This morning we said good bye to Isabelle. Paul Pierre called me Wednesday evening to let me know that she'd died that morning around 3AM. Yesterday the family arrived, and today was a day for friends. He asked me to contact our mutual friend Sophie, the beekeeper. And I took it upon myself to call JP. Ooph, not an easy call for me. I would have vastly preferred to leave a message.
It was one of those moments when I just said to myself, you don't leave an sms about someone dying. That's just not done. This is something to be communicated by the voice. No? Ah well, it was brief, and awkward. What more to say? Were we going to chat about banalities? No.
I was saddened to learn of Isabelle's demise, and yet relieved as well. But I was thrown just hearing JP's voice. That sadness is frustratingly still in me.
In the end, both he and Sophie sent written notes to Paul Pierre. Neither was able to come to the mas.
And so, after dropping the kids off at school this morning, I headed out to St Martin du Crau. Paul Pierre greeted me, and immediately begged his excuses as he needed to be with others, elsewhere, that we'd find a time to talk in the future... Of course, and understandable. I gave him a hug, put Filou back in the car, and brought my roses and bottle of wine into the house.
And then... what? A simple greeting to faces I knew. A moment upstairs where Isabelle's casket was draped in a cloth, her daughter beside it. Then back downstairs. Could I help? A bit. But I felt rather out of it, lost, not at ease sliding into conversation with family members I'd never met. And so I took refuge in the cheese lab with Aurelie. Thankfully she was there. I grated some pepper onto her cheese, and helped a teeny bit (barely). Mostly I shared thoughts and feelings with her. She too is living a mini-nightmare in her own home as her mother is terribly ill, bedridden for more than a year now, and still for some terrible reason, hanging on. But, at the same time, her little girls -- like my little boys -- were being particularly lovely. Life has its sharpened edges, and its gentle ruffles.
Then back into the main rooms and outside. I helped put out the buffet of various foods brought by friends. I cut fougasse, and later the chocolate cakes. I opened some wine. And I waited. We then slowly made our way into the room to eat a bit, moving conversations. It was an event without direction. Paul Pierre was trying to be attentive to all who were there, and no doubt exhausting himself in the doing. His daughter Marie was sad and with her companion and her close friends. And others milled about. Other than managing food and cleaning and putting flowers into vases, no one dared impose themselves further.
And then, it was the moment for the casket to leave for the crematorium. Four strong men in the group carried it down the stone steps and out into the van. We gathered in silence, a few tears filling the pouches below our eyes, delicate streams descending. But... not a word, not a poem, not a shared memory, not a tribute, no note played on a cornet, or a violin, or a voice raised to the skies.
Each held his own council. We were a group of individual mourners in a shared space. Each held his memories to his heart. Why? why no ceremony? why no candles? why no sharing of our love for this woman? Why such a stiff upper lip? This is the Breton way?
I was lost, sad, and out of sorts. I wanted to let the tears flow. But in such solitude? Such silence?
And so I too departed, after helping clean up a bit. I climbed into my car and headed back to Avignon and the errands that awaited me there.
I've written before about funerals in France. And I wonder still why it is that there is such a different sense of things here. I attribute it as I might to the Protestant ethic of my world -- one where the people took back the right to communicate directly to God, to interpret the Word as they might, on their own. And thus gave themselves a voice and encouraged sharing their individual thoughts and perceptions. France is a product of its Catholic past (far more than the Protestant minority) -- a world where the priest speaks for you-- blended with its current laïc sensibility. Thus, if there's not a priest to do the talking for you, you don't talk, you don't interpret, you don't share your spiritual moments.
This is simply my groping in the dark to make sense of my own sadness in what I didn't experience this morning. As I shared these thoughts with two dear friends, and a colleague at the kids' Waldorf school, we were in agreement as to the importance of ceremony, marking the moment, sharing it, lighting a candle, reciting a poem, but most of all, allowing/permitting/celebrating a collective event.
And so, I grieve, and I am grateful that in this distant world that I've mostly made mine, I've friends who understand me, and who too would do as I would.
Once a bit of time has passed, I'll call Paul Pierre and see where he's at. What is next...
Showing posts with label tradition. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tradition. Show all posts
Friday, May 28, 2010
Sunday, January 31, 2010
A Village Ball
When was the last time you've been to a village dance? So many movies of the 50s showed them as part of the local scene -- Carousel comes to mind. But have there been any since the uproar of the 60s? Did they continue in their sleepy, gentle way amidst the turmoil and upset of the Vietnam War peace demonstrations? Did any survive the arrival of disco? Motown and punk rock?
