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.

Coping on getting some work

I've got to get myself financially in the black this year. It is Monday morning, a week after I've put the kids in school, and, I've got to get my act together. No more leaning on Ma (thank you!), no more leaning on the French State (generous as it is), it is time to land on my feet. This was a far easier task fresh out of University, 22 years of age, with no kids. I just popped around and got temp jobs or whatever. I paid my bills, lived in a tiny apartment, ate minimally. No biggie.

However, I am now 43, divorced with two kids, and have a large mortgage on my house. I'm also living in a foreign country where I feel the permanent disadvantage of a not-complete mastery of the language (particularly the written aspect). And, just in case we weren't all aware of it, there is a world-wide economic crisis going on. Hirings are few and far between for many many industries. Will I succeed where others are struggling? At least I know I'm not alone.

Last year I spent time talking to a counselor appointed by Pole Emploi and also at the Nîmes-based CIBC-- Centre Inter-Institutionel des Bilans de Compétences, a hub of trained psychologists put on this earth to help you figure out where your strengths are and how to put these onto a visually punchy résumé and get it out there to potential employers. I took full advantage of this marvelous socialist system and its free (FREE!!!!) employment and life direction advice. I've been counseled for over ten hours (8 sessions) by professionals. So, I should have a clue.

Problem is, I've actually never gotten a job based on a CV and an interview before. People practice these things. They master interview techniques, self-presentation, key phrases, etc., Call me spoiled or blessed, but I've had many work experiences, but none difficult to obtain: I've worked for my mother helping to run a summer arts festival (great fun and very busy); for Princeton University Press (I was at school next door); for a photography gallery (I walked in the door and admired the Japanese photography on the wall, having written about it in my senior thesis); for a Japanese university (nepotism via Ma, though I must say, I was a good employee to them and they kept me on stipend for two years after my original job was finished, ostensibly to correct English text, but I think also to say thank you); for a Parisian editor -- this grew out of my internship at the Centre National de la Photographie; and then, I created the cooking school and b&b with Erick where I spent most of the past 14 years. Résumé? CV? nah, they were never necessary. I was told to just come in on Monday ready to work. OK.

And now, my means of earning a living in the most recent past, tourism, is not the powerful market it used to be -- which isn't such a bad thing, as much as I loved my clients and touring Provence, I don't miss spending from 7AM to 11PM caring for people other than my children. I'm still carrying around a serious guilt complex concerning my abandonment of my little boys to the care of others for nearly ten years. So, I'll still tour occasionally, but I'll fit these tours into the kids' school schedule, and keep them to a reasonable minimum.

I am facing the need to earn a living along somewhat normal lines, though excluding 9 to 5 in preference to being available to the kids (including my four boarders).

What to do when you're an ex-pat living in France? Well, I've always been told I write well, and thanks to my highly verbal and doctorate-educated parents, my grasp of the English/American language is something I can proffer to a potential employer. I enjoy teaching, I enjoy reading. I enjoy challenges. So, I'm seeking to do what I proudly did not do in Japan -- teach English. But I'm also hoping to get some more translations like the wine tasting notes I did last year, web sites, and hopefully some more cook books.

To this end, I'm polishing up the CV and writing letters -- which are then re-written by more eloquent girl-friends, as the art of writing professional letters in French is not yet a skill of which I can boast.

I've already had one interview with the Wall Street Institute in Avignon to teach English. Apparently I'm on the short list, but more than that, I won't know for a time. And today, I've sent off two CVs to the Rencontres d'Arles de la Photographie, a place I've interned in (that's how I met Erick in the first place) and where I've occasionally served as an interpreter for Japanese photographers. The second I sent to Harmonio Mundi, the editor of classical music based in Arles. I underlined my love and minor-mastery of the bassoon (I'm ok in a teen age orchestra, and playing chamber music with amateurs), and my participation in a singing group at school, hoping these little extras might catch their attention.

Thus, a somewhat profitable Monday morning. Pay bills, cope on jobs, care for Filou's hurt foot. Check.

