For the past 18 years I have lived in 5 countries. In 1990 I moved to Paris to study cooking with the intention of lingering on after my cooking program finished and finding a job. Originally I planned to work as an interior designer. After all, that was my profession in Boston before I moved, and while I loved cooking, I approached it more as a hobby and a ticket to Europe. I figured that once I got myself to Paris, learned the ropes of La Cuisine Française, magically learned French (I studied Spanish in school), endeared myself to the all-embracing French population and became a local, well, then, I might just get a design job with Euro-Disney, which was in the process of being constructed on the outskirts of Paris. I would nimbly straddle the French-American culture, drinking café au lait and eating baguettes (I was on a tight budget, after all) while involving myself in the construction and decor of the Magic Kingdom and home of Mickey Mouse. Sounded like a plan.
As all best laid plans go, before I even boarded the jumbo to take me to Paris, I met a Dane in Boston who was in town on business from Geneva, Switzerland. What does this have to do with anything, you may ask? Well, everything. We hit it off, we liked each other. I thought he was cute, and apparently he felt the same about me. So, when I did fly over to Paris to cook, that was not the only thing that began cooking. Geneva and Paris are a 3 hour TGV train ride apart, and for the next 6 months we spent nearly every weekend together either in Paris or Geneva. So, upon my graduation from La Cuisine Base de Française in Paris, I decided that Euro-Disney would have to be built without me, packed my bags and took another TGV ride to Geneva - this time with the plan to stay.
And stay I did. For 8 years, to be exact. The Dane became my husband; we were married and had 2 children. Initially I found a job as a design consultant on a large new construction project which landed me the desired and very necessary permis de séjour, or residence permit, which meant I was a legal, albeit FOREIGN, mind you, resident of Switzerland. All the while, I continued cooking and pursuing my love for food. I dabbled in catering, I cooked for family, I cooked for friends. In fact, I found my above mentioned design job by cooking for the director of the organization I was hired to design. He was a guest for dinner one evening, lamenting his situation with this enormous, unwieldy, emotionally-charged, and predictably political, new construction project. I clucked sympathetically as I sautéed lardons; I rolled my eyes as he recounted the daily shenanigans he had to sit through, while I passed the gratin de pommes de terre. I nodded sagely as he complained how this was distracting the purpose and work at hand of his institution, and I ladled another serving of beef bourguignon. When he took a breath and politely inquired about my cooking experience in Paris and general interest in cuisine, I unabashedly segued directly (remember, I am American at the end of the day) to my design experience, credentials and previous construction projects, confusing the gentleman so much he actually offered me a position on the spot as a design consultant. Bon appétit.
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