If not in my world of Westchester County in New York, perhaps elsewhere? As I remember it, both my parents knew how to dance: my mother was in the folk dance club at her university, and my father as a good Southern gentleman who'd been to many a debutant's ball could be counted on to do a competent turn at a waltz and even a light fox trot.
But when my parents went out for an evening it was not to dance. Elegantly decked out, with cologne tapped around his throat, perfume spritzed behind her ears, a jacket and tie for him, hair up and occasionally the elegant long skirt for her, they went out to restaurants, concerts, theatre and to gatherings of friends where food, conversation and alcohol were the main events. I never heard tell of a night of dancing.
In our family, there was a tradition of dancing at weddings. However, this was a tradition dominated far more by square dances that encouraged all ages to participate, than elegant waltzes. Yet I have memories of at least one when I, perhaps 5 at the time, took over the dance floor in my favorite pink dress. At some point a parent was inspired to push a little boy of a like age in my direction. At which point, I fled. Though my love of dance was already a confirmed trait, femme fatale, I was not.
And so, here I am dating a man from a village. A man whose roots go back a number of generations, and who is more than a bit enamoured by his village's traditions. I've spoken elsewhere of the club taurine, and the summer bull games, paëllas and carnival fairs (post Fête Votive). Yesterday evening the yearly Bal des Commerçants was on the program. We, a couple who love to dance, couldn't miss this now, could we? Particularly as JP has aspirations to be a local politician. Thus, turned out and rarin' to slide across the dance floor we were there: to see and be seen. A mere 10E a person at the door (all for a good cause) led us into the salle de fêtes decked out with lights, tables surrounding the piste (dance floor), a band specializing in 70's classics with a twist and a selection of locals.
We found a spot to sit and put our coats, got our drinks in plastic cups, and contemplated the scene. Oh yes, we did first do a round of bises to all known folk, of which there were quite a lot. Three kisses for each of his fellow political aspirants in the Socialist circle, three kisses each to the many friends and colleagues he's worked with through the cultural and social centers in town, and the occasional handshake to simple acquaintances known from the market or the local shops.
The watchmaker was tending bar between dances (he was quite fluid and fun to watch). The local documentarian was photographing the event for posterity, when not inviting a friend to waltz. And when the piste was clear of tall dancers, those a meter and shorter happily took over the space, with the occasional parent coming in to keep order.
Somehow we danced the cha cha to The Doors' Come on Baby Light My Fire, followed by a Passa Dobles in simple step rhythm, and a Rock to Serge Gainsberg. Edith Piaf was best danced as a waltz. A European tango was played and I tried to adapt to the slow slow fast fast fast, slow slow fast fast fast rhythm, but was often tripped up by the simple idea that this was supposed to be a tango. To me, it wasn't.
When not dancing I watched. I observed the couples of a certaine age who've clearly been dancing together for at least thirty years. A large tummy and stiff joints were not going to deter them now. Then there were the husbands who love to dance, dancing with the wives who love to dance, none of them with their respective spouses who didn't love to dance on hand. Happily, these re-paired couples seemed delighted with this arrangement.
JP would point out one or another man who'd confided to him his private dancing passion, and consequent frustration that his spouse was not of like mind. They'd thus taken classes on their own and here in this public spot, were lightly and gracefully partnering their neighbors across the floor. What a contrary world. As many a woman can attest, it is far more often be the other way around! Somedays I think I could as easily give up dancing with my partner, as settle for a smoker. Deal-breakers both.
One couple in particular caught my eye. He had a grand mane of fluffed gray, nearly all white hair, an elegant striped black suit, and freshly shined black shoes. She was coiffed rather severely in a variation of a Dorothy Hamill, in a simple but elegant outfit, her face drained of all color with not a spot of make-up to brighten it, and rather clunky black shoes. He, heavy set though he was, moved with grace and joy, swinging her around in a rock, a passa dobles, and a waltz with ease. But clearly, they'd never danced the cha cha together before. He tried teaching her, but suddenly, where heretofore she'd been quite graceful, she became stiff and uncertain. They were a newly formed couple; he the adept and passionate dancer, she his new muse. They made being 60 look like quite a lot of fun.
