Decor-and-Design in Perigord: The flowers that bloom in the spring, tra la!

Saturday, March 24, 2012

The flowers that bloom in the spring, tra la!

Gilbert & Sullivan’s little ditty from The Mikado keeps running through my head today, surrounded as we are by a profusion of flowers. Various fruit trees are in bloom, others are budding and will soon burst forth. And there are tulips, daffodils, narcissus, miniature irises, anemones, violets, and hyacinths of varied hues carpeting the grass and sprouting in the borders.

The smell of new-mown grass is wafting in – Francesco has powered up Grindel and is roaring around the yard – and I have just come in from trimming boxwood and cutting dead and wizened parts from roses, oleander, and other bushes and plants that are showing signs of life despite the arctic weather we so recently endured.

Even Arcadio seems enlivened by the warm temperature and has been climbing trees and sunning himself in the grass.

Tra la, indeed! The flowers that bloom in the spring breathe promise of merry sunshine.

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Photos of La Placette and Dordogne...

My friend David Dill recently visited from the USA and has kindly permitted me to share his photos of La Placette Haute as well as many he took of the surrounding region. Towns depicted are along the Vezere River: Montignac (where we encountered a large Marche de Noel), the Chateau de Losse at Thonac, picturesque Saint Leon sur Vezere, and interior shots of La Source restaurant in Tursac. The others are from towns and sites along the Dordogne: the chateau and village church at Campagne, the abbey and streets of Le Buisson-de-Caduoin, and my favorite of the flock of geese that came running as soon as we stopped the car. Finally, there are scenes from the chateau and village of Hautforte, north of us, and what they call the 'Venice of Dordogne', Brantome and the nearby chateau of Bordeilles.

Here is the link: https://plus.google.com/u/0/photos/105643365245856836727/albums/5822973420061021537

Lyrics of Tom Lehrer’s Christmas Song…

Christmas time is here, by golly,

Disapproval would be folly!

Decks the halls with hunks of holly,

Fill the cup and don’t say ‘when’.

Kill the turkeys, ducks, and chickens,

Mix the punch, drag out the Dickens;

Even though the prospect sickens,

Brother here we go again!

On Christmas day you can’t get sore,

Your fellow man you must adore,

There’s time to rob him all the more

The other three hundred and sixty-four!

Relations sparing no expense’ll

Send some useless old utensil,

Or a matching pen and pencil,

‘Just the thing I need, how nice!’

It doesn’t matter how sincere it is,

Nor how heart-felt the spirit,

Sentiment will not endear it,

What’s important is the price!

-Hark the Herald Tribune sings, advertising wondrous things.

-God bless ye merry merchants may ye make the yuletide pay!

-Angels we have heard on high, tell us to go out and buy!

So, let the raucous sleigh bells jingle,

Hailing our dear old friend Kris Kringle,

Driving his reindeer across the sky,

Don’t stand underneath when they fly by!

An American family heirloom…

In addition to our French linens, I am the current custodian for a fine set of sheets and pillowcases that were made by my great-grandmother, Cora Ellen Brackenbury, who was born in Ohio in 1868.

A note pinned to the set in her daughter’s (my grandmother’s) handwriting stated they were ‘Mamma’s sheets’ and we were always told that, as a girl, great-grandmother had grown the flax, spun the linen thread, loomed the cloth, stitched the sheets, and tatted the fancy designs that distinguish them as true American folk art.

It was a project organized by her mother, my great-great-grandmother Lucy Hamman, to ensure that each of her five daughters would learn the art of sewing and stitching, and would also have linens to add to their hope chests.

Although about 130 years old, the sheets are still in fine condition and we use and launder them from time to time to refresh the linen threads and keep them sparkling white.

Mushroom Omelette for two people…

4 beaten eggs

150 grams of chopped mushrooms of your choice

one grated clove of garlic

half a small slivered shallot

a few sprigs of chives

a few sprigs of parsley

butter and/or good olive oil

salt and pepper

Melt the butter (or heat the oil) in a skillet and saute the shallot and garlic until they are clear. Add the chopped mushrooms and cook until turning soft. Season to taste with the salt & pepper. (You may have to drain excess water depending on the variety of mushroom you’re using.) Pour the beaten eggs over the mushrooms, pushing them from the edges to the center before the eggs set. I usually do the omelette the Italian way, covering the skillet and cooking it until I smell the eggs beginning to brown. If you have mastered Julia Childs’ French method of folding the omelette into a little loaf, by all means show off! Whichever method, flip the omelette onto a serving dish. Sprinkle the chives and parsley over the top and serve.

