An American in Avignon

Un joli coin ou la verdure est à toujours présente

2011-10-23T22:53:00.000+02:00

A Chocolate Class

2011-10-23T22:35:00.000+02:00

How a Fougasse is Cut

2011-10-23T22:11:00.000+02:00

A Walk Through a Park in Springtime.

2011-10-16T14:49:00.002+02:00

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.

Ah, there she saw me. And poof, she disappeared.

Fresh Goat's Milk for my Coffee

2011-10-15T23:19:00.000+02:00

Foamy and scrumptious. Mmmm.

A Captured Moon

2011-10-15T23:12:00.000+02:00

Jonas loves to take the camera from my hands. 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?

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...)

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 Foggy Morning on the Rhone'

Images from the Lubéron

2011-10-05T22:10:00.002+02:00

At the Baker's

2011-10-05T21:59:00.001+02:00

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.

One of the baker's specialties is Fougasse (I wrote a post 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.

Reflections for the Day

2011-10-02T15:51:00.002+02:00

Questions and Conversations with Leo

2011-10-02T15:42:00.000+02:00

The 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.,

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.

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.]

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.

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!!).

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).

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?

A Quiet Sunday at Home

2011-10-02T15:27:00.000+02:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

"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"

They've been a hit with us all.

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.

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:

A variation of one of my standards:

3 cups semi-whole wheat flour
1 cup non-bleached sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 cups plus turned raw milk (this can be replaced with yogurt) or enough to fully moisten the dry ingredients
2 eggs (mine are pretty small, so maybe just one large egg)
1/3 cup cold-pressed sunflower oil
a handful or more of summer raspberries (kept in the freezer for just this purpose)

Bake at 200/400 till puffed up and lightly browned. (about 15-20 minutes depending on your oven)

Remove from the oven, let cool, and warn the kids to not burn their tongues on the raspberries!

A September Moonrise over Silence's Péniche

2011-10-02T14:59:00.003+02:00

A Sunrise at Châteauneuf-du-Pape

2011-10-02T14:57:00.000+02:00

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?

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.

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.

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 Mas de La Lionne 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

Marseille and neighboring ports

2011-09-26T15:25:00.005+02:00

Marseille seems to be, as they say here, un incontournable. 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.

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

Visiting my Saint

2011-09-26T13:40:00.006+02:00

There was a convergence of circumstances that brought me to the Grotto of Marie Madeleine in Ste. Baume.

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.

And then new clients expressed a desire to go there, to find calm, nurturing, spiritual healing.

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.,

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Cold and in need of a little something, we tucked into the abris des pélerins, 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.

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.

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.

A word to explain my absence

2011-09-26T13:36:00.002+02:00

T'is been a busy year. Somehow, somewhere, I trailed off and simply stopped writing. I wouldn't call it a writer's block in the true sense, more a time for meditation, reflection, and discretion (or the discovery of such). I am not naturally discrete, and I do benefit hugely from meditating and reflecting. As such, I've simply had more quiet moments, held my own counsel, and cultivated mon jardin secret, as we say here.

But I do like to share, and perhaps with a slightly different voice, perhaps less intently and frequently, I will continue to do so.

Thank you for following me.

It's baby goat time.

2011-03-12T22:38:00.003+01:00

A study in spring

2011-03-09T17:46:00.002+01:00

Three boys at work

2011-03-09T17:43:00.001+01:00

When climbing trees, occasionally one wants a ladder, so, you make it.

Translating for a Cause

2011-02-14T22:19:00.004+01:00

Through a friend I was contacted to interpret for the FAITES SANS OGM festival in Le Thor. I said yes, put aside the dates, and went about my life. Then I looked again and said oops, who is that? oh yes. That's why I'm busy this weekend.

I managed to re-ignite the contact and confirm times, payment (what they could afford) and place, etc.,

And off I went on Sunday -- they were set on Saturday apparently.

And what a delightful experience! I was there interpreting during the speeches of Percy Schmeiser (the Canadian farmer who had such a terrible experience being sued by Monsanto for theft of their patented canola plants, which had arrived by the wind from his neighbor's land! -- though in the end he won the battle) and Vandana Shiva, the mother of all seed preservers in India.

These two have worked for years to combat the ever creeping presence and power of Monsanto and the world of genetically modified seeds. They have worked to preserve the ancient varieties of seeds and the ancient ways of farmers. They have stressed and explained why organic and traditional methods get the best yields, nourish the land and feed families and communities. They have spoken at the International Monetary Fund, the UN and far and wide dispelling the myths propagated by Monsanto as to yields (far below what was predicted so confidently) use of toxic pesticides (far over what was predicted) and the reality of organic agriculture.

These two 'grosses pointures' as we say here (super VIP) were joined by their Mexican colleague (for whom I did not translate, but who was splendid and fascinating), Ana De Ita who has been defending the varieties and bio-diversity of the local corns of Mexico against the infiltration (illegal during a moratorium banning OGM corn!) of Monsanto's GMO corn into Mexico.

I had a grand time, learned oodles, and managed to convince the conference operators that they should hire skilled translators more often. It is a truism that many many people speak English in France. But, sadly, this does not always mean they can retain information in their heads for a few minutes, and repeat it in coherent sentences for the audience to follow. Nor is a basically good vocabulary always sufficient. And, well, just take a look at many a translated menu...

All this to say, I will be keeping in touch with this group and am likely to work with them again.

What's ironic is that I actually knew a handful of the actors in this festival -- from the attaché for the Green Party in the mayor's office of Le Thor (from Tango) to two of the volunteers and adherents to Folle'Avoine, the non-profit that helped put this festival together (also from Tango), to one of the civil representatives for the safety of humanity (from the Steiner School), to a number of faces from the Conféderation Paysanne (from my years as companion to an organic vintner).

And yet the job offer came via a friend in Avignon (thank you my dear!) not at all from these numerous individuals who've seen me regularly in the past few years. Apparently, I have not been particularly open or demonstrative as to my interpreting skills... or they're all simply so accustomed to communicating with me in French that they forget that I'm fully bi-lingual?

Ah yes, I've neglected to say that the day finished at a wonderful tango spot, and shoes in hand, I danced a lovely bit before heading home to my kids, my normal life, and an early morning the next day.

I'm rather in awe at how many aspects of my life came together on this day: Steiner school, tango, nutrition/organic agriculture/life-style, translating skills (including simultaneous), and my accumulation of knowledge on this topic (thank you Michael Pollan!, OCA newsletters and more!).

A special place not far away

2011-02-14T22:01:00.002+01:00

A special day, a quiet day, a day of discoveries in my own back yard. Time to wander, explore, experience, be. For once not running, for once not doing a thousand errands, for once not talking a mile a minute, for once...

And beauty appears, startles, enriches. A private and most special moment.

Time?

2011-02-09T22:10:00.002+01:00

As you might have noticed, I'm having a difficult time finding time. I seem to have mislaid it somewhere (or is it mislayn?). Yes, I'm feeling busy, and when I'm not busy I'm feeling like nourishing myself with yoga or a meditation or a walk, or with being active putting the house in order, clearing away dust and debris, pruning the garden.

Yes, the garden is calling to me. Hark, the sun is out, the wind is away, come and play! And so the old tomato plants are at last removed and in the compost. The garlic cloves are planted. The rose bushes are pruned, ditto the cherry tree (very judiciously). The bits and pieces blown about the yard by the many days of Mistral this winter have been raked away. And I'm thinking, I need chickens! It's time!

So, when to find that moment to head over to Cavaillon where they sell chickens? or do I go down to the Arles' market? or do I order them over the internet? Friends with chickens don't have any for me at the moment, unfortunately.

I'm feeling that spring fever.

I've already sort-of Feng Shuied a couple corners of the house (got to keep those money and relationship corners clear and receptive, right?), gone through clothes, shoes, Jonas' kids' books, old games, etc.,

All aswirl, when I'm not being calm and centered and chilling out that is.

And it's only mid-February! Mmmmm

a lone rower

2011-02-09T21:57:00.002+01:00

Calm reigns

2011-02-09T21:56:00.002+01:00

And then there are the evening walks

2011-02-09T21:53:00.004+01:00

Brisk evening walks in chilly but bright weather, and a gift, light, colors and more. Nearly alone (but for the lone runner, dashing away quickly from Filou's protective barking and, ahem, tendency to chase them) I take it in. Beyond meditative, it's spiritual.

A Winter Sunrise

2011-02-09T21:50:00.001+01:00

Somtimes getting up early to bring your kids to school has its advantages, like when Nature decides to be splendid.

Gardening?

2011-02-02T22:23:00.003+01:00

I think this is one of those moments when serious gardeners prepare their land and get to work. But when I listen to that wind whistling outside my windows, as I sit huddled in three sweaters beside my wood stove, as I sip my hot tea and read or write or... I'm in complete disbelief.

Yes, I should perhaps be out there tearing up last summer's tomato plants, plowing back under the remains of roots and weeds (or tearing them out), and who knows, maybe I've even some potatoes that survived the winter freeze (shows what I know, or not, of how potatoes work, hm?).

I read that this is the time to plant garlic and onions. Hm, nice idea. Ditto the time to lay out manure and compost and enrich the soil. Ahh, yes, I could give my goat cheese maker a call and see if there is more nicely aged goat turds I might receive.

Late November I planted Mâche leaves -- still looking good and still giving me a few dozen leaves for my salads -- and broccoli. This latter is basically a once a month (if that) source of kale leaves for a sir fry. I've 10 plants, and not a one looks particularly interesting or substantial enough to harvest. I wonder if and/or when this shall be? Or maybe I should be watering them more?

I simply have to confess that when the weather is nasty, I turn inside. I forget I have a yard (it's out back in any case). I only go out to get wood off the terrace for my stove. All my laundry is hung on the rack in my bathroom. I don't have chickens as yet to populate my chicken coop, and I manage to delegate nearly all trips to the compost pile.

A fair weather gardener? I'm afraid so. No doubt, if and when we truly have a gorgeous day, and I'm not galavanting about, or teaching, or correcting tests, or shopping, or cleaning the house, or getting the car fixed, or making muffins, or writing a short story... I'll be out there digging, raking, cleaning, and putting order to my small patch of brown and green. Truly.

A new constellation of children

2011-01-30T22:50:00.002+01:00

Well, the year is half-way over, or just begun. It depends on how you look at it. And my house is filling again with teens and pre-teens. From one sad child this fall with suicidal tendencies (she's now elsewhere, which I must say is rather a relief -- I was out of my league with her), I'm now the happy receiver/care-taker for three well-adjusted and pleasant young folk. The first was expected -- a 16 year old exchange student from Switzerland who's already spent 6 months in New Zealand, and is now getting her French up to speed. Joining her relatively quickly with the New Year is a young boy Leo's age, now in his class, part Belgian, part Dutch, and not a little dyslexic, but quite polite and friendly. And, the surprise, a friend of my 'suissesse' who was unhappily lodged with a different family in the school.

Apparently, the deciding factor is my somewhat abundant and generous welcome. The girls find me warm, funny, easy to be with, and my boys interesting company (particularly Jonas these days who is turning into quite the sociable and entertaining 9 year old). The house is comfortable, I'm not far from Avignon, I've yoga cds to borrow (plus yoga mats), my home-made bread is a hit (as are the cereal bars). The girls like my cooking -- a bit more adventuresome with them here: green lentils with bacon, swiss chard, onions and a pinch of cloves, diced root vegetable soup with Chinese noodles, cast iron stove baked sweet potatoes and sausages, twice baked mashed potatoes, home-made gnocchi... Yup. I do enjoy feeding a small horde. And, appreciation is what all cooks need, something my two boys are quick to give me for brownies and chocolate muffins, but less often for lentils.

With the weekdays filled with prep and corrections for my class I've less time at home to garden, clean, cook, bake (t'is been a long time since my last batch of muffins! then again, the stash of Swiss chocolates we had to get through after Christmas dissuaded me from the need for more sweets for quite some time). There's nothing like being a new teacher -- I'm paid for the 16 hours I teach, but I put in 2-3 hours before every class. This is not a complaint as I am fully aware that this is the classic ratio, particularly for someone as green as I. But on top of this are the weekly meetings with colleagues and students and... Ah well, what's a few hours in the day? At least till the tourism season kicks back in, I've the time and energy to devote to my charges, both at home and in class.

Teaching Evolves

2011-01-30T21:56:00.003+01:00

As they say, you learn as much from your students (and at times more) than you are able to teach them. Gone are such thoughts of O'Henry or Edgar Allen Poe, enter Harry Potter and Soprano's new song about the Japanese time traveler Hiro. But enter as well Martin Luther King's speech I Have a Dream (which they all found on the net in translation and handed in with nary a spelling nor translation error to be found... impressive eh?). This bit of translating cheating did however enable them to follow the spoken text (on my Iphone and played on my portable speakers) remarkably well, and they adored his Southern accented, "Dooooowwwwwn in Mississippi...", not to mention my rendition a capella of My Country T'is of Thee. Thankfully I've a decent singing voice.

I've learned my lessons: don't give a popular English song to them to translate as homework, only on a test. As in the first situation, they are all smart enough (and only 3 of the 18 honest enough to resist) to copy it off a professional translation web site. However, a popular and brand new French song (as mentioned above) is a definite hit, and a remarkable way to work on the Past Conditional -- If I had had I would have... etc.,

So, taking this new information into account, I thought I'd throw another American accent at them, and another well-spoken speech, the last 6 minutes of the 1961 John F Kennedy Inaugural Address. And I told them that it would be easy to find on the net, so go and read it in translation, absorb it a bit, and I will play it for them with the English in front of them tomorrow as a bit of Listening Comprehension practice.

In place of Edgar Allen Poe's Raven/Nevermore, I've given them the far shorter text of Invictus -- a favorite poem of Nelson Mandela, and the source of his biopic movie's title. Great fun getting them to work their tongues around 'Unconquerable' and 'bludgeoning'.

I'm not the kind of teacher who puts a thousand 'mots dans leur carnet'-- a discipline technique for our school. Generally it is a 'mot dans le carnet' (note to the parents basically) each time they don't do their homework, get out of hand in class, are rude, etc., It's one way to control them. But, I just can't quite glom to this way of disciplining, etc., Rather, I try to speak to their better natures (they are in there somewhere) and question them as to their lack of mutual respect, their inability to hold themselves quiet when another speaks, etc., Where they want to go in their lives, what this education is for, etc., And, I've decided to come down hard on cheating on tests, etc., No excuses, Zeros for both the cheater and the assister. And no, I don't need to argue about proof, etc., I just give them back with their notes, or, I refuse to take a homework that is clearly copied from the Net. Honor Code anyone? Is this such a far-fetched notion?

I've discussed my fierce attitude towards cheating with my colleagues, and they are of mixed minds. I describe the Princeton University Honor Code (you won't cheat and you will turn in anyone you see cheating, signed, agreed to, or out you go, no diploma, no entry onto that hallowed Ivy campus), and I get back looks of shock and horror. That just wouldn't go over here in this world where your class notes are all that count for getting ahead, so do whatever is necessary, and if that is cheating, so be it. Gulp. I come from another planet.

I've started giving work in-class on the so-called easier elements of English that they did poorly on as a whole on the mid-terms. And in this way I've a bit of calm during my two hours Friday afternoon, and I can go to each student to help them with their answers, answer questions, personally advise and be alongside. And when clearly the vocabulary hasn't been learned (quickly seen on the vocab tests) it is now my rule that they take class time (or go into another class for that time) and write the vocab words 4x each -- as clearly they didn't do so at home.

My connections to the individual students are improving. The girls I had difficulties with in the beginning are now warming up to me, and me to them. But I'm losing a couple of the boys -- bright ones too. From frustration, from annoyance that I do not as yet have the perfect quiet class, from boredom. It's not easy. I'm relatively able to handle the class when I do a 'teacher talks and kids listen' session. But, I lose them when I ask them to speak individually, or when I ask for questions about the homework etc., planning on working with their questions for at least 10-15 minutes of the class. Once there is dispersion of any sort, they nearly all (but for perhaps 2 of them?) start talking to their neighbor(s).

And so, I pile on the homework. My thinking is that there is a good half of the class that actually wants to learn (maybe even a bit more) and at least by doing lots of homework, as long as it is useful and interesting, they will absorb some English this year. I'm working to get back the bright kids who are losing interest, going to them individually, checking in, letting them know what I'm seeing and interpreting, encouraging.

Tomorrow will be interesting. I've already given them vocabulary (over the past 2-3 weeks) to learn from the first 4 pages of the first Harry Potter. I've asked them to read 4 more pages, and to underline, list and translate all new words, to show me this list, and to answer some very easy questions whose answers are directly in the text. Thus forcing them to actually read, think, use a dictionary.

Meantime, with Soprano's song, we'll be discussing more English speaking world heroes (Malcome X, Gandhi, Mandela...) and exchanging on cultural issues.

Perhaps, just maybe, I'll succeed in bringing them somewhat up to speed in English this year. I hope so. In the meantime, I received a dear and very earnest compliment from one of my harder-working students, "Madame, merci pour ton courage et ta patience."

The kids are back

2011-01-02T23:20:00.003+01:00

The holidays when you are divorced are always a bit strange. The week from Christmas day till New Year's day I spent either with a girl friend, or alone at home working on the walls of the downstairs' room, or out dancing the tango. More about these last in future posts.

And then, at last, normalcy came back to my house. From quiet, alone time, time for meditation, yoga, listening to Women on the Edge of Evolution tele-series on my ipod, deepening my soul, my understanding of life, eating minimally whatever was within reach... I became a mother again, a head of household, responsible for others besides myself.

