Pecking Order

View of the fig tree from the kitchen window.

I’m currently fascinated with the fig tree in front of our house, not because I like figs, but because of the commotion that is going on inside of it.  We’re in a draught.  The ground is dry and there are minimal bugs for the birds to eat which means they are looking for any food they can get their beaks into.  Currently, they are attacking the figs.

The other morning over coffee, I was startled to find three enormous blue jays in the fig tree that stands just outside the window.  They were squawking so loudly I couldn’t hear Christophe across the table from me.  They were pecking their way through all the ripe or semi-ripe figs on and chased all the other birds away until they had their fill.  It wasn’t until they were decidedly finished that the smaller birds arrived, peaking away at the open figs the jays had left behind.  It was like a choreographed scene: the jays exited stage right and the smaller birds made their entrance on cue.  There were some occasional flutters, but overall the smaller birds ate together peacefully, sometimes 15 at a time.  By late morning when the sun hit the tree, all the birds were gone, ducking for cover somewhere in the shade, leaving behind bits of fig on the ground for us to clean up.

This morning, the tree was calm.  The jays are gone and all the ripe figs have been eaten.  I thought it was a blessing because while watching the fluttery commotion is entertaining, cleaning up after the birds and half eaten figs is not.  That’s what I thought until I entered the garden; the jays have moved onto our tomatoes.

What the jays leave behind.

Pleasure of the Season: Waiting for the First Tomato

“Pleasures of the Season” is a series of posts which appear from time to time.  They focus on something special that occurs only seasonally, often fleeting, and something we anticipate.  The posts are sometimes food related, sometimes not, but highlight moments of what I’ve learned about living with the seasons since moving to Southern France.

Alright, I might be jumping the gun on this, but the pleasure of the season this moment is the first tomato.  This is a Black Prince and it a purple tomato variety, so it will magenta-purple when fully ripe.

Outside of herbs and berries, the garden has not yet produced anything, but I’m watching and waiting.  We have over 60 tomato plants this year, all started from seed.  We have a rough idea of what type of tomatoes we have, but we found a few surprises after planting.  We tried to save the garden terrace with the richer soil for the larger tomatoes, but discovered they got mixed up with some smaller varieties as seedlings.  Hence, I think we’ll have some hardy Gardener’s Delight (normally the size of cherry tomatoes), and perhaps some dwarfed Beef Steak.  The full low down will come when the results are in.

So, we wait for the first tomato to finish ripening.  Both Christophe and I have already plotted what to do with it, so its demise depends who gets to it first.

Fire!

I’m dealing with something I never had to while in Chicago: forest fires.  I’m used to snow storms, tornadoes, and even hail, but a burning fire was always something far away I observed on the news – until now.  Over the past month, there have been at least 4 considerable fires not far from where we live.  On Saturday, one burned within the limits of the community and over 200 hectares or 450 acres burned.  We witnessed the billing mountains of smoke fill the sky from our front door.

Fires are not uncommon for the region, but given the extreme draught like conditions we’ve been having this year, they are popping up everywhere.  One stopped at the gate of a friend’s garden after it had jumped 4 lanes of traffic.  We just got news that a large highway near Montpellier, the A9, has been closed down due to a fire, and two large fires are still burning south of us on the Spanish border.  From the highway, we can see the aftermath: scorched land and devastated fields.  Whole orchards have been destroyed.

In 2005, high winds and dry weather fueled a fire that burned for a week and consumed over 5,000 acres of land just a few miles away.  If the fire wasn’t stopped before it reached a neighboring crest, Christophe is convinced the village would have become a casualty too.  On a positive note, the French firefighters are known for being extraordinarily good and are trained for mountainous terrains.  Their planes have been flying non-stop overhead and we can see their water bombardiers descend as they fill up at a nearby lake.  It’s quite a spectacle, but not in a good way.  Les incendies, or forest fires, is the topic on everyone’s tongues and worries.

Each place has its natural catastrophes, but this is a new one for me, and I’ve decided I don’t like it.  I’ll take a tornado over this any day.

Who is Thomas Voeckler?

I’m not a big Tour de France fan.  Yes, I acknowledge it is a huge athletic feat, and when I am forced to watch it, it does show some fantastic countryside and architecture, but it doesn’t hold that spark for me.  It’s missing the flash of Michael Jordan or the likeability of Walter Payton.  I was disappointed when I discovered it was a team sport.  I always imaged every man for himself and the first one over the finish line is the winner.  It’s not like that; it just keeps going on and on, and even though I’ve tried, it’s just a letdown for me.

