Lunch at the beach

A Sunday outing to the beach. This is actually from a couple of weeks ago -- but I'd left my camera at the winery. So, imagine this as the first week of October. The food was so so, we didn't have our suits, but walking barefoot in the shallows was marvelous.

It was a family outing sort of day, at least for many locals (my kids were with their father). The food was mediocre, the wines okay. But that's not what we went there for. As you can see, my freckles are darker than ever. Fresh sea air and sunshine. It's a nice change.

It's Fall, but the world is green...

My garden is green. My rose bushes are in flower. The jasmin is abundantly in blossom as it grows wildly up my facade. The grass is lush. All around me the world is rich in greens. Is this fall?

Well yes, the olives are nearly ready for picking. My friends at the olive oil mill tell me they're readying the mill -- cleaning all the equipment, re-organizing the tanks, getting everything working perfectly -- to open in ten days. And olives are a fall crop. They will take us into winter. The first will be picked in pleasant, sunny weather, and the last will often be picked during fierce gales of Mistral winds, fingerless gloves and winter coats exigés.

The wine harvest is in, the days are getting shorter. There are pumpkins in the fields, squash on the market stalls. My tomato plants are still producing, but meagerly. For a couple of weeks now I've been tempted by the mushrooms at the market, and seen little old men out scrounging with pocket knives and plastic bags by the cedar tree stumps lining the roads of my island. The signs are there.

And yet, it's so green. Where are all the colors? We're mid-way through October and the trees have barely begun to change. I don't smell fall. The leaves have still to tumble by more than a sprinkling into my courtyard. The rain came pouring down last night, but it encouraged the world to sprout and reach towards the sky. It did not moisten crushed, fallen leaves, nor leave that musty autumnal scent in the air. Crisp is not yet a word I can use for the weather.

I'm not complaining. We're out biking, walking, roller blading, climbing trees and more. Life is good. But strange. I feel like spring has come again. There are my rose bushes, smiling at me as they offer their most beautiful and delicate blossoms. White jasmin petals are strewn before my door as I step out ... not brown leaves.

I may need to program a biking week for this time next year. One including visits to the mills as they get ready, to the wineries where the wine is bubbling away, to the hills where the billy goats are now with their ladies, across the freshly tilled fields, under the sweet-scented pine, up the dirt road to visit our beekeeper and have a rich autumn meal laden in honey harvested over these past six months. With weather like this, what could be more lovely?

I was raised in New York, a land of four seasons. And part of me is still held in sway by the sight of maples and oaks and all those trees that change colors so majestically. I harbor memories of chilly nights under warm blankets, hikes across burgundy/yellow/orange coated hills at a friend's home in Vermont, hot toddies my style -- a grog of home-made cocoa and bourbon.

Soon, I'll have a touch of this. The vineyards will be red. The beech will turn yellow. The chestnut will be a rich brown, drop their fruit upon the ground and offer us both nourishment and handsome wrappings for cheese. Beneath the pine needles up in the hills I may find black trumpets trompettes de la mort, yellow girolles, pale pink pieds de moutons, or soft mossy-brown cèpes. Fall will come.

But for the moment, I'm living a second spring. It is a gift I shan't refuse.

Pressure Cooker on the Stove

Oh dear, the household is not coming together as I'd like. There seems to be one in particular who creates division and anger. One who reacts vengefully and angrily, with the others then fulfilling the role of chorus, or flying off the handle.

Will removing the one calm the others down? What level of group dynamics is happening here? The one was gifted at causing factions -- I think. There was a definite anti-group, anti-team, individualistic me-ness to him. Though at times, he was the motivating factor for glorious everyone-included treasure hunts and games of hide-n-seek.

Is he also the scape goat? Does his presence which once divided now unite the others in their annoyance of him?

A long chat is in store with his mother this weekend. At this point, I'm not too certain on which side the ball will tumble. Is fairness something to seek? or serenity and a cohesive, balanced household? Are they mutually exclusive or part and parcel?

Unexpected guests

As I came down from my upstairs office to refill my tea, I noticed a new dog following Filou around the house. Yes, I'd left the garden door open. And yes, I've become quite accepting of the regular visits of Saline, the neighbor's lab and shepherd blend who is practically my second dog (at least from 8:30AM to 8PM each day). But this was new. I recognized the newcomer, and hadn't realized it was a she till this moment when I saw her happily smacking her lips -- Filou's food bowl had just freshly been emptied.

Now, I've a friend dealing with her sixteen year old son's love life. She's struggling (successfully) with imposing the rule that his girlfriend not spend the night -- though she's there frequently behind closed doors during the day time. The time has come to establish certain rules for her household and her sexually maturing son.

Goodness I'm glad I'm not at that point yet. Leo is such a gracious and gentle young man towards women. He likes them -- his demeanor with our teenage boarder attests to this -- but the idea of their sharing his bed? For the moment, it seems to be a far distant concept. Not that I should be surprised. Simply pleased and relieved that we're not there yet. I've time to figure out what sort of rules I'll choose to put in place.

