Hotel Stories and A Cheesy, Sausagy Baguette

Published on February 13, 2015, by in Uncategorized.

sausage and mozzarella baguette

I’ve missed my weird part-time jobs.

Weird part-time jobs have been an essential part of my successfully living in Europe for this long.

There was that time I corrected (i.e. rewrote) a lettre de motivation for a girl applying for university and essentially had to stalk her in order to get paid. I had a lot of time on my hands at the time and ended up calling her, repeatedly, and even though she pretended to be her own landlord when I called and then e-mailed me saying her wallet had been stolen, I eventually got my money — all 80 euro of it. Success.

Then there was the time I called about a hundred restaurants to make sure that they were still opened. TCB started making fun of me because I would call and pretend I was going to make a reservation, but then I never would. Then he made even more fun of me because I started just calling and asking if they were still opened, point blank, no nonsense. Much faster.

I once had a job to set up someone’s Internet, but I had to pay the Country Boy to go in my stead, because I realized once I showed up that I didn’t know how to set up Internet, and that the people who call someone to set up their Internet aren’t necessarily too stupid to figure out which cord is the phone line and which cord is an ethernet cable. Sometimes it’s actually hard. Luckily, they took it well, and TCB got 20 bucks out of it.

My most recent in the line of weird jobs is visiting hotels pretending to be a client, like secret shopping but instead, I’m inspecting bathrooms. Some are five-star hotels, where I get a personal escort through the halls, into palatial bathrooms and secret, private executive clubhouses. Others are budget hotels where the person at the front desk hands me five keys and basically tells me to go nuts.

When I first started this particular weird job, I used a weird accent I had concocted that I thought made my plight more believable. In what turned out to be a very convincing version of an American who is still learning French and has memorized a few key phrases, I would tell them that my parents were coming to visit at Easter, and I would like to see a room. I had all sorts of extra details about their trop memorized, just in case.

It took me about two months to realize that no one actually cared. After that, I started speaking with my regular accent, the one that people sort of listen to, and then wait… and then ten minutes or twenty minutes or sometimes a few weeks later ask me, “Where are you from?” “Ça vient d’où, ce petit accent ?” They’re usually surprised to hear I’m American — I apparently don’t have an American accent — but when I ask them where they thought I was from, they never have an answer.

Which, I suppose, is a large part of why I found it so surprising that a concierge at one of the hotels, after I’d spoken maybe two sentences, started speaking to me in Italian. He was Neapolitan, convinced I was Italian too. I russled up my college Italian and managed to say that my father had Sicilian origins. He asked me — in Italian — if I preferred to speak in English, French or Italian. I chose English. He spoke with a faint accent.

I’ve almost forgotten how important it once was to me to be Italian, to be perceived as being Italian, to be part of that group. After all, the first place I sought out when I moved to Toronto was Little Italy. The first recipes I tried to master were tomato sauce and lasagna and tiramisu. For a long time, Italian was more a part of my identity than American was.

And yet I learned, soon after moving to France, that as expats, our secondary identities take a tertiary place. We’re expats, then Americans. Then you can be something else, if you want to. I kind of stopped wanting to, but I don’t know why.

At another hotel on the same day, a manager discovered I was American — through my petit accent, though he first assumed I was German. He told me there was an American intelligentsia who liked France and asked me if I had read any Carson McCullers, printed the page for me off of Wikipedia so that I could look up the works. He told me that he never had any people of color in his hotel, though he sometimes got “Mexicans from California.” Before I even had time to be shocked, he told me that racism wasn’t alive in America, but it was present. When I tried to discuss it with him, I was rebuffed; he had met a lot of Americans, you see. He knew how it was. I folded the Wikipedia page and stuck it in my pocket. I still haven’t decided if I’m going to take him up on his suggestion.

sausage and mozzarella baguette

All this to say, the strange, little part-time jobs are back. In fact, the strange, little part-time jobs are my full-time job now. I’m my own boss for the first time since… maybe the first time ever. I’m not a student. I’m not living at home. I’m not waiting to hear back on a full-time position, or consulting, or doing anything except exactly what I want to. Writing. Translating. And doing occasional strange little jobs, because without the strange little jobs, I wouldn’t have all that much to write about.

I’ve never been so excited to go to work.

sausage and mozzarella baguette

Sausage Baguette (adapted from Lady and Pups)

1 baguette
2 herbed sausages (I used Toulouse sausage, but Italian sausage would be great)
1 400 g can of whole tomatoes
1 onion, chopped
2 cloves of garlic, minced
1 pinch red chili flakes
1 tsp. soy sauce
4 ounces mozzarella cheese

Cut the baguette into four sections, or if you have an American sized oven, keep it whole. Cut through the baguette from the top, lengthwise, leaving about an inch in tact at either end of the baguette. You’re going to be stuffing it from the top, and you don’t want the stuffing to leak out the sides.

Remove the sausages from their casings. Heat a large pot and add the sausages, breaking them up with a wooden spoon. Cook until nice and browned, then remove, leaving behind the fat. Reserve the sausage.

Add the onion. Sauté for 5-7 minutes, until translucent and slightly browned. Add the garlic and sauté for 1 minute. Add the tomatoes and chili flakes. Cook for about 20 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add the soy sauce and remove the pot from the heat.

Use an immersion blender to blend the sauce. Add the sausage back to the pot.

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

Place the baguettes on an aluminum-lined baking sheet. Spoon the sauce into the baguettes. Slice the cheese and distribute over the top. Bake until the cheese is browned and bubbly. Serve.


How the Grinch (ahem… the French Administration) Tried to Steal Christmas and Failed, Miserably. Also, Magret de Canard.

Published on December 30, 2014, by in Uncategorized.


This is only the second year in the nearly eight that I’ve lived here that I’ve spent Christmas in France, but it’s the first time it happened at least partially by choice.

I could have gone home this time. It was physically possible. I suppose that last time, when the French administration let me decide between going home and giving up my visa or staying and keeping it, I also had a choice, but it didn’t feel like a choice, not at all.

This year, I didn’t have the choice in the way that many people feel like they don’t have the choice every year. My work didn’t want to give me vacation, but I bet if I’d whined enough and to the right people, I would have gotten a few days, even if I would have had to fly back to Paris on the night of the 25th. I could have, in August, when my status story was still unclear, said “To Hell with it” and booked the ticket back anyway, knowing that I’d likely be in the throes of visa woes (I was) and would have had to work customer service anyway while I was home (a grand total of 1 [one] e-mail this year… *harrumph*). But I didn’t.

It’s not that I didn’t want to spend Christmas with my family. I really can’t stress that enough. It’s that life got in the way. It’s that some things seemed more important, this year, than three days back home. And I guess it didn’t scare me as much as it used to, to know that I would be far, because I have a family here, now.


As a writer, I try to hold on to memories. To feelings. I try to relive them as often as I can, because true experience is at the heart of a really meaningful work of fiction, and if all of those awkward, terrible, wonderful experiences are just fleeting moments… then really, what’s the point of writing anything down at all?

So I keep them. My first day of school, the way my wool socks kept sliding down my legs, how scratchy the grey jumper was.

The first time I felt ashamed, when a friend threw french fries over a second story landing in our favorite diner.

The first time I decided I was going to be kissed, the orchestrating that took place leading up to it, the piece of Big Red gum I chewed and spit out two blocks before I got to the place I’d chosen.

