La Chat grande, magnifico, FAT

Holy fat cat. It was the fattest cat she had ever seen. Her eyes had never held their stare so long, so fierce, and with such purpose. She had never cocked her head that way before as she tried to determine if this was real life. He was breathing, moving—well as good as an obese cat could move—therefore, existing. She placed her hands around its neck, and then around her own. How could such a small animal have the same size neck as she

She was overcome with an intense and exhilarating desire to wrap a tape measure around his stomach. Her eyes opened wider as she fantasized about the number of inches it would turn out to be (or centimeters).

She even chuckled out loud as she kept her eyes on the beast. Marie Claude (pronounced Mah-rdy Claw-owd—“I am very French”) was draped over the side of the couch, as there was no room next to the good-year-blimp-cat, stroking him gently and talking about his age. “’E refuses to die. ‘E eez 22 years old. I think it eez too much work for him.”

This woman was the second most fascinating being to Megan, after the cat. She was raised in France, spent time living in England, and married an Italian. She loves Easy Cheese, which tells you right there that she is not your typical European. She loves D.I. and talks about the three second hand skirts she got in “you-ssa”, which is how she pronounces U.S.A. On the phone she had said, “No, I didn’t invite you over because I am nice. The truth eez I live wiz only men. I have no daughters.” For one year, she will have a daughter.

Their day together started at 2:00 p.m. Instead of going to conference they ate potatoes. “I love zem. I am from a part of France where we eat zem all zee time. I could live with only potatoes. Ze are zee only thing I can cook. I am not a good cook because I am not Italian.” (Duh! Because the French have never been known for their cooking . ? . ? .)

It was generally acknowledged by all three sons, husband, and wife, that she was no chef. Every time Megan politely commented on the taste of the food and how nice it was to be a guest, everyone shook their heads as Marie Claude said, “You are sweet. I knew you would be sweet. But theez eez not necessary”

After lunch, they spent time walking around beautiful Chieri. Megan was already in love with this town. She had been before by herself, and once with a friend. Chieri was where she had her first taste of Cioccolata calda.

As thick as pudding and as warm as, this is more than a drink. It is an elixir. First, you sip and close your eyes. You let it dissipate throughout your mouth and down your throat. Unabashedly, you smile and almost giggle even though the dark brown earth colored substance is all over your teeth. The barman looks at you with curiosity when you take a photo. You alone know what your family will appreciate when no one else would really understand—even if you spoke Italian.

This is what occupied Megan’s mind as they walked along the hilly, damp streets. The air was thick and wet, adding to the mulchy smell of the 17^th century church that they had stopped to see. From the courtyard, the entire city could be viewed. Megan talked to everyone with ease and comfort. She offered her little knowledge of the area and brought up the topic of truffles and mushroom hunting. Back at the house, she made a friend of the second son’s girlfriend—who looks just like her old Italian roommate Laura DiGiordano. She had all of them laughing and the mood stayed light. Again, she was sweet.

It was that same sweetness that would cause Megan to end up with a piece of art from one of the sons and a snow globe of the Eiffel Tower. With that she was also given Nicole Ricci perfume (wonderful) and some Clinique.

“I am thinking zat when I go to Paris in March, you should come wiz me to see my Father.” Of course, Megan was thrilled. But honestly, after all that excitement and with her arms full of gifts and a promised trip to Paris, she could not get her mind off of that fat cat.