Fresh-cut garden flowers are a Parisian institution. Odd in a city with very few private gardens, but congruent with all the farmers’ markets throughout the town. I love watching the pages of the calendar turn as each month brings its very own blooms. This month is April which means overwhelmingly fragrant blossoms of French Lilac perfume the streets and my home.
When I am very lucky, one of les filles, back in the city after a weekend at the family’s country home, will call from her apartment which is overflowing with flowers that grandmère insisted she cart home. Would I be a chérie and take some of the buds off her hands? They are gorgeous, but the perfume is a bit too much. Being a generous, accommodating gal, I am happy to help out.
If no there are no Parisiennes needing to pawn off their unwanted blooms, I head to the local market, where people from nearby suburbs, looking to get rich off of us city saps, harvest buckets full of these precious purple flowers and hawk them from the street corners. 5€ for a generous handful that keeps my home smelling like a day in the country. Really, who needs Calgon?