A COUNTRY CHRISTMAS

Things tend to be simpler in rural France. Take Christmas, for instance. I certainly didn’t expect the Christmas illuminations in our area to rival those in Paris but I was a tiny bit underwhelmed at first.

Christmas tree in Payrignac

Payrignac, our village of 700 souls, took the safe route: a good size tree in front of the Saint Agapit church; another one near the war memorial; three deer cutouts (particle board?) strung with lights by the lake; an illuminated Joyeuses Fêtes sign hung on the front of the primary school; an étoile filante of light bulbs decorating the side of the City Hall. Yep, I think that was about it.

Christmas decor in Gourdon. Fail…

Gourdon itself is 4 km away; the third largest city of the département, it boasts (!) a population of 4,500. Apparently, the extensive renovation of the tour de ville made a serious dent in the city budget this year. When we first discovered the huge Christmas Balls hanging by the City Hall, the Post Office and the Tribunal, we figured they had been purchased when Macron was a toddler. Granted they looked a little better at night but, really, whoever thought this was a good idea?

Music kiosk in Gourdon at dusk

On the other hand, the music kiosk and the garden around it received a more appealing treatment. My guess is that the same lights can easily be used again for Bastille Day; let’s just kill two (holiday) birds with one stone.

Un Certain Regard, my favorite boutique for home decor

Good thing the little boutiques on the above-mentioned tour de ville did their part to dress up the streets in a classy way.

En Vie de Femme, a clever name for women jewelry and accessories

Floral shop and the new “upgraded” sidewalks

And, yes, the renovations made the sidewalks larger, more level and less treacherous, especially when strolling at night. Which, incidentally, occurs shortly after 5 pm these days.

Fishnet trees at the supermarket. No tree lots in sight around here.

I just don’t think the French are as “fussy” as Americans when it comes to Christmas decorations. Very few people hang lights outside their homes: I’m sure energy costs are a factor. Most folks set up a tree in their house but nobody seems to have issues with purchasing a conifer completely wrapped in netting. My mother-in-law, who always insists on perfect symmetry, would tomber dans les pommes at the mere thought of buying a tree sight unseen. Oh, and an enterprising person could perhaps start a business selling tree skirts. Just saying…

Papillotes! So many choices…

Let’s face it: for the French, Christmas is all about the food. It starts around November 20 when the supermarkets overflow with friandises. Mind you, candies are just as much for adults as for children: marrons glacés, calissons d’Aix, papillotes, candied fruits, nougat, stuffed prunes, etc. compete with an incredibly large selection of chocolates. The boxes were piled above eye level and I felt I was navigating through a maze of delicious sweets.

Hens, capons, and turkeys. Tiny turkeys. Tasty turkeys… These holiday birds average 6-8 pounds.

By mid-December, the pastry aisles were filled with traditional Yule logs and the frozen section with bûches glacées. Smoked salmon, huîtres, scallops, lobster, escargots, and foie gras are perennial favorites for a first course, or second, or third. The plat de résistance always generates lively debates: in the old days, goose used to be very popular in the area but the current bird of choice seems to be capon.

Ho, Ho, Ho! Santa checks out our medieval streets.

Of course, Santa made a few appearances. I first spotted him in the rue du Majou. The trip from the Pôle Nord was so long, he needed to layover and replenish his toy supply in Germany.

An athletic Santa. The Mediterranean diet is really paying off!

I saw him again rope climbing into a window in the old part of town and had to marvel at how fit he looked. We now have the unequivocal proof that duck fat and red wine are good for your health.

All aboard!

Santa and one of his elves also offered rides around town in a classic horse-drawn wagon. I guess the reindeers needed a break.

Rick photobombs the Marché de Noël in Sarlat

I have a love-and-hate relationship with Sarlat: while thoroughly impressed by its architecture, I feel the old town has become too commercial. Nevertheless, we decided to visit the Marché de Noël, the second-largest in Nouvelle-Aquitaine (I imagine Bordeaux takes the top honor.) I made a point of going on a Tuesday afternoon, before school break, hoping it would not be too crowded. It turned out to be a good plan as we were able to cruise through the 70 chalets in record time.

Guernica in Sarlat. Dali’s The Persistence of Memory and works by Miró, Goya, and Velázquez were hung on the sycamores. Well, reproductions..

This year’s theme was Spain: I suppose Christmas is not thematic enough. Some products were made locally (donkey milk soaps, mohair shawls, wooden toys) and a few came from the country-that-shall-not-be-named.

Medieval beer. Some things get better given longer (with apologies to Abbot Ale…)

Vin chaud. It warms you up on a cold afternoon.

Actually, the whole thing seemed to be a good excuse for people to hang out, eat, and enjoy an adult beverage. In addition to empañadas, tapas, chorizo, Serrano ham or churros, one could also order oysters, frog legs, escargots, porcini soup, foie gras burgers, crêpes, waffles, roasted chestnuts, and more delicious foods, to be washed down with wine, medieval beer, or vin chaud. Just a notch above what the food court offers at your local mall.

Christmas decor at Mom’s retirement home

Last weekend, we headed out to Grenade-sur-Garonne to spend Christmas with my sister and her family. We picked up Mom at the retirement home where she is currently staying and I was quite impressed with the way they had decorated the facility, inside and out. She found a present in her room when we drove her back: a lovely collier de perles. I have no idea what Santa brought to the male residents.

I’m using this photo of Moulin de Planiol (a B&B a few miles away) for my Bonne Année cards this year

I hope your Christmas was as delicious as mine. I have to say that it was very, very nice to have unrestricted access to the variety of wonderful food that France produces at this time of the year. As we are leaving 2018 behind, I want to wish you a Happy New Year and thank you for all your encouragement as I transition to living in my native country again. There are many new adventures I want to share with you and I appreciate your following my musings. Let’s toast the new year: I wish 2019 is filled with perfect moments for all of us!