Growing up so fast

Leo had a very adolescent evening the other night. Not only is he a very tall twelve, growing facial hair and sky-rocketing towards the sky, he is growing ever more serious and sensitive. I do believe there will be unforeseen side effects to my hosting a young boy six months Leo' senior (yet a head shorter) and a tall and delightful fourteen year old girl. Hormones are surging.

Post-shower, hair wet and draping ever so tantalizingly over his eyes, elegant jeans, and a half-way unbuttoned white oxford on his summer tanned skin. Whoa... this is my little boy who was climbing trees, leaping in the water and scarfing down brownies this summer? Yes, I'm his mom, but he was darn gorgeous as he showed off terribly for the benefit of our young teenage female boarders.

And, his haunches up (is that the phrase?) he was in a cocky mood: Not the best preparation for a calm session of everyone reading a paragraph each of Gulliver's travels. As we've done most evenings this week, me and my charges strew about my bed with an abbreviated version of Gulliver, highlighting his visit amongst the Lilliputians. After one turn each, Jonas looked up at me and begged that I read him a book in his room before he fell asleep atop me in mine. Thinking the group relatively stable, I went off with Jonas, leaving them to continue reading.

I hadn't taken into account male dominance theory. Leo may be bigger physically, but Mael is older by six months and quite a strong and defiant character. He also is very physical and with minimal limits imposed upon him to this point apparently. So, as I understand it, Mael teased our little eleven-year old, pinning down her arm, tickling perhaps. Leo leaped to her defense, thinking to be able to manhandle Mael off of her and by his larger size, put him in his place. But, tall though he is, Leo is not a creative fighter (as they would say here, il n'est pas trop malin). Mael easily used a manoeuvre or two with elbow and knee, winding Leo with a blow to the chest, and freed himself.

In five minutes, Leo's pride, view of the world, sense of moral order, and more were touched, and deeply. He was so riled up he was not going to sleep, and adamantly so. I spent a moment with him, gathering information and trying to figure out went had gone so very wrong in my brief absence. Then I descended to speak with both Mael and Maeva. Basically, I communicated a new house rule. No physical teasing and wrestling. We simply are not going to play the game of who's stronger and who's quicker and who's more slippery. And, no touching the others. Permit and respect the imaginary cushion of air around each person. We live in a house that protects and cares for, not one where battles for dominance are going to take place. Maeva was reassured. Mael, no doubt, thought I was over-reacting.

And yes, perhaps I was. Growing up as the younger sister to a much bigger brother I was often a punching ball, tickling receiver, wrestling hold practice bag, you name it, for my older brother. I survived, more or less. And he was assured of his physical superiority and myself of my absolute weakness in the face of such. At one point (or a few times no doubt), I screamed at the top of my lungs, trying to break his hold, break him, and if only by breaking his ear-drums establish my own level of strength and power. No luck. I never did get out my finger nails, nor did I bite (something Jonas was once--no longer, gratefully--particularly adept at). And, I have no regrets on this point. I'm not normally a physically violent individual, and it was only the incredibly frustrating sense of being over-powered that brought it to such a pitch.

Perhaps I'm over-protecting, but I would rather prefer to limit this sort of behavior in my home, particularly as these are not siblings, but live-in guests.

I went back up to Leo after my discussions, hoping he'd have calmed down. But far from it. I spent the next hour by his side, listening, communicating, searching, and observing that my little boy is hitting those intense peaks of emotion and sensation that adolescence too often promises. The anguish, the hurt pride, the frustration, the anger, were all roiling in him pushing sleep away. Not before midnight was he finally willing to turn out his light.

The next morning wasn't a whole lot better (over and past are the days of thirty minute sulks?), but thank goodness, by the time I picked them all up at 4pm, the boys were not only talking but sharing their interest in music again. Phew! Crisis averted. For now.

Time for more Tomato Sauce

With my faithful Filou by my side, harvesting veggies.