Sunday, March 30, 2014

The Comings and Goings of Friends

Friday night I had a delightful little reunion with three of my friends from Paris circa two years ago. As I've mentioned before, when I was in France at that time, I took a TEFL course, to learn how to teach English as a foreign language. It was a month long course of intensive training, Monday-Friday, classes all day long. It's rather a hit or miss sort of situation when you put a group of strangers together under those circumstances and expect them all to play nice. All of us were adults, but certainly spanning age gaps from late teens to decades older. Sometimes the petty atrocities of our high school years manifest in certain groups like this, bringing out the clicks, judgements, and vendettas of our more youthful years. Other times the result can be a miraculous experience in which you walk away with lifelong memories. Like going to summer camp, you may never speak to those people again, or you may develop friendships that never fade. In my case, it was the latter. I was only in Paris for two months, but I kept friends and acquaintances that I still have over two years later. Stronger bonds in some cases than any friendships I've made so far this time around. 

I volunteered to host our gathering in my tiny little studio on the 6th floor of a building in the 16th. Not the most ideal platform for a get-together, but cosy and conducive nonetheless. I love donning the hostessing hat (and yes, in my mind it's more like a pointed wizarding cap but with that cascade of chiffon that drapes down from the top like a princess), so I went a bit overboard with my spread of nibblies and libations.  Savory and sweet, baguette and fromage, a choice of red, white, or the ever-present-in-my-life, rosé. Two of us from America, though very different parts, one from Scotland, and one from France, we all managed to be in the same room together for the first time in two years. We chatted about the other people we met at that time, some of our crazy adventures in various bars or restaurants, the dynamic amongst our classmates, and the drama that we since discovered was at the heart of TEFL International. Some of us have kept in touch more than others, perhaps some of us will never see or talk to each other again, but the magic of a bonding experience is like an ever-burning flame. 

I have never been one who lets go of meaningful friendship easily. It just never made sense that you would say goodbye to someone who still lives and breathes and exists on this planet. Just like my hostessing hat, I seem to chronically sport a communication cap that urges me to make an effort as often as I can. Some friends I talk to once a year because that is our relationship, while others I talk to every day because the dynamic calls for it, neither classification better or worse. People come and go in your life due to so many different variables, and under the best circumstances it's a mutual separation that occurs organically because people grow up and move on and venture down different paths. But the mystical fairy of love living in my heart is also amazingly grateful for and astounded by the idea that those paths so very often criss-cross again and again at various points in the future. Four friends from different parts of the globe with different goals and interests and personalities can all of a sudden be in a tiny studio in Paris parleying about one month of adventure years ago. The world is huge and expansive but also small and well-connected, especially now in the age of technology. "You say goodbye and I say hello"... and the patchwork continues...

Friday, March 28, 2014


I have come to the bitter conclusion that I loathe phonetics... and frankly anyone who likes it on any level... It's like a communist plot where people are forced to analyze the inner-workings of vocal sound and use the research to turn us all into mimicking clones... Not only that, but there's a subtext of convoluted intonation, using a complicated map of intricate symbols to interpret strange guttural noises that evoke meaning from nonsense...

Ok fine, I've now gone from bordering the ridiculous to jumping over the line with a flying leap right into the netherworld abyss of absurdity. But there are times when simple little things grate on your nerves and promote that metaphorical finger nails scraping on a chalkboard sort of feeling... Times where you feel like no matter how much you stare at an equation, the answer will simply not be discovered, for no other reason than that the angsty roots of your heart refuse to let it be so. In laymen's terms, this could perhaps be called stubbornness or petulance. For me? It's more a matter of dire will power to overrule anything and everything that makes my head want to spin off its access and fall to the floor in a heaping mound of fury and despair. Phonetics is the chamber of darkness... the place where you go to ponder things like "financial planning" or "technical jargon" or "hipsters"...

Am I being dramatic? Well duh... A completely irrelevant nonsensical arbitrary issue wouldn't be a completely irrelevant nonsensical arbitrary issue without a little drama. But waking up at 6:30am to be at phonetics class at 8:30am will do that to a person. The French take pride in their pronunciation and I can respect that. Being understood leads to communication which leads to humanity which leads to life. The problem emerges when your brain has no interest in processing the difference between an upside down e and a capital E and the girl sitting next to you is nodding at every other word as if the Dalai Lama was confessing the meaning of life and then proceeds to ask the dumbest question in the history of mankind amidst a halo of feigned euphoria. I'm anti-phonetic, I admit it. As much as I love the sound of the French language, I find that the more I analyze it, the less beautiful it becomes. The melancholy fate of over-analysis...

