A rainy weekend in the Cévennes

A chance to get away, a chance to see other horizons. Stone houses in every direction. Windy roads. Vast vistas, closed and tiny spaces, little perched villages overlooking the valleys. A hike up to the top of a peak, cold, buffeted by the chilly and moist wind, scrambling over rocks, leaving the tree line below. A cozy fire in the b&b, friendly hosts, low ceilings, rain pouring down, muddy dirt roads to navigate on foot and in the car. Simplicity, quiet, otherness. Streams running into rivers, ancient stone bridges crossing over them.


The Protestant history is never far away. Though currently it is more a question of the neo-ruraux (i.e. the newly settled country-folk) and the long-time residents vying for power at the local Mairie, town hall. The former wish to renovate and safe-guard the ancient patrimony, the latter want to at long last get some money from that scrap of land Pappi left them, and to hell with the view.


Here, you are far away from all the major cities (by an hour or so) and yet there are yoga teachers, horse clubs for the kids, mountain biking, donkey rides, choir practice, mushroom picking hikes, and much much more. Out of the way, but not culturally isolated. Not a bad way to live. Though taking the car out every time you leave to go anywhere could get rather tiresome fast. Not to mention having a windy and lengthy ride to any activity so desired. Careful to have your brakes checked!

Three mellow pre-teen boys

Life could be a lot worse that cozying up to a nice warm fire early winter. Hm? Ah, the lack of complications when dealing with boys... broken furniture and/or doors occasionally yes, but hissy fits, no. This was a rare girl-less evening when we just enjoyed dinner, chatted, laughed, built up the fire, and just hung out.

Temporary Blogger's Block

To readers of my blog,

I'm not sure why, but I'm having a hard time getting onto the computer these days. Sorry! Perhaps it was the unavoidable addiction-breaking gesture of sending my computer to be repaired for a few days and thus not having it at hand at any moment of the day. Perhaps it's the shorter days and the lure of good books and my comfy bed. Perhaps it's kids over, around and under my feet/head/you name it. Perhaps it's the season. That old bearish urge to hibernate is hitting me hard. In any case, I've not been richly inspired recently.

However, I've a small stash of photos from the most recent visit to the Cévennes, some more images of goat cheese (nearing the end of the season, just two more weeks and we'll be done till February!).

I've been out and about -- salsa classes, a tango weekend, lots of walks, hanging with the kids, visiting friends. Just keeping busy if you will.

So, with patience, I trust some inspiration will come and I'll find more good subjects and/or recipes to write about. Not to mention add some good photos.

I shan't go dry for too long, I doubt, so till then, I wish you a good early December!

The stove is hot

As I sit here enjoying the warmth of my cast iron stove I'm noticing the melted wax on the carpet and on the seat beneath me, the strange forms painted??? on the windows of the stove, and various other minor damages to my house caused by over-active pre-teens. At least two of these are easily handled with a hot iron and lots of newsprint -- a learning moment, n'est-ce pas?

Over the past couple of weeks a spurt of uncontroled anger by one has broken the ancient brass door knob on his door, and the corner of a table (his parents, I believe, are now aiming to repair and replace said items). My elder girl had a major tiff at school and has been grounded for two days. Flying off the handle, out of control emotions, losing it in front of teachers and others, taking everything to the utmost limit and feeling justified to physically react and respond to any and all insults or frustrations... Isn't this what growing up is all about? Getting ahold of yourself? Learning to master your feelings so that they are not master of you? Allowing yourself to feel, not denying, but, not over-reacting either?

Their parents deal with them as they choose. In both cases they are making efforts to be attentive. I'm the outside parental influence, the one that has them living with me, but who doesn't have the emotional connection. Am I non-biased? No, I can't admit to that. But I can hope to teach them some elements of simple human behavior -- or at least what I find to be useful and best adapted to coping in this world. In general, slamming doors, breaking walls, bursting into tears, freaking out, haven't proved successful operating procedures for me. But then again, I rarely cry, and have struggled to be calm and to let things pass from early childhood. Anger rarely got me anything worthwhile, nor tears, so I learned my lesson, and aimed toward a more subtle mastery of manipulation. Ah, that is communication...

And life goes on. Perhaps I'll get the Christmas decorations out today?

