A chèvrier without his chèvres.

For the first time since the death of Isabelle I've come to visit Paul Pierre. I'd called earlier in June and left a message on his answering machine. Simply stating that I was here, that I was thinking of him. And he called me last week to set up a time for a visit.

As to be expected, he'd plunged right into movement and activity after the funeral, and then collapsed with advanced pneumonia, liquid in his lungs and more. He has now been through treatments galore, hospital stays, and weeks of bed rest. He is up and about and plowing through the papers that must be attended to. The house is layered (they are relatively small layers) with all that beckons. Health insurance, shifting of names on property deeds, retirement accounts, banks, accounts, etc., It is a truism to state that with death comes a pile of paper work, but being close to it is quite impressive, in a rather frightening way.

It is now two months later. You could say he's been through the gauntlet. What is glorious is a sense, a feeling, a knowledge of what solitude might bring him rather than the loss that he has suffered. He was conscious and present throughout the four years of his wife's illness. He prepared, he projected, he handled it in a mighty way. And now, next?

There are projects. Next year Aurelie will take the goats to her own farm. That leaves space below that is refrigerated, clean, kitchen oriented. Perhaps stages, courses in preparing pâtés and pork products? He's done that before, taken three whole pigs on Friday and by Sunday all who participate walk away with their preparations. It would be fascinating, a learning/teaching experience, and worthwhile.

He has land that could be farmed by another, from whom he could collect rent (not to mention well nourished land with the many years of goat droppings upon it). He has a home that could be rented by the week for vacationers (view of the olive grove included). Why not rent to photography folk during the festival in Arles? and offer transportation morning and evening?

The possibilities are there. He is eager and coping. He is open and sharing.

Yes, we spoke of much. I listened. He gave me a father/uncle/man/s advice concerning the demise of my relationship with JP (I said thank you as I listened, rather humbled). He is encouraged that I seem to be learning, growing -- but agreed I've a ways to go yet.

Precious.

Meeting an old friend for the first time

I mentioned the pleasure I felt in meeting a woman who follows my blog. Truly, it was touching, surprising and enlightening. There was a moment of cultural confusion -- the written English language is relatively easy to communicate in for those of us from the Americas/British Iles/Australia/New Zealand/ etc., but our accents can be quite different! She with her beautiful Irish lilt that I had to listen carefully to, myself with my speedy delivery with no doubt a nasal touch from my NY/Seattle/Mid-West past.

We found subjects in common -- I'd not realized (or had not carefully read) that she shared a love and knowledge of photography with me. We came together in a city and on a day when there were shows aplenty to see, and so we were able to explore this dimension of our connection. We were able as well to touch on the powerful subjects of the soul mate, the couple, the expectations of collaboration, sharing and love. She has lived and lost what I dearly would like to experience. Having lived such beauty once in her life (for 20 years if I remember correctly) will she be granted another such? or will her knowledge, love and expertise shine on a larger world?

To know each other and yet to not know each other at all. I, the American in Provence, getting her hair done, wandering about a city with her dog, bubbling with nervousness and pleasure at our encounter. She, seemingly more poised, a touch older (but not by much), certainly calmer. Her experiences and direction appeared focused. Whereas I am only just gelling a few ideas into a larger whole.

The world of blogging has offered me a chance to share and to communicate. I love the written word. I've now met two different woman who've been following my blog for over a year. It is startling. I know little of them. I have much to learn. It is my turn to ask questions, to listen. They know intimate details of me. They've read me and mine. My time for sharing is put on hold.

Once the first encounter has passed, will we keep in touch further? Will I hop on a plane to Ireland? I'm tempted, but scared to drive on the other side of the road, I might be a burden. Will we collaborate on future projects?

The written word is a first level. The physical presence of two beings in the same space is another. As many who've tried internet web sites to meet a beloved have discovered, the reality doesn't always fit the words read. I wonder again about my outer and inner self. Is there yet a schism there? Do I surprise? or do I confirm?

However, I am also simply grateful. This has been a magical summer filled with much of what I seek: beauty, work, friends and new encounters. Thank you.

Feminine Power Web Seminar

The link is here feminine power seminar

I've been following this seminar now for five weeks. It is an astonishing and gracious and generous world of women. Quite extraordinary and inspiring. I came upon it by being on the emailing list for Dr. Jean Houston (jeanhoustonfoundation.org) and thought, hm, I'm going through some interesting/tough times, why not? I too am seeking inspiration, direction, collaboration, encouragement, clarity. I too will benefit from tools to focus me, strengthen me, reassure me and give me the courage to go forth to share the gifts I have to offer.

And so it is. Weekly there is a two hour seminar, then two question and answer sessions, plus the web based forum where people exchange and share and simply write in. There are weekly questions to ponder and recommendations for keeping a notebook. Power statements (as opposed to affirmations) to define and integrate.

I am in contact with women shamans in Canada, inspired yoga teachers and coaches in Australia, midwives in India, and vastly more. A reservoir of a thousand women seeking to be more, to be all they can be.

It is quite incredible. And all this I have on my iphone in mp3s, and on my computer in pdfs.

Take a look friends. If for nothing else, I deeply appreciate the mastery of language by the two women who run this seminar, Claire and Katherine. The graciousness and skill with which they receive and honor each question, the conviction and passion and love with which they share their knowledge and encouragement.

Such simple ideas, and yet so powerful.

T'is been a while

I am fully in my life these days. Free time to write seems out of my grasp. I have been working intensely throughout the early part of this month -- touring, animating wine tastings, hiking the Luberon, biking the Alpilles. And then once more a visit to the clinic for an operation (same as earlier this year). Once more a day of being completely out and zonked and taking time to recover, yet working the while. And then, down. Late mornings, but still rendezvous, meetings, errands, a lovely evening of friends in my camping garden.

And so I come back to the written word. So much as flowed through me. Where do I start? I've quite a few ideas to pursue, themes to discuss. I'll get to them.

I am reading, The Secret Life of France -- an interesting book by yet another anglo-saxon who has married French. However, her life is quite other than mine as she married wealthy and upper class in Paris, a world I've only barely visited. Her experiences differ quite a bit from mine. I will get into these in future blogs.

I am listening and following an internet seminar for women, "Feminine Power" The essential course for the awakening woman. It is wonderful. At this point I've only been able to download the sessions and discussions after the fact as the timing of the phone calls is difficult for me to manage. But I find them nourishing, inspiring, and focusing. What is feminine power? I'll share more on this in a blog.

I've had visitors to my camp site, in particular the 16 year old daughter of a dear friend from Boston. I'm the kooky Aunt Mame to her more reserved family. With me, we discuss pretty lingerie, bras available on this and that side of the Atlantic, fashion choices, class and crass.