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

Creative Excess

As most of us know, I have very little difficulty being in front of a crowd of people. Some might even say that it's closer to my natural state of being than any form of solitude. However, effusing the soul-ramblings of my heart is very different than presenting a topic to a classroom in a foreign language. Today, I had to discuss the differences between my home country and France for class, a project that all of my classmates must endure, but of course I was the first person to get the ball rolling. Admittedly, I volunteered for this position because I would rather do it first and be done with it. However, after a weekend of non-stop running around and language meetings in which I was speaking the worst broken French I've spoken in quite some time, I was not overly optimistic about my results. Yesterday added insult to injury because I spent the morning in bed with a sore back and proceeded to have zero internet access until post-8pm in the evening. Happily, this time allowed the creative juices in my plump little brain to saturate... (iew)... And so, my mind journeyed back to the days of my youth, when a simple little project would turn into a full-scale production. 

For example, when I was in 6th grade, my teacher instructed the class to use a list of spelling words in a short story. One of the groups decided to make a little skit out of their words and present it to the class. This of course spurred my competitive streak and prompted me to step up and go even further. I would therefore make a film! A live-action film that ultimately had absolutely nothing to do with any of the spelling words on any level, but I still somehow convinced my teacher to schedule a viewing during normal class time hours. I rallied my little group of spelling teammates, brought them to our local park and staged an epic thriller in which the cast of 6 was slowly wheedled down to 2 in a tale of torment, tragedy, and triumph. Basically, as we made our way around the pond, one of my friends was "eaten by a bear", creatively displayed via another friend sitting in a sewage pipe and crying over his leftover shoe. Two friends met their demise by drowning in the pond, aptly signified by large rocks creating a dramatic splash in the water. And the final victim was brought to her end by a killer bee... Yes, it was drawn on poster board, yes it was 2-dimensional and only colored on one side, and yes there was a velcro stinger. In the end, my best friend and I sat weeping over our losses until the rather too jolly curtain call. I believe the entire film was less than 15 minutes in length. 

Now, I share this anecdote mainly because it's spectacularly amusing and if I can post that video at some point I certainly shall. But also to demonstrate the lengths I will go for completely unnecessary and unwarranted ridiculousness. My French project did not remotely come close to this scale (though now my mind is definitely concocting new plans involving the pirate costume sitting in my closet), but I did stay up until 2am last night when I had to awake at 6am to create the following short story, comparing a day in the life of little blonde me living in NYC versus living in Paris... Tra la...

Thursday, March 20, 2014

Bon Printemps!

Today is time to celebrate the happiest of joys,
Of rainbows filling twilight with a grand celestial noise.

A meadow filled with poppies, some intoxicating fast,
The opium of sunshine glimpsing memories gone past.

I question why the skyline still persists in toxic cold,
I'd like to bitch slap Mother Nature if I'd be so bold.

Though Paris has been glimmering with light and cosmic beam,
The poisonous pollution likes to trick what things may seem.

And while I relish nature, through the winter I oft sigh,
Embracing later sunsets as Jack Frost waves his goodbye.

My frown lines from the chill will make me have to get botox
So come on blissful printemps, bring Happy Spring Equinox!!!

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Shamrocks in Paris

We are all aware of my building, growing, fantasy-filled longing for Ireland. In my dreams, it is a magical fairy land of legends and myths and princess castles for me to dance in. All of that, coupled with my bits of Irish heritage, 10 years of Irish Step Dancing experience, and my recent luck o' the Irishmen, very clearly resulted in my need to celebrate Saint Patrick's day this past Monday evening. There is a small chain of Irish pubs in Paris called "Corcoran's", which also just happens to be the last name of some of my very dear extended family. In their illustrious honor, I made it my mission to venture to this bar for at least one drink. I mentioned my Saint Paddy's Day agenda to some classmates, who were very keen on the mission, and we made our plans from there. One of my classmates (an American as well!) is fortunate enough to live with her husband in a beautiful apartment right near Saint-Michel, which is also the home of one of these family namesake pubs. Now that the setting was decided and the characters chosen, the only thing left was to see how the plot of the evening would pan out. 