Vocabulary
Joyeuses Fêtes: Happy Holidays
L’étoile filante (f): shooting star
Le tour de ville: lit. city tour; in this case, it refers to the boulevard that encircles the medieval town, where the moat used to be.
Le Tribunal: courthouse
Tomber dans les pommes: to faint; lit. to fall into the apples
La friandise: sweet, candy
Le marron glacé: candied chestnut
Le calisson: a specialty from Aix-en-Provence that combines ground almond and candied melon, shaped like a diamond.
La papillote: a specialty from Lyon where a chocolate bouchée is double-wrapped; the first paper wrappper is printed with a quote, the outside wrapper is made of foil with frilly ends.
La bûche glacée: a frozen Yule log, mostly made of ice cream, lighter than the traditional bûche pâtissière.
L’huître (f): oyster
Le plat de résistance: main course (the dish that will allow you to resist until the next meal)
Le Pôle Nord: North Pole
Le vin chaud: warm mulled wine
Le collier de perles: pearl necklace

DEMOLITION

Farmhouse renovation, episode 1

The biggest challenge when tackling a house renovation is choosing what to keep and what to give up, let go, abandon. Finding a way to retain the feeling of the original structure and tweak it to fit the new owners’ lifestyle. On ne fait pas d’omelette sans casser d’oeufs. So, we broke a few eggs…

The house in February, prior to renovation

Our renovation project started many years ago, at least in Rick’s mind. He already had several sketches ready when we approached my aunt’s friend Richard last year. Richard used to be an architect in Great Britain. He and his wife bought and restored an old farmhouse twenty-five years ago; they now live in France year around, 15 miles away from us. Richard got his French architect credentials as well and is fully bilingual: as our maître d’oeuvre, he is the perfect liaison between our tradespeople who don’t speak much English and Rick who is far from fluent in French.

Northeast corner of the main room. French doors will be set into that large opening.

Because my grandparents’ house sits in an area designated as a site protégé, the building permit had to be approved not just by the mairie but also by the Bâtiments de France: they focus on architectural elements to make sure the future construction respects and blends in with the specific heritage of the area. Pitch of the roof, tile design, metal used for gutters, paint color on the shutters, etc. are some of the elements reviewed before the project is approved. I had heard many horror stories about the process but everything went very smoothly for us.

See through! In addition to opening the back side to instal French doors, we also enlarged the old cellar door on the front side. It will lead to the new kitchen.

Our building permit was issued late 2017 and we had hoped the chantier would start in March so we could move in early Fall. Alas, a wet Spring delayed all masonry work in our area and work had not been started when we arrived early July. The updated schedule listed that the demolition work would commence the last week of July; the masons would then take four weeks off in August, as is customary in France; and resume early September.

Thierry frames a new window upstairs

The first order of business was to create new openings in the old structure. Traditionally, stone farmhouses didn’t have many windows in order to stay warm in winter and cool in summer. There never was central heating in this house and my grandparents chiefly relied on the cantou to heat the main room downstairs. I have vivid memories of carrying a hot brick wrapped in wool to the small bedroom upstairs and placing it between the sheets fifteen minutes going to bed. As much as I enjoyed spending Christmas breaks here, I confess it was hard to get out of bed in the morning: the bedroom was so cold, I would literally see my breath. I could (somewhat) laugh it off when I was eighteen but I’m pretty sure my amusement would be short-lived if I had to do it again.

The masons’ ladder substitutes for the demolished wooden staircase

Since all the wood floors were rotten and had to be removed anyway, we made plans to install “some kind” of heating system (more about this in a future post) and we were anxious to add a few windows in order to bring more light into the rooms. Large chunks of stone were removed and gaping holes appeared on three sides. Once the floor trusses, old parquet, and original escalier were removed, the house looked like a war zone, a shell of its previous self. I emailed pictures to a couple of friends who had visited in prior years and they both asked how hard it was for me to see my beloved house in such a sorry state. Honestly, I did all my grieving last February when we completely cleared out the house. Sure, there was some sadness when the doors were ripped out and the jackhammers brought in but, overall, I could at least maintain a “neutral” state of mind. I knew from the get-go that we would only be able to salvage the walls and the roof trusses.

Thierry removes the old plaster

It’s not easy to get excited about demolition; and yet, breaking stuff sometimes leads to beautiful surprises. I was filled with joy when the masons removed the interior plaster and revealed the stone underneath. We knew the murs de pierre were quite thick but they were completely covered when the house was last renovated in 1940: I had never seen the exposed stone before. And my, are they glorious!

Stone wall revealed!

The downstairs bedroom was added in 1967 and never communicated with the great room, as I like to call the one room that served as kitchen, dining and living room when my grandparents were alive; a door opening was created between the fireplace and the old stone sink.

Michel framing the opening between the main room and the downstairs bedroom

Downstairs bedroom: another war zone

We also pretty much demolished grandpa’s shed as it will become an ensuite bathroom.

This used to be the shed; it will be a bathroom. The cistern is to the left.

A door opening was carved into the old cistern: we will use that space as a wine cellar and pantry. The top of the cistern will serve as an elevated terrace, a few steps down from my future office.

Peeking into the cistern

Work in progress… View from the West

Of course, I would need a kitchen… and this could only happen through an extension to the original house. The bobcat had to work extra hard to dig deep enough for the foundations: in that area, the hard rock layer is not far from the surface.

After removing the stone wall on the road side, the masons dug out in front of the old cellar to create the footprint for my future kitchen.

Naturally, we encountered a few setbacks. For instance, we found out that the ceiling of the downstairs bedroom was a foot lower than the ceiling of the main house. The height on some windows needed to be fine-tuned. Adjustments had to be made when walls did not intersect at 90 degrees… I have to say that our masons have been extremely accommodating. Instead of complaining when things don’t go according to plan, they have come to us with different options to work around obstacles. These guys are true craftsmen with years of experience dealing with the idiosyncrasies of old homes, and their owners. They get a kick out of Rick who communicates with them with a little bit of French and a lot of gestures. He spends an inordinate amount of time observing their work, not because of lack of trust but out of genuine curiosity: they just don’t build houses the same way as in the US.

