Passionate about cars and cinema, Thomas Morales has notably published “Praise of the car. Defense of an endangered species ”(Éditions du Rocher, 2018) and“ A summer at Max Pécas ”(Pierre-Guillaume de Roux, 2019).
These ridiculous compulsive people have no limits.
No respect.
No doubt.
They attack the last bastions of our greedy humanity with the satisfied expression of revenge ascetics.
They dared to sully the trinity on which our millennial identity is based: wine, cheese and meat.
As a whole, they deny our map and our territory, our artisan-butchers and our peasants, our winegrowers and our dairy products, our plowing and our pastures.
They mock the typicality of our landscapes and the Men who have shaped our intimate geography for so long;
hard work and inheritance;
know-how and the spirit of sharing;
traditions and almighty nature;
in short, our nostalgic wave.
To read also Thomas Morales: "I have two loves, my country and nostalgia"
They strike out from our vocabulary, the pleasures of the table, necessarily guilty according to them, of our lamentable backwardness and our incurable attachment to food professions.
It is a part of our culture that we want to tear down, raze in the name of homogenization and subjugation to all these new leagues of virtue.
Their blindness in transforming our lifestyles is more than worrying.
Without wine, cheese and meat, France would lose its soul and also its main tourist attraction.
Emanation of what we have best and most sensitive, this trinity forged the most modest existences.
When elsewhere, we eat on the go, in haste, slaves of modern times, France is resisting somehow thanks to the family meal.
Thomas Morales
In such a fractured society, everyone longs for these moments of tranquility and simplicity. Being able to afford farm-produced cheese, a glass of wine and quality meat is an ambitious and highly respectable political program. There are more futile concerns. Our compatriots could demand that this even become an inalienable right.
Our country, builder of taste, explorer of flavors, tireless discoverer of the infinite variations of the palate, is distinguished precisely by this civilization of good food.
With us, the dear is not sad.
When elsewhere, we eat on the go, in a hurry, slaves of modern times, France is resisting somehow thanks to the family meal.
It even sanctifies it.
It is there, the base of our habits, to exchange with guests, to debate sometimes with virulence but never in bitterness, always in the friendly tinkle.
Victory by clinking glasses is a campaign slogan that would unite men and women of good will.
In moderation, it goes without saying.
A glass of wine, a piece of cheese and on fat days, a piece of Charolais or Limousine, life rediscovers unexpected colors.
Thomas Morales
In France, we accompany a crottin de Chavignol with a sancerre, one of those Loire wines, not pretentious for a penny that opens the mind and nourishes the imagination.
A glass of wine, a piece of cheese and on fat days, a piece of Charolais or Limousine, life finds unexpected colors.
These seemingly harmless gestures take on a marvelous radiance today, facing the sling.
When I drink a sauvignon, I praise my clay-limestone soil, I bow to the goats and I perpetuate my family history.
In addition to their food denial, these people totally ignore the treasures of our French literature which makes food and words dance.
In his novel,
Le Beaujolais Nouveau arrived
, René Fallet was already sounding bugles and trumpets: “
This Te Deum exploded in Paris, in all the big cities, rolled in their arteries, sang Montmartre and Contrescarpe, paraded in the rue Saint-Denis, louis d'or tinkled on all the zincs where the people thronged to see and touch the divine child of the year
”. Remember at Dumas, in
Les Trois Mousquetaires
, Porthos' head in the chapter "A dinner for a prosecutor" when someone brings him an indelicate drink: "
He also drank half a glass of this very careful wine, and recognized for this horrible cru of Montreuil, the terror of the palates exercised
".
A good meal cures all ailments.
Christine de Rivoyre recalls this in "La Mandarine".
On the news of the death of her parents, the heroine of the book, the red-haired Séverine with an insatiable appetite, prepares a gigantic omelet to console herself: “
After the omelette I served a chicken galantine with a side salad. 'olive oil.
You see, my memory is precise
, ”she said.
How far will our torturers at the table go?
After wine, cheese and meat, will they take away
the poor man's coffee
, dear to Alphonse Boudard?