It Sunday morning at the Market in Auvillar, France, and I cannot resist buying roasted chestnuts from a vendor who scoops them hot into a cone he fashions from newspaper. There is no price. One drops coins into a jar. The day is sunny but blustery. Behind the chestnut vendor a brazier glows. Men gather warming their hands. In the air, the smell of more chestnuts roasting, and I am brought back to the chestnut vendors of my childhood standing on street corners in New York City. Perhaps, Mom, Dad and I have driven through the Lincoln Tunnel, come to see the Christmas show at Radio City, when Dad stops to buy a brown paper bag of sweet, warm roasted chestnuts. We peel and eat, as I am eating now, tasting time.