Searching for a low stress-life

It's a fact, according to today's newspaper, that if you live in the country you will live on average two years longer than your city counterparts. We already know that drinking wine in moderation is good for you along with eating plenty of fruit and veg.; we can go back to eating eggs now and using olive oil rather than butter, eating plenty of fish and exercising moderately is all good; but the real clincher to living a long and happy life, is to minimise the amount of stress you have. Or in the words of that great 90's songster, Bobby McFerrin, "Don't Worry be Happy!"
Living in France, definitely gives you a heads up on the healthy bit; lots of wine, easily accessible fresh produce, sunshine and plenty of open spaces to roam. But living a low stress life? I wondered how I might find that.
Last Monday I went to the yearly fete of the Transhumance in St Remy. This is when the sheep are paraded around the town before heading off into the mountains to cooler pastures where they spend the summer months (throughout the year, most things are paraded round the towns in France, bulls, horses, cyclists, brass bands, veteran cars, paintings etc.).
The fete is very picturesque, pastoral even; the shepherds are dressed in Provencal costume, faded printed shirts, waistcoats and old-fashioned button and braces trousers and wearing hats. At the head of the procession are a couple of donkeys which no doubt originally carried provisions for the shepherds during their 6 month sojourn in the hills, (helicopters have now taken their place, apologies for killing the Romance) these are followed by women in Provencal dress carrying baskets (sandwiches for the journey perhaps?) and then behind them come the sheep; a sea of sheep, or rather a river of sheep, snaking its way around the town, I don't think I've ever seen so many sheep in one place before, it is quite a sight to behold. Interspersed amongst the sheep are billy goats with horns and bells around their necks and keeping them all in order are sheep dogs, which look like smaller versions of the Dulux dog.
As they passed by I got to thinking about the life of the shepherd living half the year in the open countryside with little more to worry about than whether a sheep has got a stone in its hoof or been at the clover again (sharp stab to the stomach apparently). They have their basic needs catered for and presumably have few cares about the state of the stock market. They don't have possessions to worry about and have all the time in the World to sit and think or meditate. (For all I know they live in Winnebagos with satellite phones and Internet access and watch the World News every night). Of course you would have to be OK with your own company as you'd be spending half the year on your own and I guess you'd have to like sheep quite a lot. But in terms of living a stress free life, I think it must rank quite far up there.
I wondered what other professions might be good for a stress free life. Before the sheep parade, a couple of municipal police circled the town on motorbikes, and I thought that maybe their job might be a good one. Whenever there is a fete you see them on the street corner, chatting with their mates giving the bises to acquaintances that they no doubt went to school with. Other times they drive round the town in cars, stopping occasionally to pass the time with people they know. I remember once, when we used to drink in a certain bar (before our life of healthy moderation) and we saw a police car pull up outside. We asked the owner of the bar what he had done to deserve a visit from the police, was he being booked for something?
"Not at all," he said, "He's my cousin and was dropping off my brother".
They do have to direct traffic from time to time and give the odd traffic ticket, and they sometimes do spot checks on cars after lunch, but they probably earn reasonably well and get lots of free coffee and don't have to pay for their petrol and they get a free uniform which already takes the stress out of what to wear every morning!
Next, as the street cleaners arrived to clear up the mess left behind by the sheep, I got to thinking about their job.
I am always amazed how quickly and efficiently they clean up the streets after any fete or market. As the last white van pulls away from the Place du Marché, the street cleaners are already hard at work. They work swiftly and as a team. Some chucking the cardboard boxes into a refuse truck, others sweeping the rubbish, bits of rejected fruit and vegetables into the path of the little van, which sucks it all up with its brushes. In about 20 minutes the square is absolutely spick and span with no signs of the bustling market that was there half an hour earlier. Other times they drive round the town in their trucks picking up bits of rubbish. They are always friendly and helpful and seem to be happy in their work. Could this be a contender for most stress free job I wondered?
But then the other day, the Artist and I were having lunch in the pretty town of Mausannne in the Alpilles when I noticed a small truck come by carrying a large water tank. Every now and then, the man driving the truck would stop and get out of his truck, disconnect a hose from the side of the tank and water the plants at the side of the street.
I jumped out of my seat, "That's the best job," I said pointing with excitement.
Imagine spending the day watering plants and being paid for it, receiving six weeks holidays a year, or whatever it is they get, full healthcare, job security and a pension to boot! And if you got too hot at any time, working in the noonday sun, you could always give yourself a quick dousing with the water hose! The Artist agreed with me and it was decided that this was the crème de la crème of stressfree jobs.

Its the Asparagus season right now and I buy them with abandon, but it always upsets me to throw away half the stalk and so I decided to experiment and was excited to find out that they make a delicious soup. Heres what I did.
Ingredients
The discarded stalks from approx. 500 gms of Asparagus
A small onion chopped.
A clove of garlic.
A pat of butter
A small slug of olive oil
Salt and pepper
1/2 a litre of stock, vegetable or chicken

Melt the butter and add a bit of oil, as this will stop the butter from burning.
Add the onions and garlic and cook gently for about 10 minutes, when they should be soft and translucent. Meanwhile peel the Asparagus stalks (not entirely necessary, but will lessen the amount of woody fibre you have to deal with later) and add them to the onions. Let them soften for a few minutes and then add the hot stock. Stir, then cover and simmer for about 25 minutes. Then whiz the soup up with a hand whiz and then push it through a sieve. This will remove the woody outer layer (of which there will be less if you peeled the stalks).
Either serve hot with some lovely crusty baguette, or leave to cool and refrigerate and eat on a hot summers day with some chopped chives sprinkled on top. The soup tastes surprisingly creamy, even though no cream has been added. My sister Sabrina suggested adding the rind of that old piece of Parmesan that has been lurking in the depths of the fridge.
This is my version of making the most of what you've got and the beginning to low stress living!

