A Moment of Melancholy

Ah yet again I am traveling both physically and psychically between countries and worlds. And I wonder... how much effort have I put into being in France? into making things work and coping? And how at ease did I feel back in Michigan these past few weeks? How effortless it was to be respected and accomplished in my fields, to communicate, to be. I was a tad less the outsider that I had so felt last year. I observed, but not like an alien, more in appreciation for what I find so lovely and heart-warming.

Much of the past year, whether in the US or France, I've been observing. It got way out of hand noticing how people dress, what they eat, the level of conversation, how couples seem to work, how children are raised, what daily rhythms resemble, values, goals.... But that's where I've been. Inside and outside at the same time.

While in the US I put on a few pounds -- eating lots more pasta, bread and ice cream, not to mention blueberry and cherry pies than I normally do. Yoga every other day didn't compare to the amount I normally walk each day in Avignon. I gradually left more and more of my elegant clothes in the closet and switched to comfy jeans, shorts and t-shirts. Fewer décolletés, flat sandals, no make-up. I adapted. I read novels and went canoeing. I fed and did dishes and socialized with family and friends.

I visited many -- so often women who are achieving their dreams, making chocolate, making goat cheese, writing cook books, running a fabulous Italian deli.

It felt good.

From a few conversations -- and yes, observations -- I truly do believe that chivalry is more present in Northern Michigan than in Provence. Single women get helped -- with putting away boats, chopping wood, shoveling snow, etc., This is a world that helps he/she who needs it. The Frontier spirit of helping out, and receiving help. Collaborating to survive.

How many times did JP notice that I had to fix my car, work on the house, etc., and simply state that I'd better find someone competent to do that for me over in my neighborhood. If he hadn't the skills to do so, I wouldn't have found that so annoying, nor if I truly had had the funds to hire such people would it have been so hurtful. But, under the circumstances...

Here in Provence in little ways men are attentive -- opening doors, tipping their hats, quick to compliment on your looks, flirt, etc., But for the big things? Well, it's not easy. Most are stressed and over-worked, so, cope on your own. I'm lucky in that Erick still helps out on occasion, and that I've a superb plumber (whom I pay correctly). My neighbor has his moments, but being 'lunatique', i.e. moody, I don't count on him.

What I also truly admired in the US was the level of complicity, respect and genuine admiration and trust I witnessed in a number of marriages. Marriages of equals. It wasn't a game of the sexes, but partnerships. I've not felt that here. Perhaps I've simply had bad luck, or??

Then again, I'm amused by the ease with which many American friends use vulgar language and references, which are just not the norm amongst my French acquaintances. While sailing on a hobi-cat the water surged up through the middle of the canvas. I likened it to a water massage for cellulite (thalassotherapie anyone?). And I heard back the comment more commonly used in this family that it was a Lake Enema. Hmmmm.

There are other examples: my morning ritual includes grabbing a kleanex and blowing my nose; a friend commented that his includes taking a good crap. Oh... did I need to hear that? Yes, I'm a bit shy on these matters, perhaps equally amused and perturbed.

And so as I unpack all that I'd put away for the summer rentals, re-invest my Provence home with my belongings, my photos of my children, I feel a touch of melancholy, nostalgia, and cultural dislocation. A yearly rite of passage, or?

Meadowlark Farm - Cedar Michigan

One of the things I adore about this part of the world (Northern Michigan) is the growing consciousness and support for environmentally intelligent activities: houses off the grid, solar panels, individual windmills, organic farms supported by a whole array of clients willing to pledge a seasons' commitment to a crate a week, and so much more.

One of the magical places that I've been introduced to by my dear friend Nancy Allen -- a fantastic cook and cooking teacher of many years -- is the Meadowlark Farm outside of Cedar. It is a small family-run farm firmly anchored by Jenny and her husband. Their children, Ella and Elijah, help out and welcome visitors as graciously as their parents. Nancy has an arrangement with them to cook every Friday for the entire crew of helpers and workers and family and visitors (in this occasion myself, my mother and my two boys) with their array of organic vegetables and herbs freshly picked that morning.