And I've been dancing. Yes, tango is still a lovely part of my life. I'm going out and dancing with many a cavalier. I am reaching out, linking eyes and inviting men to dance. We do our tanga of 4 and then I float on to another, or I'm invited. I am braver, stronger, more assured -- even when I catch a glimpse of a certain person. The desire to be fully me, to take back my power, to revel in who, what, where I am... it is stronger than the disorientation of this life as a single woman slightly at odds in the South of France.

And, I'm being with dear friends. New ones (from my blog! a meeting in my part of the world with one of you who've been following me), and old ones, ones who've become closer and dearer. It is magical. The universe is being generous.

Friendship in a Foreign Land - the most recent installment

When you live in a land far from your family, friends count for a lot. So do memories -- perhaps relatively recent for others, but strong and present for yourself. The occasion will arrive (oft repeatedly) when you realize that you've put certain people into the box of 'dear friends' and they barely remember your name. No, it is rarely as bad as that, but it comes as a surprise to both parties when these different feelings and sense of importance come to the fore.

The other evening I was invited to a friend's house with my two guests. A seemingly simple evening became very complex. This friend is someone I've known for over thirteen years, since I was pregnant with Leo. She was present at the creation of Erick's and my first business, the Association Cuisine and Tradition. In fact, I do believe she was the president of our little association. She came often to our house for meetings, and joined us at the dinner table.

Later, as lives became more complex, we saw less of her, but we were still on the list of invites for her wedding to a fellow dear friend. And so life goes on.

Since I've lived in Avignon, her husband has become a major player in my existence. He is my plumber, aka my guardian angel. When I call, he comes. I pay him faithfully and immediately upon work done -- anxious to not abuse the friendship. And oh what a relief it is for me to have at least one person I can count on. I'm afraid when it comes to doing work around the house and garden, my car, etc., I've not a full hand of these people.

I was particularly touched that these friends can still be such even though I've divorced their much-loved friend, the father of my boys.

In my mind, I'd built up these two. The former a woman with Jewish roots, a mover and shaker, a smart and sassy lady who got things done, armed with a legal degree and a will of iron. In her I saw many women I'd known and loved in New York. Many colleagues of my mother's whom I admired and hoped to emulate. Not just hot air, but intelligence and focus and generosity all wrapped up in a great package.

In fact, I've seen very little of this woman I so admire. She briefly helped mediate between Erick and I, but I thought it best not to mix friendship and divorce. So, I've run into her here and there, but mostly worked with her husband whom I always feed when he works for me, chat with, share news about Erick with, etc.,

And so, here we are, on our second night of dining together in the same week. Once at my place, once at her's. And, this is the last night my friends from the States will be with us, and the only evening another friend might meet them. And so, it seemed possible to add two to the mix, with salad, wine and bread as offerings, for our dinner party. I of course called to check. But all seemed well on the phone.

And then we arrived -- Filou in tow (hard to leave him back at the camper van)-- and as the proverbial saying states, all Hell broke loose. When she saw Filou she flipped. So I put him back in the car. And then she disappeared having had a row with her husband over the banishment of the dog. I assured her Filou was fine in the car and apologized for having foolishly brought him. But, the event was not over.

When I'd arrived, the gate to the house was open, so I pushed it further and called out, Allô, and walked in with my now four friends - two American and two Avignonais. And it came across as an invasion of the most rude and dramatic sort. A major whoops occurred as my friend expressed her dismay and confusion and I felt horribly out of my depth and confused and tried to figure out where I'd so over-stepped the bounds of our friendship.

And here we are at the crossroads of very different shared memories and experiences. Thirteen years is a lot in my life -- it goes back to my arrival in Arles. And here was one of the first people I met, someone who was there while I was nursing Leo, someone who had been so instrumental in our professional lives, and also personal. One of the first to invite me to a marriage, etc., etc., Not to mention she resembled so many loved ones from home. And then, her husband was a savior in my eyes (which she actually found quite distasteful, as he is so for many a client and thus she finds his work bleeds into their home life, so I clearly touched a very sore point on that one), and, and, and... I felt so close to her, down right cuddly and grateful. But for she, I was simply that little American wife (now ex) of her dear friend, and well, a client of her husband.

Yes, whoops. However, where it is painful and rather frightening to hear how you've upset someone, it does permit you to try to right the wrong. And so I considered and reflected and then went to help her in the kitchen and try to explain myself.

In the meantime, my Avignonnais friend was doing a masterful job of smoothing things over, helping, discussing the situation, sharing notes on friends, imposition, expectations, etc.,

In the end, we came to a new understanding of our relationship and both of us are desirous of deepening it and getting to know each other better. How could a lady from Avignon have any idea that her simple Jewishness meant so much to me? Her spunk and her smarts, her education and her general energy? And, how startling for myself to have the foreignness of my being yet again thrust into the light. The relative importance of years lived, years shared, thoughts conveyed.

When you lived cut off from your family and childhood friends -- not the common experience here for the locals -- it is quite normal to give a supreme importance to friends. As the cliche goes, you can't pick your family but you can pick your friends. And so, I've often described to these friends their importance in my life, que je construit ma famille française, that I've sought to know and surround myself with marvelous beings. That I revel in them, that they are tremendously important to me.

I do not make the distinction between family and friends when it comes to being needed or called upon. I'm there for them both as I am able. And, a gifted juggler and a master of Plans B, C, D, and onward to infinity, I will do my damned best to respond.

Yes, I think of a certain person and his clear limits and distinctions between these two worlds. And I know, I never crossed the line into his box for family. I stayed outside. And thus no, he would not be there for me as he would for his mother or his daughter or his brother.

It's strange for me to confront such a way of thinking. But, I'm a traveler, I'm a recent arrival, I'm trying to dig my own roots and create a sense of belonging in a world onto which I might be permitted to graft, and in which I often struggle and flail.

Yet more lessons in humility.

Good bye Isabelle

This morning we said good bye to Isabelle. Paul Pierre called me Wednesday evening to let me know that she'd died that morning around 3AM. Yesterday the family arrived, and today was a day for friends. He asked me to contact our mutual friend Sophie, the beekeeper. And I took it upon myself to call JP. Ooph, not an easy call for me. I would have vastly preferred to leave a message.

It was one of those moments when I just said to myself, you don't leave an sms about someone dying. That's just not done. This is something to be communicated by the voice. No? Ah well, it was brief, and awkward. What more to say? Were we going to chat about banalities? No.

I was saddened to learn of Isabelle's demise, and yet relieved as well. But I was thrown just hearing JP's voice. That sadness is frustratingly still in me.

In the end, both he and Sophie sent written notes to Paul Pierre. Neither was able to come to the mas.

And so, after dropping the kids off at school this morning, I headed out to St Martin du Crau. Paul Pierre greeted me, and immediately begged his excuses as he needed to be with others, elsewhere, that we'd find a time to talk in the future... Of course, and understandable. I gave him a hug, put Filou back in the car, and brought my roses and bottle of wine into the house.

