A Tale Of Domestic Love And Casual Misandry

I know we just got married, but our honeymoon phase is most definitely over.

“Allez, on goûte mes belles tomaaaates!”* The women were shouting from their vegetable stands at the market on the Cours Saleya in Nice. Graham and I were spending a weekend there, and we had only planned on walking through the market that morning, but at some point I couldn’t resist the tableau—I had to jump into it.

I bought myself a straw bag and started filling it with apricots, zucchinis, strawberries and aubergines to the point where I barely could carry it, so I gave it to him and we kept on shopping—excited and happy.

We probably looked so good. And so in love.

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We had started our day sitting at a lovely café called Gina on the Place Massena, and I was explaining to Graham what the French eat for breakfast. We had ordered tartines and he was surprised to see a toasted baguette with jam and butter on the side.

“How is that a tartine?” he said.

“Well, of course, it is a tartine,” I responded.

“No, it’s not.”

“How would you know what a tartine is?” I continued.

“Well, I have had many tar…