Reblochon Country

No trip to the Alps would be complete without a sojourn to Reblochon country. Here is where they make the award-winning Reblochon cheeses (as well as others), from the same day's milking. Trust me, it's sublime.

We ventured up into the mountains while staying on Lake Annecy to visit several farms where they not only happily sold us their cheese but took the time to take us on a personal tour of their cheese-making facilities. Many of these farmers, we were told, spend eight or more hours a day, each day, every day, making these cheeses, without a single day off. One farm we stopped at said they sell 20% of their cheeses just to those of us who make a point of personally stopping by the farm; the rest are sold in local supermarkets or shipped further afield.

We saw not only the cheeses in their various stages of formation but also met the 'manufacturers' of the milk. (One not so subtly reminded me they have the right of way on the road, bumping my car hard enough to fold the rearview mirror against my door.)

I purchased several bars of homemade raw milk butter but with my plans to move on to Italy and Provence, I could not stock up as I would have otherwise liked to do. Still, the few I bought would last me well to the end of the nearly five-week vacation. It's just the thing spread thickly on a warm, crusty baguette for breakfast alongside a steaming cup of café au lait!

Vive le pique-nique!

Throughout France, whether you venture out to myriad restaurants—a number of which are Michelin-recommended no matter how tiny or out of the way the village might be—or simply make your way to the local charcuterie or traiteur for the classic ingredients of the French pique-nique: baguette, cheese, meat, salad, fruit, water and wine—a meal, whether it's fancy or rustic, can be paradise for the gourmand.

Everywhere you look the French partake of their picnics, with tables dotting the countryside from motorway rest stops to waterside respites or alpine getaways. Motorists often beep and wave to wish you bon appétit as they pass by your spread, arguably nostalgic or envious. As a foodie, I have yet to become jaded at the wonderful opportunities for a marvelous meal here, and picnicking has become a regular part of my life of late. Vive le pique-nique!

Canine Challenges

Mid-June is a really lovely season to be in France--fiery poppies fill the fields; the cherry trees droop with the weight of their fruit; the weekly markets groan beneath the volume of so much fresh produce, not to mention myriad cheeses, breads and meats; and sailboats dot the lakes everywhere you look.

Just over two weeks ago, Tilly and I set off for Lake Annecy in the French Alps, along with her brother, Finlay, and my friend Innis. Here we’ve spent two weeks in Veyrier-du-lac in a lakeside house taking care of two other Coton du Tulear dogs, Sky and Chip, for whom I’ve housesat before.

The excitement began before we’d even left, when we realized to our dismay that Tilly appeared to be entering her first season, her first heat cycle. Not only is Finlay, her brother, not yet neutered but neither is Chip, the other male dog we’d be living with for 16 days. Not to mention that our dogs have the backseat to themselves during these long drives!

The vet shook her head ruefully. No, there was nothing to do but keep them separated or risk Tilly, who’s too young to get safely pregnant anyway, getting ‘caught’ by one of them. And since Finlay is her brother, the genetic complications only make things riskier. The vet assured us, were it to happen, that if my sweet, innocent Tilly turns out to be Tilly the Tramp in disguise, it would be soon enough when we return that we could give her the canine equivalent of the morning-after abortion pill, a series of two injections, each 24 hours apart, with, she assured us, no side effects. Despite my misgivings, we set the appointment for the day after we would return.

Two rather stressful weeks have passed with Tilly donned in little black elastic sanitary pants. Chip has hounded her every possible chance, with us shooing him away constantly, and Tilly showed no interest in rejecting his amorous advances—that is, until the one brief moment our vigilance wavered and he caught her under the table, hidden beneath the tablecloth. Tilly shrieked and squealed like a piglet as we shot up out of our chairs and raced to attempt a rescue. Alas, too late. Any hesitation Innis and I have had about neutering our dogs and giving Tilly the shots vanished in that moment.

We’ve spent an exhausting few days now trying to isolate them, each of us taking a pair of dogs and walking in opposite directions because Chip’s been single-minded in his pursuit of his Juliet. But things are quieting down now, just in time for the next leg of our road trip, a leisurely two-day jaunt into Italy, where we’ll spend five days with new friends (former housesit clients) relaxing and exploring. I suspect that, although at this writing they’re completely without bath and toilet facilities due to a renovation project, that will prove far less vexing than frantic, barking, randy dogs. Time will tell.