And then... what? A simple greeting to faces I knew. A moment upstairs where Isabelle's casket was draped in a cloth, her daughter beside it. Then back downstairs. Could I help? A bit. But I felt rather out of it, lost, not at ease sliding into conversation with family members I'd never met. And so I took refuge in the cheese lab with Aurelie. Thankfully she was there. I grated some pepper onto her cheese, and helped a teeny bit (barely). Mostly I shared thoughts and feelings with her. She too is living a mini-nightmare in her own home as her mother is terribly ill, bedridden for more than a year now, and still for some terrible reason, hanging on. But, at the same time, her little girls -- like my little boys -- were being particularly lovely. Life has its sharpened edges, and its gentle ruffles.

Then back into the main rooms and outside. I helped put out the buffet of various foods brought by friends. I cut fougasse, and later the chocolate cakes. I opened some wine. And I waited. We then slowly made our way into the room to eat a bit, moving conversations. It was an event without direction. Paul Pierre was trying to be attentive to all who were there, and no doubt exhausting himself in the doing. His daughter Marie was sad and with her companion and her close friends. And others milled about. Other than managing food and cleaning and putting flowers into vases, no one dared impose themselves further.

And then, it was the moment for the casket to leave for the crematorium. Four strong men in the group carried it down the stone steps and out into the van. We gathered in silence, a few tears filling the pouches below our eyes, delicate streams descending. But... not a word, not a poem, not a shared memory, not a tribute, no note played on a cornet, or a violin, or a voice raised to the skies.

Each held his own council. We were a group of individual mourners in a shared space. Each held his memories to his heart. Why? why no ceremony? why no candles? why no sharing of our love for this woman? Why such a stiff upper lip? This is the Breton way?

I was lost, sad, and out of sorts. I wanted to let the tears flow. But in such solitude? Such silence?

And so I too departed, after helping clean up a bit. I climbed into my car and headed back to Avignon and the errands that awaited me there.

I've written before about funerals in France. And I wonder still why it is that there is such a different sense of things here. I attribute it as I might to the Protestant ethic of my world -- one where the people took back the right to communicate directly to God, to interpret the Word as they might, on their own. And thus gave themselves a voice and encouraged sharing their individual thoughts and perceptions. France is a product of its Catholic past (far more than the Protestant minority) -- a world where the priest speaks for you-- blended with its current laïc sensibility. Thus, if there's not a priest to do the talking for you, you don't talk, you don't interpret, you don't share your spiritual moments.

This is simply my groping in the dark to make sense of my own sadness in what I didn't experience this morning. As I shared these thoughts with two dear friends, and a colleague at the kids' Waldorf school, we were in agreement as to the importance of ceremony, marking the moment, sharing it, lighting a candle, reciting a poem, but most of all, allowing/permitting/celebrating a collective event.

And so, I grieve, and I am grateful that in this distant world that I've mostly made mine, I've friends who understand me, and who too would do as I would.

Once a bit of time has passed, I'll call Paul Pierre and see where he's at. What is next...

A Month plus...

Well, it has been over a month. I've received emails, sent some. Beautiful flowers and an sms for my birthday. Curious. Perhaps it is easier to be "quittée" than to "quitte."

During this time I've read interesting and helpful books (David Deida, Hendrick Harville, Barbara de Angelis) and listened to others (John Welwood, Deepak Chopra, Eckhart Tolle, Tara Brach, Oriah Mountain Dreamer). I'm seeking to make sense of it all, to learn something, to be more for what I lived, and not less. To see a lesson amidst the pain and confusion. I sent on French versions of the first two books to JP... for his next coupledom. They both make some very good points.

And, for me, all this reading and probing into my soul and heart seems to be working. In any case, the universe is certainly telling me that at long last I'm on the right path.

These past two weeks I've worked more and earned more than in practically the past two and half years combined (okay, I exaggerate, but not by much). I'm getting ahead on house projects -- I even spent a day going through my mending pile! Finally, that hole in the butt of Jonas' pjs... My Good Will pile ready to go into the trunk of my car.

And even more lovely, my home is giving back to me, as are my children. Roses are blooming on every corner, bursting forth.

This weekend is a time of rest from 'work.' And a time to seriously work on the garden and the house. The pool is now painted with two coats of protective (non-toxic, organic) pine-colored stuff. The overgrown/broken down barrier to the far side of my row of cypress trees is gone, soon to be replaced by a clean and sturdy new fence. My vegetable garden is not only weeded, it is gifting us with fresh new garlic, and 300grams (a nice small bucket) of gorgeous strawberries daily. Perhaps to compensate for the completely fruitless cherry tree? Five new tomato plants are in. Three pumpkin seeds have sprouted, and two melon. The three pea plants that survived the slugs are each bearing pods. They will be, as we say, anecdotique. A saucepan they shall not fill. But a happy little boy may easily nibble some in the next few days, right off the vine.

My neighbor, aka my adopted little brother, is available to help out (for pay) in the garden, and is easily and happily taking on the role of masculine presence for the boys. Today was one of those magical days when I had lots of projects, had banished the computer, and we all spent the day working side by side outdoors in the garden. Laurent quickly had both boys at his side helping burn the brush. He carefully instructed them how, had them in proper shoes and gloves, and I simply laid off and did my thing (paint/weed/laundry/cake/lunch...). If only once JP had shown the same patience and presence of mind... Ah well, water under the bridge.

It's been pointed out to me that with my father issues... it is quite possible that somehow I sabotaged (not consciously!) the potential relationship between my boys and JP. That I needed to be in the tiny space of a couple, treated with tenderness and attention, and sharing that space with my own children might have been something I hesitated to put into place. Perhaps. Certainly, I early on got the message that we'd not live my ideal rhythm: 2 days together, 3 days me alone with my boys and 2 days all 4 of us together. The first time we shared a home (the 4 of us) for 3 days, the day my boys went to their father, I didn't get my man back, I lost him. His need to be alone was such that he needed days to recuperate from the invasion of my children in his home, and he fled me as well. Perhaps I learned this lesson too well.

Whatever the justice of the observation, when briefly I met a man who was fabulous with my boys, but apparently couldn't make time for me... I turned away from him, freaked by his workaholic nature, touched by his extraordinary devotion to the children, but put off by his seeming blindness towards what keeps a couple together.

However, I'm writing of the past, but my intention was/is to laud the present.

Friday night (very recent past, you must grant me) gifted me with a wonderful evening of tango -- dancing with many a different cavalier of varied skill, age, size, height, rhythm. It was glorious and warm and delightful and ... just what I needed. As I drove home I was on such a high. I've absolutely nothing to complain about. My kids are pretty darn nice. I've a collection of devoted and generous friends. I dance, I garden, I cook, I earn a living. I am at peace with my world, and reveling in the pure joy of it.