The Dinner Party

The other day, as I was feeling sorry for myself that I didn't have a social life, there was a ping in my inbox and an invitation to dinner forced me to abandon my sulk.
Sylvie, a friend of ours from 'les filles de Mardi' was having a dinner party on Easter Sunday. Les filles de Mardi is a group of women who used to meet every Tuesday night at the Theatre Restaurant and who we befriended over time, gradually moving from our table for two to join their table and eventually becoming fully integrated into the group.
It got me thinking about how different a dinner party in France is to a dinner party in England. For a start, you are rarely invited to dinner in a French house, this is normally reserved for family celebrations. Maybe that is why a French dinner party resembles that of a family table. There is little small talk, people don't do one to one chit chat with the person sitting next to them; one person holds forth with their point of view and everyone else comments, agrees, disagrees or takes over the baton for their say. It’s very competitive and is often down to he or she who shouts loudest. If you're not up for the game, or feel self-conscious about your French speaking skills or your ability to shout loud enough, you will find yourself out in the cold, conversationally speaking.
To begin the evening there is always the apero! This is the most important drink of the day, and is either pastis or whisky, but more often than not whiskey.
The French love whiskey, Scottish, American, Irish, blended or single malt, it makes no difference. They usually drink it with coke or neat with ice; I've never seen it served with water, though someone told me that they had recently had it with Schweppes (I presume tonic) and it was quite good! Well you learn something new every day.
Aperos can go on for quite a long time and are always generous (none of your stingy English pub measures), so by the time everyone sits down to eat, everyone is more than merry.
Sylvie's party was much the same. We had picked up Papou and Fabrice at the agreed time of just after 8 from the quay where they keep their boat in Beaucaire. We then drove up to Sylvie’s house, a villa in a lottissement (posh housing estate) above Beaucaire. The French like to live in these new purpose built houses, leaving the old crumbling stone buildings to immigrants like us. When we got there we were the first. The TV was on and there was an identified boy lounging on the sofa watching an old Zorro film. The rest of the guests didn’t arrive for another hour and a half, by then we had had quite a few drinks and numerous olives and peanuts. We were 15 altogether and Sylvie had a chair crises, so various people arrived carrying chairs, which was quite convenient, as they could sit down on their own chairs as soon as they arrived.
Sylvie thought a little ambient music might go down well, but one of her friends, D, a tax inspector (always good to know one!) told her to turn it off as it clashed with the TV which was still on. As more aperos were poured, the Artist and I (sticking to white wine) were wondering if we were ever going to eat.
‘I can’t see any sign of cooking’ he whispered sotto voce to me.
Finally around 10.30 we sat down. After singing Happy Birthday (in English; it was Sylvie's birthday, though she had omitted to tell us so) and done various hip hip horray's (in French) the first course was unveiled; two whole poached salmon garnished with watercress, Blinis spread with Brondade a la Mourue, tomatoes, radishes and a Salad Russe, (tinned vegetables in mayonnaise),and two types of mayonnaise, and bread, of course.
The conversation started with the evils of mass consumerism, then moved on to Le Canard the French sytirical weekly paper and apparently the only dependable source for political information, to politics in general and how everyone in the government is a 'con'.
Then came the main course, frankly I was already quite full from the first course, (not to mention apero nibbles).
Two large plates of pommes dauphinois, two legs of lamb and their 'jus' and a large portion of aubergines were placed on the table. As soon as everyone was served, the discussions continued. Every now and then Fabrice, who seemed to be doing most of the talking would aplogise to me and the Artists for talking too fast, adding that we wouldn’t be able to understand or follow the conversation. After a couple of these announcements, I pointed out that it wasn't because we didn't understand what he was saying, but rather that it was difficult to get a word in edgeways - (sadly there isn't such a wonderfully descriptive word as edgeways). So he then asked me what I thought about the Iraq Enquiry, I was about to answer, when the conversation moved on to the ‘special’ relationship between Blair and Bush, and I hadn’t even opened my mouth!
For dessert there was a tart of strawberries and cream, (I was pleased to note that the pastry 'fait a la maison' was no better than mine, I loath making pastry and have recently served up various inedible pastry dishes in an attempt to master it, don't ask me why, you can buy perfectly decent ready made pastry in every supermarket and most french cooks do!)
Then someone put on 'Hotel California' at full blast. D immediately got up to turn it down and in so doing turned it off.
Papou turned it back on again, at a lower volume and half the diners got up and danced.
At around 12.30 the Artist and I got up from the table and said it was time for us to go.
Cries, of 'pourquoi,' and the party's only just begun and we must have a dance before we go, regaled us, as we took our leave.
When we did the rounds of bisous, our friend apologised for not giving us any one on one attention and hoped we hadn't been bored, 'Of course not,' we said.
We drove back home.
“Well that was very French,” I said as we drove down the hill back to Tarascon.
"And you say you don't have a social life," the Artist replied.
“O.K.” I conceded, “it’s just a different kind of social life.”

