Little Crumbs

It's 8:00pm.

Angèle ladles from her marmite onto an oval platter while I grab the table cloth from the clothesline in the courtyard.

Everyone pulls a seat up to the table.  We pray, then cut chunks from the baguette and hand them around, thin crust shattering all over the table cloth.

I dip into the beans - nyebe - with bread in one hand.  Tomato paste, onion, garlic, and mustard have cooked into a fragrant sauce.  Angèle seasons her dishes to perfection, and my mouth waters.

Germain's spoon strays too far towards me.  "Eat in front of you," I tell him, pointing to the imaginary half-moon of space in front of him.  He stares for a second.  He's still learning the rules of etiquette - rules I was learning myself not too long ago.

He goes back to eating and Angèle pushes a chunk of beef over to me.  I pick up my spoon to cut it, something I still do somewhat clumsily with my right hand.

Julien spoons marinated tomato and cucumber onto his beans and passes the container.

We talk and laugh; the conversation flows easily as the TV plays in the background.  It's home and this is no fancy dinner.  Just warm, simple, hearty food.

Comfort food, really.

It conjures up all the same feelings as certain dishes my mom made when I was growing up.

The platter is clean; the last piece of baguette gone.  Angèle and I have our after-dinner cleanup rehearsed well.  She piles dishes up and carries them to the now-dark courtyard to wash.  I shake out the table cloth and go for the broom.

I bend from the waist and begin sweeping the floor, skirting around Julien's feet and telling the boys to stay out of the way until I finish.  I push the pile into the dust pan.

Every night it's the same thing, this pile of little baguette crumbs.

I straighten up and go to dump them out.

A thousand ordinary moments like this make a place feel like home.  Or perhaps being present in those thousand ordinary moments is what actually makes it home.