Yes, it would be lovely to meet someone new, at some point, who could truly look at me and accept the country/city nature, the dress-up tango dancer/barefoot gardener, the great cook of feasts for friends/curl up in bed with a book and a cuddle over a weekend... bundle of contrasts that I am. Ah well. In the meantime, kids, friends and a life.

It's nothing to sneeze at.

When at the Goat Farm, I took a walk.

The other day I took time to walk around the goat farm. I discovered a dirt road leading toward Arles -- to explore further with my bike on my next visit. I visited the horse, who was in with the goats nibbling away, hiding beneath the trees when the heat became too strong. When Filou ran up to her barking louding, she simply charged him and put him in his place. But, as she didn't really want to come close to me, nor is she truly dangerous, she stopped after a step or two.

Isabelle was sleeping, her new quilt upon her knees. The others were busy in each his own way, and my particular skills -- cooking and cleaning -- weren't really in need at that moment. So, I wandered, I looked, I took in the evolving spring. The fluff along the ground dropped form the polinating trees. The butterflies posing gently upon a bright magenta flower, the rosemary in blossom.

Each spring I see anew. I revel in this beauty, the last spring for Isabelle. As with many who are in the midst of this path towards death, it seems she has stayed with us till this moment. Now that the flowers are opening. Now that the warmth has returned, now that her little grandson can explore this marvelous outdoor world on two feet, she is ready to depart. A last spring lived, sensed, seen, felt.

In the beauty of her sphere. Aware of this magical moment of grace, I am.

Life Lessons continue through Friendship

I’m sitting with Isabelle, formerly my goat cheese maker, in the sun in front of her home. She is now in a wheel chair. Too weak to walk where just two weeks ago, or maybe three? She had been doing the dishes and able to descend the stair case. It has been a steady descent since her epileptic fit just a month ago. I was lucky to see her as I did – alert, present, if without a memory to follow a conversation or remember where to put the compost.

She is sleeping more and more. Brief moments of waking are greeted with calm joy and presence by Paul Pierre, and other friends at her side. Meals are taken when she is ready. Gently, one by one, Paul Pierre guides and encourages her to eat, first the salad, commenting on the sauce made by their good friend, then some pea pods, a bit of lovely organic beef raised by a favorite farm, onwards to some cheese, perhaps a bit of fruit salad, wine, chocolate. It is no more than a bite of any of these, perhaps two. One of five of these bites she is able herself to bring to her lips. A gentle commentary accompanies each moment of the meal, nothing too profound, simply a moment of good humor, an appreciation of the texture and taste entering her mouth. Paul Pierre is reinforcing the present to her, accentuating the sensations of her body, perhaps keeping her with us on this plane?

During my last visit I had spent time showing her pictures of the children, JP, the goats and more. I attempted a similar offering today with photos of Venice and our mutual friend the beekeeper. She seemed to awaken and participate, enjoying the visuals as they passed upon the screen, but within ten minutes she was wearied. This tumor is ever evolving, and her presence is ever dimming.

As we sit outside, she drifts off to sleep. The dogs are at our feet: her wonderful Bearnese sheep dog, and Filou. Both have tendered their affection, their moist noses towards Isabelle, reached for a moment of grace as she patted them, felt them, saw them.

What is life after all? How many books and pod casts will I read and absorb when here the lesson is so deeply incised? What truly matters? I am selfishly living alongside, absorbing the blessings of their company. I am seeking answers for my path, my choices, my values. And here, so much of the noise, the blurry world simply falls away. I am in the warmth of a loving and caring group. I am in the warmth of a world warming into a full spring and soon summer. I am in the color of the flowers and the sounds of the buzzing flies, wasps, birds and snoring dog.

I'm aware of my effort to be there but not too much. My natural energy is ebullient, and here I need to be calm. I am sensitive to the energy, but not always able to control my speed of speech, my leap into movement. Her nap is precious, sacred, protected by all. Her need for sleep encouraged where I would speak with her, encourage connection. I'm not in sync, though my love is there. I'm in that state of "trying my best." There is a disconnect.

Will this be the last time that I visit? I shall offer again next week, but I know that I am not the most reposing of individuals. I bring tales, chatter, images, a chance for sharing. But she and Paul Pierre are past this now. It is a time to simply be at her side, d'assister à sa vie, to speak softly and lovingly, to rearrange her pillows and help her go from bed to wheel chair and back again. New information, a connection to the outside world, even laughter, are no longer on the menu. It is possible I've offered what I might at this point.

And yet, she is in me. I bring her with me as I drive back to pick the kids up at school. I’ve two lovely young boys who are there, interested, present, living day to day. I’ve turned away from the rushing, frantic existence. And somehow, the universe hasn’t abandoned me. I will work this season, I will pay my bills, feed my children, hold onto my house, cope on the basics. I’m not playing the stock market, I’ve not put oodles away for retirement. I’ve not really played by the rules of the system. But I am looking into a guitar class for Leo, seeing more friends, exchanging English conversation practice for a nourishing massage (once a week if I’m lucky). I am making my bread, tending my garden, tending my soul.

It doesn’t feel like a fantasy, it feels normal. In this world where the aged parent is taken in by the children, where the retirement home is a last ditch effort for only the most feeble and desperate, where loved ones are cared for and family means something... it’s more important to give and teach good values and be present in a relaxed and serene manner for my children than to chase after a nebulous retirement account. The last few years and the insanity of the banking crisis, the number of bankruptcies, etc., have led me to adopt the approach of lowering my expenses, limiting debt, and cultivating friends and loved ones.

I think I'm on the right path.

Being with a Friend

I suppose I've made it my mission, by love and by commitment, to be there for Isabelle and Paul Pierre to the extent that I'm helpful (when I'm present, Paul Pierre can leave to handle various errands, shop, be on the computer, etc.,) and that I bring joy and friendship and new topics of conversation to the table.

There are occasions elsewhere that the fact that I might make a slight slurping noise when I drink a very hot cup of tea, held in two hands just below my chin as I rest my elbows on the table is remarked upon. And there are those who find my conversation at times too self-centered. And at other times too full of questions focused on the person before me. Yes, I was raised in another land and these are things that aren't viewed with scorn or particular note in my birth country. However, if you served me in gold-leafed demi-tasse with silver spoons and damask cloth, not to worry, I would sip in a manner fit for a queen. But does any of that really matter?

How strange and diverse the things that pre-occupy. How absurd it all feels when in the presence of someone with but two months to live and her most adoring husband who will do anything to bring a smile to her face. The care I witness, the love, the tenderness, the will to be. Yes, tears do flow.

For Isabelle and Paul Pierre I am a story teller, I bring energy, I bring entertainment. I come to be with them in that moment, to distract, to entertain, to help as I might. I cook of course. I bring a loaf of my bread, or some of my wild rocket leaves, perhaps a bottle of JP's wine. I contribute.

