Autumn notes.

Sophie Hunger's Le Vent Nous Portera (The Wind Will Take Us), with thanks to Delphine; do give the video time to upload.

Apples and walnuts, and all things chestnut.  That's just some of what's in season now.

I've already made my first nut tart, and the thick apple compotes, simmering away on the stove, saturate the kitchen--the entire house--with the warm scent of clove and cardamom.

 

   

At the market, I came across artisanal chestnut blood sausage (my daughter took the photo with her new camera, as I chatted with the butcher).  Haven't yet tried this sausage...

I did buy some fougasse, which is to our region what the pretzel is to New York.  The savory version of the Provençal  fougasse can be studded with olives, cheese, onions, or--as here--with bacon.

 

There were lovely slabs of bread, but also loaves of home-made pâte de coing, or quince paste, which in my mind is best enjoyed as the Spanish do it, with a wedge of good Manchego cheese.  Spain is only a carefree three hour drive away, mind you... 

The jars of honey are out in full force, despite the growing prevalence of colony collapse disorder, with more varietals than you can shake a stick at. I remain loyal to my purveyor.

 At home, there's the return to comfort, in its many forms, a buffer from the highly variable weather.  For a good friend, there's lots of cheer and a mildly sweetened gâteau au fromage, far less dense in texture than a New York cheesecake, but with the similar mild tanginess and a satisfyingly spicy crumb crust.  This is easy to make, easier to eat, and may be just the thing to chase those moody blues brought on by the earlier nights of autumn.  And once she's blown out the (70) candles and we've savored her well-earned dessert, I'll add the photo.  In the meantime, here's how I made it, and how you can, too.

Gâteau au Fromage (My French Cheesecake)

Serves...a whole party.

300 g store-bought graham crackers, McVitie's original digestive biscuits, or Belgian speculoos
50 g ground hazelnuts, or toasted sesame seeds
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon ground cardamom
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground allspice
1/4 teaspoon ground white pepper
1 tablespoons organic butter, melted
1 1/4 kg (about 5 cups) organic fromage blanc (drained in a strainer for a couple of hours)
1/4 kg thick organic crème fraîche
400 g (2 cups) fine sugar
1 tablespoon organic cornstarch or arrowroot
4 organic eggs

Preheat oven 175C (340F). Grease a 26 cm (10.25 inch) springform pan.  Finely crumble and blend cookies and spices in a food processor.  Add melted butter and blend.  Pour into the prepared pan. Tamp the crumbs down evenly using a drinking glass, then place in refrigerator.  Add remaining ingredients in the (cleaned) food processor and blend until consistency is even.  Pour the liquid mixture onto the chilled, unbaked crust and place in oven.  Bake for at least an hour, or until the edges are a light golden brown and the cake is lightly set (the center should still jiggle).  If the edges start darkening too quickly, place a sheet of baking paper over the cake. The cake will rise puffily in the oven and deflate a bit once removed.  This is utterly normal. For best results, allow to cool completely on a rack, then chill cake overnight before serving.

Stormy weather.

Spring in France means smooth-skinned asparagus stalks of sharpest green, but also the more subtle white, and the rose and pale purple too. If I happen to find chopstick thin asparagus, I'll eat them raw with swirl of garlic-laced olive oil and a splash of lemon. I prefer to boil or steam medium-sized asparagus (snapping off the ends at least an inch and peeling first) until crisp-tender, about ten minutes. After biting one to be sure they're done, I'll dunk them in an ice bath to stop the cooking then dry them gently in a clean dishtowel. Finally, the kitchen fireworks. I'll toss them in a creamy cloud of intensely tarragon-inflected wowness--and yes, that's a technical word, used only in cases of outrageous, call-your-best-friend-and-crow deliciousness.

Whipped crème fraîche is what gives this dressing its signature unctuous yet light texture, and regular sour cream just makes for a sorry substitute. Making your own crème fraîche is child's play (and cheap!), as seen in this video demonstration by John Mitzewich.

