Recently, Jo and Steve invited me to join them for a lovely Sunday supper. After a slow roasted leg of lamb, crispy potatoes and lots of local wine, we sat back and filled the night with conversation.
One topic was plum picking. Jo and Steve had gotten plums a couple of years back for free from a local farmer. He had a small grove but not enough time to pick them himself as they ripen at about the same time as the grapes for wine. The field wasn't big enough to warrant paying for pickers and so most just went back into the soil after falling from the trees.
Feeling badly about this and being year-round residents who want to give back to the local community, Jo and Stever volunteered to pick the plums this year in exchange for several flats for jam making.
Feeling perhaps a bit too expansive after the dinner and wine, I chimed in that I'd come and help too and challenged Steve's sister, visiting from England, to come along as well--not something she'd been planning on doing. The local wine must have had the same affect on her reason and so she agreed to join the "fun." Ian, the other dinner guest and another year-round resident, had already been pressed into service and so we all agreed to head out the next afternoon.
Despite my comments about the end of summer, it's seems to be making a comeback, at least during the day, and so I slathered on sun screen before we headed out in the bright, mid-80s heat of the day.
Two and half hours later, sweaty, tired, and very dirty, we'd picked about 500 kilos of plums. That's 2.2 pounds to every kilo, totaling over half a ton of plums. All of which needed to be graded by size. We'd told the owners that we'd pick and that they should grade as they knew what we were doing. With five of us picking, they couldn't keep up so helped them sort before leaving the field and heading back for aperatifs. We sampled several home-made variations of hooch--one elderflower, one slighly fizzy, and one that reminded us all of Christmas with a taste of cinnamon and orange.
The best part was that they were so grinning with gratitude at the end of the day. With just three people and a small farm, there was obviously more work than time and not a great deal of money for all the labor. The husband had spent all afternoon repairing his grape pickning machine for the imminent wine harvest, while his wife and son worked in the field with us. The plum crop would go to a wholesaler and now they had the prospect of more euros in their pockets than budgeted. We walked away with four heaping flats of plums and some new friends. England and America walked away with a better image in this part of the world and everybody came out the better for an afternoon of work.
Roberto came the dinner rescue again that night with his pizza van and I fell into bed early on to dream of plums, sunshine, and beaming French faces.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Saturday, September 5, 2009
So Long Summer
First it was August that dissappeared and then summer followed.
The door to summer blew shut on Thursday, pushed by a breeze that cleared out the muggy heat from the prior two days and carried in dry, cool air.
It's evidently been a scorcher here, recently pushing 100 degrees F. When I arrived last Monday, temps were still hovering around 90 or more. Tuesday night we had a boomer of a thunderstorm but Wednesday still stayed humid and hot. I skipped my village walk that day and dealt with laundry instead. We'd had folks staying here shortly before I arrived and it takes a while for a miniscule washer to deal with an accumulation of sheets and towels.
By Thursday, though, everything shifted. I'd just got into the rythm of opening windows in the evening to let in the cooler air, then shutting them by 9:30 or 10 am to keep out the heat. Now I'll be doing the reverse. As I type, the sun is sinking and the windows are closed, keeping in the heat from earlier in the day. Nevertheless, it's lovely and warm when the sun is overhead and I had a pleasant lunch en pleine aire on the bakery terrace in nearby Faucon.
Now I'm getting ready to heat up my paella, purchased earlier this morning from the stand on the corner of the bridge. The paella man, in fact, sets up in exactly the same place as the pizza truck on Monday. Must be good take-out karma there. In the summer, you can buy your paella just before dinner all nice and hot from the same guy at our village evening market. The market's much smaller now with the rentree--the return from vacation--and so mornings it is for paella purchase from now on.
By the way, there's a good paella recipe in my book Bistro Chicken, if I've made you hungry vicariously. Here it is:
PAELLA
Paella is a common item in small restaurants close to the Spanish border but it is also available in almost any French market. Lined up with all the meat, cheese, and produce vendors is the paella seller. He takes his scoop and parcels out quantities of piping hot rice, chicken, and seafood into a plastic container from his giant paella pan. If your timing is right, you can take it home after shopping and enjoy it for lunch with a nice tossed salad made with market greens. Making it from scratch always produces the best results. Invite company to share some; it’s almost impossible to make a small quantity. Pour your guests a glass of wine and have everyone join in the preparation.
6 servings
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped (about ¾ cup)
4 boneless, skinless chicken thighs, cut in thirds
½ pound chorizo sausage links, cut in 2-inch pieces
1 medium red bell pepper, finely chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 medium tomatoes, chopped
1 ½ cups Bomba, Arborio, or medium grain rice
¾ teaspoon saffron, crumbled
½ teaspoon salt
¾ pound shelled and de-veined, uncooked medium shrimp
6 mussels, scrubbed and de-bearded
1 cup sugar snap peas
Heat a paella pan or large skillet over medium-high heat; add the olive oil. When hot, add the onion; cook until beginning to soften, stirring frequently, about 2 to 3 minutes. Add the chicken and sausage; cook until lightly browned, about 4 to 5 minutes.
Add the bell pepper and garlic; stir to combine. Add the tomatoes; cook until they release their juices, about 4 to 5 minutes. Stir in the rice.
Meanwhile, bring 4 cups (3 cups if using medium-grain rice) of water to a boil in a saucepan. Add the saffron to ½ cup of the boiling water; stir to dissolve. Add the remaining water to the rice mixture along with the dissolved saffron. Sprinkle with the salt; stir to combine. Boil 5 minutes. Reduce heat to low; cook an additional 15 minutes. Add the shrimp, mussels, and peas; cook until the rice is tender and the seafood is cooked through, about 8 to 10 minutes. Add additional water if all the liquid is evaporated before the rice is cooked through.
Truc: If you can find it, buy Bomba rice from Spain to make this dish. Similar to Arborio, the risotto rice, Bomba rice swells with moisture but doesn’t produce the same creaminess, making it a better choice for paella. However, even medium grain regular rice will work. Different types of rice require different amounts of liquid so it will be necessary to adjust the amount used. Add any additional water while cooking in small amounts; paella should not be soupy.
The door to summer blew shut on Thursday, pushed by a breeze that cleared out the muggy heat from the prior two days and carried in dry, cool air.
It's evidently been a scorcher here, recently pushing 100 degrees F. When I arrived last Monday, temps were still hovering around 90 or more. Tuesday night we had a boomer of a thunderstorm but Wednesday still stayed humid and hot. I skipped my village walk that day and dealt with laundry instead. We'd had folks staying here shortly before I arrived and it takes a while for a miniscule washer to deal with an accumulation of sheets and towels.