The boys are back, gifts in hand, filthy and in need of baths both, filled with more chocolate than a Swiss citizen, in good spirits, content and at ease. They enjoyed their time with their papa, and they're happy to be home. From the little princes that they were for a week, they're back in the world of emptying dishwashers, setting tables, cleaning their rooms, putting away laundry, washing pots, and generally helping out.

But they're also back to Mom who has movie nights in bed on her Macbook. And this week's choices were Al Gore's An Inconvenient Truth and the Lucille Ball version of Mame. And they being my sons, even though Leo's first choice for a film was Bad Boys II (Will Smith et. al.) they totally got into my selections.

Leo was riveted to Al Gore's analysis. Jonas got quite a bit of it, and discussions ensued as to why their Mom has chosen to live so small when friends back in the US have so much and it's such a cool thing to have all that. They learned what a glacier is -- and that they may never see one. They learned about automobiles and emissions, about rising water levels (no Jonas, it isn't equivalent to a huge meteor hitting Earth). They paid attention, particularly Leo, and absorbed what they could. A film to be revisited perhaps next year?

And then Mame, songs and all. Open a window and let the air in, be open-minded, be your own person, live life, accept all challenges with a smile and grace and creativity, find like-minded people, don't be a snob....

I didn't do it on purpose, but I do think I've begun this New Year by sharing with my two children my deepest self, my most profound philosophy, my personal heroes and what makes me tick.

Where to from here?

Winter clouds and landscapes

2010-12-31T12:03:00.001+01:00

Christmas in so many ways

2010-12-31T11:25:00.006+01:00

The season has taken over my head, my heart, my space. It's been a time of decorating the house, bringing Christmas into our visual world. It's been a time of baking and contemplating. But also a time of learning, exchanging querying.

I haven't spent many Christmases in France. Once early on in my marriage, once when Jonas was born (early December), two years' ago shortly after the divorce, and this year. I'm not quite practiced at the act you might say. I don't have my bearings, I'm not an experienced adept. And yet, having lived here for 15 years, few in my circle 'get' that.

So, amidst the joys of the school Christmas market and the marvelous village of gingerbread (aka pain d'épice) in Jonas' class, the presentation of the Jeux de Noel by the teachers in school, the stars folded and created by Jonas and brought home to adorn my windows, the Christmas fairs lit up and delightful in every city, the lights hanging over the roads... I've absorbed some of what happens here.

In my own home I blend traditions -- I've my tree with my collection of ornaments acquired over a lifetime, and my Provençale crêche acquired from my years of touring to the village of Séguret where my favorite santonnier lives. I put candles around the room (the kitchen) and made an advent calendar with a little help from Cultura -- our cultural book/cd/art supply store chain. I made my raspberry chocolate bûche (see the recipe in my blog from exactly this time last year) - an item 'de rigueur' for my children and myself now. I tried to hang stockings by the fire -- I wanted to -- but they didn't arrive in time from NY (they'd been stored at Mom's). I do hope the Post Office hasn't lost them!

This was a year of both joy and melancholy. It is peculiar being a single mom in a country which is almost but not quite yours. I thought I might spend Christmas with the new beau, but in fact, that didn't work out, for many reasons, amongst them a French tradition that deems Christmas an intimate family affair. We'd been seeing each other gently this fall, but there's no declaration of more for the moment, and it is simply not appropriate, done, approved, of blending families for such an event. Ah well.

And so I looked to girl friends. I didn't quite feel up to spending Christmas alone. This being Erick's year, I was able to keep the boys for Christmas Eve, but then passed them to him for this week. And, I realized that here too, this is an intimate family event. And, my status and confusion being a last minute thing... it was a bit of an imposition to bring it up.

However, life is evolution, shifting, gifts, change. My dear friend P had spent Christmas alone last year -- like myself, a divorced mom who gets the kids one year in two. And she open her house, her kitchen, her couch and her family to me and mine. We were invited into the bosom of her world to share Christmas Eve with her and her boys, her new beau and his son and their respective parents. I brought my bûche, my squash recipe (which I'll tack onto the end of this post), my bread and home-made granola, plus some sparkling wine from Domaine D'Eole in Eygalières, one of the organic wineries I've worked with and visited for years.

The boys piled into the boys' room with our extra mattresses and sleeping bags (5 altogether!) and I settled happily onto the couch in the living room, and Filou (yes he was included) slept on the floor by the couch on a nice rag rug (the house cat fled to another room during this time).

We ate, drank, sang a bit, lit candles on the tree and opened presents all on Christmas Eve. The boys played together beautifully and truly enjoyed this different Christmas. We've decided that P and her boys are our cousins in Provence. She is like a sister, close, affectionate, but also honest with me. She is a teacher, a mentor, and a fellow traveler in this life that is not quite like we expected it to be when we were young.

I dropped the boys off with Erick on the 25th, went home for a bath, to check in, and then returned to the warmth of P's home to spend one more night. It just felt lovely to be 'part of' to be included. And, well, she did a splendid job of bringing Christmas to her home.

After all this, what did I truly miss? 24 hour radio stations with Christmas carols, singing in the church with Ma, and a snow storm. Provence is probably the only place this past few weeks that hasn't had snow!

Tian de Potimaron (Baked Squash)

The Squash, the pumpkin, and all its varieties is of course, and import from the new world. But, we have at least 200 years of enjoying this hearty fall vegetable in Provence. The most popular preparations are either in soup/potage or as a gratin or tian. In Provence there are now many different squash available on the market. The most abundant is the Potiron which most resembles a pumpkin, but has a slightly more watery flesh. This grows to quite large proportions and the vegetable sellers sell it by the kilo, in large slices. More rare, but much more flavorful with a meatier flesh is the Potimaron. It can be either orange or green skinned, and is 6-10 inches in diameter, and quite dense, thus heavy in your shopping basket.

Ingredients:

- 1/2 cup olive oil
- 3 slices of bacon cut in 1/4 inch (1cm) short strips
- 2 onions minced
- One 1 1/2 kilo (3 pound) squash peeled, sliced and cut into 3/4 inch (4 cm) cubes
- 2 bay leaves
- 2 garlic cloves crushed and minced
- a couple grates of nutmeg
- salt and pepper as needed
- 3 tablespoons of honey (you can use a strongly flavored honey like chestnut, or garrigues, or a more mild, depending on availability and your preference).

In a large deep frying pan, pour in enough olive oil to cover the bottom, reserving the rest for later. Turn your flame up to medium high, and add the bacon bits and onions. Sautee till the onions are sweated and the bacon cooked. Add the squash and the remaining oil, and sautee over a medium flame, allowing them to lightly brown, for 10-15 minutes. They should start to become tender.

Now remove the squash from the flame, fold in the bay leaves, the minced garlic, and nutmeg. Salt and pepper to taste. Transfer to a baking dish/tian/gratin dish and place in the oven at 400F or 200C. Let bake for 30 minutes, or till tender. When just about done, drizzle the honey over the top, return to the oven and bake for another 10 minutes or till the honey caramelizes.

Self motivation in a young 'Arabe'

2010-12-15T10:05:00.004+01:00

It doesn't take long, once you've arrived and truly begun living in this country, to sense the deep crevice that separates the French French from the immigrant population, majoritarily from North Africa, i.e. the 'Arabes'.

Most slurs, most annoyances, most grievances, most fear towards young people, most accusations for violent crime, fall upon the heads of the young male Arabic population.

Yes, there are sufficient incidents to prove a basis for this belief, though their grievances and reasons for acting out, burning cars, etc., are as numerous, if not more so. There are also as many other individuals who are trying tremendously hard to adapt to French culture, work in school, get ahead, be honest, strive to succeed in this country their parents chose to move to.

However, France is a country lacking in civil rights laws. Americans have these, by necessity and by belief. It is still a fact that people will hire more easily new employees who resemble them, with whom they feel at ease, etc., and thus whether you call it nepotism or simply the freedom to choose, it ends up with a slant towards hiring young white men and women from 'good' backgrounds. Particularly in a country where firing people after a short trial period is quite difficult.

I bring this sensitive topic up as I went to get my IPhone fixed the other day. The screen was smashed and I hoped to be able to replace simply the screen, and not the phone. Orange, who provided me with my phone, would take it from me and charge me a bundle, but that was not my preferred solution, particularly as I do not want to be separated from my phone, nor did I want to pay a hefty bundle.

A friend mentioned an Arab run phone/internet/etc., shop in Avignon. I found it (pretty easy to do) and discovered that the individual who repairs the phones is actually in Le Pontet. They gave me his number, I arranged to go by the next morning and thus get my phone fixed on-site while I waited, rather than leave it over night.

After scoping about a bit -- the shop is not in the easiest to spot place, and only young Arabs have any idea where it is, which I discovered after asking at a magazine store, and the Post Office. I found one such young Arab, the server of a little cafe filled with Arab men, and asked him where I might find Salin to fix my phone. He gave me good directions, told me that the shop has a name - Deblock Phone - and I went on my way.

I was graciously received, my problem solved, and a pleasant half an hour was spent in the presence of a very young man, Salin, who shared his story as a Parisian who upon graduating from high school sought out internships, etc., and was refused point blank at each stop. He had put together his resume/CV as suggested by his guidance counselor, he had been well-dressed, excessively polite, but no go. He became disgusted with the system, and decided to take the situation into his own hands. He is now the main person in our large area (including many villages, and local cities) who repairs a bit of everything, computers included, but most particularly cell phones.

A good situation evolved out of pain and rejection. He is very bright and skilled and thus could create a niche for himself. But, the chip on the shoulder remains. He's successful now, and can hire others to work with him, lease out his talents, etc., And yes, there are others like him who run the internet cafes, long distance phone card sellers, etc., They are working hard, creating businesses that everyone needs, and getting ahead. But, they still feel dismissed by the powers that be.

It's not easy living amidst racism, judgment by your origins, etc., I can see that the demographics are changing, that these young men and women are striking out on their own, adapting to the real conditions of this country and in so doing, learning to their chagrin and pain that the system set up for white French people doesn't always apply to them. I wonder for how much longer we'll hold to these rigid formulas of entering the working world when they only work for a portion of the population?

School - internships - first job(s) - hired for life.

Whether we wish it or no, things will change. Keep watching and reading.

When to be severe? When to take it mellow?

2010-12-15T09:48:00.003+01:00

Mmm it's now been over two weeks that I've been doing my darndest to put some English into the heads of these 17 fifteen year olds. I must say, it's not been easy. A good half the class actually does its homework, tries to be present in class and are pleasant. But there's a good handful that make it excessively hard to keep order and have sufficient calm and silence to teach.

Okay, what are the many methods to get their attention available to me? So far, going silent and waiting for them to get themselves together isn't working as those who don't care, clearly care nothing for their 'friends', i.e. fellow students and even less for eventually speaking English. Okay. That works for the math teacher, but not me. So, there is separating the difficult ones, calling them on their pranks, ejecting them from class, and now, threatening detention for those who've not handed in their homework.

Oh this is not how I wanted to teach. I see that I've a job of bringing the class together as a class. For example, in trying to get them to learn and read aloud the poem Twas the Night Before Christmas -- and to work on the irregular verbs in their past tenses -- they don't hear each other, and they don't listen to me, and thus we are never in sync. This is unusual in a Steiner school where kids have music, poetry, rhythms and group activities from the early years. However, in this class there are only 4 kids who've been in the school from 1st grade. Most are recent arrivals over the past two years. And I feel the difference. I get that for the Steiner kids, learning the poem, saying it aloud, memorizing it and getting to the point of being able to recite it is completely doable. But for the new kids it is an insurmountable mountain. And, they just don't care.

It seems most sad that I need to force them to learn. But I suppose this is the state of many a teacher? I should be grateful, and I am, for the kids in the class who are bright and do all their homework in neat and easy to read handwriting, and try, truly try to learn what I'm conveying to them.

So yes, I am not too proud to ask for help. But I am sad that this help is in the form of teachers who have stronger personalities, and yes, who threaten detention after school hours, notes to the parents, etc., But what to do with apathy and serious attitude? What to do with kids who clearly don't want to be there and who don't care that they're destroying the chances of others to learn? The age of fifteen -- nearly adult? an age to be held responsible, and yet also an age where adult authority and anger can at times sway behavior, or simply provoke it further.

Meantime, I've mostly conveyed the various possibilities of the future tenses -- and suggested they listen to the Black Eyed Peas song Showdown which features the classic phrase "when there is' in the present followed by 'there will' in the future." As the equivalent phrase would be future - future in French, it is just another example of something the kids need to integrate. A rule to memorize.

Getting ready to begin the conditional -- now for this there are oodles of songs, both old standards and new ones, including the French singer Soprano's song about Hiro, that can be used to get the lesson across.

However, I opted, nonetheless, to begin O'Henry's The Gift of the Magi yesterday. We shall see how much I can get through with them, how much they understand, and whether they are willing to do the work.

Onward I go. Stretching, pulling, tugging, nudging, optimism and zen my main states of being.

Teaching English

2010-12-01T15:59:00.005+01:00

For most of my ex-pat life, wherever it has been, I've either had 'normal' jobs, i.e. worked with the locals, or been my own boss. Whereas so many ex-pats go through some period of English teaching in their lives, in seventeen years of living abroad I've mostly managed not to. And this with two professor parents and a professor brother.

I did a short English teaching stint last fall as a desperate effort to earn a bit more during the tourism off-season, but didn't particularly relish the effort of teaching demoralized, depressed and not always particularly bright adults who were out of work. Sorry! I'm not the best of teachers, given a three hour stretch, for encouraging such a 'publique' to learn something they've been told to do but don't truly want to do.

Yet here I am, quite excited about my new activity. It is meagerly remunerated -- as much is at the Steiner school here -- but it is a fun and interesting challenge. I am the new English teacher to the 9th grade class, aka 17 fifteen year olds, at my kids' school. I actually really enjoy adolescents, and at least half the class is quite bright, and though there are a very small handful of seriously not-interested kids, the majority seem eager for me to be there and give them some intellectual nourishment.

I'm filling in for a teacher who left early on maternity leave, and at this time, it's just a 6 month assignment. With the end of May I will return to my tourism activity full-time. And during April and May I will juggle tourism clients in-between the 3 weekly classes I have.

And so, as per my contract, I have an hour Monday, 3/4 hour on Tuesday and 2 hours on Friday of teaching time. They had a good teacher last year, poor teaching the two years prior and a mixed bag before that. In addition, more than half the class has been in the school but one to two years. As such, the Steiner style is still new to them.

I was told I needed to review as much grammar as possible with them, and that I could focus on American Literature and Culture. (Last year was focused on British lit and culture). And so I dug into my brain for ideas of my favorite American authors, remembered what I'd loved reading in 5th grade, considered, checked the internet, ordered books from Amazon... and prepped away.

I've now 5 books of English grammar for foreigners on my desk (I had never taught the préterite before), copies of O Henry and Edgar Allen Poe short stories, and--downloaded from the internet--the complete texts of Lincoln's Gettysburg address , JFK's inaugural address, this latter plus MLK's I have a Dream speech I will play for the kids with my IPhone and speakers.

With tons of prepping, discussing with colleagues to get a reality check, observing my most gifted colleague (a Brit who is truly a fantastic teacher and happily is Leo's English teacher at school. She also makes a mean mince-meat pie!) etc., I went into class Monday afternoon all ready to conquer the hill of "WILL, WON'T, ..."

I was able to present one element of grammar: "I am 30 years old. I will be 31 years old on the 15th of July." Yes, from simple present to simple future. And I discovered that they need revision on numbers, all those "st; nd; th; etc," on our numbers are just completely baffling to these kids. OK, note taken.

I then switched to the poem we're reading and memorizing together, Twas the Night Before Christmas. In good Steiner fashion I put a short bio of the author with it, though the time was too short to discuss him. We played the game of what Christmas and winter words they already know, and then began reading through the poem to recognize words they knew, and then attacked the new vocabulary. We read but two stanzas. But in there you've :'kerchief, snug, nestle, stockings, stirring... Some good words, don't you agree?

Homework -- two short exercises for the grammar, memorize the first 4 lines of the poem, learn the vocab.

Next day -- one child had done his. Ah well, t'is quite likely I spoke too quickly (a tendency of mine) and yes, the class time was pretty much up when I gave them their assignments, etc., So, I said alright. A day of Grace. I accept the possibility of my requests not having been clear. So, here is the work for Friday, let there be no mistake!

And then we started our Tuesday class-- a far more brief 45 minutes, so I was less ambitious. We began by reading the irregular verb past tense list -- yes, boring you might say, but our school's technique is simply to read it aloud every day as if it were a poem, and then over time, they've got them down pat, without the pain and boredom of 10 per night, etc., I put it at the beginning of the class when we're all standing for the 'partie rhythmique', a brilliant element of the Steiner school.

Thus, I will be beginning each class standing and reciting our poem altogether (having them memorize a stanza per class) followed by the verbs, and perhaps I'll get my list of vocab words out and let them sit down one by one as they successfully give the correct answer, and /or speak the lines of the poem from memory as I'd requested for their homework.

I am hugely inspired by my colleague and her bag of tricks -- never let them get bored, every game is a source of learning, keep them present and interested. As such, no individual lesson element goes longer than 10-15 minutes, and there is as much participation and positive reinforcement as I can muster "what words do you know in this paragraph? what words can you hear as I read the poem." and only after we've established what they already know, do we attack the new.

hmmm t'is a very interesting challenge. Shall we get through The Gift of the Magi? We shall see.