Now, along comes this cyclist, Thomas Voeckler, who is the sweetheart of the nation.   I say “along comes”, but he’s been around for quite some time. He won the French National Road Race Championship two times, Grand Prix Cycliste de Québec, and is one of the most predominate French cyclist.  In the 2004 Tour de France, he wore the maillot jaune or yellow jersey for 10 days; placed 4^th in the 2011 Tour; and even stopped to hug his wife and children in the midst of a sprint.  So far, he has worn the polka dotted jersey, signaling the best climber, twice and all point to him wearing it until end of the race on Sunday. 

There is a daily recap after the race which partially focuses on the cyclist’s candid moments.  Last night, Tomas Voeckler’s young son explained how he liked the polka dotes on his father’s jersey and wears one like him.  He wanted to keep the jersey, but Thomas had to explain he might need to give it to someone else if they earn the title.  Then, he signed, exhausted, and told his son he’ll try his best to keep it for him.  There is something likeable about this guy.

I still don’t get all the classifications or points earned (Did you know they earn points?), but something enjoyable has come out of this year’s race for me.  There’s a human side to the glossy helmets and mirrored glasses whizzing by.  There appears to be humor, grace, and a very likeable person.  Who is Thomas Voeckler?  Apparently, the person who might make me like watching the Tour de France.

A Lesson in Geography - Via My Plate

One thing that bothers Christophe is when I jump up at the end of the meal and insist on taking a photo of the cheese he is about to open.  “You’ve had all the time in the world to take this photo, why do you always wait until the last minute?”  He complains.  I can’t blame him; leaving him with a slice of bread in hand and a knife in the other is not exactly the most intelligent thing to do.  But, very few people get away with what I do, so I take this moment as a won challenge.

When he finally gets his cheese back, Christophe dives into it: Tomme de Savoie.  Learning about French cheeses is like a geography lesson.  It’s more than seeing where they are on the map; it’s about learning the terrain.  For example, when I ask if Tomme de Savoie is made from cows’ milk, I get a “bien sûr”, as if I had just asked if the Earth spins. 

“Why, bien sûr?”  I ask.  “What is so certain about that?” 

And that is where the geography lesson starts.

Savoy or Savoie is located in the Rhône-Alpes, or the South-West region of France, right next to Italy.  It has a complex climate; it can have lots of perturbations; hot summers and cold winters, or even areas called Mediterranean climates (hot, dry summers).  This is the French Alps, so it’s mountainous, and with the high cliffs comes the plunging green valleys.  Clearly, there is a logic and the origins of Tomme de Savoie, and like most cheeses, reflect the humble beginning of the peasants who live in the region centuries ago.  They had cows, which were suited for the land, and thus their cheese was made from their milk.  A little like not seeing the forest through the trees, I didn’t see what was obvious.

It’s a good lesson in logic once the terrain is better known.  I know oranges don’t come from Maine and wheat isn’t grown in Arizona.  Not all French would be so confident in that statement, but they do know their own country and what comes from where.  This lesson is learned at the dinner table, from the Alsacian wines to the Southern fruits to the territorial cheeses.  France is small compared to the United States, but it is comprised of lots of various climates that change dramatically from one mile to the next.  The local products reflect the land and knowing what’s going on climatically and geographically helps one see why certain products are produced where they are.  Once the connection is made, reason kicks in and bien sûr, of course Tomme de Savoie is made with cow’s milk.  It couldn’t be made with anything else.

Do Fences Really Make Good Neighbors?

Do Fences Really Make Good Neighbors?

In theory, yes, but what do you do when someone doesn’t respect the fence?

French people love their fences.  It was one of the first things that struck me.  Each yard, no matter the size, is surrounded by a fence.  Most often, the fence is made of painted over cinder blocks or an occasional hedge, but in almost all situations, properties are enclosed in one form or another.  We live in the country, and our property is no exception to the rule, but animal fencing is used instead.  It’s a little less intrusive to the eye; the countryside is not squared off by towering cement walls.  There is a practical side to it too; it’s used to keep the local livestock from destroying the garden, or stepping on the septic tank, which has happened before.

Fences are constructed to delegate property lines and avoid disputes that erupt into larger incidents. France is small compared to the United States, and once someone becomes a property owner, it is defended fiercely.  Everyone wants their place to call their own, which could explain why fences are so abundant.  What is mine is mine, and what is yours is yours.  But, what happens when someone doesn’t respect the fence?  What happens when someone says, what is yours is mine too?

We have that in the village, and I can honestly say it can spoil everything that is good about this place. Christophe tells me every village, every town, and every neighborhood city has the bad apple that thinks that; that takes himself for the king of the land.  It doesn’t change the aggravation of the situation, but what the hell?  How high do the walls need to be built before someone realizes he is not allowed to cross them?  