By Thursday, though, everything shifted. I'd just got into the rythm of opening windows in the evening to let in the cooler air, then shutting them by 9:30 or 10 am to keep out the heat. Now I'll be doing the reverse. As I type, the sun is sinking and the windows are closed, keeping in the heat from earlier in the day. Nevertheless, it's lovely and warm when the sun is overhead and I had a pleasant lunch en pleine aire on the bakery terrace in nearby Faucon.
Now I'm getting ready to heat up my paella, purchased earlier this morning from the stand on the corner of the bridge. The paella man, in fact, sets up in exactly the same place as the pizza truck on Monday. Must be good take-out karma there. In the summer, you can buy your paella just before dinner all nice and hot from the same guy at our village evening market. The market's much smaller now with the rentree--the return from vacation--and so mornings it is for paella purchase from now on.
By the way, there's a good paella recipe in my book Bistro Chicken, if I've made you hungry vicariously. Here it is:
PAELLA
Paella is a common item in small restaurants close to the Spanish border but it is also available in almost any French market. Lined up with all the meat, cheese, and produce vendors is the paella seller. He takes his scoop and parcels out quantities of piping hot rice, chicken, and seafood into a plastic container from his giant paella pan. If your timing is right, you can take it home after shopping and enjoy it for lunch with a nice tossed salad made with market greens. Making it from scratch always produces the best results. Invite company to share some; it’s almost impossible to make a small quantity. Pour your guests a glass of wine and have everyone join in the preparation.
6 servings
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped (about ¾ cup)
4 boneless, skinless chicken thighs, cut in thirds
½ pound chorizo sausage links, cut in 2-inch pieces
1 medium red bell pepper, finely chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 medium tomatoes, chopped
1 ½ cups Bomba, Arborio, or medium grain rice
¾ teaspoon saffron, crumbled
½ teaspoon salt
¾ pound shelled and de-veined, uncooked medium shrimp
6 mussels, scrubbed and de-bearded
1 cup sugar snap peas
Heat a paella pan or large skillet over medium-high heat; add the olive oil. When hot, add the onion; cook until beginning to soften, stirring frequently, about 2 to 3 minutes. Add the chicken and sausage; cook until lightly browned, about 4 to 5 minutes.
Add the bell pepper and garlic; stir to combine. Add the tomatoes; cook until they release their juices, about 4 to 5 minutes. Stir in the rice.
Meanwhile, bring 4 cups (3 cups if using medium-grain rice) of water to a boil in a saucepan. Add the saffron to ½ cup of the boiling water; stir to dissolve. Add the remaining water to the rice mixture along with the dissolved saffron. Sprinkle with the salt; stir to combine. Boil 5 minutes. Reduce heat to low; cook an additional 15 minutes. Add the shrimp, mussels, and peas; cook until the rice is tender and the seafood is cooked through, about 8 to 10 minutes. Add additional water if all the liquid is evaporated before the rice is cooked through.
Truc: If you can find it, buy Bomba rice from Spain to make this dish. Similar to Arborio, the risotto rice, Bomba rice swells with moisture but doesn’t produce the same creaminess, making it a better choice for paella. However, even medium grain regular rice will work. Different types of rice require different amounts of liquid so it will be necessary to adjust the amount used. Add any additional water while cooking in small amounts; paella should not be soupy.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
If It's September, This Must Be France
August dissapeared at 12 am and with it, my life in Minneapolis. Mollans, France took its place. Now, I'll get Minneapolis back but August 2009 is gone for good. Another reminder to spend some time each day, reflecting on the moment, the surroundings and, most importantly, the friends that surround us.
The week before I left for France was packed with events. My bookgroup of 30 plus years met on Tuesday. Glen, my husband, turned 63 on Wednesday and I, in characteristic fashion, wasn't home to cebebrate--teaching instead. We saw a play to celebrate said birthday on Thursday, and I turned in 13 recipes for two different projects by the end of the week. Saturday, I squeezed in Julie and Julia, which I'll return to in a later blog, went to a neighbors to celebrate her 66 birthday, and took off for France on Sunday evening, after finally packing my suticase that morning.
Along with packing, there was the usual blizzard of e-mails, bill paying and bill collecting--yet another subject for a later blog--and, of course, the cleaning of the refrigetator and the harvesting of basil. It's been cold in Minnesota and I knew my basil wouldn't make it until I returned so I also harvested and froze that crop on Sunday between packing and closing up the kitchen. Glen doesn't cook so there's no point in leaving anything for him in the fridge. It's just there waiting for me, fuzzy as a fleece, when I get back.
And then I was at the airport.
I've had excellent plane karma lately. I checked in, walked away from the counter, and looked down at my boarding pass to find out my gate number. Then I noticed my seat--4E. How did that happen? I certainly don't have the budget to fly to France first class. I wasn't asking question but did a little celebration skip and headed for the plane. Once at my gate, I found out what the deal was. Evidently, the flight was overbooked and so, at least I'm assuming, because I'm an elite flyer, I got bumped into first class to make room for someone else in steerage. Bliss.
Eight hours of flying time later, I arrived at CDG--Paris's international airport--and headed for the train station in an adjacent terminal. I got on the high speed TGV and sped my way to Avignon where my good friends, Steve and Jo, picked me up, took me to my car and, voila, by 4:30 French time, I was home again.
Last night I headed for pizza Monday, a verre or two of wine at the Bar du Pont, and a reunion with lots of friends. Perfection. The weather and turnout were grand, I met folks visiting from England, and had a fine, bi-lingual time before turning in to bed.
When I woke up it was September and my fall stay in Mollans had officially begun.
The week before I left for France was packed with events. My bookgroup of 30 plus years met on Tuesday. Glen, my husband, turned 63 on Wednesday and I, in characteristic fashion, wasn't home to cebebrate--teaching instead. We saw a play to celebrate said birthday on Thursday, and I turned in 13 recipes for two different projects by the end of the week. Saturday, I squeezed in Julie and Julia, which I'll return to in a later blog, went to a neighbors to celebrate her 66 birthday, and took off for France on Sunday evening, after finally packing my suticase that morning.
Along with packing, there was the usual blizzard of e-mails, bill paying and bill collecting--yet another subject for a later blog--and, of course, the cleaning of the refrigetator and the harvesting of basil. It's been cold in Minnesota and I knew my basil wouldn't make it until I returned so I also harvested and froze that crop on Sunday between packing and closing up the kitchen. Glen doesn't cook so there's no point in leaving anything for him in the fridge. It's just there waiting for me, fuzzy as a fleece, when I get back.
And then I was at the airport.
I've had excellent plane karma lately. I checked in, walked away from the counter, and looked down at my boarding pass to find out my gate number. Then I noticed my seat--4E. How did that happen? I certainly don't have the budget to fly to France first class. I wasn't asking question but did a little celebration skip and headed for the plane. Once at my gate, I found out what the deal was. Evidently, the flight was overbooked and so, at least I'm assuming, because I'm an elite flyer, I got bumped into first class to make room for someone else in steerage. Bliss.