Yes, the mean age at the ball was definitely 55 and upwards. And yet, when that disco medly came on: Freak Out, Staying Alive and all your favorites, there they were boogieing away. I must say, I was impressed and enchanted. No, I've never seen people of my parents' generation, much less those of my elder cousins dance the night away at a ball. I've had my share of nights in Manhattan clubs and raves in Seattle, square dancing at weddings, but a small village ball open to the public? No, this was a first.
I do hope this tradition doesn't die out here as well. Though I'm afraid, it is highly likely. Other than the little tots on the dance floor, I was nearly the youngest person there.
If not in my world of Westchester County in New York, perhaps elsewhere? As I remember it, both my parents knew how to dance: my mother was in the folk dance club at her university, and my father as a good Southern gentleman who'd been to many a debutant's ball could be counted on to do a competent turn at a waltz and even a light fox trot.
But when my parents went out for an evening it was not to dance. Elegantly decked out, with cologne tapped around his throat, perfume spritzed behind her ears, a jacket and tie for him, hair up and occasionally the elegant long skirt for her, they went out to restaurants, concerts, theatre and to gatherings of friends where food, conversation and alcohol were the main events. I never heard tell of a night of dancing.
In our family, there was a tradition of dancing at weddings. However, this was a tradition dominated far more by square dances that encouraged all ages to participate, than elegant waltzes. Yet I have memories of at least one when I, perhaps 5 at the time, took over the dance floor in my favorite pink dress. At some point a parent was inspired to push a little boy of a like age in my direction. At which point, I fled. Though my love of dance was already a confirmed trait, femme fatale, I was not.
And so, here I am dating a man from a village. A man whose roots go back a number of generations, and who is more than a bit enamoured by his village's traditions. I've spoken elsewhere of the club taurine, and the summer bull games, paëllas and carnival fairs (post Fête Votive). Yesterday evening the yearly Bal des Commerçants was on the program. We, a couple who love to dance, couldn't miss this now, could we? Particularly as JP has aspirations to be a local politician. Thus, turned out and rarin' to slide across the dance floor we were there: to see and be seen. A mere 10E a person at the door (all for a good cause) led us into the salle de fêtes decked out with lights, tables surrounding the piste (dance floor), a band specializing in 70's classics with a twist and a selection of locals.
We found a spot to sit and put our coats, got our drinks in plastic cups, and contemplated the scene. Oh yes, we did first do a round of bises to all known folk, of which there were quite a lot. Three kisses for each of his fellow political aspirants in the Socialist circle, three kisses each to the many friends and colleagues he's worked with through the cultural and social centers in town, and the occasional handshake to simple acquaintances known from the market or the local shops.
The watchmaker was tending bar between dances (he was quite fluid and fun to watch). The local documentarian was photographing the event for posterity, when not inviting a friend to waltz. And when the piste was clear of tall dancers, those a meter and shorter happily took over the space, with the occasional parent coming in to keep order.
Somehow we danced the cha cha to The Doors' Come on Baby Light My Fire, followed by a Passa Dobles in simple step rhythm, and a Rock to Serge Gainsberg. Edith Piaf was best danced as a waltz. A European tango was played and I tried to adapt to the slow slow fast fast fast, slow slow fast fast fast rhythm, but was often tripped up by the simple idea that this was supposed to be a tango. To me, it wasn't.
When not dancing I watched. I observed the couples of a certaine age who've clearly been dancing together for at least thirty years. A large tummy and stiff joints were not going to deter them now. Then there were the husbands who love to dance, dancing with the wives who love to dance, none of them with their respective spouses who didn't love to dance on hand. Happily, these re-paired couples seemed delighted with this arrangement.
JP would point out one or another man who'd confided to him his private dancing passion, and consequent frustration that his spouse was not of like mind. They'd thus taken classes on their own and here in this public spot, were lightly and gracefully partnering their neighbors across the floor. What a contrary world. As many a woman can attest, it is far more often be the other way around! Somedays I think I could as easily give up dancing with my partner, as settle for a smoker. Deal-breakers both.
