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Posts Tagged ‘  The Small Pleasures Of Life’

The Small Pleasures of Life‘ was highly recommended by Emma from ‘Book Around the Corner’ and I have wanted to read it for a long time. I finally got to read it today.

The Small Pleasures of Life‘ is a collection of short essays, most of them two or three pages long. In each of these essays Philippe Delerm meditates on one of the little things in life, that we take great pleasure in. There is one essay on shelling peas in the morning after breakfast. There is another on the fragrance of apples. There is another on getting up early in the morning and going to the bakery when the air is still fresh and crisp, enjoying the fragrance of the freshly baked bread, and buying delicious croissants and having them on the way back. There are other essays on the first sip of beer, the pleasures of a banana split icecream, reading on the beach, a trip to the cinema, reading a newspaper during breakfast, the mobile library. There is even one on Agatha Christie. There are thirty four essays in all.

The Small Pleasures of Life‘ is a beautiful little gem. Each essay in it is a delight. My favourites were the one on shelling peas, and the one on buying croissants. But I really loved them all. I wish I had been able to read the book in French – I think it would have been even more delightful. It is a beautiful book to take out with you to the garden, taking in the cool, pleasant spring air, watching the butterflies glide around, while dipping into the book and enjoy reading about these little pleasures, while indulging in one or two of them yourself, like sipping a cup of delicious tea, or scratching your dog or your cat behind her ears. If you can read it in French, it will be even better.

I wasn’t sure whether share a few favourite passages from the book or one full essay. I opted for the latter, so that you can enjoy the delights of a full essay. Happy reading!

Helping Shell Peas

It always happens at that low ebb of the morning when time stands still. The breakfast leftovers have been cleared, the smell of lunch simmering on the stove is still some way off and the kitchen is as calm as a church. Laid out on the waxed table-cloth: a sheet of newspaper, a pile of peas in their pods and a salad bowl.
Somehow you never manage to get in on the start of the operation. You were just passing through the kitchen on your way to the garden, to see if the post had arrived, when …
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
As if you didn’t already know the answer. Of course you can help. Just pull up a chair. Soon an invisible metronome will lull you into the cool hypnotic rhythm of shelling peas. The operation itself is deliciously simple. Use your thumb to press down on the join and the pod instantly opens itself, docile and yielding. For reluctant peas who disguise their youth with shrivelled skin, use the nail of your index finger to make an incision that will rip open the green and expose all the moisture and firm flesh beneath. You can send those little green balls rolling out at the push of a finger. The last one is unbelievably tiny. Sometimes you can’t resist crunching it. It tastes bitter, but fresh as an eleven o’clock kitchen where the water runs cold and the vegetables have just been peeled – nearby, next to the sink, naked carrots glisten on the tea towel where they’ve been left to dry.
You talk in little snippets of conversation, the words welling up from the calm inside you, and again an invisible music seems to be at play. Occasionally you raise your head at the end of a sentence, to look at the other person; they, of course, keep their head lowered – it’s all part of the code.
You talk about work, about plans, about feeling tired – steering clear of anything psychological. Shelling peas isn’t a time to explain things, it’s a time to go with the flow, in a detached sort of way. You’re looking at five minutes’ worth of work, but the pleasure lies in rolling up your sleeves and making the moment last, slowing down the morning pod by pod. You plunge your hand into the contents of the salad bowl and let the peas trickle through your fingers. They’re delicate as liquid, all those contiguous round shapes in a pea-green sea, and you’re actually surprised to discover that your hands aren’t wet. A long, fulfilled silence, and then: ‘Right, all we need now is someone to go and get the bread …’

Have you read ‘The Small Pleasures of Life‘ by Philippe Delerm? What do you think about it?

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