A Quiet Sunday at Home

 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!

Life and Death in the world of farm animals

All excited, I followed a mother from school to her house 45 minutes from school to pick out chickens for the Mas. JP had been with me two weeks' earlier and seen the lovely chickens from her brood hen at my friend Alison's. He'd found them quite lovely and was very interested in the price (free, with gift). So, I called, I organized, I nearly completely zapped my rendezvous -- happily she came to me in the parking lot Friday morning! -- and off I went to collect some chickens.

First of course, I had to catch them. Aie yaie yaie. I forget sometimes to what degree I'm a city girl. Oh, I can climb trees, play in dirt, shovel out a horse stall, saddle and bridle a horse, wash a dog, find mushrooms under pine needles.... but catch shy chickens? Suddenly I wondered if truly, that greased pig contest would be any easier.

At last we cornered a few in the pen and succeeded in grasping some tale feathers and pinning them down into a carton. One rooster and five hens of various colors and styles.

I was humbled and proud at the same time. I'm not completely pathetic... just a bit leery and hesitant with age I think, yet often kafutzed by my inner child.

The chickens lived happily in a large cardboard box throughout the day in the back of my car till I got to the Mas. Whereby we released them into the poullailler which had normally been fixed up by JP's helper.

Immediately the dogs were very interested. They got a wacking for their interest, and we hoped had learned from it. In any case, the plan was to keep a close eye on them and prevent damage in the time it took for us to reinforce the perimeter of the pen.

But, the best laid plans of mice and men....

The next morning, it could have been a scene from Jemima Puddleduck. The dogs got into the pen, and there was damage. We found feathers, and one dead buried a distance from the pen. I was crushed. Half my chickens were gone in one fell swoop! And the rooster too?

So, we got to work, pinning down the fence all around, to make sure no dog or fox would slip under the wire. And then we cleared all the field grasses and branches and wild vines and more from the perimeter and put in an electric fence at the height that our four legged friends would best encounter. A long morning's work. But well worth it. A few yelps confirmed that the dogs had discovered the electric charge, and their subsequent distancing of themselves from the coop vastly reassured me.

And then, is that a rooster we heard? The day was not a total loss. We found our handsome rooster and corralled him back to the coop with success. Now, perhaps another one or two has saved herself in the woods and will come back to the rooster's call?

The day before, I'd learned of the loss of the baby goats (not those we saw born, but those from the night before). And this day, the natural instinct of a few house dogs did its work on our feathered friends.

As JP told me, when you work with animals, you learn to accept a certain level of loss. It is up to us to prevent it to the best of our abilities. But we are not perfect, and mistakes occur, and nature lets you know quite quickly to wise up and do the necessary.

It still hurts though. The learning curve is a bit brutal.

A New Dog in the Family

JP received a four-legged Christmas gift from his kids this year. It (or he) was quite unexpected. I think JP was rather getting adjusted to his status as partial parent to my Filou and what with his mother still up at the Mas and her large black dog a semi-permanent resident (other than when he heads back to town to be with his urban buddies), well, the winery wasn't lacking in a canine presence.

But, that said, his opinion was not requested, and Perro arrived on Christmas day.

I just have to laugh.

What is it about seeing a man who cherishes control, calm and order deal with a chaotic, wildly tale-swinging, super-enthusiastic, slobbering and loving animal that just melts my heart? Or leaves me chuckling royally.

Suddenly Filou is the most discreet and well-behaved of dogs (excepting the fact that his poodle parentage breeds true in his tendency to bark quite sharply and way too much when he's rough-housing with the other dogs). Filou sleeps quietly at the foot of the bed (on the floor) till I move -- this could be till 7AM, 8AM, 9AM. He patiently awaits the levée of his mistress.

Oh but not Perro! At 6:30 sharp he's there all eager and excited, wacking his tale, licking and nibbling his master's nose, raising his paws upon the pillow (yup!). Be he in my home or at the winery, he is one rambunctious and large dog. With a good bit of German Shepherd in him, he'll be a large and powerful dog when he grows to full height. Right now he's the sweetest and funniest of beasts. Attentive to his master, great with the kids, playing wildly with Filou, jealous of anyone coming near either of us (Filou included) and likely to knock me down as I walk up the steps to the winery's front door.

Mealtime is now quite ritualized for both animals (when they haven't had their afternoon snacks down with JP's mother). We eat our lunch while they wait patiently, preferably lying dowon on their cushions. Then Filou eats indoors and Perro scarfs up his meal outdoors (carefully measured out). Ditto at dinner time. If we didn't separate them at meal times, Filou wouldn't get a bite! At my house, I put a cup of food into Filou's bowl when I awake in the morning. I fill the water bowl. Et basta.

