Arles is a small town. Amongst the virtues and riches of a small town is the range of our own personal town fools, or curious folk. Living in Arles for more than ten years, I came into contact with a clutch of interesting individuals who are known, appreciated, protected, and fully accepted as belonging to Arles. They range from completely coucou, to simply mildly deranged, to highly colorful. None are dangerous. None are scorned. The locals call them nias or niase, fada, or maybe they simply think that une favouille mange leur jugement (a crab eats their brain, i.e. a screw loose). I don't think I ever truly experienced this before in my prior city and town lives. New Rochelle is simply too large and too suburban. Seattle had its downtown folk -- enough to please the local photographer population. But did we protect and accept them? We don't have the naked cowboy singing on Times Square, nor do we have the flamboyant cross-dressers of the Village. But I can honestly and proudly say we have ours and we cherish them.
When I first arrived there was a delightful woman perhaps in her late 60s, or low 70s, who would arrive at the market on her moped. Made-up in bright pastel tints, her helmut under her arm, she would make her first stop at the police station. Striding in a most official way, she would salute the officers as her fellow colleagues, and then head out to visit on the market. I would often see her leaning upon her elbow at the Charcutier Milhau -- the best-known in town -- with its owner and patriarch graciously listening to her, shooting the wind if you will. Our favorite vegetable seller -- Jean-Denis -- had pride of place in her Saturday morning routine, stationed as he was just in front of the gendarmerie. She didn't make much sense when she spoke, but that never bothered anyone. She was such a harmless and delightful fixture to market day. It has been years now though that she is either no longer with us, or perhaps just no longer able to come on her own.
César is no longer with us either. Already in his mid-eighties when I met him, you couldn't miss him (and many a photographer visiting for the photo festival in July captured his likeness) with his prominent dyed black mustache and his gentle demeanor. Nor did you pass in front of his former tailor's shop windows plastered with images of Pancho Villas and Clark Gable (something about those mustaches...) without giving it a long glance. He would come to the local bar in his white cotton pants and bright shirts, joining Erick's friends for a drink or simply an afternoon chat. My father-in-law told me tales of his younger years when he'd been rather notorious for having been caught photographing under-age girls. But at the time of my arrival, he was simply a gentle fixture. Friends would take him to his doctors' visits, keep an eye out to see if he was okay, and simply include them in their morning coffee and afternoon pastis rituals.
We've a fragile and ever-smiling cross-dresser as well. His hair was short on top and long in back last I saw. Quickly recognizable in his belly button revealing tops and tight white jeans, string underwear occasionally visible from the rear. He walks a bit uncertainly down the street in his high heeled clogs and sandals. Always pleasant, discreet, gracious, we worry when we don't see him, hoping he isn't sick, or otherwise indisposed. He's not very tall, and doesn't seem very strong physically (health-wise). At times he tries some make-up -- mascara and lipstick --, but in general, his style choices keep to the clothing and hair. Again, just like César, he is accepted and included at our local café. A fixture on the Place Voltaire.
And then there's Harmonie. Whereas the first three were relatively discreet, if highly visual presences in our town, Harmonie is someone you hear before you see her. Tiny, skinny, a little old lady with straggly gray hair, she lives in the local home for the not completely there folk and is free to roam the town during the day. She has a preference for the bar down our street, and I'm afraid does imbibe perhaps more than her minimal body-weight can handle. I try not to cross regards with her as she swishes her hips agressively home from the bar. When this has occurred, I've been treated to a stream of French cursing and vulgarity to turn my ears redder than a cooked lobster. She's really quite amazing. If you slow down and just listen, you can learn quite a bit -- as a foreigner that is. She is as harmless as they come, but has a terribly agressive front that led me to turn in the other direction whenever I spied her. Yet she too, is protected, known, watched, and assisted when necessary. She may be a bit wacko, but she's our wacko. And as pleasantly as a neighbor will come to our door to warn us our car lights are still on, he would equally accompany her back to her group home should she be too wobbly to get there on her own two feet.
In perhaps the colorful category, but completely sane and in command of all her powers is a marvelous woman who is to be seen everywhere and anywhere a cultural event is happening. With a red dot in the middle of her forehead, her gypsy style skirts and jewels, and her three dogs in their red bandana collars, she is a visual delight, and -- if you will -- a stamp of approval to the worthiness of your chosen show. Some say she used to be the editor-in-chief of Vogue in Paris, or if not that, a higher-up in the fashion world, before choosing her relatively simple life in this southern town. She most definitely has a strong sense of style and presence. Head high, her dogs in tow, she is on a first-name terms with the mayor and many of the movers and shakers in town. If I remember rightly, I believe she did us the favor to sign papers to permit Leo to attend the kindergartent across from town hall -- outside our district. I missed that meeting, but, her kindness and good will are not to be forgotten.
Showing posts with label Arles. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Arles. Show all posts
Monday, January 4, 2010
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...
Saturday, August 29, 2009
A class in gladiator fighting skills
Every child should have a chance to learn Latin commands and stride forth to battle as a Roman Legionnaire, no? Arles, aka Arlate, has a Roman Peplum Festival the last week of August. Old Hollywood movies such as Spartacus, or Cleopatra, more recent choices such as Monty Python's life of Brian, or striking and violent versions of Medea starring the legendary opera great grace the screen of the Antique Theatre. Roman soldiers practice their manoeuvres all over town. A once Roman town is so again.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Fashion and Self Image
Shoes. Clothes. Girls do like them. And, living in France, they seem just that much more important.
When back in the US, it appears that the most beautiful American women are those in fabulous physical shape. Women who glow with good health, smooth legs and arms, taught bellies, a light tan, and who look just fabulous in an old pair of jeans and their boyfriend's white t-shirt. Health, athletics, strength, flexibility.
In France, what counts is style. Making the most of what you were born with. Strenuous athletics, multiple afternoons at the gym are still pretty anathema to the local female population. The general diet is healthy and not fattening – vegetables galore, salads at every meal, reasonable portions—and the cities being small, you can walk everywhere (nearly). So the gym is not necessary to being aesthetically pleasing.
Soon after my arrival in this fair land, I quickly learned not to wear sneakers except when I play tennis or go hiking. Then, I started choosing jeans for their fit and elegance, and put aside my brother’s hand-me down Levis. I like pretty shoes, but when you walk tons they have to have relatively sturdy heels. It's simply depressing destroying little heels too quickly. So, I choose for style, comfort, and practicality -- yes, that means a certain budget. I've come to spend more time putting myself together, that little extra touch of a scarf, jewelry, a bit more make-up. And yes, shoes: little boots that are elegant but comfortable under jeans or with a skirt; fluid and feminine clothes that flattered my figure – happily, not much changed from my college days (which also translates into a slightly too large wardrobe, as I'm loath throw things away...)
For years in Arles we’d earned so little that I simply never permitted myself to walk into a clothing or shoe boutique. However, to sate little desires, and to have that kick of something new in my wardrobe, I became an adept at the local flea market. Every Wednesday in Arles, from early morning till noon, tables of clothes are set up in the parking lot down the street from our house. There, I let my fingers do the walking. Perhaps it was all those years of giving massages, or being blind in the photo room, in any case, my fingers found me cashmere sweaters, silk shirts, linen jackets, lined wool pants, dresses, and even a few pairs of funky ankle boots. Most of what I found was simply useful, particularly when I was carrying around a few extra pounds after my pregnancies. But, even now, years’ later, I still have those little boots, an elegant double-breasted lined black linen jacket with mother of pearl buttons, a pair of elegant Jill Sander grey wool pants, Jill sander black suede sandals, summer dresses, a jean jacket, and my favorite lined brown suede redding coat style jacket. Not bad. I was able to dress my kids cheaply this way too, likewise Erick, and whenever I saw something a dear friend would like, I would grab it too.
The prices at the flea market followed the economy. When I first started going, every item was 5 Francs a piece (about a dollar). Then the Euro came in, and they became 1E a piece (which was equivalent to 6.67Francs, so a 20% jump). The next year it became 2E a piece. Highway robbery. And, a few years’ later, the prices were all over the place, 5E, 20E, 15E. No longer could I fill a sac with fun finds and head home having spent no more than 10E. Oh well. All good things do eventually come to an end.