Demolition complete!

Read more about This Old House before the remodel
Read Episode 2 of the renovation

Vocabulary

On ne fait pas d’omelettes sans casser d’oeufs: one doesn’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs
Le maître d’oeuvre: general contractor
Le site protégé: protected site
La mairie: city hall
Les Bâtiments de France: a government agency that –among other responsibilities_ monitors the harmonious insertion of new construction and renovations into areas protected for their architectural or cultural heritage
Le chantier: construction site
Le cantou: walk-in fireplace
Le parquet: wood floor
L’escalier (m): staircase
Le mur de pierre: stone wall

CENT ANS

My grandfather never told me about La Grande Guerre. I was merely eight-years-old when he died and my memories of him gravitate toward the joyous moments shared with a doting grandpa: plucking cagouilles from the bushes behind his house in Royan, watching him prepare his collapsible wired nets before heading to the creek to catch crayfish, or uncovering the Easter eggs that he hid among the vegetables of his meticulously kept potager.

When the Ordre de Mobilisation Générale was posted at the mairie on August 1st, 1914 he was a little bit too young to be sent to the front. With 800,000 French soldiers in active duty, three million reservists, and the expectation of a short war, it seemed doubtful that he would ever be involved. Optimism waned quickly: by the end of 1918 eight million Frenchmen had served in the war, around 40% of the male population. So, Pépé René became a poilu. He walked and crawled in muddy trenches. He dodged bullets and obus at the battle of Verdun. He was among the lucky ones: he came back from the war with “only” some exposure to toxic gases and a life-long addiction to cigarettes, a soldier’s comfort liberally distributed in the trenches. Like all veterans, he kept tokens of the war inside himself: in his case, lung cancer.

The monuments aux morts of Payrignac includes memorials for WWI, WWII, and the Algeria War.

As France gets ready to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the Armistice, TV viewers are overwhelmed by a slew of documentaries serving archives, old photos, and silent black-and-white reels. A newscast shows a group of pre-teens in Indre-et-Loire brushing and scraping their village memorial to expose the names of those who died for la patrie. Another group of youths at the necropolis of la Doua near Villeurbanne sets up a candle at the foot of each cross in the military cemetery (6500 of them!) In Champagne and Pas-de Calais, men clad in uniformes d’époque roam the trenches, the shelters, the observatories like their ancestors did; some are even spending several nights there this week.

The lake, right behind the monument aux morts.

Far from Paris where some sixty heads of states will join President Macron, my small village is also getting ready for Sunday’s commemoration. There will be a special mass (dominical services are no longer held in our church except on Palm Sunday and Assumption) and a wreath will be placed at the monument aux morts. Because we are in France, the ceremony will be followed by a vin d’honneur, a pre-lunch aperitif served to all citizens.

The WWII memorial

After dropping Rick off to French class this morning, I stopped by the village and parked in front of the school. I could hear the voices of ebullient, care-free toddlers playing in the courtyard. Fifty meters away, everything was peaceful and the lake gleamed like a mirror. Birds occasionally flew out of the golden catalpas nearby. Our grey WWII concrete memorial is nestled into this serene shrine of greenery. The names of the fallen are listed alphabetically, engraved on two slabs of marble. Thirty-eight names. One of the soldiers, first name Justin, shares my maiden name: a distant cousin, no doubt. Four others bear the same last name. I picture an anguished woman whose family was annihilated, her husband and sons reduced to red letters carved in marble. Red like their blood.

She, too, was promised that war would be “la der des ders…”


The official website for the Centenary: http://centenaire.org/fr

Vocabulary
La Grande Guerre: the mighty war; refers to WWI
La cagouille: snail; colloquial French from the Charente region
Le potager: vegetable garden
La mairie: city hall
Le poilu: a hairy man; refers to WWI soldiers in the trenches who could not wash or shave; prior to that, men who were “poilus” were thought to be especially strong and brave.
L’obus (m): mortar shell
La patrie: homeland
L’uniforme d’époque (m): period uniform
Le monument aux morts: war memorial
Le vin d’honneur: celebratory event where wine or other libations are offered
La der des ders: abbreviation for “la dernière des dernières”, the last of the last, WWI. It was so horrible, it seemed inconceivable that it wouldn’t be the last war, ever.

PURPLE GARLIC

I’m pretty sure I got my first taste of garlic when my grandmother made her famous pommes de terre sarladaises: she sautéed scalloped potatoes with duck fat in her cast-iron Dutch oven, crusted by decades of faithful service. Toward the end of the cooking time, she’d throw in a generous quantity of slivered garlic and a handful of chopped parsley. If we were lucky, golden chanterelles were combined with the potatoes. The whole kitchen smelled of garlic.

Bunches of garlic are hung to dry under la halle in Cadours

She also served a soupe au pain every night where thick slices of country bread soaked in a flavorful garlicky broth. More often than not, it also included vegetables from the garden: cabbage, carrots, dried fava beans… It was a far cry from the elegant potages served in Paris restaurants! When vegetables were not available, farmers would simply make a tourin blanchi, a garlic soup bound with an egg. It truly earned the nickname of soupe du pauvre. It’s simple, rustic, and unexpectedly smooth.

The stalks of this purple garlic are soft enough to be braided

Just a few weeks ago, Rick and I drove to Cadours, a small village of Haute-Garonne, during their annual Fête de l’Ail Violet. It was the perfect opportunity to get acquainted with their AOP purple garlic, witness how it is peeled and braided, and sample some tasty garlic soup.

A peacock entirely made of garlic was awarded First Prize this year.

Another surprise: a contest featuring stunning models completely made of garlic –cloves, skins, stalks– and displayed under the imposing 19th-century brick halle. Not as old as la halle de Grenade but a nice piece of architecture nonetheless.

I can’t even imagine how many hours were spent to recreate the Cadours church in garlic

I confess that I was not familiar with this purple garlic from Cadours: it only earned its Appellation d’Origine Protégée in 2017. But it prompted me to do some research on French varieties of garlic beyond the generic “white” variety.

