Back on the blog

Now that I’m single again, I should have more time to update the blog (although we can all cross our fingers that more work will be coming in soon to prevent me from having too much free time on my hands, and of course, that Prince Charming will arrive in the not-too distant future too… ;)

People often ask me if I miss Paris now that I live out in the boonies. This question bewilders me, as it seems so OBVIOUS to me how much better life is out here in the country and what could I possibly miss about the stress/noise/pollution/dog-poop on the sidewalks/overcrowded and smelly subway/constant aggression from your fellow Parisian/no smiles/not nearly enough trees or space or sunshine, etc etc etc.
In my mind, what sums up the perfection of where I reside is something quite simple.
It is this:
I see blue herons every day.

Ever since I was a little girl in Texas, blue herons have been one of my favorite birds. I think they are strikingly beautiful, so graceful, and then that unusual color…
We used to get so excited on the exceptional occasion that we would spot one on Lake Livingston or Lake Conroe.

Now I see them all the time. Literally every day. Sometimes in groups of 5 or 6, usually just one on its own. Yet I am never blasé in their presence. I saw one swoop down and nail a fish last week, a first, and I almost shouted out loud with joy.
I always know that the best way to ensure that I get really, really close to one before it flies off is to forget to take my camera on a walk. Somehow, they sense this.
I never take them for granted.
I also see countless crows, starlings, goldfinches, thrushes, buzzards, kestrels, robins, white egrets, ducks, geese, cormorants, coots, etc. and the occasional couple of swans. But it’s the blue herons that get me every time. Their beauty moves me, in much the same way as the southern Burgundy landscapes.

Yes, sometimes I wish I could eat sushi every week, or just walk downstairs to pick out some of my favorite cheeses and maybe a new pair of shoes, or not have to worry about driving home after a late night at a fabulous restaurant… but those times are rare, while here, blue herons are not.

Winter in southern Burgundy

In the past month, we’ve had three (3) days of less-than perfect weather. Otherwise, it’s been week after of week of brilliant blue skies propped up by the massive branches of centuries-old trees that are still gorgeous even without their leaves and awe-inspiring landscapes that still move me to tears (not an exaggeration) even though I’ve been here for almost a year now…

Numerous people had warned me against the winter season, the dreary cold, the boredom for lack of cultural stimulation, desolate scenery, etc. I’ve had none of it. This winter has been one of the happiest I’ve had in years, and would have been perfect if only Sheba were still here…

Now that I’ve made it through the first winter, I’ve decided to give up the apartment in Paris after April or May (so if you’ve been thinking about coming for a visit and wanted to spend some time in the big city for free, better buy your tickets asap!) I’m experiencing some financial uncertainty and job precarity (you might have heard of the €5bn problem at my main client, Société Générale?) so I can no longer afford to keep paying rent on an apartment I never use. (And if you know of anyone who needs a French to English translator, please speak up! I’m desperate for work and feeling like Dustin Hoffman’s character in The Graduate:
I’m a little worried about my future…)

Other than that, I haven’t updated the blog recently because I didn’t have the words to express exactly how I’ve been feeling here, in my house and new region. But luckily for us all, some people do have the right words and one of my all-time favourite poems (thank you Michael S for introducing me to it almost 20 years ago) sums up my newfound bliss perfectly, so I’d like to share it with you, along with some images from the past couple of weeks. You could change “Rochester, Minnesota” to “Cormatin, France” to get the picture. Enjoy!

A Blessing
by James Wright

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

August already

Somehow summertime seems to speed by faster out here in the country, since there is always something to be done on the house and garden, in addition to a steady stream of houseguests and the usual July in-pour of work for me, and I can’t believe it’s already August. Right now I am drowning in fruit ‑ free «peche de vigne» (tiny red-fleshed peaches) and «reine-claude» (small, green plums that are very sweet!) for anyone who wants to come and pick them!! I can’t keep up. Even if I knew how to make jam or jelly and pies, there would still be too many, and since I don’t know how to make jam or jelly or pie, and don’t have the time to learn with my current workload, my garden overfloweth. I’ve even had the neighbours come and pick as much as they want (and was rewarded with a lovely reine-claude tarte in exchange!) and given some to my favourite local restaurant, but my fruit trees are like rabbits these days. The unfortunate aspect of this, besides my nagging guilt for wasting good food, is that the garden is buzzing with flies, wasps, ants and bees and other insects looking to benefit from all the spoilage, and walking through the grass is like trying to avoid land mines of rotting fruit instead of the pleasant, calming stroll it once was. There are obviously worse problems in the world, and really, I can’t complain. I’m so happy here that I’m seriously thinking about giving up the Paris apartment soon.