French Huilerie for Gourmet Nut Oils

Not long ago, I headed out to Availles-en-Chatellerault to pay a second visit to a huilerie that presses the most delicious oils of walnut (huile de noix) and hazelnut (huile de noisette). The first time I'd been there was during harvest season and we waited and watched as a series of farmers brought in their nut harvests and had them individually crushed, ground, fried and pressed.

The old-fashioned stone wheel circled endlessly round and round the platform like a work-worn donkey resigned to its fate, while the nuts ground down to a fine paste. From there, the red-faced workers, wiping sweat from their brows with kerchiefs stuffed in pockets, shoveled the dark paste on to its next home on ancient stoves, where it was fried, dark and rich, to the color of cocoa. You could taste the nuts on your tongue with every breath. Our mouths watered.

From there, it was a short distance to the hydraulic presses where we watched as the oil, as dark and rich as maple syrup, dripped out. My mind was mentally clicking through my recipe file, thinking of all the wonderful ways I could use these treasures in my kitchen. Steamed haricots vert topped with crushed hazelnuts and a drizzle of hazelnut oil, mashed potatoes and garlic with a drizzle of oil instead of butter, pasta with walnut sauce, salads galore...the list went on and on.

As we made our choices of what size and style bottles to purchase, I thumbed through their brochure and spotted a tasty-looking recipe for a walnut salad with shrimp and scallops to add to my repertoire.

On this, my second visit, it was late spring instead of autumn, so the machines were eerily silent, the factory immaculate. I was led to the back room where I made my choices, walnut oil refills for both my friend and me, and a special gift-style bottle with pourer. This particular huilerie has been operating now for 200 years, and, the owner proudly told me, will celebrate its bicentennial this November with a huge fête. I must remember to make my reservation.

The gift bottle I bought is intended as a hostess gift for friends in Italy. Two weeks ago, my friend and I, both our dogs in tow, began a month-long sojourn: 2-1/2 weeks in Veyrier-du-lac on Lake Annecy in the French Alps, followed by 5 days in Cessole in northern Italy, and then a final week in Provence at the height of lavender season. It seemed appropriate then, on the night of our departure, that I make us a supper of that very walnut salad recipe with scallops and shrimp.  C'était délicieux!

Meriting a Peugeot

When I left the USA in October 2006, despite the (then) certainty of returning in a year--or maybe because of it--I got rid of a boatload of beloved items, particularly kitchen equipment and gadgets. Friends here are no doubt short of patience when I embark on one of my almost daily reminiscences--oh, man, I can't BELIEVE I got rid of ___! (a myriad number of items can fill the blanks; feel free to suggest as you see fit). I've moaned about citrus pressers, cake pans, baking sheets and cooling racks, gadgets and knives, strainers, silicone liners, dishes, glasses, cake decorating equipment, crystal, even my pepper grinder. (Well, at least I know where that ended up--I gave that to my mother and I'm delighted she's using it.)

My friend Innis is often gifting me things, no doubt because she, too, is fed up with listening to me reminisce (all right, moan) and cry impoverished author--all right, ALL RIGHT! WOULD-be author. She's given me a fabulous cheese grater--that she still lusts after--and a great ceramic tart pan that I've made numerous quiches in, and most recently she surprised me with a pepper grinder. She admitted she was tempted by a cheaper version but ended up splurging on the upscale option...no doubt because she eats here fairly often and figured she'd benefit from it, too.

I opened this, my birthday gift, to reveal a really lovely Lucite pepper grinder just hungering to be filled with the peppercorns which I, ever an optimist, had bought without any way of grinding.

"Wow, a Peugeot! I had no idea they even made pepper grinders!" She admitted she almost hadn't bought it for me.

"Gosh, this is, like...a better make than my car!" She gave me a sidelong glance.

"I've seen your car. Please tell me you'll take better care of this."

"Hey, this is France," I retorted. "And my car is secondhand from Paris. A car isn't a car unless it looks like a post-adolescent acne sufferer in desperate need of dermabrasion." (Okay, admittedly, post-adolescent acne sufferers don't sport scrapes the length of their faces, just dimples. My car has both.)