At the market this week they were selling a large bunch of chard for €1! I was shown how to make this Tarte aux Blettes (Chard tart) by an ex restaurateur who gives cookery classes in the Marie in Flaux, a tiny village near Uzes. I particularly like this pastry which is made with olive oil.

For the pastry:
250g flour (I like wholemeal)
1 glass of cold water
5 tbls. Olive Oil
1 pinch salt
A sprig of rosemary

For the filling:
1 kilo Chard
2 eggs
2 tbls. single cream
Salt and Pepper

Pre-heat the oven to 180 c.
Wash and cut the stalks of the chard and cook together with the leaves in a small amout of water for 20 minutes, then drain and leave to cool.
To make the pastry: mix the flour with the salt and chopped rosemary, oil and water. I do this in my ancient Robot Chef, but you can also do it by hand. When the pastry forms into a ball, put it onto a floured board and roll out to line your tart tin (you can also leave it to rest, wrapped in clingfilm in the fridge for 40 mins which makes it less sticky).
Bake blind for 10 mins. the fill with the chard
Meanwhile whisk the eggs with the cream (or milk) and add salt and pepper, pour this over the chard.
Bake for about 45 minutes. Can be eaten hot or cold!

Snow and Corruption

I am told, for a successful blog, you need to send out posts on a regular basis. Something, which I have failed to do, as my followers will know (I have 13 to date, which is one more than You know Who, but I need more!). My excuse is that I have been away for all of February and the beginning of March and being a stickler for the truth; I cannot pretend to be in France when I’m not.
On my return to Provence in early March, I was hoping to see bright skies and brilliant sunshine, but instead what I saw on landing at Nimes airport was a blanket of snow! There had been blizzards the night before. In Provence? In March? My friend who was supposed to pick me up was snowed-in and I had to make my own chilly way from Nimes airport to Tarascon (navette from the airport to Nimes and then train to Tarascon FYI). When I finally got home, the gas boiler had gone out, and the house was freezing cold and the two trees in our courtyard had split in half due to the weight of the snow (actually I was quite happy about that, I never really liked them and now I wouldn’t have to feel guilty about being a tree murderer!) I’ve never heard so much blamed on the weight of the snow before, but maybe trees are less robust here. .
Also on everyone's lips, on my return, was the demise of our Mayor. It seems that whilst I was away, he had been held for questioning at Marseilles Police Headquarters on allegations of corruption for 24 hours! Our Mayor, who always looks so chic with his chapeau and silk tie, always friendly with a smile and a bonjour; always present at any function, ready with a speech and a toast and always obliging for any photo-op.
When I first heard the story, I had a ‘lost in translation’ moment and understood that he had been arrested on charges of accepting backhanders from the market holders, ‘sur les conditions d’attribution du marché public…’ Well, I thought to myself, how lucrative could that be? Taking a few euros from each stallholder in the Tuesday Market to guarantee them a good spot? Certainly not enough to risk your job and reputation? Then I actually read up on it and realised that it concerned allegations that the €4 million contract to transform the old military base of Tarascon into the new Law Courts had gone to a company favoured by the Mayor. A little more profitable, I’m sure if the allegations were true. Of course it is the company that didn't get the job that has made the allegations and the local regional elections at which the Mayor was going to stand were coming up.
We once visited the old Barracks, the Marie had invited us to a vernissage – (art opening) there of equestrian paintings. It was held in a huge 19th Century hall, which used to be the stables for the barracks for which, besides the book Le Tartarin de Tarascon, which apparently every school child in France has read, Tarascon is best known. Before the end of conscription (2001), huge numbers of young men passed through the barracks of Tarascon. All the buildings now lie empty like a ghost town within a town (or on the edge of town to be precise). Anyway, it turned out that besides being there to view the equestrian paintings, we were also going to be treated to the spectacle of performing horses, as the hall was now going to be their home. There were six white horses and six black horses, they were very beautiful and groomed to a shine with patent leather harnesses and they did all sorts of clever things around the ring, galloping round one way, then the other, then passing each other in a figure of eight and walking backwards out of the ring. All the while the ringmaster stood in the middle coolly cracking a long whip every now and then to make them go faster or slow down. He was dressed in black evening suit with a white shirt, you could almost imagine a Gauloise hanging from his lips he looked so cool. With the grand finale each horse reared on its hind legs and pawed at the air. One horse actually walked on its hind legs and then did a sort of curtsy. Now, as fun as it was to watch a horse balance on two legs, there was part of me that couldn't help think that it wasn't all together natural or necessary.
However the evening got us thinking about what the Marie was going to do with all those empty buildings and as the Artist is always on the look out for a studio space, he decided to ask someone at the Marie if they had any empty buildings to rent . Anyway, they said they didn’t know of any, which we thought strange at the time as we were standing in a whole enclave of empty buildings. But now I realise that they were all already allocated – that or we’re just not good enough friends with the Mayor!
During my research on this story, I found that the two Mayors previous to the one we have now had been arrested, jailed and or fined. Seems getting arrested for being Mayor comes with the territory, or rather the job.
I was musing on this whole affair as I walked past the present Law Courts, which are still in the centre of town, on my way to the weekly market. As I saw them huddled outside having a smoke, (I’m talking about the barristers in their black gowns, clutching their wigs) I thought about how I was going to miss them being there. They give the town a sense of drama. Sometimes you see a police car arriving at the back of the courts with a prisoner under guard, and the large iron gates clanking shut behind them and you wonder what the person is being accused of. A few years ago a film about the life of Camus came to town, they were doubling our Law Courts for one in Algeria, I don’t know if it was because the building is typical of a French municipal building of that time, or because of the easy availability of Algerian and Moroccans to work as extras.
The market this week was rather a desultory affair, the man from St Remy told me that the snow had ruined much of his produce and that the vegetable season was at least 3 weeks behind because of the cold weather. All he had for sale were leeks, cabbages and cauliflowers along with dandelion leaves, which I wasn’t in the mood to experiment with or get exited about. Instead I bought a big bag of carrots and oranges and called it a day.
Luckily we had covered up our lemon tree, which I had bought the year before for the Artist’s birthday and so I picked these and made confit de citrons, to be used in later dishes of chicken and couscous.

