The Peach Blossoms

There is a growing pink haze starting to take over the barren fields: peach blossoms.  These early bloomers often follow almond and apricot trees which have already started to flower, but are predecessors to other local fruits, such as cherries, apples, and plums.  The region is full of orchards, particularly peach orchards, and their glowing pink hues are a welcomes sight as a countdown to the official first day of spring.

La Bise

The kiss or la bisous.

It’s about as awkward as a moment can get for a foreigner in France: la bise (pronounced BEEZ) or the kiss.  Well, it’s not really a kiss, it more of a little cheek to cheek embrace accompanied by a small kissing sound that says hello, and everyone uses it.  It’s replaces the good ole American handshake or hearty pat on the back.  It’s not sexually, but crosses a line of personal space we Americans have drawn for ourselves and places us in a world where physically personal greetings are the norm.  It takes some getting used to and is, at times, complicated.

 La bise is used all over France and depending on the geographic location, the number of “kisses” can vary.  The trick is knowing the number.  For example, in Paris, la bise is two; one on the left cheek and one on the right.  La bise in Toulouse is four, Provence it is three, and where I live, two.  This does presents some problems.  Christophe grew up with the “3 kiss bise”, so naturally, I followed suit.  When greeting friends who have a “2 kiss bise” there is always an awkward moment between the second and third bise.  Do we kiss again, or do we stop there?  There’s generally a pause and a comment, “oh that’s right, you do three” and then an uncomfortable third kiss arrives before we can move on with a discussion.  Other times, I’ve stopped at two, but that always add confusion when we leave (which is also accompanied by a bise and follows the same rules) or the next time we see each other again.  It’s a predicament.

What do I do?  After flipping back and forth and having too many cumbersome kisses brush my check as I’ve stared to speak, I’ve decided to stick to my guns and follow the “3 kiss bise”.  I’ve taken charge of the situation, got over the awkwardness and made the third kiss mandatory.  I sometimes get a look, but then I give nod, a sturdy pat on the back, and a firm American handshake.  Then, we just move on to the conversation.

Cheese: Brie

Paris: paradise for Brie cheese.  Brie gets its name from the region of Brie, which is situated just east of Paris.  The different types of Brie get their name from their origins of production, such as the cities of Meaux or Melun; however, it is also produced in Germany, England, Canada, and the United States.

Brie can be made from both pasteurized and unpasteurized cows’ milk.  It is a soft rind cheese, covered by a fine, eatable mold and characteristically is mild, aromatic, and lightly acidic. Both the brie de Meaux and the brie de Melun carry the  l'appellation d'origine contrôlé (AOC) label which means the brie must be made within those territorial limits to carry the name.

Brie has unclear origins; however, was considered a favorite by Charlemagne, nobles, and royalty. It was so popular within dignified circles that in 1815, the Congress of Vienna officially recognized brie as the roi de fromages or king of cheeses.  The brie de Meaux was ordained Prince des fromages et premier des desserts (prince of cheeses and the first of desserts).  Popular among all social classes, it was said that, “Brie, liked by the rich and the poor; preached the equality that we never imagined possible” (1793).

Seedlings

Spring is arriving, albeit, slowly, and it has gotten me in the spirit of thinking about the garden.  Every year, I get excited about the potential of what can be, and get lost a little bit in fantasy of a super lush garden with overflowing bounty.  I start out strong, but often lose steam somewhere in the process of weeding and vow to myself the next year will be different.  So, here I am, the next year, and I’m looking at my seedlings to give me a jolt of enthusiasm.

Last night I seeded 40 pots of tomatoes and hot peppers.  This is the most I’ve done; we get most of our garden from a neighbor who has such a green thumb she can make plants live just by willing it.  She seeds everything and has moved from numerous hot boxes on the ground to a full blown greenhouse.  It is her passion and her air of making it look so easy that has encouraged me to seed what I can. 

So, here I am, without a greenhouse and weather that is too cold to use my single hot box, and I have 40 pots of dirt sitting on trays in my living room.  I wish I could say I’ve got a set up in the basement with growing light, but I don’t.  I don’t even have a permanently unoccupied sunny table top to let them grow in peace.  Instead, now starts the 2 month run of me chasing sunlight around the house with trays of dirt in hopes some plants will appear.  I know, this is an idea that seems absolutely ridiculous when sitting in a bright sunny house build to maximize sun exposure, the problem is, I’m not in that house.  I’m in an old Catalan house in Southern France.  These houses were build centuries ago when windows were small and scarce.  The fewer openings there are to the exterior means less heat loose and exposure to the howling winds.  Our house has had some renovations, but not enough to remove the challenge from this task.

