Not long after my father died, I went to Martinique with my mother. I remember three things about that trip. My mother's grief. The profiteroles. And the topless beach. Grief, food, and nudity My mother was in a raw stage of mourning, subject to fits of literal wailing. But no one in my family was ever too upset to eat, especially dessert. And Martinique is a French island,
Freud’s Butcher
A blog about Genealogy, Psychology, and Meat