A Gift from Home

V and I were walking to her office the other day (she forgot to lock the door), and we passed The Real McCoy.

"That's an American grocery store," she told me. But I was distracted.

"Oh my God, Pop Tarts!"

"Oh, I hate Pop Tarts!" she replied, with admittedly well-applied French distaste. (In her defense, she tells me she loves Krispy Kreme Doughnuts).

"I love them. That's all I ate as a teenager," I informed her.

"There's just nothing in them."

"Oh, I know. They're gross. But I just love them."

"Sure. You like it even though it's bad because it's something from your childhood?"

"Like my mom and HoHos."I don't think she knows what HoHos are. But we then reached her office and changed the subject because there's really not much more to be said about Pop Tarts.

Now while I'm here surrounded by arguably the best cuisine in the world and missing American junk food, my family in Michigan is grieving a very great loss. I have never felt so disconnected from them. I've been pretty good, so far, at keeping myself from missing everyone too much and falling apart. But for just a second today, I lost it a bit. I was standing in V's kitchen, looking for something for lunch and seeing nothing but French graham crackers and apple sauce, when I suddenly felt very, very lost.

V caught me staring into her cupboard.

"Are you okay, Kate?"

"Oh, I'm fine! I just had a moment..."

I don't think I fooled her though, because when she came back from work she had with her "un petit cadeau pour Kate." It was a box of cherry Pop Tarts.