I was looking forward to eating my
attacker the next day, so was disappointed to learn that poultry needed to rest
for a few days before being eaten: a couple of hours after slaughter, rigor
mortis would set in, making the flesh temporarily tough and stringy. Revenge is sweet, so the saying goes, although
I was sure that in this case it would taste of chicken. But I would have to
leave that experience to Juan. I was no longer aware of the all-enveloping
scent of artisan comté, and I was
feeling comfortable in my strange, semi-servile role, but after one final day
of infusing, watering, berry-cropping, swimming and walnut tarts from Anne-Marie’s
favourite bakery, it was time for me to move on.
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