May Memoir: Ca va? Stories from Rural Life in Southern France, Chapter 15: Noel

Welcome to May MEMOIR!

Day 16

For the entire month of May, I'll be sharing part of each chapter from my memoir, Ca va?  Stories from Rural Life in Southern France.

My first Christmas in France was interesting. We went to Montpellier and spent time with Christophe’s family. I learned a lot about the importance of the French Nativity scene along with the gastronomic pleasures of the traditional 13 desserts.  Most often, Christmas is celebrated on the 24^th, so I’ll start you where we arrive at his aunt’s house for dinner.

Chapter 15: Noel

            The dinner is relaxed as the courses are served with a leisurely lag time between each, and I notice a Nativity in the corner.  Before the main course is served, I get up for a closer inspection and notice something odd: in addition to the shepherds and the wise men, there is a range of people in the Nativity that I have never seen before.

Christophe notices my interest and explains, “In addition to the Nativity seen at the Church, many families have their own, but it’s generally quite different.  See that woman there?”  He says pointing to a figurine in a skirt carrying a basket full of laundry.  “She’s the lavandière.  Her job is to wash the clothes; she’s in all the Nativity scenes in the Provence region.  This man here is the knife sharpener.  Often, jobs like these that no longer exist are represented in addition to modern day ones we still have.  For example, that person, with the blue, white, and red sash, is the mayor; he is in almost all the homes too.  There is the hermit and there is the Ravi”.

“The Ravi?”  I ask looking at a figure whose arms are thrown into the air.

“A person of simple spirit who is in awe of Jesus”, Christophe explains.  “He is there to present the idea that Jesus resembles everyone.”

It is curious to see these people in the Nativity as he continues, “Many of these people represent careers that were important to the region at one time or another, and these ‘saints’ as they are called, are in proximity to Jesus according to their importance”.

Christophe continues his explanation as dinner arrives, so we return to the table.

“It’s the job of the youngest member of the family to put Jesus in the manger on the 25^th, and the wise men don’t arrive until the Epiphany on January 6^th.  Children are allowed to advance them inch by inch after Christmas.  It’s quite interactive”, he says.

“When Christophe was a child, he never thought we had enough sheep in the Nativity”, his mother explains.  “So we had to go out and buy more sheep.”

“That’s a little foreboding to his later interests”, I say.

“Happily, he didn’t feel that way about the camels”, she adds as the table laughs.

After dinner, the dessert arrives.  It is large platter containing 13 different desserts.  

“This is traditional”, his aunt explains.  “There are 13 desserts that represent Jesus and the 12 apostles.  Within the 13 desserts, there needs to be the 4 Mendiants.  Those are dried figs, almonds, walnuts, and dried grapes; these represent different religious orders: the Dominicans, Franciscans, the Carmelites, and Augustans.  Thirteen desserts are the minimum, but often we have more, and of course, we have la pompe a huile”.

I look at the platter; it is stunning.  There are various nougats and fruits which circle the pompe a huile.  The colors are joyous and natural and the forms are round and organic.  It is quite different from the traditional Christmas cookies I know and represent a whole new palette of flavors.  Gone is the sugary sweet red and green icing thicker than the sugar cookie it sits upon, and in return, I am gifted with a vast array of complex flavors in various textures.  The earthly walnuts blend effortlessly with the smooth nougat and when followed by the sharp tartness of a mandarin orange, I am left with wanting to taste a rustic biscuit hinted with honey and lavender to end on a sweet note.  It is a beautifully orchestrated piece that creates a joyous and emotional end to a meal. 

May Memoir: Ca va? Stories from Rural Life in Southern France, Chapter 14: Les Poeles

Remember this important detail: when a poele is cracked, it smokes!

Welcome to May MEMOIR!

Day 15

For the entire month of May, I'll be sharing part of each chapter from my memoir, Ca va?  Stories from Rural Life in Southern France.

Now that we’ve collected all the wood needed, we decided it’s time to get a wood heater, or poele.  A friend loaned us one, but we quickly found out it wasn’t the gift we hoped it would be.

Chapter 14: Les Poeles

That Friday night, Christophe arrives home with the poele in his truck.  I’m excited to see it, so I step outside when I hear him arrive.  He has a skeptical look on his face.

“What is it?”  I ask.

“I don’t know what condition this poele is in,” he says.

“What’s the matter?”

“Let’s get it in the living room and we’ll take a closer at look at it,” he says.

