(continuation of the story from the previous post about 1996, my first summer in france, originally written for the chapel hill news, email then was so haphazrd from france! a reminder of how quickly technology changes, but the old ways I learned about that summer, thankfully are still with us. kate and patrick have since taken different barges, so to speak.)
Bon jour!
Here we are. Plunk. In Gascony, Southwest France, along the Canal Lateral. This morning's breakfast, a still warm butter-sugar almond croissant in one hand and a deep rich cafe creme in the other. Thank you, God, for ambi-dexterity.
I sit on a long oak bench at a hand hewn rustic farm table in the kitchen at "Camont," which is this farm's address. My American computer's plugged in through various multicultural technical contraptions which may make it possible to converse with you aka this column. I still don't know if this is really going to work.
Last week, when we arrived, the phone line had been totally obliterated by a lightening storm. We pulled into the driveway to find Kate in "le piggerie" struggling to get past le cochon (the washing machine) to the connection box. It's taken a good ten days and numerous trips to the new French shopping extravaganza called Castorama (Home Depot) to figure out a compatible answering machine.
So, will you, dear readers, achieve satiation through e-mail, via this piece meal correspondence? We shall see.
Our friends, Kate and Patrick Ratliffe, launch their European Culinary Adventures from this farm, Camont. Their barge, the Julia Hoyt, is docked at the end of the path ouside this two hundred year old farm-house. My seven year old son Jaryd, has his head on my lap while my husband Rich and soon-to-be ten Erick bicycle on the towpath along the canal towards the bridge and the next village, Serignac. In the morning and evening light,
songbirds (oiseau de chanson) twitter and frogs (grenouille) croak.
Even though I'm familiar with this aural background in North Carolina, they sound so much more lyrical here en France.
Our first meal from this cozy kitchen, which was tres casual by French standards, began with aperitifs on the pebble studded terrace.
Aperitifs coddle your appetite, hold it, and caress it, until the moment when the deep plunge into "diner" commences. It's such a gentile way to end the day. Ice clinking glasses of pastis, peche (peach), and mure (mulberry), intensified the sharing of travel stories by table companions. Crockery bowls filled with pistache (pistachios), salty crackers (biscuit sale), and shiny black olives d'rosemary create diversions for our warming palates.
White wine glazed red peppers began the serious business en table, followed by our entree of grilled gascon saucisse and thin spicy North African merguez sausages lifted from the grill.
We passed wide heavy bowls of couscous hiding sultanas and pignolia.
With aperitifs having worked their magic, a Sancerre dry rose wine welcomingly filled our glasses, tout de suit.
Broad beans, a special variety which look like fava beans but taste like green beans, are slowly steeped in the pan with red onions and olive oil.
Of course, du pain (french bread) is broken and shared liberally, and provides crunchy discourse throughout our repast.
Dessert was tres simple, cassis sorbet and glace aux vanille, intensely purple raspberry sorbet and creamy yellow vanilla ice cream.
The approaching full moon and sound of the rumbling train on the tracks in nearby Agen swept us to bed in a state of tres satisfait.