If you eat your asparagus (or other vegetables) this way I promise spring will be in your heart--even with an ominously dark rainstorm on the evening horizon. (Note: the actual prepared dish--which I ate while staring out the open window--was devoured before I thought to point the camera at my plate instead of the sky. Head in the clouds, you know...)
Sauce a l'estragon (Tarragon & Crème Fraîche Dressing)

Makes enough sauce for four to six servings.

3 tablespoons crème fraîche
1 1/2 tablespoon mayonnaise
1 teaspoon dijon mustard (flavored with tarragon, if possible)
1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh tarragon (1/2 tablespoon if you must use dried tarragon)
1-2 teaspoons fresh lime or lemon juice

finely chopped zest of one lime or lemon
salt and freshly ground pepper

In a bowl, whip the crème fraîche lightly with a small whisk or fork. Add remaining ingredients, mixing well. Taste and adjust flavors according to degree of pungency desired. Toss with steamed and cooled asparagus.


You will be missed, dear Lena (1917-2010).

p.m.

Being a creature of the night is to be off, by a slim matter of hours, a drop in the grand-scheme bucket, but forever off. I am (at the least) never quite fully in gear when the functioning world is engaged, and remain espresso-fueled to keep up. My switch to on-ness is incremental, predictable. As evening deepens into something that seems a bit more permanent, there is always this: the smooth pressing down of the foot on the accelerator of my being. If you know what I am getting at, perhaps now is a time to stand, take one step forward and carefully enunciate who you are. My name is...and I am a night-owl.

The house exhales at night, and so do I.

Silence
- Billy Collins

Now it is time to say what you have to say.
The room is quiet.
The whirring fan has been unplugged,
and the girl who was tapping
a pencil on her desktop has been removed.

So tell us what is on your mind.
We want to hear the sound of your foliage,
the unraveling of your tool kit,
your songs of loneliness,
songs of hurt.

The trains are motionless on the tracks,
the ships at rest in the harbor.
The dogs are cocking their heads
and the gods are peering down from their balloons.
The town is hushed,

and everyone here has a copy.
So tell us about your parents--
your father behind the steering wheel,
your cruel mother at the sink.
Let's hear about all the clouds you saw, all the trees.

Read the poem you brought with you tonight.
The ocean has stopped sloshing around,
and even Beethoven
is sitting up in his deathbed,
his cold hearing-horn inserted in one ear.


Goldfrapp, performing "A&E" live in 2008.

Polyphony, or the devil's music.

I attended a concert in a modest little stone church down the road. The night was devoted to Corsican polyphonic music, including traditional, Franciscan and contemporary pieces. The air rang with soaring and dipping human voices--and applause.

The bare voices were a silk scarf pulled through the air, a mighty flock of birds surging and abating in the darkening sky, the ineradicable, rapid turns of Japanese calligraphy. The audience and I were transported. If you have never had a chance to hear live polyphonic music, or chant, try to ferret out an opportunity to do so. Think of polyphony as textural sound. In the history of European music, it was a critical development, which led to the integration of secular, even pagan elements in what was formerly exclusively the domain of the church.

Appropriately enough, given the performance date, the tremendously talented choir Le Remède de Fortune also sang an "Ode to St. Joseph," and it is their finely crafted and magisterial version that I feature in this video, my own little crazy quilt of captured memory. Unfortunately on You Tube the quality of the photos is deplorable (but I couldn't get it to upload on Vimeo, she says in a quasi-whine)...

While the song may linger in your mind, St. Joseph's Day has come and gone. If you're anything like me (and not, say, Italian-American), your response may be a rather tepid "oh?..." Until the 19th, I didn't know anything about Saint Joseph--beyond the wine--either. According to Wikipedia:

In Sicily, where St. Joseph is regarded by many as their Patron Saint, and many Italian-American communities, thanks are given to St. Joseph ("San Giuseppe" in Italian) for preventing a famine in Sicily during the Middle Ages.

