I'm in the middle of cooking this recipe (oddly enough, I'm doing it almost word-for-word, which is really weird for me!), and thinking about my exchange. If you didn't know, I'm going to france at the end of this month (the twenty-ninth), and will have almost no chances to blog while I'm there. The company I'm going with strongly advises against brining my computer. I'll get into that another day, though.
Anyway, I bring my exchange partner back for August (we'll call her JR for the sake of argument), and I'm sort of worried about what she'll think of us here. From all accounts, French mothers are the cooks, laundresses, housekeepers. (I was told not to panic if my clothes disappeared, it probably means that Mom JR has taken them to clean…!)
Here, though, I cook, if anyone does. I do most of my own laundry (when it's not sitting in a heap, waiting to be folded). I don't rely on my mother for everything….
What spurred this on, though, was the thought of my 'cooking clothes.' Anyone would say they strongly resemble 'workout clothes'…probably because they're the same. When I'm cooking, I'm usually choreographing, too. I dance my way through chopping, mixing and baking; all with loud (generally latin and/or Zumba) music blasting. I'm sure I look a fright—chop-chop-shimmy-bounce-bounce-slice-pour-twirl!
So, if you walked in on that, what would your first response be?
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