Eight hours of flying time later, I arrived at CDG--Paris's international airport--and headed for the train station in an adjacent terminal. I got on the high speed TGV and sped my way to Avignon where my good friends, Steve and Jo, picked me up, took me to my car and, voila, by 4:30 French time, I was home again.
Last night I headed for pizza Monday, a verre or two of wine at the Bar du Pont, and a reunion with lots of friends. Perfection. The weather and turnout were grand, I met folks visiting from England, and had a fine, bi-lingual time before turning in to bed.
When I woke up it was September and my fall stay in Mollans had officially begun.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Summer Gold
Sometimes I wonder why I'm here in Minneapolis during August. Europeans from almost everywhere in the EU are flocking to Provence in droves for their month-long vacation. It's good to stop and think from time to time why you're doing one thing and not another. The reflection either blasts you out of a worthless rut or affirms and reminds you of the worth of what you're doing.
On a superficial level, the answer to why Minneapolis instead of Provence is easy. In some parts of southern France, it's hard to turn around for all the crowds. But, while Mollans is certainly hopping with Germans, Dutch, British and Belgians right now, it's not such a hot spot as to ever be over-run and not the reason why I'm not there. Rather, the answer to why here is because I love Minnesota in the summer.
Last night, climbing into bed, a cricket's one-note serenade lulled me on towards sleep. Soon he'll be joined by his buddies and a slightly plaintive, softly scratchy chorale will fill each night's air with a hymn to fleeting summer and fall's imminent arrival. Before I'd nodded off, the song changed and the cricket hushed,taken over by tympani crashes of thunder and then the loud plinks of rain against the roof and glass panes. Too tired to shut the windows, I hoped for the best and let the now steady and slightly blurred raindrop rustle pull me into oblivion.
This morning's still dark skies have now transitioned to summer gold as I look out my office window. The play of light on tree limbs laden with happy-to-see-a-little-water-leaves is as spectacular as a painting. Soon, I'll head downstairs and cook up some Minnesota sweet corn, the real gold of the season, both in looks and worth. Slathered with sweet butter from a local creamery once barely cooked, then liberally salted and dripping, there's nothing better. The steady crunch, crunch, crunch of teeth biting into rows on rows of kernels mimics like a base-note refrain the higher-pitched cricket rhythm of the night before.
We're going to have a patch of real summer this week, lots of heat mixed with the thunderstorms and the humidity they leave behind. It will make my other August love grow even better--the tomato. I'm waiting for my coeur de boeuf plant, grown from a French seed, to ripen its fat, heart-shaped fruit. It will be interesting to see if, grown in Minneapolis soil and climate, the tomatoes from this plant will taste the same as those in Mollans. We're already eating the American tomatoes called Big Girls that will come faster and faster with the warmth until I won't be able to keep up. Right now, the round, red globes are just enough to slice and sprinkle with garden basil. I drizzle them with olive oil from Mollans' mill, and dust with a bit of fleur de sel, both brought home in my suitcase for just this occasion. Before I know it, I'll be making gazpacho, we'll be eating BLTs with a side of corn--about the best summer meal in creation--and then I'll need to put the rest up by roasting and freezing for the cold winter months.
A spot of air conditioning helps enormously to break up all the moist heat that's going to be thrown at us and that's one thing--the air conditioning that is--still fairly scarce in our part of France. Provence is no stranger to scorching days and the solution for most is to rely on thick-walled homes and closed shutters during the day. That, unfortunately, creates a bit of a cave-like atmosphere in many homes and seals out the gleamingly glorious light that Van-Gogh and Cezanne loved so well.
By the end of the month, as the vines surrounding our village start drooping from the weight of dusky purple grapes, the weather will lighten and the vacationers will leave. That's when I'll be back to delight in warm days and cooler evenings, windows open and un-shuttered to let in the harvest light followed by the rich dark of rural nights.
In the meantime, I'll listen to my cricket as his night song swells towards autumn and enjoy the golden Minnesota summer while I can.
On a superficial level, the answer to why Minneapolis instead of Provence is easy. In some parts of southern France, it's hard to turn around for all the crowds. But, while Mollans is certainly hopping with Germans, Dutch, British and Belgians right now, it's not such a hot spot as to ever be over-run and not the reason why I'm not there. Rather, the answer to why here is because I love Minnesota in the summer.
Last night, climbing into bed, a cricket's one-note serenade lulled me on towards sleep. Soon he'll be joined by his buddies and a slightly plaintive, softly scratchy chorale will fill each night's air with a hymn to fleeting summer and fall's imminent arrival. Before I'd nodded off, the song changed and the cricket hushed,taken over by tympani crashes of thunder and then the loud plinks of rain against the roof and glass panes. Too tired to shut the windows, I hoped for the best and let the now steady and slightly blurred raindrop rustle pull me into oblivion.
This morning's still dark skies have now transitioned to summer gold as I look out my office window. The play of light on tree limbs laden with happy-to-see-a-little-water-leaves is as spectacular as a painting. Soon, I'll head downstairs and cook up some Minnesota sweet corn, the real gold of the season, both in looks and worth. Slathered with sweet butter from a local creamery once barely cooked, then liberally salted and dripping, there's nothing better. The steady crunch, crunch, crunch of teeth biting into rows on rows of kernels mimics like a base-note refrain the higher-pitched cricket rhythm of the night before.
We're going to have a patch of real summer this week, lots of heat mixed with the thunderstorms and the humidity they leave behind. It will make my other August love grow even better--the tomato. I'm waiting for my coeur de boeuf plant, grown from a French seed, to ripen its fat, heart-shaped fruit. It will be interesting to see if, grown in Minneapolis soil and climate, the tomatoes from this plant will taste the same as those in Mollans. We're already eating the American tomatoes called Big Girls that will come faster and faster with the warmth until I won't be able to keep up. Right now, the round, red globes are just enough to slice and sprinkle with garden basil. I drizzle them with olive oil from Mollans' mill, and dust with a bit of fleur de sel, both brought home in my suitcase for just this occasion. Before I know it, I'll be making gazpacho, we'll be eating BLTs with a side of corn--about the best summer meal in creation--and then I'll need to put the rest up by roasting and freezing for the cold winter months.
A spot of air conditioning helps enormously to break up all the moist heat that's going to be thrown at us and that's one thing--the air conditioning that is--still fairly scarce in our part of France. Provence is no stranger to scorching days and the solution for most is to rely on thick-walled homes and closed shutters during the day. That, unfortunately, creates a bit of a cave-like atmosphere in many homes and seals out the gleamingly glorious light that Van-Gogh and Cezanne loved so well.
By the end of the month, as the vines surrounding our village start drooping from the weight of dusky purple grapes, the weather will lighten and the vacationers will leave. That's when I'll be back to delight in warm days and cooler evenings, windows open and un-shuttered to let in the harvest light followed by the rich dark of rural nights.
