"Are you going to lick it?"
"What? I don't lick knives!"
"Yes. Yes you do."
"But it's French. French apricot jam and..." And then the knife disappeared under my tongue as I attempted to savour every last bit of sticky, sweet, thick apricot deliciousness.
My husband had just caught me in one of those indecent, best kept private moments in which I was standing at the kitchen sink wearing nothing but yesterday's underwear clutching a jar of abricot jam - Fauchon for those in the know - and a butter knife.
Back in 2003, ever since the Jules Ferry Hosteling International employee handed me my it's-included-breakfast of plain yogurt, white pain, and a tinfoil, plastic packet of confiture d'abricot, I have been passionately in love. Confiture des fraises! Confiture des framboises! Confitures des baies sauvages! Confitures des baies muires! Confiture des cerises!
Along with LV bags, I have a far less expensive obsession with French confiture. Last May, I dragged my husband into every patisserie we passed to purchase yet another jar; this in addition to my standard French favourites of Angela's, Le Notre, Hediard and Fauchon. As back-up, I also purchased several jars of Bonne Maman which at the price point of 1 euro must be the French equivalent of Smuckers. All of these jars then had to be carefully packed amongst two weeks of dirty clothing, swaddled in sweaty socks and tucked into shoes for extra protection. Thankfully there was only one casualty - a jar of Bonne Maman.
I often eat confiture straight from the jar. This is another guilty pleasure, along with my daily knife licking, that I try to save for days when I miss Paris so much that only the taste of confiture straight from the jar will soothe my French-deprived soul. It's the North American anti-depressant equivalent of eating Ben & Jerry's Half-Baked straight from the carton, however in my case I am slumped on my couch, wearing my tackiest-of-tack "J'adore Paris" sweatshirt with a gingham-lidded jar never farther than a spoon length's away from my mouth.
Depressingly last week I finished another jar from our May trip. It was abricot from Fauchon and I categorically declare it my new favourite. When I had licked the last drop from under my fingernails (If only that weren't true!) I lovingly washed out the jar and placed it on top of the stove, next to my Eiffel Tower cheese grater.
Now as I type this, the jar is sitting next to me as a sort of confiture inspiration. Not remarkable in design, though not as plain as the Bonne Maman jar, the Fauchon logo is black-and-white bold on the lid. An abricot features on the front label but the best is the back label, below the ingredients: "26 Place de la Madeleine - 75008 Paris".
I remember 26 Place de la Madeleine - 75008 Paris; I remember the buttery croissant I ate there; I remember where I sat; I remember the overwhelming task of choosing what delicacies to buy and wrap in my dirty laundry to bring back to Victoria; I remember the taste of Paris.
Confiture - so much more romantic than jam.