Summary

An expatriate living in France requests specific American items, such as Little Debbie snacks, hair dye, and pain relievers, from her daughter due to their unavailability or high cost in France.

Abstract

The author, residing in France, expresses a longing for American comfort foods like Little Debbie cakes, which are not available in France. Despite the country's renowned culinary offerings, the author finds solace in the familiarity and nostalgia of these American snacks. Additionally, the author faces challenges in obtaining preferred hair care products and over-the-counter pain medication, leading to a reliance on her daughter to bring these items from the United States. The article humorously contrasts the abundance of gourmet French pastries with the author's cravings for American treats and highlights the inconveniences of living abroad, including cultural and consumer differences.

Opinions

The author has a fondness for the unique taste and nostalgia associated with Little Debbie snacks, despite their artificial ingredients.
There is a hint of frustration towards the inaccessibility of the Mc Kee Family's website from France, finding it rude.
The author views the French approach to pain relief as overly cautious, given the requirement for a prescription for larger quantities of medication.
A humorous concern is expressed about potential misunderstandings at the local hair salon, fearing an unwanted hair transformation like a purple mohawk.
The author appreciates the quality and variety of French food but maintains a preference for certain American products.
There is an appreciation for the affordability and availability of French wine, referred to as "cheap plonk."
The author pokes fun at the French interpretation of tortillas, criticizing their sweetness compared to the authentic corn tortillas from America.
A light-hearted jab is made at the effortless style of French women, who manage to stay slim without the temptation of Little Debbie snacks.

Living in France: Here’s What I’ve Asked My Daughter to Bring Me From America . . .

OK, I can already feel you losing sympathy. Maybe there’s a good reason for the hair dye and pain killers, you’re thinking, but, Quelle horreur!

Is she crazy?

All the marvellous food in France — Les boulangeries, les patisseries, les viennoiseries and she’s asking for . . . les Little Debbies?

Well, yes.

When I’m feeling sort of blue and melancholy, (actually, even when I’m not) there’s nothing like that first gooey bite of a Little Debbie. All that smooth synthetic creaminess, that fake strawberry sweetness, the cloying, unctuous gooeyness of it all packed into one little icing topped cake.

(Most of those words also describe the qualities I most hate in a person — the strawberry tang would be the lip gloss — but I digress.)

Here in France, you can gorge on a gâteau opera, lick the chocolate ganache from your pudgy fingers as you marvel over buttery layers of a mille-feuille, or bite into a baba au rhum. I could go on.

What you can’t do here is devour a Little Debbie.

You won’t find her.

I don’t think she likes France.

I thought I’d try to find out why so I Googled the Mc Kee Family’s website.

Guess what? I was denied access.

Thank you for your interest, but this Website does not allow access from your Country.

Hmm. A bit rude, don’t you think?

I still love Little Debbie though and when Carolyn and her husband arrive in two weeks, boxes of Little Debbie’s will be packed in her suitcase — along with some other things that I can’t find here in France.

Like Roux Fanciful hair colour rinse. You can get it here, but it’s more expensive and doesn’t come in Frivolous Fawn (that’s so me)which does a great job with covering my grey roots and has saved me a few nerve-racking visits to the village hair salon where I’m never quite sure the woman understands what I’m telling her about how I want my hair.

One of these days, I just know, I’ll emerge with a purple mohawk.

Which, of course, would give me a headache requiring a double dose of Aleve, or anything else with naproxen, so my daughter will bring some Costco size bottles of that too. French pharmacies only sell over-the-counter pain relief in packages of twelve. More than that and you need a prescription. Either way, I gear up for a lecture on the dangers of excess. I nod and smile, but the only thing I understand is that I’ve got a splitting headache and I just want the damn pills.

Then I’ll go home and wash them down with cheap plonk, which France has in abundance, and maybe a teeny bite of Little Debbie. Nah, that’s like eating one potato chip.

I haven’t mentioned corn tortillas — which Carolyn will also have in her suitcase — because it would start me on a rant about why French tortillas, or what passes for tortillas, have to be so damn sweet.

Anyway, there you have it. The contents of my daughter’s suitcase. She might have room for a few clothes too; if not, we’ll have no trouble finding what she needs here in France. French women do have that certain flair.

And no Little Debbies to make them pack on the pounds.

If you’d like to read some of my other stories, plus thousands of others on Medium, why not subscribe?

Part of your subscription will help struggling (and elderly) writers like me and other struggling (and much younger) writers on Medium.

Just hit the link: https://janicemacdonald.medium.com/membership

Merci Bien!