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.

Testing for grape maturity

Today was a day to harvest the Syrah. Being a Tuesday, normally I wouldn't have been at the winery, but I'd forgotten the folder with all my important papers/documents (lawyer's letters, CAF, Sécu, taxes, ID, etc.,) at JP's and I just needed to have them within reach. I should be able to lower my property taxes this year as the divorce is pronounced, and I've been legally separated and caring for the boys on my own now for more than a year. The Avignon house still has both our names on it, but I've been the sole person responsible for it both in fact and legally, so, with papers in hand, I should be able to go and plead my case.



Thus, once I'd dropped the kids off at school I drove over for the day. Being there, I made lunch (a simple savory tart with caramelized onions, garlic, garden tomatoes and a couple anchovies, peppered with Aurelie's goats' cheese) and stayed long enough for a brief sieste (standard procedure) and to accompany JP on his early afternoon visit to the vines.



The morning had been spent harvesting, de-stemming, and then pumping the Syrah grapes into the tanks. These were the last of the Syrah from the special planting of his Jardin Secret. The grapes were already at 15 degrees alcohol -- rather high for Syrah--, and yet they weren't completely at the maturity JP desired -- due to the minimal rain-fall, the vines had simply stopped maturing, having put themselves on hold. Nonetheless, he felt it justified to harvest them now rather than to await tonight's rainfall, and the following 3-4 days it would require for the grapes to benefit from the rain, continue to mature, and hopefully be in shape for harvesting next week. It's always a gamble. And as there's been both mildew and oidium on the vines this year, waiting would allow these illnesses to spread, and he could potentially lose most of the harvest. So, the decision was made and the Syrah is now in the tanks, cooling down tonight. The careful and controlled fermentation will get going tomorrow.



The Syrah is the earliest-ripening grape (the French use the word précoce, or precocious in this instance) of the vineyard, and makes up between 25-40% of the winery's different blends. The rest of the domaine is planted in Carignan, Grenache and Mourvèdre. So, with a rendez-vous scheduled this afternoon with the oenologist, it was time to go out and randomly pick a selection of grapes from the the Mourvèdre and Grenache vines to check their maturity.



JP armed himself with two pails and a pair of clippers. We hopped into the little farm truck and bounced over to the parcels. He picked 4-5 small bunches from each area and added an identifying leaf (those in the know can recognize grape varietals by the leaf patterns). He tested a couple grapes by crushing them between his thumb and his index. By doing so he could see the color of the seed, whether the pulp still clung around the seed, as well as the thickness of the grape-skin, and the resistence or lack there-of to the pressure of his digits.



Neither varietal was as yet ripe -- which is what he expected. Once down at the cellar, he will crush a selection from each pail of grapes and then take the resulting grape juice and spread it on a refractometer (I do believe that's the word), a tool which takes the density of the sugar content in the fresh grape juice and lines it up on an easy-to-read scale to indicate the future alcohol degree.



Yes, there are tales of traditional vintners simply taking a grape, crushing it in their fingers, and tasting it, knowing empirically whether it is ripe or not. However, others (particularly those who are a bit more humble) use both these age-old visual and physical clues, and the aid of a marvelous and quite accurate tool.

Un bon déjeuner et une sièste -- ils sont sacrés!

A good lunch and a proper nap.

Do we still do this somewhere in the US (or even in the Anglo-Saxon world at large)? I certainly never did before I came to France. I remember being at work at 7:30AM, zooming through piles of text and tapes to type up, dashing out for a quick cup of soup at 11:45, back at my desk at noon, through another pile of folders, and out the door at 4:30PM, in time to get to an aerobics class. When necessary, I worked late into the night, nibbling at a hoagie or some Chinese food as I typed away, researched, etc., This was normal.

Then I came to France. In Paris the lunch hour was an hour plus. Everyone left their post. Everyone went outside and purchased something hot to eat, with a preference for a sit-down meal in a restaurant. I was still in Japan mode, and would bring my not-quite bento lunch to the office. My boss at the time, the travelling show coordinator at the Centre National de la Photographie, would look askance at my cold food, and encourage me to get out and about. A tendency to eat quickly and be back at my filing was something she just found odd and quirky, if not downright sad.

In France many businesses distribute lunch checks worth 10-12 Euros (perhaps more these days, I've not gotten any since I last worked in Paris, over 12 years' ago) to their employees. Thus, out the door, and go forth to purchase your lunch! Keep the bistrots and cafés in business. Or, if you are following the fast-food trend, perhaps a sandwich with crudités?