Four and Twenty Black Plums Baked in a Pie…

We have finally harvested our remaining plums, a variety differentiated by their purple-cum-black skins from the yellow and red ones that fell uselessly on the ground. As usual, there are too many for two people to manage - they are delicious but how many fresh plums can one eat? So I baked a tart with them the other night with a little jam slathered on the pastry, and with the plums topped by a sprinkling of our hazelnut crop.

During the process I wondered how many plums to split and seed to fill the pie shell. ‘Four and twenty’ came to mind, because of that old nursery rhyme about the blackbirds in a pie – a poem I always found disturbing as a young boy, forced as I was to ponder all the horrible flapping and screeching that must have ensued as the birds were mercilessly roasted under a canopy of dough.

Plums. Believe me, I’ll go for plums.

The canicule of 2003

In France, there were 14,802 heat-related deaths (mostly among the elderly) during the heat wave, according to the French National Institute of Health. France does not commonly have very hot summers, particularly in the northern areas, but seven days with temperatures of more than 40 °C (104 °F) were recorded in Auxerre, Yonne during July and August 2003. Because of the usually relatively mild summers, most people did not know how to react to very high temperatures (for instance, with respect to rehydration), and most single-family homes and residential facilities built in the last 50 years were not equipped with air conditioning. Furthermore, while there were contingency plans for a variety of natural and man-made catastrophes, high temperatures had rarely been considered a major hazard.

The catastrophe occurred in August, a month in which many people, including government ministers and physicians, are on holiday. Many bodies were not claimed for many weeks because relatives were on holiday. A refrigerated warehouse outside Paris was used by undertakers as they did not have enough space in their own facilities. On September 3rd, 2003, fifty-seven bodies still left unclaimed in the Paris area were buried.

The high number of deaths can be explained by the conjunction of seemingly unrelated events. Most nights in France are cool, even in summer. As a consequence, houses (usually of stone, concrete or brick construction) do not warm too much during the daytime and radiate minimal heat at night, and air conditioning is usually unnecessary. During the heat wave, temperatures remained at record highs even at night, preventing the usual cooling cycle. Elderly persons living by themselves had never faced such extreme heat before and did not know how to react or were too mentally or physically impaired by the heat to make the necessary adaptations themselves. Elderly persons with family support or those residing in nursing homes were more likely to have others who could make the adjustments for them. This led to statistically improbable survival rates with the weakest group having fewer deaths than more physically fit persons; most of the heat victims came from the group of elderly persons not requiring constant medical care or living alone without immediate family.

Source: Wikipedia

Finding the right colors and textures...

Francesco and I scour flea markets and antique stores searching for bits & pieces that we hope will add warmth and cosiness to what, despite being a renovation project of old houses, is essentially new construction. Why buy something newly-made when an old abandoned object can serve. A bit battered and used looking is fine with us, and it is environmentally friendly to re-use items that might otherwise end up in a slag heap. There is usually a story, some kind of preserved memory, that adds to the enjoyment of finding and utilizing something someone else cherished and loved.

The bidet on the rue Madame...

On a family holiday in Paris in 1961, my brother and sister and I encountered our first bidet in the bathroom of a hotel room at #44 rue Madame - then a quiet family-run place near the Luxembourg Garden and now a swanky four-star establishment.

We had no idea at all what the kidney bean-shaped white porcelain fixture could be, what might be its use, why it was occupying a space between an elegant pedestal sink, a large old-fashioned tub mounted on ball & claw feet, and an inner door that, a la française, concealed the toilet.

“It looks like something you wash your hair in,” my sister ventured.

“Naw,” said my brother, “I think you’re supposed to pee in it”.

“No way,” I said emphatically, “let’s ask mom and dad.”

Summoned to the bathroom, which they’d not yet entered, my parents paled at the sight of it. “My god,” mother whispered as she retreated hurriedly, “it must be a bidet.”

“A what,” we called after her, “what’s it for?”

“Ask your father,” she called back – ever her evasive reply.

Dad stared warily at the little white bowl.

“It’s a French thing,” he said, “that French people use. Just leave it alone and forget about it.”

“But what do they use it for?” we implored.

Dad looked nervously at the three of us: Tim was eldest at sixteen, Barbara a precocious fourteen, and I the youngest at twelve. I guess he concluded we were old enough to know the facts.

“French people don’t take a lot of baths,” he began matter-of-factly, “so they use this little thing instead.”

The three of us looked at the bidet, trying to imagine a French person fitting into it.

“Are you sure,” my brother asked, “it only looks big enough for someone’s feet, or maybe their hands.”

Dad was exasperated.

“Look,” he said heatedly, “let’s be honest here. They use bidets to wash their ‘private parts’ when the need arises. I said to leave the damned thing alone - and now just see what you’ve forced me to tell you!”

Bleak House...

