East Coast Ramblings of a West Coast Girl

My stomach growled.

I looked sadly across the room at my empty kitchen. Empty. Empty as in my mother is already long gone and there's no one there to cook for me. Empty. Empty like my growling stomach. Empty. Empty is not good for dinner.

The one thing that my father has consistently worried about while I was in New York was whether or not I had a method of manger, a way to put decent food in my mouth and make me feel satiated. Well, New York was simple to conquer: I had a dining hall very close by. Dining hall. Dining hall equals ready prepared food. Dining hall. It might not be good food, but it's food, nonetheless.

Now in France, and upon my mother's departure, my parents have skyped me, wondering if I had reasonable food to eat. My father worried. Sandwiches are simple and they're tasty, my mom said to him. Jessica loves sandwiches.

That I do, Mom.

Sandwiches are merely breakfast food, my dad says haughtily. He's the type to make sandwiches for breakfast -- a kind of lettuce, tomato, egg, and ham sandwich with coffee. You can't live off of sandwiches.

As my parents debated about the merit of a sandwich, I remembered what my mother asked me right before she left me:

Are you sure that you'll be OK on your own?



There would be no more fancy restaurant-eating on a regular basis, no more home-cooked meals from someone who has admirable cooking skills.

I was on my own, and tonight, I was hungry. Sandwiches for lunch and dinner suddenly did not bode well with me. I stared at the bright kitchen light and I knew that it was time. I took a deep breath and dived in. My mother's voice resonated in the back of my mind. I don't know if that's really a good or bad thing.

I took out the can of spaghetti sauce she told me about, and I took out the remaining half of the noodles that she'd left behind. I heat up the stove, took out these pots...

Suddenly the likes of Rachael Ray, Giada DeLaurentiis, and Sandra Lee were dancing with sugarplum fairies in my mind. Before I knew it, I had noodles bubbling and I had cut up sausage and put it inside my sauce concoction. Water was boiling, knives were cutting, it was a freakishly exhilarating experience.

The end result? Can't you guess? (And I thought I was the one with cooking dyslexia)

A steaming bowl of spaghetti. I know, very French of me. But, really, this is a great feat for me! Beyond fried rice, where the egg and the rice come together, and beyond Betty Crocker instant cakes, where the egg, water, and mix come together, I have never made anything that needed combining anything together!

What!? I have SAUCE? Noodles, Sauce? Noodles, Sauce? Spaghetti. (Note: Same idea as: pen, pencil? Pen, pencil? Pencil)

There comes a time in everyone's life when you must conquer a step of progression that which frightens you, but nonetheless, helps you cultivate into your adulthood.

On a lighter note, I miss the kids I mentored with. (insert a huge sad face here)

One of the girls that I absolutely love burst into tears upon hearing that I was all the way in France. it's terrible! I felt so sad. But I drew her a picture...