Today I started this notebook. I was putting it off – there was always something coming up demanding my time, allowing me to procrastinate journaling online.
And here I am. On my favorite armchair with my laptop. I can smell the brioche I just baked. It’s cooling on the rack in the kitchen.
Brioche. Some might say, “A fussy bread for demanding palates.”
I’m not a big fan, but I made it anyway. I am more of a focaccia, baguette, and rustic artisanal round loaf person.
Earlier, I rummaged through my drawer and found an old lipstick—my favorite shade—that was used up, worn to the nub, and down to the metal. Don’t know why I kept it. I was looking at it, just sort of staring at it – in wonder.
“Painted smiles” came to mind. As I threw out the tube, I realized I threw out a tool for creating masks.
The lipstick was a cylinder of painted performance. Something I once thought I needed to be seen properly.
The brioche, in the kitchen, performed its display of sophistication and wealth – a bread bearing a rich dose of butter and eggs.
Every time I think ‘brioche,’ I think Marie Antoinette.
You know, with her famous line—”Let them eat cake.”
They say it wasn’t even cake — something closer to brioche. The story changes depending on who tells it.
And she probably never muttered that line—although she could have. It sounds like something she could have said.
I am thinking about the lipstick I threw in the garbage. Expensive. Although I don’t bother with lipstick now, I did wear it all the time for years.
At one time, I considered it a must. Felt naked without it. Wouldn’t go out with its smear. It’s a painted touch.
No different from what a powdered wig was to the ladies back then – another kind of costume, worn until it became indistinguishable from the person.
And I made a brioche.
A rustic loaf doesn’t have the same ‘finesse,’ I suppose?
You know, the Earl of Sandwich was said to have ‘invented’ the sandwich. Is that why it ‘caught on’?
