tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35771237115437040442024-03-14T06:31:49.652+01:00An American in AvignonCheese, wine, truffles, food, children, goats, recipes, tango, juggling between two continents, new projects, an old stone house I love, raising two teenage boys.Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.comBlogger439125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3577123711543704044.post-61445078750221796392016-02-20T16:30:00.000+01:002016-02-20T16:30:17.548+01:00New Colors, Always Beautiful - My Favorite Potter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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Following a path I know infinitely well, roads I've traveled more times than I count, I turn at the last roundabout and follow the hand-painted village signs towards bulls, the Petite Camargue and the Potter. This is the village of Le Cailar, and home to a pottering family. From mother to daughter, from daughter to husband. Creativity, strong family ties, joy, connections, unbelievable numbers of hours working. Radiant smiles whenever I see them. The world sends them their share of troubles, though this little back garden feels as close to Paradise as one could reach, and they weather them.</div>
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My memories overwhelm me, but the present takes precedence. I take Véronique in my arms - I've been away so long, and it's been multiple years that we've not seen each other. I can't only give her the classic bises as greeting, I must give her a hug, I must hold her. And, joyously, generously, she is willing. I love this woman and her family, and seeing them again, well, healthy, there, with a whole new surge of creativity and beauty pouring from their hearts and their hands. Tears well up. <a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AmJOgAvekrU/Vsh_Kb6F7yI/AAAAAAAADUs/JmNi9xQt5yM/s1600/DSC_0484.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AmJOgAvekrU/Vsh_Kb6F7yI/AAAAAAAADUs/JmNi9xQt5yM/s640/DSC_0484.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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No, this is not your normal: look at the lovely wares of my artisan article. I can't help but add my emotions into the mix. I lived 18 years in this world, now 3.5 years ago, and coming back, being so warmly received, everything is tinged in more than rose-colored glasses, more like deep, rich, roaring ochre from the clay beneath my feet here.</div>
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Véro has started playing with three dimensions in a way she'd not done before. And she's started creating characters in this new world. For years she made exquisite and personalized marriage plates (I've offered these to more than a few friends) and birth plates (Jonas has one) that have lovely personages on them, much like the little girl above on this plate. Now, however, she's taken this idea and run with it. She's started created exquisite plant and garden art.</div>
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And vases to be hung on your wall (these are reminiscent of a shape her mother used to work with). </div>
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She's now making tall vases, and cooky jars and, simply beautiful - if fragile - dolls where the hair, the accessories, the dresses, the add-ons are all inspired by the flood of quirky and bewitching images that stream through her. Visiting mid-winter, her collection was much diminished by Christmas markets. But she's getting back to work, and I imagine by Easter, her shop will be full of marvelous new subjects. And, if you are lucky enough to visit, or to spy her at one of the many regional <a href="http://www.terresdeprovence.org/marches-potiers/marches-potier.php" target="_blank">potters' markets</a>, do give her my best! <br />
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I've likely brought quite a number of my readers to this little shop over the years. So, you will join with me in also appreciating (and coveting) some of the new colors that Véro has started working with. The designs are reminiscent of her classic style, but she has turned towards new pallets of colors, in particular a rich red base and a deep dark blue. Having recently visited Norway, I am struck that these have an almost Scandinavian feel to them. She's even playing with simply 2 colored pieces - something very unusual for this self-proclaimed over-decorator.<br />
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I do think I need to organize that special pottery tour like I'd always considered way back when. We would need to organize safe shipping, or come prepared for adding a second over-sized hard-sided box to the airplane allotment. What do you think? Tempted?<br />
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From mother to daughter: an inheritance of skill, creativity, joy and life.Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3577123711543704044.post-76147539102460807452016-02-19T20:08:00.001+01:002016-02-19T20:08:56.237+01:00Being French Again - un rappel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;">I was French again for three weeks. Granted, I'm a French citizen, and have been for a third of my life, but even so, it is when back on French soil, living in France, that my French me comes back to the fore.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">It happens slowly. First I had to get in a car and depart snowy Northern Michigan, in a lake effect blizzard no less, and drive to Chicago where I spent a lovely evening with dear friends and voracious travelers. We shared my cheese, my venison pâté, their good wine. The next morning I stepped out into perhaps the coldest morning I've experienced in my entire life. I don't think Manhattan winters were ever this bad. Chapeaux to my Chicago friends for surviving that cold! Wow. And then off to the airport, and the two planes to Marseille, then the ride to my home. Then in through that blue door with my name afixed to it. A tangible note stamping this my place.</span></div>
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What is the most French of all? What is iconic and simply screams French? Well, <i>un café et une brioche bien dorée</i>. Exquisite, simple, lovely. That hit of dark power slips down my throat, the golden tender crumb is even better dunked in the dark thick <i>café</i>. Dense enough for a spoon to stand upright, or dissolve, take your pick. And around me hums the weekend shoppers at <i>Les Halles</i>, choosing their vegetables, their <i>petits plats</i>, breads, cheeses, <i>charcuterie</i>, oysters from a nearby estuary off the Mediterranean, or imported overland from Brittany. Baskets, rolling carts, filled and overflowing. Babies in back carriers, couples strolling together after perhaps a magical night of dancing, grandfathers introducing their grandchildren to the buzz and joys of shopping for the family meal. Yes, this is very French. And no doubt Italian, and I'm sure resonates for a number of other cultures. But here, well, I'm in France, Avignon, the heart of the Côte du Rhône Valley where so many are revelling in the unseasonably beautiful weather, strolling the city streets, sitting outside in the bright sunshine, covered for the chilly breeze but soaking up the winter rays. Is it really mid January?<br />
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I'm here to work and to play, or perhaps more specifically, to reconnect. I've truffles to purchase and guests arriving shortly, so I'll be readying my guest bedrooms and doing a top to toe cleaning/dusting of my home, my garden, my front yard. My larder must be filled, my home made ready, the wood stove stoked, the fallen sycamore leaves raked away. Care-taking and tending is needed. I need to call my artisan colleagues and organize our week of truffling, cooking, marketing, wine tasting and more. But this doesn't feel like work. I'm calling friends and colleagues. I'm scheduling visits to places I love and where I feel ever so welcomed. I've left American politics and the craziness of this non-stop presidential race far far away. Or at least that is one of the goals.<br />
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I purchase 250grams of truffles to start the week. Then I check under my stairwell to see if what I'd put away last year (what wasn't drunk last year - when we made a serious dent in my wine cellar over the 2 weeks of classes and numerous dinners and visits at the house). What more do I need? A selection of cheeses, raw milk to make some ricotta/brousse and pastry cream, eggs from a local supplier, and vegetables to balance out the richness of the week's fare. But I also stop by the organic whole sale supplier where I pick up my favorite organic flour blends. I get some baker's yeast from M. Le Blanc in Arles, where I also pick up a box of chocolates and two variations on the Kings' Cake.</div>
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<br />I start my bread, pull my personal dishes out of storage, make up the beds, scrub the bathroom and kitchen surfaces, mow the lawn, and then take a moment to walk outside, on my favorite path by the Rhône.</div>
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I also need to orchestrate seeing close friends. How to do this when I've a full program with guests? When your friends are patient and willing to adapt to your crazy schedule, it does help. So right away, a special lunch in the Lubéron where I finally get to see the wonderful new home of my dear friend Nathalie. Her companion has chosen a special wine for me, she serves a delicious quiche, salad and tart. And the conversation flows -- I confess I'm so excited to be back, to be with her, to be again at a French table where conversation is art, life, vibrant, leaping, never still... Nathalie understands, and I think realizes that if we had more than one day to see each other, I wouldn't be quite so intense. I'm bursting to communicate, analyze, comment, question. She has been living a very interesting passage with family, children, inheritance, art, teaching, making ends meet (she's very gifted at coping - and like myself, has lived the peripatetic life, which doesn't lend to accumulating a huge retirement account). I love that she is willing to share, and to go to these personal topics, as well as covering politics, bringing me up to speed on what's going on in the South. I am overflowing, quite literally, with the urgency and delight of being here, with her, with a friend so open, smart, communicative. I probably talked her out (or listened her out). But, well, she got me right off the boat when I was exceptionally un-grounded and craving such wisdom/humor/energy. But then, that's a dear and special friend. Right? <br />