One couple in particular caught my eye. He had a grand mane of fluffed gray, nearly all white hair, an elegant striped black suit, and freshly shined black shoes. She was coiffed rather severely in a variation of a Dorothy Hamill, in a simple but elegant outfit, her face drained of all color with not a spot of make-up to brighten it, and rather clunky black shoes. He, heavy set though he was, moved with grace and joy, swinging her around in a rock, a passa dobles, and a waltz with ease. But clearly, they'd never danced the cha cha together before. He tried teaching her, but suddenly, where heretofore she'd been quite graceful, she became stiff and uncertain. They were a newly formed couple; he the adept and passionate dancer, she his new muse. They made being 60 look like quite a lot of fun.
Yes, the mean age at the ball was definitely 55 and upwards. And yet, when that disco medly came on: Freak Out, Staying Alive and all your favorites, there they were boogieing away. I must say, I was impressed and enchanted. No, I've never seen people of my parents' generation, much less those of my elder cousins dance the night away at a ball. I've had my share of nights in Manhattan clubs and raves in Seattle, square dancing at weddings, but a small village ball open to the public? No, this was a first.
I do hope this tradition doesn't die out here as well. Though I'm afraid, it is highly likely. Other than the little tots on the dance floor, I was nearly the youngest person there.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Christmas Traditions
Wherever you turn the lights are blinking and the shoppers are strolling. In many a village square, school, and country barn there is a Christmas fair to tempt the generous. You can find all the classic Provençal items: pottery, honey, tapenade, olive oil, wine(s), salt mixtures, table linens, santons, ... Some are for the foodie-centric: foie gras, truffled foie gras, smoked duck breast, magret fumé, smoked salmon - both home-smoked (something Erick does brilliantly) and imported from organic producers in Ireland - eaux de vie flavored with pears, raspberries and more, vins de noix et d'orange - a classic apéritif in this world of social gatherings made by many a housewife with some sugar, fresh walnuts or bitter oranges, wine and alcohol.
The main squares of Avignon and Arles have been transformed to accommodate wooden shelters for the seasonal vendors and artisans. Chocolatiers are creating magnificent center pieces for a Christmas table, bûches de Noël in many flavors (though hazelnut cream is a local favorite), and tiny squares filled with many a flavored ganâche, caramel or almond praliné. Feast and be merry. Taste the winter cheeses imported from the Haute Savoie, the Massif Central and Normandie, made with the richer milk of the late season, aged for a month or more, these will stick to your ribs and help you get through the cold winter months!
Christmas and New Year's season is a time to prepare meals, to contemplate menus, to pre-order special items, to browse the market stands, to go through family favorites and special edition food magazines for ideas. Will this be an elegant, all-white themed party? Shall we go scrounging in the woods for greenery and make a natural garland to drape about the house? Will the weather cooperate and permit us to forage for mushrooms or truffles ourselves and add these to our festin?
At the Steiner/Waldorf school the Advent Wreath, la couronne d'Avent, is a yearly tradition. We mothers gather together at one house or another and façon then decorate these small rounds to be topped with four candles that our children know already how and when to light from class. (as an aside, the Manhattan Waldorf school [amongst others I believe] also has menoras and encourages its Jewish student body to share their songs and prayers through this winter month). But, the wreath is a Northern import (Waldorf schools being much linked to the German and Swiss worlds) and is not typically found in Provence, nor did the Christmas tree, le sapin de Noël, used to be so ubiquitous. Mistle-toe however, le gui, is a common vine in the trees that is sold in large branches on the market to hang in your foyer. Holly, le houx, is brought down from the Cévennes where it grows to large heights in that moist and somewhat higher altitude.
What you find in nearly every Provence home at Christmas is the Crêche. The Crêche focuses on the Nativity scene of Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus, the ox and ass, the stable and the arrival of the three kings. There's generally an angel hovering above as well. For many, this is all you might see, but in Provence the tradition of the Santons, or little saints, is widespread. I've put a link to a fun blog that has many many photos to give you an idea. There are artist santon-makers, a guild of santon-makers, families who've made them over multiple generations, each with their own variation of what is still a very unified style and code. In all cases you will find a wide cast of common local characters: the shepherd, the blind man, the baker, the wood gatherer, the fishwoman, the local crazy man (he who has his hands in the air), the hunter, the mayor, the curate, the elegant Arlesienne, the gypsy woman, and on and on. The full cast of a local village is recreated in miniature to people a table, a shelf, and thus host and share in the birth of baby Jesus. To fill out the scene we have bridges, fountains, stables, trees, schrubs, gazebos, hills, paths... whatever's necessary to animate a village.