Winter has come to the Dordogne in the form of snow and arctic temperatures. This morning it is minus seven and snowing like mad. We have discovered the blessing of having stout wooden shutters to close at night, preserving heat and making a comfy cocoon for us and Arcadio to huddle in.

The cat hates snow and won’t go out in it, remaining instead on the windowsill and imploring us to let him back inside. I can’t say I blame him; other than fetching firewood, I am also staying indoors…

Despite having a wood stove and central heating, it gets especially cold in the house at night. Thus I am happy to have a warm ball of black fur nestling against my back and/or legs – depending on the relative sleeping positions of the cat and me.

Perhaps out of care for his own safety, Arcadio prefers to sleep on my side of the bed. He knows that Francesco twists and turns every which way while I lie like a sodden log, less apt to squash him.

However, with Francesco in Italy to give exams again, Arcadio has only one warm body to cuddle against. Just two more weeks to go.

Taming the wild…

Our dream of a modest jardin à la française has been realized at last: converting the yard between the two houses from an unkempt catchall into a properly landscaped space. Well, at least a rough outline has now appeared, thanks to three days of uncharacteristically frenzied activity on the part of one of our French contractors.

Monsieur Chartroule is a tall, lanky man whose usual business are drains, sewers, and septic systems. So we were surprised when it emerged that he has the knowhow and equipment to level lumpy ground, scrape away unsightly crabgrass, rid us of the detested sand piles left by the former owner, then lay down the garden design we drew many months ago to create a central lawn surrounded by white pebble paths. He also agreed to undertake uprooting tree trunks and to level the large meadow in front of the property that we’ve been steadily clearing since last spring.

Accordingly, Sylvain and his team arrived at the start of the week with heavy-duty trucks, specialized diggers and rollers, and got to both tasks so rapidly that we found ourselves agape. Finally some action we could appreciate – although Arcadio was terrified by the huge yellow monsters racing around, scraping and thumping the earth with a terrific din.

In short measure the courtyard was transformed and the unsightly mounds of fallen and cut tree branches, strewn along an enormous crescent-shaped swath of land, were rounded up and burned, creating a pleasant extension of our grass lawn. (The woodpiles blazed for three days and nights, sparking a visit by the local gendarmerie who came to investigate the towering plume of smoke.)

We have to wait until March to sow wildflower seeds in the meadow and to plant grass on the center lawn, but at least we can now walk on level paths between the two houses without caking our shoes with mud. And we have plenty of room on the gravel for the iron table and chairs that were wont to sink into loose soil, threatening to tip us to the ground during lunch.

Our plan includes a grape arbor along the eaves of the main house, boxwood and hydrangeas planted in front of the ‘petite grange’, plus three espaliered pear trees attached to the façade of the other house. We’ve planted tulip, iris, and narcissus bulbs to brighten the courtyard space in spring and summer, and will also add more boxwood in terra cotta vases imported from Umbria – handmade in the village of Ripabianca by a family who’ve been crafting them for generations.

All of Sylvain’s work was completed by January 18 – the first anniversary of our PACS union in Paris last year – which made a nice present for us both.

"Mort pour la France"

Not to forget Veterans Day, I flew my American flag yesterday to honor my two grandfathers who served in France in the United States Army in World War I, my father who served in Africa in World War II, as well as the long list of vets in my family from the Revolutionary War up to today.

Also, Francesco and I attended the Armistice Day service yesterday in the little neighboring village of Ajat, staged as in all of France to commemorate on "11/11/11" the ninety-third anniversary of the end of the "Great War" - a conflict that in four years took the lives of 1.7 million French soldiers with another 4.3 million wounded.

It was touching to see so many villagers of all ages participating, including a World War II vet who must have been well into his eighties. While flags were held at half staff, a letter from President Sarkozy was read by the mayor and the national anthem sung. Then the role of dead was intoned, name by name. As each was announced the assemblage somberly repeated aloud the words, "mort pour la France".

It was astonishing and sobering that the list amounted to some thirty men from a village that even today has no more than 100 or so residents. It is no wonder that, grief stricken and still reeling from utter destruction and desolation, France was unable less than a generation later fully to meet the Nazi threat.

Caspar…

Writing so happily about Arcadio made me think of recent sad news from my brother Tim in Massachusetts about the demise of his cat Caspar. My sister-in-law Mary referred to him as a ‘faux dog’ because he would run hurriedly home when hailed, just as Arcadio will do when either Francesco or I sound a particular whistle call we’ve used since he was a kitten. Along with his housemates Mittens and Mazie, Caspar was constant company for Tim during Mary’s frequent absences due to her job with FEMA, just as Arcadio has been for me while Francesco is off teaching in Italy. What joy our furry friends can be! May the good cat Caspar rest blessedly in peace.

