Let me tell you:

I think there’s something to say for a city that keeps drawing you back. And like most people, I can’t quite put my finger on what makes Paris so magical (obviously the list aligns with the clichés of beauty, aesthetic, those fancy mustaches…) but for now, I’m placing my pointer on the food.

And not just the food, but the preparation. The intentionality.

The richness found not only in the flavors but in the way they are solved to encompass and compliment one another.

I want all of my relationships to be this way.

Including the one with myself.

As someone who has struggled so deeply with food and the consumption of it, I think my favorite part of French cuisine is its incapability to be disrespected. Food has been a tool of harm I’ve weaponized against my body for as long as I’ve been American (which is 26/26 years). For some of us it’s easy to scarf down a protein bar or hamburger. For others it’s easier not to eat at all. But opting into the notion of dining in France means opting into its culture. Into its pace.

As a self-certified sauce girl (yes, I still carry hot sauce in my bag…. when travel precautions allow…) I believe great realizations arise when people meet around a table filled with good food. Last week I attended a Cook’n with Class Mother of all Sauces 4-hour intensive, and I don’t think I’ve ever been so stimulated and engaged in my entire life.

The hours felt like minutes; slicing, learning, laughing with fellow American strangers (this sentence feels odd, because comradeship is always found in liberty) who soon turned into friends. And though one might find the task of preparing eight sauces (including the fabulous and fatty french Mayonnaise of my dreams…) from complete scratch @ 9am daunting, the energy was light and hopeful with our trusted teacher, a local Parisian chef of 10-years. With ease and seamless instruction, we were were presented with fresh fruits and vegetables from the market that morning. As an American baker (I won’t even touch the term chef) my knowledge for chopping and slicing savory ingredients doesn’t extend beyond moving my fingers out of the way, but within moments of the class starting, I was already being informed of the proper techniques to blacken onions (something I didn’t know existed) and the importance of the step in our recipes to come.

The French love a long-way around. And it’s hard for someone who was bred in a society of fast-food, fast-life, fast money to take time. I don’t know how. Not in the kitchen. Not in life.

Learning to slow down, appreciate, create a piece of substance with my own two hands (and millions of neurons firing in my brain) ironically created something in me: the desire to pay attention. Listen to the flavors and the way they wanted to incorporate one another. It seems a lot of good things take time.

Why is it so much easier to choose instant gratification over flavor?

Convenience over quality?

Easy over experience?

Let me inform you of something I wish I hadn’t of had to learn the hard way: Less time in the kitchen isn’t giving you more time in the office. Less calories on your plate isn’t giving you more wiggle room for a “cheat” meal on the weekends.

In fact, taking time to sit and savor and eat with one another creates an experience that lasts all day long. All life long, if you allow it. There are thousands of reasons (found in science and psychology alike) why we are addicted to sugar– Not just the little white substance, but the sugar found in our lives. Granulated relationships, granulated art, granulated gratification found in easy, pleasant tastes. I’ve realized that in reality: excessive diluted, sweetness is only inauthentic. Only unsatisfying.

My next baking excursion I hope is found in the kitchen next door that so kindly gifted their remaining pastries and borderline life-changing Kouign-Amann (which apparently is a caramelized version of the croissant… if you can imagine).

As I left the class that day I expected to find myself overly stuffed with information, rich food and white wine. But to my surprise, quite the opposite ensued. There was no rushing to leave the table, scarf down the remains of our creations, or write down recipes to snag home. Instead, I exited the doors into the 18th arrondissement of Paris satisfied and balanced. Somehow at the same time. A new feeling.