A fall day at the sea

2010-11-25T22:00:00.005+01:00

Oh but the sea is a magical place, be it warm and summery, or cool, crisp and chilly.

An Autumnal Walk

2010-11-24T20:33:00.002+01:00

Lessons for future and present renovations

2010-11-14T20:28:00.008+01:00

Well, life is ever interesting, and ever evolving. I own a home. And with this goes the responsibility of caring for it. But, I've been idea-rich and cash-poor for some time now. And this has stymied me. I've been counseled that fixing my leaking roof would be upwards of 10-15,000Euros, but best to check with any number of local companies (entreprises) who specialized in this. Need I say that I've put off this more and more urgent issue for over three years now as I've simply not the funds? nor the means to get a loan of this size? And there I stopped. I would put cups and towels down when fall storms sent drops of water down into my bed room, the stairwell, the kids' room. I dealt by not dealing, though occasionally moaning and groaning, in a bag-over-the-head sort of way.

And then there was the shabby-chic room downstairs. The one that is pleasantly cool and dark and refreshing in the hot summer, and damp, cold, a bit moldy and dusty in the winter. This is the room where Leo is choosing to be at the moment. Um, is there something wrong with this picture?

And then there is the dream project of a glassed in terrace/living space out beyond my kitchen on the polished ochre-colored cement floor I put in right after my arrival. I'd checked with a local eco-builder who had estimated the highly insulated, wood/windows/sliding doors 20sq meter room at 40,000Euros -- a couple of years' ago. The room would be on the north side of the house, thus subject to the cold winds, not too much sunshine and the insulation/double/triple paned windows/plexi for the roof, etc., would bring the price way up. Yes, this too was quite obviously put on hold.

I've been telling myself that the day the b&b in Arles is sold....

And then my dear friend Martine got me thinking that I had to get Leo's room into order, and soon. It is just not healthy for him to breath moldy, damp air. It wasn't hard to convince me. After toying with various ideas -- put up a wooden wall with air space behind it? cover it with a nice rug? -- She suggested I use the technique known as enduit en chanvre -- a hemp-filled stucco -- that insulates, equalizes the hydrometry of a room and renders the space healthy, warm...

It just so happens that the person who is master of this technique and who has been practicing it, preaching, teaching it and more over these past 20 years is a father in my kids' school (very bio-dynamic/Steiner'ish all this stuff). Yves Kuhn -- you can google him. And so I gave him a call and he came to visit my house. With his urging I got to work. I and the kids removed all Leo's belongings from the room, and I began to tear down the cement/stucco that was covering the stone walls with Erick's burin/burineur -- serious heavy equipment. With two walls completely cleared and the third nearly there, you could say I'm now committed to this project.

I called to find out the estimate for the cost of materials (nearly 1000E for the surface area I've to do) ouch! And discovered that there was a workshop/stage this past weekend to learn precisely the techniques I needed. Being financially-challenged at the moment, and being that the woman who runs the company is dedicated to helping others (truly a great lady! named Mirei), I was able to do the class for a song, and I brought Erick with me as he with his masonry background shall be my main helper for this and perhaps future jobs. Good thing I get along with my ex-husband, n'est-ce pas?

And so Saturday saw us both over at Yve's workshop learning to mix hemp, pumice, chalk/white wash, plaster, water, etc., and smooth them into wall mixtures, flooring mixtures, stucco mixtures, finishing mixtures, roof insulation, sculpture clay (for sinks, showers, etc.,) and more. Quite an extraordinary day. I was supposed to be baking cookies Sunday for the school Christmas market (Nov. 27/28) but I just couldn't resist going back for a second day of lessons in these techniques. Ever since I built Martine's raw clay brick wall (see blog post this time last year) I have been even more aware of the profound pleasure and delight I absorb when deep in manual activities.

As Erick clicked with Yves -- both men having been sculpted from the primeval clay of this earth by Prometheus, I got more and more ideas and Eureka moments. I don't need to hire an expensive company to do my roof! There's a serious possibility of doing it with friends, insulating it so that summers are not so hot and unpleasant, putting in the skylights for the stairwell and bedrooms, etc., at perhaps a third the price (or more realistically half) of what I'd been expecting to pay....

And hey, what about my terrace/living room? I could insulate the wall between myself and my neighbor with this technique, and build the half wall to the north this way, maybe put in a rounded corner with the denser material over a
frame of woven cane such as Yves showed us in his studio covered in plaster-dipped gauze, (that being the corner with a view from the neighbor's window, thus best visually blocked) then put in my windows, the sliding doors to the West, etc., build the roof with this technique and have one row of windows in it... and I could do this myself with Erick and a friend or two, thus having only the cost of materials: way below the estimate of 40,000 from the builder...

Suddenly the world is opening up. It is doable, affordable, beautiful, eco/organic, and it is a technique that favors collaboration, sharing, teaching, working together.

Hm, for those of you who've been reading this blog a bit more faithfully. Didn't I mention somewhere that I had begun dating an architect? Yes. And yes, in a past life it would have been normal for me to say, hey, want to design my terrace/living space? But you know, this is my house, and though I appreciate his taste in urban design, I don't see him doing this kind of artisanal, hands-on (thus expensive on a large scale), organic technique. And, deeply feminine and sensual as I be, I love the idea of rounding and softening angles, rendering the rooms in warm tones (yes you add natural ochres to the mixtures to get beautiful colors in the mass, not just applied, though these are ideal surfaces for frescoes). His taste is more in the red/white/black/metallic direction. Let us say, I'm discovering new power and pleasure in contemplating the possible tactile, nourishing renovations I might actually be able to manifest through my own impulse (with a lot of help from friends), and who knows, maybe I'll teach him something? And, I have to say that I do not feel in need of being saved (as I once did by the vintner, and we know that didn't work out!), nor am I as impatient and eager to jump into our living together before it feels right. Thus, for the indefinite future, we'll enjoy the virtues of the city at his place, and the country at mine.

water and reflections

2010-11-08T14:09:00.005+01:00

For those who are interested, these images were taken at the ancient fountain in the village of St. Bonnet du Gard -- a starting point for an easy hike to the Pont du Gard.

The Arbouses are ripe

2010-11-08T11:05:00.003+01:00

What is this you ask? Apparently an arbutus berry. Ever heard of it? Probably not unless you've gone hiking in Provence in November. It is dark red when ripe -- on the outside, pale yellow on the inside, soft, with a granular exterior. It makes rather a nice compote that is delicious with yogurt. Tangy, a touch acidic. It has lots of vitamine C.

During my hike with V the other day by the Gardon River in Collias we gorged ourselves on them as a reward to our exertions.

And yesterday, out hiking with five boys in tow and my dear friend P with her beau, the pleasant cellist, we found many many trees with just a few berries still in them. Many had been knocked to the ground by the rain and wind storms of the past few days. But there were enough to tantalize all our palates and delight the hungry beasts in us all.

The Arbousier grows as a large bush. Multiple slender branches reach towards the sky, and thus the fruit can be at eye level, or up above depending. Climbing into the tree isn't recommended -- it doesn't seem to have thickness and sturdiness as a defining characteristic -- but it is relatively easy to bend a densely loaded branch down to eager fingers.

A foggy morning in Avignon

2010-11-08T10:25:00.005+01:00

As Leo worked on his book summary for school Jonas and I headed out for a bit of shopping. The boys are back with me after a week at their father's, and the cupboard, if not bare, is pretty empty. I can survive on whatever's here (rice, lentils, green tomatoes from the garden, some snippets of mâche from the garden, an apple or two gleaned from the neighbor's orchards...) but they need their milk, eggs, cereal, ham. The basics if you will. I can only serve them pasta and sauce so many days a week...

As we drove out the world was in a fog. Mist lay upon the Rhône, clothing all in gray, moist dropplets, darkening the trees. We just had to stop the car and get out to photograph this mysterious world. We shared the camera back and forth. I photographed the barge, barely visible through the trees.

Jonas photographed the seaweed moving languidly in the water, a few leaves swirling on the surface above.

We both photographed the Pont d'Avignon, with and without a foreground of fall leaves.

my shot with foreground.

Jonas quite impressed me. He was seeing, attentively, looking at this world with eyes of wonder alongside his mum. Be it himself, or the Waldorf school education, he is extremely sensitive to the physical world. He is also a gifted sculptor of clay and beeswax. Okay, I'm a proud mom, but I think also one that sees clearly.

I'll be printing out some enlargements for him to bring to school and hang in his room.
Jonas' photo of the bridge

Meantime, Leo did some beautiful writing back at the house. Somehow, somewhere, a floodgate has been opened. Is it the new teacher? A new confidence in himself? I adore that the teacher encourages poetry and somehow has communicated to him (I think it is he) a pleasure in playing with language. As Leo described an evil character in his book, he used a phrase unique to himself (I do believe) 'du miel empoisonné', poisoned honey. Fascinating... I don't know that he intellectually gets all that he has communicated, but the phrase was absolutely 'juste' for the character in question. An evil woman who hides behind a slippery, sweet-voiced exterior... hm.

T'was a fruitful and artistic morning.

A Tango Demo to tempt the masses

2010-10-19T12:43:00.003+02:00

I can be both a dancer and a spectator. T'is a pleasure both ways.

Left-overs, presto, changeo = veggie burgers....

2010-10-19T12:25:00.002+02:00

Okay, more getting nourishing things into un-suspecting children. I really did a doozy on them last night. My first veggie burgers. Oh, I've made Erick's cereal gallettes many times (5 flakes, grated cheese, chopped onion, herbes de Provence, eggs, salt, fried in olive oil and served with soy sauce). But this time I worked with what was in the house:

Camargue red wild rice (about 2 cups cooked went in)
my last evening's lentils (lentils, onion, garlic, carrots, a touch of cloves and curry) - about one cup
my other last evening's walnut sauce (walnuts, almonds, garlic, olive oil, water, salt) - 1/4 cup, that's all that was left.
grated gruyère cheese, - a good handful with a bit more by special request from Leo
eggs (three)
more minced garlic (onions would be picked out by Jonas)
salt

I tried frying it in oil and it all fell apart, so, I added some whole wheat flour as a binder and tried again.

Perfect! They even looked like burgers. And yes, in this at least half-way American household (living in Avignon, mostly French, but...) ketchup was on the table. What can I say? I've raised ketchup (organic when possible) eaters, not mustard folk. I know, I'm abérrante. I've already shocked the new beau with such glaring lack of class (hey, I do well on other fronts, but well, isn't ketchup a vegetable? Lysine any one?).

Result -- they loved them! Even Jonas! I kept the recipe a secret though. No allowing for potential dissention in the ranks.

The Lubéron in the Rain

2010-10-19T11:31:00.004+02:00

Even on a rainy day there are things to see, places to explore in the Luberon, particularly if you are well-shod. And so we were as we descended the tiny cobbled streets of Gordes to the ancient washing areas below. A dramatic water fall greeted us, as well as saturated textures and mostly empty vistas.

In Roussillon the sun came out to greet us as we shared a coffee and pastry on a tiny terrace (few spots are open on Mondays, but there's always at least one!)

New possibilities

2010-10-19T11:07:00.004+02:00

Do I dare write about it? Do I go there? Yes, I'm in a new relationship. One that seems quite different from what I lived for 2 1/2 years. It is calmer. He has children, two boys like myself. And thus from the get-go the kids are part of the equation. Mine are excited. Leo tells me (no doubt from this past year's experience with me thrice in the doldrums) that we are not to break up! It should be the right one. He is so sure of things at 13! Jonas follows suit. And, I must say that his kids have taken to me quickly. Now it's up to the adults to find their bearings, to see if we've projects in common, to contemplate what the future might bring. How gun-shy are we, how ready to believe, to trust, to go forth? I know that for myself the weekend thing will not be enough. I truly want to live as a family again, and why not with two more children? I do well with plenty of small/medium-size ones around and enjoy the nurturing, the observing, the educating. But he? We'll see.

And yet, I hold dearly to the independence I've regained, the joys of being more with my girl-friends, with myself, the projects I would like to develop here in Avignon, close to my home. I have my center, my integrity, myself and my personal dreams -- my vocational passion as Barbara Marx Hubbard states -- to nourish and bear.

There are books and articles aplenty these days on reformed families, familles recomposées. I browse through them, though I've definitely already contemplated the many variations and trials that such a choice clearly thrusts upon one. I'm up for it. I think.

And so, I observe how he raises his kids, I see his value system, I test his house rhythms and I check into mine. Will they dove-tail?

Slowly, slowly into the fray. Dancing gently and surely, allowing for space, contemplating, learning, communicating, testing. It's just not the same as when you're young and naive, ready to start a family, nor perhaps when you're older and established, the kids long gone from the nest.

Day by day.

Fall comes fiercely knocking

2010-10-19T10:12:00.006+02:00

The wind is swirling as only the Mistral winds can do. My stone house clings to the ground, but dreams of sailing off to OZ fill my nights. I can sing this sound of the wind, as it buffets my windows and shakes and rattles the doors. It invigorates and sends me to bed at night feeling I've done a major day's work. But have I?

Now that the tourism season has come to a close (but for possible chocolate/truffle requests in the next few months) I have time on my hands. I return to my role as mother, home-maker, gardener and contemplate what next. There's a good translation on the horizon -- Joel Durand, the chocolatier, has his book to be put into English, and so I'll likely have that shortly in my hands; and there are house projects -- re-do the walls of Leo's room, build the chicken coop, and hopefully get a proper heavy wooden shutter between the north-side terrace and my single-paned glass/iron door onto the kitchen.

There is also my project for the school: to design a welcome/cultural adaptation program for visiting (and perhaps settling) Anglo-saxons. I await only the green light. I am also the new designated liason between Leo's teacher and the other parents. A meeting or two to be as yet scheduled.

I've been to the local farm to pick up extra cases of tomatoes for sauce -- and chopped, sweated, simmered and prepared jars for the season. I'm tempted to see if there are any more. Home-made sauce from truly ripe tomatoes is simply a thousand times better than using even quality/organic canned crushed tomatoes. Just no comparison. Hmmm

And of course bread was baked (as per my recipe in the post from February 2009. I've new takers now for my multi-grain, slow-rising loaves. They please at a certain home in Nîmes, and they serve as a thank you to my good friend who helps me every Monday to cope on Leo's tennis lesson, receiving both Jonas and our newest boarder for afternoon snacks till I come and pick them up.

Some chocolate muffins - as per my classic recipe with turned raw milk, baking soda and some mashed squash (from the garden) to moisten them. I also added 1/4 cup dark cocoa and switched from normal sugar to a rapadura brown sugar. Theme and variations is the name of the game.

Time for more syrup as well. The mint and elderflower from the spring are long gone. My year's yield of Lemon Verbena needs to be harvested. It won't last the winter (though the plant will, brown and sad-looking in the corner of my garden till green leaves emerge next spring). Blended with some garden mint and lemon slices it will be that little extra to get us through the next couple of months. Here again, I follow a standard recipe of 1:1 (1 kilo to 1 litre) sugar to water, bring it to a boil, turn it off and add my leaves and lemon slices. Leave to infuse overnight and then bring back to a boil and pour through a sieve into my bottles. When you banish sodas and juices from concentrate from your house, it is nice to offer a delicious alternative.

What leaves do not go into the syrup I will dry and use for winter herbal teas.

It's just that time of year. I feel the passage of seasons shifting all my rhythms, driving me to re-organize, plan, adjust, fix. I feel like a bear in need of collecting his winter stores and so live till another spring arrives. I've lit fires in my cast iron stove all day yesterday and today. I'll need to go and collect a few more cords of wood. My tomato plants still laden with fruit quite green are struggling in this wind. I've righted them twice now. Hoping?

Jonas and I are reading Laura Ingalls Wilder's Farmer Boy now. The chapters on harvesting and preparing for their long Northern New York winter resonate in me. However, I've not 5 hogs and a steer to butcher, no need to make my own candles from suet, nor shall I be filling the root cellar with potatoes, apples, carrots and such. I can rely on the neighborhood farm to have these for me till at least late January. But I'm hunkering down all the same.

Yesterday saw me preparing my missive to the world from Provence, and updating my web site. Time to re-arrange, adjust, improve, tweak. And time to say thank you to the many who came and toured with me in Provence this year.

As I worked on that HTML code, re-wrote sections, etc., my friend who's helping me build a chicken coop as a trade for being my dance partner for a tango workshop came by and together we devoted the rest of the afternoon to digging, afixing, preparing, and finally to pouring some cement along the trenches (to keep out the foxes). Little by little it is taking form. Though I'll likely wait till spring for my chickens -- caring for them through a cold winter can wait till I'm more experienced.

And yourselves? Where does this change of seasons find you? What rhythms shift and adjust, or are you in lives more adapted to the 21st century, un-ceasing rhythms that ignore these outside changes and simply keep you moving forward? It's been years now that I've lived the tourism and seasonal calendar. Myself who had no idea what was in season when during my childhood in suburban New York am now deeply attached to these cycles. I suppose I am odd now. Perhaps one of the reasons I so love the Little House books. Reconnecting with a time when the seasons dominated lives, when man was wise and skilled and worked with what was before him, even to collecting all the wild berries in the forest, all the beechnuts fallen from the trees.

A young man is coming into his own

2010-10-14T16:43:00.004+02:00

Hard to believe how tall he has grown. Hard to believe he is already 13. And, at least sporadically if not 24/7 he is proving to be growing inside as well. I wonder how much I can attribute to the arrival and now departure of Gaetan? Living with our teenage boarder for two years seemed to have both a dampening effect but also a stimulating effect on Leo. On the one hand with Gaetan being the elder, helpful, male presence in the house, Leo didn't need to be. On the other hand, Gaetan was there to observe and to learn from.

