French la Vie

When I was a little girl, I held the title of 

The Pickiest Eater in the Whole Wide World. 

If not the world, then surely the universe—ask my mother, and she’ll back me up. My list of acceptable foods was almost laughable in its simplicity;

White bread, 

peanut butter,

 my mother’s spaghetti (but only her sauce), 

scrambled eggs (again, only hers), 

certain meats. 

Fresh fruit made the cut, but never cooked—

Raw carrots and celery,

absolutely never tomatoes., they looked like raw hearts.

Certainly cookies, candies, ice cream, cake, french fries, potato chips… You get the picture of a picky eater.

I can still hear my Uncle Jules chuckling as he warned, “Be careful going outside on a windy day, Corey, or you might just blow away!” I truly believed him, and for years I’d walk outside with a cautious eye on the sky, convinced that one big gust might lift me off my feet.

Oh… side note: I think I truly survived on my grandmother’s fig trees one was green and one was black. It’s a wonder those trees had any fruit left after I was there.

Growing up, I heard that some people’s taste buds “come to life” a bit later than others. I think that was me—my taste buds must have been on a slow simmer, because around age 18, the world of flavor suddenly came alive. Once I could truly taste, I couldn’t get enough, and I developed a deep love of food that turned into an absolute joy in cooking. At 19, I found myself volunteering at a monastery in New Mexico, where everything in the community revolved around the rhythm of work and prayer, work and prayer. When the abbot asked what I enjoyed most, I knew my answer right away: “I like to cook.” And so, I found myself in the monastery kitchen, learning to cook for an entire community with the head cook, Jack. Recipes were few, but the guidance and support were endless. Cooking became my way of creating, my way of giving.

And then, years later, I came to France. Here, food is far more than what’s on the plate—it’s a way of life, an art, a social ritual, a language. Meals are shared, recipes traded, and each dish punctuated by appreciative “Mmm’s.” Here, you finish one meal and start dreaming up the next, savoring flavors long before they even reach the table.

Whenever guests join me on my French la Vie adventure—whether for the brocante treasures or the lingering French countryside meals—they always marvel at the food. It’s not just the flavors or the freshness, though there’s certainly that. It’s how the French bring food to life, infusing it with heartfelt goodness and abundance, a shared ritual that binds everyone at the table.

I thank my lucky stars that my taste buds finally woke up and that I found my love for cooking, because France opened doors to culinary worlds I never imagined, and oh how the path before me stretches wide open, an endless banquet of flavors, friendships, and stories.