We opened the door a crack. Eileen stood there, arms raised, tears streaming down her face. “What’s wrong, Mom?” said Sara
“I can’t.”
Sara looked at me. “I used to have a little Dutch bunny,” said Eileen. “His name was Wabbit.”
“Rabbit?” said Sara.
“Not Rabbit. Wabbit. You know, ‘You cwazy wabbit’?” She lowered the cleaver. “I just can’t.”
Sara and I ventured cautiously back into the kitchen. Eileen suddenly jerked back, let loose a tortured yell, and down came the guillotine. WHACK! —the head shot off the table, bounced against the lower cabinets, and rolled to a stop at our feet. On its face was a strangely serene expression, as if nothing at all had happened. Eileen was sobbing. She pushed past us, ran into the bedroom, and slammed the door.
I turned to Sara. “It’s okay, sweetie. Start cooking. She’ll be all right.”
I followed Eileen into the bedroom, sat next to her, and put my hand on her shoulder. She lay face down with a pillow over her head, shuddering from the mental image of a decapitated childhood pet. Her voice was muffled. “Wabbit.”
I went back into the kitchen and poured two glasses of rosé. I paused. I poured a third. “Here,” I said to Sara, and headed back to the bedroom.
Two hours later, out on the terrace, the table was set, the candles lit. Eileen’s eyes were still swollen and red. I uncorked a bottle of pinot noir. Sara brought out dishes of fingerling potatoes and carrots, both roasted in duck fat. Duck fat is considered by some to be a “healthy fat” because it lowers your unhealthy cholesterol. Others disagree. Who cares? You’ll never taste anything better.
“Sorry, Mom,” said Sara. “I shouldn’t have asked you to do that.” She brought out three dishes plated with lapin à la moutarde, rabbit with mustard sauce, and placed them on the table.
“No one ever said being French would be easy,” I said, pouring the pinot. Eileen and Sara nodded as if I’d just said something profound.
Eileen stood up. “Here’s to dear, departed Wabbit.” We clinked our glasses. “Rest in peace, old friend.”
The three of us ate our meal by candlelight, serenaded by a lone cicada. The gentle breezes of a warm July evening mixed the scent of lavender with the aromas of the roasted vegetables and rabbit fricasée. The creamy mustard sauce contrasted perfectly with the fresh fingerlings.