The judgment.

First there's the band, then there's the burning. 

Actually, first there's the makeup.  Mothers and fathers, dipping into trays of facepaint, turn a few classroomsful of tykes into shooting stars, black holes (!), astronauts, rocket ships and aliens.  All the while, the drumbeats and singing grow more persistent and compelling as the musicians approach the school.

We just celebrated carnival this past weekend here, due to the vagaries of the French school holiday system.  Next year, it'll be a month earlier.  But this year we danced and threw confetti, made faces and took photos of our children under a June-worthy April sky.  The theme was the universe, give or take a planet.

I was intially dubious about the little black holes, secretly pitying them in their dreary garb.  With their dyed T-shirts ripped into long strands, they resembled depressed--perhaps even seasick--octopus.  But of course their teacher had a plan.  The five-year old black holes held hands with the stars and the astronauts, coiling their way through the crowd.  Every time their teacher yelled "Big Bang!" they scattered in all directions, their costumes swirling away from their bodies.  And then they would all return to orbit her beaming, painted face. 

Confetti got everywhere.  Some of the village matrons threw candy into the air. Everyone enjoyed the percussion, with the exception of my son the astronaut, who decided it was Too Much and that he definitely did not like dancing.  But he went along anyway, solemn eyes, paper helmet and all.

Earlier in the week, it felt like high school again, only with a better soundtrack: we parents were creating the two and a half meter high alien, this year's unlucky Pétassou, which you can see here on the float, being hauled by tractor.

An Occitan (Langue d'Oc) word, Pétassou is derived from petaç, which means a strip of fabric used in piecework.  In a few rather forgotten parts of the Cévennes, one can still find a designated village person who capers about at carnival time dressed as the petassou, fully disguised from head to toe and draped in colorful rags.  This person, a sort of comical, teasing bogeyman, has special powers, as legend would have it, to cleanse the village of its year's worth of bad luck and accumulated sins.  This rather pagan ritual has been celebrated--with all sorts of attendant symbolism--since at least the Middle Ages.  Or, as a friend put it "depuis la nuit du temps" (since the night of time).

Today, in many parts of southern France, the ritual of Pétassou has evolved into something a bit more Guy Fawkesian in approach.  An effigy is made, who represents all the things that went wrong with the world in the past year.  The older children shout accusations, point fingers--and condemn him.  This time, one girl yelled about having to leave to go to junior high.  Another blamed the Pétassou for her father being in a wheelchair.  The accusations can be highly specific or quite general.  There was blaming over the war in Libya, the tsunami in Japan--and global warming.  Regardless of the charge, the ruling was the same: burning, no chance for appeal.  Next, the cardboard rockets and other costumes were dumped on the brush and branches, then the fire is lit.  A Pétassou in effigy still feels pretty pagan.

After the bonfire, I tended the drinks table at the school cafeteria.  Really, I should call it the bar.  This was an experience to be filed in my "Only in France file": along with the organic juices and iced tea, I was serving whiskey cokes, wine, beer and eau jaune.  At school. The last beverage is a simple cocktail, pastis on the rocks with a generous splash of water, which magically turns the clear amber alcohol creamily opaque.*  It's an acquired taste, which many around here seem to have fully acquired.  It also makes for limber dancing.

Le pastis, c'est comme les seins : un, c'est pas assez, et trois, c'est trop. (Pastis is like breasts: one isn't enough, and three is too much.) --Fernandel (vaudeville actor and singer from Marseille)

*If you're intrigued, make an eau jaune and add a bit of red Grenadine syrup, to make a cocktail Tomate.  And let all your sins and disappointments be burned away, whether literally or figuratively.

Witchery, in and beyond salad.

The plum and cherry trees have gone green, releasing their petals in impromptu, lavish showers that would make a wedding planner weep for joy.  The wisteria has now picked up the slack. 

Defying expectations, the rain clouds stay away.  While it looks and smells like spring, it definitely feels like summer.  Just a couple of days ago, my neighbor's thermometer read 30 C (86 F).  In the flammable south of France, in weather like this, a mind turns to fire prevention.  We have no lack of water, but our water pressure is not superb, and should there ever be a fire, we'd be very hard-pressed to provide the firefighters with the necessary fire-extinguishing quantities.  Which is where this Monsieur comes in.