I can remember all those things, but I don’t remember what it was like to feel nervous in the moments leading up to meeting the Country Boy’s parents. I know, intellectually speaking, that I was nervous. I remember asking my boss at the time what sort of wine I could buy for people who lived in the Loire Valley, and him recommending a Saint-Joseph, and not caring how much it cost. I remember not being sure of how to give the wine to them and finally just plunking it gracelessly on the kitchen table. I remember that I spent years afterwards avoiding saying tu or vous, because TCB had told me that vous made them uncomfortable, but they had yet to tell me, to my face, to say tu.

But I don’t remember the moment of meeting them. I don’t remember knowing them in any time that wasn’t jovial and fun and sweet, TCB’s dad making fun of me for drinking more than any girl he’s ever met (and holding it together — no worries, Mom), and TCB’s mom shows me pictures of little TCB growing up and telling me all the stories I never would have known to ask about from when he was small.


The first time I was stuck in Paris for Christmas, I was fully intent on spending it in my apartment, alone, eating Speculoos spread with a spoon. I told TCB not to tell his parents I was here — I didn’t want them to be burdened by my administrative crisis.

But TCB is a really bad liar. And when his mom asked if my flight had gone well, he couldn’t lie.

His father told me that I had a day to find a train to Gien, or he was coming to get me in his truck. This, from a man who hates Paris.

So I didn’t spend my first French Christmas in Paris. I spent it in Coullons, where it had snowed, and we went to the Christmas market and saw the small church lit up with a life-sized Nativity. That’s where I spent this past weekend, celebrating Christmas with the people who were not only willing to write a letter to the French administration (my sworn enemy, at this point), telling them of my language prowess and cultural integration, but then admonished me for thanking them with a bottle of nice wine.

C’est normal.” It’s normal. She’s like a daughter to us, they said to TCB.

Well, that turned the water works on. Luckily, they weren’t there to see.


This year, because TCB’s brother wasn’t going to make it for the 25th, we had two Christmasses. We had one in Paris, with mass at Notre Dame and a truly excessive meal, which I did take pictures of and will post, someday. This is what TCB requested we eat – magret de canard and grits. I’d already bought veal, but it feels appropriate to post this recipe here, if only because for our second Christmas, on the 27th, we did eat duck — albeit confit and not pan-seared magret, with the traditional foie gras and scallops and ice cream for dessert, but we were all far too full for more than a clementine

We opened presents by the tree — my almost-in-laws gave me a book on the Normandy débarquement. We drank too much. We ate far too much. We laughed.

If I wasn’t going to have Christmas in the States this year, having like that was really the next best thing.


Magret de Canard with Pan-Fried Apples and Grits (serves 2)

1 large duck magret
salt and pepper
2 Golden delicious apples

.5 cups uncooked grits
.5 cup water
.5 cup milk
2 Tbsp. mascarpone
salt and pepper

Score the fat side of the duck breast with a knife, not going all the way through to the meat. Place it in a cold skillet and slowly bring it up over low heat. Pour off the fat as it renders off (save this for duck fat potatoes).

Place the grits, water, milk and a pinch of salt in a saucepan. Heat over low heat. Don’t worry too much about them, but give them a stir every once in awhile.

After 20-30 minutes, depending on the heat, start checking the underside of the duck. You want the fat to have become thin and crisp. Once most of the fat has rendered, you may have to turn up the heat a bit to get it to look like this:


When it does look like that, season the meat side with salt and pepper and flip it over. If you haven’t turned the heat up already to color the fat side of the duck, do it now. At some point while the duck is cooking leisurely and you’re on your second or third apéritif, peel and slice your apples. Leave about a tablespoon of fat in the pan, and add them in with the duck.

Cook until the duck is medium-rare. This will take about 3 minutes on the flesh side over a medium-high heat. Remove the duck and let it rest for about 10 minutes. I like to heat up my toaster oven a bit, turn it off, and leave it in there, where it’s warm but won’t keep cooking. Finish cooking the apples, stirring them occasionally until soft.

Stir the mascarpone into the grits and taste for seasoning. Slice the duck into slices. Serve on warm plates.



Stories from the Préfecture: My Christmas Present to Myself

Published on December 23, 2014, by in Eggs.


Someday, I promise myself, I’ll write all this down. Someday it will turn into a book. A story. Something funny, where the reader empathizes with the narrator and yet has no idea how to empathize, because how the heck do you empathize with someone who’s putting themselves through so much misery for something so inconsequential?

Long story short, and for a lot of different reasons, I went back to the préfecture this month. I didn’t have to go back until July, so there’s no good reason why I would have gone back now, except that I did, and it was important, to me. Maybe it will make some of you laugh. Maybe it will help some of you. Maybe it will help those close to me understand why I’ve been such a pain for the past few months. Whatever the reason, this is the story.


I made the decision to return to the préfecture for a status change just a few weeks before I went in for a renewal, which meant that this year, for the first time in my nearly eight years in France, I’d be going through the process twice. It’s a process that the Country Boy has learned to loathe even more than I do; in my world, only the préfecture is crazy and demanding and slightly terrifying, but in his world, I become a reflection of that which I hate.

I asked a host questions at that first renewal — I always try to ask questions when I have a person in front of me, because they can’t hang up on you or ignore your e-mail. My questions were pointed and probably quite befuddling to agent #2, because while she didn’t know my plan, I did — I had put aside short-lived thoughts of applying for nationality and had had a heart-to-heart with TCB: we were going to get PACSed.

I would have to wait until getting my recently renewed visa in October before making an appointment to change statuses. That was fine, because paperwork was coming.

The list of required papers to get PACSed as a foreigner was long and involved several different documents proving a negative (never married, never PACSed), which I didn’t think was possible. Apparently, France doesn’t care that you can’t prove a negative. Here, you can and do. Actually, that part was relatively painless — send a request by post, receive the document several weeks later.

But there were crazier documents to track down. I ordered a new birth certificate. I realized through a series of odd events and two different phone calls with the same fonctionnaire trying to make a visa change appointment too early in the game that I had requested the wrong copy of my birth certificate. I ordered a new copy, and, because I had everything else I needed and was ready to go apply for a PACS, I sent my sister a typed and signed letter of procuration that she could show to the officials in New York (and franglaised my way through it because I’ve never written a formal letter in English) and then asked said sister to rush around New York City getting it signed and stamped by two different officials, then scan it and e-mail it to me so that I could have it translated, then mail it to me by overnight post so that I could apply for my PACS appointment in accordance with the schedule I had set up for myself in August.

She did all of the above with grace and poise and in under 2 hours. Score 1 America. And score 9,000 family.


By the time we had all of the paperwork assembled for our PACS, some of it was too old to be used; paperwork for a PACS needs to be no more than three months old, but when applying for a PACS in Paris, your PACS appointment is usually about three months after the day that you drop off your paperwork.


Ergo, we would have to apply for some of it again, because the perfect timing of the paperwork did not work out exactly as I had planned. Cue first panic attack, whereby I have a meltdown because we were supposed to drop off our PACS paperwork on a randomly designated (by me) Thursday, and now we will have to wait until Friday, i.e. 24 hours later. On a related note, I don’t deal well with the unforseen.

Also cue the first time that our landlord pissed me off by not sending us rent forms. Which we didn’t even end up needing. But it made me mad anyway. It’s the principle of the thing.