Carrot and lentil with Coriander Soup
Its still cold enough to warrant a warming soup, and here’s one to make you feel really toasty!
1 kilo Carrots
1 stick celery
I onion
Tops of 2 leeks, removing the tough outer leaves
2 garlic cloves chopped
1 tablespoon coriander seeds, roughly ground in a pestle and mortar
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teapson chilli flakes
1 cup of lentils (any type just make sure they don’t need pre soaking)
1.5 litres of stock, made with powdered bouillon
handful of fresh coriander
salt and freshly ground pepper
2 tablespoons of oil or butter
Heat the oil or butter in a large pot and add the onions and garlic. Then add the chilli flakes ground coriander seeds, and the cumin powder. Stir this around until the onions are soft and the gentle aroma of the spices reach the nostrils of your loved one in the next room. Then add the rest of the vegetables and the lentils, stirring from time to time so they don’t stick to the bottom of the pan, over a gentle flame for ten minutes or until they are soft. Lastly add the stock made with boiling water and add salt and pepper, to taste. Remember that some of the stocks have quite a lot of salt in them, so maybe taste before you salt. Cook for about 30 minutes or until the lentils are cooked. Then liquidise and add the chopped fresh coriander and serve.
This makes quite a large amount of soup and I often freeze some for a later day. You could also halve the quantities.

Carrot and Orange salad
This is very yummy and will last a couple of days. Its best made a few hours before you want to eat it so the juices of the carrots mix with the orange juice.
500g/ carrots, peeled and coarsely gratedk
1 oranged, unsprayed, juice and zest
1/2 juice of lemon
2 tbsp Moroccan Argon Oil, Olive Oil is fine if you don’t have any
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 tbsp poppy or mustard seeds, toasted in a frying pan until the pop
1 tsp. Mustard
Chopped fresh coriander or parsley
Chopped endive (optional)
Grate the carrots and the orange peel.
Stir the mustard into the orange and lemon juice. Add the oil, salt and pepper and whisk together and pour over the carrots. Add the poppy seeds (I sometimes use mustard seeds for a stronger sharper flavour), the endive, if using, and chopped coriander. Serve!

Confit de Citron
Ok this one is for my L.A. friends with lemon trees – if you’re stealing them from your neighbour, make sure you don’t get caught or make extra as a peace offering
As many lemons as you can fit into a jar (use a large jar)
Rock salt.
First cut off the stems, then cut the lemons vertically, without cutting all the way through. Then cut from the other side, stopping before you get to the end. Then fill each cut with a tablespoon of salt, or as much as you can cram in, then put it in the jar. When you have filled the jar, shake it and put the lid on. The salt will extract the juice from the lemons. And after a day or two of turning the jar, top up with water and leave with the lid on. They will be ready to use in about 3 weeks.

Truffles

It’s January, the month deemed to be the most depressing of the year. The Christmas lights have finally come down, but Spring is not yet here, we’re still in the throes of winter and everyone is broke. What to do to cheer ourselves up?

Luckily there is la Fete des Truffes in Uzes, which celebrates the Joy of the Truffle. Uzes is about 1/2 an hour away. It is Sunday and with nothing better to do, we pile the dogs into the car and head off. It’s a glorious day, the sky, clear and blue, and the sun bright enough to warrant sunglasses. The road takes us through vineyards on either side of the road, the vines brown and twisted, some pruned, some waiting to be pruned. The roads are empty but when we get to Uzes there is nowhere to park, every single space is taken; on a Sunday in winter? Truffles are obviously big business.

I get out the car near the town square and the Artist drives on in search of far flung car parks with the dogs. I did suggest that I could take the dogs, but as Ralph fights with everything and Molly is scared of crowds, the Artist thought it a bad idea. But as I walk towards the square with my new sunglasses perched on my nose, I think that a couple of Scottie dogs in matching red collars and leads trotting along beside me would just put the finishing touches to my look; this is France after all and if dogs aren’t for posing then what are they good for?

There is a large crowd in the square and there is a procession of men and women dressed up in what I presume to be traditional Uzesian costumes of long purple and grey robes with turbans on their heads. On closer inspection I see that a woman at the head of the procession is carrying a basket with an enormous truffle in it, They seem to be heading towards the church, where the truffle no doubt will be blessed.

