Before moving to the States, I promised an anxious Gregory that there would be Sundays, French Sundays. French Sundays are wonderful things, especially in Provence. In Provence, French Sundays are greeted with the brightest of blue skies and a shining sun. Apéro is had before settling in for a long lunch and a lazy afternoon.Gregory would miss French Sundays. Of course he would, I would too, anyone would. So I promised Gregory that even in America, we would still have French Sundays. Apéro might not kick off at exactly midday, and there may not always be Rosé and Ricard, but I'd do my best to make it happen.
For the past few Sundays, I've managed to keep the homesickness at bay with a bit of French tradition in Texas. At times it's a bit haphazard, but it's been getting the job done.
A taste of the Mediterranean in a bowl and some chips and salsa because hello... we're in Texas y'all. The Rosé was replaced by white (I'm crying on the inside) which paired perfectly with the Schnitzel à la Holstein I made (which I thought was appropriate living in a German-American town like I do). 
{chasing squirrels is exhausting}