She has also taught cooking to the kids (who are both home-schooled) and written quite a bit about her experiences on her own blog. It seems a fruitful exchange for all participants.

When I called Nancy the other day to see her during my very short vacation up here, she suggested I come over to the farm and join her in the kitchen -- something I always adore doing! When I arrived she put me immediately to work on rolling out the dough for the special Mediterranean pastries, Za'atar, that she was making from Paula Wolfert's superb book, The Cooking of the Eastern Mediterranean. I rolled them out quite thin, and spread a marvelous mixture of herbs and sesame seeds and olive oil atop them. She assures me that as this is a Moroccan specialty, I should be able to find some mixtures in my local stores in France to recreate this wonderful flat bread.

Then I helped her with the beet falafals (sweet, delicately spiced, and crispy fried!) - also from Paula Wolfert- while her friend Maureen and my mother worked on a Greek zucchini and celery dish with raisins, cinnamon, vinegar and onions.

I brought along some of my fresh bread (a bit heavy as the starter has yet to truly bubble away like mine back in Provence. However, it was received as a good, nourishing, whole grain loaf with a nice acidic bite. Little in resemblance to my bread back home, but nonetheless a crowd pleaser.

My boys happily went off to play with Elijah and the farm dogs. I cooked away, and then we all sat down to a delectable and somewhat exotic feast. Yum! After a lovely chat with Jenny, a tour of the barn and the flowers she adds to her vegetable crates (a creative outlet for her), I suggested we bring Elijah back to the lake with us where he spent a fun afternoon with my boys playing Monopoly, swimming out to the raft and exploring our little corner of the woods.

Back to Michigan

Back to Michigan and back to my boys. Here such a short time, but here nonetheless. Chicago and Detroit bookend the trip. Efforts to connect with wine dealers/importers and distributors are taking time, but I trust will be fruitful. I’m here, but must get to town daily for 2-3 hours (at least) on the computer. This is not always so easily done. I trust my jet lag will continue for a few more days! Only one car between us (my mother and me). The idea of vacation is marvelous, but the realities of running my little businesses when in a home without internet access are tough.


Barely up on my first day and I got out the cutting shears. Mom wanted her hair cut, and Leo offered himself up to me as well. Quite amazing. He’s spent the year growing and growing and growing his hair.

I think I did a beautiful job (pictures to follow), but it is rather a shock to him. He was quite the romantic poet there for a while. Samson has lost his locks.


Jonas is swimming (yeah!). Both of them are playing better tennis. They are taller, more independent, but still themselves and mostly pleased to have me here. With Leo I’ve already had a run-in about summer home-work – writing a page or more by day – that Mom had begun. Oh it just isn’t easy.


Jonas is in do anything to please mode. So he’s got Mom wrapped around his finger. Helpful, delighted, present, lively, quick to respond... Can you ask for more?

And myself? Eating too many yummy local pastries! But reveling in doing my yoga on the deck under the swaying trees. It’s all in the balance.

Carrots in two worlds

Last week, when I dropped off the car a friend loaned me during a chunk of my stay in MIchigan, along with a couple pairs of roller blades, paint and a couple egg cartons, I had a moment to wait till Ma came to collect me with her car. As I had a bit of time to waste, or in which I could be productive, I looked at the vegetable garden -- one amongst many labors of love of my friend -- and thought, hm, when you're super busy at work, and then at play with the kids on the weekend, weeding does rather fall by the wayside. So, I got out the little trowel and went to work turning over the weeds amongst the carrots. I carefully dug back in any tiny carrot (or two) I disinterred, and left the weeds themselves to mulch down and enrich the soil. It was a little way (very little) to say thank you, and to offset the six eggs Jonas had taken (by my request) from the chicken house.

We were then on our way back home to pack and ready ourselves for our return to France.