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As the chèvre-feuille climbs to the balcon above, warmed by the life-giving sun of the South, so I too find myself, nourish myself as I seek to nourish others, sharing what is so special in this part of the world I have called home. Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3577123711543704044.post-66169395375660856982015-10-28T17:16:00.001+01:002015-10-28T17:20:04.428+01:00It's time for a Decadent Winter Tour!Winter is on the horizon. Though I'm currently spending most of my time in the potentially very cold north lands of Upper Lower Michigan, land of two Polar Vortexes in a row... I'm choosing to not dwell on these details (though yes, I'll get those snow tires on my car!) and contemplate the virtues of this season.<br />
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- a break from making cheese &<br />
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- a trip back to Avignon.<br />
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While there, I'll be offering a <a data-mce-href="http://www.cuisineprovencale.com/winter-tour/" href="http://www.cuisineprovencale.com/winter-tour/">course</a>
on Truffle hunting, Preparing Duck Confit and Foie Gras, Exploring the decadent joys of Châteauneuf-du-Pape wines and Savoring great <a data-mce-href="http://www.cuisineprovencale.com/life-in-france/odfi58op5ywh62tnjry0hementwdjn" href="http://www.cuisineprovencale.com/life-in-france/odfi58op5ywh62tnjry0hementwdjn">Chocolates</a> in my former (and on-going) role as a cooking teacher and culinary tour guide in Provence.<br />
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With
chef Erick Vedel at my side to guide us through the varied preparations
- think foie gras mi-cuit, smoked magret de canard, duck-fat fried
potatoes, truffle risotto, truffle omelettes, and truffled home-made
pasta.....,<br />
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One week of glorious winter foodie decadence in Provence,<br />
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<b>January 24-January 31</b><br />
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Early
morning truffle markets, Provençal (yes, it is a language all its own) murmurring softly as the
transactions flow from seller to buyer. Anywhere from 250Euros a kilo up
to 800Euros a kilo depending on demand, quality and quantity. What will
this season bring? Luckily for those who accompany me late winter is
the best time for black truffles.<br />
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Little known is that
Christmas and New Year's are times when truffle prices are pushed way up
for the festive holiday diners, but in fact, the truffles are rarely at
their best. The knowledgeable gourmet awaits late winter, when the air
is still chilly, but the sun is out, the ground a tad firm, mostly dry, not
yet soaked with early spring rains. It is the moment the truffles come into
their peak flavor, and often, the prices have lowered due to less
demand.<br />
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I
can still take a few more people with me. Our favorite local B&B in
Avignon, run by lovely Béatrice still has room as does my touring
vehicle and kitchen. The Euro to US Dollar rate has been favorable to
the Dollar this year, so I've been able to lower the price per person
to: $2975 all inclusive, or a special 10% discount for 2 who travel
together: $5355.<br />
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So,
come farce your fresh fowl with truffles. Take the grater, and the
chunky truffle and shave as much as you like over your lightly poached
eggs with still warm brioche on your plate. This is your time to
indulge!<br />
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We'll
join our master truffler (or rabbassao) as he heads through a grove of twisted black
oak trees, over short stone walls, following an eager and excited dog seeking out that elusive
yet potent scent. A happy yelp, quick digging with his strong front
paws, and out comes a black nugget of flavor. The potent aroma of the
truffle invades the dirt surrounding it, and wafts up to you standing
close by.<br />
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To
accompany our feasts and travails we'll taste some of the great wines
of the Southern Rhône, Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Gigondas, Vacquéyras...
We'll spend a morning at multiple wineries savoring a vertical tasting
of these grenache heavy blends. Strawberry jam? Russian leather? smooth
and fruity? spicy and dense? chewy tannins? a touch of barnyard? herby
Garrigue notes? These and more may come to you as we swirl, sniff, and
swoosh in our mouths. And as I'm driving, just enjoy. No need to spit.<br />
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To enliven conversation and share our feasts I'll invite some of my favorite artisans to join us at the table.<br />
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Oh
it's going to be a wonderful and special week. And likely the last time
for a good long while that I'll be able to offer these tours. Once I
start my next creamery, I'll not be able to get back to Provence for
more than a couple weeks here and there. So, if you're tempted (and I
hope you are!) this is the time to book your tickets (during the least
expensive period of the year) and come !!! Looking forward to hearing
from you: <a data-mce-href="http://www.cuisineprovencale.com/winter-tour/" href="http://www.cuisineprovencale.com/winter-tour/">Winter Truffle Tour 2016</a>Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3577123711543704044.post-50700158281762002162015-09-22T20:36:00.004+02:002015-09-22T20:38:26.930+02:00Tapping into my Acquis - Wine & TeachingI love this expression, <i>mes acquis.</i> That which you have acquired, that which you own, and in this sense, my skills and knowledge. In the many years, the many lives, the many projects I've managed, I've come away richer in much, if not in gold.<br />
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As I put my efforts to creating a fulfilling life in a beautiful community, known frequently as a place where, "half the pay is the bay," I am tapping into my various skills, and rediscovering how deep my knowledge is, and how it might carry us forward.<br />
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Wine and teaching. I've done so much of both. So, it's rather a natural progression to develop this angle further. The last time I hoped to make wine a major part of my professional life, the timing was terrible. The dollar was weak. The US had just experienced the financial crash/housing crisis, and I was hoping to use my experience at the side of an organic vintner to sell French wines to the US distributors. To do so, I honed my tasting skills, my teaching skills, and my knowledge of the wines themselves. However, I did not have the personal nor professional funds to ship and carry wines to the US repeatedly in order to find those importers/distributors. Too late I realized that one must present wines again and again, proving consistency and professional commitment, before finding a business partner. And so, for the time being, I shuttered that possibility.<br />
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Yesterday, after a fruitful discussion with a colleague who runs a professional culinary school, I've submitted a proposal for an intensive wine tasting and food and wine pairing program for his students. As I put it together, it was so clear how I would progress, what subjects were important to cover, how I would balance the intellectual and the practical.<br />
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I think back to the many wonderful professional wine tasting experiences I've had, with the top experts in the field such as <a href="http://www.karenmacneil.com/" target="_blank">Karen MacNeil</a>, with my chef sommelier in Châteauneuf-du-Pape, <a href="http://www.cave-saint-charles.com/" target="_blank">Guy Brémond</a>, with the many vintners who received me generously into their wineries and explained at length the processes they used, tasting from the barrels, tasting from the tanks, tasting bottles both young and old, tasting, savoring, describing, explaining. And yes, I remember back to the years I spent alongside an organic vintner who shared every step of his world with me. Thus, I've been there, from harvest through winter pruning. I've been there to taste and blend with the oenologist. I've been there at wine fairs, tasting, selling, discussing.<br />
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And then there was that huge translation project I (happily) plowed my way through, the <a href="http://www.bettanedesseauve.com/" target="_blank">Bettane & Dessauve.</a> All the tasting notes for every wine they considered worthy, throughout every region of France (except Burgundy and Bordeaux, which my colleagues kept for themselves). I put together a massive list of specialized vocabulary, and eagerly went out to taste some of the most interesting options. <br />
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So, add in my Waldorf teaching experience, and the twelve years' running a cooking school in Provence, and well, what a perfect fit! Stage one - wine intensive; stage two... sensory analysis on a deeper and wider level: cheeses, beers, chocolate.<br />
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So, the proposal went off yesterday. We shall see...Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3577123711543704044.post-82385127772243026982015-09-05T18:47:00.002+02:002015-09-05T18:47:21.519+02:00LandingIt's been a doozy of a year. As my son Jonas says ever so simply: a lot has happened. Catching our breaths, living under the same roof, grounding our lives in some semblance of normalcy. These seem to be our main goals right now.<br />
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Balance: living both as American and French nationals.<br />
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This is a goal. Not always easy to manage, but still a goal. For the kids this meant Jonas in France for much of this school year, reintegrating his Waldorf school, and living with his father. For Leo, that meant a long and leisure-filled summer in France for his 18th birthday. For me, this means getting back to France every winter to care for my home and to offer Winter Truffle and Foie Gras Tours.<br />
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In the meantime, we are now reunited in my family summer home in Traverse City, enjoying the end of summer quiet, the last of the heat, and a very late Labor Day. Most of our extended family has departed for their winter lives and homes. Schools start up on Tuesday. Later than I've ever experienced. When was the last time Labor Day came this late? I imagine we were back in France with schools that began on August 29th at the time.<br />
