Fitting in

Our forefathers did it.  The English get the press this time of year, but the truth is not everybody’s people had big buckled shoes and crazy black bucket hats.  From every country all over the world over and over again, people have been figuring out how to give up everything and everybody they know to make the move to a fast talking, over sized, belly laughing country with good looking teeth.

I am on the other side–an American with Italian in her bones via osmosis, now in France.
It’s lonely to come to a new country with a history of cooking something other and no language to cross the bridge with.  I have secrets in every pocket for cooking, and the Faye in me makes every dish my own no matter where I am, but to truly cook French food, I have to walk through a market in France and smell what’s there. I have to look into the faces of who is selling and buying and find my cooking soulmates.  I have to come to know this place.  I think my new French shoes might fit my feet so to speak and I think I might break them in to where I don’t ever want to take them off.  But there isn’t anything that starts there.

As much as I loved my husband backwards and forwards from the moment I laid my eyes on him, that moment is one word in the epic of how I love him now.

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