I can't let go. These days, I'm always looking for them; tomatoes, I mean. I'm pinching back the tomato blossoms in the garden, hoping the tomatoes that have already formed will actually have time to ripen in this new season of reduced sunlight and deepening chill. Bite a garden tomato and you bite into summer. And I can't let go of summer. Not willingly, anyway. 
The chopped gorgeousness above consists of Délice d'Or, but for yellow you can find your fill with creamy-gold Ivory Egg, the orange-sized Valencias, a handful of Remy Jaune, tiny and sweet as candy (and a more yellowy version of the cherry tomatoes I picked in the top image), pointy pepper-seeming Roman Candle, the faithful Marmande Jaune, the Téton de Vénus jaune (Venus' Breast) and let's not forget the sumptuous, pink-streaked beefsteak, Mortgage Lifter Yellow. 
It is the prose of the warmer days; don't tempt me to go on--there are well over 12,000 known varieties of tomatoes in nearly all the colors. These are the yellow ones I know and love, in part for their sunny appearance, in part for their sweet nature. Yellow tomatoes are generally less acid, and more on the fruity side. You will love them fresh, but try chopping them up finely and simmering them ever so briefly as Heidi does, and you have a pure-tasting sauce fit for the gods. Rather than going with fresh as she did, I added oven-roasted garlic instead (there's always an oil-topped jar of that in the fridge), to play up that intense tomato sweetness. 
The sauce is superb served unadulterated over quenelles lyonnaise (an airy, eggy, oval dumpling). Any permutation of pasta will do, of course. If you happen to have other vegetables on hand as I did, then throw in something sautéed, such as eggplant, add a sprinkling of torn fresh basil and just-grated Parmesan. Like me, take the photo before adding the last two ingredients, so you can still see those goldenrod bits of tomato. Actually, I can confirm this sauce is gorgeous in spoonfuls direct from the saucepan.
If you did something truly wonderful in a long-ago previous life, you might just know a local producer of Ananas (i.e. Pineapple) tomatoes. 
This variety redefines tomato-ness. It can grow to a kilo (that's one, single tomato). There are very few seeds, and it's a highly aromatic sort, with a dense, magnificently juicy flesh. And oh, that fine, fine yellow-orange sweetness. So here's my recipe for this, perhaps my very favorite variety of tomato.
Allow the tomatoes to ripen fully someplace warm and bright in your kitchen. You'll know they're ready when hazy streaks of red appear at the flowering ends, and all traces of green are gone. Slice, sprinkle a minute amount of fleur de sel, and drizzle with the grassiest, brightest olive oil you can get your hands on. 
Afterward, if you're feeling nostalgic for that extraordinary last mouthful, read Pablo Neruda for solace: you aren't alone in loving tomatoes.
Afterward, if you're feeling nostalgic for that extraordinary last mouthful, read Pablo Neruda for solace: you aren't alone in loving tomatoes.
Ode To Tomatoes
- Pablo Neruda
The street
filled with tomatoes,
midday,
summer,
light is
halved
like
a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
In December,
unabated,
the tomato
invades
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
murder it:
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera
a cool
sun,
profound,
inexhaustible,
populates the salads
of Chile,
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
we
pour
oil,
essential
child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
pepper
adds
its fragrance,
salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding
of the day,
parsley
hoists
its flag,
potatoes
bubble vigorously,
the aroma
of the roast
knocks
at the door,
it's time!
come on!
and, on
the table, at the midpoint
of summer,
the tomato,
star of earth, recurrent
and fertile
star,
displays
its convolutions,
its canals,
its remarkable amplitude
and abundance,
no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and cool completeness.
filled with tomatoes,
midday,
summer,
light is
halved
like
a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
In December,
unabated,
the tomato
invades
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
murder it:
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera
a cool
sun,
profound,
inexhaustible,
populates the salads
of Chile,
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
we
pour
oil,
essential
child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
pepper
adds
its fragrance,
salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding
of the day,
parsley
hoists
its flag,
potatoes
bubble vigorously,
the aroma
of the roast
knocks
at the door,
it's time!
come on!
and, on
the table, at the midpoint
of summer,
the tomato,
star of earth, recurrent
and fertile
star,
displays
its convolutions,
its canals,
its remarkable amplitude
and abundance,
no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and cool completeness.