Quite a trophy!

Three varieties of garlic have been awarded some distinctive protections.

Ail Rose de Lautrec IGP is the most famous one. This high-quality pink garlic is grown in the Tarn near Albi and obtained its Indication Géographique Protégée in 1996. It has a subtle and slightly sweet taste. It is said to keep for a full year.

Ail Violet de Cadours AOP exhibits a notable purple color on the skins. The heads are fairly large. The aroma and flavor assertive. In hot preparations, some sweetness balances its strength. It’s marketed as early as July, before any other French garlic.

Ail Fumé d’Arleux IGP is a pink garlic cultivated in the Hauts de France (the old Nord-Pas de Calais region.) It’s braided then smoked. The process gives the heads a copper color and confers a woody note to the garlic.

A little bit of Franglais…

If you love garlic, you’d probably enjoy going through a blind tasting to compare white, pink and purple garlics: make several frottes where a clove of garlic is rubbed against a piece of toasted country bread. It often served as my grandfather’s lunch when he was a child. The taste differences mostly reveal themselves when the various garlics are used raw. Simmered in a soup, they loose any harshness and become exquisitely smooth.

Tourin blanchi: yummy, rustic garlic soup

TOURIN BLANCHI
Garlic soup
Serves 6

2 Tbsp duck fat
2 heads of garlic, peeled and slivered
1 small yellow onion, finely chopped
2 Tbsp flour
6 cups water
Salt and pepper to taste
2 eggs
2 Tbsp red wine vinegar
6 slices of country-style bread, stale or toasted

Melt the duck fat in a thick-bottom pot and lightly sauté the garlic and onion; do not allow the vegetables to color. Sprinkle the flour, mix well and add the water. Bring to a boil, add salt and pepper to taste, lower the heat, and simmer for about 30 minutes. Separate egg whites and egg yolks into two bowls. Beat the yolks with a fork, add the vinegar, and one Tbsp of soup. Take the pot off the stove, add the egg yolk mixture to the soup, and whisk briskly. Add the whites, mix and whisk thoroughly. Place a slice of bread in each bowl and pour the hot soup over the bread.

Vocabulary

La soupe au pain: bread soup. The broth and vegetables (whole or in chunks) are poured over a slice of bread. In rural areas, la soupe au pain was often meant to be a complete meal.
Le potage: a smoother, more refined soup. The components are cooked down or pureed to produce a creamier texture.
La soupe du pauvre: soup of the poor
La fête: festival
L’ail (f): garlic
Violet: purple
La halle: covered market square
Frotter: to rub

LA DEUCHE

Modesto –the California city where I lived before moving back to France three months ago– is the epitome of car culture in the USA. Native son George Lucas immortalized Friday night cruising in his 1973 movie American Graffiti. If you recall, a famous French car is featured in the film: a young Richard Dreyfuss steps out of an old Citroën 2 CV.

A patriotic specimen. Check out the roll-back roof.

I doubt I’m the only one who had a love affair with this iconic car. It was Dad’s first car when my parents ditched their Vespa and bought their Deux Chevaux about the time I was born. Truth be told: this car left an indelible imprint on three generations of French people.

Clearly, the perfect choice for a wedding: note the tulle flower at the top of the antenna.

The concept and design originated in 1938 but production in earnest only started ten years later; the car would be produced until 1990. In order to appeal to the masses (and sell more tires since Michelin had just bought Citroën…) engineers were charged to develop a Toute Petite Voiture that would sit four passengers, reach a top speed of 60 km/h (about 37 miles per hour) and burn only 3 liters of gas to cover 100 km (equivalent to 78 miles per gallon.) The cahier des charges for the suspension specified that a basket of eggs transported through a plowed field would not turn into a messy omelet. We must salute marketing genius when we see it: the car has always been extremely popular in rural areas.

I saw this one at a vide-grenier; not for sale, though.

Indeed, you will not see many 2 CV on the streets of Paris nowadays: since 2016, vehicles manufactured before 1997 have been deemed very polluants and City Hall has banned their use within the city limits unless they are registered as voitures de collection or are used for sightseeing tours, a very popular activity in the capital. But in my (current) neck of the woods, I still encounter 2 CV on a daily basis. On a bright February day ten years ago, I even saw a truffle-hunting pig stepping out of the back of a 2 CV camionnette!

There is a spiffy Charleston model in the light grey/dark grey combination that’s often parked across from the lycée. Other color combinations for the Charleston included the classic black/Delage red (it looks maroon) and a rare yellow/black model.

The car is immediately recognizable because the overall design was barely modified through its four decades of production: same rounded shape, flip-up windows, and roll-back roof. One noticeable change: the original butterfly doors were eventually replaced with a less “suicidal” set up… And the engine eventually reached a whopping 602 ccs versus 375 ccs on the very first model. A little more than 5 million units were produced worldwide. The 2 CV is so well loved that car clubs were founded in its honor: of course, they organize car shows and help owners find parts.

Over the years, I’ve noticed a one-of-a-kind 2 CV often parked at Carrefour or Intermarché. The car is mostly dark green but has gone through several paint “upgrades:” on a photo I took in 2014, the front fender on the passenger side was cream instead of black.

Many old 2 CV end up being “personalized.” Sometimes the farmer just wants to replace a rusted fender on its utilitarian vehicle. Sometimes an aficionado yearns to make his car unique through customized paint jobs or accessories.

A bright green 2 CV sits on my neighbor’s property, less than 300 feet from my office. It would need a lot of TLC to hit the asphalt!

A well-traveled 2 CV. I wonder whether it actually visited all the countries featured on its flags.

Customized hood ornament. Perfect!

Michel Robillart, a professional woodworker, made the news last year with his wooden 2 CV. Photo credit: Guillaume Souvant/AFP.

If you’re truly a fan, like Michel Robillard, you spend 6 years of your life building a 2 CV out of various fruit woods. And it runs!

Old 2 CV never die!