My efforts at caring for myself were reflected back to me by the shop-keepers (the more elegantly you are dressed, the more respect and attention you will receive), my friends, men in the street, and even my boys (they're proud to have a pretty mommy). France is a world that values elegant women. The last good years of the b&b/cooking school business with Erick were good ones, and I was finally been able to treat myself to new clothes from the funky and elegant boutiques in Arles, St. Rémy de Provence and Avignon. And yes, I definitely enjoyed picking out flattering, fun, sometimes unusual, purchases.
Frenchmen clearly enjoy seeing women dressed well and they encourage it. It's quite possible that it's simply a reflection back on their good taste in choosing you, as much as the aesthetic pleasure of looking at you. And yet, I do come from the US, and the more casual style of dressing here is tempting. There are definitely times when staying in sweats all day, with glasses on and hair all askew is just where you're at. How to weigh these very different cultural norms.
When back in the US, it appears that the most beautiful American women are those in fabulous physical shape. Women who glow with good health, smooth legs and arms, taught bellies, a light tan, and who look just fabulous in an old pair of jeans and their boyfriend's white t-shirt. Health, athletics, strength, flexibility.
In France, what counts is style. Making the most of what you were born with. Strenuous athletics, multiple afternoons at the gym are still pretty anathema to the local female population. The general diet is healthy and not fattening – vegetables galore, salads at every meal, reasonable portions—and the cities being small, you can walk everywhere (nearly). So the gym is not necessary to being aesthetically pleasing.
Soon after my arrival in this fair land, I quickly learned not to wear sneakers except when I play tennis or go hiking. Then, I started choosing jeans for their fit and elegance, and put aside my brother’s hand-me down Levis. I like pretty shoes, but when you walk tons they have to have relatively sturdy heels. It's simply depressing destroying little heels too quickly. So, I choose for style, comfort, and practicality -- yes, that means a certain budget. I've come to spend more time putting myself together, that little extra touch of a scarf, jewelry, a bit more make-up. And yes, shoes: little boots that are elegant but comfortable under jeans or with a skirt; fluid and feminine clothes that flattered my figure – happily, not much changed from my college days (which also translates into a slightly too large wardrobe, as I'm loath throw things away...)
For years in Arles we’d earned so little that I simply never permitted myself to walk into a clothing or shoe boutique. However, to sate little desires, and to have that kick of something new in my wardrobe, I became an adept at the local flea market. Every Wednesday in Arles, from early morning till noon, tables of clothes are set up in the parking lot down the street from our house. There, I let my fingers do the walking. Perhaps it was all those years of giving massages, or being blind in the photo room, in any case, my fingers found me cashmere sweaters, silk shirts, linen jackets, lined wool pants, dresses, and even a few pairs of funky ankle boots. Most of what I found was simply useful, particularly when I was carrying around a few extra pounds after my pregnancies. But, even now, years’ later, I still have those little boots, an elegant double-breasted lined black linen jacket with mother of pearl buttons, a pair of elegant Jill Sander grey wool pants, Jill sander black suede sandals, summer dresses, a jean jacket, and my favorite lined brown suede redding coat style jacket. Not bad. I was able to dress my kids cheaply this way too, likewise Erick, and whenever I saw something a dear friend would like, I would grab it too.
The prices at the flea market followed the economy. When I first started going, every item was 5 Francs a piece (about a dollar). Then the Euro came in, and they became 1E a piece (which was equivalent to 6.67Francs, so a 20% jump). The next year it became 2E a piece. Highway robbery. And, a few years’ later, the prices were all over the place, 5E, 20E, 15E. No longer could I fill a sac with fun finds and head home having spent no more than 10E. Oh well. All good things do eventually come to an end.
My efforts at caring for myself were reflected back to me by the shop-keepers (the more elegantly you are dressed, the more respect and attention you will receive), my friends, men in the street, and even my boys (they're proud to have a pretty mommy). France is a world that values elegant women. The last good years of the b&b/cooking school business with Erick were good ones, and I was finally been able to treat myself to new clothes from the funky and elegant boutiques in Arles, St. Rémy de Provence and Avignon. And yes, I definitely enjoyed picking out flattering, fun, sometimes unusual, purchases.
Frenchmen clearly enjoy seeing women dressed well and they encourage it. It's quite possible that it's simply a reflection back on their good taste in choosing you, as much as the aesthetic pleasure of looking at you. And yet, I do come from the US, and the more casual style of dressing here is tempting. There are definitely times when staying in sweats all day, with glasses on and hair all askew is just where you're at. How to weigh these very different cultural norms.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
The Temptations of French Lingerie
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
OK, I'm getting rather far from the food theme here. But, since French women are known for being good cooks, staying thin, and enjoying being sexy, am I really? It took me awhile to get into French lingerie. Literally and figuratively. I was pretty much a cotton and Victoria's Secret basics kind of girl. Jockey for Her, etc., Basic, well made, comfortable. When I lived in Paris and went to dance class on a regular basis, I would goggle a bit at the super chic underwear of my fellow Parisian dancers -- magenta thongs, black lace, peacock blue satin... and this under leotards they were then going to sweat in?
But something happened when I turned 40. My body changed. My breasts got larger (which freaked me out just a bit), but my legs and torso didn't (could be all the yoga, but also living on lots of veggies, olive oil, fish...). I also had one of those Eureka realizations that this is as good as it's gonna get. From here on out, gravity will have an every greater say. So, I've never had the body of a model, but I'm curvy, mostly flat-bellied (depending on how much I binge on my bread and an evil and wonderful hazelnut spread by the Jean Hervé called Kokolo) and I enjoy what I have.
That same year Erick offered me a very lovely and no doubt expensive Aubade black brassiere with a little jewel in the middle. Hmmm when could I wear that? He quickly figured out that this gift pleased me far more than yet another heavy coffee table book, and followed suit over the next couple of occasions.
I like to watch people (mostly women, I must confess), observe their fashion choices, their sense of style and the grace (or lack there of) in their movement. I noticed that certain friends had their elegant button down shirts buttoned down to the cleavage, and that their lovely bras were definitely in view. Hm? No one seemed to think them cheap or slutty. Au contraire, they were elegant, classy and ever so alluring. Other lovely friends wore bras with little jewels on the straps, again, very much in view (but of course! if not to show it off, why wear it?). Just another little feminine detail.
Since the 1990s, we've been entertained, as a people and a culture, by a gorgeous ad campaign by the French lingerie company Aubade. Take a look at their chic web site and the history of their "leçons d'amour."
http://aubade.com/
These images are photographed so spectacularly, no one could (or perhaps should) be offended. They are a celebration of beautiful women and the power of seduction. My children have now grown up with these on all the bus stops, in all the magazines, in calendars, post cards. It's just normal and beautiful.
So, I bit back my intimidation, and entered the lingerie stores in Arles. The first time I did this it was summer sale period. This made it a bit easier on the pocket book. All bras at 25-30E and all panties at 10-15E. The normal prices were more in the range of 45 - 105E for bras, and 25-55E for panties -- yes, that wee bit of string and stretchy lace costs more per ounce than either gold or black truffles.
I've a favorite store now, the Clin d'Oeil in Arles. I've gotten to know the woman who runs the store, to be able to chat with her about politics (what else?) breast size changes, the local economy, and so on. She seems to enjoy the infrequent visits from her American client, and I enjoy being known and accepted.
Here in Avignon, I admire, I photograph, I look wistfully. But, for the moment, with my pocket book much reduced this year, I've contented myself with my current wardrobe, and resisted further temptation.
OK, I'm getting rather far from the food theme here. But, since French women are known for being good cooks, staying thin, and enjoying being sexy, am I really? It took me awhile to get into French lingerie. Literally and figuratively. I was pretty much a cotton and Victoria's Secret basics kind of girl. Jockey for Her, etc., Basic, well made, comfortable. When I lived in Paris and went to dance class on a regular basis, I would goggle a bit at the super chic underwear of my fellow Parisian dancers -- magenta thongs, black lace, peacock blue satin... and this under leotards they were then going to sweat in?
But something happened when I turned 40. My body changed. My breasts got larger (which freaked me out just a bit), but my legs and torso didn't (could be all the yoga, but also living on lots of veggies, olive oil, fish...). I also had one of those Eureka realizations that this is as good as it's gonna get. From here on out, gravity will have an every greater say. So, I've never had the body of a model, but I'm curvy, mostly flat-bellied (depending on how much I binge on my bread and an evil and wonderful hazelnut spread by the Jean Hervé called Kokolo) and I enjoy what I have.
