Tears in the Pavlova

There is a specific kind of silence that follows a relocation. For the past few weeks, our blog has been quiet, not because we ran out of things to say, but because we were too busy soaking them up. We arrived in Toulouse on May 14th, and suddenly, the theoretical life we had planned for months became our real, waking morning routine. Time just sort of passed over us while we were busy settling in.

But we are back, and we need to talk about the food. Not in a high brow, culinary critic sort of way, but in a way that actually changes how your body feels and how your memories find you.

It started a couple of weeks ago at one of our favorite local spots, Spritzza. We stopped in for a casual lunch…..a salmon salad for Lelaine, a ham salad for me. Just two beautiful, simple summer salads dotted with small cherry tomatoes. Now, you have to understand that Lelaine historically does not like tomatoes. Back in the US, she avoids them. But there is something about the way things look here that coaxes you into trying anyway. She picked one up, ate it, and then quietly ate three or four more without a single complaint.

Then I took a bite of my ham.

It wasn’t the super salty, heavily processed stuff I had grown used to in America, nor did it have that heavy taste of something artificial. It was just a tasty, delicate piece of meat that almost melted on my tongue. Suddenly, I was blinking back tears at a sidewalk café. It tasted exactly like the ham hanging in my family’s pantry when I was growing up in Hungary. I hadn’t realized how much I missed that flavor until it found me again in the middle of Toulouse.

That lunch confirmed a suspicion I’d been harboring since we landed, one that prompted a rather reckless experiment on my own health.

Back in the States, I had to watch my carb and sugar intake like a hawk. Too many carbs triggered painful inflammation flare ups in my joints. A little too much sugar, a couple of cookies, a sugary frappé, a doughnut, or a few beers and my body would punish me. A few times a year, it would spiral into full blown gout. I’m talking sharp, blinding pain in my feet where I couldn’t even walk.

When we got to France, surrounded by the world’s best bakeries, I decided to run a "let's see what happens" diet. I simply refused to miss out on the good stuff. For over a month now, I have regularly…almost daily…eaten pizza, chocolatine, baguettes, pastries, and enjoyed local beer.

And you know what? Not once have I had that oh-oh feeling of a gout attack starting.

Sure, sometimes my feet or toes feel a little stiff, but I’ve also gone from driving everywhere and logging 2,000 steps a day in the US to walking anywhere between 8,000 and 20,000 steps daily here. The movement helps, but I am absolutely certain the strict quality of ingredients in France is the real hero here. The food isn't working against my body anymore. Now that I know I can trust the food, I’ll probably dial the pastries down just a little bit, but man, it feels good to know I can actually enjoy life here without fear.

The revelation hit Lelaine next, right after we came back from a weekend getaway to Carcassonne.

We stepped out of the Toulouse train station, and a wave of relief washed over us. We looked at each other and realized we felt genuinely good to be back in the city we love. It already felt like home. As we walked down the street, we accidentally stumbled upon a beautiful patisserie. I caught sight of a cool shop sign across the street, pointed it out, and Lelaine gasped, "Look at the macaron tree!"

Inside the case were these stunning Pavlova sweets. We bought two, took a bite, and this time, it was Lelaine’s turn to get tears in her eyes. She had never tasted anything like it in America. It was impossibly light, with a perfectly balanced sweetness that didn't feel heavy or overwhelming, built on a crunchy meringue and piled with super fresh strawberry slices and raspberry.

We’ve gone back to that shop so many times now for coffee, chocolatine, and perfect baguettes. Part of it is the pastries, but a big part of it is the people. The staff knows our French is limited…mostly mumbling around our words, but they are incredibly kind, patient, and understanding.

We’re finding that everywhere, especially at the local open air markets. The fresh produce, the vegetables, the vibrant fruits, the meats, and the bread…it’s all so fresh, and honestly, it’s cheaper than shopping at the big chain grocery stores.

We are slowly finding our rhythm again, figuring out our walks to the market, and learning how to live at a slower, sweeter pace. There is a lot more to tell you about how we are navigating the local doctors, the bureaucracy, and the language, but for now, we are just glad to be back at the keyboard.