If you come to Provence via the Marseille Airport you can see a wonderful display of santons in the Air France departures' lounge (upstairs). Grandmothers store their collections -- gathered over their lives -- preciously, pulling them out each year and bringing in the kids to help set up the magical little world. As I mentioned in an earlier post, Jesus is not there till Christmas day (makes sense) and the three kings are placed at a distance, to slowly make their way to the stable for Kings' Day, January 6th.
Though the pastry shops have their selection of yule logs, bûches de Noël, in fact these too are imports from the North. Our local tradition is the thirteen desserts:
•fougasse,
• the four mendiants, referring to the religious orders who took oaths of poverty:
- the Augustinians symbolized by walnuts or hazelnuts,
- the Franciscans symbolized by dried figs,
- the Dominicans symbolized by raisins, and
- the Carmes symbolized by almonds
• the locally produced honey almond nougat (both dark and light),
• fresh oranges or clementines (remember, Provence has always traded with other countries on the Mediterranean, so getting these from Corsica or Morrocco is an ancient custom)
• and depending upon your village and custom: quince paste, pâte de coing, candied fruit and almond paste calissons d'Aix, a melon carefully stored from September, apples or pears, and a variety of late ripening green grapes.
Voila for a touch of Provençal Christmas...
The main squares of Avignon and Arles have been transformed to accommodate wooden shelters for the seasonal vendors and artisans. Chocolatiers are creating magnificent center pieces for a Christmas table, bûches de Noël in many flavors (though hazelnut cream is a local favorite), and tiny squares filled with many a flavored ganâche, caramel or almond praliné. Feast and be merry. Taste the winter cheeses imported from the Haute Savoie, the Massif Central and Normandie, made with the richer milk of the late season, aged for a month or more, these will stick to your ribs and help you get through the cold winter months!
Christmas and New Year's season is a time to prepare meals, to contemplate menus, to pre-order special items, to browse the market stands, to go through family favorites and special edition food magazines for ideas. Will this be an elegant, all-white themed party? Shall we go scrounging in the woods for greenery and make a natural garland to drape about the house? Will the weather cooperate and permit us to forage for mushrooms or truffles ourselves and add these to our festin?
At the Steiner/Waldorf school the Advent Wreath, la couronne d'Avent, is a yearly tradition. We mothers gather together at one house or another and façon then decorate these small rounds to be topped with four candles that our children know already how and when to light from class. (as an aside, the Manhattan Waldorf school [amongst others I believe] also has menoras and encourages its Jewish student body to share their songs and prayers through this winter month). But, the wreath is a Northern import (Waldorf schools being much linked to the German and Swiss worlds) and is not typically found in Provence, nor did the Christmas tree, le sapin de Noël, used to be so ubiquitous. Mistle-toe however, le gui, is a common vine in the trees that is sold in large branches on the market to hang in your foyer. Holly, le houx, is brought down from the Cévennes where it grows to large heights in that moist and somewhat higher altitude.
What you find in nearly every Provence home at Christmas is the Crêche. The Crêche focuses on the Nativity scene of Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus, the ox and ass, the stable and the arrival of the three kings. There's generally an angel hovering above as well. For many, this is all you might see, but in Provence the tradition of the Santons, or little saints, is widespread. I've put a link to a fun blog that has many many photos to give you an idea. There are artist santon-makers, a guild of santon-makers, families who've made them over multiple generations, each with their own variation of what is still a very unified style and code. In all cases you will find a wide cast of common local characters: the shepherd, the blind man, the baker, the wood gatherer, the fishwoman, the local crazy man (he who has his hands in the air), the hunter, the mayor, the curate, the elegant Arlesienne, the gypsy woman, and on and on. The full cast of a local village is recreated in miniature to people a table, a shelf, and thus host and share in the birth of baby Jesus. To fill out the scene we have bridges, fountains, stables, trees, schrubs, gazebos, hills, paths... whatever's necessary to animate a village.
If you come to Provence via the Marseille Airport you can see a wonderful display of santons in the Air France departures' lounge (upstairs). Grandmothers store their collections -- gathered over their lives -- preciously, pulling them out each year and bringing in the kids to help set up the magical little world. As I mentioned in an earlier post, Jesus is not there till Christmas day (makes sense) and the three kings are placed at a distance, to slowly make their way to the stable for Kings' Day, January 6th.