In the meantime, I'll listen to my cricket as his night song swells towards autumn and enjoy the golden Minnesota summer while I can.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
On being slightly past prime
We headed to the town of Grignan one sunny day to check out the roses. The drive isn't taxing and there's a lovely tea salon with a garden full of blooms right next to the town's lavoir--a circular pool that was once used for washing--as extra incentive.
Shortly after lunch, we got into our eight-year old Peugeot and headed on our way. I suspect that the rate of calculating the life span of cars is a bit like converting dog years into human ones, and puts our vehicle into something past middle age but not yet doddering. Like us, the car's surface shows some wear and tear and it's been needing a few replacements. The tab was less than the dental replacement that I need but still noticeable. We'd just put on two new tires and felt much safer if a bit poorer as we rolled through the Cotes du Rhone vineyards on our outing. The vines were looking very sprightly, waving their new tendrils straight up in the gently blowing air, in a celebration to spring, youth, rebirth and all the great May growing energy around us.
Once there, we realized that the roses were a bit past their prime too, still lovely but a bit overblown, the way I like to think of myself on a good hair day. A sudden burst of heat must have pushed them along but they made us happy anyway and glad we'd made the effort. From there, we headed for the tea salon, pots of Mariage Freres tea, an apricot rosemary tartlet and serene surroundings. In a wonderful display of life's serendipity, the roses in their small garden were just at peak and we felt doubly rewarded for treating ourselves.
And so,whether springing fresh, at prime or edging towards decline, beauty and life give pleasure to those who seek and see.
Shortly after lunch, we got into our eight-year old Peugeot and headed on our way. I suspect that the rate of calculating the life span of cars is a bit like converting dog years into human ones, and puts our vehicle into something past middle age but not yet doddering. Like us, the car's surface shows some wear and tear and it's been needing a few replacements. The tab was less than the dental replacement that I need but still noticeable. We'd just put on two new tires and felt much safer if a bit poorer as we rolled through the Cotes du Rhone vineyards on our outing. The vines were looking very sprightly, waving their new tendrils straight up in the gently blowing air, in a celebration to spring, youth, rebirth and all the great May growing energy around us.
Once there, we realized that the roses were a bit past their prime too, still lovely but a bit overblown, the way I like to think of myself on a good hair day. A sudden burst of heat must have pushed them along but they made us happy anyway and glad we'd made the effort. From there, we headed for the tea salon, pots of Mariage Freres tea, an apricot rosemary tartlet and serene surroundings. In a wonderful display of life's serendipity, the roses in their small garden were just at peak and we felt doubly rewarded for treating ourselves.
And so,whether springing fresh, at prime or edging towards decline, beauty and life give pleasure to those who seek and see.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Home Improvement
Last week was home improvement week here in Mollans which meant we spent most of our days on a ladder.
After painting the wall we'd had repaired last fall with special, water sealer paint, we moved on to ceilings--covering spots on my bedroom "plafond" and a total overhaul of Hallie's.
This, of course, required paint. Somehow, we managed to justify a trip to Avignon and the requisite gas by deciding paint would be cheaper at one of the big box stores there. And, since we were there, we thought we might as well visit one or two of our favorite clothing and shoe stores, just in case something caught our eye.
Luckily for the pocketbook, we weren't that taken with the apparel collection. It was really a good thing as the cost of paint sent us reeling. We'd planned on doing Hallie's walls too but, at about 45 euros for a 5 liter container (that's about $60.00 for a gallon and a quarter) of pale yellow paint, we decided to just focus on her ceiling for this year.
We also were yearning for our own ladder. Normally, we borrow one but it seemed time to step up (pun intended) and get one of our own. Arriving at the store, we realized we didn't know the word for ladder in French but fell on a nice stepladder that the store was using for stocking the shelves. We asked a passing clerk where they stocked "un de ca" or one of those. She laughed, told us the name in French--escabeau--and told us to follow her. At the ladder section, she left us and we found a lovely, four-step, aluminum stepladder for 42 euros. Ouch. We left it there, richer in vocabulary and cash. One container of ceiling paint later, we headed home.
Calling our friend, Ian, we borrowed his escabeau and settled in to our task. After scraping, patching, washing and taping over several days, we'd completed our prep and slathered on clean, white, transforming magic all from one single tub of paint. Bliss in a bucket.
Interspersed with all our labors, we made sure we were also enjoying ourselves. We went to markets, had a friend over for dinner--chicken, of course--and laughed a lot while dust and drips of paint fell in our hair while working. Not a bad week, all in all.
After painting the wall we'd had repaired last fall with special, water sealer paint, we moved on to ceilings--covering spots on my bedroom "plafond" and a total overhaul of Hallie's.
This, of course, required paint. Somehow, we managed to justify a trip to Avignon and the requisite gas by deciding paint would be cheaper at one of the big box stores there. And, since we were there, we thought we might as well visit one or two of our favorite clothing and shoe stores, just in case something caught our eye.
Luckily for the pocketbook, we weren't that taken with the apparel collection. It was really a good thing as the cost of paint sent us reeling. We'd planned on doing Hallie's walls too but, at about 45 euros for a 5 liter container (that's about $60.00 for a gallon and a quarter) of pale yellow paint, we decided to just focus on her ceiling for this year.
We also were yearning for our own ladder. Normally, we borrow one but it seemed time to step up (pun intended) and get one of our own. Arriving at the store, we realized we didn't know the word for ladder in French but fell on a nice stepladder that the store was using for stocking the shelves. We asked a passing clerk where they stocked "un de ca" or one of those. She laughed, told us the name in French--escabeau--and told us to follow her. At the ladder section, she left us and we found a lovely, four-step, aluminum stepladder for 42 euros. Ouch. We left it there, richer in vocabulary and cash. One container of ceiling paint later, we headed home.
Calling our friend, Ian, we borrowed his escabeau and settled in to our task. After scraping, patching, washing and taping over several days, we'd completed our prep and slathered on clean, white, transforming magic all from one single tub of paint. Bliss in a bucket.
Interspersed with all our labors, we made sure we were also enjoying ourselves. We went to markets, had a friend over for dinner--chicken, of course--and laughed a lot while dust and drips of paint fell in our hair while working. Not a bad week, all in all.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
This Little Piggy Went to Market
Pigs seem to be a recurring theme in this spring's travels. Today, in the Nyons' Olive Co-Op, I came across Corsican sausages and had to smile. The little and not-so-little piggies of Corsica were with me most of the trip there, both live and cooked. Cuba too.
When Hallie and I told our friend, Cristiane, at the Hotel St. Marc here in Mollans, that we were headed to Corsica, she warned us to watch out for the black pigs on the road. It wasn't more than a few hours into our trip that we realized how right she was. We headed into the rugged, mountainous center portion of Corsica to start our visit and the chestnut trees that grow there feed both humans and pigs. We learned quickly to watch for the porkers while rounding the turns that resembled their corkscrew tails. Here's a mixed set of them--black, pink and in between--imperviously grazing as traffic rolled on by.