Teaching my Native Language

I am now teaching English three to six hours a week. I've from three to eight students and my main role is to get them to use whatever vocabulary and grammar they've gotten into their heads. Thus, I ask questions, I encourage dialog, I get them to read articles, I ask them to write about what they did last weekend, where they went to school, what they want to do tomorrow, or as a job in the future. I ask them about their best memories, and their dreams. I get them to practice various past tenses, to describe meals, to tell me about people in their lives. I get them writing up and acting out conversations and dialogs between customers and hotel receptionists, restaurant waiters, etc.,

It's challenging for me. I speak more slowly than normally -- by necessity as anyone who knows me will confirm! I prepare all my classes with relatively minimal advance notice -- zooming through the internet, seeking ideas, vocabulary, descriptions, texts, etc., And, as each class is a three hour marathon with minimal breaks (the two smokers in the group are good at making sure these happen), it is rather intense.

However, what I find most challenging is simply being confronted by young and middle-aged, out-of-work chomeurs struggling to make sense of this life. They are more than a bit sad and depressed. If I ask what they did over the weekend, the answer is often as not watched a film on TV, slept late, ate lunch with my mother. I feel at times like I'm pulling teeth, but also that I'm there to encourage them in their accomplishments, to reinforce the possibilities of finding a new job, getting their lives in order, etc.,

I feel the weight of the ruts they are in, and at times fear being pulled in with them. I too am juggling, coping, seeking, hoping. I too am sending out resumes for other jobs in marketing, teaching, translating. I too am wishing to hear the phone ring, get my chance at an interview, eager to move forward and upward in this world. I too am scared and at times demoralized, before I get out the bull whip and kick myself out of my seat and get back to work.

It's a curious sensation.

My mother taught beginning French for years. And I wonder how it is that I am revisiting this world of beginning language study. It is not an easy area of study for the students, particularly when adult. You have individuals with a certain limited vocabulary left over from their high school years-- perhaps just 5-6 years ago, or twenty--. Their lives keep them somewhat busy; they have limited resources to learn what you're teaching. It is necessary on the one hand to move along slowly, so they have the time to absorb, take notes, etc., Yet on the other, if you move too slowly, they get bored and annoyed and stop taking said notes (I noticed this when I was putting quite a bit of vocabulary for food on the board yesterday).

And, I don't have the brightest of the bright in front of me. I have the individuals who are not coping in many areas of their lives. They are here having failed elsewhere. It is brave to strive to acquire a new skill, not sure if they're even capable of it. It is clear that too few actually study and work at home. So much of what I've tried to put across each week has simply gone in one ear and out the other (or gotten clipped into a notebook and shelved). As such, the building blocks to more interesting conversations, more depth and greater comprehension are only very very slowly coming into place. For every two steps forward I think I've brought them, I realize that I need to take at least one step back, and perhaps three.

It is humbling, fascinating, challenging and more. There are days I get stumped, and days I get them laughing. Do I dare bring in pop tunes and try to get them singing?? I remember reading about a teacher of English in Cuba who began with the Beatles, "I want to hold your hand," and with time brought his class up to the level of complexity evinced by "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds." May I do so well.

A Misty Moisty Morning...

Somedays, it is simply a religious experience to walk by the side of a River...

computer in the shop

I've some great new photos... and other good things, but, with the computer in the shop, I'm rather hamstrung for updates. For all American friends, do enjoy your Turkey day! and I'll be back to blogging soon I trust.

with lots of affection - Madeleine

Thanksgiving far from home

I have a strong attachment to Thanksgiving and all that it stands for. Wherever I've lived in the world -– Japan, Paris, Seattle, Arles, Avignon-—I've managed to put one together. In Japan finding a turkey was near impossible -– so I purchased two large chickens. It cost a fortune – all those exotic ingredients -— but I reveled in recreating it alone for the first time in my life, for those I wished to say thank you to. I managed it in the home and kitchen of my host family, and added just three people to the four already in the house: my boss, my best friend/office mate, and the man who had introduced me to my host family. And there, amongst those dearest to me in that strange country, many of whom had traveled far and wide, I heard what I’d hear again and again in the future; my, but I didn’t know American food could be so good!