A week later, I'm in the dry heat of Provence and what should I see here but a garden overflowing with ripe vegetables and fruits, drying in the weight of summer's end. Leaves are turning a touch yellow, and much was ready to be harvested. So down I went with my basket for the tomatoes and eggplant, and the pitch fork to bring up an abundance of dense and long carrots. They had been attacked by some bugs and worms, but I was able to wash and use most of them. Being a hot summer week (the temperature has been up to 40C/100F!) I had two desires for these carrots -- a simple grated carrot salad with orange juice, raisins, olive oil, toasted pine nuts and a touch of soy sauce, and carrot cake.

I looked on the net for some recipes, and realized that I didn't have all the correct ingredients noted in the one I'd chosen. But, no problem, I'd read Shirley Corriher's chapter on cake making the other day in Cookwise, and adjusted as I was able. I found the recipe on the blog "l'assiette de Mimosa" where she cited it as being from the Rose Bakery.



The original recipe went like this:

300 g flour
25 cl oil
225 g sugar
6 grated carrots
4 eggs
150 g chopped walnuts
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg

I adapted this to the following:

5 tablespoons sweet butter
1 cup brown sugar
3 eggs
2 tablespoons melted palm oil
2 cups grated carrots
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon cardamom
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
2 cups flour
1/3 cup orange juice

I didn't have a mixmaster to correctly cream the butter and sugar, so I simply used a fork till it was fully mixed, and then whisked the rest of the ingredients in, one egg at a time, then the carrots, and then the dry ingredients, ending with the orange juice. The final result would have been lighter had I been able to incorporate some air bubbles into the creamed butter and sugar. Ah well, we manage as we can.

The recipe came out moist and dense, which is fine by me. Had I had any yellow raisins or pecans, I definitely would have added them, but at the winery, I'm a bit limited in the pantry section. Thus the need for a bit of creative adapting for nearly any recipe. I did put on some cream cheese frosting -- 2 fjords (a type of full fat fromage blanc) that I put into a cheesecloth to remove excess liquid, then some sugar, and voila, a simple glaçage/icing.

Carrot cake is pretty unusual here, but, it was enjoyed all round -- chilled, easy to eat with the abundance of table grapes, and/or a touch of coffee

Just before our drive to the airport... a last shot

My last morning in Michigan

Yes, it was a rather rainy summer in Northern Michigan. I worry about the local wine harvest. Where I come from, this much rain means mildew. Though, there were also lots of windy mornings to minimizes the damage, and cooler temperatures, so the excess humidity perhaps was offset, at least a bit. Should it ever rain as much in Provence during the month of July, it would be catastrophic.

But here in the woods, the calm dripping of the drops from the trees to the pine needle-covered ground is soothing. The mist on the water rather lovely and meditative. And a fire in the fireplace, hot coffee in my hands, and a good book perfectly accompanied by the pecking woodpeckers and yodeling loons.

However, it most definitely has been a summer filled with Monopoly, Chess, books, knitting, and trips to the cinema, far more than precedent years.

And now, back to sunny Provence -- and a 10 degree (Celsius) shift up!

A marvelous Mediterranean gathering in N. Michigan

Let it not be said that this part of the world does not know how to eat! A feast of wondrous proportions, shared by gentle and fascinating folk with the braying of happy goats and a gobbling turkey as musical accompaniment occurred Friday last. Joy, generosity, happy children, a perfect summer evening, and warmth both affective and atmospheric were the order of the day. Not a jell-o salad in sight. Garden fresh produce, lovingly wrapped pastries and grape leaf rolls. Home-made bread, local wines and rich local ice cream from a favorite source.


How precious to share such moments, and such food! And following Michael Pollan's most recent observation, those who cook from scratch don't take up two seats. But their eyes shine, and their arms reach out, and laughter is quick to come. The children explored the farm, aped animal voices, and happily ate brown bread, sweet butter, and just a wee bit of salad -- in anticipation of the ice cream of course.





Mary and Dick -- the goat cheese makers of Northern Michigan -- invited Nancy and Bill (cook and artist), Meg and Jerry (textile artists), Nel (culinary wonder and Meg's daughter), Nel's two daughters and her brother and his friend, Mary's daughter, and a few lovely other folk to partake in and share this feast. I was a last minute add-on with my boys, and most happily so.