When we finally received all papers, TCB and I were not speaking, because the aforementioned landlord issue had turned me into an illogical banshee and he decided he shouldn’t speak to me anymore, which at the time made me madder but in retrospect was a very wise decision on his part. We went to the Tribunal d’Instance at 8:50 AM in silence — the irony of going to get PACSed while not speaking together because of the assembly of documents for the aforementioned PACS did not escape me.

I stood in front of the doors to block two women who had arrived just after me and were — I was certain — going to cut me in line. TCB smoked a fair distance from me in case of literal Emiglia-explosion.

When the doors were unlocked, I realized the women I was competing with were employees of the tribunal.

Two men were standing in line behind us, ostensibly to get PACSed. They were in their 60s. It made me happy to see them. We dropped off our paperwork and were told to come back with the two documents that were valid now but would not be valid in three months. TCB and I made up without a word.


The day had come! October 16th.

I picked up my carte de séjour and tried to make a new appointment online, but the system would not allow me to make an appointment online, and instead I was told to call a number. Since I hate phone calls even more than I hate the préfecture, I tried again on the 17th. No dice.

I called. I spoke with a delightful* woman who, with grace* and poise* told me that she could not help me, and I should try the woman on line 3. I tried line 3. She sent me back to line 2. I started feeling like I was in a Kafka novel. I got back on the phone with the lady on line 2. She told me she couldn’t help me. She didn’t hang up on me, but she made it very clear to me that the conversation was over.

A month later, I would not be so lucky.

Parallel to all of this — because life was still going on, to some extent — TCB and I had finally planned our dream trip to Normandy in October and had thus taken a Friday off work.

Before driving off into the sunset (or sunrise, really), we went down to the préfecture, again, and asked the woman at the reception desk if I could make an appointment for a visa change — the same thing that the women on lines 2 and 3 had told me in no uncertain terms was impossible, but TCB is less easily swayed than I. She sent me to the 2nd floor, where I was told there were too many people today for him to even consider making me an appointment, but that I could try coming back on Monday. I explained that I would have to work. He told me life’s tough and then you’re dead.**

I tried the downstairs office again and put on a very adult* voice and asked nicely* and calmly* if there was anything she could do. The receptionist gave me a piece of paper with an address on it and told me to write a letter. I asked if I could speak to the person to whom I would be writing the letter in person instead. She handed me another piece of paper with the same address on it, but highlighted it this time.

I left and broke down hysterically crying on the Pont Saint-Michel.

We went to Normandy and had a spectacular time. When we got back, I wrote the letter, had it checked by three people to make it more French, flourishy and eloquent, and sent it.

I tried to stop thinking about a visa change, because at this point, I was certain it would never, ever happen.

*Replacement adjectives for my sanity.

**Copyright Jean Monaco, aka my mother, aka the reason why you don’t cry unless they’re’s blood. Sorry, Mom — there’s a fair amount of crying without blood in this story.


In November, I had planned a trip to Prague with my aunt. Based on the timeline I had meticulously made in August, I knew that planning a trip at the end of November might be dicey, but I also knew that if I decided not to go and nothing happened, I would regret it, so I planned the trip, knowing full well that it might interfere with all variety of appointments. Miraculously, it didn’t.


The Friday before my Sunday departure, I came home from work to find a letter in the mail, telling me to be at the préfecture on December 9th with a list of documents. My flourishy letter had worked — I had gotten my renewal appointment!

One small problem. The documents. I had two weeks to get them, and one of those weeks I would be in Prague. TCB totally stepped up and agreed to track down most of them either while I was away or together once I got back — the only one I would have to get alone was an attestation de sécurité sociale, which one usually gets online. Unfortunately, the site was telling me that my social security number — which I had been using since 2010 — did not exist, and I would have to call for more information.

But it was a weekend. Everything was closed. I wrote down the number I could call and took it with me to Prague.

Enter the worst phone call of my life (so far). Apparently for the past two years, while living in a country with socialized healthcare — I haven’t had healthcare. A paperwork glitch from when I finished my Master’s degree and became an employee that could easily be resolved in four to six weeks — TCB was in Paris rapidly assembling more papers to do so — but that meant that I wasn’t going to be able to get that attestation. Since I know that papers are king in France, and since I know that no one here ever offers a life-saving paper of their own accord, I started asking about other attestations — could I get an attestation that I had been paying into the system (since I was…)? Non. Could I get an attestation that said that I was in the process of regularizing my situation? Non. Could I get a letter of any kind saying that I wasn’t a delinquent and that this wasn’t my fault?

Madame, j’ai répondu à vos questions, donc je n’ai plus qu’à vous dire au revoir. Au revoir madame.* Click.

She hung up on me. 45 euros later, all I had to show for my efforts were tears. Lots and lots of tears.

I had a fantastic time in Prague. I knew that when I came back, there would be a scramble, but I was ready for it. Kind of.

*Ma’am, I’ve answered your questions, so I have nothing more to do than to say goodbye. Goodbye, ma’am.


I got back from Prague on November 28th. My PACS was December 3rd. It didn’t give me a lot of time for any remaining paperwork.

Luckily, my secret weapon is my Merovingian boyfriend, who has a way of talking to French people that I will never understand. Literally, I once showed a préfecture worker a copie conforme à l’origine of my attestation d’assurance (one of these days, I’m going to do a post on French words expats don’t know in English because WE DON’T USE THEM). She said that I couldn’t use it; TCB said, “Mais si,” and she said, “Oh, you’re right, of course.”

That was the moment I realized that I would never win at this game, and all I could do was try to keep my head above water. The water of my constant tears of frustration.

ANYWAY. I got together as much proof of my continued payment of sécurité sociale as I could, and the morning of my PACS, TCB and I went to the social security office. I showed my social security number on my paychecks and a letter from the head of billing at my company saying that I had, in fact, been paying into the social security system, but no dice.

“I can’t write an attestation for something that I can’t prove in my software,” the very nice man said. “And what’s more, my software is broken.”

I could see TCB, who works in IT, physically holding himself back to keep from crawling over the desk to fix the software of this lovely man who was beginning to remind me of a bureaucrat à la Douglas Adams.

“But sir, please, I have a renewal appointment next week. I didn’t realize that my situation wasn’t regular.”

“Well, mademoiselle, there are certain administrative things that you have to keep on top of, you know.”

Yeah. At that, I started crying.

Which is when the very nice man decided that in order to get the crazy girl out of his office, he could write an attestation attesting that I had a social security number attributed to my name.

Fine! Perfect! Yes! Sign! Stamp! Put another stamp on there! Can someone else sign it? Just pass it around like a birthday card and get everyone to sign! He’s the janitor? I don’t care! He can sign it too!

I took my paper and we left. We bought some Christmas decorations and thought about having a stiff drink, which we did not do; the day wasn’t over yet.

Our PACS was relatively uneventful, save the moment we showed up at our assigned office and saw a piece of paper on the front door, which usually means fermeture exceptionnelle pour grève, but this one was just telling us to go next door. So we did. The woman who was PACSing us inverted my first and last names, got my birthday wrong, and looked like one of those people who wouldn’t react if you exploded a paper bag next to her head. She also spent more time explaining how we could de-PACS than actually PACSing us.

We went to our favorite restaurant for dinner and drank a delicious Crozes-Hermitage. It felt like we were nearing the end.


Six days later, I got up very early and had a cup of coffee, but I couldn’t eat anything.

