Any given saturday.

There are no morning cartoons on Saturdays here.

They exist in France, bien sûr, but not at our house, because for that you'd need a television.  So, after the early morning daddy/daughter/dog walk, the young ones go with their father to the bakery, some five minutes away in the village.  After that, the paper, a croissant and coffee for daddy at the cafe.  The kids get green tea or chocolat chaud. I get to sleep in a bit longer.

Only now, in mushroom time, I don't. Instead, the five year old buccaneer stays home with me, because he loves to 'hunt for treasure'. Penknife, camera and basket in hand, he and I step out into the field and forest sparkling with dew, heavy with the scent of the blooming oregano, to seek out our treasure, like the perfectly purple fungus below.  (I think it's a lactaire amethyste, or amethyst deceiver.)

Since it's just the two of us 'experts' we harvest only the local basics I'm comfortable with, like rosé des prés (in English they're just a plain-Jane-but-tasty field mushrooms), chanterelles/girolles, trompettes de la mort, cèpes--and if we're crazy lucky--l'oronge. 

The unknown mushrooms in these photos were admired, and left alone.  They are really only the pretext, anyway. 

We are as much there for the dappled sunlight, the discovery of any number of potential, seductively mossy picnic spots, and any particularly well-formed dead branches (to use as swords, obviously).  

Sometimes we find a clutch of chanterelles, other times a wild boar mudbath, with the tree trunks all around it covered in mud up to my eyeballs.  That's when I start Talking Really Loudly.  (Did I ever tell you my neighbor shot a boar that weighed 120 kilos?  You should have seen the tusks.)

Other times it's the flowers we stop to admire. The little one's at the ideal height to best enjoy all these things. He orders me, repeatedly, to take pictures of  'all the beauty'. So I do. Sometimes I'm laughing too much (goodbye, blurred shot of tiny, electric green acorns).

We look for the spiders who made such airy, deadly traps in the broom.  No luck.

No matter: this past hunt, we had luck enough to fill the saucepan.  After leaving my co-conspirator with his father, I spent my usual two hours singing in the choir (we're now rehearsing Yugoslavian drinking songs and Mozart's ecco quel fiero istante). Boy, was I ready for lunch, and the mushrooms were soon ready after a thorough brushing.

Threw in some golden tomatoes I put up a while ago, a smidge of salt and white ground pepper...

...some spaghetti al dente and we were good to go.  Bon ap', as the young'uns say.

With the 600-odd new books just in at the library, after lunch I put in some extra time there organizing.  I came across this gem, which I had to share with you.

Here's a peak inside.  Inside a pimped van, early 70s, opium den style.  How about that?  Tell me you have one, just like it.

In between raindrops, the colors are up in the village as well, if less Dance of the Seven Veils-ish. 

 

On the way home, the ripening fruit of an olive tree mingles with a yellow firethorn. 

Note to the dearest little pirate: I'm doing my best to take pictures of all the beauty.

Blue Cake.

What belongs at the birthday party of a freshly five year old boy? Pirates and (apparently) abducted princesses, naturally. Candy and golden treasure, of course.

And don't forget the cake.

If you type "blue cake" into your search engine, you'll get responses like this, or this. I'm so far out of the fondant league, it's a bit embarassing. I can't hold my head up among the baking bloggers of this world. No matter, my heart is in the right place, which will get you a long way. The way to this particular boy pirate's heart is paved with chocolate, so I added a swashbuckler on an island, in the middle of a choppy sea. Behold, admire:

When I presented this to the waiting co-conspirators (with a buccaneer's flourish), the reaction wasn't quite what I expected; blame it on the fresh air of the French countryside. The remarks were mainly along the lines of:

- That's a blue cake!

- I've never seen a blue cake before.

- Hunh. Neither have I.

- Neither have I!

- Me neither!

- But what's it made of?

- You put sand on there? [I didn't.]

Then, finally:

- I get the first piece because it's my birthday! [At least my son was willing to go first.]

And then some more:

- But how did you get it so blue? Is the ocean even that blue? [...]

Until a bit of vindication. Sort of:

- Can I have the recipe so my mother can make it too? She never makes blue cake. 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.

And this is why you've suddenly reached the end of this particular tale: I'm still recovering.

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.

Keeping it simple à la campagne.

For anyone keeping track, it's summer 2010 and so far we share home and garden with:

- a 35 kg dog (avid hobbyist lizard hunter);

- two rabbits (who don't get along);

- two guinea pigs (who do);

- two kitchen goldfish (blub blub); and

- six horses (our environmentally friendlier, self-propelled mowers, on loan from our neighbor, so technically not ours).