No, my sons are as yet relative innocents. Limits are set along different lines. However, my super sociable dog is another story! Aren't male dogs supposed to follow females? How is it that I've got all the local female dogs hanging around the house mooning over my scruffy black ball of fluff? How did he get so popular? And how do I convey to him that feeding the neighborhood is just not in the picture?

A delicious visit inspires

A delectable specialty of my favorite chocolatier is his caramels. Such a simple concoction: sugar, cream, and butter. And yet... all my gourmandise of my younger years comes to the fore when I am confronted with this beautiful, smooth warm-toned merveille.

Joël Durand's main shop is in St. Rémy de Provence: a hub of tempting smells, shelves of delights to the eye and the tongue, and a very friendly welcome. I come here for gifts for friends back home, for a little something to put by my computer while I work (a reward here and there encourages creativity, n'est-ce pas?). And of course, I bring my guests.

A whirlwind of movement and ambition, Joël comes up with new candies and confections every year. From an alphabet of flavored ganâche filled chocolates to cocoas to toasted almonds, crunchy caramel and chocolate to confitures and -- my favorite -- delicate chocolate cookies topped with flavored, oozing caramel (orange, lavender, liquorice, chocolate, salted butter, hazelnut...) and dipped in crisp, shiny dark chocolate. Yes... I do have an Achille's heel, I must admit.

I took my clients by yesterday, and obtained the rare permission to visit the laboratory (this used to be a bit easier to do, but it is now run like the proverbial ship and where once there were lovely bits of "waste" to nibble, there are no longer. An impressive change has taken place -- for the better -- but this may mean fewer visits... I'll see what the future brings).



We arrived shortly after lunch, and watched as the workers got into the swing of their afternoon recipes. One was making caramel (hmmmmm), while another simmered and infused fresh rosemary in a simple syrup, mixing it in a high-speed blender, and sieving it through a chinois for a rosemary-infused ganache chocolate and a rosemary-infused bar chocolate. In another room, a young woman was filling her bar molds with freshly tempered chocolate. All were cleaning impectably as they went along. The scene oozed focus, quietly and methodically applied.

I've been visiting behind the scenes for ten years now at Joël Durand's shop, and I must say, gorgeous creations have always been the order of the day, but rarely before was it such a serious workplace. I miss the friendly banter of yesteryear and some of the early employees trained on the job. But, if getting things ship shape, eliminating waste, perfecting the methods and improving production help keep the business thriving and the current employees employed, Chapeau!


As we continued to observe, the hive hummed busily along. Other recipes were begun, including one of my favorites -- the honey ganache. I noted that it is made with lots of cream and butter much like so many others, but the quantities? I'll have to guess, or look up another chocolatier's recipe, as here, they are tightly held secrets!



A Basic Caramel:

Looking around for proportions, Simply Recipes suggests the following for a basic caramel. I added chocolate to my successful attempt this evening; and yes, these are pretty much the proportions I used (I confess to eye-balling it, something a proper pastry chef would never do!):

* 1 cup of sugar
* 6 Tbsp butter
* 1/2 cup heavy whipping cream
-- optional, a few squares of high quality dessert chocolate -- I put in 4.

After watching at the laboratory however, I would put the cream before the butter, as the pastry-worker I observed added his cream before the butter. And, if nothing else, I'm a quick study! It is a simple recipe, but one that requires having all ingredients on hand, quick responsiveness and a sharp eye and nose.


Melt the sugar in a heavy bottomed sauce pan (if making lots, a large copper jam pot works great). With a wooden spoon stir and press out the lumps. When it is fully melted and starts bubbling, watch carefully! Let it get darker -- this is where the flavor comes in -- till you see le petit fumé, the small smoke.


Then add the cream. It will foam up dramatically. Stir and stir till it is smoothe again. Let it color some more, then remove the pan from the heat and put in all the butter. Apparently, you don't need to stir immediately -- the butter will cool down the caramel a bit. Stir in the butter, and -- if you wish -- add your chocolate. Stir till it all comes together and then either pour it into a jar, or over ice cream, whichever suits you. -- a poached pear or some apple slices are a possibility as well.

Wine Tasting in Châteauneuf-du-Pape

Sometimes I forget how good wine can be. And then I spend a day truly tasting, savoring, sniffing, swirling and it all comes flowing back. With two savvy and interested (and interesting) clients, I spent Monday tasting at a few of Châteauneuf's finest cellars. Bright, round, full, balanced, lively whites. Delightful now, and yet with the possibility of cellaring should we be so inclined.

And then the reds: dark black cherries, rich cocoa, cooler dark chocolate with perhaps a touch of mint, red pie cherries, peppery fresh blackberries, earthy, structuring tannins, ... chewy, round and rich, these wines coated our tongues and lingered on the taste buds.