An area in the square has been cordoned off with iron railings (those railings really get their full use) and sand laid down with oak and pine saplings strategically planted here and there, to recreate a typical truffle-fecund paysage. Nothing is happening yet, but people are already standing around the railings, ensuring their places for when the specatacle begins. Suspense is in the air. Cameras are poised. At the far end of the ‘truffle field’ is a van parked with it’s side door open with a PA system inside it and a man with a microphone standing in front of it, whipping up the audience with the times of the pig and dog-truffle hunting demonstrations. He also reminds us to buy tickets for a plate of truffle omelette for which they will be using 3,000 eggs and a 1,000 gram truffle, the same that was making its way into the Church? He then plays “I’m walking on Sunshine” and chats to his mates who are standing around the van, drinking wine. I notice they all have wine glass holders round their necks, like people have for their specs, but with a ring which their glass sits in enabling them to go hands free whilst keeping hold of their glass.

As I am musing about how I need to get one for the next party I go to, I hear a voice behind me, I turn around, it’s the Artist.

I see you got a ringside seat then, he says.

After a few more tunes, the man on the PA picks up his banter, and the crowd claps and cheers as a man in a green jacket comes into the enclosure leading a white spotted pig wearing a collar and lead. He’s quite a handsome pig as far as pigs go. He’s definitely had a bit of a bath and a brush-up since leaving the pig-sty this morning, The man leads him into the ring and encourages him to sniff at one of the miniature saplings; as soon as the pig gets a whiff of the truffle scent, he’s off. After a few seconds of feverish digging with his snout, his head comes up victoriously with a truffle held daintily in his mouth. Quick as a flash, the man has taken the truffle from the pig, shown it to the audience and put it in his pocket giving the pig a treat in its place. A truffle flavoured chocolate drop perhaps? The crowd claps and cheers, cameras flash and for those who can’t see, there is a running commentary from the compare. The man and pig are now off to another bush where the whole process is repeated, until he has gone right round the ring and unearthed every truffle under every sapling. Its all over after about ten minutes and the man and pig leave the ring with a wave to great cheers. We later learn from some friends that a few years ago a pig actually attacked his owner when he tried to retrieve the truffle from his mouth and the man had to be rushed to hospital!

People start to wander off and the compare tells us to come back in half an hour to see the dog truffle hunting demonstration.

Now thats something I want to see, I tell the Artist.

A crowd is gathering in another part of the square and we go to investigate. There we see a huge metal pan being held over a smouldering wood fire by a tractor. There are about 6 men standing around the pan wearing white chef jackets and aprons, they each have a wooden paddle with which they are pushing back and forth the largest amount of eggs you have ever seen. This must be the 3,000 egg omelette.

Omelette, the Artist says as we walk away, more like scrambled eggs. I must admit, I’m not very tempted.

We then squeeze our way through the crowd under the arches. Here there are local producers selling truffles along with all sorts of truffle infused produce. There is truffle oil, truffle vinegar, truffle salt, truffle rice, truffle pasta, truffle sausage, even truffle chocolate, which is in my opinion, is a truffle too far. You can also buy little oak saplings with truffle spores to grow in your garden and there are recipe books dedicated to the truffle. I never knew the truffle was so versatile!

I ask a man the price of a large truffle that he has in a basket it is about the size of a cauliflower. He weighs it and says €350. He has another one for €12 which is about the size of half a conker. I decide to buy that one. It is black and hard with a slightly textured skin. I have a brief conversation with the man about how best to cook the truffle. He tells me it can be stored for about a week with some moistened kitchen towel in a jar in the fridge. If I put an egg in with it, whole and in its shell, the truffle will flavour the egg; I can do the same with rice. When I am ready to use it, he tells me to clean it with a damp cloth and grate it finely over eggs, pasta or risotto. It is also very good in pommes dauphinois, he adds. I hand over my money, thank him and move on.

We pass a stall where they are selling bottles of truffle liquor. The man tells us you can drink it as an aperitif or use it to flavour sauces. He gives us a little sip in a plastic cup and I am almost convinced, thinking maybe I need a bottle, but luckily come to my senses in time. All the same I cannot help but admire the French and their culinary ingenuity of turning everything and anything into a drink

All around the square the restaurants are laying out tables and chairs and advertising their truffle menus. Everywhere is packed and the menus are twice or three times what they normally are. We manage to find somewhere round the back of the square and after 1/2 an hours wait, order the dishes of the day, Pizza a la Truffe and Pasta a la Truffe.

The truffle is good business!

Later as we are driving home in the car, past woods with oak and pine trees, I think about all the truffles that are probably lurking just below the surface of the ground and all the money that could be made if only we knew how to find them. I turn round and see Molly and Ralph lying lazily on the back seat and think about how they never really DO anything.

How hard do you think it is to train a dog to find truffles? I ask.