Though the pastry shops have their selection of yule logs, bûches de Noël, in fact these too are imports from the North. Our local tradition is the thirteen desserts:
•fougasse,
• the four mendiants, referring to the religious orders who took oaths of poverty:
- the Augustinians symbolized by walnuts or hazelnuts,
- the Franciscans symbolized by dried figs,
- the Dominicans symbolized by raisins, and
- the Carmes symbolized by almonds
• the locally produced honey almond nougat (both dark and light),
• fresh oranges or clementines (remember, Provence has always traded with other countries on the Mediterranean, so getting these from Corsica or Morrocco is an ancient custom)
• and depending upon your village and custom: quince paste, pâte de coing, candied fruit and almond paste calissons d'Aix, a melon carefully stored from September, apples or pears, and a variety of late ripening green grapes.
Voila for a touch of Provençal Christmas...
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Christmas in Provence
The Christmas lights have been up for ten days now, even longer in many villages. Barely does the Toussaint (All Saints' Day, i.e. November 1st) pass, when the cherry picker trucks are out with the technicians draping lights through the trees, across the streets, and throughout the town. Each village has its own set of decorative lights (I promise photos if possible before I depart for the US on Wednesday!). Village limits are thus precisely delineated. My dance club where I enjoy Salsa on Monday nights is just at the beginnings of Le Pontet, 50 yards beyond the end of the Avignon street lights.
It is now officially chilly and cold. There is snow on Mont Ventoux -- our local mountain -- so sledders and skiiers can enjoy a weekend's outing in the freezing, windy, moist, chill of a snowy spot -- if they so desire. My wood stove is an awfully cozy place... leaving it isn't really very tempting to me.
The shopping centers are filled to bursting -- Economic crisis anyone?? I do my necessary shopping first thing after dropping the kids off at school, otherwise, the chocolate/toy/underwear/foie gras purchasing crowds are more than likely to trample me underfoot.
Slowly, I trust I'll get into the spirit. Perhaps some cookie baking would help? Not a present is yet purchased... better get to it, hm?
Here's a memory from last year:
Christmas in Provence 2008
Alone, still skittish about finances, I was able nonetheless to buy (or just had nonetheless bought) a Christmas tree. Jonas and his friend took to decorating it as their task of the day. Leo, older by nearly five years, decided he was too old for such things. Or, to put a more gracious spin on it, he simply preferred playing with his friend upstairs.
I pulled out the old tree stand I’d brought from the US years’ ago (here, trees are sold nailed to boards, keeping them in water and thus making a semblance of keeping them fresh longer just isn't much done), and with the kids’ help, tried to get the tree straight (unsuccessfully, but at least it wasn’t falling down). My heart did a classic mommy pitter-pat when I overheard Jonas sharing his memories of each ornament from past years. He also most competently directed his friend to put the most fragile out of reach of the cats.
Meantime, I took out the crêche figures and set them up against a green starry backdrop on the middle shelf of my hutch cabinet. As per French tradition, I gathered some moss from outdoors, included pine cones and other natural objects to embellish the back ground, and set up a village of small santons (little saints -- my collection is from the hillside village of Séguret where a santon maker hand designs, bakes and paints each one to resemble his neighbors) alongside the nativity figures.
Tradition imposes that we hide Baby Jesus away till Christmas day, and put the kings on the far side from the shelf (or even across the room) as they are not to arrive till the 6th of January, Kings’ day, celebrated in France with special cakes and traditions of fava beans, crowns and more.
I’d lost my Joseph a few years’ back – yes, a rather Freudian moment that any psychologist would have a field day with. It was a special crèche, white and finely detailed, not from Provence, that my mother had offered me. So I couldn’t just go to a little santon store down the street and pick up another identical Joseph. I’d misplaced him sometime back in the Arles' days, unhappy in my marriage. I truly searched for him everywhere, but no luck. So, in my crêche, at least for the moment, Mary was a single mother awaiting her child on her own.
I hadn't spent many Christmases in Provence. It was hard to not want to be home in New York and Connecticut for the family reunions, music, feasting and cousins. Part of being an ex-patriot is figuring out traditions, and, one’s own relationship to them. Homesickness is notoriously worst around holidays, and in my case, the frequent return trips are both joyous, and confusing. I love being surrounded by family, going to a church full of music and prettily dressed children, sharing magical snowstorms with my kids … How could France top that? But these seasonal returns had also been known to leave me terribly homesick, and what with the winter blues and lack of light induced depression… I had had many difficult starts to the New Year.