That same year Erick offered me a very lovely and no doubt expensive Aubade black brassiere with a little jewel in the middle. Hmmm when could I wear that? He quickly figured out that this gift pleased me far more than yet another heavy coffee table book, and followed suit over the next couple of occasions.
I like to watch people (mostly women, I must confess), observe their fashion choices, their sense of style and the grace (or lack there of) in their movement. I noticed that certain friends had their elegant button down shirts buttoned down to the cleavage, and that their lovely bras were definitely in view. Hm? No one seemed to think them cheap or slutty. Au contraire, they were elegant, classy and ever so alluring. Other lovely friends wore bras with little jewels on the straps, again, very much in view (but of course! if not to show it off, why wear it?). Just another little feminine detail.
Since the 1990s, we've been entertained, as a people and a culture, by a gorgeous ad campaign by the French lingerie company Aubade. Take a look at their chic web site and the history of their "leçons d'amour."
http://aubade.com/
These images are photographed so spectacularly, no one could (or perhaps should) be offended. They are a celebration of beautiful women and the power of seduction. My children have now grown up with these on all the bus stops, in all the magazines, in calendars, post cards. It's just normal and beautiful.
So, I bit back my intimidation, and entered the lingerie stores in Arles. The first time I did this it was summer sale period. This made it a bit easier on the pocket book. All bras at 25-30E and all panties at 10-15E. The normal prices were more in the range of 45 - 105E for bras, and 25-55E for panties -- yes, that wee bit of string and stretchy lace costs more per ounce than either gold or black truffles.
I've a favorite store now, the Clin d'Oeil in Arles. I've gotten to know the woman who runs the store, to be able to chat with her about politics (what else?) breast size changes, the local economy, and so on. She seems to enjoy the infrequent visits from her American client, and I enjoy being known and accepted.
Here in Avignon, I admire, I photograph, I look wistfully. But, for the moment, with my pocket book much reduced this year, I've contented myself with my current wardrobe, and resisted further temptation.
Monday, May 11, 2009
My first baby in Provence (a while back now)
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
I became pregnant with Leo almost immediately after our August wedding. I stopped taking the pill and poof, within the week my body was changing. Mom’s discussion about the birds and bees, and the ease of getting pregnant in the family had held true. To confirm the pregnancy, and begin my official doctors’ visits I went to Erick’s doctor, the one I’d mistakenly tutoyed the year before, and with whom I’d never really felt at ease. But, when you’re new in town, who else do you go to? He had a very patronizing air, and when I said I’d come to get a pregnancy confirmation, he’d hurumphingly corrected me and stated he would test to see if I was pregnant. Bubbly and enthusiastic as ever, I declaimed that with my bigger and ever more sensitive breasts and my appetite going through the roof, I just knew I was pregnant. He simply looked at me condescendingly and went about his business, directing me to the examining table, and checking my uterus. And yes of course, I was pregnant.
I was still working in Paris at this time, but was in Arles regularly on the weekends. So I scheduled all my appointments with the hospital ob-gyn (all paid for by the French State) as well as the three sonograms on Saturdays. In the meantime, I stocked up on pregnancy books written for English and American audiences, and one in French to cover the bases. I took videos out of the local library on giving birth, birthing rooms, various options, new-born tests, etc., I dreamed of changing my profession to that of a mid-wife. I lived my pregnancy intensely, lovingly rubbing cream on my expanding stomach and breasts to limit the stretch marks, eating as healthfully as possible, walking, biking and doing expecting mothers’ yoga.
The scheduled visits at the hospital were frustrating. The doctor was monosyllabic, and not very informative. At the first scheduled sonogram I wanted to know everything, and couldn’t resist asking questions, pointing, interrogating… He maintained his reserved demeanor and answered sparingly – driving me completely crazy. Quickly, I realized I wouldn’t be putting together a list of ideal conditions for a personal birthing experience with this doctor. But, there was no alternative, and so gradually I came to terms with the fact that a hot tub/water birth wasn't going to happen. Nor would the option of a mid-wife at the house be possible either. I knew none, and it was clearly frowned upon in the milieu I'd so recently integrated.
At work, my co-workers smoked like chimneys. This had bothered me before, but hadn’t sent me fleeing. But now, I was so sensitive to the fumes, I began to hassle them and tease them, anything to limit the quantity of cigarettes being lit up around me. And my appetite! If lunch were late, I simply fainted. It was rather scary. A simple meal of salads and a sandwich was no longer enough. I needed a full bowl of soup with noodles alongside to fill my ravenous insides.
But there was no weepiness, no morning sickness, and my energy level was up. Beyond larger breasts, I wasn’t showing particularly, and was able to go about things in a relatively normal fashion.
When I hit my seventh month, I quit my job in Paris and moved full time to the South to be with Erick. Up to that time I’d maintained the weekly commute. Walking all over Paris had been great, but working alongside three non-stop smokers had been more than a little difficult. Finally, I settled in to live full time in Arles.
Shortly after Easter arrived, and with it a visit to Erick's family. Noisy and opinionated all, excepting his father, Pappie, who sat discreetly in a corner with his book. Rather out of my depth in this small over-furnished house filled by yelling Mediterranean folk, I sought refuge in the gentle presence of my father in law, and spent most of the day with him.
The next week, Pappie called and asked Erick to come and get him. I’d like to come live with you for a time if I may, he said. I willingly agreed. I’d had a very close relationship to my own grandfather, and found Pappie so dear, that I was more than willing to have him under our roof.
From that point on Pappie and I were often together as I nested to the utmost. I refinished furniture--having always loved working with wood--and there were a couple of pieces in Erick’s kitchen that could use a bit of brightening. So Pappie and I brought the table outside, sanded off the white paint and painted multiple layers of varnish to make it indestructible in its role as the kitchen/everything table. Then we began on the bottom of the hutch, and then on another hutch brought over by a friend.
Many a day I was out in the small street, sanding away with the hand-held power sander, in large men’s shorts over my huge belly, my hair in a pony tail, a dust mask over my nose and mouth. The neighbors, who’d barely ever seen me before, didn’t quite know what to make of me. The street was tiny, narrow, and the buzzing of the sander reverberated strongly. Truly we all lived on top of each other. I’d quickly realized that early in my first month with Erick; when romping in bed, no crying out, particularly if you have the windows open for a fresh night breeze. Later on I learned about the various whispers they’d exchanged about me. Was I German, Dutch, English? I am tall, fair-haired, huge in my pregnancy, anything but elegant, and sanding furniture noisily (though being careful of nap and meal times!).
Having grown up in a large suburb of New York City, I had a rather care-free attitude about what other people thought of me. I did my thing, stayed positive, said hello to passers-by. There I was, as foreign as could be, plopped into a Southern French city. Later I would come to know the twists and turns of the neighborhood cabals and grow more sensitive to them, but at this moment, I was living for my baby, my home, my family, happy in my new Provençal life.
At last one neighbor came up to me, a gift for my baby in her hands. It was Marie, who ran the Laundromat across the street. She hesitatingly offered her hand-made sweater and booties to me. My first baby-gift. I was truly touched. A first gesture towards me in my new life. Up to this point, I’d only met Erick's friends. No one had yet approached me for myself.
Leo was born early summer. I'd been able to go swimming pregnant and topless once before the birth (late May had been particularly mild that year). There was an hilarious moment of wishing to lie tummy down in the sand, and I'd needed to punch two large holes for my breasts, and dig out a ditch for my belly. And then the day arrived when the contractions began, growing stronger and stronger. Off to the hospital we went, where, for once, I was told that I wasn’t fat enough (being a large girl with strong thighs, I’d always felt large in this world of tiny Mediterranean women). Was I flattered? “Vous n’etes pas grosse” all seven syllables in the local accent – they pronounce the ‘e’s here. The nurse who received me gave me a suppository, a remarkably popular way of packaging medicines in France, and sent me home. I was back by evening and a couple of hours later, Leo arrived.
The birth went smoothly. Though not in a magical way. It had been medicalized down to the tiniest detail; monitors on my arm, my tummy, an IV in my wrist, flat on my back, legs in stirrups, with not particularly friendly people in white bustling about and measuring me, poking me, telling me not to be so loud. (Hey, isn't this the one time you're allowed to be loud as a woman? if not when giving birth, then when?!) But then Leo was there, placed on my breast, a nurse helping him grasp my nipple in his mouth for the very first time. Shortly after, I was wheeled to my own room, and left alone with my baby. Hard to believe they’d leave me alone with him like that… I’d rarely ever baby-sat newborns. Were they sure I knew what to do with this new little bundle?