Just like previous years, I take the trays from room to room following the sun.  If it’s warm enough, I even bring them out to the terrace in the afternoon, I just make they’re back inside before the sun dips behind some clouds.  Don’t get me wrong, I willingly participate in this sunlight marathon, but am happy when the day comes that the seedlings can be permanently transferred outside as they wait to be transplanted into the garden.

Promises Kept

There may still be snow on the mountain peaks, but spring is starting to show its promise. 

…enfin.

Unwelcomed Suprises

I found an old box of bullets in a neglected closet in my house this weekend.  Not kidding.

I’ll first clarify that Christophe does not hunt, so they do not belong to him.  He bought the house 12 years from a widower who left everything in it from dishes to furniture and all stuff in between.  Christophe has sifted through most of it, but a dilapidated built in closet dating from Napoleon’s era was never fully explored.  Its frame and mantel were badly damaged and the left-side door could not be opened without damaging it further.  After long deliberation, Christophe finally decided to remove the heavy oak doors and repair the damages, which ended up being so extend that part of the old frame had to simply be removed and reconstructed.

My task in all this was to clean out the closet once the doors were off.  I had shoved some clothes in there along with things I don’t use often, but over half of the closet was filled with stuff we have never seen before.  Among other things, we found a coffee pot, a butcher’s block, a stack of pans, serving trays, and an odd little box tucked away in the corner.  I froze when I opened it. 

I think my heart skipped a beat as I looked down and found over a dozen hunting bullets nestled in the tiny tin.  We have no idea when they were put there, but the newspaper lining the closet shelves was from 1969.  Gulp, that’s over 40 years ago.  My mind flashed to something about old bullets (or was that dynamite?) being extremely fragile and I acted as if I had a bomb in my hands.  Christophe was less apprehensive than me, and thought they were harmless, but we still had no idea what to do with them. Should we soak them or throw them away?  Could they spontaneously go off if jostled?  Should we tell someone?

I decided to call a friend who hunts and ask him for advice.  Once I rectified my vocabulary error, (“No, no I found bullets, (cartouche) not a gun (carabine) in the closet”) I was reassured they were harmless, but was told to put them in a safe place until he can come over and get them.  I’m thinking about putting them back in the closet.  They passes over 40 peaceful years there, and this way they won’t be staring at me from the kitchen counter as they currently are doing.  Who knows, maybe that is how they got in the closet in the first place.

Time

I have to admit, I’m a bit tense about time.  Not just time as in, “I wish I had more” or “Is it already Friday?”, but as in being on time.  I do not hate being late; I am actually scared of it.

I have memories of worrying about getting to school on time and arriving at my job astronomically early.  My stomach still ties itself in knots if I’m late, and this makes me a horribly nervous traveler.

Growing up, my family was painfully on time.  My father would wait for us in a running car and threaten to leave without us if we weren’t in it when it was time to go.  Perhaps this is the root of my stress, but I’m not going to over analyze my childhood.  Who would? 

As a young adult, I dealt with this stress the same way I did as an adolescent; I arrived early for everything and then waited.  I calmly flipped through magazines, looked out the window, or just sat there.  I felt serenity in knowing wherever I was going, or whoever I was meeting, I was keeping up my part of the bargain of being there when I said I would.  Then, I moved to Southern France and my calm, my Zen, my how-to deal with not being late was thrown out the window.  No one, and I really mean no one, is on time.

Sadly, Christophe is as guilty of this as any other Southern Frenchman.  He is late for most everything, at least the way I see it.  The term “2-ish” is not 2 to 2:15 as I define it, but rather sometime before 3, or maybe 3:15 or perhaps later.  When we’re invited to lunch, he says it’s considered impolite to arrive on time in Southern France.  “You want to give the host time to prepare”, he says.  My stomach is knotting up just thinking about this.

He knows I stress, and he tried to reassure me that this is normal here.  No one is going to start the aperitif, let alone drive off without me, but I still can’t help it.  I have a need to be on time if not early.  But, time is different in France, at least the southern part of it anyways.  Apparently, there is an abundance of time here, so there is no need to arrive early and no need to stress; however, I am clearly the only one not aware of it.