Hence Leo felt quite at ease digging through my tool box and dismantling the bicycle wheel the other day to replace a punctured inner tube. I watched him as the parts strew upon the floor, the chain hanging, and simply encouraged and/or got out of the way. Twenty four hours later, all is put back as it should and the wheel works. Wow, he actually knew what he was up to.

Another moment of pleasure for this mom came in the shape of a homework assignment for a boy who'd been talking in class. His (brilliant!) teacher asked him to write a poem. And what a poem! I had no idea my son had such a way with words, rhythm and wit. Am I over-doing it a bit much? Hey, I'm proud and pleased.

Un bon élève

Un bon élève en se balançant
rêve en pensant à trouver ce qu'il sait
chez lui avec son repas toujours cuit
ses devoirs non-faits il va se coucher
le matin il pense à rien
à son école couché sur ses épaules
il est sensé travailler, bah non; il reste couché
le prof n'est pas content
il se dit, eh bin, cet enfant
il se croit chez lui
il est cuit

Do I do a mini-translation? so much would be lost. It is in the rhythm as well as the sense that it has strength. Basically it's the story of a lazy/spacy child who forgets his homework, sleeps on his desk and gets caught by the teacher. Self-referential humor. Not bad, eh?

Now, if only I can convince him that it would be far better to work towards purchasing a new computer than to take the advice of one of his friends and return to the public schools for 3 months in order to benefit from a local program offering computers to their grade. He is baffled that I don't see the sense in scamming the State. Why should he go through all his old toys and books and sell them at the flea market to make money, and/or save all he receives and/or find some small jobs to do when in his mind it would be simpler to go to a different school (paper work much?) and thus take advantage of a special offer...

I'm working on my skills at convincing him. But that inner need to earn what you receive... apparently it isn't there yet. We'll see what other opportunities present themselves to expand on these lessons.

Visiting Farmers

2010-10-14T16:12:00.005+02:00

A convergence of my worlds and values. It is the rare visitor who truly connects with my artisans on the level of equal. But I had a couple the other day who were in this rank. They've an organic farm on the border of New York and Vermont. They raise pigs and chickens for meat, vegetables, fruit and bees. They are creative and concerned, devoted to their space and to working organically. They are hard-working and focused, curious and open. They came to learn and to share. They came bearing gifts -- home-made maple syrup.

And so we did a leisurely and extremely informative tour together. Sunday morning through lunch saw us with my friends at Long Mai, an organic farming cooperative and home to anywhere from 25 to 50 people from numerous European countries. Hannes, one of the founders in 1990 of this farm and deeply concerned and active in environmental politics since the 1970s, welcomed us warmly and patiently.

Over a very powerful cup of coffee and blown about by the even more powerful Mistral winds we took the time to share history, tales, ideas, and truly get a sense of each other. Passion was shared and conveyed. Respect was offered and received.

We toured the property, inspected the fields, met the animals, observed the projects coming up, passed by the chickens and the geese, strolled through the vegetable patches, admired the handmade bread oven, and were duly impressed by the conservatory of rare seeds.

Longo Mai is a place where any might go and see if it works for him/her. It is a way of life, and a life-choice. It is a community brought together to care for each other, work alongside each other, with the common goal of not polluting the world, and of maybe finding a better way to be. You come with what you have, and contribute what you are able. There are many jobs to be shared around and for each who is committed, a place can be found. All ages are welcome. The community feeds itself and strives to create a source of income from their activities to go further, build, create and plan for the future. The wool from their sheep, spun and knitted into finished sweaters is one such source, but also many delicious recipes for sauces and dips prepared and canned on-site. And, they orchestrate the preparing and delivering of farm crates with a rich array of products from neighboring organic farms.

In keeping with his never-ending projects Hannes just sent me a short translation concerning uranium mines in Mali. You never know what will come back after a visit!

From Longo Mai I took my visiting farmers to see Aurelie at the goat farm, then Sophie in her beehives.

It's very special for me to meet the people who are transforming the world back in the US along these lines. People who understand my own intensity and desire to nourish my children as well as possible. People who are committed to organic, who are going back to the earth, who are choosing to produce a maximum of their own food, and to collaborate with neighbors. Apparently the movement is as much a mother's/women's movement as a family affair. I suppose we are all readers of Michael Pollan, concerned and curious, over-educated, making choices about quality of life that jeopardize finances, but enrich differently.

And just the other day I had another client who's spent a life as a photographer, and is now training to be a veterinary technician at the age of 50! He too had a very personal and powerful moment at the goat cheese farm. This world is the one he is aiming towards.

Come my friends. I and my artisans will share with you what we may.

Life, the Universe and Car Maintenance

2010-10-14T16:05:00.003+02:00

What is it? I truly think I'm under the dark cloud of car troubles these days. Over and beyond my difficulties -- and I'll list the most recent of these:

- a short-circuiting starter which provoked numerous frustrations and moments of glum, not to mention a tidy sum at the garage.
- an old clutch in need of replacement (done)
- a gas gauge that no longer works (I found out the hard and rather expensive way after konking out on the highway by the Rhône on the way back from school during rush hour today....)
- a scratched rental car (the branches over my beekeeper's road hadn't been pruned this summer...)

Simply my presence in a car is getting worrisome - my friend's clutch cable snapped yesterday when we were out picking up supplies for my chicken coop to be.

It's enough to make me want to return to my (very happy) bicycling days of yore. But, I'm no longer solo. Kids, stuff, clients, shopping for a household... hard to imagine my life without a vehicle of sorts. However I am beginning to wonder if I might be able to trade in my large 9-seater for at least a more reasonable 5 seater. And yet, I've just begun dating a man with two kids of his own... It's pretty cool to be able to transport us all with ease, plus bikes and dog.

What's it going to be? Time for a change, it's certain, but???

And a pink flamingo takes flight

2010-10-05T21:23:00.004+02:00

When in the Camargue, spend a moment with the local wild life, and be transported to another world.

Simply one of my favorite places to be

2010-10-04T13:32:00.006+02:00

I love the Callanques, those incredible limestone cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean. I love hiking there with Filou, family and friends. I love bathing in the cool and clear waters. I love eating the fresh fish and fried calamari and sipping a dry Cassis wine (white made with Marsanne). Oh heaven! From the first time I was brought here at the age of 16 by friends in Marseille I've adored this world.

I've a favorite spot. But forgive me. I'm keeping it secret. I'll take you there if you visit, but otherwise nada. I don't want it going into any guide books. It's hard to get to, out of the way, and magical. I fear for my car and myself at times -- one extra reason to be sure the brakes and gear shift are in perfect order! There are other villages, inlets, coves and more along the coast. Just go over to Cassis and beyond. You'll find some neat places. Perhaps you might take a kayak trip? or a boat trip from Marseille? Explore and discover.

A pastry class anyone?

2010-10-04T12:45:00.007+02:00

Oh yum. There's definitely something to being the resident food translator/orchestrator of cooking classes with my local artisans. Good meals, new techniques and yes delectable pastries.

Last week my week-long class included hikes, feasts, visits and a pastry class with my maître-pâtissier Guy LeBlanc. We kept the class to a reasonable two hours rather than the marathon four hours we might have done (hey, we'd hiked that morning). However, it was duly noted that we could program a week's intensive of afternoon pastry classes in the future during the months of May or October. Ahhhh future projects. But I get ahead of myself.

Thus we arrived, well-nourished, laundry dropped off at the local laundromat, a shoe repaired next door, ready to master a few tricks of the trade. With one client with a cast on her wrist, her husband took over at the helm.

We had two desserts before us: a relatively simple chocolate ganâche tart and a multi-step chocolate mousse cake filled with hazelnut caramel. Neither was truly difficult, both divine to eat, but the latter took more preparation by far.

Guy is one of those superbly prepared individuals. He'd done ahead of time what needed to rest overnight, measured out all the ingredients, etc., so we were able to clean our heads and get right to melting the sugar and making the caramel.

the ingredients for the caramel (to be prepared the night before):

- 205 grams sugar
- 68 grams glucose (optional, for the pros)
- 1.5 grams salt
- 360 grams whipped cream
- 200 grams hazelnut paste
- 32 grams gelatin powder diluted in 180 grams cold water.

He melted the sugar in the sauce pan, little by little to avoid lumps, added the glucose and salt, and stirred till it colored nicely, and got to that "petit fumé" state of just smoking. Then he took it off the burner and slowly added the whipped cream, the gelatin and the hazelnut paste. Let cool overnight before using.

This was to go into a gorgeous and rich chocolate mousse:

the ingredients for the mousse:

- 300 grams heavy cream
- 40 grams glucose (optional for the pros)
- 250 grams dark chocolate (60%)
- 40 grams milk chocolate
- 375 whipped cream, not too stiff

Very simply, the heavy cream was brought to a boil with the glucose, this was poured over the softened chopped chocolate and blended till smooth. This was allowed to cool to 35/40Celsius (95F) (Guy tabled it) before the whipped cream was added. This mixture is very smooth when first made and must set overnight before serving. We then dolloped a bit of this mixture into the silicon molds, smoothing it against the sides with the ladle. Into this a spoonful of the caramel was put, then covered with the mousse, then covered with a simple chocolate biscuit. They are then frozen, popped out and topped off with a chocolate glaze.

ingredients for the chocolate biscuit sacher (to be prepared ahead):

150 grams warmed almond paste (50%)
55 grams icing sugar
95 grams egg yolks
50 grams whole eggs
50 grams flour
50 grams cocoa powder
50 grams butter melted
140 grams egg whites whipped stiff
55 grams sugar (blended with the egg whites)

Mix the almond paste and the icing sugar together, slowly add the yolks and eggs. Mix together and add the sifted flour and cocoa, then the melted butter. Fold in the egg whites and sugar. Spread on a baking sheet (ideally on a silpat or baking paper) to 1 centimeter thickness. Bake at 180C (365F) in a convection oven for 12 minutes till just firm, but still very flexible.

We popped out the frozen mousses and put them upon a cake rack and poured our lovely chocolate glaze atop them. Oh how beautiful! Unfortunately, the glaze is the one recipe I wasn't able to obtain. Something about it being quite complicated, or simply his own? However, you might be able to come up with something a bit similar, or just melted dark chocolate, which would give you a crunchy exterior rather than this glimmering soft one. But hey, it would still taste heavenly! You might also sprinkle it with dark cocoa powder... the possibilities are many.

A little sugar helps the medicine go down...

2010-10-03T10:02:00.005+02:00

I love coming across one of those Aha! moments. One of those, but of course! moments. And such was the result of much back and forthing this week concerning friends at the school.

Meetings, language, cues, nuance, diplomacy. How fascinating to have opposing views on such important subjects.

The situation in question concerns an English family and the school, but it could be a replay of numerous meetings held between teachers and British/Anglo-Saxon parents over the past few years. Our school, the only Rudolf Steiner/Waldorf school that goes through to high school situated in a particularly attractive location in Europe, attracts many internationals. And, of these, there are a number who contemplate/dream/plan to settle permanently in la belle Provence. You can put whatever spin on this you choose. Is it the English reconquering a land they've coveted for centuries, more than a millenium? Is it simply the new sunbelt of Europe? In any case, with computers and flexible working conditions, housing prices being a bit more reasonable on this side of the channel, this option has tempted a number of families over the years.

There've also been a number of visiting families from other English/Anglo countries: Americans, Canadians, Australians. But in general, they are visitors for a set time period, and then they return home. It's a family adventure, no more.

Our school welcomes with open arms these families. The teachers accept the children who manage minimally the local language, and we all pitch in to make it work. But what happens when the parents don't know and have difficulty learning French? What happens when that Provence dream turns a bit sour when they realize that the job market here is supremely difficult? It's not always as easy and smooth as one might wish. How much can the school help?

I digress. I have set the tone, but truly what I want to consider is how bad news is presented during a meeting. It is dawning on me that the French and Anglo-Saxon viewpoint are opposed in this delicate situation. From my personal experience -- and that of a few friends -- it is clear to me that we Anglo-Saxons need a bit of sugar with our medicine. Face it, we were many of us raised with Mary Poppins as an important cultural icon. We need to be reassured that all is not evil, that there are redeeming character traits (in our child for example) or that there is hope for improvement, or that this meeting is simply a chance to inform and plan future collaboration towards a solution.

I know that I (and I believe many others of my culture) simply shut down and panic when bad news is dished out first. It's rather terrifying, I'm not ready, what? hunh? but when? for how long? whoah.... isn't there anything positive you could say to soften the blow? For us diplomacy is defined by the art of couching/framing/preparing the negative information with a bit of the positive. We are thus reassured (in this case as a parent, but this could be a business meeting, job discussion, the list is long) that our child is seen as a whole and complex being.

By contrast, a few of my French (particularly Parisian) friends have a tendency to avoid what they see as sugar-coating as being dishonest and simply putting off the inevitable. They distrust and are wary of such tactics -- that's how they see them. Get to the point, why have you called this meeting? Diplomacy is deemed being brutally honest.

Or, as a (French) friend astutely put it, what do you want the person in front of you to walk away with? Do you begin with the bad and end with the good? and thus hope that the lasting impression will be better? or do you begin with the good and end with the bad, and your partner thus walks away depressed?

Curiouser and curiouser. And so, I am seriously contemplating more discussions on this topic and making a proposal to the school to I hope, more adroitly welcome and manage what is clearly a growing population for us.

September - A New Year?

2010-09-18T11:08:00.003+02:00

Well, the year is off to its start. If the beginning of the week was a bit 'rude'; my system took a hit with the car trouble, the returning imperatives of caring for kids, being in the daily rhythms of cooking, waking early, getting out the door and simply coping. But that seems to have passed, and I'm getting back into the flow of something I know oh so well, but from which I had unprecedented vacation time this summer.

The kids are back in school, both very much enjoying their teachers and friends. We've taken in just one extra child this year -- a 15 year old girl -- and thus life is infinitely calmer than last year. What a difference! Rather than rowdy, easily-upset pre-teens learning to deal with emotional surges and freaking out, I've a very calm, mostly autonomous and gentle teen female. Ahhhh. And just in time.

Leo and I are turning over a new leaf. This year I will survey his homework, follow-up on what he is doing/learning/preparing at school. I will do as I can to teach him better study habits (no more silly errors on those dictés please!). Somewhere, somehow, if only by being more present, able to truly concentrate on him every afternoon, I will help him be more grounded, more attentive, conscious of the importance of working at school. And he is grateful! The first afternoon after our long discussion on this subject he was there ready to show me all he'd done, assuring me that he'd finished his homework before listening to music, before playing outside, that he had taken me seriously and was ready to go forth into this new way of being. I am constantly amazed by my own children!

Jonas is 'vif', present, delighted to be again with his favorite friends, eagerly eating up the intellectual nourishment of school. I've taken to reading him Laura Ingalls Wilder's Farmer Boy. He is hearing and absorbing the story. As a Steiner teacher from Manhattan once told me, it is perfect for 3rd grade. He is at that age, open, curious, and amazed as I describe the days of this little boy, and the quantity of food he consumes! If Jonas has one or two pieces of toast and a bit of hot chocolate for breakfast, little Almanzo has sausages, a stack of 10 pancakes, two slices of apple pie and??? He's anything but fat!

And with the new fall, a new start. One of my summer tango partners has demonstrated that he'd like to be more. Hmmm. A calm, lovely, and very tall architect with two boys just a tad older than mine. A new world for me. And so I begin something anew. With my wits about me, gently, slowly, open and willing, but not yet head over heels (a good thing I think), we shall see if we are compatible (kids included!). And if nothing else, I'll be dancing more and more tango...

In the meantime, the next few weeks are filled with clients and tours. So, keeping my head on my shoulders, planning carefully, working out all the kinks (such as car repairs, rental vehicles, kids' swimming lessons and tennis...and all those lovely things!), I'm busy, occupied, focused, here.

Living a Dream in Provence

2010-09-15T19:00:00.005+02:00

Doug Graves has had a long romance with wine. From his position as a manager at Boeing (where he worked 34 years) he became a member of the Boeing Winemakers’ Club. However purchasing good wine wasn’t enough for him. He wanted to make wine, and serious quantities of it, not simply a couple of jugs for home consumption.

So he started purchasing grapes locally in Washington State and he took oenology and vinification classes at UC Davis on the weekends and he jumped in. On a small scale to start with, in his garage, with some help from family, friends and colleagues at first, and then on his own and seriously (even before his retirement from Boeing) he made wine under the Graves Cellars label.

But, even that wasn’t enough. Yes, the wine was good, yes, he was getting skilled at the chemistry side of things but, well, something was missing.

And so he came to Provence and he looked around. He’d traveled here before with his wife, exploring the country, most particularly the wine regions. So, he had an inkling of what he’d like. He’d studied French in high school, and so could cope linguistically. And then he found the Mas de la Lionne. And what a find!

The property of the Mas de la Lionne is in a tiny corner of the Côte du Rhône that butts right against the Châteauneuf-du-Pape vineyards. In fact all his closest neighbors are Châteauneuf-du-Pape. And he, with similar vineyards covered in those rolled stones, filled with 30 to 60 year old grenache vines, has a terroir to envy, if not the AOC (name brand if you will) to go with them.