We both take one end of the stove size metal box and easily lift it from the truck.

“It’s aluminum,” Christophe says.  “And that’s not good for heating.”

We quickly maneuver it through the house and place it in the living room.  We step back and look at it.  It’s hideous.  It’s faded red and white façade has rusted dents and it tilts to one side because it’s missing one leg.  Christophe opens the door and look inside.  He then shakes his head.

“This wasn’t worth bringing into the house,” he says.

“Why?” I ask a bit disappointed.

“The inside,” he says.  “It’s where we put the wood.  It’s broken to pieces.  If the seal isn’t perfect the poele won’t work, all it will do is send smoke throughout the house.  We’ll have to find another solution.”

“Do you have any ideas?”  I ask.

“Not at the moment,” he pauses.  “But we’ll find one,” he continues trying to bring up my spirits.

            The next morning, we load the broken heater back into Christophe’s truck to take to the dump.  Chantal sees us from her window and comes outside to say hello.

            “What’s that?”  She asks.

            “Claude’s broken heater,” says Christophe.  “He gave it to us, but it’s worthless.  We’re taking it to the dump.”

            “If you need a poele, why don’t you use the one I have in my basement?”  Chantal asks.

            We both look at Chantal and our jaws drop.

            “You have an extra poele?”  Christophe asks.

            “It’s the one I used when I lived in the old farm house.  This apartment already had one installed, so I don’t need it.”

            “Yes!  Let’s take a look at it.  Where is it?”  Christophe asks excitedly.

            “In my basement,” Chantal says while walking back to her apartment with Christophe.

            A few minutes later, Christophe emerges with the heater on his shoulder.  It’s smaller than Claude’s poele, but it looks to be in much better condition.

            “Use it as long as you want,” Chantal says.

            We are both ecstatic with this unexpected gift that has fallen in our laps.  Christophe stands back and looks at it proudly.  Then, he opens it to see the wood foyer, and his look changes.

            “Chantal, has this poele been cracked?”  He asks.

            “Just a little bit,” she says.  “But I repaired it.”

            Christophe tries to hide his disappointment, but I can tell by how he’s cocking his eyebrow this is not good.  He puts on a front and thanks Chantal and carries the heater into the house.

            “It’s been cracked and repaired a few times,” he tells me once inside.  “But, it’s better than Claude’s, so it’ll do for now.”

May Memoir: Ca va? Stories from Rural Life in Southern France, Chapter 13: An Evening Walk

Welcome to May MEMOIR!

Day 14

For the entire month of May, I'll be sharing part of each chapter from my memoir, Ca va?  Stories from Rural Life in Southern France.

Tired of having all our weekends taken up by collecting wood, Christophe and I decided to collect some wood in the evening so that we would have more time for others things.  We set a spot where I was to meet him on his way home from work.  At first, I thought venturing out into the evening would be fun, but I guess I let my imagination get the better of me.

Chapter 13: An Evening Walk

The next evening, I prepare to meet Christophe on our predetermined spot on the road.  I’m excited to venture out in the fading light and feel like I’m beginning an expedition into the wilderness.  I’m also hopeful that these evenings will free up our weekends for other activities and perhaps give us some time to visit family this upcoming Christmas.

I put on my coat along with my hat and gloves.  I am about to step out the door when I spot an old flashlight sitting on the fireplace mantel.  I decide to take it just in case and shove it into my pocket as I close the door behind me.

Outside, the air is crisp.  I quickly feel it hit my checks and am happy I have dressed so warmly.  It is very quiet and the sound of my feet walking across the gravel resounds in the square.  I see the light on at Chantal’s and see her through the window preparing dinner.  I can smell the odor of a light fire and see a trickle of smoke leave her chimney.  I continue on my path, and within minutes, I am at the edge of the village.  I pass the last streetlight and the glow from the few houses in the village is quickly no longer visible.  The sun has set, but there is still subtle colors in the sky which permit me to see the road clearly.  I am alone, but happily on my way to meet Christophe.

The road that I have so often walked looks different in the fading light.  The colors fade and distance details are more difficult to distinguish.  I can no longer see the far end of the field I pass, but I know there is a wire fence there and the mountain climbs quickly after it.  My mind wanders as I walk pass the large pine trees and the first curve in the road. In front of me, I can see the lights of the town below and the headlights of moving cars.  I wonder if one of them is Christophe.  Continuing, I examine a large knotty oak tree and the silhouette it creates against the graying sky.  It is much more beautiful and graceful in this light.  Passing it, I look ahead: it is darker than I thought. 

