23 June 2011
5 that is not how it happened
when my mother reads my writing, she always makes a point of saying, weeeeeeelllllllllll, THAT's not how it happened. not that it's not how she remembers it, but that it's not how it happened.
we're on the phone discussing something i have written and she has already twice said THAT's not how it happened and so i change the subject. i ask if she still has the address to the place in paris with the french fries. i will need this next month.
she doesn't have the address but, as we both remember it, when you're facing notre dame, you go left and cross over to the left side of the street and halfway down the that block- 3/4s of the way down the west side of the cathedral- there's a restaurant with a cart out front. the French Fries Of Our Lives are inside there.
we fall into a trance-like state recounting this, mesmerized by the memory of those fries. (they were really good fries.)
my mum sighs and says, oh cupcake, do you remember it? i remember like it was yesterday. how we were walking by and we saw those people with their plates of fries and we said, 'we NEED those'!
it is more than a little gratifying to say, weeeeeeelllllllllll, actually, that's not how it happened. it is downright nice to remind her that we were sitting in a random restaurant where she and my aunt made fun of me for ordering french fries. fries that were so good that they ultimately had to order their own.