Springtime Comes Slowly

As my first week passed, spring arrived slowly here in Mollans. Most mornings started with the promise of sun but by noon, the clouds rolled in and my sweater came on. All our French friends wished and hoped right along with us for warmer days and today, just about 10 days into my trip, our wishes seem to be granted. Cloudless and squintingly blue skies continue into this afternoon, blessing us and the still pale green growth all around with a promise of Provencal heat.

As a bonus, the coolish weather means that the asparagus is lasting a bit later into May than normal. The cherries are bit tarter than typical, lacking the extra fructose they make when sun-kissed. Perfect for clafouti, though, so, on Saturday, when we had thunder and lightening for company in the afternoon, I stirred together creme fraiche, some eggs, sugar, and cornstarch instead of flour for a weekend treat to go with our take-out paella. Perfect. Around 10 a.m., I'd walked across our lovely bridge towards the clock tower and past the Bar du Pont to see if our paella man was still setting up shop on Saturday mornings. He was there and my timing was good. If you get there too early, the paella isn't ready but arrive too late and it's all gone or looking the worse for wear. I snarfed up two portions for dinner and he scooped the saffron-tinted rice, chunks of chicken, mussels and shrimp into his plastic container, packed it down a bit and filled it once more with another bit of rice.

The local vendors set up a produce stand alongside each Saturday and the butcher does a brisk business. Mollans is out in force, with the villagers strolling along, baguettes tucked in the crook of an elbow, and pausing to give the southern French three-intstead-of-two kiss greeting to friends and acquaintences as they eased into the weekend.

Because we'd been given a bag heaped with cherries by a friend, on Sunday I looked up the olive-oil and cherry cake recipe we love and pitted and puttered my way towards another delicious dessert. Ruby cherry juice squirted around the kitchen as I smacked the fruit with the flat of my chef's knife, getting out the hard seeds and filling a cup with the plumply gorgeous flesh. It happened that Sunday was a passable day for sun so we grilled little lamb chops on the terrace and opened up a bottle of Girasol's cote du Rhone wine to accompany them. Bliss.

On Monday, Roberto jilted me. Monday is better known as Pizza Monday and, around 6 or 6:30 p.m., Roberto sets up his pizza truck next to the Bar du Pont. Our British and French friends from the village snake tables together on the terrace, order beer and wine from the bar, and pizzas from Roberto. This Monday--no Roberto. We had leftovers at home and pouted. Turns out the poor man had a minor accident so all is forgiven. Same time, next Monday, we'll make up over my favorite--eggplant pizza.

Tuesdays are market days in Vaison la Romaine, our nearby shopping hotspot, and I love going at this time of year before the pathways are packed with European and American tourists. I went a bit earlier than usual and took my time, strolling along past the heaped tables, full of the colors of Provence, golds, reds, and greens in fabrics and food alike, interspersed with the rich midnight-tinted olives in stands scattered here and there like punctuation points. I don't buy all that much, just some produce and, this time, a jar of my favorite apricot and lavendar jam for my morning toast. I always park at Jean-Claude and Annette's house, some of our first local French friends, saving the hassle of finding parking on the street. It was good to see them well and fit after their Provencal winter.

Wednesday I cleaned and did some laundry, worked on tidying cupboards, and stuffed some chicken breasts with goat cheese and pesto for dinner. Simple stuff and quiet, the kind of thing that give a rhythm of belonging to my stays. And so, we settle into sunshine and another week of village life. More British friends just arrived and the spring social whirl will start up soon. American friends from Minneapolis are dropping in for a late lunch today and all is right with the world.

Next time: Whatever life offers.