As the week went by (yes, in France you still have a week in the maternity ward after giving birth) the rare nurse stopped by. The first two mornings brought the nurse who handled the baby’s first bath, and showed me how to then do so myself. When I dared take a shower (and leave Leo alone for 5 minutes, whereby he proceeded to cry), a nurse came running to see what was up. There were of course the conflicting recommendations of nursing on demand, or insisting on three-hour spans between feedings. But in general, I had the sense that my foreignness kept the nurses at bay. I spent the week peacefully, Leo on my chest, right by my heart at most times, reveling in my first born.
Pappie was in the hospital too. He’d been in for yearly exams for his diabetes, and came down to my room to hold his new grandson on his first day on this earth. My mother arrived shortly after. Friends came by to ogle and praise. I lived it all in a happy blur.
Once home, I lay upon my new mattress, the old foam mattress I’d shared with Erick till that point (which apparently had come from a back room at the photo festival offices) in the dustbin. I slept when Leo slept, nursed lying down as often as not. The heat outdoors was heavy and sleep-inducing. I let myself fall into the rhythms of my baby. For the moment, earning a living, jobs, etc., were the last things on my mind. I simply was, and this little baby was the center of my universe, precious, fragile, and completely dependent on me. Thank goodness I had a husband who could cook.
I became pregnant with Leo almost immediately after our August wedding. I stopped taking the pill and poof, within the week my body was changing. Mom’s discussion about the birds and bees, and the ease of getting pregnant in the family had held true. To confirm the pregnancy, and begin my official doctors’ visits I went to Erick’s doctor, the one I’d mistakenly tutoyed the year before, and with whom I’d never really felt at ease. But, when you’re new in town, who else do you go to? He had a very patronizing air, and when I said I’d come to get a pregnancy confirmation, he’d hurumphingly corrected me and stated he would test to see if I was pregnant. Bubbly and enthusiastic as ever, I declaimed that with my bigger and ever more sensitive breasts and my appetite going through the roof, I just knew I was pregnant. He simply looked at me condescendingly and went about his business, directing me to the examining table, and checking my uterus. And yes of course, I was pregnant.
I was still working in Paris at this time, but was in Arles regularly on the weekends. So I scheduled all my appointments with the hospital ob-gyn (all paid for by the French State) as well as the three sonograms on Saturdays. In the meantime, I stocked up on pregnancy books written for English and American audiences, and one in French to cover the bases. I took videos out of the local library on giving birth, birthing rooms, various options, new-born tests, etc., I dreamed of changing my profession to that of a mid-wife. I lived my pregnancy intensely, lovingly rubbing cream on my expanding stomach and breasts to limit the stretch marks, eating as healthfully as possible, walking, biking and doing expecting mothers’ yoga.
The scheduled visits at the hospital were frustrating. The doctor was monosyllabic, and not very informative. At the first scheduled sonogram I wanted to know everything, and couldn’t resist asking questions, pointing, interrogating… He maintained his reserved demeanor and answered sparingly – driving me completely crazy. Quickly, I realized I wouldn’t be putting together a list of ideal conditions for a personal birthing experience with this doctor. But, there was no alternative, and so gradually I came to terms with the fact that a hot tub/water birth wasn't going to happen. Nor would the option of a mid-wife at the house be possible either. I knew none, and it was clearly frowned upon in the milieu I'd so recently integrated.
At work, my co-workers smoked like chimneys. This had bothered me before, but hadn’t sent me fleeing. But now, I was so sensitive to the fumes, I began to hassle them and tease them, anything to limit the quantity of cigarettes being lit up around me. And my appetite! If lunch were late, I simply fainted. It was rather scary. A simple meal of salads and a sandwich was no longer enough. I needed a full bowl of soup with noodles alongside to fill my ravenous insides.
But there was no weepiness, no morning sickness, and my energy level was up. Beyond larger breasts, I wasn’t showing particularly, and was able to go about things in a relatively normal fashion.
When I hit my seventh month, I quit my job in Paris and moved full time to the South to be with Erick. Up to that time I’d maintained the weekly commute. Walking all over Paris had been great, but working alongside three non-stop smokers had been more than a little difficult. Finally, I settled in to live full time in Arles.
Shortly after Easter arrived, and with it a visit to Erick's family. Noisy and opinionated all, excepting his father, Pappie, who sat discreetly in a corner with his book. Rather out of my depth in this small over-furnished house filled by yelling Mediterranean folk, I sought refuge in the gentle presence of my father in law, and spent most of the day with him.
The next week, Pappie called and asked Erick to come and get him. I’d like to come live with you for a time if I may, he said. I willingly agreed. I’d had a very close relationship to my own grandfather, and found Pappie so dear, that I was more than willing to have him under our roof.
From that point on Pappie and I were often together as I nested to the utmost. I refinished furniture--having always loved working with wood--and there were a couple of pieces in Erick’s kitchen that could use a bit of brightening. So Pappie and I brought the table outside, sanded off the white paint and painted multiple layers of varnish to make it indestructible in its role as the kitchen/everything table. Then we began on the bottom of the hutch, and then on another hutch brought over by a friend.
Many a day I was out in the small street, sanding away with the hand-held power sander, in large men’s shorts over my huge belly, my hair in a pony tail, a dust mask over my nose and mouth. The neighbors, who’d barely ever seen me before, didn’t quite know what to make of me. The street was tiny, narrow, and the buzzing of the sander reverberated strongly. Truly we all lived on top of each other. I’d quickly realized that early in my first month with Erick; when romping in bed, no crying out, particularly if you have the windows open for a fresh night breeze. Later on I learned about the various whispers they’d exchanged about me. Was I German, Dutch, English? I am tall, fair-haired, huge in my pregnancy, anything but elegant, and sanding furniture noisily (though being careful of nap and meal times!).
Having grown up in a large suburb of New York City, I had a rather care-free attitude about what other people thought of me. I did my thing, stayed positive, said hello to passers-by. There I was, as foreign as could be, plopped into a Southern French city. Later I would come to know the twists and turns of the neighborhood cabals and grow more sensitive to them, but at this moment, I was living for my baby, my home, my family, happy in my new Provençal life.
At last one neighbor came up to me, a gift for my baby in her hands. It was Marie, who ran the Laundromat across the street. She hesitatingly offered her hand-made sweater and booties to me. My first baby-gift. I was truly touched. A first gesture towards me in my new life. Up to this point, I’d only met Erick's friends. No one had yet approached me for myself.
Leo was born early summer. I'd been able to go swimming pregnant and topless once before the birth (late May had been particularly mild that year). There was an hilarious moment of wishing to lie tummy down in the sand, and I'd needed to punch two large holes for my breasts, and dig out a ditch for my belly. And then the day arrived when the contractions began, growing stronger and stronger. Off to the hospital we went, where, for once, I was told that I wasn’t fat enough (being a large girl with strong thighs, I’d always felt large in this world of tiny Mediterranean women). Was I flattered? “Vous n’etes pas grosse” all seven syllables in the local accent – they pronounce the ‘e’s here. The nurse who received me gave me a suppository, a remarkably popular way of packaging medicines in France, and sent me home. I was back by evening and a couple of hours later, Leo arrived.
The birth went smoothly. Though not in a magical way. It had been medicalized down to the tiniest detail; monitors on my arm, my tummy, an IV in my wrist, flat on my back, legs in stirrups, with not particularly friendly people in white bustling about and measuring me, poking me, telling me not to be so loud. (Hey, isn't this the one time you're allowed to be loud as a woman? if not when giving birth, then when?!) But then Leo was there, placed on my breast, a nurse helping him grasp my nipple in his mouth for the very first time. Shortly after, I was wheeled to my own room, and left alone with my baby. Hard to believe they’d leave me alone with him like that… I’d rarely ever baby-sat newborns. Were they sure I knew what to do with this new little bundle?
As the week went by (yes, in France you still have a week in the maternity ward after giving birth) the rare nurse stopped by. The first two mornings brought the nurse who handled the baby’s first bath, and showed me how to then do so myself. When I dared take a shower (and leave Leo alone for 5 minutes, whereby he proceeded to cry), a nurse came running to see what was up. There were of course the conflicting recommendations of nursing on demand, or insisting on three-hour spans between feedings. But in general, I had the sense that my foreignness kept the nurses at bay. I spent the week peacefully, Leo on my chest, right by my heart at most times, reveling in my first born.