“My eyes just need a moment to adjust”, I think to myself, but then I start to look past the trees.  The sky has almost lost all its color and I am heading into a heavy wooded area.  It’s going to get much darker and the light is fading fast.

I don’t stress, and reach into my pocket and pull out the flashlight I shoved into it earlier.  I turn it on and it illuminates the road in front of me.  I figure I have about 15 more minutes to go before I meet Christophe and think the flashlight was a good idea.

I make it around the next curve and listen to my breathing as I pick up the pace a little.  With my eyes, I follow the spotlight the flashlight makes and occasionally point it into the direction of the woods to get a new image of my familiar surroundings.  I focus the flashlight on one tree after another and notice the few leaves that remain.  A gust of wind picks up and takes some of the leaves into the darkness with it, leaving the trees barer than before.  The familiar setting now looks austere and unwelcoming, and the grace the fading light provided has given way to something much harsher.

   Then, far up the ridge, I hear a faint grunt, a rustle of dry leaves, and then hear a small cascade of rocks fall.  I whip my flashlight around, shining it up the ridge, but I see nothing.  I move it back and forth to see if I can spot something, but the light is too weak and does not penetrate the thick darkness.  I start to panic and illuminate where the rocks have fallen, but nothing can be seen either.  I’m scared I am going to be face to face with a wild boar and all I am armed with is a weak flashlight. 

May Memoir: Ca va? Stories from Rural Life in Southern France, Chapter 12, Thanksgiving

Welcome to May MEMOIR!

Day 13

For the entire month of May, I'll be sharing part of each chapter from my memoir, Ca va?  Stories from Rural Life in Southern France.

I love Thanksgiving.  Perhaps it’s the dishes, the gravy soaked turkey, or just the green light to overindulge, but there is something about it that just makes me happy.  I also love introducing it to French people.  It’s a concept they have difficulty wrapping their heads around because it’s neither religious nor a wartime commemorative, like all of their holidays.  It’s also quite different from their traditional meals, so Christophe does his best to sneak in a French item or two to put our guests more at ease.  By the end of the meal, they get it, and often ask for a wheel barrel to help get them home.

Chapter 12: Thanksgiving

While I have changed my daily routine to fit into a new rhythm of life, one thing has not changed for me since moving here: Thanksgiving.  As I child, it was only a precursor to Christmas, but as an adult, it has become something much more.  The family rituals, traditional dishes, time spent with loved ones, the overeating: I have brought that all with me.  The problem is, I can’t find a whole turkey in November as, after all, Thanksgiving is not a French thing.

My first Thanksgiving with Christophe was not the dinner I had hoped it to be.  We searched in all the grocery stores around for a whole turkey.  None would be available until Christmas, unless we wanted to special order one at a greatly inflated price at a butcher, and we didn’t have that in our budget.  I settled for turkey scallops, which are very thinly sliced turkey breasts.  In France, I more often see scallops than the whole breast, and it seems the thinner they are sliced and the less meat there is, the more expensive they are; a concept that runs against everything American I have learned.

There was no televised football game, no morning parade, and no naps after dinner.  Instead, I picked up a few items that resembled the ingredients in the dishes I knew and we had dinner like always after Christophe got home from work.  Being a Thursday, he was particularly tired and was just looking forward to the weekend.  He tried, knowing this was something special to me, but the holiday was just not the same.  I vowed the next one would be different.

That December, when the turkeys were finally in stock at the grocery stores for Christmas, I bought a whole turkey and put in the freezer for next year.  I was going to have a real turkey with stuffing even if it took me 11 months of preparation.

The following November, I understood what was needed.  Thanksgiving was moved to Saturday to accommodate Christophe works’ schedule, and I persuaded myself that a game of football was not that important.  I had close to a year to familiarize myself with the French equivalent of the ingredients I needed and started to prepare my list.  This year was going to different, better, and more.  Initially, we invited Christophe’s family for dinner, but plans fell through at the last minute and they could not come.  I was disappointed with the news, and was sitting at the kitchen table trying to figure out my next step when someone knocked on the door.

It is Marie!  Our friends Marie and Philippe have a house in the village and decided to come down to Bainat.

“We had a week of vacation, so we decided to drive down last night”, she explains as she enters the kitchen.

“That’s great!  You can eat Thanksgiving with us!”

“Thanksgiving?”  She asks slowly pronouncing the “th”; a sound that does not exist in the French language.  “What is that?  I’ve never eaten that before.”