We met at my friends apartment, and of course I was the one 3 minutes early, as opposed to normal Europeans who were appropriately late. As I was heading up the elevator I realized, well of course the American would not only be on time, but annoyingly early to boot! Happily, Americans sympathize with the habits of other Americans, so I was fondly greeted and began my evening with a nice helping of Bailey's on the rocks. My dear step-mother is a notorious Bailey's imbiber, so I tipped my hat to her via my inaugural Irish drink. As our small band of partiers gradually convened, I bedecked everyone's face with shamrocks and glitter so that we could blend in with the crowds of green on the streets. I honestly wasn't sure what Saint Patrick's Day would be like in Paris. The streets were certainly not jam-packed with Irish revelers in general, but the Irish pubs around town were overflowing with glee. That being said, the street outside of Corcoran's was drowning in drinkers, and we tried without success to get drinks at the main bar upstairs after swimming through the crowd to get in. Finally, we discovered a smaller bar downstairs that allowed us the opportunity to actually order a drink but regrettably didn't have any Jameson on hand for my chosen beverage of the evening. 

After having our requisite drink at an Irish pub and taking the necessary pics, we decided to venture down the street to somewhere not quite as out of control, but mainly for the purposes of actually being able to locate some Jameson. As fate would have it, our travels ended at a Canadian bar, still busy with holiday cheer but without the inability to drink alcohol in a timely fashion. Yes indeed, this American in Paris ended up at a Canadian bar on Saint Patrick's Day. Still, the ladies and I had a wonderful time, drinking our Irish drinks, chatting up a storm, and having some Irish girls approach us with a poster of a leprechaun they wanted us to take pictures with (see below!) But tragically, my quest to to have an Irishman kiss me because I'm Irish was completely thwarted! Instead, a random Albanian man tried to make out with me as I was headed back to the table from the bathroom... Classy... Yes, we had already had a conversation, it wasn't completely arbitrary, but I'm sorry... If you don't have an Irish accent I want nothing to do with you when I am fully dressed in bright green and can't help having Riverdance pulsing through my brain all night while rainbows are sparkling in front of my eyes. Though in hindsight, perhaps those are signs of Irish withdrawal...Must needs return to the Emerald Isles stat ; )

Monday, March 17, 2014

Happy Saint Patrick's Day!

A day a'filled with lots o' green
Some dancing reels and jigs,
Parading through the shamrock fields
And drinking like a pig!

Beware the banshees shrieking
Daren't listen to their yell
You cannot be quite sure twill
Lead to heaven or to hell.

If babies lay in slumber
Quiet sighing when content,
It's possible a changeling
has replaced your child's lament.

Or maybe they were magicked
Into swans beyond the sea,
Children of Lir don't have
the happy ending they foresee.

A claddagh facing inward
Meaning love will freely lend
A Celtic knot a'twisting
No beginning and no end.

The rainbows in the distance
Bring some sparklin' pots of gold
To those seeking their fortune,
Gifting new with something old.

Now click some heels leprechauns
And throw some shoes my way
Sing merry songs and shout with glee
Happy Saint Patrick's Day!

Saturday, March 15, 2014

Cadbury Egg Hunt

I have always had an affinity for Cadbury Creme Eggs... Mmmm or maybe not an affinity so much as a mild obsession. Though I enjoy the other forms of Cadbury chocolate decadence, it is the creme eggs that really taunt me during the months when they are absent from confectionary shelves. As Easter approaches and my general disinterest in religion comes into sharp relief once again, my passion for all things festive and celebratory is also heightened. That being said, the other day I started noticing the grocery stores displaying their fanfare of Easter treats. Unlike the United States, holidays don't usually start a half year before the date arrives. Christmas decorations don't go up around Halloween, Easter candy doesn't hit the shelves before Valentine's Day. As I was perusing the stands of sugary sweetness, I saw some bunnies and pastel colors, and of course the Kinder Egg... Swooooooooon... But no Cadbury! Bestill my heart... Or actually, make it still, like as in stop... Short aside: When I was in 8th grade, I had major back surgery and stayed at home in a full body cast for 6 months. I let slip the fact that I loved Cadbury creme eggs, so my grandmother in particular kept me well-provided as often as possible. Needless to say, I ate exactly 54 cadbury creme eggs that season, a record I am frankly still proud of to this day. In addition, when I was studying theatre for a semester abroad in London during college I also discovered the Cadbury Creme Egg Mcflurry... Die several deaths and be reborn like a phoenix... Every time I revisit the British Isles I check to see if McDonald's, a venue I usually choose NOT to patronize (in the patronage sort of way, as clearly I am happy as a clam to mock it condescendingly) to see if tis the season for yumminess.