In the French countryside, no well is dug without a water dowser's sanction. This particular water witch has a sterling reputation, and charm to spare.  Originally a healer with thirty year's experience, he has been finding water for the last twenty years.  Apparently it is common for dowsers to have healing capabilities (the things you learn!).  This Monsieur turned to water dowsing not too long after his name was published without his consent.  Described as one of the 100 most skilled healers of France--you can now find that information online--he was besieged with visitors, a number of whom were sent by 'regular' doctors.  He was busy from morning til night, laying hands on people who patiently queued to see him.  He treated people for everything from the rather mundane, such as plantar's warts, to the more serious, like alleviating the side-effects of radiation therapy.  He would even help people by telephone, like those with serious and not-so-serious burns. 

He explained that it's simply about sensing magnetic energies.  After a while, the work with people became too much for him, and he turned to water, which he found less demanding.  To find water, he uses two copper rods, as well as two kinds of pendulums.  He turns first in a circle with the pendulum with his arm outstretched to determine which direction to go, waiting for the pendulum to begin rotating.  Once he has determined the direction to take, he heads off rather briskly, with his rods held horizontally parallel.  (He stopped using forked branches after the wood kept scraping his palms once it 'responded' vigorously to the presence of water.)  The metal rods turn in toward each other and cross once he passes over a source of water.  Once the point of water is established, he determines the depth of the water using either his wood or his metal pendulum.  

Freshly dug parsnip, carrot and salsify (for with the spring lamb roast).

It's a fascinating process to watch whether or not you are a skeptic.  The way he holds the smooth, round rods makes it unfeasible to turn them by design.  I know this from watching, but also because he had me--and my husband--try it for ourselves.  It's very peculiar to feel the rods move on their own.  With us, they didn't move with such assurance, but they very definitely moved, crossing over one another.  He then set me up with the pendulum.  Nothing happened.  I couldn't get it to move one jot, no matter how hard I concentrated.  Then he laid his steady hand on my arm, and the weighted pendulum started turning in a smooth, wide circle...

Of course he has a good sense of local geology, and his general knowledge must come into play, whether consciously or unconsciously.  He doesn't believe any of this process is magic, but rather a tuning in to the natural magnetic properties of things.  Watching him, though, you do get a glimpse into something that seems not entirely explainable, something that seems--at least a little bit--magic. 

Kind of like this salad, which will amaze you with its lightness, and its lush, addictive blend of flavors.  It will please you here and now, when you're looking for something both delicious and healthy, and well into the barbecue'n'picnic days.  The interplay of crunch and juice, of mint, orange, fennel and mild, pre-soaked onion?  Quite simply bewitching.   

Salade de fenouil à l'orange (Minted Orange, Fennel and Red Onion Salad)* 

Serves 6.

1 scant teaspoon whole coriander seeds
2 tablespoons fresh orange juice
2 tablespoons Banyuls vinegar, Sherry vinegar or other good-quality white wine vinegar
3/4 teaspoon salt
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 medium red onion
1 large fennel bulb
3 large oranges (navel or other variety with few seeds)
1/4 cup loosely packed fresh mint leaves

Heat a dry small heavy skillet over medium-high heat, then add and toast coriander seeds, stirring, until fragrant and a little darker, about two or three minutes. With a mortar and pestle, grind coriander to a coarse powder. In a jar, combine coriander and remaining dressing ingredients. (Dressing may be made in advance and chilled, covered).

Using a very sharp knife or mandoline, slice onion crosswise into paper-thin rings, then soak the sliced onion in a bowl of cold water, for about 15 minutes. Next, prepare the oranges: cut a slice from the top and bottom of each orange to expose the flesh, then place cut side down on a cutting board. From top to bottom, cut away peel and pith, then cut oranges crosswise into thin slices. While the onion is soaking, move on to the fennel: tremove any stalks from the fennel then slice bulb crosswise as thinly as possible.  Finally, drain onion well.

