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In the early 2000s, I attended an American university in Paris. Not as a year abroad, but for my entire bachelor's degree. It was as beautiful as it sounds – even as a picture book – on all days except Thanksgiving. Close to Thanksgiving, the tone of the American students, the anecdotal homesickness would drain away from our community and gather in small pools of expatriate-friendly facilities, mostly in search of food.

When all my other friends in the United States took off and went home to see their families, Garth and I were still in school, unpublished for the holidays. It inspired us to make our annual pilgrimage to the surrounding grocery stores, which we knew had the right brown sugar in the box the texture of wet sand, vanilla waffles or marshmallows. We found these corners of Paris by word of mouth, through flyers on the cork plate at our university. We were exhausted from trying to explain our American ingredients to the impressive participants in our regular markets, always desperate for something that brought us home, for a sense of familiarity and belonging.


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