When you think you had it all figured out , little tricks are played by your mind , pictures appearing , taste coming to your senses and within no time I suddenly remember what I have always considered as the Coca-Cola of all jams , the Rolls-Royce of spreads , the Pichon Longueville of tartine topping.
As now another one of my fondest memories is being shared with you , as my grand-mother use to purchase the pulp of these little “Eglantines Sauvage” and concoct us the shiny rich scarlet “Rose Hips” into again one of the best ever gouter for all , with no age restriction and no censure , I am surprised not having seen it elsewhere but on proud Alsacian social wall , as if waving the flag of their ancestors……….well yes , I do wave mine this way today before you like many other day , why not allowing and considering their gesture as gracious and considerate as yours ? (mine in this case).
Once the fresh and crunchy slice of bread is slightly covered with cold butter then layered with the “Boutemousse” (Alsacian dialect original appellation) making sure the whole surface of your next orgasm is properly covered , not missing any corner and crack in the crust .
The room would then become quiet with little mmms and oooos heard coming from here and there , now and then.
I imagine no one to believe the power such item has on one’s memory box until you have nourished your 4 years old with this supreme “pate a tartiner”, souvenirs left until nothing else is left for one to do but to enjoy again , by the wood fire (as these still do exist) , pleasure long known , always bringing the comfort one seeking from such food.
An item made out of a Contes de Grimm