Article from August 2013

So here I sit, eating a pb&j sandwich while sipping tea from my Starbucks mug, in Paris. Nothing seemed odd, about any of it, only that I have missed peanut butter whole heartedly and that I thank my dad a million times over for bringing me some. It’s just, that it this moment precisely I have realized that I will always be an American.  No matter how hard I try, or have tried, my American instincts will always surface. Pea coats, high heels, macaroons and espresso will never transform me completely, and honestly Im glad, because I really like my pb&j, a delight that the French scorn upon when they realize what’s inside.

Don’t get me wrong, I love France, but there’s definitely something special about feeling connected to home

Super American things that don’t pass as French:

  • Sweat pants in public
  • Sweet and savory, mixed, hence the hatred for pb&j
  • Peanut butter in general
  • Leaving the house in anything less than fabulous
  • Dinner at six
  • Meals less than 2 hours long
  • Maple Syrup
  • Wheat thins, stuffers stuffing (the thanksgiving stuff), poptarts, Oatmeal,  Kraft Mac & Cheese, Jolly Ranchers, Starburst, Ranch, Root Beer…


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