He had never been a vintner in the vineyards before. But the man who sold him the winery with all the equipment, stayed in the neighborhood for the first full year to help Doug adapt to his new life as a farmer/vintner. He was there to show him how to prune in the winter, there to show him how to scratch the earth with the plough, there to show him when to spray the copper sulfate and how to mix it, manipulate the monster machine that sprays it, clean it, etc., When Doug needed assistance and teaching, he was there. Need I say that he was a quick learner? As you can see from the image above, he is adept at explaining the goblet pruning of the vines in this region to visitors.

This is Doug’s third year on the property and soon to be his third harvest. He has learned that his land tends toward very ripe grapes (read alcohol content) and is adjusting. He has learned that the locals are a bit shy of foreigners (read fewer local purchasers of his wine -- those faithful to the former owner haven’t necessarily stuck by him). He is adapting to the ways and means of this corner of Provence. It is a lonely life at times, but also gratifying. You can learn more from his own words on his blog : delalionne.blogspot.com

And yes, he is making very good wine. This is what happens when you put together the brains of an engineer, the passion of an individual and a good terroir. There are three wines to choose from: his bright and fruity Côte du Rhône rosé, his classic, very jammy red Côte du Rhône and a special reserve red wine aged in small oak casks. Now, the only link of the chain that he needs to work on (in a difficult economy) is getting it to the consumer. It’s a truism that a vintner must be gifted in the vineyards, the cellar, and at the selling counter.

However, for those of you in the Northwest his wine is available in Seattle and around Washington State. So look for it! You will be most pleasantly surprised.

Harvest around the Corner

2010-09-15T13:48:00.005+02:00

Well, the news is in, harvest is just around the corner. For many it has begun, but gently, slowly. The cool spring, short summer, cool early fall, drying winds, minimal rains have all collaborated to push back the harvest for ten days to two weeks. This after multiple years of early (précoce) harvests here. It keeps you on your toes!

But, those first white grapes are coming in, and the younger reds for rosé. Picked in the cool morning air they are carried in bins to the cellars, de-stemmed (égrappées) and pressed directly before being pumped into the stainless tanks where they'll be kept cool and permitted to start fermenting either that same day, or two days later, depending on the vintner and his ability to quickly descend the temperature of his juice.
We had two fierce rain storms last week. Good news for the agricultural world -- yes, it's been a dry summer. But bad news for my roof (ouch!), and my sleep. Okay, a good harvest in 2010 is very important, that the grapes be fully ripe and not stunted is of supreme importance. But I tell you, it is a bummer getting up at 4 in the morning to put pans and cups and towels under not quite a dozen leaks, and the next night from 1-2. Yup. Better get that B&B in Arles sold so I can repair my roof!

But on to the ostensible reason for this post. This is also a period that I've lots of visitors (thank you!) and of course we visit the wineries. Thankfully I've friends and colleagues in a number of them. Thus even during this busy period we've been welcomed warmly, briefly shaking the hand of one vintner as he headed off to shower having just finished harvesting and pressing for the day. He simply left the store to me and I handled the tasting.

Last week's visits were between harvest days. The storms came down mid-week and all was put on hold till the roots absorbed the extra water. This helped the grapes finish up their ripening and from this Monday (in the case of those on the lower and more Southern slopes) the harvest picked back up.

And so depending on where you are in Provence and Southern France at this moment you will no doubt have many a tractor in the roads pulling their very full bins behind them. Some may drip a bit of that lovely red juice along the road, leaving their trail of crumbs if you will... Others having worked more carefully (hand-picked) will be gently heading down to the cellar, to the de-stemmer (égrappeur) and the presse. It's a busy busy time down here.

Tango in the Streets

2010-09-10T21:22:00.005+02:00

Live musicians, dancing on asphalt (not easy to turn, I have to say), and many friends and new acquaintances. After the streets, we danced till 2 in the morning in the moonlight (literally for the last dance -- only by the full moon!) by the lake amidst the woods. T'was magical!

For future dancing afficionados, this is a mid-July festival, and lasts a week.

Memories of July

2010-09-10T21:13:00.002+02:00

Guess What, IKEA has come to town...

2010-09-10T20:59:00.006+02:00

I can't believe I did this. I spent the Saturday before school starts at the brand new IKEA in Le Pontet (just North of Avignon, and right close to the kids' school).

Normally, I would be the last person caught with the entire population of the Vaucluse, the Drome, Arles, and more at this, the busiest IKEA in all of Europe, on its first ever Saturday. Ouch!

Well, we took it slow. My girlfriend is building her house and needed shelves, curtain material, etc., so it sort of made sense, but... We could have been in Times Square, or perhaps the McDonalds in Tokyo?

The least I could do was purchase a bit of salmon and pickled herring.

A Few Avignonais de Juillet

2010-09-10T19:23:00.001+02:00

Part II of a memorable day of wine tasting

2010-09-08T20:39:00.007+02:00

Okay. Good wine conquers all, or you might hope it would. But does it conquer a car that goes kaput? A car that will not advance? A car that signals a serious shift in programming?

Well, it certainly helps. Yes, at 11:15 on Monday morning, my car decided it would not turn-over. Neither trying again, nor pushing it worked. So, we put it over to the side of the road, raised the hood and considered things. I had my handy dandy Iphone on me and started calling. By the third call I struck gold -- my fantastic friend and colleague Guy Brémond, the self-same chef-sommelier who has taught me soooo much over the years. He found me a tow truck (remorque) and sent him my way. In the meantime (we had a good hour's wait till he arrived), we spread out the picnic. Yes, for the first time this year I actually prepared a picnic for my guests (actually the second time). Phew! Imagine if we'd programmed a lovely lunch in one of my favorite restaurants??? Well, there was a pool at the winery that looked tempting...

Our friends at the winery offered a bottle (and opened it for us) to enjoy during our impromptu lunch. I promise, normally my picnic spots are chosen far from roads and cars! But this one was at least in the shade, and by vineyards...
And so we waited the arrival of our friendly tow truck man. And I called my insurance which assured me that the towing would be covered (thank you Universe, and former husband!). Of course this tower wasn't listed with them... but he was able to persuade the insurance rep on the phone and all was well.

Amazingly, he had his largest tow truck (well I do have a 9 seater... a small Prius this is not) and all eight of us fit (snuggly, I do admit) into his car. No seat belts of course.

Meantime, I was strenuously seeking a taxi man with a 9 seater vehicle (apparently quite rare). Of the fleet of 43 vehicles in Avignon, there was one 8 seater... and at long last he arrived. By 2:30PM we were en route for more wine tasting with a pleasant, extremely careful and slow-driving taxi man who took directions from me in a region he works regularly (got to love it, n'est-ce pas?).

He and I chatted a bit. I admired his collection of train conductor hats. Our pregnant passenger got the front seat and was thus not too squnched, and four (including two tall men, but slender, men) shared a not-too-ample back seat meant for three. The pleasant chattiness of our morning drive had definitely been dampened by the unforeseen events.

But the warm reception of Jean David, the funky and wonderful tasting room, the excellent wines, the tales of his history... this helped hugely. As did discovering the lovely wines of Gigondas, the gorgeous vistas, the hill towns around us.

It was not the perfect day I try to offer, but we all did our best. If nothing else, I suppose I proved I can adjust to difficult circumstances, grace under fire, flexibility when glitches appear, plans B, C, D, and more. And it might have been far worse... At least we had a good lunch, good wines, and lovely meetings. I met and got the card of a good tow guy (available even on holidays) and the local taxi service now knows me. But no, it was far from a 'normal' outing.

And my car? It was an electric cable that connects the starter to the motor. Once put back in place, soldered, etc., It was fixed within 24 hours for a relatively minor sum. Apparently I drove over one dirt road too many which likely dislodged the cable...Must have been that last visit to the beekeeper's.

Wine tasting -- just before Harvest

2010-09-08T18:21:00.005+02:00

A day of wine tasting: the weather was perfect, the clients lovely, the wines superb, the wineries welcoming. All that one could wish for right? Well, let's make this a two part article. This part is all about the wine, and the next one will be about the 'glitch' we experienced. That is, ahem, technical difficulties. Or, as I occasionally view these things, a test from the universe. But I'll get to that later.

My seven dynamic, young and multi-national clients and I started the day by heading off to Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Clos du Caillou in Courthézon to be exact. There we were warmly received on a Monday (a day they don't normally do tastings) and just after harvest had begun (and the day before a serious rain storm!). Privileged as we were, we tasted the full range of wines they have:

Two whites (one marvelously concentrated clairette, and one blend of roussanne, viognier, grenache blanc and clairette). The first was bright and lively in the mouth, rich in citrus fruits (grapefruit) with a nice length to it. Hmmmm - yes, I brought home a case! It was their Côte du Rhône 2009. The second was quite different, from 2008, softer, warmer, more orchard fruits, creamier, and yet this one too had not gone through oak. We were tasting the grapes and only the grapes.

Onward to their two red Côte du Rhônes -- these differing in their vinification. The first rich in grenache, syrah and mourvedre, and vinified/aged in cement tanks. The second a similar blend but aged as they do their Châteauneufs, that is 18 months in large oak barrels.

I'd been to taste at this winery before, and as I remembered, they have great Châteauneufs, but I remember being blown away by their 'smaller' wines, their Côte du Rhônes. The winery is situated just beside the far better known Domaine Beaucastel, and like their neighbor, they too are working organically and soon bio dynamically -- always a good sign.

These wineries are located in a small island apart from the main portion of Châteauneuf AOC. If you see the map of Châteauneuf, you see one large chunk delineated and marked out, and then a small chunk of land off to the West, with more winery land between it and the large chunk. It's rather complicated to understand -- no doubt a political choice back when the geographic outlines of the AOC were determined. In any case, that line of land between the big and little chunks? well it has lovely vineyards too, but they can't be called Châteauneuf-du-Pape. This is where the Clos du Caillou Côte du Rhône vineyards are and do they make a magnificent one! It is the rare Côte du Rhône that could be mistaken for a Châteauneuf -- truly jammy and dense in flavor and bouquet, not farmy or vegetal or rude at all. And yes, I brought home a case of each too.

Their bonafide Châteauneuf-du-Papes are nothing to sneeze at. Truly they are dense and chewy, jammy yet fresh. The 2008 has finesse and elegance, something to drink soon or in ten years when it will no doubt evolve to new heights.

It was as we were leaving this elegant winery, after visiting the aging cellar and seeing their casks of three dimensions -- small and medium size new/multi-passage oak barrels and large casks. Yes, as we were trying to leave this winery that my car went kaput. Silence. Lights yes, but no motor, not even after pushing it down hill and putting it into second (something I'm quite skilled at after these past couple of years on my own). Nope. It chose to not budge. However, I shall go into detail on this event in the next post. Here I will continue with our tastings which -- after an unexpected and unintended pause of about 2-3 hours, did continue!

And so, later than desired, thirsty and eager, we arrived at our second winery, Domaine Jean David in Séguret, a village of the Côte du Rhône Villages region. I've known Jean David for years now and adore his selection of organic wines (he's a pioneer and a devoted one at that in the organic world).
We were able to taste his white -- a blend of roussanne and bourbelenc (that unusual grape in the 13 cépages of Châteauneuf-du-Pape) vinified in stainless steel. It is a simple and pleasant white with notes of orchard fruits and flowers. Then onward to his selection of reds, which is quite wide these days. He has a Côte du Rhône with a funky new label in reds with green notes (designed by his daughter and appreciated by his Japanese clientele), his 'green label' Côte du Rhône Village Séguret -- a lovely, concentrated classic to be appreciated often.
His very special cuvée Le Beau nez (or le Bonnet) identified by an image of a man with either a red nose, or a red knit cap!. This is his drink it now no-sulfites wine. Rich in fruit, dense, high in alcohol. Enjoy now! Tomorrow may not come. And, with his oldest vines -- 50-80 years' old -- he makes his splendid Les Couchants. A dense and nearly syrupy grenache dominant blend. Wow. None of these see wood. He's a purist of his grapes and his terroir. And all are worthy. From the simplest to the most complex.

Jean David told us stories about how he came to work organically (much against his father's wishes!) after tasting fresh organic vegetables from an 'older brother's' garden. He is just a tad younger than the "soixante huitard" generation, one marked by the return of many young people to the countryside, fleeing the materialism and regimen of city life. He was an early convert, and due to his father's animosity at such backward thinking, set off on his own to travel Europe on foot for a year rather than back down. His father finally agreed to pass him 5 hectares (12 acres) to work in his new fangled ways. And, yes, Jean David and his wife Martine were able to make a go of it. Slowly, he took over more of the family vineyards and surely, he did it his way. His father still has moments of contrariness to all this, but grudgingly respects his son's dream and realization of it.

From Jean David's we took a quite ten minute ride to Gigondas, the second best known "cru" of the Southern Rhône wines. (the first being Châteaneuf-du-Pape). Our destination was a young winery with a young winemaker -- Domaine Les Florets. It's dynamic vintner--of almost local stock (a couple villages' away) has been in place since 2006. A young father of three he is working a small area of vineyards (8 hectares, which is actually about standard for the AOC) with a few extra hectares in Cairanne (another of the Village wines). Young, working organically (if not as yet certified as such), he has taken on vineyards high up in the hills (a tiny tractor could get there, but not much else!) and is perfecting his own recipe for a spicy, berry-filled yet refined and elegant Gigondas. His is not the chewy power punch of many who have vineyards lower down the slopes. His is surprising and pleasing. And he's willing to have me represent him towards the US. What a treat!

He has a rich and flavorful rosé -- grenache, syrah and cinsault. A marvelous and fruit filled Cairanne -- quite startling in the expression of ripe red berries. His classic Gigondas -- with no oaks -- and his far more heavily oaked special cuvée (a blend of grenache and mourvedre) which was spicy, tobacco, and for some reminiscent of a Barollo... Quite the surprise. It will be interesting to see where he goes as the years pass, and to accompany him for part of that voyage!

With vineyards high up in the hills, he is not yet ready to harvest (perhaps next week?) and will be harvesting through to mid/late October! Quite late compared to other Souther Rhône areas. We chatted about the chilly Mistral winds of last week, the soon to be upon us rain storms (not as yet a catastrophe -- the water could help finish off the ripening, particularly if it is followed by sun and some good breezes), and the possibility of returning to see how things are advancing and even/maybe joining his harvesters up in those hill-top vineyards to pick a bit? perhaps a hike to be followed by... -- I think I've now decided where we'll be hiking late September with my group!

As per my methods (and pleasure) I purchased wine in each of the wineries -- one of the ways I maintain my contacts and a way to be received warmly the next time. So, should you be stopping by to visit.. perhaps I'll pull a lovely bottle out for you?

Summer Gains

2010-09-02T12:55:00.003+02:00

This was a glorious summer for both of my children. Major achievements, lots of joy, time with cousins and friends, the rhythm of the summer cottage and so much more.

Jonas can now swim! and dive into deep water! Why so thrilled? Why the exclamation points? Well, this is a child who wouldn't put his head under water in the bath tub the 1st of July and who lived through a near-drowning at the tender age of four. This déclic seems to have given him such a boost of self esteem that he is expressing himself more and more clearly, he is attacking books -- determined to read and to write, he is tolerating littler cousins and friends who aren't always perfect, but hey, he can still play with. He is consciously putting up with his bossy brother, knowing full well that he can stop him if he wants to... and some day will. But for the moment, being teased/not ignored is far more amusing than not. He is in control. It is quite marvelous to see.

And Leo, my elder. Now nearly my height (he'll catch me by Christmas I bet!) leg and arm bones longer than mine, knee caps wider than mine. He is thirteen this summer.

We've had the discussions on hygiene (wash your face daily to prevent pimples, your teeth twice/daily, showers at least every other day, hair at least twice/weekly), and we've had the wake up and start working at school discussion. This following the reception of his report card, which basically said one thing, he's very bright, but he only does the minimum. He can do better.

Thus, how to motivate my beautiful young man? How to convey to him the next path? How to shake him up, wake him up to his own role in his future?

I took this tact: You are thirteen. What do you want in this life? I see you eyeing that comfortable house of our neighbors, the toys, the Wii, the boats, and all that fun stuff. How are you going to get it? I hate to break it to you, but your mother is not wealthy, and though I should be able to get you through high school and we can hope into college, I won't be able to support you. And, it is quite possible that you'll need to care for your father. Even if you inherit his house, the funds from its sale wouldn't last more than two/three years at best. So. You need to work. All these friends we see who've 'made' it worked hard in school and went to university. They didn't settle for the minimum. Yes, you are doing better in school than before, and I applaud this. However, it's still not enough. Sorry my friend, but you need to give more of yourself, more than even you can imagine is necessary to truly get ahead. You are responsible for your future. At this point, I can only be here to help you along. You will make it or no, no one else will hand it to you on a platter.

Gulp.

The reaction? Shock, sadness, and a time of reflection alone in the bathroom. I let him be there. He's an intense one, and I'd said all I needed to (and likely too much), but it had felt fiercely urgent, to convey to my adored elder son that he needs to work harder. And so he sulked (boudé) and stayed out of sight for most of the evening.

It is a month later now. His sulking just that one night. He was far better the next day, and yes, more willing to do his short one page essays for Ma and me, to read aloud with me, and to be helpful.

Today is the first day of school. He is excited. He has the teacher of his dreams -- a lovely man with lots of experience handling multiple Waldorf classes. He will be his guitar teacher as well. Leo is back in his known environment and willing to focus. I will also find him another speech/writing therapist to work on his writing/grammar/etc., He has expressed that he is more than willing to get extra help.

