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.

LES ASPERGES

It was the best of both worlds. Growing up near Paris offered me access to Culture-with-a-capital-C but spending my school vacations at my grandparents’ farm outside of Gourdon gave me more than a passing acquaintance with the pain and pleasure of agriCulture. Raising animals and growing food is hard work but, as an eight-year-old kid from the big city, my tasks were a lot of fun. I helped feed the rabbits and there always was a new fluffle of lapereaux waiting for me; of course, the babies received extra attention. I was less interested in the ducks and chickens but preparing la pâtée was extremely enjoyable: squishing small boiled potatoes between my fingers and mixing the flesh with grains de maïs probably triggered the primal instinct of kneading bread, or maybe it was just the delight of being allowed –even encouraged– to do something messy! I also practiced my sleuthing talents by hunting for hidden nests: Grandma always knew when one of her hens made a habit of jumping over the fence of the poulailler and laid her eggs in a secret location. I spent hours trimming haricots verts, shelling petits pois, peeling pommes de terre. But my favorite vegetable was also the most seasonal and regal one: l’asperge.

Springtime at marché d'Aligre: asparagus and morels.

My grandfather had set up a couple of banks of asparagus plants along one of his vineyards, the one closest to the house and to his vegetable garden. At that time, I only knew asparagus to be white and spotting them required a good eye; it was a little bit like sleuthing for stray hen nests. Asparagus grows quite fast and you want to harvest them as quickly as possible so they don’t get too fibrous and tough: in season, I would check the banks morning and afternoon. I looked for the purplish-white tips barely emerging out of the mounted dirt; then, I would poke the gouge into the sandy dirt, aiming to section the base of the spear and lift it out in one swift movement. Grandpa had woven a special basket to collect asparagus, a long and shallow one, but still based on the same design as all the wicker baskets he made. Asparagus was the most prized vegetable on the farm, the one that grandma would can and serve on special occasions.

Organized display of white and green asparagus

I discovered green asparagus after moving to California. It was a very easy transition. The San Joaquin Valley of California is a top producer: the légume royal is abundant and cheap. The flavor is a bit more herbaceous than the white one but I like that and I love that the stalks do not need to be peeled! I enjoy the versatility of green asparagus: I boil it or steam it, of course, but I also roast the spears with truffle oil, lemon zest and grated parmesan; I use them in stir-fry, risotto, or pasta dishes; they are magnificent with Hollandaise sauce; and when visuals matter, the bright green spears strike a nice contrast on white plates…

The yearly Asparagus Festival in Payrignac

Payrignac, “my” little village of 700 souls, is the home of several asparagus growers. As luck would have it, a few of our spring trips back home coincided with the Asparagus Festival. Along with fresh asparagus sales –white and green–, it’s also the sought-after venue for a giant asparagus omelet prepared by the local restaurant: free samples! We won’t be there this year and, as an avid mushroom hunter, I’ll miss the opportunity to forage for wild morels as well: they are a perfect foil for asparagus. Fresh is always best but trust me: of all dried mushrooms, morels are the one that rehydrates the best due to their sponge-like structure. My recipe for Asparagus with Morel Cream combines two of the most special ingredients to usher the Spring season. Enjoy!

Asparagus with Morel Cream
Asperges à la crème de morilles
Serves 4

½ oz dried morels
20 green asparagus
2 shallots, peeled and thinly sliced
2 tbsp butter
1/2 cup whipping cream
Salt and pepper

Soak dried morels in warm water for an hour. Lift the mushrooms out of the water, leaving all grit behind, and drain them on a paper towel. Cook the asparagus in salted boiling water for 7-8 minutes. Transfer them to a pot of ice cold water. When they are cold, drain on paper towels. In a skillet over medium-low heat, melt 1 tbsp of butter; sweat the shallots for a couple of minutes; add the morels and cook 5 minutes. Pour the cream into the pan and reduce until the sauce coats a wooden spoon. Add salt and pepper to taste. Melt the remaining butter in a frying pan and warm up the asparagus. Set 5 asparagus each on 4 warmed plates and top with morels and cream sauce.

Note: this side dish pairs very well with poached eggs, a grilled veal chop or turkey cutlets.

Vocabulary
Le lapereau: baby rabbit
La pâtée: a food mixture for farm animals
Le grain de maïs: kernel corn
Le poulailler: chicken coop
Le haricot vert: green bean
Le petit pois: pea
La pomme de terre: potato
L’asperge (f): asparagus
La gouge: a special tool to harvest white asparagus with a long handle and a half tunnel-shaped metal end.
Le légume royal: royal vegetable