The Mashed Potatoes Dish That Brought Me Back Home
(Thursday, March 20, 2025)
I’m typing this diary while sitting on a rock at the riverbank, soaking in the sun.
The warmth melts my homesickness a little. Maybe it’s the jet lag, maybe it’s the unreliable WiFi and the freezing night air in my bedroom, but last night, I missed home more than ever—even though yesterday wasn’t a bad day.
In fact, it started on a positive note. For lunch, I decided to go to Les Halles de Lyon Paul Bocuse on my own. As I stepped outside, the sun wrapped around me like a hug, and Somewhere Over the Rainbow played in my headphones. I had downloaded my Warm Fuzzy Feelings playlist—fitting for this little solo date I was taking myself on.
This whole trip, really, is a long date with myself. Not just a solo vacation, but something more romantic. I secretly like to romanticize life, though I rarely admit it—it's too cringy for the stiff American business world I’ve been in. The startup world I was in before is messy and exhausting behind the scenes, and the corporate culture I will be joining has no space for poetry.
Les Halles is a covered food market dedicated to the legendary chef Paul Bocuse, the “pope of gastronomy.” With only 15 minutes before class, I wandered through the market, surrounded by a feast of sights and smells—fresh seafood, golden pastries, endless types of cheese. The restaurants inside serve dishes made with the freshest ingredients, and I wished I had time to sit down and eat.
Instead, I ended up having a pleasant chat with a restaurant server who was on his break. He was very friendly, funny, and effortlessly outgoing. He has worked at the restaurant for 17 years as a server, something unthinkable to many Americans. We spoke in a mix of French and body language—something I’ve always been good at when navigating non-English-speaking countries. I promised him that I would go back to the market, at some point. I will live up to the promise.
Once again, Boulangerie Les Frères Barioz next to the school saved me. A simple baguette sandwich—brie, prosciutto, and a single crisp lettuce leaf, all tucked into a short baguette with the perfect golden, crunchy crust. A quick espresso on the side, and I headed to class like a local.
For dinner, my host’s mother made hachis parmentier for us, a classic French dish: a rich, savory ground beef mixture covered with fluffy, cheesy mashed potatoes, similar to Shepherd’s pie.
Louis’ mom has made it for us before, and to me, she is the best French chef I know. She insists on using only the best ingredients—organic, fresh, full of flavor. Her hachis parmentier has the creamiest, most buttery mashed potatoes, and the ground beef is deep and indulgent in taste. Last time she made it, she prepared a small one just for Louis and me, baked in a cute glass dish. When I was working late at my desk in the bedroom, I smelled it browning in the oven, I ran over, asking Louis what on earth could smell that good.
Maybe it was the memory of that dish, bringing me back to Chicago, that made me feel so homesick. Maybe it was tiptoeing back into my cold bedroom after dinner. Or maybe it was today’s class on the futur simple, where I felt behind, struggling more than I wanted to admit.
Either way, my pillow might have caught some warm moisture last night.
I wonder—maybe growing up means that no matter how exciting the world is, a part of you will always belong somewhere else.