Passing the hurdle

This is how it starts each year, or least for the last few years for me.  Tomatoes are seeded and we wait patiently for the moment they are big enough to make the transfer to the greenhouse outside, a temporarily stop before they are permanently planted in the garden for the summer.  At this moment, I think the plants will never make it to the garden; they’ve been indoors for 5 weeks now and I wonder why they’re not bigger.  I forget that doubt each year, because by September, with their towering green jungle like foliage, they create a single maze within I can barely walk to water them.  Last summer, I swear I heard a whisper, “Seymore, feed me…”

This is the season where the sounds change.  The buzz of cutting wood is replaced by the sound of someone tilling the garden, roosters go crazy, and the songbirds have come back to nest.  The days are warming, but the air can still be cool; all it takes is the sun ducking behind a cloud or wind from the north to remind us we haven’t yet passed the hurdle.

The tender greens on the trees bring hope; reminding us of spring’s eternal youth; browns slowly start to fade; and the sky turns a brilliant blue.  We have turned the corner on the hardships of the season and can now wax nostalgically about a blazing fire or a filling winter dinner, but haven’t yet forgotten the Siberian winds that rattled the windows or the blanketing snow.  We are close enough to a new beginning to change our focus and look eagerly to begin outdoors, dirty hands and all.

Daylight Savings Easter

The entire lunch was great, but I think the entrée was my favorite: Smoked Salmon Stuffed Calamari, Saffron Hollandaise Sauce, and Roquette Salad

I know I should have written this on Monday, but with Daylight Saving Time falling on the same weekend as Easter Sunday, paired with Easter Monday and visiting family, it just didn’t seem feasible.  For those of you wondering, Daylight Saving Time in Europe falls about two weeks after the United States, and if you think going to work on Monday was bad after the time change, then you don’t want to ever have it fall on a holiday. 

We served grilled leg of lamb, and in typical Christophe style, he fashioned a skewer at the last minute so he could roast the thing on the bar-be-que; the darn hard boiled eggs, that no matter what I tried would not peel, and a carrot cake, that I must admit, was amazing.  It all ended well, albeit certain frustrations (see the egg comment above) and the sun even came out for a while.  It was a good day, and symbolized for us the end of one season and the start of another. Now we can focus on spring work, such as planting, tilling, endless weeding, and cleaning up the garden. 

That's It?

Forget the hail tapping on my window and the rolling grey clouds clapping thunder, I’m thinking spring!  This little baby just popped its head up over the weekend.  I seeded it, along with 50 others, last week.  We’ve got tomatoes growing, and all different kinds.  It’s a small compensation for Christophe's comment, “You seeded 50, that’s it?”

“Just for now,” I smirked.  “The rest of the plants will be started in the greenhouse later this month.”  (Back at you; head whip and cocky grin.  Why?  Because he’ll be planting them and then we’ll see about that “only 50” comment.)

False Spring Hopes

This poor bloom doesn't stand a chance.  I guarantee winter will be back by next week.

It’s not quite Groundhog’s Day, but the weather today is already having everyone think about spring.  (For those not familiar with Groundhog’s Day, it’s an unofficial holiday in the United States where we pull a groundhog out of its burrow to determine if there are 6 or 8 more weeks of winter left.  A bit barbaric, and maybe not too smart since we’re disturbing a hibernating animal, but it’s done anyways.)  

It’s close to 60 degree F today, and while I was working in the garden this morning, I heard many others out and about.  The weather is odd here; one day it’s winter and I’m huddled before the heater, and the next day has me grabbing a rake and wanting to spend my time outside.  I’m weary though.  I’ve seen it before; the flowers start to bloom and bam!, winter comes backs bringing Siberian winds and blowing snow.  Those earlier blooms don’t even have a chance.  So, as we wait for the reality check that it is still technically January, I’ll take advantage of the weather and see if I can make that goal of getting the garden cleaned before Thanksgiving, Christmas, the end of winter.  I have a few more weeks, right?  

The End of the Extended Vacation

 

Notes on the end of Christmas vacation and the return to reality.