Some fun links to explore:

The Citroën Official Website features lots of photos and even sounds of the beloved 2 CV

This INA short film shows how the 2 CV is the perfect vehicle to take on a picnic

If you are a Netflix subscriber, check out this episode (C4:E4) of Comedians in Cars having Coffee where Jerry Seinfeld and Gad Elmaleh drive a vintage 2 CV in the streets of New York.

Vocabulary

La Deuche (or Deudeuche): nickname for the 2 CV
Deux Chevaux: lit. Two Horses; what the initials 2 CV stand for, in reference to the (fiscal) two horsepower engine
Toute Petite Voiture: Very Little Car
Le cahier des charges: lit. notebook of responsibilities; specifications
Polluant: polluting
Voiture de collection: collector’s car, vintage car
Camionnette: van; in this case, the back seat of the 2 CV was removed to increase cargo capacity.
Le lycée: high school  

I SEE STARS

Let me take you to a very unusual place in Paris. Chances are that you’ve never stepped into it; in fact, you may not even be aware of its existence. I regularly walked by this location during my student years in the Latin Quarter but, preoccupied with school and bus schedules, I didn’t “look up” enough. Looking up should be a mandatory activity when one is in Paris as so many treasures are discovered above eye level.

The Sorbonne Astronomy Tower from rue St Jacques

Of course, I was quite familiar with la Sorbonne, the famed university founded in 1257: during those innocent, pre-terrorism times you could wander around the campus without producing a school ID and having your bag searched. If you want to visit the Sorbonne nowadays and check out the 162 chapel or the opulent Grand escalier, you will need to book a tour. And if you walked along rue St Jacques and looked up, perhaps you noticed two vert-de-gris cupolas: the Astronomy Tower.

The chapel and cour d’honneur of the Sorbonne

But if you schedule a visit of the university, be aware that it will not include the Astronomy Tower as it is rented to and administered by the Société Astronomique de France. Securing a reservation to the Observatoire de la Sorbonne is akin to a Herculean task: visits take place only on Monday and Friday evenings and the size of the group is limited to five people. Five! In addition, reservations must be made by phone (about two months in advance) and purchased by check, in euros. Tours are led by volunteers of the SAF: they are passionate about astronomy, quite informative, and well-versed in the history of the university. Although la Sorbonne no longer teaches astronomy, members of the SAF use the facility to build their own telescopes.

Northeast corner of the courtyard

It took a full year and three attempts before I could score a couple of tickets timed with one of my trips to the capital. Persistence paid off: exactly one year ago, we arrived at 17 rue de la Sorbonne to meet our guide Patrick and three other lucky guests. After a security guard opened a large wood and iron door to let us in, Patrick introduced himself and led us to the Cour d’honneur. Flanked by the chapel at the south end, the cobblestone square represents the footprint of the university as Richelieu had it renovated around 1635. He was the proviseur in 1622 and continued to spearhead the work until his death in 1642. He is buried in the chapel.

Richelieu amphitheater

We make our way across the courtyard, toward the columns in the northeast corner. The area looks empty save for a couple of lingering students who are sitting under the arcades. Light shines through a few windows but the vast Renaissance-style building feels eerily mysterious. Once inside, we meander through a few galleries and I furtively glance at the Richelieu amphitheater with its wooden benches and monumental painting: the door is open, it’s tempting to enter, sit in, and pretend I’m a student again. We take an elevator, then a narrow escalier en colimaçon that finally leads to a very small, cluttered room: clearly, a group larger than six persons would be very cramped.

This glass blank will eventually become a mirror for a telescope

It is the workshop where SAF enthusiasts grind and polish the mirrors they will use in their home-made telescopes. A lengthy task: it takes about 100 hours of methodical work before the glass blank is smooth enough to be coated with aluminum. If you are curious about the process this link explains it all.

The disks covered with ceramic tiles are used to grind glass blanks

The room is filled with thick slices of plaster covered with small ceramic tiles to grind the glass blanks, various powders of different grain size used as abrasives, and pots of pitch to smooth the mirrors.

A view from the workshop: Notre-Dame and the Palais de Justice

Patrick invites us to sit around a table and pulls out a binder. He explains the difference between a lunette and a télescope, gives us a crash course in astronomy, and also produces pictures of many models of telescopes that SAF members constructed from scratch. Fascinating stuff but I am a bit distracted by the fantastic panorama of Paris that I can glimpse through the elongated windows: slate roofs, lighted monuments, busy boulevards glistening below…

More stairs to get to the top!

We leave the workshop and climb an even narrower wooden staircase that takes us to the pièce de résistance of our visit: the upper cupola.

The lower cupola, Saint-Sulpice, and the Eiffel Tower.

It’s pitch dark except for the exit sign and our eyes need to acclimate. Very slowly, and with the help of Patrick’s flashlight, a room worthy of Jules Verne novel emerges: a 130-year-old telescope positioned in the middle of a wood clad dome that looks like the inside of a giant basket.

The main event: a 130 year-old telescope.

A creaky staircase leads to the antique instrument. Heavy noisy chains and pulleys allow us to open the cimier. The cupola itself is on rails and can rotate 360º, allowing the telescope to point toward any direction of the heavens. It’s a scene right out of a steampunk movie promising history, science, and adventure.

Pulley, chains, and elbow grease are needed to open the dome. Note the steeple of St Germain des Prés framed by one “eye” of the pulley!

Not promised: clear skies. Instead, it has been an overcast day in Paris and the cloud cover will not allow us to see any star tonight. Patrick points the telescope toward les Invalides and the Eiffel Tower; he makes the necessary adjustments and invites us to climb a few stairs and take a look. Minutes earlier I had watched the sparkling light show that la Dame de Fer puts out on the hour; now I could observe the lacy details of a steel beam bathed in bright white light. I place my iPhone camera against the eyepiece, press the shutter, and hope for the best.