And then I moved south. My first years with Erick in Arles drove me batty. I tend to not be a morning person (before 7AM you're not likely to see me vertical). I need that cup of coffee. Unless I'm driven out the door by necessity, or facing an emergency, I have a brain that wakes up slowly. Brain speed is improved dramatically by a long bike ride in a brisk and moist wind before arriving at an office, or by an equally long and vigorous walk. But, when you work for yourself, it is a different sort of effort to put this activity into your day (particularly when you've small children to wake, dress, feed and get to school). All this to say that it was the rare morning when I could get to the computer and actually start working through emails, paying bills, etc., before 10/10:30AM.

But then I'd get on a roll and start boogying through the day's work. Simply writing, responding, corresponding would wake me up and I'd slip into the flow. Eleven thirty would arrive and I had to tear myself away from the computer, or the files, or the phone, and go prepare lunch. At twelve fifteen I called Erick (for many years he was working to renovate the b&b, so just visualize him covered in chalk dust, physically weary, and in need of a woman to put lunch on the table).

Salad, a hot dish with meat, pasta, cheese, wine, and then freshly brewed coffee with perhaps a square or two of chocolate. While Erick then went to sleep on the downstairs' couch, I would clean up, put away, do dishes, etc., It was now after 2PM.

I would feel sluggish from the meal, the post-lunch coffee didn't have the enlivening effect of its morning cousin. Stopping so abruptly for such a long lunch completely jammed my momentum. And yet, there was more work to do. At this point, I didn't consider taking a nap myself. How could I when there was ever so much more to get done? I was more than a bit terrorized by the idea that lying down mid-day would eat up whatever work hours were left, and then before I was newly conscious, the kids would be home, and time just a memory. So, I pushed myself up to the computer. There, it took a moment, but slowly, I'd get back into responding to emails, updating the email list, re-working the web site and the year's programs, etc., By 4:30 I was back in form and chugging through the work at hand.

5PM, little voices, feet running up stairs; the beasties are back. I could try to keep working, but distractions were many, and then if I didn't get dinner on the table, it didn't happen, so, off I would go to keep the household functioning. Between dinner prep, setting the table, eating, clearing, dishes, etc., then bath, tooth-brushing, bed, stories, ... I would never get back to the desk. For those who came to our cooking classes, they witnessed even busier evenings. No matter the needs of the kids, I was with the clients from 5PM till 11PM, with nary ten minutes here and there to run up to kiss the boys goodnight. Clients or kids, at a certain point bed called to me too, and off I would go. I've friends who manage to get back to work after the kids are down and work till far into the night. I'm not an adept of this option, unfortunately.

Thus, for me, this major pause mid-day -- 11:30 to 2:30 -- wrecked my efficiency. I lived this as a frustration and as a burden for years. I was in a state of shock and amazement. I would look back with nostalgia to the days when I got lots done (office work) every day, when I'd been a super-achieving employee, diving into piles, creating order, mowing down the tasks at hand. What might I have accomplished for our businesses if I'd been able to give the time my brain and past history told me was normal? I would laughingly say that both my business and my son would have benefited from all my time, but were managing with only a sliver, and yet, they both seemed to be doing okay.

But, I preamble for far too long. I'm trying to write about people who successfully nap, and though I've brought up an example, I am also digressing at length.

In my current life I spend time under the roof of and in the company of my vintner. He seems to epitomize the Frenchman who abides by the good lunch and proper nap routine, and yet who also succeeds in getting a lot of work done. He religiously eats his main meal at noon (and often noon on the dot), follows it with a small coffee and a square of chocolate, and then lays down for 30 minutes. Even on the longest of days, with stress pouring out of his ears, he peacefully nourishes himself and then allows his mind and body a moment of complete and total rest. As he helps me finish up the dishes, and nap time isn't till the kitchen is clean, I am able to join him with a clean conscience. The presence of a warm and perfectly situated shoulder to lay my head on renders the act of napping quite marvelous. I succumb to the temptation.

This past weekend was typical: no matter the work at hand, lunch and nap were integral parts of each day. Saturday work began at 8AM, pressing the marc, but he was up at the mas for his noon lunch. Back down to the cellar at 1:30 after fifteen minutes lying down, finishing up for the day at 8PM. He offered himself a brief social pause between 4:30 and 5, but otherwise, it was a day devoted to the work. And yet, a good meal and a nap were not neglected.

