Karen the editor's page.

My mother is French. Very French. Heavy-accent, flair-for-major-drama, "everything is better in France" French. When I was a kid, my mom often hauled me over the pond to Paris for extended stays, trips I only sort of enjoyed. Despite my pride in my heritage, I never really dug the French way of life. Too slow, too laissez-faire, too inefficient. This is a country that takes off the whole month of August to go to the beach. To a proudly Midwestern girl like me who firmly believes in the American ethic of hard work, this way of doing things just seemed, well, tres stupide.

While I may have been critical of French custom, I had no quibble with French food. Breakfast? A croissant slathered with butter and strawberry jam! Lunch? Two courses ... at least! Perhaps some raw veggies with dip (that's crudite, s'il-vous-plait), followed by roast chicken with potatoes, then a green salad. To finish, maybe I'd have some apple tart, but I often saved that for tea time. By the point dinner roiled around, I was more than ready to start with a creamy soup, then move on to steak with fries (drowning in peppercorn sauce--yum). I might finish off with another green salad, then crusty bread and Brie and, finally, chocolate mousse (with a little whipped cream).

You'd probably suspect that, eating like this, I'd weighed about 500 pounds. But I didn't. And I still don't. Don't hate me because I'm French and, like that new book touts, French Women Don't Get Fat.

When the book hit stands in January (and cruised its way to runaway bestseller success), my mother couldn't help but crow--this is how she had taught me to eat decades ago. While it might sound like I made a piglet of myself, the truth is that my diet was pretty balanced (lots of veggies; two salads a day; a good mix of protein, fruits, dairy and--gasp!--carbs). My grandmother, God bless her, went to the market almost every day to get whatever was fresh and tasty. The portions we ate were small, and the message at the table was to enjoy what's on your plate and, when you are full, stop (there's no Le Clean Plate Club in France). We also walked everywhere we could, took the stairs and drank lots of water (my mom is still on me for that one: "You don't drink enough water!").

I admit that I got pretty fortunate genetically, and I'd be a dope not to think that helps. That said, I wonder if my relationship with food would be different if I had grown up only in America. I know I'm very lucky to live in a country that values hard work and entrepreneurial drive. But growing up part-time in France and being told food is something to savor and appreciate, to be enjoyed without deprivation--that's a gift that's pretty magnifique.