And what is this? a faggot of wild asparagus is the filter of choice to hold back the lees from the juice as it flows from the press? Curiouser and curiouser. And here, there are no pumps to remove the marc from the tank, just the glistening and powerful muscles of the son-in-law as he shovels away, filling bucket after bucket.


One winery vinifies every one of its 20 some odd parcels of grapes individually, awaiting January to decide upon blends of these precious juices, choosing to age a small portion in new oak, keeping the rest in stainless or cement. And yet across town, their neighbor makes just one wine per year, and thus, no matter his many parcels (30 acres divvied up into 20 chunks), and no matter the juice from the press and the juice from the drip -- all goes back into the same tank as all will eventually be one wine.

The first carefully removes the grapes from the stems, aiming for flattering fruit flavors, smooth and elegant velvet on the palate. The latter keeps the stems in -- enjoying the ripe tannins they contribute to the structure of his powerful red.


And you thought the label of an AOC could describe a wine? Only in the broadest of strokes. Yes, they're both mostly grenache grapes, and yes, they were hand harvested, and yes, the alcohol content will be somewhere between 14 and 15 degrees alcohol (and occasionally higher), and yes, they will not be bottled for a minimum of 18 months - 2 years. But there, the similarities end.

Taste and find out! If you can find them, we reveled in the elegance of Domaine Marcoux, and the power and heart of the Domaine Lucien Barrot et Fils.

To top off the day, Guy Brémond at the Cave Verger des Papes shared a few more bottles and arranged shipping for my clients' favorites. With that accomplished, I, having carefully (and ever more skillfully) spit throughout the day (drinking only water with lunch) was able to safely back my van out of the tight parking lot of the Domaine Beaurenard, and deliver my guests to their hotel in Avignon.

An Amazing Playground of Stones

Imagine rough-hewn stone walls crumbling about you, over-grown with trees and bushes sprouting in the middle of what once was a king's bedroom. Down steep cobbled paths beneath, rooms carved into the stone of the hill-side, troglodyte caves that once were homes. Are there hidden passages? The climb up is perilous and steep (particularly in slippery sandals). The views from above magical.


We're in another world, another time. Oppède-le-vieux no longer houses bustling villagers. It is the ruins of a medieval town. The castle on the peak stands witness. The church beside it reveals vibrant painted ceilings, recessed alcoves, crypts beneath the flagstones.


Of all the villages of the Lubéron, this is my favorite. We're rarely dodging a plethora of other visitors. It is truly off the beaten path. Far less chic, barely renovated, it is the poor cousin to the magnificent Gordes. But, for small, scrambling legs, bright eyes and nimble feet, it is a playground bar none. -- And free but for a minimal parking donation.


With Leo and Jonas' close friends and their mom, we climbed under the early fall sun, picnicked amidst the stones, chatted and explored the secret grottos. A drink at a nearby cafe topped off the day.

An Emergency Room Visit

Well, just in case you have to go to the emergency room of the Avignon hospital, I thought I'd tell a tale of a most pleasant visit. As in most such cases, this was not a destination I would have chosen to spend my Thursday afternoon, skipping lunch with Isabelle and Paul Pierre and dashing off mere minutes after finishing up in the cheese laboratory. But, when you have multiple teens and pre-teens in your home, I suppose it is simply to be expected that at some point a child will injure himself.

And such was the case. Gaetan was playing basketball with his class, tripped over another's feet, and landed hard on his hand. The firemen and the ambulance arrived, and he was whisked off to the hospital. The school called me on my cell phone, I communicated with Gaetan's parents, and then headed promptly over, picking him up some lunch on the way at my favorite baker's. Once I'd established with the reception desk that I was his guardian, and that his parents were a phone call away, I was brought to where he was waiting. He'd already been x-rayed, and was holding the prints in his hands. The nurse wheeled him back to the Pediatric ward and there we spent a very uneventful and tiresome two hours plus.

At long last, the room used for making casts was liberated (it was also the room for sewing up screaming toddlers) and we toddled on in, set Gaetan down on the examining table, and a most lovely, young doctor got to work, alongside two bright and funny nurses, making his cast.

Our afternoon had been boring, time-consuming and lengthy (no books or magazines on hand for distraction), but far from unpleasant. The overworked nurses were to a person helpful as they could be, the place clean, not over large, and functioning as smoothly as could be managed. And, as we left, we were told the bill would be in the mail.

When I asked how much the bill was likely to be for an x-ray, a cast, the pain relievers, care, etc., I was told, oh, between 25 and 50 Euros.

Life could be a lot worse, hm?

The message here being, do not worry overmuch if you get hurt in Avignon (or France). The ambulance service is rapid and efficient; the hospital clean and helpful; the waits tolerable, and the personnel remarkably affable and competent. And even if you do need to pay out of pocket, I promise, you'll be able to afford it!