Another November, another turkey massacre. It’s a joyous time, really, when family can gather and share another orgiastic meal featuring sweet potatoes with marshmallows, pecan pie, and all of the glory that is Stove-Top stuffing. It’s also the official debut to the Christmas season for those that haven’t succumbed earlier to Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole. It’s the only holiday that can’t disappoint you because no matter how many family fights start or how many hands get burned in the oven, your main objective is always surefire – eat until you pass out.
All of that goes out the window when I wake up and realize I live in Paris. No family. No Stove-Top. I spent the day hunting for pecans in Bellevile. I marched up rue des Martyrs after I heard there were cheap cranberries only to find them later at Monoprix for the same price. I spent the better part of an evening trying to figure out how to brine a huge turkey breast and make room for it in my dorm-sized fridge. Oh the obstacles. Oh the heartache.
But, hey, I live in Paris.
If ever there was an American who needed to say thank you, it’s this guy. Chance smiled upon me and apparently she just had whitening because this year has been nothing short of gratitude-worthy. Hired by the Sorbonne, completed my first marathon, organized another successful Cupcake Camp…the list is a far cry from that of the same boy who only two years earlier was at the bottom of his game.