Last year we had the cathartic moment of absorbing the fact that he is not dumb, that he may have a learning disability that makes it, for example, difficult to remember spellings. He clearly doesn't have a photographic memory for letters and words, nor for sentence structure from books, etc., He devoured the series of Percy and the Olympiads this year, and has an idea now that he might have a bit of ADHD in him, if not the dyslexia. In any case, he knows that no one thinks him stupid, but he needs to work harder. School doesn't come easy to him, or rather not the subjects that require writing and written expression. He's fine with math in his head.

May this year be the one where he takes himself in charge and begins pushing himself, discovering what it might be to break through mental barriers, to no longer be afraid when he doesn't 'get' it immediately, but to keep working at it.

We'll see, and I'll be there to cheer him along, and to have more of our pre-adult discussions!

The Art of Conversation - part 1

2010-08-31T18:34:00.002+02:00

I am intrigued by conversation. To put it simply. I am occasionally embroiled in a mess of words. I love to listen, but I love to talk. I've adjusted multiple times in my life to different cultural cues, and these days I find myself questioning yet again just how it all flows.

As I child I was the shy one, the youngest who listened and absorbed. I also played alone or with just one other. I was not a groupie. I never belonged to a clique. Better to be on my own with a book, or at a table with adults than to play the social games demanded upon young females in grade school.

I discovered friendship with my peers in high school, of the birds of a feather variety. My close friends were in all my classes, on the swim team, in the band. We did many things together, played tennis after school, took out the sale boat, cut classes to head to the beach. It was a group thing yes, and I was often the extra one, letting the others laugh and shine as I went along -- fully enjoying myself, but allowing others to lead.

And then I learned to speak French fluently. And suddenly, (I think the wine had something to do with it too), I was chatting away. I was expressing myself. I was present.

Still, it wasn't an overwhelming thing -- I think -- I still took second fiddle to various boyfriends, girlfriends, etc., I was pretty discreet.

Living in Japan opened another door -- to being a clown and an entertainer. What else do you do when you're blond and a head taller than all around you? I started talking with my hands, making up words, expressing myself with sounds that exist in no language known to man, and occasionally managed some sentences in Japanese. But, whatever you learn in school (if you study Japanese), one of the great pleasures of this language is that much is left unsaid. It kind of goes like this: Oh, that woman.... Yes I so agree, she's.... Mmmm, Ah sooo dessunee.... and so on. Never say too much, be suggestive, but not precise, make some interesting noises of agreement and expression. Thank goodness for nuanced expression!

And then I arrived back in France for graduate school. Ready to be discreet, polite, attentive. I waited till I was spoken to, waited till the person in front of me finished his sentence, I was the epitome of grace. And I was ignored. Hm. So, I learned to talk again. I learned to impose myself into a conversation simply to be taken seriously and to be noticed and heard. Gone the discreet Asian influence, enter Gaulic intensity and argumentative tendencies.

The past few years have seen me living with a mono-syllabic husband, and managing tours and cooking classes all over Provence. I learned to talk. I learned to story-tell, laughter and jokes included.

I concurrently honed my skills as a hostess, questioning gently my guests as to their background, their previous voyages, their interest in food, wine, etc., Careful to avoid politics or delicate subjects, noting if someone was uncomfortable with a certain subject and bringing them back to another less offensive one.

But as I move forward in my life, I am coming to see that these years of talking for a living brought me towards a tendency to speak too much. And, frustratingly, it is hard for me to stop at the opportune moment and offer space to those around me to share (though it helps if I drink no more than one glass of wine). I find that I've a tendency to be in the personal and not the general, which also limits where others can contribute. And so I find myself in the position of observer - of myself, but also of the world around me. I am newly interested in the art of conversation. Is this something one learns naturally? at the dinner table? in the car? in school? And which cultures encourage which behaviors? Am I behaving in a French way? in an American way? or somewhere in-between?

Certainly, I am someone who is more often with one friend at a time going into detail and sharing lots on each side. I am less often at the table with a group of adults playing my small role in the life of the conversation before us. Thus the personal naturally dominates my conversation, and it is rarely the group dynamics that lift me to new levels of creativity and adaptation.

I've a dear friend who expressed that she prefers it this way. She finds group conversations tiring and banal, having lived that at a different time in her life. She prefers a more intimate setting and a more intense presence of each participant.

Meantime another agreed with me that the French tend to be lighter and more generalist in their conversation than Anglo-saxons, and that discretion is valued. Others will (or should) show you off to advantage. It is not necessary, and a bit boorish if you do so yourself. (Yes, but when you've a husband who never gave you credit for your part in your lives/business/etc., for 13 years... you do come to doubt this method). JP had brought this point up to me (ouch) and it is far easier to hear it (in a lovely and general way) from my friend. Okay, point taken, time to work on it.

I'm re-reading Cultural Misunderstandings (see the list of books to the right), in particular the chapter on conversation. And my mother is going to find me the letter of Diderot to his love Sophie concerning the salons de Paris and the magical movement of subjects and ideas amidst the participants.

I shall share more as I learn.

Feeling a bit more here

2010-08-26T19:24:00.007+02:00

The house is getting in order. I'm putting away things as they should be, getting the kids' rooms ready for them, watering the garden and just re-investing it all with my energy and presence.

I've refreshed my sourdough bread starter (I stashed it into the freezer for the summer, upon the recommendation of Shirley Corriher in Cookwise) -- or rather I'm in the midst of refreshing it and have added flour and water to it to double its volume now for two days in a row. However, it isn't bubbling fiercely as yet, so I'll wait another day or two to make bread.

I've picked and simmered and canned elderberry syrup, sirop des baies de sureau, for this winter's various throat ailments (though it's rare that the boys are sick, Jonas has been known to cough occasionally). They were there, abundant on the trees, and I'm here. Thus, why not?

It was easy. I got out the ladder, my scissors and a basket and harvested away. Then I brushed the berries into a tub of water with my fingers to remove the stems and wash them, also sift out the dried or green berries, the branches, etc. I put them in my big copper jam pot with two litres of water and two plus 2/3 (all I had) kilos of sugar. I simmered for a bit. Then turned it off and let it sit over night. Then I mixed the whole batch in the blender -- breaking up the berries-- and put it back onto simmer. Then I poured through a strainer, pressing with a silicon spatula to get the least bit out. And voila. Now, no doubt, I should sterilize them. I don't think my quantity of sugar is enough to truly preserve. There was more juice in the berries than I anticipated, and I've quite a bit made. It was only 2 litres of water, but I've 2 bottles (750ml) and 3 jars (500ml).

In fact, the final product is a bit bland and vegetal in flavor. Though it is gorgeously deep purple and enticing to the eye, it won't replace black currant syrup for drinks or kyr any time soon.

Meantime, kidless for the week, I'm living a night life as I've rarely done since my youth. The days are too hot to be up and about (after 11AM that is) and the evenings are wonderfully refreshing and pleasant. There are tango balls all over the region, and so off I go. Being a night owl is not helping me get over jet lag. Quite the contrary. But as I'm able to work somewhat during the day (translations, email list, missive to the world for my tourism business, writing, letters, articles, etc.,) I don't feel completely slothful -- though definitely somewhat.

It is always such a strange thing to have time on one's hands. Once you become a mother, run a household, have a job, a thousand things to do daily, etc., it is simply surreal to be mellow and to discover you have time to read a novel -- if quite lovely. It looks like I'll be finishing Wolf Hall (all about the Tudors and Thomas Cromwell) by this weekend.

Tomorrow a few more errands, perhaps a bike ride? and more writing. Thus, perhaps, I'll feel virtuous and useful, if only briefly.

A Moment of Melancholy

2010-08-22T15:23:00.005+02:00

Ah yet again I am traveling both physically and psychically between countries and worlds. And I wonder... how much effort have I put into being in France? into making things work and coping? And how at ease did I feel back in Michigan these past few weeks? How effortless it was to be respected and accomplished in my fields, to communicate, to be. I was a tad less the outsider that I had so felt last year. I observed, but not like an alien, more in appreciation for what I find so lovely and heart-warming.

Much of the past year, whether in the US or France, I've been observing. It got way out of hand noticing how people dress, what they eat, the level of conversation, how couples seem to work, how children are raised, what daily rhythms resemble, values, goals.... But that's where I've been. Inside and outside at the same time.

While in the US I put on a few pounds -- eating lots more pasta, bread and ice cream, not to mention blueberry and cherry pies than I normally do. Yoga every other day didn't compare to the amount I normally walk each day in Avignon. I gradually left more and more of my elegant clothes in the closet and switched to comfy jeans, shorts and t-shirts. Fewer décolletés, flat sandals, no make-up. I adapted. I read novels and went canoeing. I fed and did dishes and socialized with family and friends.

I visited many -- so often women who are achieving their dreams, making chocolate, making goat cheese, writing cook books, running a fabulous Italian deli.

It felt good.

From a few conversations -- and yes, observations -- I truly do believe that chivalry is more present in Northern Michigan than in Provence. Single women get helped -- with putting away boats, chopping wood, shoveling snow, etc., This is a world that helps he/she who needs it. The Frontier spirit of helping out, and receiving help. Collaborating to survive.

How many times did JP notice that I had to fix my car, work on the house, etc., and simply state that I'd better find someone competent to do that for me over in my neighborhood. If he hadn't the skills to do so, I wouldn't have found that so annoying, nor if I truly had had the funds to hire such people would it have been so hurtful. But, under the circumstances...

Here in Provence in little ways men are attentive -- opening doors, tipping their hats, quick to compliment on your looks, flirt, etc., But for the big things? Well, it's not easy. Most are stressed and over-worked, so, cope on your own. I'm lucky in that Erick still helps out on occasion, and that I've a superb plumber (whom I pay correctly). My neighbor has his moments, but being 'lunatique', i.e. moody, I don't count on him.

What I also truly admired in the US was the level of complicity, respect and genuine admiration and trust I witnessed in a number of marriages. Marriages of equals. It wasn't a game of the sexes, but partnerships. I've not felt that here. Perhaps I've simply had bad luck, or??

Then again, I'm amused by the ease with which many American friends use vulgar language and references, which are just not the norm amongst my French acquaintances. While sailing on a hobi-cat the water surged up through the middle of the canvas. I likened it to a water massage for cellulite (thalassotherapie anyone?). And I heard back the comment more commonly used in this family that it was a Lake Enema. Hmmmm.

There are other examples: my morning ritual includes grabbing a kleanex and blowing my nose; a friend commented that his includes taking a good crap. Oh... did I need to hear that? Yes, I'm a bit shy on these matters, perhaps equally amused and perturbed.

And so as I unpack all that I'd put away for the summer rentals, re-invest my Provence home with my belongings, my photos of my children, I feel a touch of melancholy, nostalgia, and cultural dislocation. A yearly rite of passage, or?

Friends, Food, Poetry

2010-08-19T23:22:00.004+02:00

A 50th wedding anniversary. How many get this far? and how many get this far with such love and tenderness in their eyes and gestures? They've certainly shared values, joys and wonder. The many quotes and references fly about us from Shakespeare (King Lear) to Dr. Seuss and everything in between.

Poems bring tears to all our eyes.
A royal roast pig is a joy to behold and consume.

The kitchen is in motion at all hours of the day: breakfast, clean-up, lunch, clean-up, tea time, clean up, dinner prep, drink hour, dinner, clean-up. We take turns and it all gets done.

The kids roam, swim, go tubing, read, play games, grab some chips and the normally forbidden soda, discover poker and bridge. The dogs are under foot, sneaking a bit from the floor (or a child's hand!), cuddling, playing, barking, sleeping.

The elder folk enjoy the comforts of the deck, a wide range of reading material in their hands.

wild flowers deck the cakes. Bag pipes ring in the air, song is crafted and sung.

And the values of love, consideration, tenderness, communication, respect, honor, attention, and the age-old virtue of being sure and steady waft upon the air and envelope us all.

Another's Point of View

2010-08-15T18:01:00.002+02:00

I have this thing about generalizations. Granted, I’m guilty on occasion of such, but... As I read my way through The Secret Life of France I am startled and frustrated by some of her chapters. Now, to clarify, this book is very well written by a woman who moved in circles I will never come close to. I am in admiration and I am aware of the quite privileged access she has had. (Had I married a Frenchman who shared my classes at Princeton, perhaps, but that's not how my story has played out). She is describing the habits and tendencies of a rarified circle of the very highly educated elite bourgeoisie of Paris. What she says does not hold true for my world in Provence of teachers, farmers, vintners, artisans, massage therapists, essential oil practitioners, artists and musicians.

The last two chapters I read have been strong on politics and the relationship of France (since WWII), to its British neighbor to the West and the Americans across the ocean. She has encountered (she being British, not American), tremendous nostalgia and respect for the British (all the while acknowledging that the sentiment is not returned from across the Channel), and outright scorn, annoyance and disdain for Americans.

Hmmmm. Can I say Thank Goodness I’ve not encountered this in the South? Nor has my mother (granted, a Ph.D in French literature) in her many years backing and forthing across the Atlantic to the city of Lights.

But, as she perpetuates the unfortunate opinion that all the French hate the Americans (NOT TRUE!) I am forced to consider my impression upon people here.

I’ve written before of the cultural confusion I feel when in the US – where I am received as hyper-verbal, WASPy, New England with a European gloss – thus I intimidate on occasion. And the concurrent reception I receive in France where it takes quite a bit of time and knowing me to be convinced of my cultured self (is it so hidden?) and rather deep education (all is respective). Mmmm Yes, my first impression in the hexagon shines through my surface self : bubbly, American accented English (though my French accent is well-received), optimistic and outgoing, as JP would say, my enthousiasme enfantin lends people to not take me seriously and to underestimate me.

A friend recently confirmed that when outsiders saw me (young, pretty, ebulliant) with Erick (older, more established, local) upon our marriage they assumed he had to have wooed me with security, wealth, comfort... Why else would I have stayed? No, he didn’t offer me this, but he did offer me a foil upon which I grew, expanded, developed and discovered my talents, previously unknown to myself. It was his passion for cooking and his region that gave me the impetus to create our business from scratch. He was also willing to do what he was skilled at to complete the picture – the physical renovations of the house, the shopping and cooking, the driving, etc.,

When we were in the midst of divorcing and I was advised by both my lawyer and JP that I really shouldn’t continue to work with him, I am convinced (now) that they assumed he had the where-withall to continue to support me and the children. That the business might collapse without my participation, that I was the one that brought our clients to us... this was an idea completely outside their scope of imagination. I was simply a pretty young thing from America, right? Much to my chagrin (and at that time low self-esteem) I followed their advice. This timed with the economic crisis brought near financial disaster on both our heads.

Over the past year Erick and I have knit our working relationship back together and we now help each other as we are able. A far better solution for both.

So, to conclude: that yes, if Americans are sweepingly (and ignorantly) considered to often be uncultured and less civilized than their European counterparts (particularly by a class of individuals that truly revel in criticizing and judging others) ... I do suffer occasionally from this stereotype. But, not for long. Where people have open minds and the desire to learn, discuss, exchange, snap judgements can be altered.

Curiously, I more often encounter a certain level of cynicism towards the English... but then, I’m American and no doubt our French hosts occasionally play games with the suspected rivalry of the Brits and their former colonists. All is fair game for the gullible...

Meadowlark Farm - Cedar Michigan

2010-08-08T18:40:00.007+02:00

One of the things I adore about this part of the world (Northern Michigan) is the growing consciousness and support for environmentally intelligent activities: houses off the grid, solar panels, individual windmills, organic farms supported by a whole array of clients willing to pledge a seasons' commitment to a crate a week, and so much more.

One of the magical places that I've been introduced to by my dear friend Nancy Allen -- a fantastic cook and cooking teacher of many years -- is the Meadowlark Farm outside of Cedar. It is a small family-run farm firmly anchored by Jenny and her husband. Their children, Ella and Elijah, help out and welcome visitors as graciously as their parents. Nancy has an arrangement with them to cook every Friday for the entire crew of helpers and workers and family and visitors (in this occasion myself, my mother and my two boys) with their array of organic vegetables and herbs freshly picked that morning.

She has also taught cooking to the kids (who are both home-schooled) and written quite a bit about her experiences on her own blog. It seems a fruitful exchange for all participants.

When I called Nancy the other day to see her during my very short vacation up here, she suggested I come over to the farm and join her in the kitchen -- something I always adore doing! When I arrived she put me immediately to work on rolling out the dough for the special Mediterranean pastries, Za'atar, that she was making from Paula Wolfert's superb book, The Cooking of the Eastern Mediterranean. I rolled them out quite thin, and spread a marvelous mixture of herbs and sesame seeds and olive oil atop them. She assures me that as this is a Moroccan specialty, I should be able to find some mixtures in my local stores in France to recreate this wonderful flat bread.

Then I helped her with the beet falafals (sweet, delicately spiced, and crispy fried!) - also from Paula Wolfert- while her friend Maureen and my mother worked on a Greek zucchini and celery dish with raisins, cinnamon, vinegar and onions.

I brought along some of my fresh bread (a bit heavy as the starter has yet to truly bubble away like mine back in Provence. However, it was received as a good, nourishing, whole grain loaf with a nice acidic bite. Little in resemblance to my bread back home, but nonetheless a crowd pleaser.

My boys happily went off to play with Elijah and the farm dogs. I cooked away, and then we all sat down to a delectable and somewhat exotic feast. Yum! After a lovely chat with Jenny, a tour of the barn and the flowers she adds to her vegetable crates (a creative outlet for her), I suggested we bring Elijah back to the lake with us where he spent a fun afternoon with my boys playing Monopoly, swimming out to the raft and exploring our little corner of the woods.

