If there's a food better than goat cheese, Rebecca doesn't want to know.

Rebecca actually did some hard work this week. I put a new coat of varnish and finish on Grandma’s porch swing and picnic table. It may not be what everyone would consider hard work, but it made my shoulders hurt. I didn’t ask Grandma to pay me for it, but of course she did, and I decided to finally go to the one place in town that sells ... goat cheese!

To my surprise, they actually had, like, four different types of goat cheese for sale. They didn’t have the brand that I lived and died by in France (Petit Chèvre Doux, meaning Little Sweet Goat), but they did have another brand I had eaten there. It was the kind they served in the school cantine, but I hadn’t been a big fan of that, so I bought a cheaper brand, plus a big loaf of so-called "French bread" that wasn’t remotely baguette-esque.

I ate all the goat cheese and most of the bread for dinner. It was the absolute perfect, perfect meal. It may not have been as good as I got in France, but I’ve been so goat-cheese-deprived since I got back to Louisiana that my mouth didn’t know the difference. I took the Lord’s name in vain several times while eating. Goat cheese bubbling from the microwave, fresh bread, a can of soda – when I took a bite and closed my eyes, I could’ve been back in the Lycée Européen kitchen. And what made it even more perfect was that I ate it all on a Friday night. On Friday nights in France, I always had a package of goat cheese and a baguette. (Monday and Wednesday nights, goat cheese pizzas. Tuesday and Saturday nights, ravioli. Thursday and Sunday nights, steak haché and green beans.)

I’ve decided to start reading as many autobiographies of former child actresses as I can. This is what I have on the list so far:
Home, Julie Andrews.
Little Girl Lost, Drew Barrymore.
Child Star, Shirley Temple Black.
My Fifteen Minutes, Sybil Jason.
A Paper Life, Tatum O’Neal.