  “It’s not a recipe; it’s a holiday.  An American holiday and we have a special dinner for it.”

May Memoir: Ca va? Stories from Rural Life in Southern France, Chapter 11: Animals

Welcome to May MEMOIR!

Day 12

For the entire month of May, I'll be sharing part of each chapter from my memoir, Ca va?  Stories from Rural Life in Southern France.

Chapter 11: Animals

            One particularly cold evening, Christophe gets home from work, and opening the door, he stretches out his hand to me and says, “Smell this!”

            Stupidly, I do.  His hand smells like a beast.  I jump back, covering my nose, “What is that?  It smells disgusting.”

            Christophe is beaming.  “There was a boar that ran in front of my truck.  Luckily, I stopped just in time, but it still brushed against by bumper.  It’s now coated in mud.  Come out and look!”

            We both step outside and examine his truck.  He’s right: he’s lucky.  A wild boar in the region weighs up to 150 pounds, and if he had hit it, his truck would have been totaled and he could have been seriously hurt.  All that it left on the truck is mud and some random pieces of fur.

            “I often see them at the side of road on the way home, but this is the closet one ever got to me”, he explains.

            I am a bit stupefied.  I have seen wild animals before, but they are generally much smaller in nature and never that close.  In fact, outside of a friend’s domesticated cat, the animals I saw the most while living in Chicago were rats.  I am quickly brought into the reality of exactly where I am living: in the middle of nowhere.  Correction: in the middle of nowhere surrounded by wild animals.

           

Christophe went on to tell me about one evening when he found a boar in the garden about to turn over all the potatoes.  Needless to say, after this I was a bit apprehensive about running into a boar anytime I stepped outside when it wasn’t broad daylight.  Eventually, I did get over my fear, but it did take some time for me to muster up the courage to go into the garden again.

May Memoir: Ca va? Stories from Rural Life in Southern France, Chapter 10: Collecting Wood

Welcome to May MEMOIR!

Day 11

For the entire month of May, I'll be sharing part of each chapter from my memoir, Ca va?  Stories from Rural Life in Southern France.

One very large difference between my life in Chicago and my life here in Southern France is our house.  It’s not just its age (600 years), or its rich history, but also how it is heated.  There are no radiators or central heating – we heat solely by a chimney and a wood heater.  The winters here are not as brutal as the ones I’ve known back in Chicago, but it can get pretty cold all the same.  To keep both heat sources going in the winter, we need a fair amount of wood, and we have spent many, many weekends going into the forest to collect fallen or dead trees to make it through the season.

Sometimes, this can get a little harry…

  

Chapter 10: Collecting Wood

I step aside as Christophe starts up his chainsaw.  It’s too dangerous to work beside him, so I wait until he is done to start rolling the logs.  Looking at the horizon, I can see Mount Canigou.  Its snow covered peak majestically towers over the mountain range and create a striking image against the blue skies.  The windblown snow from its crest leaves a smear of white against blue as if a planned effect in an oil painting.  From here, it is quiet, but the weather at the summit must be brutal.  This is a mountain that has inspired courage and created consuming fear for centuries.  It is present in every backdrop of life here, and I see why it is sacred to the Catalan people in the region.  It is magnificent.

Christophe finishes cutting the tree and before him lays ten to fifteen 4 feet sections.  Walking back, I look at the pile.  He smiles and says, “There is more here than I thought.  Now, we just need to roll them down.”

“Sounds great”, I say, recharged by the view.

Each log will be pushed so that it rolls down the hill to an anticipated spot about 15 yards in front of us.  Once all the logs are in that location, we’ll descend to them and start the process over.  Looking over the terrain, Christophe points out a tree ahead of us as our first destination point.  He bends down and forces the log forward.  It starts to roll and builds up momentum.  Hitting some rocks, it jumps into the air and then bouncing back down, hits the ground a few times before it rolls to a stop just at the location Christophe has indicated.

“Not bad”, I say smiling, and then take my turn.

I bend down and examine the next log.  It has lost its bark and is slightly faded from the sun.  I push it with all my force; it is much heavier than what I expected.  I get it over a few rocks, but it doesn’t get the momentum it needs.  It slides lengthwise, and comes to a slow stop just a few feet from its starting point.  I look at Christophe and he looks at me.  Then, we both roar with laughter.