New Year's Day and Garlic Soup

Today is New Year's Day, 2010 and it got me thinking about all the other New Year's Eves that we have spent in Provence and one in particular stood out.
A few years ago, when we were still living in the UK but had bought what we now refer to as 'Little House' (as opposed to Big House which we now live in), we decided to spend Christmas and New Year in Tarascon. We spent Christmas with some English friends who live outside St Remy, but we didn't have any plans for New Year's Eve. Our friends, who I had known for at least 15 years, said they would be spending the evening with their American friends and suggested we have dinner in a restaurant in St Remy and go round and join them for a glass of champagne around midnight to see in the New Year. This seemed rather a long way to go for a glass of champagne and we didn't feel like sitting on our own in a restaurant waiting for the hour to go round to their friend's house. So instead, we decided to stay in Tarascon and a few days before, went to the Restaurant, Le Theatre, to try and make a reservation for New Year's Eve. We had been there a few times; our Portuguese Builder friend, Joachim, had introduced us to the owners Papou and Fabrice and we had always had a good time. They told us they weren't open but, (as the story goes in the many retellings of it) they felt so sorry for us seeing the disappointment on our faces that they invited us to meet them for a drink in Mausanne. Mausanne is a little town in the Alpilles. very Jean de Florette, and there is a bar there called La Fontaine, which then had a classic bistro look with black and red floor tiles and marble top tables, where the locals used to go (it is now a rather chichi place that looks like every other 'designer' place with a chrome bar and matching stools and a large flat screen TV tant pis!).
New Year's Eve came and Joachim arrived to pick us up in his BMW (why do Builders, Plumbers and Electricians always drive fancy cars? Rhetorical question). I think we had already been drinking at lunchtime, and the Artist had slightly overtipped the balance of his wine consumption and wasn't making an awful lot of sense by the time we arrived at La Fontaine Papou and Fabrice were already at the bar and looking very glamourous and drinking Champagne (Papou is the daughter of Charles Demery, creator of the fabric and clothes design label, Soulaeido) when we arrived. They apologised and said that nothing was happening at La Fontaine after all and asked us if we would like to go to their house to eat instead. They had also invited some other friends and we all piled back into cars and drove down the road to Paradou (try saying that with a US Southern accent!). Then, as if by magic, Fabrice served the most delicious supper of oysters, smoked salmon and lobster washed down with Champagne and wine; I never thought to ask how he happened to have a few lobsters lurking in the fridge on the off chance that some people might want to come back to theirs after the pub, but thinking about it, Papou's brother had a restaurant in Mausanne at the time and maybe he went and borrowed some from him.
Anyway what followed was one of our most memorable New Year's Eve parties ever and Papou and Fabrice didn't bat an eyelid at the Artist doing his Napoleon impersonations with a cushion pushed down on his head like a tricorn, or indeed when he finally fell asleep on the floor next to the sofa (still wearing the Napoleon cushion on his head!)
We left in the early hours of New Year's Day and that was the beginning of our friendship with Papou and Fabrice. They are now what the Artist refers to as 'Family'. And the English friends from Saint Remy? Never see them.
Happy New Year!!

And for those looking to purify their bodies after a week of indulgences, here's a recipe for garlic soup. Ideal for the day after.
Ingredients:
2 Heads of Garlic,
2 Leeks, finely chopped
2 Large potatoes
1 Tbls Olive Oil
1 1/2 litres Chicken Stock
A sprig of Sage, Thyme and Parsley
Parmesan (optional)

Method:
Break the garlic into cloves and blanch in boiling water for 30 seconds, drain and remove the skin. Place in the oil with the leeks and cook until soft (about 10 minutes). Then add the chicken stock, the herbs and the potatoes. Cook until the potatoes are done (25 - 30 minutes) and then whizz everything up. Add salt and pepper if you like, but the whole idea is that the soup is fairly bland.
Serve the soup in a bowl with crusty bread or toast! You can also add some grated Parmesan if you like.

