Cravings in France
As an evil trick, my body is craving things that I can’t have, things that are from my part of America, of course! I have wonderful fresh French food at my disposal and what do I want? Mac and Cheese, please kill me. You know, Kraft, the powdered crap stuff that mom used to buy for us when she was on food stamps after her hippie plan of subsistent farm living didn’t work out quite right. “Food” found in the twenty-five cent aisle of cheap dinners for three along with Top Ramen which I have been eating as well with lots of Tabasco sauce.
My gourmand friends who count on me to be their cooking diva are hanging their heads in shame for following my foodie cult. Out of disgrace, I couldn’t even food blog for weeks. It is right up there with running into Jane Fonda at the liposuction clinic after you have been “feeling the burn” for years with her tapes. I actually bought FISH STICKS, my god, is this little alien fetus inside of me reaching out and grabbing boxes off the shelves already?
Then I moved into cravings from adulthood where I ran the gammit from gooey jalapeño nachos and chicken enchiladas to Rubio’s Fish tacos (each of which I tried to recreate in my kitchen including the tortillas—I bought a tortilla press on ebay as to be authentic since you would be more likely to find a yellow sombrero than an authentic corn tortilla in France. I even made my shocked husband drive thru McDonalds. He pulled up to the window as I ordered a Happy Meal—my fetus projecting my voice to make his order. After he paid, my husband turned to me and said, “now what?” I looked at him in shock and realized that he had NEVER driven thru McDonalds in his thirty years of life and I said in my California valley girl starved for a cheeseburger voice, “Oh. My. Gawd! You pull up to the next window, is this your first rodeo?”
To stop this, I trying imaging really good tasting food, my sweet husband took me to my favourite Michelin starred restaurant to get me out of the this glut and I let my self eat things that the Pregnancy Police say no to like French cheeses. Happily, it worked. I am back at the stove and making buttery rich cream filled Profiteroles, creamy fresh basil pesto pasta with smoked fish, hand crushed black olive tapenade and spreading it on a nice fresh baguette (but somewhere deep inside me is that little ventriloquist voice crying out, “Mom, give me Mac and Cheese, please!”)