Pappie was in the hospital too. He’d been in for yearly exams for his diabetes, and came down to my room to hold his new grandson on his first day on this earth. My mother arrived shortly after. Friends came by to ogle and praise. I lived it all in a happy blur.
Once home, I lay upon my new mattress, the old foam mattress I’d shared with Erick till that point (which apparently had come from a back room at the photo festival offices) in the dustbin. I slept when Leo slept, nursed lying down as often as not. The heat outdoors was heavy and sleep-inducing. I let myself fall into the rhythms of my baby. For the moment, earning a living, jobs, etc., were the last things on my mind. I simply was, and this little baby was the center of my universe, precious, fragile, and completely dependent on me. Thank goodness I had a husband who could cook.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
In the Beginning...
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
I came to Provence to work at the international photography festival, the annual Rencontres de la Photographie in Arles, the summer of 1995. I was attending graduate school in Paris at the Institute Supérieur de Management Culturel, learning the ins and outs of arts management, and this was my second internship through the school, in a field I loved. I had been director of one of the oldest photography galleries in Seattle before coming to Paris, and was hoping to further my ambitions in the world of photography. Little did I know that this city and a man deeply rooted here would re-arrange my future, as a large rock tumbling from a cliff can re-orient the direction of a stream.
I arrived with little more in mind than to do my internship, enjoy the sun, and perhaps go to the beach. Paris had been the rainy capitol of the world that spring, and I could think of little but to enjoy the balmy warmth that had greeted me as I descended onto the train platform of this little city in the South.
Within a few days, I had met Erick, my soon to be husband, borrowed his bike, been to the beach, and eaten quite a few marvelous, simply home-cooked meals in his kitchen. I moved in the next week. Though not love at first sight, the romance was whirlwind. Briefly returning home to Seattle, I divested myself of my most bulky possessions, reduced my belongings to a one meter crate, and came back to Provence, ready to start a new life. A few years later I was running a cooking school, renovating a bed and breakfast, and raising two raucous little boys of two nationalities and two mother tongues. Although my marriage has run its term, I am still here, living in Provence, in my own home in Avignon with my two boys and our dog.
Life is not always easy for an ex-patriot, particularly in a small town in the South. Neighbors find you strange, customs and social signals differ, and finding your place takes time. Finding people with whom you can form friendships and enjoy special moments is particularly challenging. New to the region, I grafted myself onto Erick’s deep roots, and sought a bit of sunlight to encourage my own growth.
This sunlight came in the form of our cooking school. Erick is the chef, but, I too have always cooked. I come from a family in which we are all quite competent in the kitchen, and I’ve orchestrated Thanksgiving feasts for 20 or more as far away as Kobe, Japan, from an early age. My friends back home considered it quite unfair, and rather amusing that I, who was not destined to starve from lack of culinary skills, should marry a chef. Ah well. That’s fate, right? Shared values make for a marriage.
In the beginning, we hosted individuals, visited the outdoor farmer’s market, and cooked, and ate. This was the basic formula of the school. The central pillar was Erick and his personal research into the history of Provençale cuisine, coupled with his passionate alchemical sense of discovery.
How best to cook a tomato? When working with garlic, how do we retain all of its flavor and yet render it more easily digested? And traditional meat dishes-- seared or cooked slowly in wine? What is traditional to the region? (olive oil, lard) What is a recent interloper (butter). And on and on, a never ending, rich research into culinary secrets and mysteries.
As the business grew, we expanded our programs and offered our cooking clients visits to the local artisans. We met Sophie, the beekeeper, at our local market who shares Erick’s passion for historical recipes. Then we met Jean-Marie Fassy, the baker, at a conference on Mediterranean cuisine. Later we sought out local wine makers and went to taste and learn and purchase. At the yearly pottery fair, we met Véronique, our favorite potter.
Wandering down from the Château atop Châteauneuf-du-Pape, we stumbled into the newly opened Cave Verger des Papes and met Guy, our chef-sommelier. A colleague from afar introduced us to the exquisite chocolates of Joel Durand in St. Rémy de Provence. And just down the street from our home in Arles is our maître-patissier Guy Le Blanc. Sophie introduced us to Claudine and Isabelle, our goat cheese producers; and through another friendly connection we met René and Jean-Baptiste at the olive oil mill. Our connections with Guy Brémond led us to our truffle-meister. And so on and so on.
After polite and tentative social overtures, we arranged clear and defined business visits to our artisans. With little hesitation, we invited them to the house to enjoy a five course meal of the cooking school, alongside the students they’d met that week. For us, we wanted to say thank you in the best way we knew how. Our world is food, feeding people comes as second nature to us: please, join us around our table. In France, food is king, a meal shared in a home is sacred. The artisans became our friends.
After my various stumbling and often failed attempts to connect with neighbors, librarians, shop-keepers, and such, it took just a short while to realize that amongst these artisans I had found my ‘friends of a feather’. As bees to honey, I was attracted by their passion, their generosity, their expertise, their patience, their extraordinary welcome to us and our students. They became my teachers. In many cases, we were their only visitors (though this is changing slowly), and my students and myself were given preferential treatment, encouraged to ask any and all questions, and proffered detailed and lengthy explanations on every element of the particular artisan’s area of expertise.
Alongside my clients I learned about wine making: from the pruning, to the selection of grapes, to the harvest, to the crushing and removal or not, of stems. Onwards to the 2-4 weeks of alcoholic fermentation, to the ‘bleeding’ and/or pressing. From there to the malo-lactic fermentation to the decanting, to the aging, to the blending, and finally, to the bottling and which corks are best. Phew! I’d drunk tasted a bit of good Bordeaux and Burgundy as a child, but that was it for my oenological knowledge up to my arrival in Provence.
Be it olive oil, goat cheese, organic wine, chocolate, fougasse dough or pottery, all these marvelous products and the much appreciated creations of our dear friends became essential to my life, and also to the business.
As a foreigner in their world, it is not a little thing that these individuals receive me with open hearts and light in their eyes. They appreciate my sincere interest, and give back a hundred fold. Never am I berated by them with discussions of the invasion of American cinema into French culture, nor challenged on other American behaviors or policies Europeans occasionally find questionable or troubling (i.e. how Americans historically treated the American Indians, international politics, the role of religion in America).
Much more concerned with making a living in a world of flux and periodic confusion; much more concerned with doing well and being proud of their chosen profession, these men and women have chosen the route of personal creativity and hard work. They opened their hearts to me, and made my life here enriched with their experience and friendship. I can truly say that through them, I truly live here, in Provence, in the terroir of the Bouches du Rhône, amidst the olive trees and the seasonal market. I’ve put down my own roots. As a result, I’ve come to understand the apprehension with which many French view moving from their home-town. Here, I know my market vendors. Here, I can drive to any of a number of wineries within 30 minutes of the house, and purchase my favorite wines. Here, I can stock up on fresh olive oil right from the press. Here, I can run down the street to collect my favorite pastries. And here, I am known by name, and greeted with kisses. The cliché says home is where the heart is, add the stomach to that and oh how true.
I came to Provence to work at the international photography festival, the annual Rencontres de la Photographie in Arles, the summer of 1995. I was attending graduate school in Paris at the Institute Supérieur de Management Culturel, learning the ins and outs of arts management, and this was my second internship through the school, in a field I loved. I had been director of one of the oldest photography galleries in Seattle before coming to Paris, and was hoping to further my ambitions in the world of photography. Little did I know that this city and a man deeply rooted here would re-arrange my future, as a large rock tumbling from a cliff can re-orient the direction of a stream.
I arrived with little more in mind than to do my internship, enjoy the sun, and perhaps go to the beach. Paris had been the rainy capitol of the world that spring, and I could think of little but to enjoy the balmy warmth that had greeted me as I descended onto the train platform of this little city in the South.
Within a few days, I had met Erick, my soon to be husband, borrowed his bike, been to the beach, and eaten quite a few marvelous, simply home-cooked meals in his kitchen. I moved in the next week. Though not love at first sight, the romance was whirlwind. Briefly returning home to Seattle, I divested myself of my most bulky possessions, reduced my belongings to a one meter crate, and came back to Provence, ready to start a new life. A few years later I was running a cooking school, renovating a bed and breakfast, and raising two raucous little boys of two nationalities and two mother tongues. Although my marriage has run its term, I am still here, living in Provence, in my own home in Avignon with my two boys and our dog.