Later, we enjoyed them in a lovely cured sausage plate for lunch and their wilder cousin--the sanglier, or boar--in a winey stew one evening. The Corsicans feel the chestnuts flavor the meat and we thought we detected an underlying succulent sweetness. We managed to consume our share of chestnuts too along the way, fattening us up just as nicely.
The reoccuring part of this porcine remembrance is that I'd come across plenty of pork on my plate in Cuba as well. Roasted to tenderness, it came served in chunks, often with companion pieces of chicken. I came across pigs on the road there too, but this time caged.
It seems only right, in honor of all these piggies gone to market, to include an old recipe of mine for pork chops braised with chestnuts. Enjoy.
BRAISED PORK CHOPS WITH CHESTNUTS AND ONIONS
24 fresh chestnuts or unsweetened canned chestnuts
4 tablespoons Canola oil
3 cups sliced onions, (about 3 onions)
¼ teaspoon sugar
6 pork loin chops, 3/4-inch thick
-Pepper
½ cup all-purpose flour
2 cups low-sodium beef broth
1/3 cup port
1 (8-oz.) pkg. mushrooms, quartered
Preheat oven to 350°F.
If using fresh chestnuts, bring 2 quarts of water to a boil in a large pot. With a small knife, make an “X” on one side of each chestnut; drop into boiling water for 3 to 4 minutes. Drain. When cool enough to handle, peel with sharp knife. Slice chestnuts in half lengthwise; reserve. If using canned chestnuts, drain well; reserve.
Heat 2 tablespoons of oil in a large skillet over medium heat. When hot, add sliced onions. Cook, stirring often, until onions begin to brown, about 10 minutes. Sprinkle with sugar; continue cooking until well browned, about 10 to 15 minutes. Reserve.
Pepper each chop; dredge in flour in shallow dish. Add remaining 2 tablespoons of oil to same skillet; brown pork chops in batches, about 5 to 8 minutes per side, adding more oil if necessary. Place chops in baking dish; cover with onions, chestnuts and mushrooms.
Add stock and port to skillet; bring to a simmer, scraping up any brown bits. Pour over chops. Bake, covered, until meat is very tender, about 1 ½ hours.
4 to 6 servings
When Hallie and I told our friend, Cristiane, at the Hotel St. Marc here in Mollans, that we were headed to Corsica, she warned us to watch out for the black pigs on the road. It wasn't more than a few hours into our trip that we realized how right she was. We headed into the rugged, mountainous center portion of Corsica to start our visit and the chestnut trees that grow there feed both humans and pigs. We learned quickly to watch for the porkers while rounding the turns that resembled their corkscrew tails. Here's a mixed set of them--black, pink and in between--imperviously grazing as traffic rolled on by.
Later, we enjoyed them in a lovely cured sausage plate for lunch and their wilder cousin--the sanglier, or boar--in a winey stew one evening. The Corsicans feel the chestnuts flavor the meat and we thought we detected an underlying succulent sweetness. We managed to consume our share of chestnuts too along the way, fattening us up just as nicely.
The reoccuring part of this porcine remembrance is that I'd come across plenty of pork on my plate in Cuba as well. Roasted to tenderness, it came served in chunks, often with companion pieces of chicken. I came across pigs on the road there too, but this time caged.
It seems only right, in honor of all these piggies gone to market, to include an old recipe of mine for pork chops braised with chestnuts. Enjoy.
BRAISED PORK CHOPS WITH CHESTNUTS AND ONIONS
24 fresh chestnuts or unsweetened canned chestnuts
4 tablespoons Canola oil
3 cups sliced onions, (about 3 onions)
¼ teaspoon sugar
6 pork loin chops, 3/4-inch thick
-Pepper
½ cup all-purpose flour
2 cups low-sodium beef broth
1/3 cup port
1 (8-oz.) pkg. mushrooms, quartered
Preheat oven to 350°F.
If using fresh chestnuts, bring 2 quarts of water to a boil in a large pot. With a small knife, make an “X” on one side of each chestnut; drop into boiling water for 3 to 4 minutes. Drain. When cool enough to handle, peel with sharp knife. Slice chestnuts in half lengthwise; reserve. If using canned chestnuts, drain well; reserve.
Heat 2 tablespoons of oil in a large skillet over medium heat. When hot, add sliced onions. Cook, stirring often, until onions begin to brown, about 10 minutes. Sprinkle with sugar; continue cooking until well browned, about 10 to 15 minutes. Reserve.
Pepper each chop; dredge in flour in shallow dish. Add remaining 2 tablespoons of oil to same skillet; brown pork chops in batches, about 5 to 8 minutes per side, adding more oil if necessary. Place chops in baking dish; cover with onions, chestnuts and mushrooms.
Add stock and port to skillet; bring to a simmer, scraping up any brown bits. Pour over chops. Bake, covered, until meat is very tender, about 1 ½ hours.
4 to 6 servings
Friday, May 22, 2009
Holidays, Parades and National Celebrations
While these blogs are about my journey this spring, they're also a reflection on events as they occur. As Memorial Day approaches, it seems appropriate to meditate a moment on national holidays. We Americans celebrate Memorial Day as the beginning of summer for the most part, often forgetting that it once was called Decoration Day and that it had its beginnings in the Civil War. Meant as a memorial to our fallen soldiers, it's been extended to visiting the graves of relatives and friends but, usually, it means a long May weekend.
It's a long weekend here in France too because, while only marginally Catholic, the French close up shop for fériés (holy days) and May 21 was Ascension Thursday. Like us, they're really enjoying the nice weather and here in Provence, wine festivals this weekend will be rampant. Next weekend, they'll do it all again for Pentecost and why not? Life needs lots of excuses to step back from the everyday and to meditate a bit, relax a bit more, and honor and celebrate according to inclination and belief.
The last month has been filled with these occasions in my travels, starting with Cuba. We were in Havana for May Day with a huge worker's parade, flags, and, naturally, rum. Of course, we had to go.
You don't go and line up for this parade. There are no floats or marching bands, just masses and masses of people, waving flags and carring banners, marching with others from their places of work and celebrating just that--being workers.
What we, as Americans didn't know until our local guide told us, was that May Day, also known as International Workers' Day, evolved from a Chicago labor event called the Haymarket Massacre where a dozen strikers were killed by police bullets. We now have our Labor Day in September, mostly the other holiday bookend to the summer season, but Cubans turn out en masse to parade through Revolution Square.
We went too. It seemed an opportunity not to be missed. We lined up with the workers from our hotel and marched along. Somewhere, in a review stand, many, many workers away from us, Raul Castro watched us all walk by. Rum was passed, flags were waved, and then it was over. A parade for everyone. The flags stayed with us though, sometimes draped from buildings or filling a huge square.