How to Eat Snails

As an avid reader of this blog, you will know that living with the Artist and myself are our two Scotty dogs, Molly and Ralph and Kat the cat. I do sometimes reflect on the reason for having animals living in the house. Why do you want to share your house with something that is smelly, pees on the floor and leaves dirty footprints and hair all over the place; that hinders your independence and costs more in vet bills than we spend on our own medical well-being? All they do is sleep and eat and demand to be taken for walks. And yet I miss them when I’m not with them. But what is it that I miss? They aren’t even cuddly.
Whatever, they’re here to stay and once a day I take them out for a walk along the river. It’s not a very exciting walk, but it gives them a run and takes about an hour.
Recently, on my walk, I noticed a woman wading through the grasses, picking something and putting it into a plastic bag. She was an elderly woman and was wearing a brightly coloured floral-print house dress. I wondered if she was collecting mushrooms or some fungal delicasy. I am naturally a curious person, some would call it nosey, and so when I walked past her later, I asked her what she was collecting.
She smiled and said she was collecting escargots and took one out of the bag to show me. Funnily enough I had just read an article about the dire state of the French Escargots, and how there had been a massive decline in their population and that they were being imported from Thailand at great expense! I remember being surprised by this as my courtyard is crawling with the buggers. The Artist regularly goes out with a large tub of table salt which he pours over any intrepid snail or slug making its way towards my pots of herbs or the cat food, for that matter (who would have known that slugs love Friskies Croquettes?). This has an almost instant effect, as the snail, or slug, turns itself inside out to get away from the salt. Quite nasty really, but it does stop them in their tracks and isn't toxic to birds. Afterwards you do have to clear away a slimy pile of salt of course or wait for the next downpour.
Anyway, to this woman, the snails were obviously a veritable treasure. She held one up for me to see. She then proceeded to tell me what you needed to do to make them palatable. She was speaking in a very heavy Provencal accent, so I’m not sure if I got it all, but here is the gist of it.
You put the snails in a bucket, or a hessian sack, with a lid, so they don’t escape and then you feed them herbs for two weeks, thyme, fennel, parsley, etc. you then boil them up with more herbs and garlic and eat them, along with a lot of butter, parsley and garlic, (the Holy Trinity of French cooking). She had different varieties of snails in her bag and showed me them all and told me their names and how to cook them. The small white ones, which couldn’t have had more meat in them than a lark’s tongue, you could eat immediately. I couldn’t imagine why you would bother, but then you could say the same thing about a larks tongue! I thanked her for her information and carried on homeward bound.
A few days later, I was re-potting some of our herbs and noticed that there were a lot of snails stuck to the outside of the old pots. In fact two were in the throes of copulating, they were stuck together end to end with lots of foam coming out of them! ‘Not in my garden you don’t’ I said in my Margot from 'The Good life' voice as I picked them up by their shells and put them in the beds of Souleiado, opposite us. I picked up the rest of the snails, there really were quite a lot of them, and dropped them into a plastic bowl, thinking I’d put them in the Souleiado bed as well. As I was plopping them into the plastic bowl, it occurred to me that actually, what I had here was in fact a gastronomic commodity, and to throw them away, when so many people were out there searching through the undergrowth for them, was surely rather profligate. What is more, I knew exactly where these came from and they were wholly organic? Imagine the price for organic snails! Before I knew what I was doing, I was picking thyme, parsley and rosemary from my pots and putting it in with the snails and I covered the bowl with a piece of cardboard that happened to fit the bowl perfectly.
I monitored them over the next few days, and soon learned their preferential eating habits. They liked parsley and thyme, but weren’t keen on the rosemary or sage. It did occur to me that I was in fact feeding them exactly what I was trying to inhibit them from eating in the first place. There was a difference, though, I was now in control and they weren’t just helping themselves.
I carried on feeding them over the next few days, adding things like carrot tops and the outer leaves of a lettuce. I also had long discussions with people who came to the house and asked their advice. Cyril, a trainee architect who is drawing plans for us, told me that as a child they would collect snails and feed them on herbs that they found in the hills, another friend told me that you have to feed them flour. This fattens them up apparently, and gets rid of their bitter tasting slime. Maybe it dehydrates them from within. Whatever, in went the flour with the herbs.
Then after about 10 days, we had the most all mighty thunderstorm, the cardboard lid disintegrated and many of the snails broke out, making a last, floury bid for freedom. I must say, I wasn’t all that sorry. I had become quite fond of them, once you start feeding something, how do you differentiate between it being dinner or a pet?
That night the Artist went out to buy supper and came home with a bag of frozen snails that he had bought for €6 and they were already stuffed.
I decided that some things are best left to the professionals, and snail farming, I had to concede, might be one of those things.

October

October is the official beginning of autumn, and I always feel slightly guilty that it is my favourite month. Guilty because everyone else is bemoaning the end of summer and I am secretly welcoming the onset of cooler weather and shorter days. But what I love about October (other than it being the month of my birthday, a throwback to my childhood I’m afraid) is not so much that the weather is getting cooler, but that it is heralding a change of season. This is most apparent in the market, where the fruits and vegetables on sale are completely different from one month to the next and there is always something new to try and experiment with.
I decide to go to Arles market this Saturday, my sister and her husband are visiting and I thought we could combine shopping with a bit of sight seeing. I have never been to the Arles market, and it is with some anticipation that we set off. I decide to have a dog free day and, Ralph, my Scotty dog, looks at me accusingly, as I leave the house without him. ‘Where am I going that he can’t come?’ His look implies. I promise to take him for a walk in the Alpilles when I get back, which, thank God, is now open again for walking.
We get to Arles and park the car. The first impression of the market is that it is huge. It is goes on for what seems like miles, down both sides of the Boulevard des Lices, which runs alongside the old city walls. One side is vegetable produce; the other side is arts and crafts. We proceed along the vegetable side.
I spot quite a few of the same stallholders that come to Tarascon. I see the man from St.Rémy and introduce him to my sister. He asks where my dog is. I tell him I had to leave him behind today. This month on his stall he has a large array of pumpkins, squashes and root vegetables: leeks, carrots and small turnips. The French are quite keen on their turnips and I decide to buy some with their tops still on. I also buy a butternut squash from him and tell him I am going to make a soup with it, with peanut butter. He just shrugs as if to say, “I sell the veg. What you do with it is not my concern.”
The first time I ever tasted butternut squash was in Upstate New York and it was served exactly in this way, as a soup with peanut butter. I was so enthralled by it’s nutty, velvety smooth taste, enhanced by the peanut butter, that I decided to try and make it at home, and it has become one of my staple soup recipes ever since.
We move on. There are stalls heaped with wild mushrooms. I ask the stallholder where they are from. He says he can’t tell me, thinking that I am after his closely guarded, secret mushroom spot. I laugh and say that I merely wondered if they were local or not, which he assures me they are, making a large, expansive gesture with his arms to demonstrate the countryside around us. There are mainly chanterelles and ceps, great piles of them. Both of which are my favourite. I take a handful of each. I used to pick them myself on Ashdown Forest as a girl; we would take them home and cook them gently with butter and then eat them with a sprinkling of parsley on toast. Another reason for this being my favourite time of year!
We move on further down the boulevard, passed the stalls selling soap and lavender oil; passed the cheese stalls; passed the stalls cooking meat on a spit; passed the stall selling tapinades, marinated cloves of garlic, dried fish and olives in all different colours and sizes.
Further towards the end of the market, the stalls take on a more Moroccan feel, catering for the large North African population of Arles. There are stalls displaying the most amazing array of spices that I have ever seen outside of Zanzibar. The colours and the variety of just one stall are enough to inspire a whole coffee-table book’s worth of colour photos. There are literally piles of different spices: curries, chilli peppers, paprika, saffron, cloves, cumin. lavender and even little tiny rose buds, all in the most vivid colours. There is also an assortment of different scented teas. I feel compelled to fill and buy the little jars that they sell alongside the spices, as much for their bright colours to liven up my kitchen shelves as to perk up the flavours of my cooking. Recently a friend said that he had problems finding the right spices to make an Indian curry. He obviously hadn’t been to Arles market; either that or it was an excuse not to invite us round for supper.
Further on there is a stall selling everything for the Hamman, black soap, body scrubs and oils and scratchy mittens. I have never been to the Hamman in Arles, but it is definitely on my list of ‘must-do-soon.’
Finally we get to the end of the market and come to a little square where there are many stalls selling fresh fish. As it is passed noon, they are all packing up and the pavement is strewn with ice and water. No doubt they have been up for hours and looking forward to going back to their homes for their lunch.
My mobile phone rings. It is the artist.
“I was just wondering where you were,” he asks, ”and whether you have Ralph with you.”
I later learn that whilst we were away, Ralph had somehow escaped from the house and was missing for a couple of hours. Worried, the Artist, walked along the streets asking neighbours if they had seen him. As he walked passed the Gypsy bar a few streets away from our house, wondering whether he should report the missing dog to the Police, the barman, Marc came out and said “If you’re looking for your dog, he’s here.” Sure enough, there he was, curled up in the corner, fast asleep as if chez lui. “He’s been here a couple of hours,” Marc said in French, “I think he was looking for you.”

