It’s Saturday. I’ve been fasting for over twenty-four hours. My last meal was back on Wednesday evening. However, my statement is truthfully a lie.

Last night, for a final supper in Paris before heading back home for the holidays, I forced a small bowl of pulsed vegetable soup down my throat. I wasn’t hungry, but I knew I would have disappointed Madame Joffres by skipping out on my final Parisian dinner of the year.

So, I went light and broke my fast—going all day Thursday into Friday, until an evening’s bowl of soup. Now today: Saturday afternoon. I come to my present condition.