Life is not always easy for an ex-patriot, particularly in a small town in the South. Neighbors find you strange, customs and social signals differ, and finding your place takes time. Finding people with whom you can form friendships and enjoy special moments is particularly challenging. New to the region, I grafted myself onto Erick’s deep roots, and sought a bit of sunlight to encourage my own growth.
This sunlight came in the form of our cooking school. Erick is the chef, but, I too have always cooked. I come from a family in which we are all quite competent in the kitchen, and I’ve orchestrated Thanksgiving feasts for 20 or more as far away as Kobe, Japan, from an early age. My friends back home considered it quite unfair, and rather amusing that I, who was not destined to starve from lack of culinary skills, should marry a chef. Ah well. That’s fate, right? Shared values make for a marriage.
In the beginning, we hosted individuals, visited the outdoor farmer’s market, and cooked, and ate. This was the basic formula of the school. The central pillar was Erick and his personal research into the history of Provençale cuisine, coupled with his passionate alchemical sense of discovery.
How best to cook a tomato? When working with garlic, how do we retain all of its flavor and yet render it more easily digested? And traditional meat dishes-- seared or cooked slowly in wine? What is traditional to the region? (olive oil, lard) What is a recent interloper (butter). And on and on, a never ending, rich research into culinary secrets and mysteries.
As the business grew, we expanded our programs and offered our cooking clients visits to the local artisans. We met Sophie, the beekeeper, at our local market who shares Erick’s passion for historical recipes. Then we met Jean-Marie Fassy, the baker, at a conference on Mediterranean cuisine. Later we sought out local wine makers and went to taste and learn and purchase. At the yearly pottery fair, we met Véronique, our favorite potter.
Wandering down from the Château atop Châteauneuf-du-Pape, we stumbled into the newly opened Cave Verger des Papes and met Guy, our chef-sommelier. A colleague from afar introduced us to the exquisite chocolates of Joel Durand in St. Rémy de Provence. And just down the street from our home in Arles is our maître-patissier Guy Le Blanc. Sophie introduced us to Claudine and Isabelle, our goat cheese producers; and through another friendly connection we met René and Jean-Baptiste at the olive oil mill. Our connections with Guy Brémond led us to our truffle-meister. And so on and so on.
After polite and tentative social overtures, we arranged clear and defined business visits to our artisans. With little hesitation, we invited them to the house to enjoy a five course meal of the cooking school, alongside the students they’d met that week. For us, we wanted to say thank you in the best way we knew how. Our world is food, feeding people comes as second nature to us: please, join us around our table. In France, food is king, a meal shared in a home is sacred. The artisans became our friends.
After my various stumbling and often failed attempts to connect with neighbors, librarians, shop-keepers, and such, it took just a short while to realize that amongst these artisans I had found my ‘friends of a feather’. As bees to honey, I was attracted by their passion, their generosity, their expertise, their patience, their extraordinary welcome to us and our students. They became my teachers. In many cases, we were their only visitors (though this is changing slowly), and my students and myself were given preferential treatment, encouraged to ask any and all questions, and proffered detailed and lengthy explanations on every element of the particular artisan’s area of expertise.
Alongside my clients I learned about wine making: from the pruning, to the selection of grapes, to the harvest, to the crushing and removal or not, of stems. Onwards to the 2-4 weeks of alcoholic fermentation, to the ‘bleeding’ and/or pressing. From there to the malo-lactic fermentation to the decanting, to the aging, to the blending, and finally, to the bottling and which corks are best. Phew! I’d drunk tasted a bit of good Bordeaux and Burgundy as a child, but that was it for my oenological knowledge up to my arrival in Provence.
Be it olive oil, goat cheese, organic wine, chocolate, fougasse dough or pottery, all these marvelous products and the much appreciated creations of our dear friends became essential to my life, and also to the business.
As a foreigner in their world, it is not a little thing that these individuals receive me with open hearts and light in their eyes. They appreciate my sincere interest, and give back a hundred fold. Never am I berated by them with discussions of the invasion of American cinema into French culture, nor challenged on other American behaviors or policies Europeans occasionally find questionable or troubling (i.e. how Americans historically treated the American Indians, international politics, the role of religion in America).
Much more concerned with making a living in a world of flux and periodic confusion; much more concerned with doing well and being proud of their chosen profession, these men and women have chosen the route of personal creativity and hard work. They opened their hearts to me, and made my life here enriched with their experience and friendship. I can truly say that through them, I truly live here, in Provence, in the terroir of the Bouches du Rhône, amidst the olive trees and the seasonal market. I’ve put down my own roots. As a result, I’ve come to understand the apprehension with which many French view moving from their home-town. Here, I know my market vendors. Here, I can drive to any of a number of wineries within 30 minutes of the house, and purchase my favorite wines. Here, I can stock up on fresh olive oil right from the press. Here, I can run down the street to collect my favorite pastries. And here, I am known by name, and greeted with kisses. The cliché says home is where the heart is, add the stomach to that and oh how true.
Friday, March 6, 2009
A Recipe for a Cold Winter's Day
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
There's a recipe I learned from Erick way back when I first arrived in Arles that quickly became a favorite. In fact, I attribute the good health I maintained throughout my pregnancies, and thus the health of my boys, to eating lots of it! It is the Carbonade de Mouton. It also has the distinction of being a recipe that could only be destroyed if you added either veal stock or crème fraîche. It is a recipe built up slowly with layers of flavors that come together just marvelously. I never thicken the juices either, as it is one of the best soups I've ever eaten. As it is very nourishing, eating bread alongside would just weigh you down, but do have a large spoon.
This recipe has a story and a reason for existing, as many of Erick's do.
Once upon a time, there was a city, known by its Celtic name meaning city amidst the marshes (Arles) on a major river going north from the Mediterranean into Europe. It was a city with an immense market of wares and foodstuffs coming from all over the Mediterranean (and further away), to be then sold and redistributed across the continent. Many men worked on the multi-ton barges that needed to be physically pulled up the river to the northern cities of Avignon and Lyon. It was rough going bringing these barges up a river flowing in the opposite direction. In ancient time, teams of men (no doubt slaves) pulled the boats. Over time, the system shifted to horses, 80 of them. The Rhône river looks like a many branched tree from above. Many tributaries flow into it from the East and the West. Thus, those 80 horses couldn't just pull the barge up to Lyon in one simple trip. They had to be transferred from one side of the Rhône to the other over a dozen times. And these tributaries could be a source of flash floods, in which case the horses had to quickly be released from their harnesses and ropes, and the anchors thrown overboard to slow the movement of the heavy barge, and limit its backward flow. At all times, a couple men on the barge had axes to hand to slice the cords attaching the horses. The fastest trip recorded for one of these barges is about three weeks, Arles to Lyon. But the slowest was over three months. Ten kilometers a day was considered a decent pace. And, to accommodate these hungry and hard-working men and their horses, there were inns located every ten kilometers along the Rhône. At one of these inns, this recipe (or a variation of it) was a house-favorite for restoring these river-men. It made use of the plentiful and inexpensive local mutton (the region has had huge herds of sheep flowing across the dry flat former river beds since Roman times at least), fall and winter root vegetables, and inexpensive pinard.
Preparation time : 30 minutes ; cooking time : 2-3 hours
Ingredients:
One kilo leg or shoulder of lamb (2.2 lbs) (or about this much stew meat)
3 tablespoons olive oil (enough to cover the bottom of your pot)
2 slices bacon chopped in small pieces
one onion quartered
2 tomatoes quartered (not an authentic ingredient, but, it does add color and a tiny tang)
2 carrots cut in bite size pieces
1 large turnip quartered/eighthed
heart of celery quartered and chopped coarsely (a small celery root is fun to add in as well).
3 cups dry white wine (I just pour in a bottle)
300 grams dry white beans (10 oz) (soaked in water overnight -- and pre-cooked till somewhat tender) -- If you have fresh beans, such as cranberry beans, these are great and don't need pre-cooking.
100 grams of black olives (4 oz) (i.e. a nice handful)
3 bay leaves
a pinch of nutmeg
3 garlic cloves, crushed and chopped
water to cover
salt and pepper to taste
De-bone and cut your meat into large cubes, (or alternatively ask the butcher to do this for you).