Sound complicated? We may also be acquiring a few sheep, said to be more efficient, all-purpose mowers (I managed to turn down the offer of a pair of donkeys). And then there are the chickens, who are the only ones who actually produce anything beyond, well, manure.
Right now, there are three hens (Domino, Blackie and Fluffy), a rooster (with a name so silly I can't bring myself to type it), and three (yet unnamed) no-longer-chicks. I don't yet know whether they are boys or girls. Girls will be able to stay, boys not so much. No chickens we've named will be going in our pot though; I'm not a farmer--I'm not even a country girl by upbringing (plus I'm not hungry enough). In the meantime, boy, do the girls ever make some fine eggs, with orangish-gold yolks.

Blackie, a Marans chicken, lays torpedo-shaped eggs so narrow that the yolk takes up all the middle space.Fluffy is our absurdly soft, gentle Faverolle, who can be seen stretching her neck for a better view below. There are always shifting politics in the henhouse, and at the bottom of the totem pole, she has taken to laying her eggs in the grass, so egg-gathering has become a proper egg hunt, to the immense satisfaction of the kids. But along with all this convoluted animal busy-ness, I am periodically faced with an overabundance of eggs. (A dire problem, non?) One very simple, very French solution--just right for a warm weather lunch--is salad. I'm not referring to a lavish salade composée covered with toppings in every color of the rainbow, nor do I have the minimalist side salad in mind. I'm talking a robust yet uncomplicated salad liberally scattered with organic lardons (small chunks of bacon), sliced or poached eggs, with a nicely mustardy dressing.

It may seem superfluous to offer directions for something as basic as dressing, but that's just it: everyone should have a from-scratch favorite. The kind of taste-enhancing sauce you can nearly make with your eyes closed. I almost always go by the 3 to 1 oil to acid ratio, and this is my everyday, go-to dressing. You can use my version to refine or develop your own standard version. Let's see, a modest glass of the house white, a baguette and a small cheese plate on stand-by...and mmm, you're in like Flynn.La Sauce Maison (The House Dressing)

Makes more than enough dressing for 4 meal-size salads.

generous pinch of salt
a bit of fresh-ground pepper
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
1 scant teaspoon (liquid) honey
2 tablespoons good balsamic or sherry vinegar, or fresh-squeezed lemon juice
2 tablespoons olive oil, or walnut oil (or--more hedonistic--bacon fat from the just-cooked lardons, but then add a touch more mustard)
4 tablespoons mild vegetable oil

optional:
a squeeze of mayonnaise
a few tablespoons of freshly chopped herbs, such as tarragon and chives/chive blossoms; mint, basil, cilantro....

Stir together the salt, pepper, mustard and honey in a jar (one with a tight-fitting lid). An old jam jar is good. Add the vinegar to the mustard and honey paste, and stir to dissolve the salt (the salt won't dissolve if you add it after the oil--not the end of the world but it does add incrementally to the final effect). Pour in the oils, any fresh chopped herbs, and seal and shake as if your entire well-being depended upon a decent emulsion. Taste and adjust with a bit more mustard and pepper as necessary. Wait until the last possible moment to add the sauce to the lettuce. Do make sure the washed greens are bone-dry before dressing (after the salad spinner, I roll the lettuce up in a clean kitchen towel to absorb the last microdroplets).

Baby birds, berries and blossoms, oh my.

In my house, even the cactus goes giddy in spring. This modest little mound of cactus was letting it all hang out, with a improbable total of seven flowers. Before, during and after the vernal visits of friends and family, I'm as seasonally affected, making every effort to take advantage of the produce and fruits on hand. The asparagus are tiptoeing their way from center stage, which makes me wish I'd made more of last night's soup, a velvety crème d'asperge inflected with few drops of lemon. But of course, for that sort of thing, I'd require a lot more freezer space than I actually have. I may be the only person I know of in the countryside who does not have a deep freezer. (Sorry, a bit off-topic--a bit bitter.)

Coming into their own just as the local asparagus become harder to find are the strawberries. (I know, this year, everything's delayed by a couple of weeks). If you live in France--or even if you're simply visiting--do keep these three names in mind: Mara des bois, Charlotte and Gariguette. Whether you buy the plant or the fruit, they are your one-way ticket to strawberry nirvana. All three are coveted for their particularly rich berry scent and are exceedingly sweet. In a market, they're the priciest, even though their fruit are quite small when compared to the jumbo industrial, scentless types.

