3 Brilliant Habits I Picked Up Living in Paris (and 2 I’m Leaving Behind)

When I came home from living in Paris earlier this year, the first time I opened my fridge and dishwasher, and ran my kitchen sink was a reverse culture shock. “They’re just … huge!” I kept saying. They’re not, actually, but compared to the 320-square-foot studio I’d just left, everything felt cavernous.

The readjustment wasn’t just about how big American kitchens are. The rhythms of shopping, the way I used the kitchen, and cooked — everything was different, and it took coming back home to realize just how different.

While I can’t say I came back speaking fluent French (ha, non!), I did bring home some French kitchen habits — and there were a few I made sure to leave behind. Here’s what I kept.

After my first week carrying every single thing I consumed home in bags over my shoulders, I’d developed welts. Toto, we’re not in the Costco parking lot anymore! Every item I looked at was weighed in my mind (almost literally) with the knowledge that I’d be carrying it home on foot, maybe up and down Metro stairs if I went to the good Monoprix two stops away. I had to ask myself: How much do I really want that bottle of shallot vinaigrette? (That was almost always a yes — it was a delightful shortcut to everyday salad dressing.)

The same mindfulness applied to kitchen waste. Taking out trash meant a journey to the building’s basement labyrinth and deciphering French recycling instructions. That was enough to make me think twice about every purchase, every piece of packaging, every leftover I might be tempted to toss.

Back home in Kentucky, throwing groceries in a cart bound for a car, the trash bins just a quick trip to the garage, it almost feels absurd. But I’m keeping that Paris mindset: Would I still buy this if I had to carry it home?

Every meal in my tiny new kitchen involved a huge mess, and honestly, feeling defeated by the time I sat down to eat, wondering if this meal was Dana’s Adventure in Paris-worthy. After one particularly intense cleanup night, I decided I wasn’t cooking anymore. And it was a huge relief!

Then, I found a wheel of Mont d’Or cheese at my fromagerie, a seasonal specialty a local friend had told me I would love. I melted it over some duck fat roasted potatoes and tore into it while standing at the stove before finding myself dancing around the apartment out of exhilaration at what I’d just created. Funny how much I started to enjoy cooking once it was for the sheer delight, and not out of the idea that I had to do it!

A few weeks later, I set out to make biscuits for my French class potluck — a little taste of Louisville in Paris. I botched them when I accidentally used citric acid (a beloved French cleaner) instead of sugar, but there was no going back out for ingredients at 9 p.m. in the rain. I looked around at what I had: beans, duck fat, ham, foie gras. An hour later, I’d made the best bean soup of my life (yet another connection to home).

When cooking stops being about should and starts being about the simple love of food, magic happens. You can be certain the French aren’t cooking from obligation — it comes from the unabashed pursuit of pleasure. And that shift from performance to pleasure? That’s what I’m keeping.

My réfrigérateur was tucked under the counter, dorm fridge style. Quickly, I learned that the more I put in it, the harder it was to see what was available as I crouched to get a good look. And since waste was a definite faux pas, I learned not to stuff it full, the ultimate irony of small-space living.

The upside of this is that when everything you have is easy to see, you can call on your creativity. So many meals were inspired by bits and bobs or leftovers that, at home, may have ended up being shoved to the back to languish and perish. Here? Last night’s risotto and a wedge of cheese became a risotto bake topped with toasted, stale baguette crumbs. Leftover haricot vert, some apero charcuterie, and one egg made a beautiful composed salad. And I defy you to tell me something that can’t be folded into a frittata.

Plus, the night of the biscuit debacle would have ended much differently if I hadn’t quickly seen the duck fat and Italian ham in the fridge. Even though I’m back to a full-size fridge now, I want to keep this approach of less-is-more in the fridge. I hope my Parisian inspiration will continue to manifest as creative, delicious food that also prevents waste. Of course, not every French habit translated well to American life …

The first time I walked into an American grocery store after I got home, I was ridiculously relieved that nobody cared that I was in track pants and a ponytail. People in Paris are … put together, to say the least. Like, women were coiffed, in full makeup, and dressed more like they were headed to a boardroom or wine bar than to pick up a rotisserie chicken and a bottle of Perrier.

Far be it from me to want to look like the frumpy American when I went out, so it was a thing to get ready. Shirt tucked in just so, belt, scarf tied probably not just so, the right jacket, and definitely lipstick and mascara. I see how silly this all sounds as I type it. But you get in line behind someone who looks like a model when you’re already feeling lost and overwhelmed far from home, and tell me you don’t want to fit in as best as possible. After all those weeks of high maintenance grocery shopping, the belt and scarf can stay behind.

There’s this romantic idea of heading to the market, cute little bag in hand, and coming home with your baguette and flowers. And I did come to love a lot about it! The vendors got to know me and even warmed up to me despite my bad French (except the butcher I never did win over). Every trip to the market or specialty shop was delicious inspiration, and I soaked it up.

But here’s the reality: It took a lot of time. What would be a 20-minute grocery run at home became an expedition: the baker, the produce shop, the fromager, the wine shop, and no matter how hard I tried to avoid it, superstore Monoprix — and then the trek home with all those bags. Part of my shock at the adjustment period was how much time went into basic adult responsibilities like feeding myself. Would I settle into a rhythm if I lived there for good? Absolutely! But it’s just not practical now. A car is required to get to any grocer, and frankly, they’re going to have the same thing tomorrow as today, so I might as well load up. And as I mentioned, I have way more space in my kitchen at home than I did in Paris.

While I have to leave the daily market behind, I’m bringing that same sense of discovery to my local farmer’s market — complete with the proper market bags I brought home from Paris.

What do you think about these French habits? Let us know in the comments below!

This post originally appeared on The Kitchn. See it there: 3 Brilliant Habits I Picked Up Living in Paris (and 2 I’m Leaving Behind)