From my first winter in France in 1995 – the year of two months of transit strikes in Paris – I tried to offer Thanksgiving yearly. That first year, I was in Arles with Erick, and he invited numerous friends who’d met me over the summer to join us. Nearly everything was a hit, except the pumpkin pie -- my mother's recipe have you! Erick had declared, “c’est pas bon,”after one bite and not a soul took another piece. Ah well, pumpkin pie is an excellent and nourishing breakfast, and so it was for me for the rest of the week.

Returning to Paris I had no worry of putting on extra poundage through eating all my own left-overs of stuffing, corn pudding and pie. In the city of lights I walked absolutely everywhere for the during that two month strike. Add in my sixth story walk-up and I think I've rarely had such great legs in my life since.

As my family celebrated Thanksgiving, and later my Seattle friends, it's a time when everyone cooks, everyone feasts, and everyone helps clean. No one goes home (or to sleep) till the dishes are done. We've never been a football-watching crowd, so this truly included everyone from the oldest to the youngest, male, female, you name it.

But abroad, that just doesn't work. It is the rare French guest who helps with the dishes. In France when you entertain you do the “totale," meaning from start to end, the hostess copes with everything. Guests bring flowers, chocolate, wine, cheese or pottery (should that be their specialty), and go home, happy and well nourished. The potluck (now known as auberge espagnole had yet to really catch on when I first moved here. And, being the owners of a large and well-equipped kitchen, noted for our expertise in the cooking arena … well, it just evolved into a rather large event where I did the maximum if not all the work. Most years, it was pure joy to invite the various artisans, vintners, farmers, philosophers, archeologists and more to my table. I wanted to thank them for helping me, and us, make our business so rich with the warm welcome they offered to me and my guests as I tour Provence and visit them -- often! The irony was not lost on a soul that they were invited to the Provençal chef’s house, and his American wife was doing all the cooking!

From 15-20, from 20 – 28, from 28 to 35 … it just kept expanding. From our dinner table that sat 12 to the b&b table that sat 20, and then to the addition of a long make-shift table of boards, with very wobbly home-made benches alongside. Kids crawled under the table to access their seats – and a few adults as well!

There was the year I wanted to do it Southern style, harking back to my father’s Kentucky roots, and add bourbon to the sweet potatoes, cranberries and pecan pie. Rather than go out and purchase me expensive imported bourbon at the store, Erick got to work distilling wine to pure alcohol in the kitchen. Out came the pressure cooker, some rubber tubing, a copper coil, and voila, I had my alcohol. Granted it wasn’t aged in toasted casks, but, it was pretty thrilling to have your own house alchemist make you pure alcohol on the gas cooktop.

There were years when my American au pairs contributed their favorite family dishes – baked beans, potato salad, green salad with dried cranberries and cherries.... There were years when a Dutch friend came to help out a couple days before the event with grinding the corn through the vegetable mill to prepare the corn pudding base. There were years when my father came and did his special sausage, apple and prune stuffing recipe.

Each year’s feast required an explanation and proper introduction to this strange American tradition. I would tell my version of the arrival of the Pilgrims, their meeting with the Indians, what it meant to learn to survive in the New World, to begin to tame it, to know it … Then I’d tell them what all the dishes were : corn pudding, turkey, apple and sausage stuffing, sweet potatoes, squash, mashed potatoes, corn bread, biscuits, cranberries, and of course, the pies. All these foods of the Americas (excepting the apples). All these amazing food stuffs brought back to Europe from the New World. I added to my old favorites special new recipes for mince meat pie from the New York Times, oyster cornbread stuffing from a book of Indian recipes, Indian pudding.

With such a list of traditional favorites I couldn't delegate, nor entrust the dishes to any one else. I became a bit of a control freak. And the fact that I’d calmed down over how Erick carved a turkey (unlike my WASP dad, he most definitely did not slice the white meat, but removed the entire breast and then cut it in chunks) was already a big deal.

In the last two years much has changed. My home is smaller, my budget minimal, and my energy much taken up by kids, rebuilding the business, job searching, etc., I managed a variation on a pot luck T-day last year at the winery. It was lovely, but required nonetheless grand orchestration. This year, perhaps I'll be with a friend who has an American husband? Perhaps I'll just make a couple special dishes for me and the boys? I don't know. But I'm ok with it. I'm grateful already for my friends, for my world, for good health, for happy and healthy children, for getting along better with Erick, for putting many a project in motion. I will give thanks, even if I don't roll away from the dinner table in doing so!