Using garden Charlottes and some Mara des bois--all picked by moi while awaiting the masses of truly wild strawberry plants in the meadow to bear fruit--I've already made a couple of batches of strawberry ice cream. Without actually following a set recipe, I taste test my way along, but I generally come up with roughly the following: about three or four cups of smashed berries, to which I add about 1/4 cup cream, around 1/2 cup condensed milk, a couple of tablespoons of French homemade blackberry liqueur (to deepen the berry flavor and prevent the overhardening of the ice cream) and finally, about a tablespoon of fresh lemon or lime juice. After a few whirls in the ice cream maker, it's unadorned happiness in a bowl, the kind of pleasure that makes you feel like climbing a tree just because it's there.

I also made some sorbet, which I should really take a picture of before it's all devoured: the colour is fairly spectacular. Again, I felt my way through the process, adding a lemon-mint syrup I'd made, the blackberry liqueur, some fresh lime juice, and so on. I find that true strawberry taste is beautifully amplified once additional acidity (whether from lemon, lime or good balsamic vinegar) and some delicate complementary flavors are added to the mix. [Insert allusion to back-up singers making the song here...]

I've some jam-to-be macerating overnight as instructed in the divinely inventive Miss Christine Ferber's recipe for Strawberry Preserves with Black Pepper and Fresh Mint (thank you so much for sharing, Clothilde!). Christine hails from a baking family in a tiny village in the Alsace, but has become known the world over for her jams, which are quite simply perfect and sometimes rather startling (rose water, raspberry and lychee, anyone?). Within France, she is known as the jam fairy. It sounds less dumb in French, honest. She has published cookbooks, a number of which are available in English.
Finally, I've also made some strawberry syrup, in anticipation of tea cakes (as in drizzling over) and perspiring glasses of lemonade just sitting around positively yearning for a ruby drop or two to give them that rosy summer glow. I think of lemonade because of course my lavender's begun blooming now, which means a whole host of other culinary possibilities beyond lavender-scented lemonade...In the meantime, check out this quartet of baby wagtails (you can just see some of the distinctive yellow coming in on the tail and side of the chick on the left). Their mother decided make her nest behind a pot of mauve and cream ganzia. I had to switch pots while she was gone from the nest, as otherwise I would have been showering her and her brood rather regularly. They look goofy and awkward now, but they'll soon be ready to fly. I hope to catch the fun of those first flights...in between my own assorted flights of fancy in the kitchen and garden.

Update: I saw the little ones for the last time last week. They had lost all fuzz, and were preternaturally fresh, bright mini-versions of their parents, with sulfur-yellow feathers. I made a mental note to take their picture. By the next day, they'd gone.

Singing in the rain.

My shoulders and pant legs were dark with rain. A rivulet of water ran alongside my nose and puddled in the hollow of my clavicle. We were all soaked, even though we attempted to simultaneously huddle under drippy umbrellas and balance damp sheet music. The pouring rain seemed a small discomfort given what we were gathered to commemorate: the victory of the Allied forces and the capitulation of Nazi Germany on the 8th of May, 1945. The local village choir, made up of some thirty people, including me, takes part every year, singing songs of liberation and remembrance while wreaths are laid by the young at the monument to the war dead. The combatants anciens are present and in full regalia, as are the solemnly speechifying mayor and the smartly dressed members of the local Gendarmerie Nationale (which are roughly speaking a cross between full-time National Guard and military police). They are joined by locals who come to remember relatives lost to the fight and to pay homage to the families of the village who, at significant personal risk, hid Jews from the Germans.

I guess I shouldn't have been surprised by the amount of pain, and sometimes anger, in the music I was singing, but having never experienced war in my own homeland, the strong feelings did unarm me. The steady, bone-chilling rain, the deeply wrinkled and ravined faces of the old fighters, the absolute stillness and attention of the crowd--all made for a somber morning.

This feeling was alleviated by some time spent in the green, green chicken & rabbit run, where I made the discovery of the first chick of spring, a yellow, cheeping puffball tucked under mama's wing (Domino, the proud mother, is in the photo below; baby photos to follow, natch). Two other eggs were cracked, in one you could see the head of the wet chicklet and you could hear cheeping from inside three eggs. In the middle of all the chick excitement, the new boy rabbit bounced around in the high grass determinedly followed by Shadow, the original rabbit, who remains hopeful that the new rabbit is of the female persuasion. Unless Shadow is homosexual...

Ah, me. Life goes on.