The pinkish purple heather is in full bloom, and in places it transforms the ground into an airy, rosy sea. Out and about in that curiously limpid light of autumn, we've been busy foraging for mushrooms in the heather, fields and forests. The nights and early mornings have significantly chilled.
At the market, the squash and pumpkin are for sale, alongside the last of the summer harvest. With the change in season come the fall traditions of the Cevennes. We were charmed to be invited to a neighbor's ferrade: fresh air, lots of eating and drinking, just as much socializing, and horses--what's not to love? 
The horses in question are Camarguaises, the famously hardy white breed that run wild (in now significantly reduced numbers) across the pink flamingo-flecked Camargue marshes. We said yes without hesitation, knowing the lovely people who were so kindly inviting us, and not really thinking through the activity around which the whole ferrade is built: the hot branding of horses.
Branding has been practiced since at least the time of the Egyptians to identify (free-ranging) hores and prevent horse theft. Unfortunately, as one might imagine, it causes a good deal of stress and pain to the horse. 
Camargue horses are born very dark, and only turn white as they mature. The colts we saw, about six months old, were separated from their mothers for the first time in order to perform the branding, which involved one burn on the rear haunch, and a smaller one on the neck. 
The colts appear dazed and shocked after the brand is applied and the disinfectant dabbed in the wound. The brand, applied correctly, causes a superficial burn and permanently removes the hair.
If you don't have children of your own (yes that is handmade "gold" bullion in the background), you may be under the impression that a children's birthday party is merry, and relaxed. This is not the case.
We're in clover these days: the heavy rains have dissipated, the newly discovered hole in the roof is fixed, and the world's gone emerald green, saturated with the scent of huge, giant swathes--larger than most people's gardens--of blossoming oregano. The little oregano flowers are those splodges of white in the background below. If only blogs had a scratch and sniff option; the scent of oregano at the day's end is improbably magnificent. 
The excuse to eat foie gras is simple: the inkling of autumn, old friends and good stories. The friends in question are from London. Married 38 years, they are a low-key, unfussy, jovial pair, retired, with a permanent case of the travel bug. They each turned 65 this year. He got her...a beautifully wrapped shoe box. Empty, but for a gilded card. The splurge to end all splurges: 
I do hope you'll consider trying this easy, incredibly flavorful recipe, only slightly tweaked from the original, which was taken from Aussie Charmaine Solomon's 
The locals come to the forefront, in full eccentricity, dogs in tow. Have you ever seen a three-wheeler motorcycle with spousal and canine seating? I can now say that I have. 
After consulting the latest 
If you can't find lemon balm, fresh, slightly crushed rosemary would make a charming substitute. Lacking any fresh herbs, you could add a few drops of a good vanilla extract (say a 1/4 to 1/2 teaspoon) and a few grinds of fresh ground black pepper...The figs can also be served with a good vanilla bean ice cream or a slice of pound cake, with perhaps a smidgen of mascarpone, just to be decadent... 
The poaching liquid quickly takes a deep blush from the purple figs--and a fabulously figgy taste--so much so that I used the extra sauce to make fig kirs, using white wine. Here's to Sundays that still feel like the best of summer!
Figues pochées à la mélisse (Figs Poached in Lemon Balm and Muscat)
This past weekend I made a new discovery: the Assemblée du Desert. Once a year, in a tranquil oak-filled glade a few kilometers down the way from the Bambouseraie, an open-air Protestant service is attended by thousands, of all ages. This service is really about ancient history.
Briefly put: after the Edict of Nantes was revoked in 1685, France became wholly Catholic, and full-scale persecution of Protestants was officially sanctioned. The Royalists stripped Protestant Huguenots of everything they had. There were forced conversions and imprisonment and/or public executions of those who resisted and were caught. Protestants couldn’t even be buried in community (read: Catholic) graveyards, having to make do with their own separate plots.