According to legend, there was a severe drought at the time, and the people prayed for their patron saint to bring them rain. They promised that if he answered their prayers, they would prepare a large feast to honor him. The rain did come, and the people of Sicily prepared a large banquet for their patron saint. The fava bean was the crop which saved the population from starvation and is a traditional part of St. Joseph's Day altars and traditions. Giving food to the needy is a St. Joseph's Day custom. In some communities it is traditional to wear red clothing and eat a Sicilian pastry known as a zeppola on St. Joseph's Day. Sweets are popular because St. Joseph is the patron saint of pastry chefs.

Upon a typical St. Joseph's Day altar, people place flowers, limes,candles, wine, fava beans, specially prepared cakes, breads, and cookies (as well as other meatless dishes), and zeppole. Foods are traditionally served containing bread crumbs to represent saw dust since St. Joseph was a carpenter. Because the feast occurs during Lent, traditionally no meat was allowed on the celebration table. The altar usually has three tiers, to represent the trinity.

The vernal equinox has also come and gone. It was at 5:32 pm the 20th, this year. Wiccans celebrated Ostara, and I celebrated too: no more excuses or starting then stopping, Mother Nature. Here's a cuppa to keep you going.

Goes well with a cup of hot chocolate.

If you decided to give the white chocolate "Hot Snow" of the previous post a go, then these images, a sumptuous elegy to life in a colder place, are just the kind of visuals that go well with winter dreaming.

ICELAND from Gunnar Konradsson on Vimeo. Music by Steindor Andersen. If you'd like to see more of Gunnar's spectacular photo work, visit his site.

'S no dream.

So I just wanted to share a few more "barnyard" images, because the snow has already slipped, dripped and drizzled away, taking that special felted silence with it. But for just a little while, I could make believe I lived somewhere high in the Alps or thereabouts. Without snow tires.
Shadow the rabbit was more at home in the winter white, coming out for daily doses of sun, and making himself the rather impertinent visitor in the henhouse, where I had put the animals' water as it kept freezing over. Yes, it can get that cold in the south, too, just not so often.

Gitane (or Gypsy), our friend's trekking horse, already had a very thick coat and is long accustomed to year-round outdoor life, so she was fine but very alert for any potential snacks offered by humans, crunchy carrots proffered by mittened children being a choice treat. Her water source, the (now whitewater) creek, never froze.

As you might suspect, this video by Sean Stiegemeier was not taken in my backyard, but it did make me dream of snow. Perhaps it will do the same for you. Have an excellent winter weekend.

Is it too late to share this with you?

45,000 christmas lights, computer-controlled and powered by wind. American ingenuity goes festive.

Un peu de nostalgie.

This little reverie was put together by Marco Aslan, from footage taken in France, with a couple of images from Sao Paolo and New York City. The music is by Sigur Ros. To be enjoyed near a crackling fire, with a cup of [insert name of your favorite hot beverage here]. Failing those options, five minutes of quiet attention will do nicely; just remember to click twice on the play icon and give it a bit of time to upload before clicking once again.

Mozart redux and other citified stuff.