Sunday moved a touch more slowly. He actually slept in till 9AM. Breakfast, some paper work at the desk, then down to the cellar from 10:30 - noon. A lovely lunch with his mother and my good cooking from noon - 1, a good nap till after 2, and then back to the cellar to finish up the cleaning, hosing down, airing the fermenting tank, etc., When I departed at 5, he still had a couple more hours to go.

In the world I came from, working sun up to sun down with nary a moment's pause, grabbing a quick bite, drinking lots of coffee in large-sized cups is the standard operating procedure for many. There is a tremendous need and pressure to be efficient. We do the most we can physically accomplish. And if we return home and simply collapse, eating whatever is put in front of us that goes down easily, such is life.

But here--and I have to stress here in Provence amongst the traditional professions, as outside of my artisans, not all of the population still abides by these rhythms--work gets done, lots of work gets done, and yet the civilized meal, the refreshing nap are not sidelined in favor of more efficiency. Granted, there's no nibbling while working, there isn't a large cup of Java sitting on a side board to be sipped throughout the morning, and there's a strong discipline in regards to the workday -- weekdays begin at 7AM in the vineyards, and finish anywhere from 5-7PM. Only smokers take breaks during work hours (not my vintner's case, nor my baker's, nor the cheesemakers', nor the beekeeper's), everyone else is at work and working. Thus, when the lunch hour arrives, the rest is well-earned.

I see, I live, I taste this rhythm. I feel the sensible nature of caring for the body and soul in this way. And yet when I'm alone in my house in Avignon, I do admit, I return to what was inculcated into me as a young adult. I'm vertical at 7, but not really on top of things till 9:30AM (8-9 is drop off at school time). I work till 3PM when I have to ready myself to go pick up the kids. Lunch is thus a brief affair, and a nap non-existent (unless I'm in a state of collapse, but then I run the risk of not waking in time to get the kids). Getting the kids, being with them, keeping an eye on homework, preparing dinner, orchestrating dishes, etc., these eat up the rest of the day, (after all, there are six of them now) till my bed beckons and rest is at last an option.

Napping is a wonderful idea, and I adopt it when the opportunity is offered, when the situation warrants it, but... the rhythms of my birth country are still mark me.

A day for pressing

The Costières de Nîmes AOC (appelation d'origine controlée) has not always had a reputation for quality. You can count on it to be a concentrated red wine of the South. Good for what ails you and a good companion to steak, lamb stews and such hearty fare. Not every bottle is elegant and refine, with the potential for cellaring. However, this is changing, not for everyone, but for a few.

It requires more work, more attention, and perhaps the hiring of an oenologist to work alongside you as you harvest, press, ferment, decant, and bottle. This week, you can quickly perceive who has chosen to shift gears and aim for quality, and who is content with how things have always been done. Look around you, on either side of the small roads atop the plateaus there are still pickers in the vineyards, and small tractors chugging gently down to private village-based cellars. It may be Sunday, but these men and women are tending to their fermenting grapes, dashing off just after breakfast, and right after their brief noon-time sieste, to the tasks that need doing today, not tomorrow. The vintners and vineyard owners who work with the Cave Coopérative finished up last week. Already the roads are cleaner, the sloshing juice spills rarer. Those huge over-filled bins trailing behind impressive tractors are no longer blocking the road.



At Domaine Cabanis not even half the harvest is in. Careful attention is made to harvest at the right moment; daily the grapes' sugar content is tested, and estimates judged taking into account the local weather predictions. A team of 6-8 men and women are on call this month, ready to come in the next day at 7AM, or to wait a day or two till the next parcel is ready. Picking the grapes at the optimum moment is the goal of every conscientious vintner seeking to make the best wine possible from his grapes.



At the Cave Coopérative, they make perfectly good wine. It is made with care and "correctly" as they say here. But the many small and large-sized vintners who depend on this cellar fit into the schedule provided. It cannot be denied that for a substantial majority, the goal is simply to press out some liquid and get it onto the market -- simple and inexpensive wine sells often more easily than top quality. For them it is speed and facility. They choose not to take any risks, thus protecting their harvest from the potential damage of fall storms, temperamental weather, etc., (for example, they're announcing rain for Tuesday... will it be followed by a drying mistral wind? or by heavy and hot humidity? will the grapes still on the vines recover? or will they rot?).