In a large deep dish frying pan, heat the olive oil, add the bits of bacon stir till lightly browned, add the meat and brown quickly over a high flame till nicely caramelized. This step is best done in batches. If your meat renders lots of liquid, just suction it out and set aside to add back in later. You really want the meat nicely browned, this will add lots of flavor. When the meat is good, drizzle in a bit more olive oil and add in the onions, sautée till sweated (translucent) and then add the tomatoes, the carrots the turnip, the celery heart, the white beans, the garlic, the olives, nutmeg, salt and pepper. Pour in the white wine. Top off with water and cook either over a very low flame for 2 hours (or till the meat is very tender, an extra hour never hurts), or in the oven at 150C/300F for the same length of time.
Enjoy
There's a recipe I learned from Erick way back when I first arrived in Arles that quickly became a favorite. In fact, I attribute the good health I maintained throughout my pregnancies, and thus the health of my boys, to eating lots of it! It is the Carbonade de Mouton. It also has the distinction of being a recipe that could only be destroyed if you added either veal stock or crème fraîche. It is a recipe built up slowly with layers of flavors that come together just marvelously. I never thicken the juices either, as it is one of the best soups I've ever eaten. As it is very nourishing, eating bread alongside would just weigh you down, but do have a large spoon.
This recipe has a story and a reason for existing, as many of Erick's do.
Once upon a time, there was a city, known by its Celtic name meaning city amidst the marshes (Arles) on a major river going north from the Mediterranean into Europe. It was a city with an immense market of wares and foodstuffs coming from all over the Mediterranean (and further away), to be then sold and redistributed across the continent. Many men worked on the multi-ton barges that needed to be physically pulled up the river to the northern cities of Avignon and Lyon. It was rough going bringing these barges up a river flowing in the opposite direction. In ancient time, teams of men (no doubt slaves) pulled the boats. Over time, the system shifted to horses, 80 of them. The Rhône river looks like a many branched tree from above. Many tributaries flow into it from the East and the West. Thus, those 80 horses couldn't just pull the barge up to Lyon in one simple trip. They had to be transferred from one side of the Rhône to the other over a dozen times. And these tributaries could be a source of flash floods, in which case the horses had to quickly be released from their harnesses and ropes, and the anchors thrown overboard to slow the movement of the heavy barge, and limit its backward flow. At all times, a couple men on the barge had axes to hand to slice the cords attaching the horses. The fastest trip recorded for one of these barges is about three weeks, Arles to Lyon. But the slowest was over three months. Ten kilometers a day was considered a decent pace. And, to accommodate these hungry and hard-working men and their horses, there were inns located every ten kilometers along the Rhône. At one of these inns, this recipe (or a variation of it) was a house-favorite for restoring these river-men. It made use of the plentiful and inexpensive local mutton (the region has had huge herds of sheep flowing across the dry flat former river beds since Roman times at least), fall and winter root vegetables, and inexpensive pinard.
Preparation time : 30 minutes ; cooking time : 2-3 hours
Ingredients:
One kilo leg or shoulder of lamb (2.2 lbs) (or about this much stew meat)
3 tablespoons olive oil (enough to cover the bottom of your pot)
2 slices bacon chopped in small pieces
one onion quartered
2 tomatoes quartered (not an authentic ingredient, but, it does add color and a tiny tang)
2 carrots cut in bite size pieces
1 large turnip quartered/eighthed
heart of celery quartered and chopped coarsely (a small celery root is fun to add in as well).
3 cups dry white wine (I just pour in a bottle)
300 grams dry white beans (10 oz) (soaked in water overnight -- and pre-cooked till somewhat tender) -- If you have fresh beans, such as cranberry beans, these are great and don't need pre-cooking.
100 grams of black olives (4 oz) (i.e. a nice handful)
3 bay leaves
a pinch of nutmeg
3 garlic cloves, crushed and chopped
water to cover
salt and pepper to taste
De-bone and cut your meat into large cubes, (or alternatively ask the butcher to do this for you).
In a large deep dish frying pan, heat the olive oil, add the bits of bacon stir till lightly browned, add the meat and brown quickly over a high flame till nicely caramelized. This step is best done in batches. If your meat renders lots of liquid, just suction it out and set aside to add back in later. You really want the meat nicely browned, this will add lots of flavor. When the meat is good, drizzle in a bit more olive oil and add in the onions, sautée till sweated (translucent) and then add the tomatoes, the carrots the turnip, the celery heart, the white beans, the garlic, the olives, nutmeg, salt and pepper. Pour in the white wine. Top off with water and cook either over a very low flame for 2 hours (or till the meat is very tender, an extra hour never hurts), or in the oven at 150C/300F for the same length of time.
Enjoy
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
When in Arles
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
I lived in Arles full time from the spring before the birth of Leo in 1997, to the winter of 2006. And for a few years on either end, every weekend. Arles is a small city. It is the urban center for the villages of the Alpilles to the East, and the tiny hamlets in the Camargue to the South. As such, small though it is, it has a hospital (where my sons were born), the regional high school, a good-sized library (in a marvelously renovated structure) and a handful of graduate schools and degree programs in photography, archeology, linguistics, and literary translations. Arles is the home of two interesting businesses: the editing and translating house Actes Sud (publishers of Paul Auster and Isbelle Allende in French); and Harmonio Mundi, a classical and world music publisher. There are theaters, concert performances, art galleries and exhibitions on a large scale. It is quite a cultural mecca for such a relatively out of the way place.
Arles has numerous festivals throughout the year, most notably the annual July Photography Festival (now 35 years' old), a Southern Music festival (now about 10 years' old), a harp festival in November, a Nude photography festival in the spring, and no doubt others than I'm less familiar with.
But more than anything, Arles was the historical center of Roman Provincia. Its strategic location squat in the middle of Italy and Spain, on the crossroads of the Via Aurelia and Via Domicia, on the Rhône River, the only waterway connecting Northern Europe with the Mediterranean made it a place of enormous political importance, and a hub of many cultures. Today it is a city built around its splendid Roman ruins, and the subsequent history built in many cases atop them, or inside them, or with their stones. We've what we call an Arena (aka a coliseum) in the center of town, atop the rocky point upon which Arles was founded. It is in great shape, and currently receiving a UNESCO funded make-over to assure its continued existence. But we also have an antique theater that we is still in active use for opera and dance productions, slide shows during the photography festival, and more. And the remains of a forum, thermal baths, funeral grounds, a huge race course, you name it. It was a most complete and extensive Roman city.
When you live amongst these old stones, they are simply part of the landscape. By the age of four, my boys considered themselves too old to enjoy outings to the local park and its minimal playground. So, for a change of scenery, I took them to the monuments (as locals, we have free entry), where they scrambled over toppled pedestals, capitals and more, climbed up the arena steps and stands, and ran through the long dark tunnels hooting. Yes, this behavior did perhaps disturb the tourists, but this is my children's heritage, the playground of their Arlesien ancestors. It somehow seems right that they play amongst these stones as so many generations have before them. I haven't gone so far as to suggest that they might run over the top of the Arena's arches. We'll see if they manage that themselves in some distant future.
Job stability and limited social mobility translate to a crew of cash register ladies at the local Monoprix who've known me now for years, watched my belly grow, heard my toddlers scream for candy, shared tidbits about weather, the Feria bull fights, what-have-you. The hairdresser who arrived back in 1997 has cut my hair (and for the past few years colored it) ever since. I've seen him through a girl friend or two, and now happily into parenthood. He's had my boys under his scissors, first in awe, then fidgeting like fiends, now relatively calm. Perhaps I've also had a hand in shifting his opinions of Americans in general? As I walk down the street, many more locals recognize me as "the American". They've heard me hollering after Leo begging him to slow down on his bike so he won't crash into a little old lady (or two). They've had me as a client (I'm a faithful regular at my favorite boutiques, around my birthday, and during the yearly July and January sales) and in some cases have a husband or cousin who worked with Erick on a house or a roof or...
And the market. Once you start doing the majority of your shopping in such an incredible mecca of fresh, local and superb quality produce, can you ever go back? Even at moments over the years when my home-sickness for friendly faces who truly knew and loved me, who held to our friendship was at a peak; even when my world felt cold and impersonal, I weighed choosing friends and easy relationships over such a market. Add in the gorgeous hikes not too far from the house, and well, I'm still in Provence. Thankfully, I've a richer social life with some wonderful girlfriends now. So, the right balance is slowly coming into place, and is perhaps not unattainable.
