![]() ![]() Re-runs of Julia Child’s cooking shows found their way into my apartment and I watched as she whisked up omelets and stewed Boeuf Bourguignon. Perhaps there were some kitchen tricks I could do without after all. I couldn’t quite see the purpose, though I envisioned my feet tracking salt over the rest of the apartment and me having to clean it up later. Though I felt awkward about it, I followed her practiced motions, feeling as though there must be a greater reason for it. ![]() I remembered watching her cook, sprinkling salt into her palm to finish off a dish and throwing the rest over her shoulder. Her gnarled hands showed me how to knead bread as I struggled with my first ventures into yeast. Her voice revealed that coffee brought out the flavor of chocolate and reminded me that butter made everything better. Lessons from my grandmother soon followed in my tiny kitchen. Though she didn’t know it, my mother continued to guide me through the kitchen, stubbornly refusing to let me forget everything she had taught me over the years. As I cooked dinner, she reminded me of the ratios for cooking rice and how to make toast without a toaster. Despite this, our past conversations hovered in the air, her wealth of knowledge in my memory and her voice echoing in my mind. When I ran into kitchen trouble, I was on my own. Living so far from her now meant that my mother was no longer a simple call away. ![]() When I first learned the basics of cooking, my mother would get phone calls from me daily, asking questions about everything from cooking chicken to beating egg whites for meringue. It felt natural to continue that quest as I adjusted to my new life, so I began spending more time in the kitchen, finding a little of the familiarity I had been longing for. I especially missed this gathering place.īefore the move, I had begun learning how to bake. Growing up, the kitchen was where family and friends converged, exchanging stories over warm cookies and cold milk. As much as I was falling in love with the city and culture, there was still a part of me that ached for the familiarity of my old life. As excited as I was, it was difficult to say goodbye.įor the first few weeks, I fumbled around as a non-French speaker in a French city, learning to read foreign signs and labels and trying to collect enough language to make it through a cash register exchange. This wasn't my first time leaving home, but it was my first time leaving everyone and everything I knew behind. I was moving the next morning, fifteen hundred miles and a country away, going to Montreal for graduate school. Three suitcases lay side-by-side, holding all of my material possessions within their zippered walls. Brushing myself off, I stood back and surveyed my handiwork. I sat on top of a suitcase, using my weight to close it an extra inch so I could draw the zipper closed. ![]()
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