Very soon.
Meanwhile, some of the latest images from life in Cormatin.

Someday surely we will have the technology to upload scents the way we do images and sounds, and then you will be able to drink in the amazing perfume of this rose, or the unmatchably beautiful smell of the freshly rolled haystacks…

Until then, you can just click on the pics for a closer look.

How does your garden grow?

The most obvious cultural difference between France and the US is the language, and within the language, expressions we use. Although sometimes expressions are surprisingly similar (we say “knock wood” for luck while the French say touch wood ("touche bois")) often they are quite different. Lately it’s been raining cats and dogs, but according to the French, those are ropes falling (“il pleut des cordes”). The expressions can also be a reflection of underlying mentality: Anglo-Saxon positivism is clear in “do unto others as you would have them do unto you” whereas the same Biblical phrase is transformed with a solid dose of French negativity (or in keeping with this entry’s title, contrariness!) into “don’t do to others what you don’t want them to do to you (“ne faites pas à autrui ce que vous ne voudriez pas qu'il vous fît”.)
An expression shared by both languages refers to gardening. In English, you have a “green thumb” although in French, it’s your whole hand that’s green (“la main verte”). I have always joked that I have a “black thumb” but now that I have such a fantastic garden, I hope that is about to change. Just this week I learned how to cut back my rose bushes (according to my gardener, Luis, below the dead blossom you find the first branch that has exactly 5 leaves and you cut just underneath it.) And tonight, I planted my first bushes ever: basil and cilantro. I had them in pots on the balcony but they weren’t doing so hot, so Luis* indicated a good piece of soil, in between the chives (which I didn’t even realize were there until Gardener showed me!) and one stretch of rose bushes, where they might do better. I was quite pleased with myself for digging the holes (I only accidentally killed one earthworm, mea culpa) and putting the herbs in the ground, covering them up with the displaced soil, and then giving them an initial round of water. There is something very fulfilling and life-embracing in such a simple act…
Cross your fingers (croiser les droigts, another identical expression!) that they survive.

*according to CW’s book on etiquette, I’m just supposed to call him “Gardener” but I prefer to switch back and forth.

Meanwhile, some shots to give you an idea of how my garden grows!

As a reminder, you can always click right on the photo to get a closer view !

Everything's coming up roses

I wish that I had a voice like Ethel Merman and could belt it out from my terrace to the probable horror and dismay of my neighbours… You know, her revered performance from Gypsy, which you can find here: http://www.allmusic.com/cg/amg.dll?p=amg&sql=11:0ifwxqw5ldhe~T3
(just select “Everything’s coming up roses” then you can let it rip and continue reading at the same time!)
Indeed, Sheba and I are now enjoying a beautiful canopy of roses that are perfuming my office today (see close-up), and more are on the way elsewhere in the garden.
I currently have numerous blog texts in mind:

The Madame Butterfly Manifesto inspired by my unforgettable visit to the Dijon opera this past Sunday and the heart-wrenching lead performance by Marie-Paule Dotti, with a fantastic seat enjoyed for free thanks to my friend, opera singer Eric Demarteau;
The Quest for the Perfect Paris Brest (it’s a pastry, people, so get your mind out of the gutter!) most of the detailed research for which, hélas, was lost when my old laptop died, although it is still visible on my hips and thighs…
A worshipful tribute to food writer Jeffrey Steingarten and an equally reverential homage to Down With Love…

But unfortunately, due to the colossal amounts of the estimates mentioned in Size Does Matter, I’m having to work my poor fingers to the bone right now instead of regaling you with attempts at wit, irony or even accolades.
In the immortal words of Arnold S, however: I’ll be back.

Scenes from my backyard

Moving, as they say, is one of the most stressful events in any person's life. I'm not going to tell you any different. Buying a house has been wonderful and terribly scary, exciting and exhausting, overwhelming in both good and bad ways. Thus far, the good outweighs the bad, and I'm thankful for that. I'm too worn out to write much more, but I wanted to share some photos of my backyard when I arrived last Wednesday, and then this week's image of Sheba basking in the sun. He has adjusted to the new home better than I could have ever expected. Not bad for a cat of 17!
Please come and visit us soon...