This year in Avignon would be the first Christmas for the kids not spent in the company of both parents. Leo and I talked at length about how to work out the vacation. It was important for him to see what Erick could muster alone, and to spend some quality time with him. I negotiated nonetheless that the kids be with me for Christmas Eve, agreeing to bring them to their father the next morning. I asked JP to join us for the evening feast and festivities, and set to work on the menu, baking cookies and decorating the dining area.
I had both children alone with me for the couple days’ leading up to Christmas, and did my best to do some Christmas spirit-inducing activities such as baking and decorating sugar cookies, ginger bread men, stringing garlands of popcorn and raisins for the birds. All this was done to the accompaniment of lots of Christmas music on the cd player – Burl Ives’ rendition of Rudolf, and the Twelve Days of Christmas, Julie Andrews’ Joy to the World, gentle choral versions of the Holly and the Ivy. I sang along to most every song, excepting where my voice just couldn’t go. After high school, I lost the soprano range. Ah well, singing alto or tenor is fine, no?, but difficult if you don’t know the notes!
The crowning glory for the kids is my bûche (recipes and photos will follow in future posts). They eagerly helped whip the egg whites for the genoise cake base, pass the raspberry jam through the vegetable mill to get out the seeds, and whisk gently together the dark chocolate ganâche for the center and topping. It's a cake that requires patience – Each step needs to be done at just the right time. The cake, soaked in raspberry flavored alcohol (rum in my case) with syrup is then topped with the ganâche (once it's cooled) and lastly with the raspberry jam, left over night to absorb all the flavors, and rolled up the next day. Again a day later, when the flavors have melded, the topping goes on, and once it has set, we draw bark with the prongs of a fork. Last, but not least, we whip cream, sprinkle powdered sugar on top to give the look of snow on the bark.
And Christmas Eve was upon us. Quiet, no snow. JP arrived when most of the cooking was nearly done. He pulled out a small package, opened it for me, and set a new Joseph figure in my crêche. Setting it to rights I suppose. Mary could now await the arrival of her baby with a companion at her side.
Jonas set the table with care and as beautifully as he could, laying the tinsel, lighting the candles, choosing the prettiest glasses and plates. It was just the four of us, simple music on the radio, and a fire in the wood stove. While the roast finished cooking, (I did not follow Provence tradition and serve a repas maigre this night, but opted for a less religiously authentic roast beef, which my neighbors would be more apt to serve the next day) we settled around a table by the fire to play cards. JP and I each sipped our glasses of the organic Clos de Joncuas AOC Vacqueyras (great winery -- run by a woman!) I'd picked up that fall. Gin Rummy was a bit complicated for Joseph, so we kept to games that Leo had mastered and could easily teach him (and us). It was a time for Leo to lead.
Presents were for the next morning...
It is now officially chilly and cold. There is snow on Mont Ventoux -- our local mountain -- so sledders and skiiers can enjoy a weekend's outing in the freezing, windy, moist, chill of a snowy spot -- if they so desire. My wood stove is an awfully cozy place... leaving it isn't really very tempting to me.
The shopping centers are filled to bursting -- Economic crisis anyone?? I do my necessary shopping first thing after dropping the kids off at school, otherwise, the chocolate/toy/underwear/foie gras purchasing crowds are more than likely to trample me underfoot.
Slowly, I trust I'll get into the spirit. Perhaps some cookie baking would help? Not a present is yet purchased... better get to it, hm?
Here's a memory from last year:
Christmas in Provence 2008
Alone, still skittish about finances, I was able nonetheless to buy (or just had nonetheless bought) a Christmas tree. Jonas and his friend took to decorating it as their task of the day. Leo, older by nearly five years, decided he was too old for such things. Or, to put a more gracious spin on it, he simply preferred playing with his friend upstairs.
I pulled out the old tree stand I’d brought from the US years’ ago (here, trees are sold nailed to boards, keeping them in water and thus making a semblance of keeping them fresh longer just isn't much done), and with the kids’ help, tried to get the tree straight (unsuccessfully, but at least it wasn’t falling down). My heart did a classic mommy pitter-pat when I overheard Jonas sharing his memories of each ornament from past years. He also most competently directed his friend to put the most fragile out of reach of the cats.