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I've had some fantastic work experiences this year - consulting on a goat farm in North Carolina, helping them improve their lactic cheese makes, tweak their blue cheese-make and develop a new washed rind soft cheese; the last won an award at the American Cheese Society this summer. I've also visited other colleagues and worked along side them, sharing my skills and knowledge, and picking up some new skills and ideas through observing them and chatting over a meal, wine, and nibbles of cheese.<br />
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During this pause in my full-time cheese making life, I'm contemplating different futures, different possibilities, different projects. I'm also simply looking at different ways to make ends meet in the meantime. Life doesn't stop and top of the list each day is caring for my children and paying the numerous expenses a life accumulates. I'm also treasuring my friends, consolidating our affairs, considering book projects, and reaching out. It's a luxury to have time to plan and plot.<br />
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<br />Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3577123711543704044.post-72378240211930729212015-03-11T21:39:00.000+01:002015-03-11T21:39:37.973+01:00Truffle hunting in the snow<br /><br />
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After five weeks of attending the Carpentras Truffle Market assiduously every Friday morning, I seem to have become a fixture. Or at least, many men are looking at me wondering who is this woman? and perhaps I've got some official credentials for being there? Perhaps that she's is a journalist? or?<br />
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I've also persuaded one man to take me and my guests out for a tour and a truffle hunt. It was the old photographer's trick. Take good pictures, and give them to him. Come back, purchase truffles. Be present but not intrusive. Next thing you know... he's offering.<br />
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And so a plan was made for a Monday morning. However, that Sunday, the Mistral was blowing at 140km/hour, trees were down on the roads, and it was scary even considering leaving the house to bring my son to his friend's for the night. Checking the <i>météo</i> it was clear that truffling that Monday was not going to happen. So, I replaced the day's events last minute with some wine tasting at Châteauneuf-du-Pape (always a Plan B in my pocket), and arranged to meet the truffler close by his village on Tuesday morning.<br />
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There was a dusting of snow still on the ground, but the sun was shining brightly and the wind had calmed down. One couldn't ask for more lovely weather and conditions for being out truffling.<br />
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We climbed into his car alongside his dog, piled into the dust and muddy floors, and then off he zoomed to his truffle properties. Down bumpy dirt roads, off to one direction and then another, spectacular views of vineyards and the hillside town beside us, till we ended up in a scrub-brush surrounded clearing filled with oak trees of many sizes and ages, plenty of wild juniper (<i>Cade</i>), and a few ancient dry stone <i>bories</i> in various states of repair. You could imagine being here in another age, perhaps with goats out nibbling the bushes, and huddling away into the dark and protected circle of stones when a<i> </i>sudden <i>averse</i> rained down upon you. <br />
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A bit worried by the thin city boots on one of my guests (her luggage had been lost for over six days by Air France!), he set off with his faithful canine colleague to see what he would find. I promised him that we were happy to simply be with him during this hunt, if we did or didn't find truffles, it would all be ok. More than once, he stopped, looked around, took a deep breath and shared how much he loves going to work every morning.<br />
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One of the things to know about experienced trufflers. They really know their lands and where truffles will be and should be. They've explored them carefully with very good dogs, repeatedly. And, once you've a tree that produces, it will continue to do so for years going forward. Thus, really, when they go out every week to harvest, they are guiding their dog to the best spots, encouraging him to sniff out in a far smaller radius than we imagine. <br />
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And so it was for us this day. We followed our guide across his orchard, to particular trees, by particular bushes, and in most cases there was something to dig up. Not always, but he found a good handful that day.<br />
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His dog was a funny one - trained to start digging (and thus save his master a bit of manual labor) he would occasionally break a truffle. But, the benefits of his front paws outweighed any loss of small truffles. This dog also was quite clear that he was a necessary part of the operation. As such, he happily received a treat when he found a truffle. But, he would also demand a second treat before getting back to work. You could see him hang back, waiting, pretty much letting his boss know that yeah, he'd get back to work, but, ahem, ... cough it up first buster.<br />
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Our guide is an entrepreneur. He started out as a farmer, but then switched to stone masonry and repairing and renovating the traditional stone homes of the Lubéron. He now has a couple rental properties that he manages. He also purchases, restores and resells vinyl records with images on them, and he has a whole stash of books he sells second hand. Truffling is something he's come to more recently, and he's attacked it with a vengeance. He's read, interviewed, investigated, followed and learned all he can of the tuber melanosporum. And now he has purchased and renovated quite a number of truffle plantings that others invested in, tended and then gave up on.<br />
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Over the past twenty years, it has become a trend to plant truffle mycelium injected/infected oak or walnut trees on property that looks propitious for truffles. (limestone, good drainage, good exposure). I used to hear that in general 15% of your trees would bear in 15-20 years. As such, it was as much an investment for your children as for yourself. Purchasing lands that were in disrepair, but already planted with these trees, my guide had gone about pruning, clearing, and healing his lands. And, he's been well rewarded.<br />
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Once our hunt was over we went back to his house for an <i>apéritif</i>. My client with her thin city boots put her feet up by the fire in his wood stove, and we all enjoyed a glass of rosé. He showed us how he brushes off his truffles, divides them into various quality levels - brumales, mediocre, broken, good but small, good and good sized. He stores them in cloth bags in a cold place, and then brings them to sell Friday morning in Carpentras. He also has private clients who call him and request shipments - throughout France and the European Union.<br />
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So he's both a truffler and a seller. A less common combination in that world where often there is a stark division between the trufflers (<i>rabassaou</i>) and the buyers/resellers (<i>courtiers</i>). As I hung around the truffle market on those Friday mornings, I'd get into conversations, or simply sidle over and start listening. The discreetly dressed, scruffy haired, capped <i>paysans</i> would explain to me that those on the outside of the ring of tables (the sellers) arrived in rusted out 2cheveaux, wore muddy boots, and hoped for the best. Those on the inside of the rind, (the buyers) arrived in BMWs and Mercedes, wore leather jackets, schnazy shoes and pretty much had the power in their hands. It was confided to me that the <i>Courtiers</i> got together ahead of time and set the price they were willing to pay. Thus, though from the outside, witnessing the price per kilo range from 190-240Euros the first week I was there (right after the New Year) to a high of 650Euros and back down to 450-500Euros my last week, seems pretty random and chaotic, it was actually pretty tightly controlled. The outside elements: rain, the Mistral, holiday weekends - quality, quantity and demand - were calculated into the estimates. Then men (and women) carrying upwards of 15-20,000Euros in cash in a pouch draped across their chest, carefully held under their coats, called the shots.<br />
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My last morning at the market I spent time chatting with a <i>Courtier</i>. He was gracious and informative, letting me know that in general, he purchased between 25-30 kilos each week, and that his primary markets were Manhattan and LA, where he had a personal/professional connection with an ex-pat Frenchman (or woman) who did the selling on the ground there. As he bantered back and forth with one of the more scruffy of the gentlemen who are present weekly at the market, after taking a good sniff in his canvas bag, "<i>voleur ! tu n'as que des brumales, je n'en veux rien de ton sac ! va abuser un autre" </i>the other retorted laughing, that he knew he had true melanosporum truffles in his bag, and he'd be off to find a purchaser more worthy. Perhaps..<br />
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I downed my café noisette, took a last few photos, and off I went. Next time, I hope to repeat my attendance, and perhaps, be taken into the inside ring to sniff and inspect alongside the <i>Courtiers. </i>At least as I left that sunny morning, it felt quite possible, and only another few visits away.<br />
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Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3577123711543704044.post-76782957544204799862015-02-06T20:40:00.001+01:002015-02-06T20:40:57.688+01:00Sitting by the FireSo, it's a Friday night. I suppose I could have gotten all dressed up and gone out to Tango. But this trip to Provence has not been one for dancing. My main occupations have been caring for my house, which, after three years of rentals and months of being empty, has been in need.<br />
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And, I suppose that I too have been in need. In need of caring and repairing and designing and laying my imprint on a place and space. I understand that renters have the legal right to paint and in some instances re-configure rental homes/spaces. But, I've never dared. However, in my own home, I can and I do. And it feels good. It is the act of re-appropriating through care & labor. <br />
