After raising three husbands and a son, a hard-charging divorcee flees the suburban confines of Washington, D.C., for sunny Provence, where she falls in love with the local wines, a younger man and la vie boheme. Marcia Muir Mitchell tells all in "French Toast," a nakedly honest, sumptuously descriptive memoir about her often humorous, sometimes heart-breaking struggles to build a new life for herself in a picturesque village split between the old world and the new. Mitchell's affection for the arts inspired the move along with her love for an artist. Although she falls for his work before they meet, he more than meets her expectations. The relationship, however, alternates between rocky and sublime, as does Mitchell's on-going effort to adapt to the demands of a May-December romance. Though she spends time at her easel, Mitchell primarily paints with words. French cuisine, architecture, scenery–whatever meets her eye–come to vivid life as do the panoply of characters who dwell in this quaint corner of Southern France. Ultimately “French Toast” is much more than a memoir. It's also a love story, a travelogue and a cautionary reminder that one must suffer for one's art.