I’m very superstitious about visa day. I spend the entire pre-appointment period thinking of all the things that could go wrong, which in my mind makes it impossible that those things could happen. It usually works; this time it did not. I missed one.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. After a week of back-and-forthing with our landlord trying to get quittances de loyer that proved that we pay our rent (which we do), and deciding, finally, to meet in person on Tuesday, she called TCB on Tuesday morning letting him know that she had just dropped them off at the post office. Luckily, she didn’t call me, or I might have rendered us homeless. Also luckily, we had several other proofs of residence, including lots and lots of attestations from our insurance company, based in Gien. They’re lovely. We brought them a big box of chocolates last weekend.

TCB tried to be helpful by telling me that we could show the people at the préfecture the repeated bank transfers to our landlord and show that the person we were sending said bank transfers to was the same person on our lease, but I wasn’t sure. I drank another coffee and tried not to throw up in the street.

We showed up at the préfecture at precisely three o’clock. We stood in line for a full hour behind two (2) other people. The line did not move. My back hurt immensely, because I was carrying 10 pounds (not hyperbole) of documents on my back.

When we finally made it to the front of the line, I showed the person behind the desk my convocation. He passed me a piece of paper with a few lines handwritten on it.

“Please pick another date.”


“Software problem. We’re running behind. The earliest is the 7th of January.”

In related news, the French administration needs new software.


“While you’re picking your date, I’ll tell monsieur which documents you need to bring.”

I gaped for a while longer, but when it appeared that the woman behind the desk was getting frustrated with me, I picked the 7th. I tried to tell myself that it wasn’t a big deal — just one more month of waiting — but I didn’t quite believe myself. Just next to me — but seeming about a mile away — I heard TCB say, after the exhaustive list of documents given by the agent, “But… we had all of them.”

The agent looked sadly, pitifully to his colleague. “They had everything.”

Sensing a bit of compassion, I tried to barter. “I can stay till the end of the day, if that helps.”

The woman who had become frustrated with my gaping raised her eyebrows and scoffed. “Or you could have no visa. We could decide not to give you one.”

“The 7th is fine.”

I gathered my folders and we left. I felt tears welling up. I turned to TCB. “I give up.” The tears started coming. I tried to hide behind a wall, which is difficult to do, if you’ve never had the opportunity to try it. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t take it anymore.”

TCB tried to get me to calm down, or at least move outside, but the tears were free-falling by then, and I was too embarrassed to walk past everyone else. So I cried, as silently as I could, next to my wall.

I have a vague recollection of the agent, the compassionate one, coming up next to me, asking TCB if I was OK.

“Yes, she’s just disappointed. She’s been waiting since July. It’s stressful, you know.” He spoke with the perfect combination of apology and frankness. The agent nodded; he understood. He went out to smoke his cigarette. TCB managed to get me to the coffee machines.

The agent came back from his smoke break. He said some stuff to TCB that I refused to understand, but 5pm and wait here were involved. TCB looked at me, smiling, and said he’d buy me a coffee.

“Did you understand?”


He fed change into the machine and pressed the button for an allongé, no sugar. “Dry your face. Drink your coffee. He said he’d do your dossier at the end of the day.”

And now I was just plain mortified.

I drank my coffee and calmed myself down as best I could. We went back into the first room, where the woman who had tried to take away my visa was staring daggers at me. The room was nearly empty before agent #4 called me over.

It was the fastest préfecture interaction of my life. He barely glanced at our papers. I was scrambling through my Important, Might Be Important and Random Extra Visa Shit folders (and yes, they are labeled as such) trying to give the agent everything he asked for. He was making photocopies — which we’re supposed to make ourselves at 10 centimes a pop — like a pro. And then, the moment of truth.

Attestations de sécurité sociale?

I knew that all I had was my fake attestation from the week before. And TCB, who had brought his whole life in document form, is known for the bizarre pride he has of not having had a carte vitale since 2006.

We were fucked. (Pardon my French.)

I gave him my fake attestation. He asked why I didn’t have a real attestation, and I played dumb. For once, it worked. Then he asked for TCB’s. TCB was still fake combing through his documents. “I don’t have it. I didn’t know. But you can see on my work contracts…”

“Look. You have a dossier en béton. In concrete. But I have to run all new PACS visas past my superior. Wait over there for 15 minutes.”

We went back to the waiting room. Now TCB was nervous, but I knew that there was nothing else to do but wait. The agent had told us that in the worst case, we could drop off any remaining documents to complete our dossier at our convenience. If nothing else, we had moved forward today. We might not be going home with the visa, but it was something.

“Madame Monaco?”

I sat down in front of a terrifying lady who was combing through my dossier. “Why are you applying for a status change? Your visa is good until July.”

“Oh! I actually wrote a letter explaining…”

“Where’s the letter?”

“I sent it. Here. To you.”

“I don’t have it.”

“Well someone must have gotten it; that’s how I got the appointment.”

“And you don’t have a copy?”

I pulled out my phone and started frantically searching my e-mail outbox for an old copy — any copy.

“You got fired?”

“No! No. I just want to leave my job to do freelance work.”

“You’re suffering at your job?”

“I’m not… suffering. No. I just want to do something else.”

“Oh. That’s fine.”

She passes the dossier to agent 4. Agent 4 starts stamping stuff. Stamping is good.

“Sign here.”

I sign. Pass the form back.

“You signed in the wrong place.”

What? We’ve come this far… he’s going to turn me away! I start to panic again.

He laughs.

“Here.” He hands me a new version of the form. “Sign here.

“OK. Thank you. What can we do? How can we — repay you?”

“Put a comment in the comment box.” He grins.

“What’s your name?”

“Agent #4.”

“Thank you Mr. Agent #4.”

“I won’t give you a récipissé, since your old visa is still good. Just come in February and pick up your new visa. Or whenever. After February.” He stamps more things.

“So… that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“I still have my old visa.”

“Yes, but the new status.”

“The new status is good. I can… do whatever I want.”

He looks me in the eye.

“You have all of the rights of a French person. You can iron all day, if you want to.”


After that, we didn’t go out to celebrate. We were too exhausted.

We came home, had a beer, and I made comfort food. Not this comfort food — I was far too tired to take pictures of what I made. I made this, if you’re interested, and it was delicious.



Salt and Vinegar Fried Potatoes, Mushrooms, Spinach, Soft Egg

300 grams small potatoes
1/3 cup white vinegar

2 Tbsp. duck fat
2 shallots
4 tsp. olive oil, separated
300 grams mushrooms
2 eggs
2 handfuls baby spinach
salt and pepper
malt vinegar

Place the potatoes and white vinegar in a pot and cover by one inch with cold water. Bring to a boil over medium heat. Boil 20 minutes, or until the potatoes are tender.

Meanwhile, quarter the shallots and toss them with 2 tsp. of the olive oil. Place in a baking dish and place in the oven (use a toaster oven so you don’t waste energy) and roast for 30 minutes.

While the potatoes and shallots are cooking, thinly slice the mushrooms. Add the rest of the oil to a pan and cook the mushrooms until browned. Season with salt and set aside.

When the potatoes are cooked, halve them and heat up the duck fat in the same frying pan as you used for the mushrooms (to keep TCB from asking why you always use every pan in the house while making dinner). Add the potatoes and cook until golden brown and crispy, about 10 minutes.

Remove the potatoes from the pan and add the eggs. Fry to your liking. Runny is good for this dish.