What is there to do in Paris on any given evening, besides eating as well as a god might and paying as lavishly as a king can? There's Mozart, for one. I'm not referring to the airy, refined sort of work one might listen to at the Palais Garnier, also known as l'Opéra de Paris. Anything there is sold out months in advance, well beyond my normal capacity for planning.
For Mozart in full technicolor version 2009, you take the Métro line 12 to the Palais des Sports, a much more modest Palais that clings to the edge of the Péripherique (Paris' beltway/ringroad, a highway that circles the sprawling city). There, surrounded by the mostly very young (read: pre-adolescents and teenagers), you'll find yourself carried away on a frothy, occasionally bombastic, musical tale of Mozart the composer. Do not expect much in the way of historical accuracy or his own indelible, influential music. Imagine instead a show that inhabits the space between the 1980s hit Rock Me Amadeus of German group Falco (don't pretend you don't remember; for a refresher, pop into YouTube) and Tom Hulce's prancing, bravura performance in the film Amadeus.
The musical's audience anticipated many of the songs performed, and flipped on their cameras for their favorite parts which, while anthropologically mildly interesting, was somewhat horrifying, as occasionally, the darkness was lit by a veritable sea of small glowing rectangles. They were busy recording instead of experiencing...Judging by the applause and raising of cameras, the darker musical performance of the actor portraying Salieri, the Viennese rival to Mozart, was actually somewhat favored over the lead of the eponymous show. He did seem to display somewhat greater range and vocal fortitude (and he is performing in the video above). All in all, a few catchy numbers and a fun evening. It is now being performed in Paris but will also be touring the rest of the country; for more information click here.
As for other ongoing shows, the Musée du Luxembourg, just off the charming Place St. Sulpice, is exhibiting Tiffany (the glassware, not the jewelry beloved of Audrey Hepburn). American artisan, yes, but well-respected by the French, and executed with more virtuosity than I had previously realized. The small but interesting show runs through January 2010.Doesn't that sound a decade or so away? It isn't.
But the best show of all isn't going anywhere: the endless, endlessly changing Parisian array of small shop-windows, streets, galleries and squares are just made for extensive exploring, and you can easily break from the milling hordes of tourists by taking a side-street or two--or better yet a bike.Even the locals are resorting to them (in the form of the sturdy-looking low-cost, pay as you go Velib') in greater and greater numbers, as navigating the city by car becomes ever more wearisome.

If the thought of all this walking, riding and exploring makes you hungry (or am I the only one?), I have a excellent antidote to weighty bistro food: authentically bright, fresh Italian. At lunch hour, head to moderately-priced Alfredo Positano located at 9, rue Guisarde (just off Place St. Sulpice again) where you'll find yourself in the lively company of more than a few Italians with their kids, and well-heeled local suits (the Sénat is on the other side of the St. Sulpice church). The restaurant bustles, the staff is animated and jovial. There are a lot of regulars. I was in heaven, between the steak-like slices of porcini mushrooms and generous shavings of Elba white truffle, both of which are now in season. Heaven!They also serve pizzas with great toppings and fabulous crunch here, if that's what you're craving, but for a near-religious experience, order a simple caprese salad with bufala mozzarella, underpinned with peppery arugula--and a side order of unforgettable (really, I swear) foccacia. You don't go for the decor, you go for the buzz, and the sway of spoken Italian. You go, above all, for the food. And then it's out the door, back to all things Parisian.

Just under the skin.

Stopping to mail postcards in Springbok, I could hear singing and drumming in the distance. The queue was short at the post office, and I walked out quickly to find where the music was coming from. Children and their teachers were playing drums and singing in the yard of a nearby elementary school. There was ululating, call and response, and layered thumps upon the taut skins of the drums. I ran up as close as I dared. This was not a public performance, so I didn't pull my camera from its place in my knapsack. The sounds elated and reminded me of sitting in drum class in Kinshasa. Of how to drop the hand for the affirming full sound, how to lean in on your other elbow to shift the voice of the drum. Done the right way, the hand doesn't hurt.

Done the right way, the music takes you to the forgotten places.

Near Cape Point, where the Indian and Atlantic oceans meet.

Thank you to Jan van der Meer for making this video of the Khula Happy Zulu Singers. (For the best results, click on play, then click again to pause the video so that it can fully load. Give it a few minutes; watch the gray indicator's progress. This will allow for a smooth playback.)

Flora.

A body can travel a long way to see flowers. In my case, it involved some 9,000 kilometers. Just in from the western coast of South Africa, below Namibia and well above Cape Town, there is an arid, wide-open landscape (some 450,000 square kilometers worth) that is the ancestral home of the hunter-gatherer San, or Bushmen.

There is art to be found in the vistas there, both man-made, in the form of shamanic San rock paintings, and natural, in the form of the rock itself, the mineral riches it yields, and the plants and trees that grow upon, through and under it.