The quality of the grape, its ripeness, its skin, its health: these are the primary materials, and if they're not right, there's only so much you can do in the cellar to improve on the beverage into which they will be transformed. Green grape seeds can bring bitterness to the final product. The careful vintner will crush grapes in a small bowl, view and then taste the seeds for maturity. One amongst a number of elements he observes and calculates.



This weekend the syrah for the vin de pays and classic AOC red, finished its eleven days of fermentation. The juice of the drip was removed from the solids Friday afternoon, and transfered to a different tank where it will rest quietly and decant the remaining solids in suspension. Saturday thus, was the day devoted to pressing the remaining solids, le marc, remaining in the tank. The vintner, or his helper (when not in bed with the flu) gets into the tank (with a fan going above his head to prevent any carbon dioxide intoxication/fainting spells) and shovels out the marc into the awaiting slide attached to the pump which sends it to the press. At the press the helper (or vintner, depending on the skill at shoveling of said helper) directes the large stream of solids, distributing it evenly throughout the press. It took three rounds of shoveling and pressing to get through all the solids.

Once the pressing was finished, it was time to fully clean, brush, and rince out the tank, the press, the pump, and all the tools used during this process. By the time we were finished it was 8PM, time to retire to the mas and enjoy a good night's sleep.



A very physical and visually staining sort of day. Lots of hosing down, shoveling, manipulating, cleaning, physical labor. The kind of day where someone like myself -- i.e. energetic but not particularly experienced -- can be put to work. Thus I too have legs stained with grapes, hands turning black (best cleaned with pure bleach), and slightly sore shoulders. But, I do enjoy getting my hands dirty, so no complaints!



Sunday dawned with more to be done. A remontage of the carignan (pumped out of the tank, and back in, with the goal to air the liquid, and mix back in the solids that often float to the top of a tank). The transfer of the pressed juice from yesterday to another tank, and the removal of the lees remaining on the bottom of the first tank. It then needed to be fully rinsed, disinfected, and rinsed again to be readied for the clairette (green) grapes that will be picked and pressed tomorrow morning. As with so many activities, the clean-up is as important as the task accomplished, and takes nearly as much time.

I did what I could to help, and still feel it in my hands, wrists, shoulders... then I dashed off to get my boys. It was 5:30PM when I said goodbye to my vintner, and wished him a short evening's labor in his cellar. Yes, a Sunday evening during harvest season ... At least in this country, we do stop for a proper lunch (I made a lovely curry with pork, onions, tomatoes, peppers, a touch of yogurt and tahini...) and a short nap before returning to work. So even when things are stressful and consuming, reason and civility have their place.

Fridays - and a painful anniversary

It is the end of the week. Children off to their respective parents (mine included); it is a day of cleaning up, tossing out the trash, contemplating laundry (and occasionally actually doing some), and putting the house in order. With our new schedule -- Leo in school till 4pm on Friday -- I have an afternoon offered me on a platter to spend with Jonas, my quiet one. He joined me in the garden, accompanied me on a bike ride, and plunged into the pool; I'm all his for two hours today. For once, there's no competition for my time and attention.

It resonates for me that today marks a most painful anniversary. It is still rather surreal and horrible to contemplate. On the 13th of September, 2001, Erick and I had a group of clients we'll never forget. Six out of seven were already in Europe when the planes hit the towers, and thus, they showed up. We spent a week sharing, occasionally weeping, intensely connecting. We savored each moment, appreciated the individuals beside us during meals, and admired almost wistfully our artisans who had chosen such sane vocations. Meeting and being with people who create and build and share, who have a living, but are not overly concerned with wealth. It was an experience of untold richness. These people connected to the land, respectful of their activity and their product, welcoming and generous, guided us to what is truly important in life. Friends, family, and yes, savoring the present.

Whenever possible I simply try to move slowly and be: be with the boys, be with the house and the garden, be with Filou clipping, brushing, and yes, even with my bills and letters. It's an active state of mind for me to be calm. No doubt it sounds like an oxymoron, but in fact it is such. I choose to move slowly, and the choice in and of itself is more than a touch active. Running around frantically like a chicken with its head cut off would almost be easier.

Wednesday afternoon Leo and I finally got onto a tennis court on French soil together. We didn't play particularly well, but we tried. We shared a moment alone, the first since school has started back up. Together we proudly acknowledged Filou and Saline (the neighbor's dog) as they lay down on the court (in a shaded corner) and watched us play back and forth with those ever-so-tempting balls. Not once did they leap up to grab one in their jaws. I felt as proud of Filou -- behavior to rival a Calkins' dog! - as I am of Leo when he reads beautifully out loud. It's the little things in life...