Soon Home to France

I'm getting all wistful now. It's been a month that I've been in the US. In fact, this is the longest chunk of time I've spent in my birth-country since I moved to France. I'm a bit stunned. I arrived in full French mode -- my speech, my way of dress, my way of eating, my conversation topics, my energy. And now, a month later, I'm feeling ever more American and present to the world here.

I was seeing through a filter, my French life taints my American views. For good or ill, little was without meaning or resonance. All became nuanced, observable, catalogable. I noticed how young women dressed here (tight jeans, t-shirts, flip-flops). I noticed colors, hair styles, demeanor -- oh but everyone is friendly and kind. Hard workers at the Mac Store and for the environment. Devoted and excited new business owners. Attentive parents accompanying their children to tennis camps, on boat rides, to brunch at the local diner.

I've met a woman who's just beginning to explore the world of goat cheese -- and I think, wow, I could really help her a lot, and why don't I just ask my goat cheese making friends in Provence to let me intern with them this year? Wouldn't it be awesome to have that skill and be able to translate it back to this growing and culturally dynamic little corner of Michigan? Hmmm new projects, new possibilities, and why not?

I'm happy to go back to Provence, but for once, life in this country once mine is again conceivable, imaginable. My boys are certainly doing great here, and I don't plan on ever severing our French contacts, but, what would it be like to take the leap and try living her for a year? or more?

We take the plane Monday afternoon. This is our last weekend, and they announce great weather. It's a time to enjoy, revel in the moment, and then, pack up for our other life.

A day for sailing

Or rather a summer. Whether I wanted to or not, I sailed our little sunfish back across the lake with Leo yesterday. My mother is being the super-Gramma and teaching him all sorts of good things this summer. Amongst others, he has now had his maiden voyage at the helm of our little green sunfish.

However, that said, the wind blew him away from our cove. For a time, he didn't notice and I must say, nor did we. However, it soon became clear that he wasn't able to get back home. From afar we could see he was valiantly trying, but due to the direction of the wind, was actually heading further and further towards Round Island.

So, out we went, Ma and me, in the little motor boat for a rescue mission. I actually managed to transfer boats without being dunked. -- Yes, it might have been more glamorous to dive in and simply lift myself up onto his boat, but hey, as I was able to manoeuver otherwise, I did.

Leo was pleased to see us, yet in a very good mood no matter the struggles he'd been having. No fits, no major crises, no serious loss of pride. And so I took over the little tiller and the sale and explained to him that it would take a while, but home we would eventually get.

It was long and as angled tacks as possible, the tight zig zag. Each tack bringing us just a breath towards the northern side of the lake. There was many a luff, and a moment of calm. We'd zip along, and sit idly, and at all times, I headed us as far up as I could.

A good lesson, hm? Got to pay attention to that wind. So we observed the curl of the water atop the waves, watched as we came into a strong breeze, and eventually, sailed right onto our beach. Ahhh

Then I popped up to the house to make my carrot cake.

Marvelous Women

Yesterday evening eight superb women gathered under my roof here in Michigan to share delicious food and even more tantalizing tales of dreams, risks, business ventures, good marriages, strong willed children and more. There was a clothing and textiles' designer -- successful, funny, onto new ventures; a restaurant chef and owner -- cheerfully working very long days, and succeeding in her one-year old restaurant during one of this state's worst downturns. Goes to show you, when you've figured out the formula, thought through your idea, and put it into motion with grace, intelligence, savvy and good humor, surrounded yourself with good helpers and assistants, yes, it can work, no matter when. Another is a cooking teacher, expert in Asian cuisine, and successfully on this healing side of a nasty, multi-year bout of Lyme disease. Another is discovering the joys of raising goats, making goat cheese and contemplating this new profession -- at the tender age of 60!

