French la Vie

In France, it’s not a baguette.
It’s the baguette.
Sacred. Daily. Ritual.
Crunch.

A baguette isn’t bought.
It’s chosen.
Some like them bien cuite—dark, crusty.
Others say pas trop cuite—soft shell, pale.
The baker nods.
They know.

And yes.
The first thing you do—when you walk out of the bakery—is pinch off the end.
The heel, the nose, the croûton.
Pop it in your mouth.
Always.
It’s the unofficial French thing to do.

You don’t say “one baguette” and hold up your index finger.
Unless you want two.
In France, one is your thumb.
Try it.
Hold up your thumb and say “Une baguette, s’il vous plaît.”
Voilà—une seule.

No preservatives. No plastic wrapping. No soft sponge pretending to be bread.
A French baguette is born in the early dark, baked before sunrise, gone before sunset.
Dangerous by the next morning.
Crunch becomes brick.

Hence, pain perdu.
Lost bread.
What we call French toast.

But there’s a trick.
A baguette gone stale?
Run it under the tap—yes, water—and into a hot oven for a few minutes.
It comes back.
Resurrected.
Crunchy again. Soft inside.
A small miracle.

Mais non! A sacrilege the French might say.

“Who came up with that?”
My French Husband says, “Whoever has leftover baguette?”
Fair point. A day old baguette at our house is as rare as seeing an unicorn, dancing the cancan on our table. God, how Clarie Sparkle would prefer to see that.

History?
Some say the baguette shape came from Napoleon’s soldiers needing bread that would fit down their pants leg.
Some say a baker in Vienna did it.
Some say law decided it all—how long, how much it weighs, how it’s priced.

But that’s for textbooks.
Not for this morning.
This morning, it’s just me, a still-warm baguette, and a bite already gone.