Once I arrived in Mollans, briefly, before leaving for Corsica, I came across another parade. This one was small, with townfolk following a procession of children and flag bearers to the town's war memorial. The date: May 8 when the Nazi surrender of World War II took place. No one worried that the parade was ragged; it was all in the thought.
Small speeches from the kids and then slightly longer adult versions reminded the crowd how monumental it was for the French to regain their country when the Nazis fell. Flowers went on the town's physical monument to their fallen war heros and and then the whole thing was over. Everyone went home for lunch and life went forward.
It made me pause and does again this holiday weekend to think how important "country" is to all of us--Cuban, French or American--and how we all need to be proud to be our respective nation's citizens. And yet, what a coincidence that all these flags being waved are the same colors: blue, white and red. So over this long holiday, think of how much we're all the same, have a hot dog, Cuban sandwich, or a croque monsieur, and appreciate your life, your work, and the land we've been given.
It's a long weekend here in France too because, while only marginally Catholic, the French close up shop for fériés (holy days) and May 21 was Ascension Thursday. Like us, they're really enjoying the nice weather and here in Provence, wine festivals this weekend will be rampant. Next weekend, they'll do it all again for Pentecost and why not? Life needs lots of excuses to step back from the everyday and to meditate a bit, relax a bit more, and honor and celebrate according to inclination and belief.
The last month has been filled with these occasions in my travels, starting with Cuba. We were in Havana for May Day with a huge worker's parade, flags, and, naturally, rum. Of course, we had to go.
You don't go and line up for this parade. There are no floats or marching bands, just masses and masses of people, waving flags and carring banners, marching with others from their places of work and celebrating just that--being workers.
What we, as Americans didn't know until our local guide told us, was that May Day, also known as International Workers' Day, evolved from a Chicago labor event called the Haymarket Massacre where a dozen strikers were killed by police bullets. We now have our Labor Day in September, mostly the other holiday bookend to the summer season, but Cubans turn out en masse to parade through Revolution Square.
We went too. It seemed an opportunity not to be missed. We lined up with the workers from our hotel and marched along. Somewhere, in a review stand, many, many workers away from us, Raul Castro watched us all walk by. Rum was passed, flags were waved, and then it was over. A parade for everyone. The flags stayed with us though, sometimes draped from buildings or filling a huge square.
Once I arrived in Mollans, briefly, before leaving for Corsica, I came across another parade. This one was small, with townfolk following a procession of children and flag bearers to the town's war memorial. The date: May 8 when the Nazi surrender of World War II took place. No one worried that the parade was ragged; it was all in the thought.
Small speeches from the kids and then slightly longer adult versions reminded the crowd how monumental it was for the French to regain their country when the Nazis fell. Flowers went on the town's physical monument to their fallen war heros and and then the whole thing was over. Everyone went home for lunch and life went forward.
It made me pause and does again this holiday weekend to think how important "country" is to all of us--Cuban, French or American--and how we all need to be proud to be our respective nation's citizens. And yet, what a coincidence that all these flags being waved are the same colors: blue, white and red. So over this long holiday, think of how much we're all the same, have a hot dog, Cuban sandwich, or a croque monsieur, and appreciate your life, your work, and the land we've been given.
Monday, May 18, 2009
The Journey
Mary Driving the Steam Locomotive
Travel, like life, is about the journey and not about the destination. I'm here in Mollans finally but my gut feeling is that this spring's visit is going to be just that--a visit rather than a homecoming--and that the real substance of my thoughts will be reflections on all the wonderous ways and means it took to get here.
In the last few weeks, since railing in my last posting about paperwork, piles of work, and packing, I've been to Miami, Cuba, Miami, New York, the Paris airport, Avignon train station, Mollans, the port of Toulon, Corsica, the port of Nice, and back to Mollans.
I've been on multiple planes, buses, trains, including a steam-driven locomotive in Cuba, a horse-drawn taxi cart (read Cuba again), cars, and boats.
Now unpacked and settled for a too short stay here in our small village, I'm delighting in eating at home and even looking forward to some house-maintenance. It's great to light in one place for a while, especially when that place is home, be it part-time or not.
But my mind keeps trying to sort the jumble of sensory overload that I've brought with me. I need to unpack my mental suitcases as well as my physical ones and writing will help.
So, let's start chronologically and see what shakes out of my memory. The first city in my list, Miami, really just felt like a warm-up for my next stop in Cuba. I flew in and spent the night near the airport so as to be ready for the next morning's departure.
From very white bread Minneapolis, Miami and its multi-lingual and multi-accented population reminded me quickly that I'd be visiting a country where I don't know the language. The airport coffee bar staff person who gave me my total bill in Spanish along with my Cuban breakfast pastry was a quick intro to the next eight days of stepping out of the familiar and into the unknown.
Coming to Mollans isn't like that at all. I put on life here like a comfortable, cozy, well worn and washed tee-shirt. With friends, language and food all familiar now, I love the soft caress the fabric of my village gives me every time I return.
Cuba was different. With its "b" sounds for "v"s and its own dialect, my mind soon began working on the code of a newish language. While I can understand some Spanish because of my French, listening and reading became a mostly futile exercise. What I like to think of as the "Where's Waldo?" (or what the heck is happening now?) experience of travel started in full force.
And so, the week unfolded. We ate well, if simply for the most part, realizing that we Americans are incredibly spoiled by our abundance. Cuba's riches seemed to be elsewhere, in the people, the music, and the art. And the dance and the landscape. The rum and the cigars. In the peoples' sense of irony, humor, and love for their country.
That's not to down-play the Cuban food heritage but Cuba is not a hot-bed of prosperity, to put it mildly, leaving the possibilities for elaborate dining fairly limited. One of my favorite meals included Ropa de Vieja, a traditional braised beef dish that is now, like all beef, reserved for visitors. Since I recently taught a version at my home in Minneapolis, I'm including the recipe here. Try it and put on a little salsa music for atmosphere. More musings to come.
ROPA VIEJA OR “OLD CLOTHES” STEW
Braising Liquid
1 medium onion, coarsely chopped
1 stalk celery, coarsely chopped
2 garlic cloves, crushed
1 bay leaf
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon dried oregano
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon peppercorns
2 cups water
1 (14-ounce) can reduced sodium beef broth
2 pounds skirt or flank steak, or 2 pounds boneless chuck roast
Stew
3 tablespoons olive oil
2 medium onions, chopped
1 large green bell pepper, chopped
1 serrano, seeded and chopped
3 garlic cloves, chopped
1 teaspoon ground cumin
¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 (14.5 ounce) can diced tomatoes in juice
1 red bell pepper, cut in strips
1 yellow or orange bell pepper, cut in strips
½ cup chopped green olives with pimento
2 tablespoons capers
For the braising liquid, place the onion, celery, garlic, bay leaf, cumin, oregano, salt and peppercorns in the bottom of a Dutch oven. Add the water and beef broth; stir to blend. Add the beef and bring to a simmer over medium heat. Reduce heat to the lowest setting and cook covered with the lid just slightly ajar for 1 ½ to 2 hours for the skirt or flank steak and for 3 hours for the chuck roast. Turn the meat halfway through the cooking process. Remove from the heat and let the meat rest in the liquid for 30 minutes. Remove and slice the meat into ¼-inch thick strips against the grain. Strain the braising liquid and reserve. Clean the Dutch oven.