Titanic-class culinary disasters…

My friend Page has written to correct my memory!

It was not her fault, that bone soup - the honor belongs to our old high school chum, Debbie Anthony, who served it to the two of us a few years after we'd all returned to Dover from our college years. And Page cooked those 'dryburgers', not Todd Pankoff, and the eggshell cake was another of the doings of Bob Alechnowicz.

But other than all these mistakes and memory lapses, I did okay for an old guy, huh?! And I was reminded of Debbie Parker's T-bone steaks - Debbie just couldn't understand why the meat didn't get that rich brown color like steaks are supposed to be... despite the fact that she has boiled them for such a long time!

So here's the story again, with revisions:

You can’t cook a masterpiece every time you try, and Francesco and I sometimes amuse ourselves by recalling various moments when we and friends have bungled mightily in the kitchen. Here is a short list of culinary disasters - to which, perhaps, some of you might care to add?

Claire Blagg’s oatmeal-less cookies. When I was a tot, I helped mom stir up a batch of oatmeal cookies and was excited to peer through the oven door to watch them bake. They should have been in the oven about ten to fifteen minutes but after half an hour they remained little wet drops of goo. Mother was confounded until she discovered the two cups of oatmeal she’d measured - still in the pyrex measuring device and not in the batter.

Debbie Anthony’s bone soup. My high school chum Debbie made chicken broth for soup but failed to take the neck out before it completely disintegrated into a thousand tiny bones. The soup was truly inedible without sieving.

Page Watson's dryburgers. Another high school buddy offered up her version of hamburgers. They didn’t quite end up as charcoal but were as dry as a desert; like trying to eat baked sawdust on a bun. We had a laugh, threw them away, and went out to McDonalds.

Bob Alechnowicz’s scones of stone and eggshell cake. After hearing my story of eating Scottish scones at tea in Bermuda, Bob tried his hand at baking some. They looked and smelled great but were as hard as stone. In fact, we tried splitting one open by hitting it with a hammer but it merely shattered into little pastry pellets. We later had fun skipping them on the surface of the lake, one by one. He also concocted a chocolate cake into which he'd somehow managed to put both the eggs and their shells. The latter splintered into a thousand fragments making the cake inedible.

Billy Lucks’ rotten rubber chicken breasts. What the problem was with Billy’s chicken I do not wish to guess. They tasted awful and chewed like they’d been wrapped in melted rubber bands – impossible to eat or to forget!

Francesco Bianchini’s double-salted cod. Hoping to re-create a classic Umbrian fish dish after he’d joined me in Bermuda, Francesco bought codfish steaks in the local grocery. His Perugian cod recipe calls for fresh fish that is then seasoned and cooked in a savory tomato sauce with raisins, but the cod he bought in Bermuda was the dried salted variety that must be soaked for hours before cooking. Suffice it to say the fish was nearly lethal; he grumpily buried the mess in the backyard and prepared something else.

Dan Blagg’s flunk steak. My all-time worst effort in the kitchen was an early one, during my college days, the bad result of reading an Argentine recipe for rolled and stuffed flank steak. I labored all afternoon, pounding out the steaks, slathering them with the stuffing, rolling and tying them in pinwheel fashion, just as the recipe directed. What went wrong I do not know. They had the consistency of truck tires, impossible to slice let alone to eat. The friends I’d invited helped me pitch them in the bin and we all went for pizza.

Mapping 'Manhattan'...

You can check out our property by going to either Google Maps or Google Earth and typing in a search for ‘Fossemagne, France’ and then look a little north of the village to find La Placette Haute. Or you can use our GPS coordinates: 45.08.23.19n, 0.59.26.81e.

In the photo above, ‘Manhattan’ is the grid of trees just north of the two houses. The driveway going from them northward past the barn is our ‘FDR Drive’. '1st Avenue' is directly to its west, and so on. Imagine the houses as occupying the position of lower Manhattan and you can figure out the rest of my silly naming scheme…

Chateau and village of Ajat...

The château is open for a few weeks in August but we are assured the owners will admit visitors who knock if they happen to be in residence. (They also have a house in Normandy and an apartment in Paris to divide their time.) The adjacent church is undergoing renovation including the replacement of the massive rock roof, a marvel of ancient building technique. The village is but a few houses, some able to be rented for holiday accommodation from the town office. There is a good restaurant called the Auberge du Château that is open year round. The owners, Sébastien and Aurélie, are from the north of France and specialize in fish. To get a good look at the chateau, try this link for a virtual tour: http://www.perigords.fr/panoramas/F-Ajat-chateau.html

Decor-and-Design in Perigord

The blue tarp of Sarlat...

Saturday, March 24, 2012

The flowers that bloom in the spring, tra la!

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