My point of course is that I do in fact love these delicious delights, so the idea that I could possibly go an entire Easterly season without one seems shocking at the very least. Upon investigation, I have discovered that they are simply not a part of the French custom. As we all know, Paris and England have never been best friends forever, and while France has aisles of foreign food like any other metropolis, they don't feel the need to import anything and everything from abroad like New York does. And so, the irony... The other day I was meeting a friend in the Marais, a historic area of Paris known for many things including a plethora of expensive shops. I had heard a while back that there is a store called "Thanksgiving", devoted to American imports, apropos to say the least, since Thanksgiving and overeating do tend to be quite an American stereotype. I was early to meet my friend so I finally located the shop and wandered in for a few minutes. It's rather small, with an exceptionally motley crew of random American artifacts, ranging from rainbow chip frosting to Nilla wafers to barbecue sauce to beef jerky. As I made my quick surveillance of what they had in stock, my eyes stumbled majestically upon a small carton of... Tra la la la laaaaa... Cadbury Creme Eggs. While living in France and popping into an American store named after a different American holiday, I bought an English staple of seasonal Easter joy. And it all comes full circle once again.

Thursday, March 13, 2014

Parisian Pollution

For over a week now, Paris has been enjoying unseasonably warm weather conditions. Compared to New York's freezing temperatures and continual snowfall, I am basically living in a utopian paradise... Or so it would seem... Though I walk down the street amidst radiant sunshine, frolic on the border of summer-dress-wearing nirvana, and peer into the cerulean skies through my happily worn sunglasses, the reality is much more grim... Or grime... As in grimy, sooty, hovering clouds of polluted air... The warm weather combined with windless days and temperate nights have created a prison of poison threatening dangerous conditions and providing this panoramic view of traditionally idyllic Paris...

On top of chronic allergies and sinuses, I have not been the happiest of campers, enjoying the springtime temperatures whilst also enduring a stuffed up nose, continual headache, and endless fatigue. Don't get me wrong, I loathe cold in a bitter hateful sort of way, so I will take the warm weather when I can get it. But it does beg the eternal question concerning global warming. Rumor has it that if this polluted plague persists, authorities will make public transportation free until the crisis is over. Paris has already been ahead of the times, using Vélib and Autolib for years, bicycles and electric cars ready and waiting to be rented and shuttled about town when in need. I have always commended them for supporting those options, though I'm sure as a major metropolis, it still only makes a dent in the larger problem. And I'm not sure that this is a problem for one nation to solve, whatever steps they take. 

I have been afraid of the apocalypse since as early as 7 years old, when I remember very clearly sitting in my third grade classroom and fearing nuclear disaster. It took a few years for that particular phobia to morph into one involving global warming instead, but certainly no less visceral. With people in China wearing masks every day because the pollution is so thick it's like a swarm of insects you have to swat out of your vision, one has to wonder... I'm not sure we can continue to pretend that the environment and climate and global warming are not at least in part a byproduct of human behaviour. And in general, I prefer the Eiffel Tower to have a blue backdrop, not a brown one.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

The Fatal Flaws of Frenchmen

I recently read an article stating that France and Italy ranked top on the European Infidelity poll... Hmmm, I thought to myself... Iiiiiiinteresting... This explains a great deal of my recent experiences with French men. That is not to say there aren't plenty of men in France who remain faithful to their significant others, nor does it mean that men are the only offenders. But there is also a general sense of forgiveness surrounding such acts. Or at the very least, tolerance. The stereotype of French seduction and sensuality make a lot of sense when such statistics come out. And as a current resident of the notorious city for lovers, you can't help but be intoxicated by the food, the wine, and yes, the Frenchmen. 