This past visit I brought my yoga mat, many many photos and my itunes collection on my computer. I chatted, I took strange poses, I shared my visual life and my musical taste. Then I made lunch, and joined in discussions that ranged from architecture to family, children to culture, food to wine and much much more. Isabelle contributed as she could, often repeating the same two or three phrases that seemed apropos at all times. But she was there. Perhaps there was no more than 5 minutes history of our conversation at any given time in her head, but that was fine. She was there. She participated. She laughed. She expressed herself.

Paul Pierre told me that he'd had the recent news from the doctors that there would be perhaps two months at most. That gradually she'll sleep more and more. And with this is the decision to do his and our best. No more the no-salt diet. No more medicine. He still needs to encourage her to drink water, to rest. But from this point on in what way can he tempt her to eat? How can he make each moment pleasant? warm? tender? As the days warm he will bring her outside to sit and appreciate the evolving spring.

Inevitably, the day will come when she can no longer walk down those steps. Inevitably the day will come when she will have difficulty nourishing herself. Inevitably it will be harder and harder.

He will be there. His daughter will be there. A handful of dear friends and family members will be there. And when my presence is helpful, I will try too.

House-building

I like to be in movement. I like to help. I like to be productive. It's perhaps due to my Protestant upbringing, or simply a restless nature, or a bit of the girl scout in me.

In any case, if there are walls to sand, walls to paint, boards to nail, floors to polish, a garden to rake or weed, you can count on me.

And so, this being winter vacation, my close friend Martine is here again working on her eco-home that I photographed back in October/November. Most of the woodworking is finished, and these past two weeks we've been finishing the dry wall in the kitchen and the downstairs' den. We taped the gaps, plastered and sanded and plastered and sanded for four days last week (talking all the while as girlfriends will, my Itunes shuffle playing away to keep us motivated).

Today, I had a full day to offer as my kids are in school and I can put off a few differently productive projects till next week. So, I showed up ready to take the paint brush and roller and help as I could. I came complete with a batch of spiced/raisin and toasted almond rice that I'd made up the night before (rice cooker in hand), my tunes, and my willing arms.

The first coat of the kitchen is done, and a good chunk of the den. Not happy with the results atop the plaster/board/tape Martine had opted to put up strips of fiber glass as a uniform painting surface. So before I was able to paint, we finished a number of these strips. Fascinating. I'd never imagined that you could use fiber glass in such a way. I associate it with patching boats, and itchy bottoms if you sit atop it without a towel beneath you.

Always something to learn in this life.

I've no new photos... white walls aren't particularly exciting to document.

Now, if only Martine were here full time and could help me paint Jonas' room and work in my garden...

Bookends

In the past couple of days I've been between sick friends, and happy children. Visiting a psychiatric hospital, and making birthday cakes for an eight year old. Sharing coffee with an ailing friend whose speach is slower and slower, her thoughts more and more fleeting, then lunching at a restaurant with a pair of eager and delighted little boys, drawing pictures on their place mats and eagerly dipping their fries in ketchup (well, the American one did, the French one stayed with the more continental choice of a sprinkle of salt).

I see the effects of anti-depressants on an otherwise ambitious powerhouse, felled by the loss of a most dearly-loved father figure and unable to maintain the ferocious pace he'd set himself. Suddenly, where before there was wit, speed, intensity, forward movement, now there is hesitation, and an otherness to his voice. How to reorient himself? His business? His life?

And I see the joy and eagerness in a little boy's eyes as he discovers his new animal cards and commences memorizing the weight, speed, age, locale and more of this new set of visuals.

I listen most carefully and fill in the blanks as my tumor-fighting friend shares memories, discusses her marriage, bread, cheese, living the agricultural life.

I am charmed by a helpful teen who problem-solves his way to helping me build a bicycle shed.

My bookshelf is held together by hope, youth, joy, expectations at one end and weariness, illness, fear, collapse, slow decay at the other.

Life is layered in so many ways. Joy comes in so many packages. The eyes of a sad man lighten when he sees a friend who has traveled far to see him. He is gracious and attentive to his fellow residents, none of whom have his mastery of language, nor his style in a cashmere coat. Two little boys playing hide and seek in the goat barn, setting up their cars' highway on the big table of the oil mill. They zoom, the turn, they live in their own bubble. And upstairs, a woman is proudly making a tart, something she used to do so easily, but which now marks an accomplishment of note. Her husband is there to care for her, but she still contributes to their meal. There is still much to give and share.

Girlfriends and Auto-suffisance

I find it interesting the movement and energy of the women I enjoy, care about, and spend time with. There was a time during the years before my divorce when I seemed to seek out single-divorced mothers who were coping, at times with great difficulty, seeking balance, not quite there, struggling... In French we'd say, elles galéraient. Truly, finances were rough, fathers were absent, kids were struggling with the shifting sands beneath their feet, the moms were struggling to keep it all together. And, not surprisingly a love life was a source of complication, fear, impossibility -- at times desired as a possible haven from the chaos, but rarely successfully negotiated.

I found and find these women generous, true, and strong-willed. And yet, their state of instability was and is frightening. There were times when I would observe and say, no, I don't want that in my life. How will I manage when at last I separate, move out, leap into the void of divorce and single parenthood? Their example impressed me, and terrified me.

And then I joined their ranks. I have now spent a goodly chunk of these past two years galérant, struggling, running in place, desperately trying not to sink into the morass, swimming against the current, keeping my head afloat. Choose your metaphor. Simply put, the unsettledness of it all is terrifying. There are moments of stagnation, fear, confusion and wonderment. Where am I going? Where will I land? Have I landed?

Part of me -- perhaps? -- chose this instability, this far harder route, as a means of climbing off my pedestal. I think there is a spoiled little girl in me who's still trying to prove that she has it in her to tough it out, cope on her own, manage even in difficult circumstances. Be it as it will.

Since my separation from JP this fall, I have stumbled into a different energy. Or rather, I've been received and welcomed into a different sphere. I've found women who are single, divorced, raising kids alone, and they're fine. They are in love or not, as they choose. They are coping quite ably financially. They are not struggling with the basics. They have an ease to them, a presence, une jolie auto-suffisance. This is my new key phrase.

I am entranced. This is what I seek. A lovely relationship with a man would be nice, but more and more I see it as not essential. However, self-esteem, self-sufficiency, the assurance of stability, my own ability to cope, that what I offer my kids is good and enough. That I can choose to be with a man, or not. That my life is full and generous and joyful through my own efforts. I am surprised by this moment of re-discovering values and possibilities. I've been nudged and advised to move in this direction for quite some time, and often by those same friends who have struggled so. We know that this is the goal. And yet, when freshly out of a relationship/divorce, it takes more than a little time to realize what we truly seek. How often is the idea of forming a new couple truly a mirage on the horizon of a quest for stability, calm, peace, and a sense of coming home?