Add a handful of raw spinach to each of two deep plates. Top with mushrooms and potatoes. Finish with shallots and the egg. Season with salt, pepper and malt vinegar to taste. Collapse on couch and eat.


Cucumber, Seaweed, Avocado, Chicken and Ikura Bowl

Published on November 28, 2014, by in Uncategorized.


The other day, The Country Boy looked at me with relative shock as I burst out laughing. I’m not without humor; it’s what made me laugh that made him so confused.

Le Grand Journal is Canal+’s “news” program in the evening, but the weather girl speaks with a strong Québécois accent and spends her entire segment making plays on words that I don’t understand, much of the weekly world news is presented by marionnette puppets — with a Sylvester Stallone puppet playing every American–, and the “on location” segments involve the journalist asking famous people from Anna Wintour to François Hollande to take strange dares.

In related news, France may be the birthplace of irony.

I don’t really like watching Le Grand Journal. I’ve assimilated fairly well into French culture — at least, that’s what I’m currently trying to convince the French government–, but if there’s one thing that still eludes me here, it’s the humor. You can’t just translate French jokes and have them still be funny — although apparently the opposite works, because when I told TCB about one of my father’s favorite phrases — saying an ugly person has a “face for radio” — he burst out laughing and didn’t calm down for a good two minutes. But French jokes — like French conversation, really — involve something different, something elusive, something that, for me, still remains very foreign. La culture générale: general culture.

It’s telling that, in France, when you say to someone, “I’m not an idiot,” what you actually say is, “Je ne suis pas sans culture“: I am not without culture. Here, the difference between “smart” and “intelligent” that isn’t really made in American English is very, very evident. Smart implies wit, a vast sea of knowledge and the ability to call upon the appropriate reference at the appropriate time. Smart is important here if you want to follow a conversation or laugh at a punchline… and I’m still left grinning like an idiot at the end of most of them.

Which is why I think it was so important to TCB when, during a Petit Journal skit, I cracked up laughing. To explain it would require a lot of lengthy references. I will say that it involves Zaz and the German occupation of Paris (I didn’t say that French humor was always light). Maybe it’s because ever since we visited Normandy, I’ve been reading up more and more on the occupation. Maybe it’s because we’ve just started watching Un Village français, a series that charts the occupation in a small French village. Maybe it’s a combination of these things or none of these things and I just found la légèreté sous l’occupation française to be funny. Who knows?

What I do know is that I sometimes laugh at French jokes. I’m shocked, on occasion, when I see an American do something that I deem American — talk loudly, order off-menu, drink soda with a meal — , and then I wonder how long it’s been since I did the same, or if I ever did those things at all. I do the crossword in French now. It’s no New York Times, but it’s something.


Bento Bowl (ingredients per person)

60 grams uncooked sushi rice
1-2 tsp. sushi vinegar
1 chicken breast
1 tsp. olive oil
1/2 cup prepared seaweed salad
1/4 cucumber
1/2 avocado
1 sheet nori
2 Tbsp. salmon roe
1 tsp. sesame oil
sesame seeds

Prepare the sushi rice according to package directions. Mix with the sushi vinegar and place at the bottom of a salad plate.

Heat the olive oil in a frying pan over medium-high heat. Season the chicken breast with salt on both sides and cook until browned on the outside and cooked through on the inside, about 4 minutes per side. Set aside and allow to cool slightly before slicing.

Finely slice the cucumber on the slicing side of a box grater or with a mandoline. Toss with a heavy pinch of salt and place in a strainer. Allow to drain slightly while you finish preparing the other ingredients.

Remove the avocado flesh from the skin with a spoon and slice into lengthwise strips.

Use scissors to cut the nori into strips.

Slice the chicken and place on the rice. Place the seaweed salad and avocado on the rice. Press down on the cucumber to remove any remaining water, then place on the rice. Sprinkle with the nori strips and spoon the salmon roe into the middle. Sprinkle the sesame seeds over the top and drizzle with sesame oil. Serve with soy sauce on the side.



Savory Summer Clafoutis


If 12-year-old me knew that there would be some days when I wouldn’t even think about the fact that I was a loser in 6th grade, I don’t think she would know what to do with herself.

Let’s be clear, here, before I go down this road. 12-year-old me coped pretty well with the fact that she was kind of a loser. She didn’t feel like the kinds of losers you see in movies. She didn’t gasp and say, “My God! That’s me!” when she watched She’s All That or whatever other Freddie Prinze Jr. movie featured a loser girl at the time (there were many). She had a handful of friends she hung out with. She didn’t get invited to too many parties, but she wasn’t all that into parties. She felt pretty dumb at church basement dances, and she couldn’t figure out how to deal with her hair, and her uniform skirt was a bit too long to be cool, but she was a good writer, which she liked, and she was pretty good at pretending that everything was all right, and so she believed it.

There were only a handful of instances where 12-year-old me came face-to-face with the fact that for whatever reason, she wasn’t really winning the whole middle school game. A former best friend uninvited her to a party once. That happened right after we had done a project in social skills on how not to be a bully, and 12-year-old me, instead of getting too upset about it, tried to decide if it was bullying or not. (It was.)

12-year-old me let a sometimes friend tell her that the popular kids were talking about the way she dressed, which may have been true and may just have been the way that this sometimes friend decided to tell her that she didn’t really like the length of the pants that 12-year-old me was wearing at the time. It doesn’t really matter which one it was, because 12-year-old me still cared what people thought.

I distinctly remember thinking, maybe not at 12, but soon after, how great it must be not to care what people think. I might have read it or heard it or seen it in a movie, the people who say, “I don’t care what people think,” “I don’t care what people think of me.”

I didn’t realize that you have to put in effort not to care.

In high school, things got better. I started not caring what people thought right about at the same time that I met people who really cared about me and whose opinions I valued. The combination allowed me to forget that there was a time when I was always scared that people were talking about me, and, worse, the fact that if I was always scared, it was because it was sometimes true.

I’m 27 years old, so you’d think that these sorts of school-aged politics would barely cross my mind anymore. And that’s true, most of the time. I’m a pretty well-adjusted person, when all is said and done. I get along  with people for the most part, and I have a very small handful of close friends, which is the way I like it.

I’m not used to being on edge, to wondering if people are talking about me behind my back. I’ve mostly forgotten what that feels like.

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I’m one of the foreigners that people look at after a rant about foreigners in general and say, “But not you.” The reasons that they say that are multi-faceted. I’m white. I speak French. I come from America. I speak French. I have read classic 19th century literature, know who Astérix and Obélix are, enjoy listening to music by Jean-Jacques Goldman and nod along when people complain about social security, taxes and politics.

Did I mention that I speak French?

I come from a country built on immigration, and while I am fully aware that there are immigrant groups that are not fully integrated into American culture, it’s important to recognize that we don’t really ask people to integrate in the same way that the French do. We are proud of diversity. We are excited by difference. We want to know about your culture, and we will try to understand when you make English blunders. I’m reductive in my logic here, I know. I know that things are hard for immigrants in America as well. But I will say that if a French person with my level of English moved to America, people would find accents, trip ups and mistakes charming.

And if said person had a good enough level of English to be able to correct native English speakers’ writing, I think we’d call that a success.

Why am I telling this story?

Because I found out recently that I’ve been committing a major French gaffe, and worst of all, people have been noticing it and, instead of telling me about it, talking about it behind my back. Office politics are the same as school politics, but 27-year-old me does not have quite the happily oblivious nature and rhinoceros-thick skin that 12-year-old me had. When I found out that people were talking about me, I took it fairly badly. With poise on the outside, granted, but inside I was steaming.