Having weathered a long winter followed by a spring toting gardening and seedling purchases for me as well as other folks, my car's in desperate need of rehab. It's my goal to get it washed, waxed, buffed and gleaming, right down to the dimples, before the end of May because that's when Innis and I leave, our sibling dogs in tow, for a month, stopping on Lake Annecy in the French Alps, then Cessole in Northern Italy, and finally Provence before returning home at the end of June.

If my friend climbs into my car to drive to Annecy in the state it's in now, she might think twice before buying me another Peugeot anything.

Village Life in France

After more than two weeks of cold and damp (neither of which I particularly enjoy), the sun has come out and temps quickly rose from 45F to 60 by late morning. To celebrate, I headed into my village with Tilly to walk the two or three kilometers to my doctor's office. (We live in a small hamlet about one kilometer outside the centre ville, or village center.) The office was closed but the doctor had assured me I could drop by and walk into his unlocked and unattended waiting room where I'd find a small box hanging from the wall. I did.

Tucked into this box were prescriptions for various patients waiting to be picked up and filled. Yet another reminder of how living in rural France is often like living in a time gone by. Sure enough, there were my two slips, one for my medication and one to present to the village nurse for the followup blood test I'll need in two months. I can't help but be charmed by the ever-present level of trust that's extended between people here.

En route back home, Tilly and I encountered a woman who lives in the village that I'd met at a village soirée some months back. She remembered me and even more amazingly, remembered my name. We chatted, she speaking very slowly, exceedingly patient with my stumbling French, and we talked about the weather, our gardens and the typical small talk one engages in with acquaintances. It's encounters like this that boost my confidence that some day I really will be able to hold my own in a conversation in French, and affirms again that my moving here was a good decision for me. She told me of various clubs in the village for all sorts of activities and suggested perhaps sometime we could arrange for some English-speaking residents to exchange conversation, we to practice our French and the French villagers to practice or learn English. I told her that's what my French class had been doing recently but that my classes were ending in June and may not continue in September as originally thought, so I'd be delighted to participate in such an exercise.

As Tilly and I continued on home, we passed the bar--filled mostly with men as is typical--and stopped to enjoy a café au lait at an outdoor table. As always, Tilly's a great icebreaker and conversation starter, and everyone who passed on their way in and out of the bar paused to greet her and receive a timid lick in return. It was probably a good thing that the adjacent boulangerie was out of my favorite pain au chocolat. They make the best that I've had up until this point. (Aren't I lucky?)

We made our way home, Tilly off the leash once we left the centre ville and she is now fast asleep in the sun, lying on my favorite lounge chair. Excusez-moi--HER lounge chair now, apparently. Meanwhile, I'm off to pot up some more haricots vert and squash as the cold snap seems to have arrested the first batch I planted outside two or three weeks ago. Bon journée!

Sipping the Delights of France in Springtime

Recently I went to the village of Panzoult, about 90 minutes northwest of where I live in Martizay, to sample some of the local wines at the annual Chinon wine festival. They hold it in a deep troglodyte cave that has been beautifully restored and decorated with carvings in the limestone walls.
Upon entering, we paid two euros each to purchase an etched wine glass commemorating the tasting, and began making our way from niche to niche to visit the various winemakers and sample their offerings. No actual purchasing is done; you simply taste the various wines and note what you like for a future trip to the winery itself. As the driver, I had to exhibit some discretion so I limited myself to one or two sips of just those wines that my friends enthused about and skipped the majority, focusing more on reds versus whites or rosés. I jotted down the wines and vintages that I might buy should the opportunity ever arise. The final glass was a Vouvray petillant, or sparkling Vouvray, which we jokingly said was our pre-lunch aperitif.

From there we headed to a restaurant in Sainte-Maure-de-Touraine, La Ciboulette ('ciboulette' is French for chives), which promised to be a bit more upscale than our norm. However, while sipping our aperitifs, and after perusing the extensive menu and anticipating our selections, the server proceeded to tell us that virtually none of what we wanted was available, that the menu had been changed in honor of May Day, as it was the 1st of May. We wondered, somewhat irritably, why we hadn't been furnished the appropriate menu. It did feel like a bit of a bait and switch.