I love it. I love them! Spunk, risk-taking, joy, hope. Two are on their third marriages (apparently 3's the charm), one happily single, another managing with her small children, and another cheerfully contemplating entering into the 30 plus anniversary with her husband. Differences abound, but the unifying force of smarts, following dreams, and supporting friends.

This is a gathering that is nearly inconceivable in my little world of Provence. Women striking out on risky business ventures are few, and those who do are counseled that it probably won't work, they need to do more market research, the fees will be too high, and then, rather than receive support and networking encouragement from their family and friends, those who are closest to them will be more likely to sit back and watch to see if they succeed, than do their utmost to help them succeed. If after a few years they are still in business, well, then the family, colleagues, neighbors, friends, etc., will start to take them seriously and just maybe patronize them.

This has been the general feeling and atmosphere for women-directed risky ventures since I've been in Provence. When I first arrived and simply barreled into building the business of our cooking school and culinary vacations, I was blind and deaf to the neighbors' comments. This was a very helpful state of mind to be in. I was filled with the gumption of my American background and simply worked, day by day, night by night, learning how to make a web site, learning how to lodge it in the search engines, learning about meta tags, titles, exchanging links, etc., reading books one night and spending all the next day putting that new information into motion. And, surprise, surprise, we built a business. Sure, in the beginning it was rough going. There were the week-long classes with only one client (oh well, let's explore and improve ourselves). There were moments of difficulties, day trips in rather tired-looking cars, crises, etc., But, we just kept on, with hope, with hard work, with optimism. I pulled Erick with me, directed him, provided him with clients, and he made them happy with good food, patience, great musical taste and his sweet smile.

Today, I've three friends in France who are contemplating and actively moving forward on new business projects. Mireille, my horse-whisperer is building, every so carefully, her reputation as a healer of horse and rider relationships. If your horse bites you, if your horse throws you, if your horse is terribly skittish, if he refuses to pull a plough... she will work with him and the owner and strive to bring harmony to this relationship.

Pascale is setting up her Iyengar yoga teaching, and seeking to build her astrological counsel and therapy practice. She has the space in her home, she's made her brochures. It is growing and coming into being.

Martine has been teaching Shia Tsu massage now for a few years, and, as time permits, seeks to build her practice as a massage therapist (being a high school guidance counselor is highly time consuming though!).

These three are stretching themselves, reaching for dreams, contemplating, striving and assiduously putting down the building blocks upon which their projects can grow. I'll do what I can to support them, to be there, to encourage, to send business their way. We don't yet have an entrepreneurial culture in France, and particularly not where women are concerned, but, it is beginning, as I've seen during my CIBC (see earlier blogs) weekends and trainings. Whereas in the US it is strong and thriving, in France, it is in its infancy. Send them your moral support!

Berry Picking!!!

Raspberries and blackberries! Jamberries and blueberries! I found new patches for the first time since my childhood. Oh glory be. Leo and Jonas happily joined forces with Mandy and Dany to pick berries with me. I was able to teach them to distinguish between the ripe red raspberries and the unripe red blackberries. Under the pale yellow-green leaves, through the pricker-covered stems growing high enough to catch hair, shirts and more, we delved, sticking our arms under, around, and over to pick those elusive berries. The woods so violently cleared and logged a few years’ back have given us an unexpected gift. Till the leaf coverage extends overhead over, we’ll have berry patches to fill our pails, top our cheesecakes, and dribble through our muffins.

So many hours of my childhood were spent picking berries up here. First we went to the raspberry bushes along the orchard that we all assumed belong to Mrs. Brayton. Then those stopped giving much. My brother then found an amazing patch of blackberries down from the apple orchard. But later, the ferns took over, and the blackberries simply were overcome. The huckleberries were a regular joy of August, but there too, there are more houses on the ancient Indian trail, and the ferns are taking over. This summer, cold as it is, doesn’t bode well for a huckleberry harvest. I can taste their seedy tart goodness by memory. I remember the huckleberry wine my brother and I made unintentionally, and the many, many tarts we baked and topped with vanilla ice cream. Would my kids like them? So persnickety. Jonas has already told me he’s not a fan of cheesecake. What a strange child! Or rather, a child raised in France. Neither cheesecake nor chilli con carne are familiar flavors to him. He’s my little French boy, and yes, he likes raisin bran, cheerios, pop tarts, white cheddar cheese popcorn and mac-n-cheese... but, other special flavors of my American life, my childhood, are anathema to him. Ah well. The cheesecake was good.