Want to know what my gaffe was?

I don’t say bonjour enough.

And here I was, thinking that I was doing a pretty good job of integrating. I wrote my Masters thesis comparing French and American culture as expressed linguistically in literature. I can change up my language registers like a pro. I can condescendingly “Mais Madame,” with the best of them. Surely I was close enough to this topic to know how to do things right?

Nope. Wrong. I don’t always say bonjour; I am the office bitch.

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The friend who told me this tried to explain why bonjour was so important, but it’s hard to explain something so culturally ingrained. You have to step outside yourself, and that’s not an easy task. When I really think about it, really think about the values that are important in French culture, I think I can understand it… especially because it’s the topic of my thesis.

If you get really reductive about it, America was founded on the principles of freedom. Freedom to work. Freedom to speak. Freedom to thrive. If you build it, they will come. If you work hard enough, you can achieve anything. Freedom from the English became freedom to do what we want. Freedom to be American. Freedom to be.

France, on the same reductive principles, was founded on the value of equality. Equality between the tiers état and the aristocracy. Equality of opportunity. Equality of pay, of paid vacation, of rights, of privilege. Every citizen is a citizen. Everyone is the same.

My friend who tried to explain this to me balked when I, frustrated, said that bonjour doesn’t actually mean anything. That it’s a cultural word devoid of true meaning. Merci I can get behind. Pardon has a purpose. Excusez-moi is just plain polite. But bonjour? It doesn’t really mean anything.

No, he reasoned. It means that you recognize the other person.

Everyone is equal. Everyone deserves a bonjour.

I get it, now, I think. It doesn’t mean it comes easily to me. I’m used to telling visitors that when they walk into a store, they can’t just smile and say, “Excuse me, do you have this in a size 6?” That’s very rude in France. You have to preface it with bonjour. I’ve been proudly crowing this for years, only to realize that I’ve been committing an even bigger sin — not saying bonjour to my colleagues every single day.

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Oh Victor. I like to think of us reading together along the Seine and laughing jovially about your clever use of tutoiement and vouvoiement to evoke the changing balance in equality in Les Misérables… but the truth is that I probably would have committed some major gaffe and you would have silently hated me and told all of your friends that I was a bitch. And then Charles Baudelaire would have hated me too.

It’s probably good that I get to love Vick and Chuck from afar. Like, 200 years afar.


I’m a big enough person to admit that I chose to live in a country, which means that I choose to live by its principles, norms and standards. (Doesn’t mean that more often than not I’d rather live in a hermit cave and meet up with my friends from Hermits United every 10 years or so…) I’ll apologize for my linguistic gaffe. Today, I said bonjour to everyone. I said it four times in a row when four people walked into the office slightly staggered but not close enough for a group bonjour.

But I won’t apologize for this. I took a classic French dessert and made it savory. I don’t know if that’s blasphemy, but I do know it’s delicious.

My kitchen, my rules. The autonomous dictatorship of Emily Thinks This Is Delicious-Land.

So there.


Savory Tomato and Zucchini Clafoutis

1 zucchini
1 onion
1 pint cherry tomatoes
2 Tbsp. olive oil, separated
2/3 cup flour
2 eggs
1 cup milk
3 oz. feta, crumbled
salt and pepper

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Dice the zucchini and thinly slice the onion. Place the cherry tomatoes in a glass baking dish and toss with one tablespoon of the oil. Bake while preparing the rest of the clafoutis.

Heat the other tablespoon of oil in a pan. Add the onion and zucchini, and sauté until the onion is soft and slightly browned and the zucchini has given off a good deal of its liquid, about 10-15 minutes.

Whisk the flour with a bit of salt and pepper. Whisk in the egg, then slowly add the milk, whisking all the time, until you have an even batter with no lumps. Season with salt and pepper.

Remove the baking dish from the oven and remove the tomatoes, leaving any juices they have given off in the pan. Add the zucchini and onion and then cover with the clafoutis batter. Top with the roasted tomatoes and the feta cheese.

Bake for about 20 minutes, or until the clafoutis puffs up. It will fall the moment you remove it from the fridge.

Eat warm or cold. Share it with your friends if you want, but don’t give a damn what they think about it, because it’s delicious.



Early Autumn Savory Fruit Salad

Published on September 26, 2014, by in Salad.

fig and goat cheese salad

It’s hard to have the same voice in two languages.

I’m not talking about timbre and tone, though I know my voice is pitched differently in French and in English. My father told me once — it’s higher or lower in English, but I don’t remember which.

But when I talk about voice, I mean it as a writer, as a person who relates to the world through words, whether written or spoken.

I do not write in French as I do in English; this bothers me less, except when it comes to the Country Boy, who doesn’t read my English the way others do. As a writer, that can be a strange thing to experience, having the person who knows you best unable to know your craft.

But what strikes me even more is the way in which I communicate in both languages, especially now that, after nearly eight years, most of my friends in France are French.

I find that nearly everyone I meet in France speaks a passable amount of English… except my close friends. I can count them on one hand, the people whose high, solid boundaries I have finally been able to break down, the people who, in a short time, have become so close that we call each other sister, that we share clothes and beds and secrets. I didn’t think I would find that now that I’ve left the comfort of dormitories, but it’s happened again. And yet of my close friends here, nearly no one speaks English. I speak to my best friends and my boyfriend in French; I write, I am moved to write, in English.

And I don’t feel like the same person.

It’s not a new problem; it’s one that’s been following me for years. I once assumed that it would dissipate as my French got stronger; maybe it would have if I weren’t a writer, if I weren’t still so drawn to my native tongue.

My friends are interested in my writing. They want to know what stories I tell. They want me to teach them words in English. They want to be part of my world.

I’m not looking for solutions… just asking questions.


I’ve created two versions of this dish, one simpler than the others. Fresh black figs with olive oil, black pepper, basil and fresh goat’s cheese is hard to beat, unless there’s even more fresh fruit at your market stand. For the second version, the recipe’s at Organic Authority.

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Feeling Good About 27

eggplant parmesan stacks 01

I am feeling really good about 27.

I’m not too good at figuring out what my feelings are. I don’t have a lot of them — I mostly just have moods. Moods are not necessarily excellent when you’re being raised by my mother — of German extraction and not a huge fan of moods — but I have them all the same, even now, maybe more so now, than I did when I was a moody teenager. Maybe it’s because I don’t feel like a stereotype anymore. It’s just the way I am.

But ever since I turned 27 a bit over three months ago, I’ve been feeling really good about it, in a way that I haven’t felt all that great about most of my 20s… a large part of which has to do with the fact that I really, really enjoyed being 17. I don’t know if everyone feels this way about certain ages, but as one of those kids that people were always calling an “old soul,” I’ve never quite felt that the age I was was the age I should be. With a few exceptions.

I loved turning 7. Not only was it what we elementary school kids in the know called “my magic birthday,” (I was born on the 7th of the month), but I also had a fantastic party complete with a baker dressed up as Snow White teaching us to make frosting rosettes on the dining room table we otherwise never used and a “pin the apple on the wicked witch” drawn to perfection by my father.

And it wasn’t just the party. Being 7 felt right to me. There were 4 of us then, aged 1, 3, 5 and 7. I liked the evenness of it. (Aside: I have always been excellent at counting by twos. I aced those 2nd grade tests.)

