New Colors, Always Beautiful - My Favorite Potter

 Following a path I know infinitely well, roads I've traveled more times than I count, I turn at the last roundabout and follow the hand-painted village signs towards bulls, the Petite Camargue and the Potter. This is the village of Le Cailar, and home to a pottering family. From mother to daughter, from daughter to husband. Creativity, strong family ties, joy, connections, unbelievable numbers of hours working. Radiant smiles whenever I see them. The world sends them their share of troubles, though this little back garden feels as close to Paradise as one could reach, and they weather them.

  

My memories overwhelm me, but the present takes precedence. I take Véronique in my arms - I've been away so long, and it's been multiple years that we've not seen each other. I can't only give her the classic bises as greeting, I must give her a hug, I must hold her. And, joyously, generously, she is willing. I love this woman and her family, and seeing them again, well, healthy, there, with a whole new surge of creativity and beauty pouring from their hearts and their hands. Tears well up.

No, this is not your normal: look at the lovely wares of my artisan article. I can't help but add my emotions into the mix. I lived 18 years in this world, now 3.5 years ago, and coming back, being so warmly received, everything is tinged in more than rose-colored glasses, more like deep, rich, roaring ochre from the clay beneath my feet here.

Véro has started playing with three dimensions in a way she'd not done before. And she's started creating characters in this new world. For years she made exquisite and personalized marriage plates (I've offered these to more than a few friends) and birth plates (Jonas has one) that have lovely personages on them, much like the little girl above on this plate. Now, however, she's taken this idea and run with it. She's started created exquisite plant and garden art.

And vases to be hung on your wall (these are reminiscent of a shape her mother used to work with).

 

 

 She's now making tall vases, and cooky jars and, simply beautiful - if fragile - dolls where the hair, the accessories, the dresses, the add-ons are all inspired by the flood of quirky and bewitching images that stream through her. Visiting mid-winter, her collection was much diminished by Christmas markets. But she's getting back to work, and I imagine by Easter, her shop will be full of marvelous new subjects. And, if you are lucky enough to visit, or to spy her at one of the many regional potters' markets, do give her my best!

I've likely brought quite a number of my readers to this little shop over the years. So, you will join with me in also appreciating (and coveting) some of the new colors that Véro has started working with. The designs are reminiscent of her classic style, but she has turned towards new pallets of colors, in particular a rich red base and a deep dark blue. Having recently visited Norway, I am struck that these have an almost Scandinavian feel to them. She's even playing with simply 2 colored pieces - something very unusual for this self-proclaimed over-decorator.

I do think I need to organize that special pottery tour like I'd always considered way back when. We would need to organize safe shipping, or come prepared for adding a second over-sized hard-sided box to the airplane allotment. What do you think? Tempted?

From mother to daughter: an inheritance of skill, creativity, joy and life.

Truffle hunting in the snow

 After five weeks of attending the Carpentras Truffle Market assiduously every Friday morning, I seem to have become a fixture. Or at least, many men are looking at me wondering who is this woman? and perhaps I've got some official credentials for being there? Perhaps that she's is a journalist? or?

I've also persuaded one man to take me and my guests out for a tour and a truffle hunt. It was the old photographer's trick. Take good pictures, and give them to him. Come back, purchase truffles. Be present but not intrusive. Next thing you know... he's offering.

And so a plan was made for a Monday morning. However, that Sunday, the Mistral was blowing at 140km/hour, trees were down on the roads, and it was scary even considering leaving the house to bring my son to his friend's for the night. Checking the météo it was clear that truffling that Monday was not going to happen. So, I replaced the day's events last minute with some wine tasting at Châteauneuf-du-Pape (always a Plan B in my pocket), and arranged to meet the truffler close by his village on Tuesday morning.

There was a dusting of snow still on the ground, but the sun was shining brightly and the wind had calmed down. One couldn't ask for more lovely weather and conditions for being out truffling.

We climbed into his car alongside his dog, piled into the dust and muddy floors, and then off he zoomed to his truffle properties. Down bumpy dirt roads, off to one direction and then another, spectacular views of vineyards and the hillside town beside us, till we ended up in a scrub-brush surrounded clearing filled with oak trees of many sizes and ages, plenty of wild juniper (Cade), and a few ancient dry stone bories in various states of repair. You could imagine being here in another age, perhaps with goats out nibbling the bushes, and huddling away into the dark and protected circle of stones when a sudden averse rained down upon you.

A bit worried by the thin city boots on one of my guests (her luggage had been lost for over six days by Air France!), he set off with his faithful canine colleague to see what he would find. I promised him that we were happy to simply be with him during this hunt, if we did or didn't find truffles, it would all be ok. More than once, he stopped, looked around, took a deep breath and shared how much he loves going to work every morning.