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I pretty much got off the plane a month ago (<i>tout juste</i>), walked into the house and starting attacking projects. Floors have been painted, as have walls & radiators. Leaks fixed (or at least spotted so they will get fixed). Plumbing fixtures switched out. A new boiler installed. Electrical fixtures replaced and updated. Walls re-configured (in the bathroom). And most recently, broken clay tiles from my and my sons' bedrooms are being replaced & affixed. If only this last task were as easy to do as it is to convey in one short sentence. The dust that has been stirred up by the crumbling cement/plaster joints, the sand beneath this thin layer upon which the old tiles once were sturdily stuck. Jonas' room has now a pit in the middle, gray with drying cement, piles of cleaned ancient tiles lined up ready to lay. A thin layer coats most everything. Ah well, I had been going to get rid of most of those books anyway, and move that book case, and revacuum every surface, and change all the sheets, and re-wash all his clothes... just not right away.<br />
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My room has less dust stirred about, but it too has many missing tiles. So many have gotten broken over the years as they started moving and wobbling, and weakening and then cracking.<br />
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The thing with beginning such projects, is that you simply have to finish them before you head out. And so, rather than going out to dance the tango, I'm doing what work I'm able to do here.<br />
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However today, the work included drafting my program for the upcoming Winter Truffle Tour. And it included a morning visit (my 5th in a row) to the Carpentras Truffle market. It proceeded to a café shared with one of my truffle hunters, discussions of Nyons olive oil, home-made wild boar ham, and curing black olives. - I took careful notes.<br />
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This is the first time I've done culinary tours since I departed to start the goat farm in the US. It has been a truly wonderful time re-integrating myself into a past life, but a life that is still vibrant and filled with great <i>rencontres</i>, dear friends and colleagues, and so many opportunities to learn and connect.<br />
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And so, I ready myself for my next <i>Stage Culinaire</i>. It begins Sunday. And I've my program ready to go, and my shopping list for tomorrow. Truffles are already embedded in rice for the risotto. Onward.Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3577123711543704044.post-48889225965573732122015-01-16T15:19:00.002+01:002015-01-16T20:00:10.980+01:00TRUFFLES !!!!Back at the truffle market at Carpentras, the oldest market of truffles in France (or the world no doubt - I was told the date of 1155), located in the region where the best and the most truffles traditionally have been found. This being France, and most particularly Provence, anyone who has read a bit of Alphonse Daudet's <i>Tartarin de Tarascon</i> will recognize the extreme dimensions of all things of this most beautiful place in the world (is there another? Many Provençaux never range more than 50 kilometers from their birth place).<br />
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From the annals of History:<br />
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Man has known & relished the truffle since High Antiquity; she used to be celebrated for her aphrodisiac virtues. However, during the Middle Ages, the truffle lost its luster and was associated with evil and the devil. At that time it was food for pigs (sound familiar? - see the story I was told yesterday of how to make the best blood sausages...), pigs being considered the most un-pure of animals by the Catholic Church. It isn't until the end of the Middle Ages, early Renaissance that the truffle was rehabilitated by the Popes, then based in Avignon, who brought it back to his banquet tables. </div>
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We were
three today to visit the market, myself, Erick (my former husband) and
Eric (my colleague chef from Traverse City). As we arrived, the wafting
scent of truffles began to invade our nostrils. Happily, none of us were
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This is very masculine world, though the rare woman rabbasier (truffle hunter/grower) and courtier (official purchaser) mixed amongst them. Elegance is a rare trait (though a few of the courtiers sport their elegant leather jackets and snappy felt fedoras). Much as I try to avoid the clichés made so famous by Peter Mayle (and more honestly Jean Giono and Marcel Pagnol before him), we had entered into a group of relatively diminuitive, gray-haired men, in non-descript jackets, work boots and closed expressions. Small groups of them clustered about the square, slyly opening up their sacs, meeting with colleagues, making small deals before the official market began. </div>
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I found myself beside an elderly man, (or did I sidle up to his elbow?) with a slight shake to his hand and a bushy white mustache. Putting timidity to the side, I asked him how his harvest was this week?
And compared to the week before? And what is the going rate? How's it
been this season? Where abouts did he hunt his? Oh, the Mt Ventoux? Hm,
and might I take a look at his? Ahhh and how much are in that sac? I
felt them carefully for firmness, noted that the dirt had been rubbed
off, and made my own little deal. </div>
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Officially, you cannot sell or purchase less than a kilo of truffles if you participate in the official market. Thus, if your sac is a bit on the light side, making a discreet deal before (or after) makes good sense. And, if you catch someone who's eager, foreign, a bit out of the loop (ahem), you can make a bit more. i.e. We purchased 280grams for 80Euros before the market based on a range of 300Euros to the kilo. In the end, the truffles sold today for between 190 - 240Euros/kilo. So, we were far from ripped off. But, had we waited, we might have had more for less. (There's always next week). </div>
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At 8:50AM all move to the interior courtyard of the Mairie, the official heads of the market arrives, parking his car in the reserved spots. The police are there, blocking all further traffic. Barriers are put up around the square of tables. All the sellers enter and prepare their bags. At the sound of the whistle, 9AM sharp, the courtiers enter and the market begins.<br />
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Today's market went quietly and slowly. Even here we feel the effects of a poor economy, ruffled feathers, minor fears. I addressed on of the official market men (a colleague Erick remembered we'd been presented to years before by a colleague from Châteauneuf), and opened my eyes wide, nodded my head in encouragement, and got a wonderful earful of history and tales. Many's the time, he said, that had he turned his back on the market, there'd be nothing left 10 minutes later. But, today, more than a half hour passed, and still, there were a couple sacs on the table. It wasn't a great day for the sellers. The courtiers, however, had their pick.<br />
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As we departed, my new friend gave me some good addresses, private phone numbers and suggestions for the weeks to come. And next week, I'll bring my better camera :-) Now that he knows me, in I'll go, and respecting the unspoken rules not to take portraits (darn!) I'll be permitted to snap a few up close.<br />
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T<span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>here are still spots left in my Winter Truffle Tour in 8-15 February</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>http://www.cuisineprovencale.com/winter-2015/</b></span><br />
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And note that with the dollar getting stronger and stronger, <span style="color: #cc0000;">I've adjusted the prices down on the web site to reflect the shifting value.</span><br />
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<br />Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3577123711543704044.post-54527042372548628132015-01-15T20:06:00.000+01:002015-01-15T20:06:58.105+01:00Climbing a steep hill with goatsWhat a day! The French have a great saying "resourcer" meaning going back to your source, back to the source of your knowledge, learning, roots, family, nourishment, inspiration... And that's what it's like when I'm back here.<br />
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Today was a trip to meet with a handful of sheep and goat herders, some for meat, some for cheese, out in the Lubéron, up in the hills above Lauris. We were in the home and pasture lands of a young goat herder. His wife makes the cheese, he cares for the goats. There were but 40 or so, all with horns, raised biodynamically, and pastured on and over and in the rough and steep grounds of the Luberon park land, aka, Garrigue, rich in herbs such as rosemary and thyme, covered in short little oak trees, and speckled with prickly juniper, majenta rockroses, and more (depending the season).<br />
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As we presented ourselves to each other we sipped freshly infused thyme and rosemary (no coffee here). When the presentations got to me, after learning of the man who has 100 Rove goats and 20 years handling them, the young man who has 300 sheep all kept out of doors, the neighbor who has 50 sheep, and looks towards more, and my friend Catherine with her handful of black belly meat sheep, I shared my Franco-American background. François, with his 100 Rove goats looked at me and said, "hey, I've heard about you! From Laure, the "commercialle" at Maison Mons, and oh yes, I know Claudine Malbosc, I did my internship with her and Yves 20 years ago, and of course I know Jacky, and Hélène, annd Christian... " And so it goes. The world of goats is quite small. And tales of my project creation in Michigan have traveled far.<br />
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As we headed out to walk the goats, we first visited the bucks, calmly kept in a field (all the time, their only shelter the trees) with a donkey. The donkey acts as a social buffer, both protecting, but also quieting the bucks. <br />