Erick's house in Arles is on a tiny side street, perfectly situated easy walking distance between the sites of the two weekly markets. So, Wednesday and Saturday mornings are market days. Days we ate shell fish, days for perfect fresh peaches or melons, days to be tempted by hot samosas or gorgeous hand-picked strawberries. At the market you always run into a few friends and acquaintances, exchange the ritual three kisses, get updates on family and life in general. Though the Saturday market is enormous, impressive and truly world class, I preferred the Wednesday's 'housewives' market' "le marché de ménagère. There I have my favorite organic vegetable seller, Sophie the beekeeper is nearby, and the flea market for second hand clothes is second to none. One egg-seller I've known forever once shushed up an ignorant colleague when they took my chatting with a client in English as an opportunity to comment (not meanly, but...) on us. Others remember in particular my violet summer hat that I wear without fail once the good weather is upon us. When they sight it, their faces light up.
Yes, I'm a known quantity in Arles. Even down to the pharmacy we've frequented since my arrival. They saw us through the illness and death of my father in law, my two births, any and every sickness. Truly a small town life, where if you leave your headlights on, someone will come and knock on your door, knowing your car and your address, even if you've never addressed the man before. Rather surreal for a New York girl... But it has its moments.
I lived in Arles full time from the spring before the birth of Leo in 1997, to the winter of 2006. And for a few years on either end, every weekend. Arles is a small city. It is the urban center for the villages of the Alpilles to the East, and the tiny hamlets in the Camargue to the South. As such, small though it is, it has a hospital (where my sons were born), the regional high school, a good-sized library (in a marvelously renovated structure) and a handful of graduate schools and degree programs in photography, archeology, linguistics, and literary translations. Arles is the home of two interesting businesses: the editing and translating house Actes Sud (publishers of Paul Auster and Isbelle Allende in French); and Harmonio Mundi, a classical and world music publisher. There are theaters, concert performances, art galleries and exhibitions on a large scale. It is quite a cultural mecca for such a relatively out of the way place.
Arles has numerous festivals throughout the year, most notably the annual July Photography Festival (now 35 years' old), a Southern Music festival (now about 10 years' old), a harp festival in November, a Nude photography festival in the spring, and no doubt others than I'm less familiar with.
But more than anything, Arles was the historical center of Roman Provincia. Its strategic location squat in the middle of Italy and Spain, on the crossroads of the Via Aurelia and Via Domicia, on the Rhône River, the only waterway connecting Northern Europe with the Mediterranean made it a place of enormous political importance, and a hub of many cultures. Today it is a city built around its splendid Roman ruins, and the subsequent history built in many cases atop them, or inside them, or with their stones. We've what we call an Arena (aka a coliseum) in the center of town, atop the rocky point upon which Arles was founded. It is in great shape, and currently receiving a UNESCO funded make-over to assure its continued existence. But we also have an antique theater that we is still in active use for opera and dance productions, slide shows during the photography festival, and more. And the remains of a forum, thermal baths, funeral grounds, a huge race course, you name it. It was a most complete and extensive Roman city.
When you live amongst these old stones, they are simply part of the landscape. By the age of four, my boys considered themselves too old to enjoy outings to the local park and its minimal playground. So, for a change of scenery, I took them to the monuments (as locals, we have free entry), where they scrambled over toppled pedestals, capitals and more, climbed up the arena steps and stands, and ran through the long dark tunnels hooting. Yes, this behavior did perhaps disturb the tourists, but this is my children's heritage, the playground of their Arlesien ancestors. It somehow seems right that they play amongst these stones as so many generations have before them. I haven't gone so far as to suggest that they might run over the top of the Arena's arches. We'll see if they manage that themselves in some distant future.
Job stability and limited social mobility translate to a crew of cash register ladies at the local Monoprix who've known me now for years, watched my belly grow, heard my toddlers scream for candy, shared tidbits about weather, the Feria bull fights, what-have-you. The hairdresser who arrived back in 1997 has cut my hair (and for the past few years colored it) ever since. I've seen him through a girl friend or two, and now happily into parenthood. He's had my boys under his scissors, first in awe, then fidgeting like fiends, now relatively calm. Perhaps I've also had a hand in shifting his opinions of Americans in general? As I walk down the street, many more locals recognize me as "the American". They've heard me hollering after Leo begging him to slow down on his bike so he won't crash into a little old lady (or two). They've had me as a client (I'm a faithful regular at my favorite boutiques, around my birthday, and during the yearly July and January sales) and in some cases have a husband or cousin who worked with Erick on a house or a roof or...
And the market. Once you start doing the majority of your shopping in such an incredible mecca of fresh, local and superb quality produce, can you ever go back? Even at moments over the years when my home-sickness for friendly faces who truly knew and loved me, who held to our friendship was at a peak; even when my world felt cold and impersonal, I weighed choosing friends and easy relationships over such a market. Add in the gorgeous hikes not too far from the house, and well, I'm still in Provence. Thankfully, I've a richer social life with some wonderful girlfriends now. So, the right balance is slowly coming into place, and is perhaps not unattainable.
Erick's house in Arles is on a tiny side street, perfectly situated easy walking distance between the sites of the two weekly markets. So, Wednesday and Saturday mornings are market days. Days we ate shell fish, days for perfect fresh peaches or melons, days to be tempted by hot samosas or gorgeous hand-picked strawberries. At the market you always run into a few friends and acquaintances, exchange the ritual three kisses, get updates on family and life in general. Though the Saturday market is enormous, impressive and truly world class, I preferred the Wednesday's 'housewives' market' "le marché de ménagère. There I have my favorite organic vegetable seller, Sophie the beekeeper is nearby, and the flea market for second hand clothes is second to none. One egg-seller I've known forever once shushed up an ignorant colleague when they took my chatting with a client in English as an opportunity to comment (not meanly, but...) on us. Others remember in particular my violet summer hat that I wear without fail once the good weather is upon us. When they sight it, their faces light up.
Yes, I'm a known quantity in Arles. Even down to the pharmacy we've frequented since my arrival. They saw us through the illness and death of my father in law, my two births, any and every sickness. Truly a small town life, where if you leave your headlights on, someone will come and knock on your door, knowing your car and your address, even if you've never addressed the man before. Rather surreal for a New York girl... But it has its moments.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
A Day in Provence
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
The sun is streaming through my kitchen window. The kids are off to school, and my wine book translation is awaiting my attention. Filou, my faithful poodle/bichon mutt is calm at my feet, and the wood burning stove is sending out warmth and reassurance. A proper "foyer" or hearth and home.
The sun is streaming through my kitchen window. The kids are off to school, and my wine book translation is awaiting my attention. Filou, my faithful poodle/bichon mutt is calm at my feet, and the wood burning stove is sending out warmth and reassurance. A proper "foyer" or hearth and home.
Living in Provence as an American is marvelous, frustrating, exciting, disorienting and enriching. I've lived here now for nearly 15 years. I first came to France as a five year old with my parents, both francophiles, and visited again at ten with my mother and brother, then at 16 on my own, with strict marching orders to get my French up to speed. And, when I had my own funds from working at a Chinese restaurant every weekend through high school, I returned with a girl friend to tour all over Europe by Eurail Pass.
I then proceeded to study Japanese in college, taking French classes only intermittently as a relief to the brutal difficulty of mastering kanji. It wasn't till after a year in Japan, when I was 27, that I decided to come back to France to go to graduate school. I felt, having achieved the impossible of speaking Japanese fluently, I needed to get my French back up to speed. So why not graduate school in Paris? I loved the arts, and photography in particular, so, to Paris I went.
Part-way through my schooling I came to Arles to work as an intern with the annual photo festival, Les Rencontres de la Photographie. I met Erick Vedel, a local chef, and decided to stay. We then proceeded to get married, start the cooking school, have one child, start the bed and breakfast, have a second child, and work like crazy, but joyfully, building the businesses into bustling and busy activities.
However, as can happen in this world, what seemed lovely from the outside, had a few dents and cracks on the inside. I opted to leave the marriage, and thus the bed and breakfast behind me. I am now in a house of my own in Avignon, with my two boys Leo and Jonas, now eleven and seven years' old. I am reinventing myself as a tour guide specializing in culinary and wine destinations -- a specialty I've concentrated my energies on now for over 13 years.
I am also in a new relationship, with an organic vintner who loves to tango. Literally! So, my oenological knowledge is being enriched by living through the seasons of a winery, and my dance skills (always a passion for me) are being honed by weekly classes, and periodic intensive weekends.
The world economy is making life that much more interesting. But, hey, what would life be without a few bumps in the road?
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