En Auvergne We stooped to cross the threshold carrying evening on our shoulders and shadow curved the corners and the walls around a muted light. A simmering dark sauce breathed out a lure of something richly meat. We took our seats along a wooden bench quietly close as frogmouths. Knitted into family there we watched the sorcery of our hostess as she sliced the orange folds of mushroom into her steaming brew. A scatter of herbs unlike the ones we …