I baked it simply, after pouring a cup of sugar over the berries so they’d make their own syrup, no cooking necessary for them.

3-8oz packages cream cheese
4 super fresh farm eggs
1 ½ cups sugar
1 cup vanilla yogurt

After mixing the ingredients together in the mix-master, I poured it into a greased pan in which I’d sprinkled a bit of rapadura sugar.

I baked the cake in a 300F oven, gently till it set, but still jiggled a bit in the middle—about an hour. I baked it in such a low heat as I couldn’t put such a large cake into a water bath, and didn’t want the custard to curdle.

The cake did come out pretty eggy, and might have been improved with lemon rind and/or juice, but I was bowing to the tastes of my little boys – at least Leo found it good. And certainly, everyone else at the table loved it.

Making sourdough bread in various places

Back in Avignon, I've got my starter for sourdough bread. It's been alive now for a few years and as I make bread weekly, it is refreshed regularly. I've got my stash of multi-grain flour, the honey from my beekeeper, the sea salt, etc., It's a very regular and dependable act for me to make bread in Avignon. My bread comes out nicely airy, with a good crust, sweet, tender... mmm my mouth waters as I think of it. I store my starter in a glass jar in my fridge, which is pretty new and not too cold, but cold enough. (My renters found it not cold enough for their milk, so they turned it into an igloo, but that's another story). I change jars for the starter relatively often, so they are clean, etc.,

I started a starter at JP's last year, during one of the school vacations when I was there longer than a weekend. However, I don't use it too often, and thus don't refresh it very regularly, and in any case, his fridge is way less cold than mine. This, plus the fact that his oven is rather dinky-- can we say simple and minimal needs' bachelor?-- and that I'm often up to other things there and might forget the rising bread (most particularly as I've tucked it out of sight so it isn't on the counter in his way), leads to some less than successful bread making attempts at his house. In general, the bread is heavier and more acidic at his house, lighter and sweeter at mine. So, it's edible, but not truly mouth-watering and yummy.

Here in Michigan, I've got a starter going, and I made one good batch of bread, but the second, well, I wasn't there to plop it in the oven at the ideal moment, and the air is cooler so the rising was difficult to time, and there is more humidity... My second batch turned out heavy, dark and more acidic. It's not bad, but it is akin to the dark, grain-filled Norwegian bread that is often sold in health-food stores in France.

So, what to learn? Sourdough and starters, the rhythm necessary to bake good bread, the attention to time, temperature, humidity, ovens, all are variables that shift the final product. A basic fact is that I live most often in my Avignon home and thus have figured it out. Whereas these other homes find me flitting in and out. Or, is it in the air? the atmosphere? Can one take this as a symbolic of something more?

Cool Breezes up North

Despite the nightly rain storms, the slow and heavy mosquitoes, and the cooler temperatures, we are out and about daily. A summer of fires in the fire place, oodles of monopoly games, puzzles and legos and cards. Just to reassure those not of this area, it is unseasonably cool this year, and the agricultural schedule is very much upset. Normally, there would be fresh corn, zucchini and yellow squash at the farm next door by mid-July. The cherries are very late -- to give you an idea, there is a cherry festival over the first weekend of July here every year, and this year the cherries had to be imported from Eastern Washington! Global warming is to be renamed as unusual climate shifts.

It's apt though, to spend vacation vegging with a good book, baking cookies, making hot chocolate for a crew of children. With time on my hands I'm plunging into a classic -- George Elliot's Middlemarch. Leo and I are making slow headway through his Alexander the Great, and Mom is finding time to drill some English spelling into his head.