Back to Michigan

2010-08-05T15:18:00.002+02:00

Back to Michigan and back to my boys. Here such a short time, but here nonetheless. Chicago and Detroit bookend the trip. Efforts to connect with wine dealers/importers and distributors are taking time, but I trust will be fruitful. I’m here, but must get to town daily for 2-3 hours (at least) on the computer. This is not always so easily done. I trust my jet lag will continue for a few more days! Only one car between us (my mother and me). The idea of vacation is marvelous, but the realities of running my little businesses when in a home without internet access are tough.

Barely up on my first day and I got out the cutting shears. Mom wanted her hair cut, and Leo offered himself up to me as well. Quite amazing. He’s spent the year growing and growing and growing his hair.

I think I did a beautiful job (pictures to follow), but it is rather a shock to him. He was quite the romantic poet there for a while. Samson has lost his locks.

Jonas is swimming (yeah!). Both of them are playing better tennis. They are taller, more independent, but still themselves and mostly pleased to have me here. With Leo I’ve already had a run-in about summer home-work – writing a page or more by day – that Mom had begun. Oh it just isn’t easy.

Jonas is in do anything to please mode. So he’s got Mom wrapped around his finger. Helpful, delighted, present, lively, quick to respond... Can you ask for more?

And myself? Eating too many yummy local pastries! But reveling in doing my yoga on the deck under the swaying trees. It’s all in the balance.

Yet another book about France...

2010-08-05T15:07:00.003+02:00

My dear English friend (the one with 6 kids, not the one who teaches at school) has shared her copy of a new book by yet another Anglo-Saxon (this time English) about life in France. It is aptly named, The Secret Life of France.

It is amusing, and well-written. I'm mostly enjoying it. However, she makes some serious statements damning a nation's people when her experience is, well, limited to that of a wife of a wealthy and superbly well educated Frenchman of the definitely upper bourgeois class.

Apparently, in such a situation, finding marvelous and true and deep friendships amongst women is near impossible. They're all out to be the most elegant, sexy, alluring to the many (or too few?) men in their world and this competition crushes the possibility of true connection.

What a shame for her is this is her experience. I will testify that it took me some years to make good friendships with women in France, but this is more for their skittishness that you will leave. As a foreign-born woman, are you someone who they can hold in their heart for a life-time? Or will you skip out when the going gets tough? As such, there are perhaps a few more barriers to cross before these very special frienships are offered.

Yes, I do have dear friends. Friends I can count on. Friends I can confide in. Friends who shore me up when the times are difficult. Friends who are honest with me, supportive, at times critical, but with love. I can laugh, hug, cry with them.

As I work my way through the book, I learn that Parisians (of a certain class I assume) have different mores when it comes to sex within and ouside of marriage. Again, I didn't experience this in Provence. Outside of the capitol, fidelity is definitely the preferred way to live and divorce is often the result of infidelity. But then again, duplex apartments in the 16th and castles on the Loire are not being put at risk.

I'm still reading, and finding her observations about politics and other elements quite interesting, at times elucidating. I'm not finished. In any case, one of the details of her story that interests me is she in the end gave up on French men and married an Englishman. They live in France, so you could say she's got the best of both worlds.

Curious. I'll write more when I get to the last page.

Going to the Beach - Un saut à la plage

2010-08-05T14:37:00.007+02:00

When you’ve an urge to go to the beach, and the desire to spend the night there, you are open to what the universe offers. Here in Provence we’ve quite a number of possibilities. Best known to me are Beauduc – the wild beaches that my former husband took me to the first week I knew him and where I’ve held two overnight parties for Leo’s June birthdays – and the Plage d’Arles just beyond Salins de Giraud, the site of many an evening’s dip and barbecue, grillade.

The former is the site of an old fishing village, and once held (till just a couple of years’ ago) a completely illegal squatters’ village of camping cars and proper hand-made cabins, all lacking plumbing, gas, and decent electricity. It was the romantic edge of the Earth to many. A place to completely get away from things. The route there went over a long dirt road with impressively deep pot-holes, past salt paddies, flocks of pink flamingoes, to the end of the European continent. Any further and you’d start pedaling to Africa.

Sad to say, the powers that be decided one fine day to raise all that had once been of the make-shift village of Beauduc. As such, you can still drive down there, camp for a few nights in your tent, even perhaps position your camper van for a few days, but the community is mostly gone, the great open air restaurants specializing in grilled fish have been displaced, and the sky and beaches are more likely to be filled with gliders and power-sailors than amateur fishermen.

The beach beyond Salins de Giraud is a bit more official. In any case the road to it tails off just twenty yards from the waves, so it is far easier to reach. To the left, a couple of hundred yards down the beach is the naturiste (nudist) scene. Camper vans with Dutch, German, British and the occasional French plate are settled there for the summer. Remember tales of seven weeks of vacation? They spend it all here.

To the right are the ‘textile” or suited folks. Here families play in the surf, people build make-shift barriers to define their summer gardens, i.e. the 10 square meters in front of their camping van. Mosquito netting in some cases, many barbecue grills, and a fare number of dogs puncture what in winter is a rather marvelously barren and majestic landscape.

But, I did not get to either of these destinations. When I suggested to my dear friend Martine that I wanted to spend a night at the beach she told me flat out that she doesn’t like sand. She also went into rather graffic, suggestive (can this be done?) detail as to why these first two options were not to her liking. Something about a lack of local outhouses was key to this... Imagine where everyone is at 8AM every morning when you’d like to have a quiet swim? There’s the dunes, and???

You get the picture.

No, her preferred get-away is a pebble beach in Martigues. It is a plage naturiste of old, a place she’s been going to for over twenty years. Where her son learned to swim, where she is at home. She listed its vices before its virtues: lots of old folks (though this goes both ways of course), a close-up view of the oil refineries of Fos Sur Mer (thus best to go when the wind is blowing in the right direction), dinky, small, a bit far away.

However it was the virtues that keep her coming back: right on deep water, one of the deepest bays in the Mediterranean and just at its entrance. Cleaner than Beauduc as it is a pebble beach and ‘ahem’ all the pollution that hits it also reaches the wishfully pristine (not) Camargue, so let’s not be a Camargue snob. And in fact, with the wind going the right way, though we had an uninhibited view of the refineries, they were materially affecting us less than the beaches down-wind. There was also a cafe on the beach run by someone she’s known forever who keeps an unofficial eye on the beach at night. It is a members’ only beach, and there are showers and toilets hooked up to the proper plumbing elements just off the beach.

And so, I found myself one morning not too long ago, lying in my (very pale) birthday suit, enjoying a number of dips into the great waters of the Mediterranean after having spent a quietish night in our tent. With the morning air came large bronzed bellies, deep mahogany tanned drooping breasts, shaven heads and privates, bleached hair, borrowed flippers and protruding body parts as long-time acquaintances came over to our little haven of beach pads and umbrellas to say hello.

Just to confirm a note about hygiene: when visiting the cafe you bring along a towel to sit upon. Though the rest is left open to the air as nature intended.

We stayed but the night and the morning. As it was, though I’d put lots of sun cream on, I did fry my back some (and my butt... underwear and bra straps both were a bit sensitive for the next few days). It was a great get-away. Completely other. We chatted, swam, read, ate our picnic lunch and reveled in the waters of our little corner of the world.

Never say never.

A chèvrier without his chèvres.

2010-07-26T16:45:00.003+02:00

For the first time since the death of Isabelle I've come to visit Paul Pierre. I'd called earlier in June and left a message on his answering machine. Simply stating that I was here, that I was thinking of him. And he called me last week to set up a time for a visit.

As to be expected, he'd plunged right into movement and activity after the funeral, and then collapsed with advanced pneumonia, liquid in his lungs and more. He has now been through treatments galore, hospital stays, and weeks of bed rest. He is up and about and plowing through the papers that must be attended to. The house is layered (they are relatively small layers) with all that beckons. Health insurance, shifting of names on property deeds, retirement accounts, banks, accounts, etc., It is a truism to state that with death comes a pile of paper work, but being close to it is quite impressive, in a rather frightening way.

It is now two months later. You could say he's been through the gauntlet. What is glorious is a sense, a feeling, a knowledge of what solitude might bring him rather than the loss that he has suffered. He was conscious and present throughout the four years of his wife's illness. He prepared, he projected, he handled it in a mighty way. And now, next?

There are projects. Next year Aurelie will take the goats to her own farm. That leaves space below that is refrigerated, clean, kitchen oriented. Perhaps stages, courses in preparing pâtés and pork products? He's done that before, taken three whole pigs on Friday and by Sunday all who participate walk away with their preparations. It would be fascinating, a learning/teaching experience, and worthwhile.

He has land that could be farmed by another, from whom he could collect rent (not to mention well nourished land with the many years of goat droppings upon it). He has a home that could be rented by the week for vacationers (view of the olive grove included). Why not rent to photography folk during the festival in Arles? and offer transportation morning and evening?

The possibilities are there. He is eager and coping. He is open and sharing.

Yes, we spoke of much. I listened. He gave me a father/uncle/man/s advice concerning the demise of my relationship with JP (I said thank you as I listened, rather humbled). He is encouraged that I seem to be learning, growing -- but agreed I've a ways to go yet.

Precious.

Meeting an old friend for the first time

2010-07-26T16:31:00.004+02:00

I mentioned the pleasure I felt in meeting a woman who follows my blog. Truly, it was touching, surprising and enlightening. There was a moment of cultural confusion -- the written English language is relatively easy to communicate in for those of us from the Americas/British Iles/Australia/New Zealand/ etc., but our accents can be quite different! She with her beautiful Irish lilt that I had to listen carefully to, myself with my speedy delivery with no doubt a nasal touch from my NY/Seattle/Mid-West past.

We found subjects in common -- I'd not realized (or had not carefully read) that she shared a love and knowledge of photography with me. We came together in a city and on a day when there were shows aplenty to see, and so we were able to explore this dimension of our connection. We were able as well to touch on the powerful subjects of the soul mate, the couple, the expectations of collaboration, sharing and love. She has lived and lost what I dearly would like to experience. Having lived such beauty once in her life (for 20 years if I remember correctly) will she be granted another such? or will her knowledge, love and expertise shine on a larger world?

To know each other and yet to not know each other at all. I, the American in Provence, getting her hair done, wandering about a city with her dog, bubbling with nervousness and pleasure at our encounter. She, seemingly more poised, a touch older (but not by much), certainly calmer. Her experiences and direction appeared focused. Whereas I am only just gelling a few ideas into a larger whole.

The world of blogging has offered me a chance to share and to communicate. I love the written word. I've now met two different woman who've been following my blog for over a year. It is startling. I know little of them. I have much to learn. It is my turn to ask questions, to listen. They know intimate details of me. They've read me and mine. My time for sharing is put on hold.

Once the first encounter has passed, will we keep in touch further? Will I hop on a plane to Ireland? I'm tempted, but scared to drive on the other side of the road, I might be a burden. Will we collaborate on future projects?

The written word is a first level. The physical presence of two beings in the same space is another. As many who've tried internet web sites to meet a beloved have discovered, the reality doesn't always fit the words read. I wonder again about my outer and inner self. Is there yet a schism there? Do I surprise? or do I confirm?

However, I am also simply grateful. This has been a magical summer filled with much of what I seek: beauty, work, friends and new encounters. Thank you.

A summer of Tango Bals

2010-07-24T13:41:00.005+02:00

And so I return to the world of tango. The outer world. The one I visited only in the company of JP and in which I wasn't particularly at ease.

The summer is a time of many outdoor bals tango. Tango en plein air. But not in Avignon. Here we have the theatre festival and the city hasn't given permission to the tango associations to have outdoor events on the glorious Place du Palais or elsewhere. Ah well.

And so, I travel. And I return to the places of yore. I return to the places I frequented only in the company of JP. At first a bit frightened. I contacted a new friend and asked that we dine together beforehand. I was hesitant to be there. And yes, within minutes I saw JP. We waved and I stayed by my friends.

But then I arrived on the piste, the dance floor. And from a place I knew not was in me I found the courage to catch the eyes of a cavalier and nod yes, let us dance. Someone I'd never seen before. After a tanga of four dances we graciously went on to new partners. I saw, greeted, gave the kisses to and plopped myself in front of every person, female and male, that I've crossed paths with over the last two years in the world of tango. And, I danced the night away.

Ahhhhh. No, I didn't dance with JP. He didn't invite me. He says he meant to but... when he came towards me and I asked if he intended to invite me, he replied in the negative. So I said, no problem, I was just about to dance with D. And off I went.

Rarely before did I stay till so late. Rarely before did I dance nearly every dance. But now, three nights in a row and for I trust two more, I am dancing my heart away. I am present, enjoying the women, enjoying the men. Simply happy to be there. No further agenda. I'm not looking for a lover. I'm not in need. I just want to dance. I am invited but many an unknown, I invite those I've known for years. It's a lovely feeling.

I am welcomed back into a world that barely knew me. I sense the shift in my presence, in myself. Where before I was scared, shy, anxious, in the shadow of JP, now I am there, on my own, in the strength and confidence of being a better dancer. I don't feel childish and at odds. Though I do occasionally let slip an 'oops' when I mess up. However, I no longer take it completely upon myself. The guidage of my partner must be clear as well for me to react and complete the gestures.

And off I go, meeting new and lovely people, sharing special moments, joyous and present. What a gift the universe is offering me! And yes, I did manage to find a lovely pair of simple black summer tango shoes on sale half price this summer. They're getting a work-out!

For those who are curious tango in this region is possible nearly all over. Here's the schedule as I know it now:

Wednesday : tango in Montpellier in front of the museum
Thursday : tango in Nimes at the Place du Chapitre
Friday : tango in Nimes at the Place d'Assas
Saturday : Tango in Martigues by the canals
Sunday : tango in Aubais at the winery Aubais Mema and in Aix
Monday??
Tuesday??

This week is the Tango Guinguette in Caromb by the Lac du Paty.

Auntie Mame?

2010-07-24T11:06:00.004+02:00

I feel like Auntie Mame. I'm the one off in left field, or more specifically, the one who has leapt across the ocean and added a certain gloss of European education and culture. Were I still back in the US, in Boston or Northern Michigan, I would hold myself a bit differently.

I would perhaps speak less about politics. I would be at ease with men as big brothers and easier in their company. I certainly wouldn't wear a transparent top with a decorative, made-to-be-seen bra underneath. Nor would I flaunt my décolleté.

Yes, when you live in France you do learn to dress differently. You acquire a certain ease with your body being at least partially on display. If you are beautiful, if you have assets worth showing off, you do so. Is it demeaning? I don't live it as such. However, I am careful when back home.

In France it is not considered crass or cheap to wear a lovely black bra under a sheer white blouse. Quite the contrary. You'll see this combination on the most elegant and bourgeois of women, and these of a 'certain age.' And you certainly don't worry if bra straps are in view in the summer under a slip of a top. That's simply summer wear. Accept it as such.

And so I startled and educated the young woman in my care. It is alright, I was careful. When entrusted with a sixteen year old of lovely manners, superb parents, generous spirit and more, I hold myself to high standards of care and attention. But I must say we did remark upon, laugh at, and contemplate these certain cultural differences.

I suppose that the character Carrie in Sex and the City put out the vibe of being sexy and smart while nearly always having her bra in view. And many Europeans assume Americans are simply like that. Little do they realize the power of our Puritan past. Nor the fear that sexy demeans. It goes far beyond the surprise of meeting a blond with brains. If a woman is proud of her appearance, elegance and allure, can she run a corporation? Or must she dim it down, and be subdued to earn and keep respect for her intellect and administrative powers?

In any case, in France it is demeaning of yourself to not be at your best. It is appropriate and expected that anyone with a decent level of self-esteem is aware that enjoying her beauty and physical presence is perfectly normal.

And so, we have a choice of lingerie that is quite marvelous. We have boutiques in every village that specialize in such, and when sales time comes along, we stock up.

Thus, in my role as Auntie Mame, I may need to pick up a couple of pretty brassieres for a certain sixteen year old. Decorative, comfortable, in pretty patterns, easy to wear, and most definitely not with added padding. Apparently something that is difficult to come by back home in Boston.

Feminine Power Web Seminar

2010-07-24T10:57:00.002+02:00

The link is here feminine power seminar

I've been following this seminar now for five weeks. It is an astonishing and gracious and generous world of women. Quite extraordinary and inspiring. I came upon it by being on the emailing list for Dr. Jean Houston (jeanhoustonfoundation.org) and thought, hm, I'm going through some interesting/tough times, why not? I too am seeking inspiration, direction, collaboration, encouragement, clarity. I too will benefit from tools to focus me, strengthen me, reassure me and give me the courage to go forth to share the gifts I have to offer.

And so it is. Weekly there is a two hour seminar, then two question and answer sessions, plus the web based forum where people exchange and share and simply write in. There are weekly questions to ponder and recommendations for keeping a notebook. Power statements (as opposed to affirmations) to define and integrate.

I am in contact with women shamans in Canada, inspired yoga teachers and coaches in Australia, midwives in India, and vastly more. A reservoir of a thousand women seeking to be more, to be all they can be.

It is quite incredible. And all this I have on my iphone in mp3s, and on my computer in pdfs.

Take a look friends. If for nothing else, I deeply appreciate the mastery of language by the two women who run this seminar, Claire and Katherine. The graciousness and skill with which they receive and honor each question, the conviction and passion and love with which they share their knowledge and encouragement.

Such simple ideas, and yet so powerful.