The flora in South Africa is particularly diverse: botanists divide the world's continents into six plant kingdoms. The Cape floristic (also known as the Cape floral) kingdom is the smallest, but contains by far the highest known concentration of plant species in the world. The region's main vegetation type is fynbos, which are a collection of evergreens, shrubs, and small plants with tough, fine leaves, and reeds. In June 2004, the Cape floristic region was given international recognition as South Africa's sixth UN World Heritage site. More than 9,000 plant species make up the region--6,000 of which are found nowhere else on Earth.

Well-timed, ample rains permitting, the Namaqua expanses are utterly transformed during spring (which corresponds to the Northern Hemisphere's late summer). For a brief, dream-like span of time, the flowers come, in all their evanescent glory and variety.

There is more to a land than its vistas, of course, just as there is more to a meal than the accompanying wine. In the Languedoc, however, I have heard a saying: a meal without wine is like a day without sun. With this post, I begin then, with the 'sun' of the Western Cape. I hope you will enjoy the video--it was the only way I found to adequately give you a sense of the scope of a desert in bloom.

Shawn Colvin is performing "Ricochet in Time."
Tip: Click on the HQ icon for better viewing.

Baby, it's hot out here.

We're in the final stretch of August, panting all the way, and September still to come. Watching my potted herbs wilt, the chickens pant, the dog doze; looking for a shady spot of my own, and inspiration. I found this Malcolm Sutherland pen and ink animation, based on sketches of German tourists in Croatia. Just the absurdist ticket for a tired, delighted smile. The music is from Smithsonian Folkways Recordings, a record label which is an absolute Aladdin's cave of arcane folk, blues and world music.
May you find shade of your own, a well-made gin and tonic and your sense of humor firmly in place.

Giving it up.

My daughter recently announced over lunch that she would no longer eat any fish. She explained to our raised eyebrows that if people keep up the rate at which they consume the world's fish, the oceans would more or less empty within the coming fifty years. Say the researchers are off and double the time; we'd still be losing this:

Which is why my eight year old stopped eating fish.

(Thank you to Jon Rawlinson, who filmed this in one go in Japan, and advises that you give it some time to load before playing to ensure smooth playback. That is, click on play, then click it again so it pauses, and just give the film several minutes to finish loading. My advice is watch it in HD, large screen, to really see these creatures that are grace incarnate. Song: "Please Don't Go" by Barcelona).

Enjoy.

Paris by night.

An artist has no home in Europe except in Paris. -F. Nietzsche

Go ahead, play the video while you're reading this. I really think you won't regret it.

So Patrick Watson visited one of my favorite cities. Granted, you don't actually see much of the city, but you don't need to. That warm cast of the streetlights is classic Paris at night. And thus my day, a day filled with all the best reasons, surprises and reminders of why one moves to the south of France, comes to a perfect end with the discovery of this footage (thanks, Cerre).

If I have left you yearning for more of the Canadian Mr. Watson's lush sound and delectable voice, you can find him on You Tube; his Great Escape stopped me in my tracks, but browse and discover your own favorite. Tell me what you decide. In the meantime, I'll be mixing the season's first gin and tonic, with a generous squeeze of lime, while nibbling at shavings of a very special Basque Tomme de Brebis, or sheep's milk cheese, which you'd have to taste to believe. It's that good. And it's even finer eaten out in the fresh air, under swooping swallows.

Of goats and music.

The great thing about the internet is the occasionally serendipitous randomness. Case in point: I was trawling for information about goats, since we are exploring the possibilities for an, ehm, acquisition or three. Because why live in the south of France if you can't make your own goat cheese, right?...Instead I find myself watching this odd little gem of a music video, by, you guessed it, The Mountain Goats. According to the director, Rian Johnson, no special effects were used. Just a lot of planning. You heard it here first: "Woke Up New."

So...French?