Now, when I do something stupid I feel like I might as well do it publicly so that I can share my idiocy and hilarity with the world. Last week I went on another "language exchange" meeting and met a man who seemed to be sweet, fun, sexy, interesting, and even better... interested in me. Miracle of miracles, I also thought he was single! Our one drink led to a full-on dinner, all of which he paid for. We chatted about my theory that La Défense is actually a spacetown in which I expect aliens to pop out from behind the metallic new-age buildings. I even spent a fair amount of time speaking French, considering my terrible habit of chatting so much that my English ends up tragically dominating. Circa 5 or 6 hours later when the Metro had stopped and we shared a cab, he kissed me... aaaaaaaw... And fine blah blah blah, yada yada yada, I was a relatively good girl... But after subsequent texts confirming my beauty, his interest, and our mutual desire to see each other again... Crickets... Crickets... Crickets... To the point where not only did I never hear from him again, but I noticed that he rather sketchily deleted his account on the language site.

Theory? I am not so narcissistic not to believe that his disappearance may have been for no other reason than a lackluster disinterest in me. However, based on actions AND words, it would seem that some other sort of foul play was at work. Perhaps an unaccounted girlfriend waiting in the wings? Why else would you delete your language account, when the point of the site is to practice... wait for it... languages? I have recently decided that Frenchmen use this site as a platform for unavailable men to date under the guise of education. Oh, don't worry honey, I'm just meeting someone for "language exchange". It's ok if I touch them or kiss them or pay for all of their meals because it's all in the name of self-improvement and study. Tricky little business, my friends, very tricky indeed...

Never fear, however, my adventures in language exchange are not over yet. I am single, I want to learn French, and the world is my culturally unfaithful oyster. Eep! It's possible that I'm just too much of a romantic to end up with a Frenchman. I'm not soooooo naive as to think that people always remain together forever or that things don't change or people don't make mistakes. It's simply the idea that it could possibly become commonplace or blasé that I'm not too keen on. I've met one man in my life so far who has made me feel like I might just have been more special in the exact state of being that I am than anyone else on earth... It was fleeting of course, but that momentary awareness of what I could mean to someone is the example I must hold all else to, making it impossible to accept that, on top of my own self-worth, I could be substituted for anyone else. No judgement on the entirety of France, I'm just not quite convinced that this American girl in Paris will ultimately end up with a native.

Sunday, March 9, 2014

Luxembourg Luminescent Liberation

Just as in New York City, the second the sun comes out to blanket Paris in the warmth of sunshine, any and all Parisians not sick or dying find their way outside in one form or another. In cafés, promenades down the avenues, or pique-nique-ing in the parcs, anyone with a true Parisian spirit is drinking in the sunshine right along with their coffee or wine. In my case? A picnic in the Luxembourg Gardens with some new girlfriends from school. We organized an afternoon to lounge and chat in the glimmering rays, accompanied by some white, some rosé, some fromage, some bread, and of course... a lovely dessert to finish the afternoon. It was almost 70 degrees in Paris (probably more than that in the sun), I was wearing one of my favorite afternoon summer dresses, eating the most typical of Parisian fare, and participating in an activity quite untainted by time or technology. Sharing conversation with ladies from various parts of the globe, telling tales of our youth, making plans for the future, nothing could be better on such a decadently European afternoon. 

As most of us know, I find wintry cold along with pants in any form, akin to shackles. They tear away my freedom, forcing me into a prison of misery for several months a year, taunting me with memories of light and life. The spring brings in a dawn of new beginnings and introduces dresses back into my wardrobe... And yes, I do generally try to wear as many dresses in the winter as I can, but however much I like them, boots and tights are just not the same. In a dress and sandals I feel like I could easily fly over the flower-enfused fields of Elysium. And while Parisian women may tend toward black and basic, they simply cannot escape the accessory of spring which provides a backdrop of Impressionism at every turn. Paris in springtime might be a cliché, right along with Parisians being bitchy or the city dripping in love, but no one can deny the beauty of a sun-kissed day...

Friday, March 7, 2014

Back in the Metaphorical Unicorn Saddle

There are times when the past can very easily creep up and lasso your face to the floor so that you can never look ahead. There are other times when the great white unicorn is bucking and neighing and unabashedly trying to throw you from its grasp so that you land in a heap of broken misery on that very same floor. Third option? You sit tall on your queenly steed of dreams and ride toward the future with confidence, clarity, and supreme savoir-faire. The floor in this instance is, of course, virtually stunning and may be covered in sequins.

