I spent a lot of time in France irritated over the kitchen situations. We had nowhere to cook at Vauvenargues, unless you count a microwave, a mini-fridge, and a table as "a place to cook." (I, quite frankly, don't.) Our friends' options were almost equally limited. Most of the assistants who had apartments didn't have ovens, and there was always a bit of tension in the kitchen at Cezanne, where I cooked as often as I had the opportunity.
I joked about how I lived there as much as they did, and I feel like my presence may have occasionally be unwanted, but to go an extended period of time outside of the kitchen is not something I could or would do.
Since I've been back, I've made a handful of the recipes I mastered in France. Guacamole, mac-and-cheese, and scrambled eggs may not seem like traditional french cuisine, but it was like our ramen. We needed dinner, and it was what we were able to make from what we had in the fridge.
Cooking at Cezanne was always daunting. It was often a make-do situation in which a bottle filled with olive oil and covered in saran wrap was turned into the smashing half of a mortar and pestle, or a beer or wine bottle covered the same way became a rolling pin. There is no cuisinart, no electric mixer - making our delicious eggnog at Christmastime as physically taxing as it was tasty - and limited and mismatched knives, forks, and dishes. I don't think we were ever short on teaspoons. Don't really know how that happened.
So, I've now cooked in two fully-stocked kitchens in the States: my parents' and my brother's. It's a completely different ballgame. I have what I need in front of me, and yet I find myself using the makeshift methods I picked up in France. The guac I made for Easter lunch was done with a fork, spoon, and paring knife instead of the cuisinart, the sauce for mac-and-cheese was in a too-small pan because it was about the size of the pan I always cooked in at Cezanne.
I'm sure I'll grow out of these habits, return to taking my small appliances for granted, and fondly reminisce on the days when we had to live as a community and share four stove eyes, an oven in Celsius, and not enough hot water. But for now, I'm happy that I learned to cook the dishes I did, I hold dear the experiences in the Cezanne kitchen, and I am grateful that the place I came home to has a dishwasher.