WILD MUSHROOM RISOTTO serves 4

A handful of wild mushrooms, chanterelles or ceps or both, sliced
50 gr Butter,
Splash of Olive oil
I red onion
350gm Arborio rice
1 glass of white wine
1 litre of chicken or vegetable stock.
1 tbls parmesan
Chopped parsely

Heat the stock in a pan. Meanwhile in another pan, melt the butter and add a glug of olive oil. Then add the wild mushrooms and onion. Cook for about five minutes, until the onion is translucent. Add the rice and stir until until every grain is coated with the butter and oil, then add the glass and wine and stir until most of it has evaporated. Then add a ladle of hot stock and carry on stirring, until it has been absorbed, then add another ladle, until all the stock has been used up. Keep stirring throughout! Then take it off the heat, add the parmesan and another knob of butter and the chopped parsely.
Serve immediately with extra parmesan.
If you have any dried mushrooms in the cupboard, soak them in hot water for 10 minutes and add this to the stock for added pungency.

Wild mushrooms are also delicious fried gently in butter and folded into an omelette.

BUTTERNUT SQUASH SOUP WITH PEANUT BUTTER
I small to medium butternut squash
1 tbls. Peanut butter
2 tbls. Olive oil
1 clove garlic, sliced
1 sprig Thyme
Coarse Camargue salt
Freshly ground pepper
1 litre chicken or vegetable stock, heated

Preheat the oven to 200c. Cut the squash lengthwise, remove seeds and pulp and then cut each piece into four and place into a baking dish. Cover with 2 tablespoons of olive oil, a sprinkling of salt, garlic slices and crumbled thyme. Bake in a hot oven for approximately 45 minutes, or until the squash is soft. Scoop the flesh from it’s skin and place along with the garlic and escaped oil into a pan, add the peanut butter and a few grinds of the pepper mill. Heat and stir. After a minute or two, add the stock and simmer for 10 minutes. Then whiz with a hand whizzer, or place in a blender until smooth and creamy. Season according to taste.

PASTA WITH TURNIP TOPS AND CHILLI
1 bunch of turnip tops
2 tbls olive oil
2 garlic cloves, sliced
200g dried or fresh pasta
1 anchovy fillet, rinsed in water and chopped
1 small dried chilli

Blanch the leaves from the turnip tops in boiling water for a minute. Then remove from the water, squeeze and chop.
Warm the olive oil in a pan and add the garlic and finely chopped chilli and cook gently until soft. Then add the turnip tops and toss in the chilli and garlic oil. Turn down the heat and add the anchovy fillet.
Meanwhile cook the pasta and when it is al dente take a ladle of the cooking water and add it to the pan with the turnip tops. Drain the pasta and add to the turnip mixture, cooking it gently for another few minutes until it is well mixed. Pour over some more olive oil, salt and pepper and serve.

You can use brocolli or spinach instead of the turnip tops.

Wine suggestions to go with the above:
WILD MUSHROOM RISOTTO
2003 Gérard Bertrand Minervois Les Matins d’Aurore

BUTTERNUT SQUASH SOUP WITH PEANUT BUTTER
2005 Danjean-Berthoux Givry 1er Cru La Plante

PASTA WITH TURNIP TOPS AND CHILLI
2004 Château la Clotte-Fontane Coteaux du Languedoc Crémailh