But after turning 7, I didn’t really feel that way about another age. I liked being 10, because that’s double-digits, which everyone knows is awesome. I enjoyed turning 16, because I had a great group of friends, a fantastically obsessive crush on a boy, and an excellent summer to look forward to. But 17… 17 was kind of a magic number.

I guess the best way I can explain it is that I felt like myself at 17. Many of the things that, today, still feel like me were things that I started doing that year. I’ve always read a lot, but 17 was the year I started carrying a book everywhere — then in cargo pants, now in an oversize purse which, let’s be honest, is just a more socially acceptable version of said cargo pants. I started carrying a coffee thermos around with me everywhere. I started spending evenings wandering New York in the dark with my best friend.

What’s strange, looking back, is that I remember feeling very clearly at 17 that I wasn’t having the experience of the age that most people do. I didn’t drink or smoke or do drugs. I listened to ‘At 17′ by Janis Ian and felt very far removed from the lyrics. But still, I have felt slightly 17, in one way or another, since I turned 17.

Until this year, that is.

Is it because a decade has passed? Decades have meaning because of our numbers system, so I have a hard time believing that the number 10 could be so important to my way of identifying myself, but maybe it is. More than that though, I feel like maybe it’s the number 7. I was born on the 7th; maybe all of my 7 birthdays are magic birthdays.

Or maybe I’ve just found my way back to the things that were important to me at 17.

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Another thing that I really, really felt connected to at 17 was my Italian origins. 17 was the year I wrote two embarrassingly poor plays, one of which was a cheap, transparent adaptation of Goodfellas and the other of which was about a 17-year-old girl who finds out that her grandfather was a mafioso, which actually could have been good, except that I am and always have been a strict realist and refused to take my teacher’s advice to create some sort of drama, because I was convinced that even a mafioso wouldn’t start a full-out war on Christmas in front of his grandchildren.

Mafia references aside, my interest in my Italian background had me trying my hand at dozens of Italian specialties once I got my own kitchen, the following year. Eggplant parmegiana was one of them, though I never really got it right.

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This version isn’t exactly traditional, but I find it even more delicious. The eggplant stays crispy, the scant mozzarella doesn’t turn globby but adds flavor and texture, and the homemade tomato sauce adds the perfect amount of tanginess and freshness.

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Eggplant Parmesan Stacks

For the sauce:
2 onions
1 clove garlic
1 Tbsp. olive oil
1 can peeled tomatoes
2 tsp. soy sauce (optional)
salt and pepper

2 eggplant
2 eggs
1/2 cup flour
1 cup panko breadcrumbs
olive oil for shallow frying
6 oz. mozzarella
fresh basil

To make the sauce, finely chop the onions and mince the garlic. Heat the olive oil in a heavy-bottomed pot and add the onions. Season them with salt and cook until translucent and slightly browned, about 10 minutes. Add the garlic and cook until fragrant, 1 minute.

Add the juice from the whole peeled tomatoes and cook until reduced and thick. Add the tomatoes, using a spoon to break them up, and reduce the heat to low.

Simmer the sauce for 30 minutes. Meanwhile, slice the eggplant into rounds. place them in an even layer on paper towels and salt them.

After about 30 minutes of simmering, taste the sauce. If it lacks depth, add the soy sauce. (I nearly always do, but it depends on the quality of your tomatoes.) Adjust seasoning with salt and pepper, and purée the sauce with an immersion blender.

When the sauce is finished, brush the excess salt off the eggplant. Set up bowls of flour, beaten egg and panko. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees, and heat a pan over medium-high heat with a thin layer of olive oil.

Dredge the eggplant slices in flour, then dip in the beaten egg, and finally into the panko. Add to the frying pan and fry on both sides until golden brown.

When all of the eggplant slices are fried, place a layer of tomato sauce in the bottom of a glass baking dish. Stack the eggplant slices by threes, trying to keep slices of the same size together. Add a small amount of mozzarella between each slice, and top each stack with a bit of mozzarella. Bake for about 15-20 minutes, until the cheese is melted and the eggplant is soft all the way through.

Top each stack with a basil leaf. Serve with extra sauce on the side and a side of pasta.


tomato, roasted onion, corn, tuna salad

Published on July 20, 2014, by in Uncategorized.

tomato, roasted onion, corn, tuna salad

I have a tendency to assume that every trouble I encounter — no matter how big or how small — has something to do with the fact that I live in a foreign country.

I know that it’s my own decision, that the troubles I encounter here are my own doing. My dad used to make fun of me for making my own life difficult. But as much as I find little things that are irksome, it’s really not all that difficult to live in France, now. I love it, but that’s not all. I’m used to it. I’ve been here for almost 8 years.

tomato, roasted onion, corn, tuna salad

Of course, there are some things here that are still difficult — bordering on surreal. A few weeks ago, I had to go to the tax office to get proof that I had declared my taxes, a form I’d need for my application to renew my visa. After asking very nicely at the front desk, I was informed that when I sent my declaration, it became property of the French government, and so I couldn’t have any proof.

After a bit of arguing, I was told that if I called and asked very nicely (emphasis was put on the fact that I had to ask nicely… I can’t say I was surprised), I might be able to get some sort of signed, stamped proof. The issue wasn’t the phone call, which I dislike but would have been willing to do. The issue was that I was being asked to make a phone call to a man working in the exact building in which I was standing… behind a closed door right next to me.

I got the form (stamped and signed — I checked) and a story. If I’ve gotten little else from the French bureaucratic system, it’s stories.

tomato, roasted onion, corn, tuna salad

But those little blips are few and far between, now. Most of my day goes about in the same way that the days of my friends and colleagues do. I don’t really notice the things that may seem strange or odd or different here as much as I used to. I think American things might seem stranger to me.

And what’s more, just as many things that happen in the day-to-day don’t fall into a nationality-centered category… they just are, and I couldn’t tell you which residents of which countries experience them.

Case in point: a recent conversation with The Country Boy. I told him that I hadn’t gone to the gym after work because I was having a good hair day. After years of speaking a combination of both languages, we’ve recently grown comfortable with each of us speaking our own language and offering translations and explanations as needed. When he cast a confused glance my way, I armed myself with translation, chalking it up to one of many lost in translation moments, when I realized…

What boy, American or French (I’m not including Parisians — they’re a different breed) would have any idea what a good hair day is?

tomato, roasted onion, corn, tuna salad


Tomato, Roasted Onion, Corn and Tuna Salade Composée (serves 4)

1 lb. potatoes
10 small red onions
1 lb. tomatoes
3 ears corn, cooked and cut from the cob
8 oz. canned tuna
extra-virgin olive oil

Place the potatoes, skin-on, in a pot of cold water. Bring it up to a boil and season with salt. Cook for 20 minutes.

Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Halve the onions, toss with olive oil, and roast for 20 minutes, tossing once as they cook. Remove when caramelized. Allow both the potatoes and onions to cool slightly.

Cut the tomatoes into eighths. Drain the tuna. Assemble the salad by cutting the potatoes into coins and lining them at the bottom of the bowl. Top with the corn. Surround with the tomato slices. Drizzle with olive oil.

Mound the tuna in the center of the dish and drizzle with more olive oil. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Chiffonnade the basil and sprinkle over the top of the salad. Serve.


