hear her ask aloud as she reads this thinking "malerd is crazy." But why mousse indeed. Last year I made her a tiramisu trifle with a gluten free sponge, so this year I knew it had to be something quite different, and not a cake, for I was sure my mum had made a very premium 7-layer already. Something very Frenchie, she has always loved Frenchie (elle prends la langue française au lycée aussi, c'est vrai!) Donc écoutez moi: the day prior, as i filtered through the refrigerator looking for a snack for little Flo after school, I came across pudding cup style mousse à la crème de marrons. Huh, I muse as I swipe a little taste, not bad...I wonder if I can make this. The answer: why yes I can. What is more French than a mousse and a marron glacé? Exactly, and it is the perfect sophisticated taste for the birthday of a new adult. On y va.

Perhaps some of you are thinking crème de marrons, qu'est ce que c'est? And Nutella springs to the mind. Beeep. Wrong. Nutella is hazelnut, and while yes quite the coveted flavor to the French found in nearly every variety of sweets, crème de marrons is made from candied marrons glacés, or candied chestnuts. Chestnuts, what a fact. Not to be confused with the horse-chestnut (buck eye) that falls from the Paris skies like rain every Autumn, the chestnut is the one roasting on that open fire, or rather the one roasting on that grocery cart turned oven peddled around outside the Galeries Lafayette, or for that matter on the sidewalks of nearly every major western European city from the debut of autumn until the first days of spring. Call me a snob...but they always looked so dirty.

The marron glacé: besides a flavor of ice cream at Mora (where Kaitles, as well as I, no longer work) is a cooked chesnut in a syrupy sugar glaze which gives it a chewy gummy texture. The first chestnut--note you this--was first recorded in French gastronomique lore in 1690 in Lyon. The first production of the little sweety in a factory setting for purchasing was in 1882 at Clément Faugier, the same Clément Faugier that has remained on super market shelves to this very present day in time. The factory opened solely on the production of the candied chestnut, but after 3 years a crème made from the purée of the broken candied nuts, molassus, and vanilla was tested on the market as a culinary aide and spread.

The result: a new way to eat toast. Crème de Marrons de l'Ardèche "revolutionized" French breakfast and snack time, a sort of prehistoric grandfather to the Nutella. The crème remains available in the same large tin can with the same lable made famous in the 1920's. The dopey little mascot, "Marono" first appeared alongside the mark in 1938. Now aside from the garganctuan aluminum can, one can find the Crème de Marrons in small plastic bottles, squeeze tubes that look like oil paints, and even snack pouches for the after school sugar slurp. What can you do with crème de marrons? The possibilities are a few short of 50. Tarts, puddings, cakes, frostings, toast spread, fruit spread, sounds good on a waffle, and of course, mousse.

Mousse à la crème de Marrons

~~250g crème de marrons ~ 250g mascarpone cheese ~ 2 eggs ~ 1 packet vanilla sugar ~ 1/2 bar dark chocolate~

method: 1) In a bowl mix the egg yolks, mascarpone cheese, and vanilla sugar. 2) Whisk until creamy, then add the crème de marrons and whisk until smooth. 3) add half of the shaved chocolate and mix. 4) in another bowl beat the eggs whites until stiff, gently fold into cream mixter. 5) divide into mousse cups, ramekins, a bowl, whatever you will be serving it in and refrigerate for 3 hours. 6) before serving cover tops with the remaining shaved chocolate, and whatever else you feel will make a supreme garnish.

En Française pour mes amis:

~~ 250g crème de marrons ~ 250g fromage de mascarpone ~ 2 oeufs ~ 1 sachet sucre vanillinée ~ 1/2 bar chocolat noir râpé ~~

méthode: 1) Mélangez les jaunes, le mascarpone, et le sucre. 2) Fouettez jusqu'au crémeuse, et ajoutez le crème de marrons, fouettez bien. 3) ajoutez un demi du chocolat noir râpé, et mélangez. 4) Fouettez les blancs en neige, et ajoutez doucement dans le crème. 5) Diviser parmi les verres, et mettez dans le frigo pour 3 heures. 6) avant le présentation, garnez au dessus de chaque avec le reste de chocolat râpé.

And because I am a dork, in Portuguese:

~~ 250g crème de marrons ~ 250g queijo mascarpone ~ 2 ovos ~ 1 pacote de açùcar de baunilha ~ 1/2 barra de chocolate escuro ralado ~~

método: 1) combinar amarelo ovo, mascarpone, e de açùcar. 2) Bata até cremosa, e adicione de crème de marrons, bata bem. 3) adicione metade de um chocolate. 4) Bata as claras em neve e gentilmente acrescente o creme. 5) clivagem entre os pratos e colocar no frigorifico durante 3 horas. 6) dar o topo com o resto do chocolate.

leave my poor verbes alone! me try! I jest--but please do not hesitate to correct my mistakes, perhaps a letter learned poulet im speaking to you.

*recipe note: i am not sure if crème de marrons is available in the US, I have not looked. If it is not, tell me and i will bring back a can for you, for you MUST taste this. I'm not bringing back 30, but the first 3 requests win! *second note: to tante pufflette--tu m'as possé la question du sucre vanillinée, bah voila c'est ceci, les petits sachets, je vais acheter qqs pour toi.

Mousse for Kaitles, tu l'aimes? She is sweet, slightly sneaky, a little bitter, mysterious, and fluffy of course with a little raspberry on top. Voila, she is mousse à la crème de marrons. And the pink expensive chouette birthday spoon--bought just for you at my favorite spoon store. She may be in Seattle, and I in Paris, but she still gets a birthday treat. Who consumed it? Worry not they did not go to the dogs, but rather were taken as desert to dinner at Tartar and Maximes, toasted and savored in your honor. Happy birthday little Kaitles, 9 months sans parler, but know that you, and all of my sisters (oh yeah and the boy) are always tip top of the list at the Salty Cod, toujours dans mes pensées, as headaches and as sourirs. It's been a while, but I love you all the same; long-distance love is underrated. HAPPY BIRTHDAY! For you, many mousse are meese.

à bientôt