Roasted chestnuts are one of my fondest childhood memories. I remember my dad bringing home a dozen of roasted chestnuts in a newspaper-rolled cone after work. He would gently place a well-roasted chestnut on my palm. I can still feel the brisk winter air transmitted from his cold hand brushing against mine.
On a chilly November afternoon, I was walking down Blvd. Haussman en route to Printemps and saw a cart selling roasted chestnuts in front of Galeries Lafayette. A sudden nostalgic feeling crept over me. It took a new city, different people and the turn of the century. Yet, with billowing smoke from the chestnuts on the grill, Christmas decorations hanging from the ceiling, and the bustling streets full of parisiennes and tourists, it felt like winter 1997 again.
I took a moment to breathe and allowed myself a short daybreak. The chestnuts began to fill my body with the same warmth that had once shielded a young girl from the cold.
On a chilly November afternoon, I was walking down Blvd. Haussman en route to Printemps and saw a cart selling roasted chestnuts in front of Galeries Lafayette. A sudden nostalgic feeling crept over me. It took a new city, different people and the turn of the century. Yet, with billowing smoke from the chestnuts on the grill, Christmas decorations hanging from the ceiling, and the bustling streets full of parisiennes and tourists, it felt like winter 1997 again.
I took a moment to breathe and allowed myself a short daybreak. The chestnuts began to fill my body with the same warmth that had once shielded a young girl from the cold.
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