We go down and move the log so that is can again be rolled widthwise.  Christophe gives me some advice, “Look ahead at what lies in front of you and try to use it to your advantage.  If you see a small ridge, get the log to it so it will fall right after it and pick up momentum again.  If you see some rocks, roll the log next them to if you don’t have the force to go over them.  Use the terrain to your advantage instead of thinking of it as obstacles.”

Keeping this in mind, I examine what is between me and my destination point.  There is a small ridge and a sharp incline after it.  I take aim, and push.  Once again, the log starts off slow, but this time it keeps straight and picks up some speed.  It launches over the ridge and takes momentary flight.  Crashing down, it continues its descent until it hits the destination tree and stops inches from Christophe’s log.  I feel completely satisfied.

“That is how you throw a log!”  Christophe yells proudly.  I revel in my small victory and then we turn our attention back to our work.  There are at least 10 more logs to go and a dozen more destination points to hit before we reach the road.

We work all morning long and slowly descend the wood.  Some of my logs are on the mark, but most are not.  Watching one slide off to the right and getting lodged under some bushes, I go down to get it back on track.  Unsure how it wedged itself in so tightly and I try wiggling it to get it out.  I am so engulfed in what I am doing, I do not hear the “thud, thud, thud” quickly approaching behind me and only snap out of my trance as Christophe shouts, “Move Lynn!”

The last log Christophe threw had hit a ridge and taken a sharp turn right directly towards me.  By the time I look up, it is just a few feet in front of me.  I jump out of its path, but not before it tips the corner of my foot.  I go from a narrow, dramatic escape to belly flopping into the bushes.  Christophe is there in seconds before I realize what has happened. 

“Are you alright?”  He asks while carefully helping me to my feet.

Pausing to see if all limps are in tack, I try to figure out what happened.  I look at the two logs in front of me and my feet which are still firmly planted in the bush.

“Why did you throw a log at me?”  I ask in mere shock.

   “I didn’t mean to”, Christophe says apologetically.  “It skipped in the wrong spot and took a bad turn.  Didn’t you hear it coming?”

“No, I didn’t hear anything until you yelled”, I say while checking my wrists and elbows for damage.

May Memoir: Ca va? Stories from Rural Life in Southern France, Chapter 9: Knitting

Welcome to May MEMOIR!

Day 10

For the entire month of May, I'll be sharing part of each chapter from my memoir, Ca va?  Stories from Rural Life in Southern France.

Did I say I never know what to expect when I knock on Chantal’s door?

Chapter 9: Knitting

One afternoon, I arrive at Chantal’s and find her in the middle of yet another new project.  Little did I know, Chantal can knit.  There are piles of wool around the apartment in various states of production.  On the floor, she has raw wool that still smells like the sheep it came from; in front of the fire, dripping wet wool is hung on a drying rack; and in the kitchen, some wool is marinating in the sink in a natural dye she made.  Chantal herself is sitting at a spinning wheel.  Her feet move the two petals back and forth to spin the wheel as she feeds into it washed and dyed wool.  From the looks of things, it appears she has been up before the sun and she is joyously engaging in what is clearly a massive undertaking.

            “I got the wool I ordered yesterday”, she says getting up from her wheel.  “Smell it.  Doesn’t it smell great?”  She says gesturing to the curly mass of wool on the ground.

            “I’ve been waiting for it for weeks.  Come look in the sink.  I’m testing a new dye from dried flowers.  It should turn out yellow.”  She lifts a giant mass of wool from a basin.  Obviously, she is excited and wants to show me everything. 

            “This looks interesting”, I say picking up a big square brush full of wool hairs and a bit of leaves.  “What does this brush do?”

            “That is a carding brush”, she explains.  Pointing at her piles of wool, Chantal explains the process of manufacturing wool from its raw state into something useable.

            “First I take the wool and wash it several times.  I buy it direct from a farm, so they don’t bother washing it before shipping it.  Look, there is still hay and pieces of leaves in it”, she says showing me proudly some random particles still in the wool.

            “After it has been washed, I card it.  I brush pieces of wool back and forth between these two brushes and eventually thread like masses appear.  From that, I pull it through the spinning wheel and make bundles of yarn.  After that, I dye it, and then I knit with it.”

            “That is really cool”, I say duly impressed.  I’ve never seen anyone take knitting down to the essentials and this process of transformation looks absolutely fascinating. 

            “Do you know how to knit?”  She asks me.

            “Um, no”, I say knowing what is coming next.  I know Chantal and from the looks of things, I know she has now decided to teach me to knit.