It started with reading M.F. K. Fisher in the bubble bath.  About her time in France and her search for the perfect martini there, of all things.  She never found it but happily made do with a glass of rose for aperitif.  Before that you were enjoying another unassuming Monday night, looking forward to a simple salad and turning in early to read and drink tea.

But then you found yourself under the influence of M.F.K. Fisher.

You simply couldn't shake the description of the pink-glassed aperitif, of the rich musing of her first meals in France, the way food and wine served to punctuate the passionate episodes of her life.  As the bubbles faded in your bath and your thoughts turned toward dinner, your simple weeknight meal suddenly became an opportunity for more.

A quick scan of the fridge told you that there was still a half bottle of rose chilling and a few small wedges of nice cheese, not to mention the mountain of farmers' market vegetables.  You must make aioli, you decided, to dip your perfect radishes in.  And there is nothing to throwing together a small cheese plate of deep veined blue and ripe tilsiter cheeses, fat castelventrano and bella di cerignola olives.  And why not put on some old jazz tunes so that the whispers of French love songs float through the air in time to your gentle whisking of eggs and olive oil?  Soon your apartment was transported to Provence and full of M.F.K. Fisher's joie de vivre. 

The rose was dry and mineral-y on your lips, tasting only faintly of tart cherries and ripe strawberries.  You savored the ritual of whisking together your aioli, that perfect blend of garlic, egg yolks, and olive oil, as well as lining your plate with purple beans and radishes and tomatoes to dip in your sauce.  All at once your dinner was ready, your Monday night turned into a vibrant celebration, a feast for the senses.

Like M.F. K. Fisher, you forgot about the world for a moment, about everything but this sensuous meal, simply prepared and enjoyed to the fullest.