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I've prided myself on being something of a jack-of-all-trades, a renaissance slacker, a professional lay-about who will hear nothing of her "potential". I've worked hard only when I've had to (which, mind you, has been more often than I would like), but relish in sleeping in and doing nothing much at all.

It seems however that Fortune favors fools, because somehow I have found myself 5,000 miles from my warm and windy home in Texas, working roughly 9 hours a week on a modest but livable wage on the western coast of France. I have so much free time, where before there was always school and work, that I am suddenly, unbelievably, too bored. I didn't think it was possible.

When I should be out, enjoying the french sites, making french friends, going to see french movies and maybe, just maybe, improving my french, I am compelled by that part of me which never wants to do those things that I should. So, most nights, I instead find myself in my tiny kitchen, over my miniature gas stove, using ancient wooden utensils that probably belonged to my landlady's deceased mother, trying to learn through messy trial and error the art of food... and maybe come home with a french butter-belly to boot.

All of this is nothing more than the rambling monologue of a near 30 slacker who is trying to find herself, her passions...

...and where her roommate hid the brick of butter.