T'is been a while

2010-07-23T19:45:00.003+02:00

I am fully in my life these days. Free time to write seems out of my grasp. I have been working intensely throughout the early part of this month -- touring, animating wine tastings, hiking the Luberon, biking the Alpilles. And then once more a visit to the clinic for an operation (same as earlier this year). Once more a day of being completely out and zonked and taking time to recover, yet working the while. And then, down. Late mornings, but still rendezvous, meetings, errands, a lovely evening of friends in my camping garden.

And so I come back to the written word. So much as flowed through me. Where do I start? I've quite a few ideas to pursue, themes to discuss. I'll get to them.

I am reading, The Secret Life of France -- an interesting book by yet another anglo-saxon who has married French. However, her life is quite other than mine as she married wealthy and upper class in Paris, a world I've only barely visited. Her experiences differ quite a bit from mine. I will get into these in future blogs.

I am listening and following an internet seminar for women, "Feminine Power" The essential course for the awakening woman. It is wonderful. At this point I've only been able to download the sessions and discussions after the fact as the timing of the phone calls is difficult for me to manage. But I find them nourishing, inspiring, and focusing. What is feminine power? I'll share more on this in a blog.

I've had visitors to my camp site, in particular the 16 year old daughter of a dear friend from Boston. I'm the kooky Aunt Mame to her more reserved family. With me, we discuss pretty lingerie, bras available on this and that side of the Atlantic, fashion choices, class and crass.

And I've been dancing. Yes, tango is still a lovely part of my life. I'm going out and dancing with many a cavalier. I am reaching out, linking eyes and inviting men to dance. We do our tanga of 4 and then I float on to another, or I'm invited. I am braver, stronger, more assured -- even when I catch a glimpse of a certain person. The desire to be fully me, to take back my power, to revel in who, what, where I am... it is stronger than the disorientation of this life as a single woman slightly at odds in the South of France.

And, I'm being with dear friends. New ones (from my blog! a meeting in my part of the world with one of you who've been following me), and old ones, ones who've become closer and dearer. It is magical. The universe is being generous.

Testing the Waters

2010-07-14T12:04:00.003+02:00

Hmmm, the single life. It's interesting. There are moments that are quite precious. Going out to concerts and events with friends, sleeping in, moving at my own pace, eating or not, just being with my dog Filou. But there are also curious and unsettling moments. I'm not truly sure what I want.

It is a chance to be with me. I need this. Of this I'm fully aware. It's a chance to shift directions, to go deeply into myself and my potential, the possible of my life.

I'm living a blend of lots of work, time alone, being with friends, and going out on my own. The tango world is there to amuse me, but also to throw me off balance a bit.

With the temptation of many an evening of dance this summer I agreed to go out with a dancer I'd danced with here and there over the past two years. It was truly a lovely date. But not.

The evening after I'd spent days cleaning my house for the renters, still exhausted, not completely present, stressed from the general over-fullness of the month of June. I said yes to an invitation to the opening night vernissage of the summer art show in the Palais des Papes and the Petit Palais. I said yes to mingling with the mondio of the Vaucluse and Provence. And I said yes to dancing by the canals of Martigue, a little Venice, under the full moon. But then I said no.

The thought, the act, the physical realness of a man groping me (somewhat gracefully, but also in a very deaf way), just made me ill. No, I'm not ready. Thank you, the evening couldn't have been more lovely, but, no. I can't. I've just come out of something intense and I just can't. I can dance, I can go out, I can chat, but that is all I can offer.

So, take your hands of me and take me home. Bye.

I saw him again Sunday night, after my day feeding guests at JP's and after my tango class with one of my favorite teachers. Not unexpectedly he was obnoxious. Les femmes sont des drôles de bêtes, he said. Yes, and no. I am simply not ready for more than being spun around the dance floor.

And so I was, by others, by my teacher, by pleasant unknown men who were respectful and amused. And then I went home alone.

Back to my cocoon of a camper van, back to my dog, back to my very good stack of books.

Yes, it is interesting being where I'm at. I'm discovering myself what I can and cannot handle. I am realizing daily what is possible, what I want, what I can tolerate, what I seek. The lessons are many.

A meal for wine

2010-07-14T10:52:00.004+02:00

Though it's not completely easy at this point, I am periodically working with JP as the chef to his wine tasting courses, or the co-host for his Japanese guests, etc., And, I rise to the occasion. I'm never paid enough. But is anyone when it comes to food prep? It's a wonderful world to be a part of, but it is not one where the hourly wage is particularly high. Thus, I do it for the experience, and to learn myself.

This time the givens were: 8 guests, wines of many a varietal discovered during the tastings, a very hot summer's day, and a specific request for both fish en papillote and meat in sauce. So, I went to work:

I do apologize that there aren't photos here -- I was focused on the other tasks at hand and completely neglected to visually document the event and its components.

First course: a cold summer fruit gaspacho:

1 large melon and 1 small (orange flesh, but honey dew would have been lovely too)
1 large cucumber
the juice of 2 lemons
two tablespoons of fresh lemon thyme, though mint might have been interesting
salt and sugar to taste
3 small apricots diced
1 yellow bell pepper roasted, peeled and diced

I mixed the first three ingredients in the blender -- it made two blender-fulls, about 2 1/2 quarts. I poured these into a large bowl and added salt and sugar to taste. I then went to the garden to get the lemon thyme, snipped it and sprinkled it in. I put this blend aside in jars in the freezer for the next day.

The next morning I took the jars from the freezer to defrost. When I could, I poured them into the soup tureen, stirred them a bit, then added the diced yellow bell pepper and apricot before serving.

For the soup -- completely lacking in fat and having the acidity brought by the lemon juice and the fresh apricot -- we decided that amongst the possibilities for accompaniment the lusher viognier (though this was a relatively tart viognier, not heavy on the honey and apricot direction at all) and roussanne blend from the Languedoc were far more agreable than the tart sauvignon blanc or chablis.

Next up was the salmon en papillote on a bed of yellow squash. I sprinkled anise seed below and above the salmon, a pinch of salt, a tiny squirt of lemon and a drizzle of olive oil before wrapping up my packets and baking gently till done. The softened squash really added a lovely additional texture to the dish, and the delicate anise was just the right note. We found that this softer dish was enlivened by a non-oaked chardonnay, and not bad at all with the tart sauvignon, though I also appreciated the floral rosé from the Costières.

The pork roast I fixed with sun-ripened cocktail tomatoes, onions and roasted garlic. I added sprigs of rosemary from my garden, a drizzle of olive oil, 3 tablespoons of honey and salt. Super simple. I browned the roast, then removed it from the pot. Added the onions and more olive oil and cooked till soft, then I put in the tomatoes cut simply in half, and the garlic cloves whole. I simmered till reduced and put the roast back in. I put the sprigs of rosemary on top, let cook 20 minutes or so covered and then removed from the heat. This was all done the day before the meal.

The next day I took my pot out of the fridge and brought it over to the winery. I put it on the stove top and simmered it gently for another half hour, drizzling the honey over top. I then turned it off and awaited the moment to serve. It simply improved in its tart/sweet juices.

We paired both a rich Tavel rosé -- deeper in color and higher in alchohol than the pressé directe that you find often on the market these days, and a spicy, fruity syrah with this dish. With the tart/sweet notes and the white meat, it is truly a very flexible dish for pairing.

The last dish was a straightforward mousse au chocolat noir. And I mean noir! I don't like my chocolate mousse too sweet, it is 'écoeurant' to my palate. I had a barely sweetened fresh raspberry purée to accompany it, but put it on the side so that the wine pairing could occur with just the chocolate notes.

For our dessert we appreciated the rich and syrupy aged Jardin Secret from Domaine Cabanis (syrah dominant) from 2001, a younger and more on the fruit syrah from a neighbor that had been aged and concentrated in new oak, and a white rum. A smokey/toasted whiskey is also quite marvelous with chocolate.

And thus the meal concluded. Yes, there was a cheese course between the pork and the mousse, and it showed a perfect pairing between a creamy cheese of the Loire and the farmy Pinot from Burgundy. The latter which had not shown up well during class here revealed sweet and lush notes when paired with the subtle fats of the cheese. Hmmm

Next course? in November 2010. Then menu will then reflect the fall. We shall see what inspires.

A quite day amidst chaos

2010-07-10T21:57:00.003+02:00

How strange to simply lie abed. Still, quiet, surrounded by the sounds of my island. The birds singing as the sun rose gave way to the screeching cicadas. The distant train to the west competed with the road across the Rhône to the east. My little camper van was at first a touch chilly, and then gradually warmer and warmer. The mosquito net over my head (a recent purchase) kept the pesky bugs at bay.

I slept in.

Ahhhhh.

A slow emersion from my cocoon. A book came to hand. And why not? What a luxury to read in bed in the morning before my tea and breakfast. No immediate agenda before me. Just a couple of possibilities. Thus, slowly, leisurely, I awoke, became vertical, straightened out my little space, did a bit of sweeping, enjoyed the gentle breezes in my green world, read more, sipped my tea, and eventually dressed and headed into town to lunch with a dear friend: she of the Thai massage skills. As we sat and nibbled a simple vegetarian menu many an actor, dancer, singer came by to give us their pamphlets (tractes), with some looking really quite good. I'll be able to plan my last week in Avignon before heading to Michigan with pleasure.

Yesterday I finished my Five day bike tour of the Provence villages in the Alpilles to acclaim from my very lovely guests. Ahhhh. 120 kilometers or so we accomplished this week. Much of it late morning. Between and betwixt I nestled in visits to my artisans, some nice lunches and even a nap upon the rushes of the fresh clipped olive branches in the shade of the olive trees. And truly, at least three of us could be heard to snore!

It was an energetic week to put it lightly.

To cap it off, I enjoyed an evening out with my new Franco-American friends aswirl in the crowds of the Theatre festival. Till, that long in coming "coup de pompe" fell upon me and home and bed were all I truly wanted.

And thus, a day between days, a day between outings, a day of my own making. Hmmmm Maybe next time I get one of these I'll find time for yoga?

Friendship in a Foreign Land - the most recent installment

2010-07-08T21:28:00.003+02:00

When you live in a land far from your family, friends count for a lot. So do memories -- perhaps relatively recent for others, but strong and present for yourself. The occasion will arrive (oft repeatedly) when you realize that you've put certain people into the box of 'dear friends' and they barely remember your name. No, it is rarely as bad as that, but it comes as a surprise to both parties when these different feelings and sense of importance come to the fore.

The other evening I was invited to a friend's house with my two guests. A seemingly simple evening became very complex. This friend is someone I've known for over thirteen years, since I was pregnant with Leo. She was present at the creation of Erick's and my first business, the Association Cuisine and Tradition. In fact, I do believe she was the president of our little association. She came often to our house for meetings, and joined us at the dinner table.

Later, as lives became more complex, we saw less of her, but we were still on the list of invites for her wedding to a fellow dear friend. And so life goes on.

Since I've lived in Avignon, her husband has become a major player in my existence. He is my plumber, aka my guardian angel. When I call, he comes. I pay him faithfully and immediately upon work done -- anxious to not abuse the friendship. And oh what a relief it is for me to have at least one person I can count on. I'm afraid when it comes to doing work around the house and garden, my car, etc., I've not a full hand of these people.

I was particularly touched that these friends can still be such even though I've divorced their much-loved friend, the father of my boys.

In my mind, I'd built up these two. The former a woman with Jewish roots, a mover and shaker, a smart and sassy lady who got things done, armed with a legal degree and a will of iron. In her I saw many women I'd known and loved in New York. Many colleagues of my mother's whom I admired and hoped to emulate. Not just hot air, but intelligence and focus and generosity all wrapped up in a great package.

In fact, I've seen very little of this woman I so admire. She briefly helped mediate between Erick and I, but I thought it best not to mix friendship and divorce. So, I've run into her here and there, but mostly worked with her husband whom I always feed when he works for me, chat with, share news about Erick with, etc.,

And so, here we are, on our second night of dining together in the same week. Once at my place, once at her's. And, this is the last night my friends from the States will be with us, and the only evening another friend might meet them. And so, it seemed possible to add two to the mix, with salad, wine and bread as offerings, for our dinner party. I of course called to check. But all seemed well on the phone.

And then we arrived -- Filou in tow (hard to leave him back at the camper van)-- and as the proverbial saying states, all Hell broke loose. When she saw Filou she flipped. So I put him back in the car. And then she disappeared having had a row with her husband over the banishment of the dog. I assured her Filou was fine in the car and apologized for having foolishly brought him. But, the event was not over.

When I'd arrived, the gate to the house was open, so I pushed it further and called out, Allô, and walked in with my now four friends - two American and two Avignonais. And it came across as an invasion of the most rude and dramatic sort. A major whoops occurred as my friend expressed her dismay and confusion and I felt horribly out of my depth and confused and tried to figure out where I'd so over-stepped the bounds of our friendship.

And here we are at the crossroads of very different shared memories and experiences. Thirteen years is a lot in my life -- it goes back to my arrival in Arles. And here was one of the first people I met, someone who was there while I was nursing Leo, someone who had been so instrumental in our professional lives, and also personal. One of the first to invite me to a marriage, etc., etc., Not to mention she resembled so many loved ones from home. And then, her husband was a savior in my eyes (which she actually found quite distasteful, as he is so for many a client and thus she finds his work bleeds into their home life, so I clearly touched a very sore point on that one), and, and, and... I felt so close to her, down right cuddly and grateful. But for she, I was simply that little American wife (now ex) of her dear friend, and well, a client of her husband.

Yes, whoops. However, where it is painful and rather frightening to hear how you've upset someone, it does permit you to try to right the wrong. And so I considered and reflected and then went to help her in the kitchen and try to explain myself.

In the meantime, my Avignonnais friend was doing a masterful job of smoothing things over, helping, discussing the situation, sharing notes on friends, imposition, expectations, etc.,

In the end, we came to a new understanding of our relationship and both of us are desirous of deepening it and getting to know each other better. How could a lady from Avignon have any idea that her simple Jewishness meant so much to me? Her spunk and her smarts, her education and her general energy? And, how startling for myself to have the foreignness of my being yet again thrust into the light. The relative importance of years lived, years shared, thoughts conveyed.

When you lived cut off from your family and childhood friends -- not the common experience here for the locals -- it is quite normal to give a supreme importance to friends. As the cliche goes, you can't pick your family but you can pick your friends. And so, I've often described to these friends their importance in my life, que je construit ma famille française, that I've sought to know and surround myself with marvelous beings. That I revel in them, that they are tremendously important to me.

I do not make the distinction between family and friends when it comes to being needed or called upon. I'm there for them both as I am able. And, a gifted juggler and a master of Plans B, C, D, and onward to infinity, I will do my damned best to respond.

Yes, I think of a certain person and his clear limits and distinctions between these two worlds. And I know, I never crossed the line into his box for family. I stayed outside. And thus no, he would not be there for me as he would for his mother or his daughter or his brother.

It's strange for me to confront such a way of thinking. But, I'm a traveler, I'm a recent arrival, I'm trying to dig my own roots and create a sense of belonging in a world onto which I might be permitted to graft, and in which I often struggle and flail.

Yet more lessons in humility.

Des Réparages

2010-07-03T12:37:00.006+02:00

My first bike tour. And I'm busy checking out all the details. I've biked the two routes I knew least: up and over the Alpilles from Mouriès to Eygalières, Eygalières (and our favorite organic winery in the region) to St Rémy de Provence, then St Rémy de Provence to Avignon.

I was a bit apprehensive for the first. I've always been someone who loved to bike. For years I only had a bike not a car (in my past lives in NY and Seattle), but it'd been awhile. Could someone who walks lots and does somewhat regular yoga be able to ride over the steep Alpilles hills? And yes, no problem. Thus, if I can do it so can my clients. It's 6-7 kilometers going up and up at a relatively stable slope/pitch. I shifted gears, drank water, stopped to photograph a bit on the way, and managed fine. Oh yes, far more experienced individuals did pass me. But that's okay. I wasn't racing, I was enjoying the views of olive orchards, vineyards, shaded roads, majestic rocky cliffs. T'was well worth the ride.

I was greeted with joy and liquids by my friends at the winery (Domaine d'Eole, see their link), got my bearings and headed off to St. Rémy de Provence. There's a lovely road that parallels the main road that I could take. It is the ancient Via Aurelia (think Roman times) and is lined with some of the most spectacular country estates...

I arrived in St Remy, if not fresh, then certainly not exhausted. The total for the day was 20 or so kilometers. And though the thermometer read 41C (101F), I was easily refreshed with a cool white chocolate and fresh mint drink (or two) at the chocolatier's. Ahhhh

My second day's tour (St. Rémy to Avignon) was done in the company of dear friends from Boston/Arlington. Off we went on rented bikes, water and fruit in our sacs. We took the route I'd wanted to take, along all the smallest roads, through my favorite villages, saw the reassuring sign that noted that my favorite baker in Maillane will be back from vacation in time for my group next week (yes!) and toodled along up to the bike rental shop just beside the ramparts in Avignon.

Though we set out at 11:00, and it was already beastly hot, we managed the not-quite two hour ride with ease, though our faces did get a bit red. Many of the roads are shaded with the wonderful plane trees of Provence (aka sycamores) and biking along we felt a lovely breeze. All sweat was whisked away by the dry air, but we kept ourselves replenished with water.

Thank you friends! and thank you Provence for being so lovely. I'm now assured of the ease and pleasure of the routes I'll be taking, and bonus -- there'll be lavender fields, sunflower fields, vineyards, rocky cliffs, olive groves, canals, and sweet villages to bike through and past. Photo-ops aplenty.