Detail of the Eiffel Tower metallic structure viewed through the telescope

We pull on the chain again and the cupola door slides and groans. The loud metallic noises abruptly stop: the tomb is sealed and dark again. We carefully walk down the stairs to pick up our bags in the workshop below. I take one last look at the Panthéon nearby and the Paris skyline at night: the panorama is simply superb.

The Panthéon, tour Clovis (at Lycée Henri IV) and St-Etienne-du-Mont.

But the visit is over and we make our way back to the courtyard. I stay behind the group wanting to soak in an extra minute of this enveloping experience, this secret visit. One last look at the chapel: Patrick and the guard are waiting for me to exit so they can lock up. It’s 10:30 pm and I hear the heavy door close behind me. Out on the street, my eyes look up and I finally see stars: the kind produced by lamp posts and neon signs.

Au revoir

Vocabulary
Le Grand escalier: grand staircase
La Cour d’honneur: major courtyard
Le proviseur: principal
L’escalier en colimaçon: spiral staircase
La lunette: (in astronomy) refracting telescope
Le télescope: reflecting telescope
La pièce de résistance: showcase, main attraction
Le cîmier: roof of the observatory
La Dame de Fer: the Iron Lady (aka the Eiffel Tower)

A PLUM LIFE

Since my return to the farm I’ve been feeling very domestic. It is a retour aux sources to the place that’s been part of me, since my very first visit: I was two months old. Throughout their retirement, my grandparents raised ducks, chicken, and rabbits. They also grew vegetables to feed animals (maïs, betteraves, topinambours) and humans (pommes de terre, haricots verts, asperges, petits pois, fèves.) There was also a small potager planted with leeks, carrots, tomatoes, and a variety of lettuces. Fruit trees dotted the fields. Growing your own produce and eating in season was a double-edged sword. First, you got all excited when harvesting the first green beans; two weeks later, you tried to invent new dishes to use the above-mentioned vegetables; three weeks into the season, you were insanely tired of équeuter the beans and canning the seemingly endless crop.

My quetsche tree is ready for its close up.

The farm is no longer in an active state but some of the fruit trees remain. We arrived too late for cherries and apricots but August blessed us with an abundance of plums, more than enough to share with family, birds, and wasps. By all accounts, this year was a bumper crop for fruits à noyaux.

Although I frequently purchased local produce from Farmers’ markets while living in California, nothing beats the taste and texture of a perfectly ripe fruit, just picked from the tree and eaten on the spot. But when strong winds knocked down a large branch of my quetsche tree, we found ourselves with an abundance of riches. Not being equipped for canning at the moment, I resorted to making compotes, clafoutis, and tarts. If I find myself in a similar predicament next year, I might just have a local bouilleur de cru distill my excess fruit and turn it into eau de vie.

Sweet golden mirabelles

The most exciting thing for me was to feast on varieties of plums that I rarely –or never– encountered in the US. The Mirabelle plum is virtually unknown there: in fact, I can’t really find a translation for it. Some call it a “cherry plum” because it is the size of a fat cherry; one of my suppliers used to label it “fancy plum”, which was more confusing than helpful. Those who have seen and tasted a mirabelle always recognize its (often flecked) dark yellow skin, yellow flesh, and sweet flavor. It’s a specialty of the Lorraine area where 80% of the production is grown.

Reines-Claudes stay green even when ripe.

My personal favorite is the Reine Claude (greengage), named after the wife of King François 1er. Round and firm, its skin is green even when the plum is ripe; its flesh is green as well. It retains a touch of acidity which balances its sweetness. I think they make fabulous tarts: they soften but do not lose too much juice.

Luscious quetsches; could make a good brandy, perhaps…

Very prevalent in our area is the Quetsche (damson) and its cousin the Prune d’Ente (the one they dry to make those wonderful French prunes in Agen.) The oval purple fruit brightly contrasts from the thick green leaves of the tree. Its light red flesh is a bit juicier than the Reine Claude.

Two weeks ago, I found myself in the middle of the perfect plum storm: I actually had baskets of all three varieties at the same time! Not wanting to play favorite, I felt under obligation to celebrate them all in one dish.

THREE PLUM TART
Tarte aux trois prunes
Serves 6 to 8

One sheet of pastry (home-made or store-bought)
2 lbs plums, three assorted varieties
4 tablespoons almond meal
2 tablespoons brown sugar

Preheat oven to 375º F. Drop the pastry into a 12” tart mold. Wash, half and pit the plums. Spread the almond meal evenly on the surface of the dough. Arrange the plums in crust; sprinkle with brown sugar. Bake for 30 minutes or until crust is golden brown.

Vocabulary
Le retour aux sources: lit. return to the origins, homecoming
Le maïs: corn
La betterave: beet
Le topinambour: Jerusalem artichoke
La pomme de terre: potato
Le haricot vert: green bean
L’asperge (f): asparagus
Le petit pois: green pea
La fève: fava bean
Le potager: the vegetable garden
Equeuter: to trim the ends of the beans
Le fruit à noyau: stone fruit
La quetsche: damson plum
Le bouilleur de cru: private distiller
L’eau de vie (f): brandy

TRAVELS WITH LILY

I confess that I felt some anxiety about flying with our dog as we were relocating to France. Lily was never much of a traveler: for starter, she would routinely get car sick after a twenty-minute ride. Our ace in the hole was that she was used to sleeping in her crate and had no issue with being confined overnight. Her small size gave us the option of flying her in the cabin with us but I was still concerned about her spending some twelve hours enclosed in her carrier. All pets have different personalities but I thought I would share our experience about Lily’s Excellent Adventure and about her new life in France: other humans might glean some insight to make their four-legged companion’s travel less stressful.

Are we there yet? My uncles Rick and Jim gave us a ride to the airport in their motorhome. Loved it!

1/ First things first: not all airlines accept pets in cabin (or in cargo, for that matter) so check airline websites for their pet travel policies. Those that do allow pets in cabins limit the number of animals on a given flight. Except for service or emotional support animals, your pet will be confined in his carrier for the duration for the flight, and the carrier must fit under the seat in front of you (that pretty much nixes flying Business Class outfitted with a lie-flat seat.) And yes, the carrier counts toward your luggage allowance. Find out the maximum dimensions of the allowable carrier and train your pet to spend time in it. In our case, we switched Lily from her “spacious” hard crate to the much smaller soft carrier four months before departure, hiding treats inside to motivate her to explore her new digs and feel more at home.