Meantime, I took out the crêche figures and set them up against a green starry backdrop on the middle shelf of my hutch cabinet. As per French tradition, I gathered some moss from outdoors, included pine cones and other natural objects to embellish the back ground, and set up a village of small santons (little saints -- my collection is from the hillside village of Séguret where a santon maker hand designs, bakes and paints each one to resemble his neighbors) alongside the nativity figures.
Tradition imposes that we hide Baby Jesus away till Christmas day, and put the kings on the far side from the shelf (or even across the room) as they are not to arrive till the 6th of January, Kings’ day, celebrated in France with special cakes and traditions of fava beans, crowns and more.
I’d lost my Joseph a few years’ back – yes, a rather Freudian moment that any psychologist would have a field day with. It was a special crèche, white and finely detailed, not from Provence, that my mother had offered me. So I couldn’t just go to a little santon store down the street and pick up another identical Joseph. I’d misplaced him sometime back in the Arles' days, unhappy in my marriage. I truly searched for him everywhere, but no luck. So, in my crêche, at least for the moment, Mary was a single mother awaiting her child on her own.
I hadn't spent many Christmases in Provence. It was hard to not want to be home in New York and Connecticut for the family reunions, music, feasting and cousins. Part of being an ex-patriot is figuring out traditions, and, one’s own relationship to them. Homesickness is notoriously worst around holidays, and in my case, the frequent return trips are both joyous, and confusing. I love being surrounded by family, going to a church full of music and prettily dressed children, sharing magical snowstorms with my kids … How could France top that? But these seasonal returns had also been known to leave me terribly homesick, and what with the winter blues and lack of light induced depression… I had had many difficult starts to the New Year.
This year in Avignon would be the first Christmas for the kids not spent in the company of both parents. Leo and I talked at length about how to work out the vacation. It was important for him to see what Erick could muster alone, and to spend some quality time with him. I negotiated nonetheless that the kids be with me for Christmas Eve, agreeing to bring them to their father the next morning. I asked JP to join us for the evening feast and festivities, and set to work on the menu, baking cookies and decorating the dining area.
I had both children alone with me for the couple days’ leading up to Christmas, and did my best to do some Christmas spirit-inducing activities such as baking and decorating sugar cookies, ginger bread men, stringing garlands of popcorn and raisins for the birds. All this was done to the accompaniment of lots of Christmas music on the cd player – Burl Ives’ rendition of Rudolf, and the Twelve Days of Christmas, Julie Andrews’ Joy to the World, gentle choral versions of the Holly and the Ivy. I sang along to most every song, excepting where my voice just couldn’t go. After high school, I lost the soprano range. Ah well, singing alto or tenor is fine, no?, but difficult if you don’t know the notes!
The crowning glory for the kids is my bûche (recipes and photos will follow in future posts). They eagerly helped whip the egg whites for the genoise cake base, pass the raspberry jam through the vegetable mill to get out the seeds, and whisk gently together the dark chocolate ganâche for the center and topping. It's a cake that requires patience – Each step needs to be done at just the right time. The cake, soaked in raspberry flavored alcohol (rum in my case) with syrup is then topped with the ganâche (once it's cooled) and lastly with the raspberry jam, left over night to absorb all the flavors, and rolled up the next day. Again a day later, when the flavors have melded, the topping goes on, and once it has set, we draw bark with the prongs of a fork. Last, but not least, we whip cream, sprinkle powdered sugar on top to give the look of snow on the bark.
And Christmas Eve was upon us. Quiet, no snow. JP arrived when most of the cooking was nearly done. He pulled out a small package, opened it for me, and set a new Joseph figure in my crêche. Setting it to rights I suppose. Mary could now await the arrival of her baby with a companion at her side.
Jonas set the table with care and as beautifully as he could, laying the tinsel, lighting the candles, choosing the prettiest glasses and plates. It was just the four of us, simple music on the radio, and a fire in the wood stove. While the roast finished cooking, (I did not follow Provence tradition and serve a repas maigre this night, but opted for a less religiously authentic roast beef, which my neighbors would be more apt to serve the next day) we settled around a table by the fire to play cards. JP and I each sipped our glasses of the organic Clos de Joncuas AOC Vacqueyras (great winery -- run by a woman!) I'd picked up that fall. Gin Rummy was a bit complicated for Joseph, so we kept to games that Leo had mastered and could easily teach him (and us). It was a time for Leo to lead.
Presents were for the next morning...
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