One of the things to know about experienced trufflers. They really know their lands and where truffles will be and should be. They've explored them carefully with very good dogs, repeatedly. And, once you've a tree that produces, it will continue to do so for years going forward. Thus, really, when they go out every week to harvest, they are guiding their dog to the best spots, encouraging him to sniff out in a far smaller radius than we imagine.

And so it was for us this day. We followed our guide across his orchard, to particular trees, by particular bushes, and in most cases there was something to dig up. Not always, but he found a good handful that day.

His dog was a funny one - trained to start digging (and thus save his master a bit of manual labor) he would occasionally break a truffle. But, the benefits of his front paws outweighed any loss of small truffles. This dog also was quite clear that he was a necessary part of the operation. As such, he happily received a treat when he found a truffle. But, he would also demand a second treat before getting back to work.  You could see him hang back, waiting, pretty much letting his boss know that yeah, he'd get back to work, but, ahem, ... cough it up first buster.

Our guide is an entrepreneur. He started out as a farmer, but then switched to stone masonry and repairing and renovating the traditional stone homes of the Lubéron. He now has a couple rental properties that he manages. He also purchases, restores and resells vinyl records with images on them, and he has a whole stash of books he sells second hand. Truffling is something he's come to more recently, and he's attacked it with a vengeance. He's read, interviewed, investigated, followed and learned all he can of the tuber melanosporum. And now he has purchased and renovated quite a number of truffle plantings that others invested in, tended and then gave up on.

Over the past twenty years, it has become a trend to plant truffle mycelium injected/infected oak or walnut trees on property that looks propitious for truffles. (limestone, good drainage, good exposure). I used to hear that in general 15% of your trees would bear in 15-20 years. As such, it was as much an investment for your children as for yourself. Purchasing lands that were in disrepair, but already planted with these trees, my guide had gone about pruning, clearing, and healing his lands. And, he's been well rewarded.

Once our hunt was over we went back to his house for an apéritif. My client with her thin city boots put her feet up by the fire in his wood stove, and we all enjoyed a glass of rosé. He showed us how he brushes off his truffles, divides them into various quality levels - brumales, mediocre, broken, good but small, good and good sized. He stores them in cloth bags in a cold place, and then brings them to sell Friday morning in Carpentras. He also has private clients who call him and request shipments - throughout France and the European Union.

So he's both a truffler and a seller. A less common combination in that world where often there is a stark division between the trufflers (rabassaou) and the buyers/resellers (courtiers). As I hung around the truffle market on those Friday mornings, I'd get into conversations, or simply sidle over and start listening. The discreetly dressed, scruffy haired, capped paysans would explain to me that those on the outside of the ring of tables (the sellers) arrived in rusted out 2cheveaux, wore muddy boots, and hoped for the best. Those on the inside of the rind, (the buyers) arrived in BMWs and Mercedes, wore leather jackets, schnazy shoes and pretty much had the power in their hands. It was confided to me that the Courtiers got together ahead of time and set the price they were willing to pay. Thus, though from the outside, witnessing the price per kilo range from 190-240Euros the first week I was there (right after the New Year) to a high of 650Euros and back down to 450-500Euros my last week, seems pretty random and chaotic, it was actually pretty tightly controlled. The outside elements: rain, the Mistral, holiday weekends - quality, quantity and demand - were calculated into the estimates. Then men (and women) carrying upwards of 15-20,000Euros in cash in a pouch draped across their chest, carefully held under their coats, called the shots.

My last morning at the market I spent time chatting with a Courtier. He was gracious and informative, letting me know that in general, he purchased between 25-30 kilos each week, and that his primary markets were Manhattan and LA, where he had a personal/professional connection with an ex-pat Frenchman (or woman) who did the selling on the ground there. As he bantered back and forth with one of the more scruffy of the gentlemen who are present weekly at the market, after taking a good sniff in his canvas bag, "voleur ! tu n'as que des brumales, je n'en veux rien de ton sac ! va abuser un autre" the other retorted laughing, that he knew he had true melanosporum truffles in his bag, and he'd be off to find a purchaser more worthy. Perhaps..

I downed my café noisette, took a last few photos, and off I went. Next time, I hope to repeat my attendance, and perhaps, be taken into the inside ring to sniff and inspect alongside the Courtiers. At least as I left that sunny morning, it felt quite possible, and only another few visits away.

Climbing a steep hill with goats

What a day! The French have a great saying "resourcer" meaning going back to your source, back to the source of your knowledge, learning, roots, family, nourishment, inspiration... And that's what it's like when I'm back here.

Today was a trip to meet with a handful of sheep and goat herders, some for meat, some for cheese, out in the Lubéron, up in the hills above Lauris. We were in the home and pasture lands of a young goat herder. His wife makes the cheese, he cares for the goats. There were but 40 or so, all with horns, raised biodynamically, and pastured on and over and in the rough and steep grounds of the Luberon park land, aka, Garrigue, rich in herbs such as rosemary and thyme, covered in short little oak trees, and speckled with prickly juniper, majenta rockroses, and more (depending the season).