Oooh! Lots of new scents at the farm!

2/ Book your flight several months ahead with an airline rep. Websites will not tell you whether the “animal quota” for a given flight has been reached. I wanted to use United Airlines miles for our flight. I checked online for award availability around our desired departure date; then I called their reservation center to inquire about having a pet in cabin on my preferred itinerary and confirmed that we could bring Lily with us; I booked our flights and asked the rep to add Lily to my reservation ($125 extra.) I printed my ticket receipt and made sure the “pet in cabin” was listed on it.

A mole hill! First, dispatch the dirt; then, sink the nose into the hole.

3/ Several health documents need to be filled and verified before your pet can fly with you and the requirement vary with origin and destination. Stacie, a Facebook friend who regularly flies to France with her compagnon à quatre pattes, shared many helpful pointers. Do not assume that your veterinarian is well-versed on that topic: do your own research on the government pages of the country you will be visiting. Regulations and forms are complex. I strongly encourage you to visit the Pet Travel Store and to order the appropriate forms from them: they will be tailored to your destination and pet species.

I just know there is a mouse hiding between these logs.

4/ Make sure that your vet is accredited by the USDA: our regular vet was on maternity leave and her substitute was not USDA accredited: we had to make an appointment at another veterinary clinic. Your pet must be implanted with an ISO 15-digit non-encrypted microchip. EU authorities will not be able to read other styles of microchips: you’ll either need to have the “correct” microchip inserted by your vet or rent/purchase your own microchip reader. A microchip certificate must be filled by the vet. Your pet must be vaccinated for rabies at least 21 days prior to entry and the vet must fill out the EU Veterinary Certificate from France (7 pages) not more than 12 days prior to your travel date. IN BLUE INK (I don’t know why but I’ve learned to never question bureaucracy…) Then, the certificate must be taken (or mailed) to your USDA/APHIS/US Area Office, along with a check for $38, for certification; use Express Mail both ways as you will need the certification to fly out. You also must complete a Declaration of Non-Commercial Movement. Additionally, most airlines require a Veterinary Certificate for Domestic and International Airline Travel where you vet states that your pet is healthy enough to travel, is free of parasites, shows no evidence of diseases communicable to humans, and has a valid vaccination against rabies.

I’ll just watch my territory from the front door. And work on my tan.

5/ All these forms constitute the “Pet Passport” and must be presented when you check in for your flight. It’s a good idea to have a set of copies with you as some airlines will want to retain the information and check-in counters do not usually have a copy machine nearby. The originals stay with you for entry into France.

My new cousins are cool. Aunt Françoise also keeps two cats and one hen. I’m not too fond of them; I like to chase them but that big chicken is a bit scary.

To make sure that Lily met all requirements, I booked our flights four months in advance, ordered the forms from PetpassportStore.com, contacted my vet to make sure the microchip was the 15-digit style, scheduled an appointment 10 days prior to our departure (we spent two solid hours at the vet’s office: they’re just not familiar with the forms and requirements) and sent Rick to the USDA office in Sacramento the same day. Just to be on the safe side, I asked our vet to prescribe some Cerenia, an anti-nausea drug, that we gave her before the car and plane travels. We also had a mild sedative on hand in case she got too agitated in the plane but we didn’t use it.

Where is this delicious French food I keep hearing about?

To make the trip easier on our little girl, we decided to break the journey in three chunks so she wouldn’t be confined for the equivalent of a day and a half: I booked a pet-friendly hotel at SFO airport where we spent the night before the flight and I also reserved a pet-friendly hotel near Orleans for the day of our arrival. Besides, I just couldn’t imagine driving all the way down to Gourdon right after landing at CDG…

After a nice Sunday lunch, I got to nap in the hammock with Cousin Brice.

Documents were thoroughly reviewed by the airline rep when we checked in but les douaniers didn’t bat an eye when we arrived in Paris. We were pleasantly surprised by Lily’s demeanor throughout the trip in spite of a flight delay of three and half hour: she made friends with several passengers at the gate who turned out to be seated in the row in front of us. Kudos to the crew on our United Airlines flight: they encouraged us to get her out of her carrier and to hold her on our laps for takeoff and landing. They also offered to give her some water. Well, I didn’t want to tempt fate and watched her water intake like a hawk but Lily is blessed to have a bladder of steel! The long car ride went smoothly as well. I was a proud mama.

Mom says I still need to work on my table manners.

This whole experience transformed our dog into an enthusiastic traveler: she even hops into the car with Rick when he’s taking garbage to the dump. She has adjusted to her new life very quickly. Most people think of dachshunds as lap dogs but they were actually bred to hunt badgers and Lily would make her ancestors very proud: she actively patrols her territory and sniffs out taupes, hérissons et lézards. She even caught une souris ! She’s great with the neighbors’ dogs, not so much with their cats. I think she was really meant to lead an active country life. She is active, happy, and enthusiastic. We’ll just need to enroll her in “finishing school” so she can become one of those well-behaved French dogs who patiently seat under a café table while her humans enjoy a beer en terrace…

 
Vocabulary
Un compagnon à quatre pattes: four-legged companion
Le douanier: customs officer
La taupe: mole
Le hérisson: hedgehog
La souris: mouse
En terrace: outdoors

IMPORTANT. The informations supplied above applied to our specific situation: flying from the US to France with one dog in July 2018. Requirements can vary depending on several factors such as pet species, number of animals traveling, country of origin, destination, stopovers, etc.

ETRE ET AVOIR

I don’t think of myself as a materialistic person. Imelda Marcos would probably faint at the sight of my shoe closet. I rarely accessorize my outfits with jewelry, preferring to wear (without fail) the two rings and one necklace that are meaningful to me. The above-mentioned outfits are chiefly composed of Levi’s and T-shirts. I guess I always wanted to spend my disposable income on “experiences” long before the concept became fashionable. Food, wine, and travel: that’s what matters to me.