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I couldn't help but gravitate towards a marvelous older man who was telling tales of dining upon his truffles. I listened closely as he regaled us with how to make the most amazingly flavored blood sausage (boudin noir) possible. Well, the week before you slaughter your pig, you give her a bucket of truffles (these are apparently low-cost when you can find them in your backyard, i.e. the Lubéron hills) daily. When at last you slit her throat, the blood that spills will be scented with truffles. Catch it in your frying pan, stir it up, and fill your casings.<br />
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I must say, that's a new one for me :-)<br />
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Truffles being his primary income source, he has his methods. Leaving the village with your dog early morning is simply too suspect. Someone's going to follow you. And, well, the truffle fly method is something you do between 12 & 2pm, again a very suspicious time to be out and about (normal humans lunch and nap at these hours). So, to out-wit any sneaky, some-time friends who might wish to suss out truffle hot-spots, you must adopt a different tactic. Jeannot goes out for his primary investigative walks in August and September. When he spots what are called white truffle mushrooms, spikes that come up, perhaps split and crackled on the cap, he marks the spot with a few barley grains (after harvesting these white mushrooms to take back home for his mid-day omelette). When he returns to the hills late fall/winter, the barley has grown, and the truffle beneath it will have burned it golden. He can spot these even by the light of the moon. And so, he collects his truffles, takes them home and sells them, no one the wiser.<br />
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Our goat-herder took us up into the hills along a portion of his daily three hour tour. Steeply we climbed, slipping in the shale, trying not to pull on the rough oak scrub brush to pull us up to the next level. Breathing hard, we huffed and puffed to where the goats were happily nibbling the oak leaves and the rosemary buds in a fresh stand of greenery.<br />
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Our herder/host explained that his goats do not have issues with parasites, and are in excellent health. There are, however, the occasional "mechanical" problem. I.e. we spotted a very happy and active 3 legged goat (he did not divulge how she became 3 legged.. so the mystery remains), goats get tears on their teats, and ear tags get lost in the branches. But, all in all, it's a small price to pay for healthy goats. He likes the quality of his milk as well. Back by the milking stand he has a manger full of hay, so they can eat to their hearts' delight before and after milking - should they need to.<br />
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Certain stands of prairie down by his barn are planted in alfalfa and a mix of prairie grasses. The latter a mix so delicious and varied that his goats barely reject any of the 1st cutting. OK, I'm speaking goat breeder talk here. But if you knew goats, you'd realize that this is important news. I'm going to learn about this mix! Rejection of a goodly portion of their hay, tossing it on the ground, etc., by goats is a classic woe of many a goat herder. And, in general, the saying goes, give your first cutting to the horses, the 2nd and 3rd cuttings to the goats. So delicious and much appreciated 1st cutting? I'm in!<br />
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As we head back down from the hill top, we discussed when you move your goats from one area to another (when a 1/3 has been eaten, no more), and which plants suffer more or less from the passage of the goats. My colleague with the Roves mentioned a recent class in pasturing where they'd discussed whether it is a good or bad thing when goats get up on their hind legs to nibble in the trees (a sign that there is no longer sufficient nourishment at their head level).<br />
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One participant had his copy of today's <i><b>Liberation</b></i> paper, upon which every known vulgar and rude curse word had been printed in yellow. With the title in bold red. This, stated the man holding the paper, is what Liberty means to us in France. Completely and total free expression, even if it is rude, vulgar or in poor taste. It is following the example of <i><b>Charlie Hebdo</b></i>, and the recent marches all over France. Journalistic freedom & individual freedom of expression are ferociously in the forefront of everyone's mind. France is adamantly a Republic, where the separation of Church and State have been forcibly chosen and enforced. <br />
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A view of the Luberon Hills.<br />
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<br />Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3577123711543704044.post-58870872258193794112015-01-14T21:37:00.001+01:002015-01-14T22:31:26.085+01:00Back in Avignon - Winter ? 2015I'm back for an extended visit in my home in Avignon. And oh how lovely it is to be here, to be in my own home (rather than camping out or renting....). I'm doing what you do when you come back to your home after an extended trip. I'm cleaning, I'm renovating, I'm painting, I'm fixing, I'm purchasing some lovely things on sale to spruce it up. I'm giving it love and attention. I'm re-appropriating it after leaving it in the hands of many (much appreciated) renters.<br />
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It's just myself and Jonas here, with a guest or two stopping through. No Filou (he's with Mom in NY), no Leo (he's back in Michigan) and no extra kids from the Steiner school. It feels rather empty, I must say. I'd also forgotten how large each room is. It is a very spacious house (this I observe after being in many homes in the Midwest). My bedroom is vast - the bed taking up but a small piece of it. I've space to do my yoga, work at my desk, pile books and knitting on the floor by my bed, and still it feels large. The house is simply laid out - 2 rooms per floor and the central stairwell - which belies its size. There is the new addition that adds to its comfort now - the glassed in terrace out back by the garden. A cozy, lovely, luminous space that I can at last enjoy. (pictures will follow in future posts)<br />
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Jonas is back in his bed room -- full of books, a spare couple beds for when friends want to spend the night, and the huge new sky-light in his ceiling (I had the roof re-done the summer I departed for the States). Having light stream in throughout the day has definitely helped him adjust to the time shift.<br />
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In fact, we're both pretty much on schedule now. Getting up at 7:15 in the dark, heading out to school as the sun rises, admiring the sky as it lightens into all shades of rose and purple, grays and blue, over the Pope's palace.<br />
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The weather is unseasonably warm - not ideal for this agricultural world, but a dream when you're eager to be out walking or working in the garden.<br />
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I've been out to the Arles' market already - and it is as glorious as I remember. I saw many many known faces, vegetable sellers, Sophie the beekeeper, my favorite bread guy, the pain d'epices guy. The only person missing this past Saturday was the sheep cheese stand. Hopefully they'll be here this weekend. I didn't do many major purchases. I'm awaiting the arrival of clients and friends to truly do the market justice, and fill my bag!<br />
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I'll not see Guy from Châteauneuf this trip, but I did get to enjoy an afternoon walk by the Rhône on the tree-covered dirt path by my house with his wife Myriam. I'll be heading out to an organic goat farm tomorrow afternoon with friends (photos to come). And over to the Truffle market on Friday, then perhaps lunch at one of our favorite farm restaurants. (Table d'hôte).<br />
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Next week I'll be off to see all my artisans and check in with them. It's such a joy seeing friends at the Steiner school, investigating everyone's new projects. I have the impression that half of the people at the school are new to me, and the other half have long beanstalks planted beneath their newly chiseled facial features. What a change a couple years can make!<br />
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Oh it's good to be back in Provence! What can you say to a brilliantly sunny day that begins with a dear friend over breakfast, goes through a market filled with terribly tempting and gorgeous food, then moves onto a little cafe on an open terrace in town, and proceeds to an intimate lunch of freshly prepared goodies?<br />
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Perhaps that it's time to reinstate the sieste? Yawn..... Good food and warmth. Ahhhh.<br />
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<br />Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3577123711543704044.post-74190666677925367752011-10-23T22:53:00.000+02:002011-10-23T22:54:35.791+02:00Un joli coin ou la verdure est à toujours présente<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3577123711543704044.post-49796943066896900552011-10-23T22:35:00.000+02:002011-10-23T22:44:14.985+02:00A Chocolate Class<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3577123711543704044.post-84682757700356569762011-10-23T22:11:00.000+02:002011-10-23T22:11:27.548+02:00How a Fougasse is Cut<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3577123711543704044.post-66537197287228737622011-10-16T14:49:00.002+02:002011-10-16T14:49:44.696+02:00A Walk Through a Park in Springtime.<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ywLAb1CQulI/TprQ3uhM9qI/AAAAAAAACpA/iRH34UcPASo/s1600/DSC02825.JPG"><br />