In the cleaned Dutch oven, add the olive oil and heat over medium-low heat. Add the chopped onions and green bell pepper; sauté until softened, about 6 minutes. Add the Serrano; sauté 2 minutes. Add the garlic, cumin and cinnamon; sauté 1 minute. Stir in the tomatoes, beef and 1 ½ cups of the braising liquid. Bring to a simmer over medium-heat. Reduce the heat to low and cook, stirring occasionally for 1 ½ hours.
During the last 15 minutes of cooking, stir in the red and yellow peppers, the green olives and the capers. Most of the liquid will have cooked off and the meat will have shredded. Add additional braising liquid as necessary if the mixture seems too dry. Serve with rice.
6 servings
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Shovel Ready
I'm shovel ready all right but I don't think any government aid is coming my way.
What needs shoveling is my office in Minneapolis. It's become a pit of papers in anticipation of leaving. Maybe I should retrieve the snow shovels so recently stored from winter here in the frozen North and literally dig myself out.
There's the stack of post-tax filing receipts waiting to be filed, travel documents sitting on the floor waiting to be packed in my carry-on, recipe notes for an article due before I leave on Friday, etc., etc., etc. I know I'm doomed. The documents will go with me and the article work will get done but the scattered detritus will remain, patiently waiting for my return. It's no wonder that France looks so good when all the annoying bookwork comes here to the States for tending. How nice,though, to have a place to escape for a while from the inevitable, complicated business of 21st century living.
In the meantime, I'm plodding my way through what I can sort without going right over the over-load edge of detail insanity. Once out of the office, there's the bedroom, with clothing waiting to be packed, winter clothes ready to be put away, and shoes like size 8 1/2 ants, marching from bed to closet to feet and back again. Oh the shoes. The sandals are emerging, two by two, like the animals on Noah's ark, already multiplying with the advent of spring.
Gotta love 'em; gotta hate 'em, like every obsession.
With the opportunities for shoveling out the chaos seemingly endless, cooking meals seems to be getting short shrift. Since a girl needs to keep up her strength, I'm still managing to get in my three squares. Tonight, for example, I've turned to a great little recipe from my Bistro Chicken book that focuses on easy, stress-free preparation with dynamite--and very French--results. Here it is for any fellow shovelers to try:
BLANCS DE VOLAILLE BONNE FEMME
Rustic Boneless Chicken Breast Sauté (Bonne Femme)
Bonne femme translates as good woman or good wife and the term, in cooking, usually connotes a rustic, country style of cooking, often with slab bacon, onions, and potatoes. Poulet bonne femme, the more customary treatment for chicken, uses bone-in chicken pieces and cooks a bit more slowly. I’ve taken the liberty of speeding up the process using boneless, skinless breasts. Today, the good wife or good husband—the bon mari—gets dinner to the table as quickly as possible.
4 servings
2 tablespoons canola oil
½ cup diced, thick-cut mild bacon
Four 6 to 8-ounce boneless, skinless chicken breasts
¼ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon freshly ground pepper
¾ cup frozen whole baby onions, thawed
2 cups diced, cooked boiling potatoes (about ¾-inch dice)
Heat a large skillet over medium-high heat; add the canola oil. When hot, add the diced bacon; sauté until crisp, about 4 to 5 minutes. Remove with a slotted spoon; drain on paper towels. Add the breasts, seasoned with 1/8 teaspoon salt and 1/8 teaspoon pepper, along with the onions. Sauté until golden brown on both sides, about 2 to 3 minutes per side. Reduce the heat to low, cover and cook, turning once, until the chicken is no longer pink in the thickest portion when cut with a knife, about 4 to 5 minutes per side. Remove the breasts to a warm platter; top with the onions. Cover with aluminum foil to keep warm.
Increase the heat to medium-high. When hot, add the potatoes and cook for 4 to 5 minutes or until browned; season with the remaining 1/8 teaspoon salt and 1/8 teaspoon pepper. Stir in the bacon. Scatter the potato mixture over the breasts and serve immediately.
Truc: Our salt pork tends to be a bit tough when simply sautéed and not simmered so bacon is a better choice here. If time allows and for a more authentic taste, drop the bacon in simmering water for about 5 minutes and pat the diced pieces dry before sautéing. It removes some of the smoky flavor.
For cooked potatoes in a hurry, quarter 2 or 3 medium boiling potatoes and cook them in a microwave-safe covered container with a tablespoon of water on high in your microwave until barely tender, about 8 minutes. If you start them before sautéing the bacon, they’ll be slightly cooled and ready for dicing while the chicken finishes cooking. Synchronizing your timing is one of the ways to get a meal done quickly.
What needs shoveling is my office in Minneapolis. It's become a pit of papers in anticipation of leaving. Maybe I should retrieve the snow shovels so recently stored from winter here in the frozen North and literally dig myself out.
There's the stack of post-tax filing receipts waiting to be filed, travel documents sitting on the floor waiting to be packed in my carry-on, recipe notes for an article due before I leave on Friday, etc., etc., etc. I know I'm doomed. The documents will go with me and the article work will get done but the scattered detritus will remain, patiently waiting for my return. It's no wonder that France looks so good when all the annoying bookwork comes here to the States for tending. How nice,though, to have a place to escape for a while from the inevitable, complicated business of 21st century living.
In the meantime, I'm plodding my way through what I can sort without going right over the over-load edge of detail insanity. Once out of the office, there's the bedroom, with clothing waiting to be packed, winter clothes ready to be put away, and shoes like size 8 1/2 ants, marching from bed to closet to feet and back again. Oh the shoes. The sandals are emerging, two by two, like the animals on Noah's ark, already multiplying with the advent of spring.
Gotta love 'em; gotta hate 'em, like every obsession.
With the opportunities for shoveling out the chaos seemingly endless, cooking meals seems to be getting short shrift. Since a girl needs to keep up her strength, I'm still managing to get in my three squares. Tonight, for example, I've turned to a great little recipe from my Bistro Chicken book that focuses on easy, stress-free preparation with dynamite--and very French--results. Here it is for any fellow shovelers to try:
BLANCS DE VOLAILLE BONNE FEMME
Rustic Boneless Chicken Breast Sauté (Bonne Femme)
Bonne femme translates as good woman or good wife and the term, in cooking, usually connotes a rustic, country style of cooking, often with slab bacon, onions, and potatoes. Poulet bonne femme, the more customary treatment for chicken, uses bone-in chicken pieces and cooks a bit more slowly. I’ve taken the liberty of speeding up the process using boneless, skinless breasts. Today, the good wife or good husband—the bon mari—gets dinner to the table as quickly as possible.