I want to go from that stage of struggling and resisting to the state of grace that being okay with my situation would be. I may be able to help myself along with a bit of meditating, more active job searching, more writing, and/or the sale of the b&b in Arles... (counting my chickens before the eggs hatch -- much?). I used to believe in my own power to make things happen in my life -- back when I was young and single and childless. That belief has been shaken, but not completely crushed. Focus, knowing what I want... these intangibles have been lacking. How can the Universe give you what you want/need when you don't even know what to ask for?

And so, direct and off the cuff that I am, I have mildly interrogated my new friends. I have observed with pleasure their natural smiles, their happiness, their peace at this stage of life. Both are more than five years out of their divorces -- is timing necessary? Both have found their balance. And, thank you Universe, both accept me with smiles and amusement as I reach out and babble and query and listen, and no doubt, babble some more.

And the milk slows

As I stepped out of my car the powerful musky scent of the billy goat hit me forcefully. Yes, rutting beasts make their presence known. Apparently bears are far smellier, but this billy goat's scent carries far. Aurelie was in the barn, and my arrival was perfectly timed. The goats had charged eagerly up to their milking spots, jumping over each other, skipping a spot here and there, and she was up there trying to disentangle them and get them straight. I was able to jump in and help. I haven't actually spent that much time with the animals beyond milking them. As Aurelie doesn't take them out for long walks, and as I've not been here as much as I would like. But at least I am at ease with them, and can handle a couple that get loose without fear or worry.


It's nearly mid-November already. The goats are giving less and less milk. Most have been gotten with kid by the billy goat now. Aurelie is milking every day, but making cheese only every other day. Thus the labor in the laboratory was relatively light today.

Today, rather than do my normal routine of lots and lots of cleaning and scrubbing, I was able to be just with the cheese. I was able to work on my flipping skills. This was the second flip, not the first. Which means that the cheese filled about a third of the mold, having drained already for more than a day. However, I did it well nonetheless, so I was pleased. I wasn't able to get the technique using my thumb to work, no matter than Aurelie showed me again, and that Paul Pierre had emphasized that this was the proper technique. I've still the image of another goat cheese maker engrained on my brain, Claudine for those of you who've visited with me, and her hand movements are easier for me to replicate. She would tip out the cheese higher up on her palm, flip it down to her fingers and then plop it back in the mold. Clearly, she had mastered this over 30 years of activity, and did it quickly and cleanly. I found this manoeuver far easier for me, and after a couple of tries, was able to do it relatively smoothely, quickly and cleanly, no bits left on the sides, no unsightly finger prints.

A couple hundred cheeses later I switched to pouring out the set curd into the molds for the next batch of cheeses. This is the easy part for me now. I pour off the whey and the more fuzzy skum that forms on the top during the initial fermentation, then I comb my fingers through the curd lightly, to homogenize it a bit (the curd in the middle is denser than that on the sides, and thus makes a different cheese), and then I took the large cup and started pouring it over the molds and the mold holder. No need to over fill the molds with this dense end-of-season curd.

Once finished, I helped clean up these tools, and then hosed down, scrubbed and squeegeed the floor. Then off to lunch with Isabelle and Paul Pierrre where I was served calve's tongue -- a first for me!-- with a lovely sauce of capers, mustard, vinegar, oil, and chopped fresh parsley. In the true sauce a hard boiled egg is separated into yolk (which gets blended with the mustard and oil) and minced white which is added to the sauce. I'm afraid I've forgotten the name of this sauce, but will try to get it in the near future. It begins with a C...

In any case, lunch was surprisingly delicious and tender, the tongue having been cooked for over an hour in the pressure cooker with leeks and carrots and good things in the bouillon. Simple baked potatoes accompanied. It was quite a good peasant feast. Hmmm. I wonder if I served tongue to my boys if they'd have any clue? Best to slice it up first I think, as visually, it is an odd thing to look at, and requires peeling before slicing and serving. They might take a look at it and flee the table. Or not.

Goats and the Billy Goat

It's been a while, but I was able to get back to the goat farm Thursday this week. I took a day's break from helping Martine on her house and dashed off to milk goats with Aurelie and pour the curdle into the molds. It is now so dense that I didn't need to fill the molds all the way. The end of season milk is much richer in fat and makes larger cheeses than the early season milk. One of the arts of cheesemaking -- know your curd and adapt to the seasons so that both you and your customers can have consistently sized cheeses.


Aurelie and I laughed about paysans and their attachment to their land. She's separating from the father of her girls, and will leave behind her his house that she's worked on and lived in for fifteen years, intact and with no more than her own belongings. In France, property stays in the family. Her girls will inherit some day, but she, as their mother and not married to their father, has no rights upon his family farm. This is good for some, but hard for others. Imagine living twenty years with someone, perhaps married to him, and then walking away with only your own belongings?


Ah well, that's how it works here. The property goes to the kids. The wife/companion is simply passagère. This most particularly affects land-owners, thus, paysans. And yes, I've read Catherine Johnson's l'Affaire, and gone through these issues in my own divorce and confronted them in my relationship with a landed vintner. Whereas some new couples choose to sell their respective homes, and then move into a new home that belongs to them both, this just isn't possible when you're with a paysan/land owner. So... you deal somehow, right?

Aurelie has put the billy goat with the goats these past two weeks, and recently added in the yearlings. He's a discreet and hairy billy goat. Quite friendly actually. I think he even smiled for his photo. She put him in rather late compared with some other cheesemakers, on purpose timing the future births to just before and around Easter. When you enter the hay filled barn, his reeking musky scent fills the nostrils. Unmistakable.

I lunched with Paul Pierre and Isabelle, as usual. I wasn't very good company. I was drafting and re-drafting a dear John letter. Painfully, painstakingly. How to put into words all that I am feeling? The week before I'd come for lunch, but not to work with the goats, and broke down. Something I'd not done in years but been told by friends/therapists/etc., that I needed to do. Something's not right if you don't cry when you're sad. But it is such a wrenching act, and so not part of me. I tend to just deal and deal and deal.

Happily, they didn't tell me to get my act together, but simply were there, squeezing my shoulder, reassuring me that some moments just need to be lived through. Terrible isn't it? to cry and break down and pour out your sorrows to friends who are living much more powerful times with her terminal cancer. And yet, I felt safe and it just came. Yes, they are like family to me. They accept me in many ways and even if I'm a temporary burden, they are good to me. There are times I feel so far away from home and more than a bit lost. This feeling too will pass. There's more than a bit of Scarlet O'Hara in me, but till then, ouch.

And next week perhaps we'll harvest olives? Onward to the next season.

Building a wall

Sometimes, you just need to get your hands into a large tub of mud. It can be quite a nourishing and calming experience. Such a shame I never got into any mudbaths at the spas surrounding San Francisco the brief year I lived there.