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</a>When in London last spring, accompanying Leo's class trip, I spotted a fascinating young woman wandering through the park. She was going in our direction, and such a visual was she that I simply (and discreetly) photographed her. It's tempting to write a story to go along with the photos, no? Feel free to do so and send it to me.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qOUj5VxWqac/TprPBznDPHI/AAAAAAAACoo/I0ibi3p7DWw/s1600/DSC02821.JPG"><br /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5cdD70HvOF4/TpoIv6JJtyI/AAAAAAAACoE/D2X5Vvg9vX0/s1600/DSC02818.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" height="640" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663849100526335778" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5cdD70HvOF4/TpoIv6JJtyI/AAAAAAAACoE/D2X5Vvg9vX0/s640/DSC02818.JPG" style="display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" width="480" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p54DqVjbat0/TprPBgkGEqI/AAAAAAAACoc/AuNmU4oCl8I/s1600/DSC02820.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" height="640" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664067106199966370" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p54DqVjbat0/TprPBgkGEqI/AAAAAAAACoc/AuNmU4oCl8I/s640/DSC02820.JPG" style="display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" width="480" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-57kMpcpsqus/TpoIwH708kI/AAAAAAAACoQ/J9fvgBHSMio/s1600/DSC02819.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663849104228545090" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-57kMpcpsqus/TpoIwH708kI/AAAAAAAACoQ/J9fvgBHSMio/s400/DSC02819.JPG" style="display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" width="300" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-57kMpcpsqus/TpoIwH708kI/AAAAAAAACoQ/J9fvgBHSMio/s1600/DSC02819.JPG"><br /></a><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Y7c0Dnp42fo/TprPCXBIvfI/AAAAAAAACo0/tzz3FAg9t2I/s1600/DSC02822.JPG"><br /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qOUj5VxWqac/TprPBznDPHI/AAAAAAAACoo/I0ibi3p7DWw/s1600/DSC02821.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664067111312637042" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qOUj5VxWqac/TprPBznDPHI/AAAAAAAACoo/I0ibi3p7DWw/s400/DSC02821.JPG" style="display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" width="300" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Y7c0Dnp42fo/TprPCXBIvfI/AAAAAAAACo0/tzz3FAg9t2I/s1600/DSC02822.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664067120817290738" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Y7c0Dnp42fo/TprPCXBIvfI/AAAAAAAACo0/tzz3FAg9t2I/s400/DSC02822.JPG" style="display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" width="300" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Y7c0Dnp42fo/TprPCXBIvfI/AAAAAAAACo0/tzz3FAg9t2I/s1600/DSC02822.JPG"></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qOUj5VxWqac/TprPBznDPHI/AAAAAAAACoo/I0ibi3p7DWw/s1600/DSC02821.JPG"><br /></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ywLAb1CQulI/TprQ3uhM9qI/AAAAAAAACpA/iRH34UcPASo/s1600/DSC02825.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664069137170495138" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ywLAb1CQulI/TprQ3uhM9qI/AAAAAAAACpA/iRH34UcPASo/s400/DSC02825.JPG" style="display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" width="300" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S35VDURVdJ0/TprQ3wWZuQI/AAAAAAAACpM/Sf3ytSBTpX8/s1600/DSC02828.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664069137662064898" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S35VDURVdJ0/TprQ3wWZuQI/AAAAAAAACpM/Sf3ytSBTpX8/s400/DSC02828.JPG" style="display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" width="300" /></a>Ah, there she saw me. And poof, she disappeared.Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3577123711543704044.post-83510052011248848012011-10-15T23:19:00.000+02:002011-10-15T23:19:04.552+02:00Fresh Goat's Milk for my Coffee<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Foamy and scrumptious. Mmmm.Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3577123711543704044.post-43230989072663733102011-10-15T23:12:00.000+02:002011-10-15T23:12:18.647+02:00A Captured Moon<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: small;">Jonas loves to take the camera from my hand</span><span style="color: black;">s</span>. Jonas sees. He was the first to see the moon as we drove home the other evening. And though I was permitted the first shot, he begged the camera (my I phone) from my hands and started handling it like a pro. He used the magnifying option (I didn't know there was a zoom on my I phone???) And later he showed me that he knew how to brighten and darken photos too. Where has he learned this? </div>
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It doesn't matter much I suppose. I'm living one of those, "goodness, my child knows my tech equipment better than I" moments. No doubt to be followed by many more. (Leo's now a master of Skype, on computer and phone...)</div>
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But
how wonderful to have a child with such an eye. T'is not the first time
he has excitedly joined me on a photo expedition. He too was in awe of
the mist floating upon the Rhone and the bridge just barely in view
through the haze. 'A<a href="http://ican-in-avignon.blogspot.com/2010/11/foggy-morning-in-avignon.html"> Foggy Morning on the Rhone</a>'<br />
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<br />Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3577123711543704044.post-12034344463823836842011-10-05T22:10:00.002+02:002011-10-05T22:10:23.647+02:00Images from the Lubéron<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3577123711543704044.post-61541008005119100952011-10-05T21:59:00.001+02:002011-10-05T22:00:59.261+02:00At the Baker's<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
I've been visiting my baker quite frequently this year. He truly is a favorite stop -- for the coffee (i.e. rocket fuel) for the chat about family, life, politics, the weather, for nibbles, picnic supplies and simply to watch and learn. </div>
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One of the baker's specialties is Fougasse (I wrote a <a href="http://american-in-avignon.blogspot.com/2009/10/fougasse-of-provence.html">post</a> on this a while back and included recipes). Here I put a super short video. I'll try to do a longer one next visit, including all the cuts as the baker makes them. It's definitely an interesting pastry recipe to adapt for your next party. </div>
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<br />Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3577123711543704044.post-53483467378022872982011-10-02T15:51:00.002+02:002011-10-02T15:51:22.597+02:00Reflections for the Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3577123711543704044.post-32747966338143138612011-10-02T15:42:00.000+02:002011-10-02T15:42:32.111+02:00Questions and Conversations with LeoThe other day Leo (now 14 plus, tall, shaving, with serious physical presence) asked me what I'd most appreciated about the men I've dated/lived with/married. I'm not sure exactly where this came from. Perhaps brought about by my extolling the pleasure I took in seeing an old friend from university the other day, in being with someone who's loved me (as a friend) for over 20 years? How restful and wonderful it made me feel. I who seem to be so often in the opposite situation of being with people who are in their initial experience of me, judging, observing, wondering, discovering, etc.,<br />
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Or, more likely, Leo is simply growing up and considering what it is to be in a relationship and what a woman (me being the archetype of such for him) looks for, loves, wants in a man. We've discussed this before, but here we were getting quite specific.<br />
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So, first there was the serious university and early adult relationship I had. What did we have together? well, intellectual equality, the same age, a great friendship, we could truly count on each other, a very powerful bond and attraction. What didn't work? Numerous friends who didn't like us being together, and for some odd reason, the feeling that we weren't really more as a couple then we were individually. [Leo got a bit hung up on one detail -- as this person worked at Microsoft and had stock options, etc., Leo thinks that if we'd stayed together I'd be rich now. That this isn't something that came into play for me then or now is hard for Leo to understand. But yes, I get it that he'd like us to be better off.]<br />
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Next up, my kids' father: On the plus side, a great partner for creating two businesses and putting two children on this earth. I became more, and learned more alongside him; I tapped talents in myself that I'd been completely unaware of. We complemented each other and balanced each other, for a time. I'll not go into the negative here. Suffice to say, we still get along very very well, but being married to each other was/is no longer viable.<br />
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And then my vintner: A powerful attraction, much to learn, the chance to be truly female again. Negatives - his age, his inflexibility, our being out of sync on many levels (i.e. raising and caring for kids!!).<br />
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And currently, a lovely man with whom I dance the tango very well, who is an attentive and invested father to his boys and who has a great sense of humor. That we're close in age and on the same track raising kids is a major plus. The hard parts? physical distance, busy schedules, not a lot of time together, and I'm still alone raising my boys (which is something I've more or less accepted at this point).<br />
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And so, with this list Leo asked me, if you put all the good elements together would that make the perfect man for you? Um, yes, are you going to put an ad out for me? Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3577123711543704044.post-7639705238049032962011-10-02T15:27:00.000+02:002011-10-02T15:27:07.398+02:00A Quiet Sunday at Home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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T'is rare to have a quiet Sunday this time of year. I often feel that the fall is the most intense and stressful part of my year. In the spring, the new warmth and light bring energy aplenty, and I start juggling touring days with my kids' activities and school. I weed the garden and plant. I certainly keep busy. But the excitement of spring plus the rest and calm of late winter bouy me forth.<br />
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Fall however is my busiest moment of the year. School starts up again. Activities must be scheduled and put into place. New arrivals are to be welcomed and integrated into our family. The house is put back in order after the summer rentals. And, to top it off, it is the time of the year that I've seemingly non-stop tours. I'm grateful for the work, don't get me wrong. But it does require some expert juggling, and infinite levels of energy to care for all concerned, and not have a house that's a wreck, an empty cupboard, nor children stranded at school till all hours. Oh yes, and happy clients.<br />