Arrange orange, shaved fennel and onion on the serving plate and top with mint. Shake jar of dressing to emulsify then drizzle over salad.

* From Gourmet magazine, February 1995 issue.

In black and white.

It’s getting colder in fits and starts here and there's far too little daylight for my liking. What to do, when it's raining cats and dogs outside and your house is filled to the brim with children (five to be exact)?

If you live in the Cévennes you bundle them into the car to go take part in the 13th edition of the annual “Contes en Balades,” a regional festival built around story-telling and the arts going on now. The festival takes place over some ten days in far-flung villages all over the Cévennes/Gard.



Each event is highly original—and free. Talented performers receive funding from the region to put on high-quality performances centered around oral history-- for the very youngest to the oldest among us. This year, the theme is myth and mythology.



These black and white illustrations are all taken from the sumptuously designed program. I do wish I could take credit for any one of these; failing that, I wish I could properly give credit to the actual artists, but though I looked, I couldn’t find any information on their origins.  Aren't they marvelous though?

The shamanic owl man above, with the magical ray-book, illustrated the program page describing our afternoon of entertainment.  We saw a dance company that deeply and beautifully wove sign language into the story and choreography of their performance.  The lead was a young deaf person with a killer smile and stage presence. He played the role of a hermit sorcerer misunderstood and feared by the nearby village, and who, as it turns out, was deaf.    

The simple but surprisingly engaging piece was followed by some virtuoso break-dancing, again with lyrics about sign language and signs built into the performance.  It was so cheering to see how he embodied a positive, hip, and fun deaf role model for the kids, who were eating it up (we mothers weren't displeased either, for the record).  Because really, how many well-balanced positive role models for the deaf can you think of?  Perhaps a third of the children in the audience were deaf--and their excitement about understanding the show, about the performers--was moving to witness.

If you're in the area, the shows (each one quite different in their approach to myth) go on for another week or so.  You can find out more, although both the information and the performances themselves are in French. 



If you aren't in the Cevennes, you can do part of what I did, which was to bake an old-fashioned treat from up north, on the Moselle River, a feather-light crème fraîche-raised cake, flecked with grated chocolate, for the children's gouter (snack), using a recipe I'd plucked from a cookbook at the library, Le Grand Livre du Chocolat (the Big Book of Chocolat), by Bertrand Meyer and Sylvie Boizet.  What caught my eye? Chocolate.  And easy as all get out. I asked the children whether they liked it; as their mouths were full...but they signed their approval.

Gâteau de Metz (Metz Cake)

Serves 8-10.

4 eggs

1 heaped cup (or 225 g) fine granulated sugar

3/4 scant cup (or 125 g) dark chocolate

1 1/4 cup (or 125 g) flour

3/4 heaped cup (or 2 dl/200 g) crème fraîche

1/3 cup (or 50 g) confectioner's/powdered sugar

Preheat oven 190C.  Grease and flour a 9 inch (22 cm) round pan.  

Finely grate the dark chocolate (if the shavings aren't fine enough, they will settle to the bottom in a bit of a clump).  Beat the eggs and fine sugar for 10 minutes, using a wooden spoon, or use an electric mixer for 5 minutes,as I did.  Add the grated chocolate, flour and crème fraîche, beating well after each addition. 

Pour into the prepared pan and bake for about 40 minutes in the preheated oven, or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.  Allow to cool completely and sprinkle with confectioner's sugar.

The emperor's choice.

Some days, there is just no sun to be seen. Autumn is advancing on cat's paws. The pyracantha/firethorn seems pleased, heavy with its burden of color and fruit (fit only for birds). The young liquidambar (sweetgum) I planted was the first to don red, a pop of verve in the wan day. And so yes, we all know there are elements of beauty present in every season, but these are perhaps a bit more valued just now for their fleeting nature. Also now, with varying degrees of subtlety and regularity, we're all off to the forests, to tease forth semi-hidden mycological treasure. Beauty of another breed. You can tell foraging is going on by the number of hastily abandoned cars alongside country roads here. I'm the rawest of novices at this business, but I go too, armed--with a basket, a penknife--and a person in the know.  Who could tell you, for instance, that the mushrooms below are definitely delicious black trumpets.