As we wondered back from the court I saw these tiny white snails all over the plants -- on a quick glance they could be flowers, but are most definitely not. Can you imagine that in harder times the locals actually ate these teensy things?



I've pretty much adopted Saline now. She spends much of her time with us (and Filou of course). The kids adore her, and her calm and gentle temperament is just too lovely. Now that she's stopped scarfing down Filou's food (or perhaps she just doesn't care for the organic option?), she's a far better guest.

So now I've my two kids, four boarders and two dogs... one on temporary loan. A warm, full and vibrant household.

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.

Learning about Wine - a life-long class

It seems apt to speak of wine at a time when so many friends are working strenuously to bring in what appears to be a great harvest. Today wine is an integral part of my life. It just is. I don't necessarily drink it at every meal, but it surrounds me, enriches me, and tempts me in many a myriad of ways. It is a pleasure, and a staple.

When I first moved to France, I was not a complete neophyte, but almost. I'd been lucky to be raised by parents who enjoyed good French food (Julia Child, the Galloping Gourmet and Simone Beck), cooked it well, and accompanied it with wine from our cellar -- often brought back by boat (La France) after a trip to Europe--or purchased from a neighborhood wine shop. There were memorable meals throughout my childhood when my parents checked the Zacky's ads in the New York Times, saw that the lovely Montrachet or Vosne Romanée in the back of the closet was now listed as having a worth of $100, and chose it as the honorable partner to a feast of juicy steak, home-made sauce bernaise, buttery pop-overs, Mom's favorite blue or roquefort cheeses and a dark chocolate mousse. Or the menu might have been my mother's Canard à l'Orange, multiple vegetables, simple rice and a pecan pie laced with bourbon. Festive occasions these were.

My father had an ancient silver sieve handed down from his elegant mother (or grandmother?) to be used when ever so gently decanting the wine into the crystal carafe of similar origins. In those days, sediment at the bottom of a bottle was normal and far from shocking nor dissuasive, so we carafed old wines to remove the sediment. I mention this, as many of my vintner friends today are very concerned with filtering their wines so that no sediment appear and discourage wine buyers/drinkers. For me, this was always a normal aspect of old wines. But times change, and so have wine drinkers.

My parents weren't wine snobs, but they each proudly reinforced a European tendency in the other. Early on in their graduate student days they adopted the tradition of drinking this favored European breuvage at nearly every meal -- long before the health benefits of a daily glass of wine were being touted by the journalists.They were adept pourers of the large bottles of Gallo "chablis" and "burgundy," their choice (being modest and college professors after all) more often than their more valuable, cellared bottles.

When I headed off to college in the mid 1980s my father turned me on to the $3/bottle Trakia as a cheap and drinkable option. I believe it was Bulgarian... And my mother gave me advice for choosing a nice bottle to bring to dinner: beyond certain wine region names, look for mis en bouteille au domaine/au chateau. The advice worked, and upped my reputation amongst more avid wine afficionados in my social sphere (you can imagine, there were a few at Princeton).

My parents were, however, highly selective when serving their better bottles. The lucky few were not necessarily the people they loved best, though of course, this was the case for at least one couple. There were perhaps a dozen dignes de l'honneur, the primary requirement being a sensitive palate and sufficient wine knowledge to notice and perhaps applaud what was in their glass. In the 1970s, wine appreciation in the US wasn't particularly wide spread (particularly in Westchester NY); nothing at all as it is now. And so at our table a certain level of ceremony and carefully put together guest lists reigned.

I was encouraged to taste, but was too young to have my own glass. By the time I was of age (15/16), my parents were divorced and the quality of wine in the house lowered to mixed cases of anything under $10. This is not to say we didn't drink occasional, very good bottles, but those old Bordeaux and Burgundies are taste memories of a different time.

My time in Seattle led me to taste the wines of the Northwest, to wine-tasting evenings held by friends studying oenology, and to great feasts of salmon, shell fish and other local delicacies. Adult, I enjoyed and savored, but remained relatively ignorant.