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And so, a short and quiet day (I've a concert tonight with my choir) is a true delight. The kids are with their father, the weather is spectacular, and I've the time to care for our chickens (we've three since last March), sweep out their house and lay fresh straw, change their water, give them grain and soaked stale bread, plus some time pecking and scratching in the garden.<br />
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Filou is now a chicken herder. From his experience herding terribly pregnant goats (a while back now...) to today's mini-escapade, it seems that his Bichon/Poodle roots have some herding instincts in there somewhere. In any case, my chickens were not allowed to amble out of the garden too far before he dashed over to them and barked/ran them back to their pen. I was at first afraid he might go after them in earnest, and then realized that in fact, they were flocking to the safety of their pen, not into his jaws. Oh... interesting, and I suppose rather helpful.<br />
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A while back I wrote about the building of the hen house (in exchange for a tango weekend with a dear friend). But as I didn't write much last year (or at all?) I haven't shared our joy in having 3 fresh eggs daily for the past six months. And, not only for ourselves but also for my summer renters who arrived to a note on the fridge<br />
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"There are 3 chickens in the back of the garden, please give them your scraps and left overs, with some grain and stale bread from the shed. Change their water once in the week, and they'll pay you back with many fresh eggs"<br />
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They've been a hit with us all.<br />
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All summer I've proudly shared my favorite lunch - a fresh fried egg on my toasted multi-grain bread with fresh tomatoes from the garden, drizzled over with the olive oil from Paul Pierre (retired goat cheese maker). And I enjoy it still as the tomatoes continue to ripen and enliven my cuisine, and the eggs keep a'coming.<br />
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This weekend's bounty includes a bowl full of ripe tomatoes, a couple loaves of my no-knead multi-grain bread, and a batch of raspberry muffins. The recipe for the latter is below:<br />
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A variation of one of my standards:<br />
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3 cups semi-whole wheat flour<br />
1 cup non-bleached sugar<br />
1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda<br />
1 teaspoon vanilla<br />
1/2 teaspoon salt<br />
2 cups plus turned raw milk (this can be replaced with yogurt) or enough to fully moisten the dry ingredients<br />
2 eggs (mine are pretty small, so maybe just one large egg)<br />
1/3 cup cold-pressed sunflower oil<br />
a handful or more of summer raspberries (kept in the freezer for just this purpose)<br />
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Bake at 200/400 till puffed up and lightly browned. (about 15-20 minutes depending on your oven)<br />
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Remove from the oven, let cool, and warn the kids to not burn their tongues on the raspberries!Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3577123711543704044.post-43652290093435266462011-10-02T14:59:00.003+02:002011-10-02T14:59:40.592+02:00A September Moonrise over Silence's Péniche<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3577123711543704044.post-42012108585835334682011-10-02T14:57:00.000+02:002011-10-02T15:28:21.815+02:00A Sunrise at Châteauneuf-du-Pape<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Now how many schools do you know of that put a sunrise at Châteauneuf-du-Pape with singing, a breakfast picnic and a 4 hour hike following it on the program?<br />
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For the Saint's day (St. Michel), end of summer, beginning of fall, the 6th, 7th, and 8th graders (about 100 in all) plus many parents, all the teachers (including sports teacher and woodworking teacher) from our Rudolf Steiner/Waldorf school gathered together at 7:15 in the morning atop the hill-town of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, of gorgeous wine fame, beside the ruins of the old château.<br />
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For this event many of us juggled and exchanged kids -- Jonas went to my girlfriend's house and I took her two 8th graders, plus my two (Leo and Vivien, this year's host-child). Early to bed the night before and early to rise (6AM), we were in the car at 6:30 to meet at the school and pick up 3 more (remember, I've a 9 seater vehicle) and off we went to our destination.<br />
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It was truly magical. My photos I trust capture a bit of this. Once all victuals were shared, we headed off down through the cobbled streets, to the vineyards below, following the Rhône, then the branch between Ile de l'Oiselay and the river's edge (note, the winery <a href="http://american-in-avignon.blogspot.com/2010/09/living-dream-in-provence.html">Mas de La Lionne </a>run by my fellow American, mentioned in an earlier blog post is here), over hill and dale, through the village center of Sorgues, to school in time for lunch.<br />
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Along the way I made the acquaintance of two new mothers to Leo's class, chatted with his teacher about Leo and Vivien, berated and nudged and tugged at some slow-pokes pulling up the rear, threatened to remove some ipods, mp3-players, etc., (no, the Waldorf world is not perfect, we too have issues with these items), and reveled in the extraordinary Indian Summer weather we're experiencing this year in Provence.<br />
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My chat with Leo's teacher was lovely and reassuring - he finds Leo more serious and present in class this year. Truly contributing to the energy of what is now a class of 30 pre-teens, scowling when others disrupt, etc., We also discussed Leo's physical size and presence -- he is the tallest of the class, and not whippet thin, nor in any way heavy. But he has physical strength and power that is unique in his class. His best friends are often smaller, lighter kids, including Vivien who is half his size, and very much his equal as he teases, provokes, and plays with the gentle giant that Leo is becoming. I at times worry that Leo, of a very reactive and sensitive temperament, might accidentally harm one of his friends as he lashes out, chases down, man-handles to the ground, etc., In a later discussion, Vivien reassured me that he is in no way afraid of Leo's power, and feels quite confident that Leo is master of it, and would not hurt him. This from a lad that I find often beneath Leo, head held in an elbow/arm grip that has me more than a bit anxious. However, I am witness to the provocation that has brought forth this wrestling hold, and thus restrain from criticizing. Though I remind Leo to be careful, and aware of his size and force.<br />
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I am finding it both wonderful and frightening to be a sole parent to my teen son. His father is in the background, yes, but I am the educator, the disciplinarian, the one who sets the limits and exacts certain behavior. I am the one drawing him towards responsibility, self-awareness, work, pride of skill and ability. I am the one pushing and tugging and urging.<br />
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He is stronger and taller than me now. And there are moments when it is just, well, a battle of wills. For the moment, it is working (as I see it). We have our tits -- the battle of the carrots was one the other night. To a refrain of "I just don't want them" (reminiscent of "I just don't like doing dishes") I simply insisted (remembering my horse-whisperer and her instructions to just repeat, insist, and keep the tone of voice calm). Amazingly, after quite a bit of urging, and more than a smidgen of uncertainty (hidden) on my part, I won the battle. Phew! Such a minor concern, and yet, I am still Mother. I am still the one who commands.<br />
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And then we've our morning battles -- ah yes, getting up in the morning... For me it comes down to respect for the rest of the household and for me in particular (he has often told me that he gets up with alacrity and good spirits at his father's, at friends' houses...). And, nothing gets me hot and bothered and distracted more than needing to call after him every 5 minutes from 7:30 to 7:50 every darn day. I forget things, I leave the house half-dressed and in a foul humor... and then I pummel him verbally in the car as we drive to school, begging for more effort on his part, less selfishness, and to somehow get through his head that mornings are tough on all of us, and we must do our part, no matter the overwhelming desire to stay in bed under warm covers...<br />
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I've now new weapons of coercion. Be this for good or ill, I have passed to Leo my old computer and my first Iphone. His time on these is limited, as is the content he is allowed to have on them. (i.e. for the latter, just music, skype, facebook and phone numbers, no games). His computer is reserved for the weekends and Wednesday evenings (mostly). This is working, sort of. There are moments of abuse. I'm doing a lot of hiding these objects around the house when I know I'll be out for the evening and he'll be here. He's becoming (with Jonas' help) adept at finding my hiding places (as my siblings and I were adept at finding my mother's hidden stashes of cookies/brownies/ etc., in the kitchen of my childhood). But at least, I at last have something that I can clearly remove from him when things get out of hand, and give back when behavior has improved.<br />
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Oh, the complications of raising a 14 year old. He is so sweet, and so stubborn. So interested in others, and so self-involved. More on this later.<br />
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<br />Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3577123711543704044.post-10155344687458532552011-09-26T15:25:00.005+02:002011-09-27T08:31:55.420+02:00Marseille and neighboring ports<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qNdXYArA-Lk/ToB_s68DH5I/AAAAAAAACjw/caKSll0z5GI/s1600/IMG_0049.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656661541689434002" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qNdXYArA-Lk/ToB_s68DH5I/AAAAAAAACjw/caKSll0z5GI/s400/IMG_0049.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a><br />