I returned to France, the land of food and wine, exactly two months ago. Not for a mere two or three weeks of vacations as I had done regularly for the past thirty-six years: this time, I was really going home for good. I closed my business and we sold our California house to renovate my grandparents’ small farm in the Lot. This could be viewed as the ultimate experience for me, a return to my roots and to the place that has been in my heart all my life (I recently posted on Facebook an old photo of my first stay at the farm when I was just two months old.)

But it doesn’t feel like I am home. Not yet.

Home can be an elusive concept for expatriates or people who move frequently. It takes a while to get comfortable with a place, to form emotional connections, to feel that you belong and can be yourself –your whole self– there. Surprisingly, this transition is turning out to be a bit more difficult than I expected considering that I would be en terrain connu. Granted, I no longer am who I was forty years ago. But a big factor is that I can’t settle into my new home. The renovation will take six months and, in the meantime, we are staying in my parents’ house. Although we are there all by ourselves, we can’t rearrange the space to better fit our lifestyle and I have to make do with Mom’s tiny kitchen and her quirky tools. I have been frustrated and rudderless.

Our woods viewed from the veranda

This sense of suspended animation is uncomfortable but not completely foreign to me: I experienced a few such episodes in the past, usually when I was between jobs. I know the key for me is to regain (some) control over my surroundings and to build a new routine. I’ve also realized that in order “to be” I need “to have” my own things. We flew over with our dog, two suitcases of clothes, and two rollaboards filled with paperwork and computers. Although we received our 40’ container less than a week after our arrival, all 332 cartons were unloaded and immediately restacked in our garage. Each one is numbered and we do have a master list with corresponding descriptions but trying to find a particular object aptly illustrates the challenge of looking for une aiguille dans une botte de foin. As Rick opens his numerous boxes of tools and sets up his workbench, I’ve asked him to keep his eyes open for “my” tools: I’ll be immensely happier when I get my hands on my own vegetable peeler, my Microplane grater, and my Shun santoku knife! Just yesterday, he installed a new countertop in Mom’s kitchen and it’s already improving my mood and my efficacité. 

Gratuitous shot of my office chair in its unnatural habitat

The biggest challenge has been to get back to writing. No lack of inspiration: in fact, there are plenty of stories to tell. But I needed to have my own space. Getting set up in Dad’s old office (that also doubles as a laundry room…) or bringing pen and paper to the dining room table simply would not do. And I had to get a proper chair, one that would allow me to spend a few hours in front of the computer without prompting my lumbar vertebrae to go on strike.

Looking into my new office

So, today, I’m finally writing again. I boxed up some of Mom’s stuff and claimed sixty square feet of space in the veranda. Rick topped an old table with a fresh panel of melamine from Bricomarché and brought a power strip close by. I filled my glass with a diabolo menthe and set up my new chair behind my new desk, facing our woods. A chair with a view! And here I am, writing my first dispatch from the farm, trying not to get too distracted by the butterflies waltzing above the wild flowers. I have a good feeling about this…

A desk with a view

Vocabulary

Etre et avoir: to be and to have
En terrain connu: in known territory
Une aiguille dans une botte de foin: a needle in a haystack
L’efficacité (f): efficiency
Le diabolo menthe: a drink made with mint syrup and limonade (soda similar to 7-Up)

ZUCCHINI BLOSSOMS

Here is a French word that comes in handy in summer: la courgette. I think I somewhat “discovered” zucchini when I first came to California some forty years ago. Of course, the slender green vegetable was not unknown in France but, at that time, it fell into the category of regional produce: ubiquitous in Provence, not so much in other areas. My grandfathers, both avid gardeners, never grew zucchini in their potagers and I don’t remember any of their neighbors growing them either. They both lived in the southwestern quadrant of France. At home, my mother loved zucchini; my dad and my sister did not; I was Switzerland… I’ll eat just about anything.

If we wanted to run a popularity contest, zucchini would rank pretty low on the offensive scale. Nevertheless, I was a bit surprised to see how enthusiastic Californians were about this summer vegetable. Zucchini bread? Really? Naturellement, this French girl didn’t think that vegetables belonged in the dessert category. But wait: is bread supposed to be a dessert in these parts? It was all very confusing.

Later on, I realized the reason why Californians devise so many creative preparations for zucchini is because it is such a prolific vegetable: one needs to constantly figure out new ways to use the abundant crop. Or else, you fill your car trunk with bags of zucchini and cajole your coworkers into lightening your load. If your garden is full of zucchini let me give you a bit of advice to nip the problem in the bud, literally: harvest zucchini as they bloom and stuff the blossoms with fresh chèvre instead of allowing the vegetable to reach maturity! These stuffed zucchini blossoms are showy, tasty, and easy to make. Bring them to the next company picnic and everybody will cheer you on for growing courgettes.

They're still so pretty after they're baked!

Zucchini Blossoms stuffed with Goat Cheese
Fleurs de courgettes farcies au fromage de chèvre
Serves 4

2 eggs
4 oz fresh goat cheese
1 garlic clove, peeled and crushed
6 basil leaves, finely chopped
Salt and pepper
12 zucchini blossoms
2 Tbsp extra-virgin olive oil

Preheat oven to 400ºF. Separate the eggs. With a fork, mash the goat cheese and mix in the egg yolks, garlic, basil, and pepper. Whip the egg whites with a pinch of salt and fold into the cheese mixture. Carefully open up the zucchini blossoms and fill them with the cheese and egg preparation. Oil an oven-proof dish with 1 Tbsp of olive oil; arrange the stuffed blossoms in the dish and sprinkle with the remaining oil. Bake for 20 minutes. Serve hot.

Vocabulary

La courgette: zucchini
Le potager: vegetable garden
Naturellement: of course
La chèvre: goat
Le chèvre: goat cheese