I spent this week with Martine. She's doing the finishing work on her 'green' house. Working up in Brittany this year (and hopefully coming back down at the end of the year), she's only here for school vacations. Thus, perfect timing. I'd rented my house for the week, was not going to the winery for obvious reasons, and needed to be housed by someone who could put up with me in my current state (intermittent depression and babbling). That this person could also put me to work was just the icing on the cake.


Thus, after departing the home of my dear Scottish friends (where I'd over-stayed my welcome just a bit... but that's another story), I headed over to the small development in Jonquières in the Gard to Martine. When I arrived, she was putting up wooden boards on the walls just under the roof -- thus complicated and precise angles to cut. I was useful as a counter weight while she sawed away. A bit in a daze, and eager to speak with her, but hesitant as it was working time and a friend was there too whose ears I didn't feel like filling with my woes, I just helped as I could and bided my time.



Next up, a wall of raw bricks to be put together with clay and straw mortar. There were mason's tools available, but after attempting to use them, hands just seemed better, easier. Martine began the wall with me. Her friend pointed out where to put the nails in the wood at either end to hold the wall solidly, and how to (hopefully) build it straight. We didn't have a small level, so, it was a task that required eyeing things carefully and slipping into the flow of clay, balance, equilibrium and the sense of straight. I remembered my class in the 12 senses of Rudolf Steiner, and amongst them, is the sense of equilibrium/horizon. Interesting. You could also say, I was doing this à l'africaine, using just my hands and my eyes, scorning all Western tools.


Quickly, this became my task. Martine was much more at ease with the wooden planks, and for some odd reason, building this wall was just the thing I needed to do: repetitive, but requiring attention to detail. Soothing textures in my hands, the clay grounded me, the repetition centered me, level by level. All my wiggy, sad, stressed feelings seemed to ooze away as I handled that clay in my hands. It was truly a marvelous act of creation.


There I was helping my friend in an unexpectedly useful way, and healing my hurts all the while. Plus, I've discovered a hidden talent in myself. Who would've thought that I could build a clay wall?

Friends to the Rescue

Yesterday I finished that last load of laundry and headed to Mireille's. My horse whisperer to the rescue. Hours later, and half a bottle quaffed of Beaurenard Châteauneuf-du-Pape white that I'd brought along, we were side by side chatting and exchanging and sharing. She's very good for helping reinforce my memories of all that wasn't going right. She is faithful, funny, generous, present, willing, and full of compliments and support for me.

Mireille is there to sooth me, to encourage me towards future pursuits, to suggest that my preference for being in a couple might not be the ideal solution for me (at least at the moment), and more simply Mireille is there for me.

I slept a short night, but lay in bed till the sun was properly up before heading out to greet my renters (lovely former b&b clients!), and then off to Carol's.

Carol, a darling Scottish friend is a yoga teacher, therapist and life-coach. She greeted me with a marvelous long walk, lengthy and easy talking, and a soothing Yin yoga session upon our return to her home. It was just lovely enough to do our yoga outside on the terrace (hard to imagine with the weather we'd been having!).

And here I am, all talked out, bathed, a fire roaring in her majestic stone fireplace, cozily sitting on a plush couch, Filou at my feet, a Crozes Hermitage Rouge in my glass, awaiting a lovely dinner of ginger and cider spiced pumpkin soup, spinach tart, and her daughter's birthday cake.

How extraordinary to be received, coddled, accepted into the homes of my friends. And how grateful I am. I am not a hermit. Hiding out on my own is not how I get through tough times. These moments are for re-connecting, reaching out to those who are there, and testing new possibilities.

Discussions for Provence Hiking and Yoga Retreats are on the table. Next? Perhaps the inspiration to put back a long morning hike and some meditative chanting into my life...

Clipping with Goats

I ran a bit late this morning -- somehow, cleaning up breakfast after the kids, kneading the bread for a second rising, and?? brushing my teeth? just took more time than they should have. Thus I wasn't out the door till a full 30 minutes after my kids were off to school with the neighbors. But, with minimal traffic, I was at the farm within 45-50 minutes. Filou faithfully on the passenger seat, we drove through the morning mist. We, along with our fellow drivers, had our night-lights on, the fog was so thick. For the first time in three months we'd had a serious rain storm. All night long the rain had come down -- happily rather gently. The local farmers, vintners included, are relieved and pleased. So here I was driving along on this cold and misty morning. Where had summer gone?



Ah, summer went south. Once I'd crossed the Alpilles from St. Rémy de Provence to the Vallée des Baux I was greeted by sunlight. Rather akin to passing from Germany to Italy in the summer. One second to the next I was out of the mist and into bright sunlight with shadows from the trees lining the road rolling away before me in a pattern of strips of varying density.



At the farm Aurelie was clipping hooves. While the goats were held still by their manger, and the young intern (then me) worked the milking pumps, she carefully went at the over-grown hoof nails. She explained and showed me the patterns, textures and colors of the goat hooves. I didn't take a hand to the clippers, but I was able to get at least a visual understanding of the operation. Aurelie regularly goes through the herd -- never all at one go -- to keep their hooves healthy and groomed. I remember cleaning horses' hooves when I was a kid; there are similarities, but where with the larger animal you have a hook to clean out the cavities, the goats' hooves are not concave, nor do they have metal shoes, simply horn-like nails that grow and curve under, potentially digging into the more tender pink area. Aurelie has a sure hand, and went at the task with ease and familiarity. I could see, though, that this is the one part of a goat's body that is relatively filthy; clipping only the over-grown nails could be a bit difficult. As when I clip and trim Filou's claws, I just might nick a goat too closely, earning a kick (where Filou might try to nip me). I'll watch for awhile more before attempting this.




Back in the laboratory all the milk went through the filters and into the containers. I went right to work flipping the two day-old cheeses, and made another attempt at flipping the one day-old ones back into their molds. I haven't truly got the hang of it yet. I'll photograph Aurelie in detail next week. At this moment I've a way of doing it that sort of works, but where I might dent the cheeses slightly on a side. Ideally, I barely touch them, tipping them out onto the tips of my fingers, using my thumb to flip them, and place them back into the mold nicely, upside down. However, more often than not, they land on their side, get mushed, I tap and shift them, tip them back out and try again. The end result is not particularly aesthetic, to put it the least. Aurelie has the patience of a saint. But, I would very much like to get these gestures down and into my hands/fingers. Isabelle says I simply need to sacrifice perhaps 3 or 4 cheeses and work at it all morning till it comes. There's a way to do it, and my approximate style isn't it.

As I flipped out the two day-olds, I felt that they were every weight and height under the sun. And I remembered Isabelle and Paul Pierre emphasizing that with time and experience you learn to judge the density of the curd and make consistent cheeses. Goat cheeses are sold by the piece, not by weight. As such, if she's charging 1E40 per cheese, on some she is losing money, and on others, clients are being jipped. Not good. This is truly part of the art. Making cheese that is pleasant to eat is not too difficult. But making cheeses that are consistently of the same size, texture, salinity... this is where the master shows himself. Practice, tasting, keeping track, taking notes, being attentive. And yes, having the goal of achieving these standards.