Mushroom hunting verges on the French cult activity of fall, even for the resolutely citified. If you do find someone willing to show you some of their favorite places, they are indeed fond of you; no one is exactly advertising the mushroom-laden spots...Luckily for newbies like myself, each and every pharmacist in France is trained to identify all the good, bad and the in-between of the mushroom world. So if you're even slightly uncertain, you simply head to any pharmacy for a (free) consult.Beyond the extraordinary truffle, in a league of its own, I've always reserved my biggest passion for cèpes, also known as porcini, and am far from the only person to feel this way in France. So I was rather surprised to find there's a rarer, fairer beauty held in even higher esteem in mushroom-mad France: the amanita caesarea. This mushroom isn't to be found in North America, though some call lookalike relatives such as Amanita hemibapha and Amanita jacksonii American Ceasar's Mushrooms. In France, the original amanite des césars, or l'oronge, maintains a near-mythic status, in part due to its relative rarity, in part its delectable taste. As implied by its name, the Roman emperors held it in the same esteem. Absent in the north of France, it tends to be found in the backcountry of the Mediterranean... where I live. And oh, is it ever a sight to see, emerging slightly, palely orange, out of a layer of beige forest detritus, not unlike a sunrise. Or maybe you manage to see an immature one: the white of the "egg", gleaming white in the undergrowth. If you cut open the egg, you see the yet "unborn" perfectly formed mushroom, waiting to burst out (this is why the Italians call it ovoli). Its exquisite, delicate flavor is so prized that, while recipes abound, aficionados recommend simply eating it raw with a bit of salt and olive oil. If it must be made into something, they recommend it sliced, raw, into salad. I'll admit I'm tempted by a briefly baked stuffed version, however. The amanita family is generally quite toxic (read: forager beware!). This particular amanita does distinguish itself from its hot-headed and deadly cousins: while the inside is white, the gills and trunk are outwardly clearly yellow. I don't think any of my images do its true beauty justice, and of course I forget to bring the camera while foraging...The finest image I have seen in situ is actually on Wikipedia.

Mushroom hunting is a win-win kind of activity: you may find no mushrooms, but you've still spent an hour or two foraging in a sweet-smelling forest--it doesn't get much more primal.

It seems the madness for mushrooms is catching. (Why did it take me so long to get on the fungus foraging bandwagon? Fear. Not trusting my own capacity to learn how to pick out the good from the dangerous. Those scary anecdotes of people who died, or nearly died, because they just had to eat this or that particular mushroom...Caution is good, but it is best when calibrated. Because there really is nothing quite like savoring something utterly wild, and wild-tasting, that you tracked down, all by yourself. Plus, in the case of mushrooms, there's no blood involved.)

For those of you who do dare, here's a German recipe for amanite des césars/keiserling from the 16th century (with thanks to Anahita):

Nim{b} Keiserling/ welche Schwäem{m} man gemeiniglich füer die aller besten helt/
wasch sie auss/ pfeffers vnd saltzs/
leg sie auff ein Rosst/ brat vnd begeuss sie mit Butter/
vnd gib es warm auff ein Tisch/
besträew es mit Pfeffer vnd mit Saltz/
so seind sie gut vnd wolgeschmack.

Take Keiserling/ which Mushrooms one generally holds [keeps] best of all/

wash them off/ pepper and salt [them]/

lay them on a Grill/ roast and baste them with Butter/

and give [i.e. serve] them warm on a Plate/

strew them with Pepper and with Salt/
thus are they good and well-tasting.

Of young horses and old traditions.

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.Having been invited for the occasion, I didn't feel it would be either fruitful or appropriate to embark on a discussion about the morality of hot-branding--or the possible alternatives. While hot-branding has recently been made illegal by the Scottish parliament, it is still in rather wide use in Latin and North American horse country, as well in Australia and other countries. The ban in Scotland was widely supported by animal welfare groups, unsurprisingly, but also by veterinary groups, who found the practice causes undue distress and pain. I am planning on asking our neighbor about his views on the increasingly popular freeze-branding, which is just as effective, low-cost, causes little to no pain, and as such can be administered by a single person. I hope to report back a change of approach for next season's foals...

