Cassoulet

She sat at her bedroom window folding and unfolding a grease-stained scrap of paper. The smell of cassoulet wafted from the kitchen below, the tiny blocks of bacon vying for prominance over the shapely duck leg. She imagined the harricot beans in their estacy as they simmered in the decadent broth of juices, goose fat and tomato puree, soaking in the flavours. This dish was something of a mythical character, spoken of in hushed tones of reverence, 'the one true icon'. Immitations would not be tolerated and imposters banished with a cacaphony befitting a witch trial. Differences of opinion caused fractures in the micro-society that was her immediate family. Last year, her father had unwisely declared that while it was the best her mother had ever made it still lacked a certain 'je ne sais qoi'. For a week it had seemed likely her mother would demand he concent to a divorce. The clatter of dishes brought her out of her reverie. She smiled as she unfolded the scrap of paper again to read the word she had hastily scribbled in pencil. A whispered prayer - her grandmother's secret ingredient.