Cobb-ish Salad

Published on July 3, 2014, by in Salad.

cobb salad

I am fully aware of how odd this post will seem, coming right after the last one which was, for all intents and purposes, a long-winded whine about feeling homesick for a place that no longer exists. But please, hear me out: there is a thing that has happened, and I didn’t notice it happening. Or if I did, I played it off as a one-time thing, one good moment in an expanse of grey, for while Toulouse is the pink city and Cannes has always felt blue to me, Paris, for years, was grey.


I have found my people. After eight years, I am a regular.

There’s the Peruvian man downstairs from me, the one who runs a Latin-American grocery store and knows I like Mexican ingredients and coconut popsicles, who knows that I understand Spanish but will only speak it maybe once out of every two visits, even though I always say gracias at the end of our encounters. I asked him, once, if he liked living in France, and he reacted as though I was the first person to ever ask him that.


There’s the fruit and vegetable man, or rather, men. They call me mon ange or mademoiselle. Some of them say tu, and I like it. The owner calls me la Miss,the way the Parisian’s father used to — it’s strange how quickly that can send me back. The herbs in my bag are always câdeau, but sometimes, when I stop by for a quick mid-morning snack, my hand-selected pêche blanche is rinsed, wrapped in paper towel, and câdeau too.


There’s the bartender at the local café, the one we call the PMU, even though it’s just a café that will sell you 8 euro packs of cigarettes sometimes, but you don’t get to choose the brand. He waves at me even when I’m just walking by, calls me ma belle, ma chérie, mon ange. I always stop to give him an exaggerated wave and smile, because apparently once I forgot, and it ruined his morning. I don’t know if i believe him, but I smile anyway. The last beer — I won’t say of how many — is always on the house, and we can pay for even just a demi with a credit card and get change back on 10 euro.


There’s the butcher, who I see rarely, as those who frequent this blog may guess, but if he’s ever out smoking, he calls me Emily, smiles, and sometimes says Emily-i-grec, just so that I know that he knows, that he remembers.


It’s been at least a year in the making, maybe more. But when I’m gone for a few days, they notice. When I’m in a hurry, they ask if everything is OK.

I always wanted to be a regular somewhere, though when I wanted it, I assumed it would be at a dive bar. I can’t hide how happy I am, now, that I’m a regular at the places where I buy my groceries instead.

cobb salad


Cobb-ish Salad (serves 2)

100 grams lardons or bacon cut into matchsticks
2 chicken breasts

20 cherry tomatoes
1 red onion
50 grams Roquefort
1 avocado
2 Romaine hearts
2 Tbsp. mayonnaise
2 Tbsp. sour cream
2 Tbsp. cider vinegar
1 tsp. salt
fresh black pepper

Place the lardons in a cold pan and slowly heat. Allow the fat to render out. Cook until the lardons are slightly browned. Remove with a slotted spoon and set aside. Add the chicken breasts to the pan and cook 4-5 minutes per side, until completely browned. Remove and set aside.

Halve the cherry tomatoes. Thinly slice the onion. Dice the avocado and slice the romaine.

Whisk together the mayonnaise, sour cream, cider vinegar, salt and pepper. Toss in a large salad bowl with the romaine. Top with the tomatoes, onion, blue cheese, avocado, chicken and bacon. Serve.


Barbecue Pork Roast, Corn, Avocado, Tomato

Published on June 26, 2014, by in Pork.

bbq pork

What is home? I know that I’m not alone in not knowing. While the same question used to cause me an unbelievable amount of anxiety, I feel as though it doesn’t trouble me quite so much anymore. But that doesn’t stop me from thinking about it.

I started out with what felt like so many homes, spread across continents: the life of an expat, I thought. But expat life, sometime between 22 and 27, stopped feeling like an adventure and started feeling like normal. I never wanted to live out of a backpack. I wanted to live in a different country. Pay my taxes, rent an apartment, do my grocery shopping, buy socks. The concessions I made to this lifestyle at the beginning — traveling home twice a year, plus a handful of trips to meet visiting friends and family in other parts of Europe — were just that: concessions. Not that I’m complaining about my concessions. But they weren’t the end goal. That wasn’t the point.

Now, years later, most of my friends have decided where they want to live. Many are in New York, some are in Chicago. Of those who are not from Europe, I can think of a handful still living here. They’ve settled down elsewhere, and I’m not the only one who doesn’t return home for summer. For Christmas. I find myself missing my concessions. My fractured sense of home.


I wasn’t planning on going to Paziols this year. It hurt too much to think about returning. I don’t remember if I mentioned it here, but for a brief but very intense moment, I had considered buying the house there, making that my home, a home that, when I first saw it, had terrified me with its raw unfinishedness, the exposed beams, the mattresses on the floor. I came from a world where everything had always been in its place. I had never felt so displaced before. And then, slowly, Paziols became one of those many homes, and I fell in love, again and again, over and over, the kind of love where you feel like it could never get any better, and then it does. And when I had to make the decision that buying the house couldn’t come at a worse time, I was convinced I would never want to see it again. I knew that it would break my heart to say goodbye, over and over and over again, when the last time I had said à bientôt instead of au revoir.


I’m not convinced I was wrong, but I’m going back this year anyway.


A bientôt has always been easy for me. I say it even when I don’t believe it, but I’ve believed it for Cannes. To be completely fair, for years, it was true. For years the trip from Paris to Cannes seemed as easy as that from home at Pont de l’Alma to my favorite bar at the Luxembourg Gardens. I don’t even know how many trips I made there in the first few years I lived here. But slowly, my connections to the place faded, and trips there seemed fewer and more far between. The last time I went was in 2010. I was so sure I would be returning at the beginning of 2011 that I left a box there, filled with books and Jergens lotion. I wonder if it’s still there.

I’ll be going to Cannes this summer, too. I’m scared to see how much it’s changed.

I don’t have the same liberty with the homes I’m supposed to call home, my “real” home, though my connection there feels no realer than any here… just different. The home that I grew up with, the home that was so normal that I don’t have any pictures of it at all, is no longer ours. It belongs to someone else, someone I know, which means I could go. But saying goodbye is even worse when goodbye comes a year too late. Long Island isn’t home anymore. New York isn’t home anymore.


I think what I have to come to terms with — if you even can use such a phrase when the thing with which you are coming to terms is living in Paris — is that this is what home feels like as an adult. It feels like normal. It feels like knowing where the corner of the coffee table is in the dark. It feels like recognizing your neighbors.


It feels like having memories of another home, a home that someone else built for you, a home that you existed in but that was never really yours. I hope that someday I can give that sense of home to someone; I don’t know if I’ll feel it for myself again.

bbq pork


Barbecue Pork Roast, Corn, Avocado, Tomato (serves 4)

1 pork tenderloin
1 cup of your favorite barbecue sauce (I like this one)

2 cups corn kernels (fresh, if possible — leftover corn is great for this)
2 avocados, diced
2 cups cherry tomatoes, halved
1 green onion, thinly sliced
1 Tbsp. olive oil
juice of 1 lime

salt and pepper

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Coat the pork loin in barbecue sauce on all sides. Place on a rack and roast for 25 minutes per pound. Baste with more barbecue sauce if it looks dry during cooking.

Meanwhile, combine the corn, avocado, cherry tomatoes, onion, oil, lime juice and salt and pepper. Allow to marinate, outside of the fridge, while the pork finishes cooking.

Remove the pork from the oven and tent for 10 minutes before slicing. Serve slices of pork on top of the salad.