Here I am.

We persist in living like tourists: rather than closing our shutters to the day's indomitable heat as do the pragmatic locals, we keep them flung open to the light. I don't want to even imagine living in a perpertually darkened house, so I don't, but the price is paid at night. Accordingly, I have been spending my nights out on the terrace under a light blanket and an endless host of stars, my face bathed in the gentle cooling breeze. This is far more pleasant than the confining, close air in the house. Being on the terrace also means drowning in the frog chorus. I have isolated five different calls, among which one that bleats like a robotic sheep, one that sounds like a duck, one that sounds like a squeaky swing. It's raucous out there. And then of course the rooster starts up with the first lightening of the sky.

All the structure that binds the rest of the year is released. No set anything, not even bedtimes, not even for the littlest. Night swimming happens, as do ambling conversations into the deep night with old friends. I have been watching the thousand shades of green temper into something more average as the grasses dry. The lettuce have bolted, and the tomato plants demand their share of the water hose. The cigales begin screeching their two-note chant as soon as the day's heat sets in. The blackcurrants are tucked in cellared jars, ripening in their alcohol baths to beome something finer than one has a right to expect. The liqueur will be ready in a few months. The cherries have been amazingly prolific and sweet this year, but now there are only the dark remains, drying on the ground, attended to by clouds of butterflies, who rise and fall in undulating waves as we walk by.

In this sustained chaleur, fragrant mint and ginger-inflected iced green tea is the order of the day. That and a trusty sweaty glass (or two) of gin and tonic. Hydration is a good, good thing, especially if you are to make a trek into the village to celebrate France's independence.

On the eve of Independence Day, once night falls, there is the pétanque competition, and the band tunes up.
There is the repas dansant, table after table set up in the village square to accomodate families, dogs, conversation and eating in the caressing night air. The wine and beer flow (which help explain why the celebrations happen on the 13th: recovering people sleep in on Bastille Day, except in, say, Paris).The children gather for the retraite aux flambeaux, a parade lit by paper torches the children wield at the end of bamboo canes. Imagine a river of bobbing, rainbow-colored lights, wending its way through the narrow village streets. The parade finishes at the soccer field, and the late arrivals make it just in time for the fireworks. Vive la France!

Approaching the summer solstice.

Any excuse for a party. "Vive les Fêtes de la Transhumance!"

It's that time of year again: with the advent of summer, thousands of Cevenol sheep, goats, herders and their working dogs have made the trek toward the cooler mountain meadows and plateaux. This annual migration is called the transhumance. The migrations have taken place since Roman times, as noted by Pliny the Elder and corroborated by recent archeological finds. Today, the ageless traditions continue--the head ewes get the fanciest bells, and all the sheep are marked with each family's symbol, using a colorful dye. They walk for days, winding through the countryside slowly upward. They make their clanging, steady way through small villages, where the women stand watching in the doorways, broom at the ready to prevent any nibbling of their roses. In some places, it becomes a full-scale party, and a chance to celebrate the old pastoral ways. (The photos above are courtesy of http://www.transhumance.org/).Some of the herders lead their animals past my gate, as you can see in the photo above, which I took last year.Using wool from local sheep, the kids made a felt wine cooler for Father's Day (we've got some leeway, as he's only due back later in the week). You can see an armful of shorn, 'raw' wool in the photo above. It's even softer than it looks...

...and here's Daddy's gift for being Daddy. Pretty nifty, don't you think?

We're also busy harvesting the raspberries and black currants. Some berries are macerating in sugar overnight, and will soon be converted to jam and slathered across warm bread, or swirled into a bowl of homemade yogurt.

There is such a bumper crop of black currant that I will once again make some liqueur, or crème de cassis. I have discovered that beyond the classic kirs and other cocktails, it makes a sumptuous flavoring agent for sorbets, cakes and dessert sauces.

Now it's just a matter of time before the cherries fully ripen (darn delayed season and missing sun!) and the blackberries come into their own...mmm, blackbery crumble, blackberry cobbler, blackberry jam, blackberry everything.