This will be on Versailles-based, French-born and bred Phoenix's fifth album.

I'm afraid there isn't an actual video yet, but perhaps they'll have something after the album is released in May. In the meantime, you can download this song for free at their site, and check out another fun song here. This time, there is a video, and it features some cool shots of French places--recognize any? Oh, please don't forget to click on the little HQ for the sharpest image.

One last question: what drink do you pour when this sound's coming out of the speakers? An anisette or a Kir Royale?

The birds are back.

I'm getting around to posting my Prague photos (the ones that don't feature beer), but it's not so easy: the birds have returned. The woodpecker was busy this entire morning, from when the kids and I had warm croissants and bracing Kenyan tea--liberally dosed with condensed milk--to when I hauled my favorite deck chair out of the shed. The sounds are everywhere now, under the eaves, in mid-flight, in the trees. Not to mention the buzzing of the bees. One birdlet found itself marooned inside, perched up on the second floor of our stairwell. I managed to continuously move from one outdoor project to another the entire day (without ever actually sitting in that deck chair)...until a pair of owls brought us into the hushed and chilly night.

In this evocative and au naturel video (read: un-doctored), Wes Johnson juxtaposes an awful lot of birds with Yann Tiersen's "L'autre Valse d'Amélie" to rather mesmerising effect. Yes, the accordion music is from that movie. Thank you, Wes--and Yann. Hint: you can expand the image to fill your computer screen by clicking on the little arrows in box formation, and if you would like see it in High Definition (which does make quite a difference), watch directly on Vimeo, and catch his Sunrise Run, which is also enchanting.

No food. Please.

I was doing so well. All things come to an end, however, and I too succumbed--utterly and completely--to stomach flu. Ha. What a mild mouse of a name. The French know what to call it: la gastro. Gives it an ominous sound more in keeping with the kind of havoc it raises (ahem). And raises, and raises. It had to happen eventually, and I'll take my turn if nothing can be done about it, but boy, this was what caps, italics and bold were invented for; j'ai une GASTRO. I was already dealing with basic flu-like symptoms, managing to fight them reasonably well--but I was just flattened by this. The headaches, wracking body aches and pains, dizziness and nausea (I stopped eating for over 24 hours. Me!) are gone, thank the heavens. Next step in the recovery process: a little comfort of the non-edible sort. Ears seemed a safer point of entry (for the love of Michel, don't even suggest an infection there). Feeling out of sorts and craggy, I was longing for some vintage something or other, the kind of wistfulness in Willie's "Angel Flying Too Close To The Ground," or something from his jazz-inflected Stardust album. That or else some go to hell, red-eyed "Whiskey River" or "Bloody Mary Morning."

Instead I went for something Swedish, female, and young.
Known as First Aid Kit, the duo is covering a Fleet Foxes song (devoted reader that you are, I am sure you know I've already earlier posted about them) but First Aid Kit has also produced some fine work of its own. If you want to be impressed, just try listening to their "Tangerine" or "I met the King," among other little First Aid Kit gems, on You Tube. The two songs I mentioned just now might even be better examples than what I chose to post, but I so liked the forest they're sitting in above, the background noises and, well, I just couldn't decide in this weakened state.

Sisters Klara and Johanna Söderberg are just 15 and 17. At Vimeo, their music is described as "hardly young...The emphasis is on narrative lyrics accompanying playful melodies with intense, thick harmonies." If you want to follow your curiosity a bit further, as I did, have a listen to an 8th grade Klara in the school auditorium belting out a shockingly profound and mature cover of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah." Amen, is all you can say following such a virtuoso go--even with the miserably shoddy mobile phone camera footage. After which you blow your nose to evict some of the last of la gastro and trudge back to bed.

Happy listening.

A sunday of fog and rain.

A day of steaming hot mugs of almond-scented milk, piano practice, and not much else.

White Winter Hymnal by the ever harmonious Fleet Foxes. (Find out more about them at www.subpop.com/artists/fleet_foxes).