On navigating Lent in style

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We know the soothing splurge, its thrilling defeat of anger; and what's a deprivation but resplendent inspiration to us all?  Whole domains of collectibles remain untapped; if we are barred from yet another Pauillac, these cruel nights and days, there's all of Graves across the river, only panting for our plunder, where staggering price affords a darling médocation.

Such purges as we contem-plate in our morning floor exercises, allow a generous range. A new pair of rowing sneaks might serve, to lend a flippant sparkle to our mid-day chores, fielding calls from La Grenouille for advances from another trust: Pinky and his rognons de veau again, scaling the hill of Corton for a quaff of proper symmetry, to do the bold thing well.

Where others indulge neurotic exorbitancy, our genius finds panache, the touchstone of that genus better sapiened by its cash. We see the wit to put us off, as sweet exertion to our scoff, the comely fender every bit the consolation of its lender, for the stiff transmission. It is a fallacy that Lent must deter us at all, from our anointed rounds of sweet expenditure.
Yet, if the thorny path becomes our heart's desire, do we not owe Lent its bargain of spending where we're bored? For this, we take on partners, to amass a common hoard, and switch to their obsession for what no one can afford.

We keep a Childe Harold for contin-gencies like these, his Crayola the viola of our wanton symphonies, he barely owes to Berlioz' Byronic melo-ies, the better then to herald how our purchasing may please. How minor is that finery that draws us to our knees, contrasted with refineries we clip in bonded ease. Too bad for you, to have to read, a simple Nicene creed, less Lucullan, enticing than the one we get to plead.

Today's cassoulet
  is drawn from
  family recipes