minor triumphs

I’m more than halfway through my Paris experience. Yikes. It is the traditional time for reflection—I grew up with only sisters, so really anytime is a good time for reflection, a.k.a. analyzing the heck out of anything—and what I’ve come up with is chili. Homemade chili. Feeling pretty cocky about this one because it’s a minor triumph. 

Remember when I had trouble getting my stove to operate? (Read all about it in the “pictures and appliances” blog). Well, other than having to scramble my eggs in a pot because my frying pan doesn’t work (don’t ask), I’m able to use my stove and the three pots of varying sizes that come with the apartment. For those who really know me, I’m not a good cook, but I do have my repertoire of peasant food like my mom’s super easy recipe for chili. Hamburger meat (silent cheer to all you carnivores out there), stewed tomatoes, kidney beans, and voila. Of course, here the challenge is getting the ingredients without knowing French. The first time I made chili, I congratulated myself on getting all the ingredients from my local Monoprix, only to discover that what I thought were kidney beans (looked like them in the picture) turned out to be some sort of seasoned legume one-third the size of what I wanted. I, of course, made and ate the darn thing anyway. Interesting but definitely not Mom’s chili. 

Segue to my most recent shopping trip when, through brilliant deductive reasoning and knowing about seven more words of French than the last chili-ingredient hunt, I bought two cans sans picture of what I believed to be the elusive kidney bean. When the time came to open the cans, I ever so slowly peeled back the tops and there, in glistening glory, were regular red kidney beans, real ones.  It is truly ridiculous how cool, dare I say accomplished, this made me feel. 

But for every triumph, a fall must come. Riding the wave of mastering French language—or at least being able to navigate the bean aisle at the supermarket—I went to a chocolate shop in Chartre, a charming town that features a magnificent cathedral.  My standard, “Parlez-vous anglais,” was met with a polite, “Non madame.” No problem. The language of chocolate is universal, and I had shown brilliant fortitude in the chili incident, so I launched into a really horrible mix of French and English (okay, mostly English spoken slowly) to communicate. Luckily, the proprietor was a lovely woman, and we figured out everything. In gratitude, I wanted to say something nice about the chocolate and her delightful shop, but all I could get out was, “Je t’aime chocolat.” She smiled, thanked me again, and I left in a glow of I’m so getting the hang of this. A few minutes later, though, as I was walking through Chartre’s narrow streets, I realized exactly what I had said. Not “I love chocolate,” as I had intended, but “I love you, chocolate.” I laugh and cringe all at the same time whenever I think about it, but bless this wonderful French person for understanding the intent behind the silly blunder. 

I have five and a half more weeks of adventures. Can’t wait.

A silly American in Paris