Previous summers found us on the beach for hours every afternoon. Such is not the case this year. But no one seems worse for wear. Then again, we who've arrived from Provence have already had three months of lovely sunny weather. It's hard to believe that the locals here have only recently put away their heaviest sweaters (fleece, light sweaters and jeans are still very much part of our wardrobe). Yes, I spent the month of June in tank tops, shorts or light skirts, but not so my friends up here. I still drool when I think of the gorgeous tomatoes I was slicing up into salads not so very long ago....

Today, at long last, the sun is shining, the tennis court has dried off, and a boat trip to Long Island (a lovely sandy spot on our lake) with a simple packed picnic is the plan. I'm hoping to find a moment -- the first of this trip -- to wack at some tennis balls with Ma this afternoon, as well as Leo.

I get short notes from Provence from various friends, but mostly, it seems a far off world to us right now. We're all getting our "American fix" in through trips to the cinema, popcorn, Grandma's brownies and Michael Jackson memorial magazines (for Leo). And yet, I've had no cravings for my classic junk food purchases (unfrosted blueberry pop tarts, white cheddar cheese popcorn, and cream-cheese frosted carrot cake). Any significance in this?

Saint Michael slays a dragon, in the woods of Northern Michigan

A day at the dunes

Summer Reading

Leo and I have our projects. Reading and Writing are at the top of the list. Not surprising, after all my stress and the various tests for learning disabilities and such that he's been through recently.

His teacher has given us two books to read this summer. A young person's Alexander the Great and the Odyssey. Both, normally, adapted for young readers. We've begun with Alexander and as we most painfully and slowly work our way through it I am relearning grammar, seeing words and sentences with another eye, and living through Leo's level of comprehension and frustration.

Three sentences devoted to a hydraulic column, references to Alexander's chief scientist, indirect pronouns in a third sentence making reference to the said column further back in the paragraph. Is it any wonder he's having a hard time? The glories of the battles, the achievements, the mystical nature of the visits to the oracle, the witch that is his mother... few of these details can penetrate through the dense and yes, at times beautiful language. I struggle alongside. I translate for him (should I be doing this for a French-born child?). I put the information into simpler phrases, and stress the imagery of what is being communicated. I want him to be able to then write sentences in his own words that summarize what we've learned. To bring back to school in September his own version of the book, ready to check and use as his teacher does whatever she's planning on doing.

When I read with Leo I return to the imagery whenever possible. In my classes for the Waldorf/Rudolf Steiner teachers' training, we stressed holding the images in our minds to facilitate story-telling, and the importance of putting images into the children's minds through words and actions.

Leo and I have had our breakdowns this week -- thirty minutes of severe unhappiness, weeping at his self-described stupidity which I strenuously, lovingly, achingly denied. Oh how hard it is for him! Writing just doesn't come easily. And reading: Well, he's reading in both languages, but in French it is hard, it is not flowing into his brain as it should. It requires re-reading, going back over and working through each sentence, each paragraph. He feels terribly at a loss, and declares that he's ready to give up and simply become a street sweeper.

And then, glory of glories, we had a beautiful breakthrough last night with English. Thank you to the Anglo-saxon world for so much marvelous children's literature. We plunged back into a book we'd begun this spring; he reading a paragraph, and then I. In this manner we read a chapter or two. And then, I was ready for my bath. I was tired; it was dark; and the weather is chilly. Well, he followed me in (once I'd chastely covered my privates) and began reading to me aloud from our dragon book while I soaked in my soothing hot water.

Proudly, delightedly, he acclaimed his newfound ease at reading aloud with as much pleasure and speed as when he reads silently to himself. And I added, you are also reading the punctuation, the periods, the commas, the question marks, the quotation marks. He's reading with feeling, comprehension, and the pleasure of story-telling.

Yes, I was tired, yes, I might have read my own book quietly in what is normally a rather private moment. But, I would never dare dampen burgeoning enthusiasm, and self-confidence.

Day by day, hope blossoms again.

Water Sports; into the Woods