My earliest food memories are in my great-grandmother’s kitchen, a humble chicken farm nestled in rural Alabama. Our trips from Birmingham always landed us there in time for breakfast. Ma Cash, as we called her, would be elbow-deep in White Lily flour. We'd push open the screen door to find her hunched over her wooden biscuit bowl, carefully shaping each dough ball into little powdered jewels. "Come here and let me dust your britches!" she'd exclaim, flashing a toothy grin. To this day, I’m not entirely sure what “dust your britches†meant, beyond a warm embrace and a few pats on the rear, always accompanied by chatter about how much my sister and I had grown. There’s still nothing that tastes better than those mornings at Ma Cash’s. Fresh biscuits hot from the oven, a rickety card table, plastic-covered chairs, and a feast. Breakfast was deceivingly simple: coffee, country ham, and those soft, pillowy biscuits, slathered with butter and Golden Eagle syrup. We'd share stories of school, violin lessons, and new friends, the sound of clanging forks filling the air as time seemed to stand still. Looking back, I see how my culinary education began not in fancy restaurants, but with steady, unrushed care rooted in tradition, simplicity, and comfort. Years later, I stumbled upon “Chez Mémé Paulette†in Paris, a tiny restaurant no larger than a living room, lit by dripping candles and sconces. Warm, comforting, with trinkets adorning every wall, the air thick with the heat from the kitchen. French and English mingled over glasses of Côte du Rhone and bites of baguette. Someone pointed out the pure simplicity of a true French baguette: flour, water, yeast, and salt. Each bite, crisp exterior giving way to a soft, chewy interior, paired perfectly with the blackberry and clove notes of the wine. Soon, les petites cocottes gratinées arrived – enamel pots filled with steaming potatoes, ham, and emmental cheese. The entire restaurant smelled like butter, comfort, and warmth. We were packed tightly around the table, shoulders nearly touching, bonding over our shared love of French language and culture. We arrived as strangers, hailing from all corners of the globe: Korea, Germany, Canada. Yet, we were bound together by something magical, a spell woven with the simplest of ingredients. The feeling was strangely familiar. Alabama and France seem worlds apart, but by 16, I was completely smitten with France. My fascination perplexed my parents, but grew into a college major, despite my dad's previous French class failures. The South was my first love, but France had captivated me. It tasted like a perfect dream - both new and a memory. A reverence for simple ingredients. A connection to the land. A slow, unrushed pace. The joy of hospitality. These are the moments we live for, the ones I chase whether at home in Birmingham or across the Atlantic. We lost Ma Cash long ago, but her joyful spirit, her ability to gather us around the table, lived on in those Parisian moments. I can picture her smile, seeing me today, bilingual and well-traveled. This fiercely strong woman who lived through the Great Depression would probably laugh and say I’d become “fancy." And then, she’d still dust my britches.Southern Roots & French Dreams
Ma Cash's Kitchen Magic
Parisian Echoes
Unexpected Connections
Across Continents, Shared Souls
Dusting Britches, Still