JP brought Perro with him to my place last week when he helped me in the garden, with the shed, etc. All went well, but I hadn't realized that truly, I needed to put all edibles at least on shelves 6ft high. What was to be a special treat of brioche for my boys disappeared in a second, bits of torn plastic strewn on the floor. Filou has never stolen food. Naive woman that I am, I just hadn't expected this.

There are also the occasional accidents from over-excited beasts left to their own devices in the living room. We'll get past all this. But it is amusing. Life throws you curve balls all the time, particularly if you are a craver of zen and calm moments before -- just perhaps -- the universe has decided you are deserving of such.

Is winter on the way out?

Though today is chilly and damp, yesterday was glorious, as was in fact quite a number of days last week. The north wind barreling through brought the sunshine, and when it decided to stop gusting and knocking us about, it left us a magnificent few days to revel, wander, walk and awaken.

Where in other worlds the ground hog came out and looked at his shadow (which he did or didn't see, I'm afraid I've not been following the news...), here we are simply grateful to be in a land where an early February walk by the Rhône or amongst the leafless winter vines is a pleasurable possibility.

As usual, I do these walks accompanied by dogs. Filou is my faithful companion, greeting all and sundry who cross our paths, sniffing butts and snouts equally, leaping, barking, dashing after a runner or two, and then back to my side. Quite clearly, he's checking out the world around us, protecting me from possible predators, right? On the island we're joined by Saline, the large and lovely mutt of our neighbors who could be my second dog. And when at the winery, there is the new puppy who arrived on Christmas day, Perro. I suppose when one's human goes for a walk, it is a time for bounding joy. Don't you agree?

As we cross the Rhône into Avignon in the morning on our way to school, we are greeted -- for the first time in two months -- by the brilliantly orange disk of the sun, sitting just above a point somewhat to the south of the Pope's palace. It has moved back north from its furthest winter solstice position, but still has a ways to go.

And, as I so gratefully felt and absorbed, the sun is with us far later into the evening. Four thirty felt early to come home from what had started out as an hour's walk, and what easily became two. How to leave that light?

And it did not leave me, but left its mark. My cheeks are red from a touch of late winter sun burn, my lips chapped and sensitive. Ah well. It is all worth it.

Borrowing dogs

When at a cousin's holiday party, there are always enough dogs to go around. While the range of adults (i.e. age 15 to 80) chit chat, catch up, share tidbits, learn about college/job/baby choices, the young ones find their four-footed friends. Drinks, food a crackling fire and a huge and wonderfully decorated Christmas tree round out the gathering.

Unexpected guests

As I came down from my upstairs office to refill my tea, I noticed a new dog following Filou around the house. Yes, I'd left the garden door open. And yes, I've become quite accepting of the regular visits of Saline, the neighbor's lab and shepherd blend who is practically my second dog (at least from 8:30AM to 8PM each day). But this was new. I recognized the newcomer, and hadn't realized it was a she till this moment when I saw her happily smacking her lips -- Filou's food bowl had just freshly been emptied.

Now, I've a friend dealing with her sixteen year old son's love life. She's struggling (successfully) with imposing the rule that his girlfriend not spend the night -- though she's there frequently behind closed doors during the day time. The time has come to establish certain rules for her household and her sexually maturing son.

Goodness I'm glad I'm not at that point yet. Leo is such a gracious and gentle young man towards women. He likes them -- his demeanor with our teenage boarder attests to this -- but the idea of their sharing his bed? For the moment, it seems to be a far distant concept. Not that I should be surprised. Simply pleased and relieved that we're not there yet. I've time to figure out what sort of rules I'll choose to put in place.

No, my sons are as yet relative innocents. Limits are set along different lines. However, my super sociable dog is another story! Aren't male dogs supposed to follow females? How is it that I've got all the local female dogs hanging around the house mooning over my scruffy black ball of fluff? How did he get so popular? And how do I convey to him that feeding the neighborhood is just not in the picture?

Filou and one of his best friends, Bonzo.