As we presented ourselves to each other we sipped freshly infused thyme and rosemary (no coffee here). When the presentations got to me, after learning of the man who has 100 Rove goats and 20 years handling them, the young man who has 300 sheep all kept out of doors, the neighbor who has 50 sheep, and looks towards more, and my friend Catherine with her handful of black belly meat sheep, I shared my Franco-American background. François, with his 100 Rove goats looked at me and said, "hey, I've heard about you! From Laure, the "commercialle" at Maison Mons, and oh yes, I know Claudine Malbosc, I did my internship with her and Yves 20 years ago, and of course I know Jacky, and Hélène, annd Christian... " And so it goes. The world of goats is quite small. And tales of my project creation in Michigan have traveled far.

As we headed out to walk the goats, we first visited the bucks, calmly kept in a field (all the time, their only shelter the trees) with a donkey. The donkey acts as a social buffer, both protecting, but also quieting the bucks.

I couldn't help but gravitate towards a marvelous older man who was telling tales of dining upon his truffles. I listened closely as he regaled us with how to make the most amazingly flavored blood sausage (boudin noir) possible. Well, the week before you slaughter your pig, you give her a bucket of truffles (these are apparently low-cost when you can find them in your backyard, i.e. the Lubéron hills) daily. When at last you slit her throat, the blood that spills will be scented with truffles. Catch it in your frying pan, stir it up, and fill your casings.

I must say, that's a new one for me :-)


Truffles being his primary income source, he has his methods. Leaving the village with your dog early morning is simply too suspect. Someone's going to follow you. And, well, the truffle fly method is something you do between 12 & 2pm, again a very suspicious time to be out and about (normal humans lunch and nap at these hours). So, to out-wit any sneaky, some-time friends who might wish to suss out truffle hot-spots, you must adopt a different tactic. Jeannot goes out for his primary investigative walks in August and September. When he spots what are called white truffle mushrooms, spikes that come up, perhaps split and crackled on the cap, he marks the spot with a few barley grains (after harvesting these white mushrooms to take back home for his mid-day omelette). When he returns to the hills late fall/winter, the barley has grown, and the truffle beneath it will have burned it golden. He can spot these even by the light of the moon. And so, he collects his truffles, takes them home and sells them, no one the wiser.

Our goat-herder took us up into the hills along a portion of his daily three hour tour. Steeply we climbed, slipping in the shale, trying not to pull on the rough oak scrub brush to pull us up to the next level. Breathing hard, we huffed and puffed to where the goats were happily nibbling the oak leaves and the rosemary buds in a fresh stand of greenery.

Our herder/host explained that his goats do not have issues with parasites, and are in excellent health. There are, however, the occasional "mechanical" problem. I.e. we spotted a very happy and active 3 legged goat (he did not divulge how she became 3 legged.. so the mystery remains), goats get tears on their teats, and ear tags get lost in the branches. But, all in all, it's a small price to pay for healthy goats. He likes the quality of his milk as well. Back by the milking stand he has a manger full of hay, so they can eat to their hearts' delight before and after milking - should they need to.

Certain stands of prairie down by his barn are planted in alfalfa and a mix of prairie grasses. The latter a mix so delicious and varied that his goats barely reject any of the 1st cutting. OK, I'm speaking goat breeder talk here. But if you knew goats, you'd realize that this is important news. I'm going to learn about this mix! Rejection of a goodly portion of their hay, tossing it on the ground, etc., by goats is a classic woe of many a goat herder. And, in general, the saying goes, give your first cutting to the horses, the 2nd and 3rd cuttings to the goats. So delicious and much appreciated 1st cutting? I'm in!

As we head back down from the hill top, we discussed when you move your goats from one area to another (when a 1/3 has been eaten, no more), and which plants suffer more or less from the passage of the goats. My colleague with the Roves mentioned a recent class in pasturing where they'd discussed whether it is a good or bad thing when goats get up on their hind legs to nibble in the trees (a sign that there is no longer sufficient nourishment at their head level).
 
One participant had his copy of today's Liberation paper, upon which every known vulgar and rude curse word had been printed in yellow. With the title in bold red. This, stated the man holding the paper, is what Liberty means to us in France. Completely and total free expression, even if it is rude, vulgar or in poor taste. It is following the example of Charlie Hebdo, and the recent marches all over France. Journalistic freedom & individual freedom of expression are ferociously in the forefront of everyone's mind. France is adamantly a Republic, where the separation of Church and State have been forcibly chosen and enforced. 

Vive La France - for all its virtues, vices, joys & sorrows, traditions and contradictions.

 A view of the Luberon Hills.

A Sunrise at Châteauneuf-du-Pape

 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

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.

A Tango Demo to tempt the masses

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

And a pink flamingo takes flight

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