4 servings
2 tablespoons canola oil
½ cup diced, thick-cut mild bacon
Four 6 to 8-ounce boneless, skinless chicken breasts
¼ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon freshly ground pepper
¾ cup frozen whole baby onions, thawed
2 cups diced, cooked boiling potatoes (about ¾-inch dice)
Heat a large skillet over medium-high heat; add the canola oil. When hot, add the diced bacon; sauté until crisp, about 4 to 5 minutes. Remove with a slotted spoon; drain on paper towels. Add the breasts, seasoned with 1/8 teaspoon salt and 1/8 teaspoon pepper, along with the onions. Sauté until golden brown on both sides, about 2 to 3 minutes per side. Reduce the heat to low, cover and cook, turning once, until the chicken is no longer pink in the thickest portion when cut with a knife, about 4 to 5 minutes per side. Remove the breasts to a warm platter; top with the onions. Cover with aluminum foil to keep warm.
Increase the heat to medium-high. When hot, add the potatoes and cook for 4 to 5 minutes or until browned; season with the remaining 1/8 teaspoon salt and 1/8 teaspoon pepper. Stir in the bacon. Scatter the potato mixture over the breasts and serve immediately.
Truc: Our salt pork tends to be a bit tough when simply sautéed and not simmered so bacon is a better choice here. If time allows and for a more authentic taste, drop the bacon in simmering water for about 5 minutes and pat the diced pieces dry before sautéing. It removes some of the smoky flavor.
For cooked potatoes in a hurry, quarter 2 or 3 medium boiling potatoes and cook them in a microwave-safe covered container with a tablespoon of water on high in your microwave until barely tender, about 8 minutes. If you start them before sautéing the bacon, they’ll be slightly cooled and ready for dicing while the chicken finishes cooking. Synchronizing your timing is one of the ways to get a meal done quickly.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
It's April now and the piles for France surround me once again. This year we'll have a new tablecloth. We bought cheery, cherry red fabric on closeout last fall and I brought it home for hemming. That's stacked up along with a guide book for Corsica.
You see, to bring in a bit more funding to supplement our fall cooking tour of Provence, we've listed our house on Vacation Rental by Owner http://www.vrbo.com/222704 and managed to rent the house right out from under us just shortly after we arrive. So, what were two cooks with wanderlust going to do but wander?
Last year, we'd checked into going to Corsica, the birthplace of Napoleon and a favorite vacation get away for many of our French friends. But, with the euro being exceedingly strong and our income heading the other way, we gave the island a pass.
Having maneuvered ourselves right out of our own door, we decided to use the rental money to explore this rugged piece of France that, in truth, is positioned far closer to Italy in the Mediterranean. Make money on this deal? I don't think so but we'll have fun and I'll have lots to pass on in my blog.
Right now I'm at the what needs to be dealt with before leaving stage of the trip--taxes most urgently but then bills, writing assignments, and scheduling details not far behind on the to-do list. It makes getting on the plane something to look forward to, even with the increasing inconvenience and discomfort of airline travel. Settled in my economy seat, I begin leaving the accelerated pace of US life behind and head towards the tranquility of my Mollans.
You see, to bring in a bit more funding to supplement our fall cooking tour of Provence, we've listed our house on Vacation Rental by Owner http://www.vrbo.com/222704 and managed to rent the house right out from under us just shortly after we arrive. So, what were two cooks with wanderlust going to do but wander?
Last year, we'd checked into going to Corsica, the birthplace of Napoleon and a favorite vacation get away for many of our French friends. But, with the euro being exceedingly strong and our income heading the other way, we gave the island a pass.
Having maneuvered ourselves right out of our own door, we decided to use the rental money to explore this rugged piece of France that, in truth, is positioned far closer to Italy in the Mediterranean. Make money on this deal? I don't think so but we'll have fun and I'll have lots to pass on in my blog.
Right now I'm at the what needs to be dealt with before leaving stage of the trip--taxes most urgently but then bills, writing assignments, and scheduling details not far behind on the to-do list. It makes getting on the plane something to look forward to, even with the increasing inconvenience and discomfort of airline travel. Settled in my economy seat, I begin leaving the accelerated pace of US life behind and head towards the tranquility of my Mollans.
Monday, January 19, 2009
New Seasons-New Year
That last week in Mollans passed far too quickly, with friends coming and us going to say good bye. There's almost a ritual aspect to the leave-taking at this point and we follow the drinks, dinner and phone-call routine assiduously, leaving nothing out lest we somehow break the supportive social fabric that cloaks our life in France.
Intertwined with that, we worked on some new friendships via Minnesota neighbors, Gloria and Michael, who were visiting in the area. They've introduced us to some of their other American friends living not too far away from us and we'll follow up this coming spring to cement these budding relationships into something more than the acquaintance level. In the meantime, betwixt all the leave-taking events in our own village, we sandwiched in a few events with these new folks and still managed to shut the house and head on home with a minimum of fuss.
Of course, M. Monge, our local artist in masonry, came to shore up the lower level wall and eliminate the unsightly and growing spot where the previous plaster had separated from its moorings. Another project for the spring--a bit of painting to blend in the repair work. There will be no need to get too obsessively "house beautiful" with our paint selection. Eggshell white will do just fine. Our color comes from the landscape surrounding us and the Provencal fabrics that dot our home.
From the US, that final morning where we readied the house for winter, draining the water and turning off the electricity, seems so far away. But, soon, we'll be flicking switches and turning knobs to open our house and our lives to Mollans again.
Intertwined with that, we worked on some new friendships via Minnesota neighbors, Gloria and Michael, who were visiting in the area. They've introduced us to some of their other American friends living not too far away from us and we'll follow up this coming spring to cement these budding relationships into something more than the acquaintance level. In the meantime, betwixt all the leave-taking events in our own village, we sandwiched in a few events with these new folks and still managed to shut the house and head on home with a minimum of fuss.
Of course, M. Monge, our local artist in masonry, came to shore up the lower level wall and eliminate the unsightly and growing spot where the previous plaster had separated from its moorings. Another project for the spring--a bit of painting to blend in the repair work. There will be no need to get too obsessively "house beautiful" with our paint selection. Eggshell white will do just fine. Our color comes from the landscape surrounding us and the Provencal fabrics that dot our home.
From the US, that final morning where we readied the house for winter, draining the water and turning off the electricity, seems so far away. But, soon, we'll be flicking switches and turning knobs to open our house and our lives to Mollans again.
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