I have reluctantly gotten back into the swing of things.  I should, I tell myself.  After all, it is the end of January and vacation ended two weeks ago.  I like blogging, it’s not that.  I was just hoping to have some mind blowing revelation to share; I don’t.  Coming back to Southern France was hard; it is every year.  I’m generally grouchy for the first week or two.  I need to time adjust: our rhythm, the weather, the house.  In the kitchen, I’m always bumping into Christophe; by American standards, our kitchen is small.  I quickly adjusted to the large kitchens of my family and friends.  Now, at home, I cannot warm up soup without getting bumped and jostled and finding myself in some kind of tangle.  The house needs time to warm up too.  Taking the chill out of the three feet thick stone walls doesn’t happen overnight.  Starting the wood heater; bringing in wood; hanging up the laundry – the daily chores of life have returned with no promise of a candy cane or twinkling lights afterwards.  I’d love to be distracted by winter sports, but alas, there is none here; there’s not enough snow and way too much wind.  So, I’m focusing on spring – and maybe keeping the house clean.  I don’t make New Year’s resolutions, but I’m still try to better myself and my life by doing what some people manage to do all the time.  That said, I’ve got laundry to be folded, a sink full of dishes waiting for my attention, a two week old copy of The New York Times I still haven’t finished (but I won’t recycle it until I do), and presents that I have not found space to organize yet.  Yep, I’m off to a great start.

Why Never to Plant a Fig Tree by the Front Door

The fig tree was here long before we were, and while we love it, there is a 2-3 week span when we regret having it so close to the house.  Here are a few reasons:



Reason 1

 

Reason 2



Reasons 3 and 4



Reason 5

You get the picture.

As you can see, ripe figs fall and decorate our walk like confetti decorates a bar room floor on New Year’s Day.  They’re everywhere and navigating past them without stepping on one, which would send us sliding to the ground in a heartbeat, is like navigating through a landmine.  The overly ripe fruit draws the attention of every bee, wasp, and hornet in the area and they create a deafening sound as they feast on the fallen fruit.  Each morning, we clean up a new batch of fallen figs, wash down the walk, and then the tree sadistically drops more fruit as we turn our back and haul the bucket full of rotten figs to the compost.  I wish there was smell-o-vision because there is a particular odor that I just cannot completely describe.  Yes, it’s the smell of ripe and rotting fruit, but it makes me think of hard cider and what the inside of a brewery smells like.

There you go- fig season.  Not my favorite, but the season will quickly pass and then we’ll have – winter.

It’s closer than you think.

Morning Coffee

The garden.

This is where I had my morning coffee.  The sun had not yet pasted the mountain crest so it was cool outside.  I say “cool”, but that’s all relative.  It was only about 80 degrees (F).  I was the only person out and enjoyed the temporary solitude.  Even the birds were silent, except for a neighboring rooster, but he crows at all hours of the day.

I’m preparing for a hot day; August is making its presence clear: hot and bone dry.  While we are still reaping the benefits of the garden, I’m thinking ahead to fall and a welcomed change in the weather.

Why does all of France vacation at the same time?

It’s that time again: the whole of France is on vacation.  Northern France is facing rains and record chills, while we in the South have had endless days of sunshine without a hint of precipitation.  You know what that means?  That’s right, all of France is here along with the thousands of RVs, camping hitches, and overflowing mini vans they drive.   France, along with Belgium, The Netherlands, Germany, and England (Hey, not everyone wants to be right next door to the Olympics). Camping is hugely popular and I often find myself behind an RV moving so slowly that traffic builds for a mile behind it.  I’m convinced those in the South stay put during the summer holidays and quietly sneak away during the off season.  Until then, they lay low in their gardens and only venture out early in the mornings when everyone else is still sleeping.  It works; I was a beach at 9 in the morning and only four people were there.  I had a swim, but didn’t have to worry about someone walking off with my beach towel because they were all in the water with me.  When I left a noon, the cars were starting to stream into the parking lot filled with parents toting everything from floaties to boogie boards and excited kids lubed head to toe in SPF 50.

Vacations are great.  I have wonderful memories of the beaches in Southern Michigan with my family.  Our neighborhood was a revolving door of who is watering whose plants and taking in the mail.  Sometime by mid-August, most everyone was back and the neighborhood kids swapped stories of where they went and what they did.   I don’t knock the people coming here wanting to create meaningful memories for their children to remember, that’s normal.  What I still have a hard time wrapping my head around is why everyone in France vacations at the same time.  I mean, how many people are welcomed home by dead plants?  Does a neighborhood elect one family to stay back each year to keep an eye on things?   For Pete’s sakes, who is taking in all this mail?