One of the benefits of having a cave d'affinage to age your cheeses -- at 10C, a good 6 degrees above refrigerator temperature -- is that it allows you to offer multiple possibilties to your clients. Aurelie set herself to preparing a few of these in attractive trays for a friend's wedding. From fresh to five weeks' aged, rolled in savory, filled with a mixture of mustard grains, hot pepper flakes, ground peppers and whey, filled with tapenade... Even though you fill the fresh cheeses (i.e. 4-5 day old) by preference, once filled, they can continue to age and evolve, and depending on what you've put in them, their flavors will evolve differently. Aurelie showed me the trick of smoothing the side of the cheese once she put the two halves back together. In a couple days, a crust will form and no one will be the wiser that she'd filled this cheese (though we did put a dab of the filling on top of it to mark it), and they'd marvel and the seeming impossibility of it. That whey moistens the ground mixture contributes to the evolving ferments. Tapenade is also made from a fermented product -- salt-cured olives -- provoking a different evolution; and even the crumbled savory leaves will give their touch to the cheese. To that end, we tasted a forgotten experiment: fresh cheeses that had been rolled in savory and left in the cave d'affinage for over two months. They looked rather scary, but they were soft and oozing a lovely creamy interior...hmmmm??? Wow! They had a sharpness, a bite, and intensity, and they were wonderful. Made from raw milk, kept at 10 degrees, the natural yeast and bacteria were slightly altered by the savory, producing a marvelous end product. Nice experiment, and no, it didn't kill us. Good bacteria is a good thing.




As I came out of the lab, Paul Pierre was just beginning to ready lunch for himself and Isabelle, but also for a cousin, Isabelle's 90 year old mother, Marie, their daughter, Fred, her companion, and Shabi, their 8 month old son. It was a large family affair. Gratefully, I was included, and as such, immediately got to work on the crust for the tarte tatin that Isabelle had begun. Once this was done, I cleaned the salad, chopped some tomatoes, made the dressing, and in general, tried to be helpful. My only contribution this week was the pear compote I'd made the night before with all the kids -- something better adapted to Shabi's diet than to the adults. But that was fine by me and them. But another loaf of my no-salt multi-grain bread would be appreciated for next Thursday.



The meal was lively and nourishing, ending of course with a cheese course. Have you ever seen an 8 month old teething on hard goat cheese? Now, this would be hard to imagine in a country where we aren't allowed to work with raw milk, and thus 5 weeks' aged could only be found on a black market... or as contraband. But imagine, the strength of flavor, the snapping density, the hard interior that melts in contact with the gnawing gums. And, he loved it! Toss out those vache qui rit, those plastic little Baby Bells, and got forbid Cheesewiz! Real cheese, correctly aged, for real kids. And you can't beat it as a source of calcium and easily digested protein.

A goat kind of day

Today was calm and easy, though with a few moments of whoops. Zooming over after seeing my kids off to school, I arrived during the first session of milking (with the 36 goats, there are three sessions). All was progressing smoothly, permitting me the occasion to ask Aurelie about the different goats, to get a better sense of their teats: which ones were lumpy and bumpy, which ones seemingly never emptied out, which just went on for twice the length of the others. As we handle each goat and help them get the most milk out by doing a bit of manual squeezing, helping along the milking pumps, it is just part of the job to become familiar with the particularities of each goat. Goats are individuals in the shape of the teats, the density, the let-down impulse, and the quantity of milk they give. The goats have been bred to be good milkers, but nonetheless, whether or not they gave birth (or miscarried), and to how many kids, and whether they'd been injured during the birthing, or by the billy goat... so many factors come into play.


The bits of hay which the goats hadn't eaten were outside in the wheelbarrow. These are for Isabelle's horse. It is an interesting fact that many goat herders have a horse or pony and find it a very economical arrangement as the horse will eat the hay that the goats refuse. You feed a horse for free this way, especially if it is of a hardy breed that can be left outdoors much of the year. So, I brought the wheelbarrow over to the horse and gave him his day's share of hay. He's pretty skittish, and barely sniffed me, shying away from my hand as I went to caress his nose. With time, perhaps he'll be more at ease with me.




And then back to the goats. We had four very full tanks of milk to gently roll into the laboratory. Today there was a young man who is attending agricultural high school interning with Aurelie. His family raises sheep for meat not too far away. Hence he was quite at ease with the animals. Then, eager to help, he followed after Aurelie and lifted one of the tanks to pour the milk through the fine sieve. But,.... he slipped. More than half of the tank of milk splattered all over the floor of the lab, and worse, the aluminum tank/recipient was dented which will prevent a perfect seal between the lid and the tank, which renders it useless for milking with the pump. It was a sorry affair, though Aurelie was extremely gracious and patient with him. But it was one of those "watch me before attempting this" moments, and... rather than pull him back, we two women just let him go ahead, assuming that with his masculine strength he'd be fine. Ah well. A little humility, patience and prevention go a long way. Today's take is a full 20% under what it should be. Only four 20 litre bins were filled rather than five. Mistakes happen, and you just have to deal with them.


For myself, it was a day of repeating gestures more smoothly and assuredly, asking more questions about the goats and the curd, attempting to be more consistent and attentive to the rhythms of the laboratory. Trays of cheese are daily shifted around, and I've not yet completely got their movements clear in my head -- which ones need turning in the dryer, which ones are which age in the cave d'affinage. I've also much more to learn about the curdling milk. I feel I could easily still mix up the two and three day curd. One day a week is a strict minimum for learning this trade. In general, serious interns spend six months, every day, alongside established cheese makers, repeating, learning, watching, following, and gradually absorbing all the many, many aspects of this trade.



Over a proper Breton lunch of sarrasin galettes filled with cheese, ham and a fried egg, topped off with good salted butter, all prepared by Paul Pierre, formerly of the North Atlantic coast, he and Isabelle spoke of the details that separate a decent cheese maker from a gifted one. It is very easy to make basic cheese they avowed. But to make consistent cheese, in texture, salinity, weight.. that was the challenge. And you could only do so if you pay extra careful attention, note what you've done each day, and taste the results. Amongst the more difficult aspects is final weight. Simply filling each mold to the brim is not enough. The curd is textured differently and of changing density depending on where it is in the bin. Thus the cheesemaker needs to gain sufficient experience to know, adapt and perfect his gestures. Consistency. Respecting temperature and time is of course important, as is the number of drops of rennit, the time in the drying room, the time before flipping... and the quantity of salt gently sprinkled upon each side of the cheese.

As I set off after my post-lunch coffee, I smelled the potent muskiness of the billy goat. Aurelie hasn't put him with the goats yet, but soon, perhaps even next week, he'll get his time with them. That will be interesting.