We were in Sète, France, my first French host family and I, lazing about for a week at their summer abode. Every morning I would run through the terraced seaside town, hoping to sweat out every gram of chocolate I’d filched the day prior.

I was sixteen, and a wannabe vegetarian. But I’d been too polite to tell the Provençal family who’d taken me in that I didn’t eat meat. Au contraire, the more they piled onto my plate, the more I ate.

There were lamb chops and grilled sardines that we inhaled until our teeth clanked against the bones, headcheese and calf’s testicles that I thought would land me in the local clinic. Every chance I got–breakfast, late afternoon and even late night–I’d steal a hunk of baguette with butter, jam or Nutella. A sweet antidote to all those other toxins I was pumping into my body. Or so I thought.

I ran because I fretted about what my mother would say when I got off the plane back in New York. Oh, honey, we sent you to France and you gained ten pounds?!

The day Colette was making la bourride for lunch I was, literally, running late. The creamy fish stew, a local specialty, was coughing up its last few bubbles atop the stove when I got back, and Colette was already snipping the fresh parsley to be sprinkled about at the last minute.

In one hand she held a juice glass crammed with the bright green leaves. In the other, a pair of kitchen shears. She plunged the blades into the glass, and just like that, thwack thwack thwack, she minced those little herbs to merciless content. Transfixed by her handiwork, I dawdled even longer. My mother never cut herbs like that!

I thought of this accidental lesson recently when I opened up a surprise package of cookbooks sent to me by Colette, and it was the 30th frigid day in a row, and suddenly all I wanted was a burst of spring on my tongue.

I went to the market, stocked up on fresh herbs and put together an herb salad concocted by Patricia Wells (much like this one). I paired it with a creamy mushroom risotto, and some fresh parsley snipped à la Colette.

It seemed like a fitting anecdote to tell in my first Plummelo blog post, because that summer in France was my first taste of culture shock. I was thoroughly, deliciously out of my comfort zone, and the second I got home was–to my surprise–the second I wanted to go back. As a working journalist, I get paid to replicate that feeling almost every day. But I don’t write about myself. Ever.

I’m guessing it’ll take some time for me to get comfortable with this forum, but I’m looking forward to the chance to share with you all kinds of thoughts about putting food on the table, and feeding the ones you love. I’m counting on you to tell me your own stories, from the good days and the bad!

While there are days of the week that call for marching out of your culinary comfort zone, everybody needs a handy trick or two that can quickly transform a kid’s dish into an adult’s delight, a banal arrangement into a bright set of bites. Snipping fresh herbs is one of those quick fixes; it turns a cumbersome task into a cinch. Just make sure your shears are clean and your herbs patted dry.

As a bonus, I give you this recipe for a baked risotto. Purists will say that baking rice in liquid does not a true risotto make, but I find this rendition comes pretty close to replicating the creamy, luxurious finish you’re seeking. It’s perfect on a weeknight when you don’t have time to babysit the stockpot, stirring stirring stirring.

What more can I say for now? Bon appétit!