Fences are only as good as the people who respect them, so if the respect is not there, a fence is useless.  One needs to build respect instead of walls; then, fences would not be needed and an unobstructed view of what lies ahead of us can be seen: a peaceful life.

A (very) brief history of Bastille Day

The Storming of the Bastille, by Jean-Pierre Houël

Often compared to the United States’ 4^th of July, France will be celebrating Bastille Day this weekend.  I never really had a clear foundation of the holiday, expect that I knew it celebrated the storming of the Bastille, a fortress like prison and was the beginning of the French Revolution.  Given that my ignorance is probably not a minority, and that since I’m living in France and should have a better idea of La Fête Nationale, I found a few things that might make one sound a little less dumb the next time the subject is broached:

·         Before the French Revolution, France had The Ancien Regime system.  This means the population was broken into three “estates” or classes: The First Estate was the Roman Catholic clergy; the Second Estate was the nobility and the government, including the King and his court; the Third Estate was the rest of the population.  They were poor and had little to no chance of changing their estate.  One’s estate was determined by birth, not by skill.

·         The Third Estate paid heavy taxes to the nobility, who was supposed to pass the majority of them onto the King, but did not.  The peasants, who lived off their land, had growing difficulties and could not afford the rising cost of flour.  Bread being a major source of nutrition, people were left starving to death because the could not buy flour.

·         King Lous XVI, the king at the time, was a strong supporter of the American Revolution and created a large navy militia in hopes of crushing England.  (Basically, the French and English did not get along at all during this time.) After sending troops and developing a large maritime force, his financial resources were nil.

·         Trying to bring things back in line economically, Louis XVI tried to levy a tax against the nobles, who fought and won thanks to some support by the Third Estate.  Then, the King tried to get parliament in Grenoble to pass an okay for a large loan; he was denied.  The parliament was fired and they protested.  The King sent his troops in who were greeted with flying roof tiles and the event was called journee de tuiles or the Day of the Tiles.  The parliamentarians won and openly refused to pay the King’s taxes anymore and encouraged representatives from others regions to do the same.

·         At this time, there was a meeting of all three estates.  At first, the Third estate (the poor) thought they would get equal vote, but they were duped by the King.  They decided to revolt against his new call for taxes levied only against them.  They revolted and called for the nobility and clergy to join them.  The King left the meeting disgraced.

·         The newly formed delegation decided to meet in another part of building, the tennis courts, and decided to write France a constitution.  The King opposed this, but had not choice to acknowledge the authority of the assembly, which renamed itself the National Constituent Assembly on July 9^th, 1789.

·         The King was obliged to admit his defeat.  On July 13^th in Paris, a rumor spread that the King’s army was going to attack the newly proclaimed parliamentarians.  On July 14^th, a group of craftsmen decided to fight back.  They stole 28,000 rifles but found no gun powder. The gun powder was stocked at the Bastille, so they decided to attack it.  The revolting crowd was small and did not impress the guards, but the guards decided to meet with some representatives in hopes of preventing a full out revolt.  It was also done to buy time for new troops who were scheduled to arrive and squash the revolt.

·         The revolutionaries began to storm the prison and the guards were forced to fire upon them, killing hundreds of people.

·        The new troops arrived and did not support the guards; instead, they fought with the revolutionist.

·         The King was forced to give up power and was later executed by guillotine (1793) along with his family, including his children and wife Marie-Antoinette.

Therefore, the storming of the Bastille was symbolic for the French people as a victory against the Monarchy.  It continues to get complicated after that, such as the formation of the new government, the signing of a Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen, a war with Austria, and eventually spatting between Founders Robespierre and Lafayette.  France became a Republic on September 21^st, 1792.

I’m in the Weeds!



Can you find the tomato plant in this photo?



It’s almost mid-summer, and like many people who aren’t at the beach on vacation, I’ve got my head in the garden, more specifically,I've got my head in the weeds.  No matter how hard we try or no matter our good intentions, the weeds seem to get the best of us.  We’ve moved from “control” mode to “all out defense”.  I turn my back after weeding the tomatoes and they pop back up again like I’ve never been there.  It’s an all-out battle as we wait and hope for the first tomato to ripen without being strangled by the invasive intruders.  But, this is not new, we do this game every year and every year we promise not to let it get out of control.  I wonder when we will learn. 

Shoot!  I’ve turned my back on the onions again; I must get back to them before the weeds try to take me down too. 

I swear I just weeded the onions.

Montpellier’s new hôtel de ville

Last weekend we traveled to Montpellier for a wedding.  Since all wedding are required to first be civil, it was held in the new hôtel de ville or city hall.  Designed by the most celebrated architect in France, Jean Nouvel and collaborator, François Fontès it opened in November 2011.  It is known as the “blue cube” and symbolisms the city growth east towards the Mediterranean Sea.