And then, I arrived in France. My palate fifteen years ago was one that had been sensitized to the masculine, at times smoky flavors of those old Bordeaux, plus the rare Burgundy, but the decade since has been spent linked to the food and wines of Southern France. Here the fruit is ripe, the colors dark, the flavors rich and concentrated. I've been to dozens of wineries within an hour and a half radius of my home, tasted hundreds of wines, shared, poured and drunk many of each color. With Erick, I designed wine weeks, tasting at three wineries per day, pouring over the various nuances of the local Appélations, working our way through vertical tastings, and exploring the personalities of the local grape varietals, cépages.

My teachers are the vintners themselves. Passionate, generous, patient, they have answered every question, let us taste every wine in the cellar, including a number in the casks, tanks or still bubbling away. It has been an extraordinarily personalized and in-depth internship: from planting to harvest, from harvest to the bottle, from the cellar to the table; I've lived each of these steps and when possible, have brought clients and friends along with me.

And now, I'm dating a vintner, sharing his joys and woes as the harvest goes on (his main helper now has the dreaded Flu!), accompanying him to the wine fairs, co-hosting wine-tasting weekends at the winery, and assisting in placing his wines in North America. I'm there to assist, photograph, document and learn when he teaches organic viticulture techniques to his colleagues seeking to transition to organic. I'm there when he hosts an international intern hoping to get a feel for the craft. And yes, I'm there when the oenologists come to test, taste, and advise during the delicate moments of fermentation.

I'll not get a degree this way, but, I'm soaking it up like a sponge. Every glass of wine is now to be twirled, sniffed, tasted, swished around the mouth with an intake of oxygen, tasted again, and then yes, enjoyed with the meal at hand.

I stress that I've not become a wine snob, but a wine appreciator. Be the bottle at 2E or 100E, I will seek to discover its personality, aromas, flavors and mouth-feel. I know the work that went into these bottles, the pre-determined values set upon the various French appelations (Appélation d'Origine Controllée) , and I take it all in, withholding judgement, playing with hidden labels, open to pleasurable discoveries.

Drink on.

Feeling at Peace

Somehow, somewhere, some why, I'm feeling at peace. Many people have known me to be often hyper, often a bit distracted, and often deeply affected by swaying feelings and sentiments. I can be frazzled, toss and turn all night, you name it. For those of you who've read my more personal posts, I would think this comes across... just a bit? So, what a relief, and what a pleasure, to be well, calm, and coping.

Why? Who only knows. My kids are doing well, that's a blessing. Even as they shift and change, I can see where we've a clear understanding, where I've earned their respect and that they are sure of me. We have our rhythms, and into these we three welcome others. It works.

But I am also in a clearly more accepting state of mind. I've put aside my frustrations of last year, my sense of schizophrenia, my efforts to find a way to blend together my weekend life and my week life, i.e. my life with the vintner and my life with my children. The root causes that so disturbed me are still there: I live two lives, I'm alone raising my kids, and though he says he likes children in general, he doesn't much care for mine. These are all serious issues that are still present. And yet, for the moment, I'm able to simply enjoy what is good -- someone is tender, gentle, present and attentive to me over my weekends; my kids and I are doing well under my roof -- and temporarily let be what so upset me last year. There is a clear sense that what I'm living is ephemeral. But it has its virtues. It is pretty clear that the day I take it upon myself to choose more in my life--joint projects, finding someone who will love my children as well as me--I'll be free to do so. My vintner is a very lovely individual, and very good to me, but no, he'll never be a foster parent to my kids, nor is there truly space in his world for there to be an us that goes forth as a unit to create and build.

It's been a very intense few years. Not only in the area of sentiment and relationships, but also financially. I feel that there must be a parallel universe out there where my father left me an inheritance, and/or another one where the b&b sold easily. Somehow, two major events have converged to leave me rather short of funds, that might have, in all justice, been expected and considered reasonably mine to help me on my way in this life. But no. It was not to be. My karma is to make it on my own, at least for now. It's almost absurdly amusing and contrary. But if this is the way of it, I shall most definitely make the best of my particular hand of cards (and mix metaphors by the minute!).

I've received an extra nudge to be careful about resources, to conserve energy, to cook and bake from scratch for the kids, to explore a kitchen garden, to limit my time in the car, and to convey these values to my boys. Not such a bad thing, eh? As I keep telling myself: I've still got my house, and my banker has yet to make a personal phone call with bad news. So, by all means, let's look on the bright side. And bright it is. We are all in good health, my car hasn't broken down (touch wood), and I've managed to find odd jobs here and there so far to keep me afloat. It could be so very much worse.

Thank you Universe for this gift of peace, for moments of calm, and for nourishing friendships, opening doors and new perspectives.