Learning to love France

I've never been a francophile.  Frankly, I just never really saw what all the hoopla was about.  I'm simply not cut from the same cloth as the Peter Mayles, the Stephen Clarkes and the Nadeaus & Barlows of the world who wax romantic about all things gallic.  France? Nice place to visit, but...

Then I came to Paris in 2002 on a bit of a whim, and still haven't left. In fact, it looks as though I'm here for life, for that whim of a visit turned first into a job, then blossomed into a marriage and motherhood.

If I must be honest, however, I still don't love France. More days than not, I find myself struck by how I just don't mesh with what's around me.  The queues at the post office drive me to distraction, the old ladies informing me that my child is not covered enough leave me fuming, and don't even get me started on the dog feces all over the sidewalk.  I've been here for seven years, am married to a Frenchman, have a daughter who is half-French, have French friends, but I'm still not feeling the love for my adopted homeland.  There is, of course,  the brilliant exception of the food.  I've eaten all kinds of meals all over the world, but there is something wonderfully simple and solidly comforting about French cuisine.  I have never lived in a place where so much fresh, high quality, beautiful ingredients have been so readily available.  Where good food is a national obsession, a collective pass time, a widespread passion.  Where a meal is a joy to prepare, to eat and to share, not just a source of fuel.  With this in mind, I've decided to learn to love France the most pleasurable way I can think of:  One bite at a time.

Check back regularly as I cook, sniff, taste, squeeze, slice, pinch and eat my way through the foods of France. After all, it's never fun to feast alone.