In the rapidly escalating violence, the Cevennes, a sometimes inhospitable and somewhat wild land even today, became by its very roughness the place to which many, many Protestants fled, and from which Protestant peasant rebels, known as Camisards, made their desperate stand. The Assembly takes place next to the Mas de Soubeyran, the Luziers home of one of the most celebrated Camisard rebels lovingly turned into the Musée du Desert. The low-key, surprisingly moving annual service celebrates that complicated Protestant history, and remains an enduring symbol of the outdoor, clandestine nature of religion for many of the attendees’ forefathers. 
The history marks the character of this part of France, where Catholic churches are rarely found, and locals are often reticent toward outsiders, from whom they have learned, throughout history, to expect nothing but trouble. According to the newspaper, there were about 15,000 (of all ages) present at the Assembly this year...
Thankfully, my relationships with my (Protestant, Catholic and atheist) neighbors have developed in a distinctly more positive, open fashion. It helps to arrive with a pot of something homemade, ready to talk food and garden.
The shift from joy to abject misery (or non-joy?) was abrupt, if only for me. First, I was disabled by a fiendish ear infection. The pain was dagger-like and impressive in scope. Even the outside of my ear swelled. The ear’s not yet back in commission, but at least the pain has been pushed back—now if they could just do something about the incessant tinnitus. Then I lost my internet connection (oh, please don’t ask). More than a week later, I still don’t have it—this latest missive is being sent from my neighbor’s computer (mille mercis, Manon!). I’m working on regaining access. I use the word ’attempt’ because the service (ha!) provider is Orange, which in itself explains why I’ve been struggling with this situation (and the people who are supposed to be helping me) for way too long now. 
For those of us tucked into the mountains, the evenings have taken on a particular crispness; we’d nearly forgotten... The children are back in school, which means a new stuff strewn across the kitchen table: the library books, swim goggles and sunscreen have been replaced by fountain pen cartridges, brand spanking new notebooks--and more sunscreen. I smear that on them before they head out the door: the days are still scorchers, even if the nights are far cooler.
Half the various doors and windows of the old farmhouse we inhabit are usually flung open to the world, and the other day (as has happened before) I came upon a bird in the kitchen, this time a young wagtail. We were both surprised. She fluttered and made a dash for a closed window, stopping just in time to close her claws around the sash instead, one eye wide on me all the while. I edged like a burglar along the kitchen’s perimeter to the terrace door, which I opened and from which I hastily retreated. The coast clear, she flew arrow-like through the doorway, and alighted on the terrace wall just a few feet away to let loose her perfect declarative song, shot through with lightness and joy.
I can get all doe-eyed about untreated-local-produce-in-season, but what really make me weak in the knees are juicy, properly ripened tomatoes. North Americans call what I love heirloom tomatoes. I call them one of the chief reasons to show up for summer, and the first thing to plant in any vegetable garden. The cherry tomatoes at our house never even make it to the kitchen, as they are consumed on the spot. Some of the bigger tomatoes are bitten into with enormous relish, as if they were the ripest of plums. My four year old does this. He leans over, but the juices and seeds still go everywhere. You should see how he smiles when that happens. Eating is fun when it tastes this good and gets this messy. 
So really, the right thing to do is find a properly ripened, never once refrigerated tomato and follow his lead. If you’re wearing something nice and would rather not splatter, then make an Italian insalate caprese instead. And yes, real mozzarella is made from water buffalo milk. Treat yourself to some of that if you can. (The kids hoover that creamy goodness up as well). 
My neighbors seem mighty pleased with the tomato, courgette and carrot crumble I’ve been bringing around. This crumble is just a nudge in the actually-cooking direction, but only the slightest of nudges. The oven’s heat does the work, drawing out the sweet, mellow side of the tomatoes. I add the other vegetables just to maintain a bit of structure, as the star attraction does go a bit melty. Parboil the carrots and just blanch the courgettes, so they’ll be fully cooked once the crumble’s finished. Of course other vegetables, such as onion, and other herbs, such as marjoram or thyme, can be added or substituted. The crumble should bake at 180 C (350 F) for about three-quarters of an hour if you’re sticking with tom’s & co. You want some bubbling going on, some browning of the crumble--which you remembered to press down a bit before you slipped the dish into the oven.