Let's be real... Getting over a heartbreak is never an easy task. There's confusion, misinterpretation, miscommunication, and general stupidity involved. Very few people can make it through completely gracefully because, honestly, who likes being hurt? That being said, when it's time to move on, it's time to move on...So you create a goal and you go for it... In travel and writing and singing, merrymaking, and general emoting, I find my life's blood. Or fine, maybe in loving too... anything, everything, with my whole heart and being and soul and fiber of lingering glitter.

That all being said, when the hint of spring begins sifting through the window, it's almost impossible not to be taken in by its infectious air. Paris reached 60 degrees this week and is only looking to get warmer over the weekend. I've felt creative, had some luck finding students, and began my adventures in "language exchange" once again... Guess what? Sometimes language exchange IS in fact online dating. Not only has my whole karma shifted in the light of the impending warmth, apparently my luck with men has as well... More on that as the days go by, but in the meantime I'm finding that the combination of an open heart and a flowering landscape can create a Utopian garden of hope in which I can ride my unicorn freely in the breeze... Or whatever ; )

Wednesday, March 5, 2014

Hot Plates... Who knew, right?

My "kitchen" is comprised of a table and a hot plate, accompanied by various plates and pans that I have accrued or purchased along the way. It's actually a rather festive-looking little nook and something that I am increasingly proud of. But even more than that, I am proud of the fact that I have been turning into quite a hot plate food item connoisseur. It's an amazing world of food that you can create using just a hot plate, seasoned with liberal amounts of olive oil, salt and pepper. Since I generally don't make pasta for myself anyway, it's a really great method of keeping excessive amounts of carbs at bay. I have been tempted on and off to add a toaster oven to my little kitchenette, but my main fear is that I will instantly be overwhelmed by the impulse to stuff my face with cheesy melty yummy tummy bready foodstuffs. In the meantime, I am quite happy with the success I've had, and wanted to share the simple recipes I have thus far concocted...


In Paris, they have these nice little medleys of vegetables sold in the grocery store purposely packaged to make a delightful little soup. They usually consist of a potato, a carrot, an onion, a stalk of celery, and what appears to be a rutabaga. In addition to salt and pepper, I used a seasoning mix of oregano, basil, and rosemary amongst other things. Precooking the chicken with a bit of olive oil, I threw it in after letting the soup simmer for a bit. I also used a combination of chicken and vegi bouillon cubes.  And gluten free noodles, b#&@tches! I've tried it a second time since then, replacing noodles with white rice.


One of my very lovely sisters sent me a fabulous Thanksgiving care package, with all of the typically American boxed food-like fare including potatoes au gratin, stove top stuffing, and candy corn. For my solitary holiday meal, I made the boxed scalloped potatoes in a pot, sautéed some chicken with olive oil, salt, and pepper, and added some healthy greens next to my canned cranberry jelly sauce. Happy Ex-Pat Thanksgiving!!!


Harkening back to the days of my youth, I did my best to remember my dearest Mommy's recipe for stew. I used my trusty old frying pan to sear the pieces of beef I had covered in flour, chopped up some carrots, potatoes, and onions, then added them all to a bunch of boiling water and let it get a cookin' for a while... Hearty, easy, and very happy tummy!


Just the other day, I decided I needed to mix things up a bit and try my hand at quinoa... Easiest thing to make ever, but how to spice it up a bit so as not to be bland or boring? The sautéing tactic is really my most reliable, so I made use of some fresh broccoli, carrots, onions, and tomatoes, making sure to cook the hardier vegis longer than the more fragile ones. I added a can of white fresh water tuna right at the end, to provide some additional protein and a nice little burst of flavor! It keeps well and makes for some truly tasty leftovers!


Broccoli has always been one of my favorite vegetables, and the fact that it's green makes it extra special healthy. Sautéed with some chicken and the best staples of all, olive oil, salt, and pepper. I don't usually eat it over rice or pasta, as it stands on its own and saves the calories. Just be careful not to use too much oil or it can get a bit greasy without a carbohydrate sponge.


And little did I know just how much I adore salmon. Frankly, I think I could eat it every day, particularly because I discovered the way to cook it perfectly. Turn on your skillet, put some oil in the pan, and let that sucker get hot as hell. In the meantime, sprinkle your salmon with salt and pepper on both sides, a dab of olive oil as well. You basically sear both sides of the fish, the extra hot pan giving it that nice caramelized look. Over some basmati rice (my absolute favorite kind!) this makes for the easiest dish in my repertoire while also oft appearing my fanciest.


And now that I have officially channeled Julia Child, bon appetite!!!