Dogs and Cats

Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel


When I first met my vintner, he had a wonderful hairy mutt with a lot of German Shepherd in her. Sally would bark intimidatingly at any intruder, or simply at the arrival of anyone on the property. Over the years of my visits with clients, I came to know Sally, and was able to reassure her quickly of my presence, my good intentions, my calm. She had an intimidating presence, but in fact, was a loving and gentle dog once you got to know her. Long before Jean Paul and I got together as a couple, I had a great relationship with Sally. She welcomed me, accompanied me when I walked through the vineyards, leaned against me, sat on my lap (a rather awkward position, but I was nicely settled on the grass when she came over and decided that my lap was a better surface than cool grass). Or was she simply holding me in place till her owner arrived? I preferred the alternative possibility: when you're feeling romantic, it is an easy extrapolation to say, if your dog likes me, you could too...

Before I divorced, but on the road to it, I got a dog myself, Filou. A small, fluffy cross between a poodle and a bichon. Living in the city of Arles, with no grass out our door, and with the prospect of flying back to the US frequently, a small being seemed the best choice. Not to mention, I was raised in a family of poodle owners, so I had a sense of how he would be in our home and with the kids.

Filou, though nominally joining our family closer to Leo's birthday than mine, became my dog and my responsibility, and accompanied me everywhere. This being France, that includes all cafes, elegant restaurants, the hair-dresser's, and yes, to all the artisans' homes and workplaces, be they grape vines or potter's studios. Filou, if you want to take a psychological/Freudian tack, was also my replacement for affection in my life. My marriage was pretty dismal at this point, I wasn't misbehaving nor taking a lover in any way, and my children were old enough to not be in my arms all day long. So, for warmth, devotion, affection, cuddling, I had my puppy.

My dog-loving clients were in heaven with this sweet fluffy being on their laps -- as were my au pairs. But when a non-dog lover was along, I tried to oblige by leaving him at home. Being with me all the time, he grew into a calm and pretty well behaved beast. However, that said, those poodle genes bred true, and he does have moments of yapping, at a particularly horrible high pitch that brings on head-aches. Nobody's perfect.

Thus Filou met all my artisans' dogs, the sheep dogs, the dogs at the potter, and Sally when he was still a puppy. You could say I socialized him early. He got along with everyone, yipping and jumping all over the older more sedate canines, who tolerated these intrusions of a pert child kindly.

Jean Paul wasn't duped, he saw the role Filou had in my life, and, quite familiar with animals himself, he set about letting Filou know that he was top dog, not Filou, and, that he was also a source of affection, food, water, etc., So, though you would think my children were more part of the package of me than my dog, at this point, it is my dog who has been welcomed/tolerated in Jean Paul's home with the most ease. But we have our moments. Back in my maternal life in Avignon, Filou sleeps at my feet, keeping me warm in my minimally heated house, and follows me from room to room, knowing his place is at my side. When Jean Paul is there, or when I'm in his house, Filou has learned that his place is on the floor, and, he'll often stay in a room that I've left, if Jean Paul is still there.

Last year, just before a trip to Japan, Sally being clearly very sick, Jean Paul had to put her down. The mas has changed personalities. Sally was in many ways his soul-mate, joining him in the vineyards while he worked, greeting him with joy, protecting his home and his family. Her loss was deeply felt, and perhaps surprisingly, also very strongly by me. I felt supported and appreciated by her, welcomed and warm. Her departure saddened us all.

Over the year that has passed since, Filou has taken his place as the announcer of approaching cars. He doesn't scare anyone, but he is efficient as a look-out. He has his bed in the living room, his bowl by the wood stove, his blanket on the floor of the bedroom. This is in contrast with Sally, who, in the fashion of many a farm animal, had never been an indoor dog, never been brushed, nor clipped. She ate and slept in the garage, coming into the warmth of the house only the last months of her life, as her illness rendered her feeble.

All this said, Filou and I are only here at the winery on weekends and over certain vacations. So, in the meantime, a former renter's cat has come into Jean Paul's life. Just to keep things lively, Filou goes tearing after her, sending her into hiding at his ferocious (not) barking. In the house, she sits on the couch and glares. She smells Filou's food and tears into the bag, no longer content with her bowl down in the garage. More often, I find Filou tries to be mellow and discreet, sitting at our feet while we eat, etc., and the cat simply takes umbrage at his existence. But, with time, they seem to have come to somewhat mutually tolerate each other. At this moment, I've the cat curled up against my thigh while I write, and Filou is in his bed across the room under the piano. The wood stove is burning brightly, warming us all. A pretty happy domestic scene. Though I've yet to completely adopt the cat -- I'm being a bit resistant, annoyed that her hissing takes precedence over Filou's desire to play. But, slowly, I'll be won over.

T'will be interesting if Jean Paul gets a new puppy one of these days...