Seeing the building itself its, well, a bit shocking.  It’s dark, blocky, and seems to lack the grace of someone of city’s other buildings. It’s part of a 9 hectare project that is to include a 10 acre public park filled with walking and biking paths and 6,000 square feet for stores and cafés.  Currently, the building stands alone and the surrounding work is still under construction so it has a stark, cold look.  This is amplified after passing old buildings sitting behind well-developed plantain trees.  But, I’ve got to admit, my opinions of it changed once inside.  Its cement, glass, and stone elements appeared unburdened by their weight and opened up to large terraces over flowing water.  It transcended its square form by mingling open air passages that zig-zagged across the space.  I no longer felt I was in an ancient city in Southern France, but suddenly felt a ping of homesickness as it reminded me of the overpowering feeling a skyscraper in Chicago can give me; the rush of air, the view, the heights in which we can build and create and move past what we think something is and what something can truly be.

A wedding is a union of two people, sometimes quite different from one another, but a promise to stick together, make things work, and build a future together.  Montpellier’s new hôtel de ville must have taken a page out of that book because it delivers on all those promises. It is built to work with the old architecture, grow with the city, and meet the needs of its citizens.  It represents a marriage in all what it should be, and for that I truly enjoyed it.

Two views from an outdoor terrance.



Garden Enemy No. 1

It’s not to occasional mouse that sneaks away with a strawberry now and then; it’s not the burrowing mole unearthing the potatoes before their time; it’s not the neighbor’s cat that sneaks into the garden at night, twirling up twine and rolling in the dirt as if it’s been sprinkled with catnip; garden enemy number 1 is this thing:

The white worm.

It can make a plant go from looking like this:

To looking like this:

The transformation is almost overnight.  It eats the plant’s roots, so as we mindfully tend to the plant above, the beast is destroying it from below and we are completely unaware of it until it’s too late.

Christophe’s plight against this intruder is well documented amongst friends.  He once was spotted carefully hunting a worm that has made its way down a row of lettuce.  When he finally excavated the critter, it was green and as fat as a finger.  Christophe’s triumphantly crushed it on some stones.  He still recounts the incident like an old war story – with a glim in his eye knowing the enemy has been vanquished.

During planting season, I ran across quite a few, all who meet their dome in a similar fashion.  I can share a berry or two, but a whole plant is a bit too greedy.    

Happy 4th!

Why is it when I say happy 4^th everyone here looks at me and says, “No, not the 4^th, the 14^th”?

I’ll be searching for some sparklers today and plan to run through the sprinkler.  My head is filled with memories: parades, candy, and the Jesse White Tumblers (who you should really check out).

Happy 4^th of July everyone!  I’ll be decorating my bike with streamers and honking its horn all day through the village in celebration.

Running Hot

There’s been a revolution in this 600 year old house we call home, something that it’s never seen before, something that most everyone takes for granted.  We got used to living without it, but its presence is something we quickly adapted to: hot water in the kitchen.  That’s right, for the entire existence of this house, including the six years I’ve lived here, there has been no running hot water in the kitchen.  That all changed this last week.  Thanks to the hard work of a dear friend, we are no longer obliged to get hot water from the bathroom to do the dishes.  Well, in the summer that is; in the winter we heated water in a kettle on the wood heater.

You might ask how one accepts that, from living with modern convinces to stepping back a few generations in simplicity.  I don’t have an easy answer.  It’s something one gets used, something we would think about fixing, and then something that would get bounced back farther down on the ‘To Do” list.  The project was always there in front of us, but there were obstacles.  The stone sink is small and shallow and the window above it ruled out most facets.  It was our friend, not us, who eventually found two possible fits after searching one of France’s largest metropolitans; both options were found in a specialty shop known mostly only to professionals.

New pipes were fitted and old ones removed, revealing a few surprises.  Once again, nothing “standard” was found and pipe locations had to be moved to place the hot water logically on the left side.  A new spigot was formed to fit the shallow sink and pipes were meticulously checked and rechecked to make sure they were level.  It was more than a job well done; it was something that removed one of the funky quirks of the house – the explanation to those who visited there is an amendment to the manual.  It made things more normal; at least as normal as anything in this house can get.

Even though we live in a house that is older than the United States, I have been given back a bit of modernity and a chance to have “been there, done that” and come out on the other side more grateful for the little things I have.

Now, if the dishes only washed themselves.... yes, that would be something.  What’s that you say?  There is something called a dishwasher?  I’ll have to check into that.