Marseille seems to be, as they say here, <span style="font-style: italic;">un incontournable</span>. And yet I don't know it as well as I ought. Happily, I've friends who do and with whom I'll be exploring it further. <br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9ynbyQLv7-Q/ToB-nuxHe8I/AAAAAAAACjQ/2BfZe-vcJ48/s1600/IMG_0044.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656660353011383234" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9ynbyQLv7-Q/ToB-nuxHe8I/AAAAAAAACjQ/2BfZe-vcJ48/s400/IMG_0044.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
In the meantime, simply learning how to avoid horrible traffic jams is a serious trick to be mastered. Getting off the highway at Estaques and not in anyway being persuaded to go back up to the viaduct, no matter the many signs directing you to the View Port in this way, are key to the game.<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UqvZrXIZ1DY/ToB-nRB_K1I/AAAAAAAACjI/vHJJVvXBy5c/s1600/IMG_0043.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656660345029077842" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UqvZrXIZ1DY/ToB-nRB_K1I/AAAAAAAACjI/vHJJVvXBy5c/s400/IMG_0043.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
And, if going that way, best to perhaps not be there on a major international market day. Ah well. No one's perfect. Should this happen, and traffic be beastly, parking non-existent, you can always just keep on going, past the Vieux Port, past La Corniche, past the statue of David (yes) to the East to the fishing villages nestled in the Callanques but 20 minutes out of Marseille. Magical little spots that are unexpected, minimally visited, and where you'll be served a very good Bouillabaisse at a price that won't be startling or painful.<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Bf8wFawfooo/ToB-nK2yaII/AAAAAAAACjA/YYfuWTKj4Ow/s1600/IMG_0041.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656660343371491458" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Bf8wFawfooo/ToB-nK2yaII/AAAAAAAACjA/YYfuWTKj4Ow/s400/IMG_0041.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
Erick took me to these little villages oh so long ago. We brought along Carrie, our first au pair. I've a photo of Leo walking naked into the water from the boat slip that I believe my father's wife took. I've memories of Jonas not nursing my garlic-infested breast milk when we visited with a group of Canadians in February... <br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-idjUmC9rb5E/ToB-oOcV8LI/AAAAAAAACjY/txeSewzKSjY/s1600/IMG_0045.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656660361514184882" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-idjUmC9rb5E/ToB-oOcV8LI/AAAAAAAACjY/txeSewzKSjY/s400/IMG_0045.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
It had been years since I'd been out to these magical sites. Perhaps the last time was with a young woman who'd just lost her pocket book, wallet and everything. We'd brought her to the American Consulate in Marseille to get a new passport, and had to wait till the afternoon to pick it up. So we headed out to Callelongues for lunch.<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sLSs-LwjWuQ/ToB_smdrmQI/AAAAAAAACjo/vO31VUgFbjU/s1600/IMG_0047.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656661536193353986" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sLSs-LwjWuQ/ToB_smdrmQI/AAAAAAAACjo/vO31VUgFbjU/s400/IMG_0047.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
Every time I see the rickety shacks on the steep rock face I yearn to live in one, hidden from the world for a week, a month, a season, and write. What will I write? I don't know as yet. But somehow, being by this extraordinary blue turquoise sea, these rocks that lead to yet un-chartered (by me) hikes, with the simplest of restaurants beside nestled in this tiny village... I am inspired.<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1YRRUklTQ6g/ToB_sWKOSVI/AAAAAAAACjg/nsBrPrO4Pos/s1600/IMG_0046.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656661531816773970" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1YRRUklTQ6g/ToB_sWKOSVI/AAAAAAAACjg/nsBrPrO4Pos/s400/IMG_0046.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a>Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3577123711543704044.post-8221103198030505682011-09-26T13:40:00.006+02:002011-09-26T15:25:06.049+02:00Visiting my Saint<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SuA6h4c4nJU/ToB7nvMtH3I/AAAAAAAACiw/-yHUYU7JKMs/s1600/IMG_0030.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SuA6h4c4nJU/ToB7nvMtH3I/AAAAAAAACiw/-yHUYU7JKMs/s400/IMG_0030.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656657054592212850" /></a><br />There was a convergence of circumstances that brought me to the Grotto of Marie Madeleine in Ste. Baume. <br /><br />Friends from the US and FP (Feminine Power) came visiting on a pilgrimage tour. They'd been to the grotto the morning before our dinner and were brimming with the rich spiritual moments they'd spent there.<br /><br />And then new clients expressed a desire to go there, to find calm, nurturing, spiritual healing.<br /><br />I expressed that I would be up for taking them there, but that it would be rather 'the blind leading the blind' as I did not know it well. They leaped at this option, and so I spent my time on the internet researching and most of all assuring myself of the route there, the distance, strange curves, time, etc.,<br /><br />Happily I'd printed all this out as my IPhone, a gift from a friend in the US, has yet to figure out that I'm living in Europe and doesn't really want to place me here. As such, it is nearly useless on the map app. Ah well, perhaps it simply wasn't a moment for cutting edge technology.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yA9GpGrcjZ8/ToB5ryPra0I/AAAAAAAACiQ/3KJxb8etve0/s1600/IMG_0022.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yA9GpGrcjZ8/ToB5ryPra0I/AAAAAAAACiQ/3KJxb8etve0/s400/IMG_0022.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656654925106211650" /></a><br />We drove out onto the highway heading East. Beyond Aix we left the fast and furious pace of those on their way to Nice and Italy beyond, and shifted to smaller roads bringing us to Ste. Baume. From there we headed out into the hills, winding, climbing, and squirriling about till we reached Plan d'Aups Ste. Baume where the Dominicans had rebuilt the Hôtellerie by the side of the road, where the path commenced. From here as well commenced the Chemin des Rois through the untouched woods. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jRQ7__aYY4I/ToB5rQZOjDI/AAAAAAAACiI/1V3zcxPbdhI/s1600/IMG_0020.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jRQ7__aYY4I/ToB5rQZOjDI/AAAAAAAACiI/1V3zcxPbdhI/s400/IMG_0020.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656654916019457074" /></a><br />It is a relatively easy hike, through these virgin Provencal woods up to the grotto. Approximately 45 minutes for an average walker. It does get steep at places, and there are beautifully arranged stone stairwells to make the way easier on the ham strings.<br /><br />Once directly below the grotto, any pretense of untouched anything peels away and you find yourself before classically cut stone steps, images of a Dominican monk signalling silence, an impressive facade, and inside, an elegant carved stone alter.<br /><br />Though the grotto was completely desecrated and vandalized during the French Revolution -- thus preventing us from seeing what the kings from Charles II of Anjou through to Louis the XIV gifted to this most popular Christian pilgrimage site through the ages. However, since its reopening and restoration, there are now four impressive likenesses of Marie in marble to be admired and prayed to.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8sUNhZCzWP8/ToB7nGwMYbI/AAAAAAAACio/RkRCMshg3v8/s1600/IMG_0027.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8sUNhZCzWP8/ToB7nGwMYbI/AAAAAAAACio/RkRCMshg3v8/s400/IMG_0027.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656657043735208370" /></a><br />And so we lit our candles, prayed and gave thanks, listened to the dripping in this moist space, shared the silence with fellow pilgrims and went back out into the fierce light of a Mistral-blown day. <br /><br />Cold and in need of a little something, we tucked into the <span style="font-style:italic;">abris des pélerins</span>, helping ourselves to a bit of hot cocoa and coffee, and an extremely pleasant chat with a local priest from Estaques, a village to the West of Marseille.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y1_43cvlKFk/ToB7n5EkMaI/AAAAAAAACi4/e2q0v6PWCOE/s1600/IMG_0029.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y1_43cvlKFk/ToB7n5EkMaI/AAAAAAAACi4/e2q0v6PWCOE/s400/IMG_0029.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656657057242427810" /></a><br />From our hill-side perch we climbed back down and headed through the hills to the quite magnificent Basilique de la Madeleine in St Maximin. Here, the Dominicans went quite a bit further. Here the relics of Marie Madeleine are kept in the crypt (her thumb-printed cranium, the print being from Jesus when he bayed her rise), and here you can feel the imposing importance of herself and St Maximin, both put in the barque without oars by the Romans, twenty some years after Christ's crucifixion, and landing in the Camargue with Marie Salome, Marie Jacobi and Marie Sara. From there they dispersed each to his/her corner of Provence, here to live out the end of their lives.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1iEb6ugTniU/ToB7mxW8EfI/AAAAAAAACig/IOv2trDD63c/s1600/IMG_0026.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1iEb6ugTniU/ToB7mxW8EfI/AAAAAAAACig/IOv2trDD63c/s400/IMG_0026.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656657037992137202" /></a><br />The local tale says that it is in the grotto of Ste. Baume that Marie Madeleine lived her final years, and it was as she was descending the path that she died. The angels came to lift her body and bring it to St Maximin where it was interred with respect and adoration. When Roman civilization came to an end and the Visigoths came south in the 5th century, the remains of Marie Madeleine and St. Maximum were buried beneath the basilica, hidden from view. Charles II of Anjou, Comte de Provence, in the 13th century disinterred them and brought them back to light, initiating centuries of devotion and pilgrimages.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-L9VNGeK_IFU/ToB5sJ2AC7I/AAAAAAAACiY/b5silTmQ7mc/s1600/IMG_0023.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-L9VNGeK_IFU/ToB5sJ2AC7I/AAAAAAAACiY/b5silTmQ7mc/s400/IMG_0023.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656654931440962482" /></a>Madeleine Vedelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01349993969117086489noreply@blogger.com0