Here in France, it's traditional to gift ladies with a sprig of lily of the valley to mark May Day or springtime, yet another neopagan celebration later appropriated by Christianity. This particular tradition originated here with King Charles IX in 1561 giving the ladies of his court this flower as a gesture of appreciation. The restaurant followed suit by handing us each sprigs. We would have preferred it if they'd just given us the food selections we'd wanted. (Actually, all parts of the lily of the valley plant are highly poisonous, although that seems to have been conveniently ignored.)

After that initial hurdle—which admittedly did threaten to color the entire lunch—we settled down to a nice meal, accompanied by, naturally, more wine. By the meal's end, this is what we were reduced to.
Before you accuse us of being naught but a bunch of lushes, let me explain. There was a huge party nearby of war veterans who'd all fought in the same local regiment (May 8 marks VE Day--Victory in Europe, or when WWII ended here, for those of you who have forgotten your history.) They were together celebrating, and partaking in various forms of charming silliness. They raffled off various prizes including free electricity for one year (a box of candles), a free service contract with Orange, France Telecom's mobile phone service (a bag with a piece of fruit in it), and an Italian dinner for two (a package of dry spaghetti). They opened the spaghetti and began passing around strands, cautioning everyone to take one and ensure they did not break or eat it. To our delight, they included the six of us, the only other remaining table by this time. Then they began passing this tiny plastic top hat from one strand of spaghetti to another, using only their mouths. Naturally we had to participate! It did create an atmosphere of conviviality which was appreciated when the bill was presented. Or maybe it was just all that wine...hic

Painting My Way to Respectability

How I have been longing for spring. After a cold winter--admittedly nowhere near as bad as what I left behind in New England but taxing when you take into consideration 6 weeks of no heat because of the late Feb tempest, beyond a portable paraffin/kerosene heater--and after a 2-week taunt followed by more cold and rain, I've been longing for sunny afternoons spent idyllically (idly?) in my tiny garden, lazed out on an Adirondack or LaFuma chair soaking up rays.

Of course, that doesn't really happen because first of all, spring means gardening, so days have been busy starting seeds--tomato, bell pepper, various annual flowers, herbs--growing in my glassed-in verandah which deliciously doubles as a greenhouse--and starting those outdoor seeds in the raised beds, including carrots, leeks, white onions, spring onions, arugula, spinach and romaine lettuce. All now have been showing their sprigs encouragingly, while my garlic, planted last September, looks like a mini-field of corn plants, and my autumn-planted leeks are even taller. Tulips and daffodils are cresting near decline and the camelia, an intoxicating raspberry and cream mix, is also beginning to wane. It's always exciting to see what's growing. And for me, having only moved here in July, many are a delightful surprise.

Spring also means all those DIY/home improvement projects I pushed off since Christmas, pledging to take advantage of the cool but temperate conditions, which now threaten to keep me indoors against my will.

Earlier this month, my neighbor, Chris, happily abandoned all the latest projects he's been doing in his gardens--hardscaping mostly--to helping me plaster, sand and paint. The man's masochism knows no bounds.

Actually, what really galvanized me into needed action was a telephone call. Back in 2007 I did a housesit in northern Italy for the Rathgebers, Ken & Anna, and had the good fortune to finally meet them for the very first time last year en route from Tuscany to France before I closed on the purchase of this house. They were going to be in Versailles late April and asked if they could possibly stop and stay a night on their way back to Cessole. I was delighted! They had already alerted me to their 5-month stay in Italy--a first for them so long a time together, because Ken's just retired from his career at a Canadian bank--and invited me to come visit them in Cessole. I suggested mid-June because I was already slated to be out in the French Alps the first two weeks of June. They agreed although they warned me they were renovating their bathroom--the only bathroom in the villa--the first two weeks of June and, well, they pointed out, I knew how Italian contractors could drag out a job.

I have, however, become quite European in my outlook these days. I asked if, when desperate, could we pee in the fountain in the front garden? Ken said no, it was reserved solely for ladies bathing naked and suggested I could find plenty of accommodating farmland. So I accepted. I mean, it's not like my puppy Tilly cares if anyone watches her pee. Surely we all learn from each other!

In any case, Ken and Anna's visit proved to be a real treat and I was sorry they were only staying one night.

I was really glad I used their arrival to galvanize myself into stripping, smoothing and painting the walls of the guest bedroom because I'll be enjoying the fruits of my (and Chris's) labors for a long time to come.