Breakfast

Sardines in beautiful tins

La Maison du Fromage, Limoges, France

Time to cut the Hay

Last week the sound of tractors buzzed along in the background.

When the time is right, when the weather is dry enough and the grasses long enough-- the countryside is ready to cut the hay from where I was in Galicia in Spain and all along through Rioja to Basque country and across the border through the Aquitaine and now here in Limousin the landscape is covered in randomly placed hay bales.

Now the goal is to keep them dry so they can be used for animals or sold for profit-- but I do think they make for a pretty picture...

We are Food People

"I am just going to cook the fish in the dishwasher," Norma tells the group when referring to how she is going to cook a fish for a catering event that has only one small oven.

The group adds in ideas of how to make it work-- using the right plastic wrap and foil, etc. We are food people, we talk like this all the time.

The steak hangs behind us on an iron hook in the fireplace, just high enough to get a good, rustic smoke.

We devour the large bowl of shellfish, everyone digging in and eating with our bare hands and the conversation goes to the importance and enjoyment of using your hands with food.


As traditionalists, we banter about fancy restaurants and trendy preparations with food and over priced restaurants. A meal should be about coming together, family and friends, and respect for the food and the land in which it is produced. We like it simple and appreciated.

"There is something you have to do three times a day, it is ridiculous not to love it and find enjoyment in it, " Danny, a chef from Belgium says.

Our meal lasts 6 hours-- ending around 1 AM with dark chocolate and champagne. Those who enjoy food, enjoy each other and there was not a dull moment as we swapped food stories all night long.

Hazelnut time

old things

French Country

Montautre

Good to be back in Limousin-- quick update

It's the farm fresh eggs, the symphony of birds, the moon that is always full every time I arrive, bike rides down car-less country roads, my friends who truly known me-- I can let go and be myself, it is a handful of really great guests I met upon arrival-- Buddhists from Holland and chef's from Belgium and it is that I have been eating clean for three weeks now-- no coffee, alcohol, sugar, white foods-- just lean protein, veggies and brown rice-- all these things contribute to the shiny, happy me that had disappeared for some time.

The house was packed full with excitement when Rini and I showed up. I immediately and happily came in and made a bed for last minute guests while Norma was busy making the dinner--served outside under the lime trees.

After dinner, under the bright moon light, I toured the land with Norma and Rini meeting their three new horses from Holland-- beautiful, black baby horses. I followed Norma as she put the three legged sheep inside the barn for hospice and told her of life in Spain-- so happy to have girl-talk!

All there is to write is that it is good to be back, really good!

Montautre has a three legged sheep

Look close, there's a three legged mama sheep in the background! It had gangrene and Norma, Doolittle styles, saved it. And now Montautre has a wobbly three legged sheep with a stubborn little baby that will probably knock her over.

traveling from Spain to France with a busted bag and an absent mind

Here I am, tired, pissed off, with wildly unmanaged eyebrows and hair in dire need of a haircut.

I am stranded here, after days of nothing but bad luck. Sure, I had to vacate the Spanish village with twenty minutes notice, forgetting my beloved flip flops and ended up in a hotel whose bar wasn’t opened upon departure-- so I, um, didn’t pay. I feel guilty still about it, but there was no one and I had a train to catch.

The wheel on my heavy, awkward suitcase broke, before the journey began, so I in near tears had to carry it everywhere. Up and down all those freaking European staircases that descend deep into the earths trenches and back up again. And there was minimal chivalry present.

I attempted to drag it, but I knew where that was headed-- a gaping whole in the bottom of my bag, my shit strewn everywhere. So, I carried it. I am strong for a little chick, but not that strong, it is heavy.

I passed up San Sebastian so as not to have baggage wars and went straight to Hendaye- the tiny, strange little Basque town on the French side of the border. I was fortunate enough to get the last room in the cheap hotel, that I have been in before. I saw all the French pilgrims on the train and knew it would be a battle for a bed-- so ran up those stone steps with my heavy bag, ignored the alcoholic trailing me and slid right in the joint- the very last available room.

The later train was the plan. I wanted to take it slow, drink my tea, buy cell phone credit, find a gluten free petit-dejuner (hard thing to do in France)-- but when I went to buy my ticket at 8.15 AM, the woman put me on the 8.30 train--I asked for a later train and she pulled her bitchy French TGV sales clerk routine and said that was the only train-- which was a complete lie.

I ran up the steps, packed, back down the steps, with no time ran to a train-- down the steps, up the steps-- which was the wrong train. 2 minutes to spare and I had to take the bag back under the tracks to the other side. Men stared at me, watching the sweat drip off my face, the tears about to fall, the urgent need to rush but not enough muscle to do it-- and they continue to stare as I fumbled along and fell into the car, on top of my bag.

I didn’t eat all day, the rush on top of it being Sunday-- which means nothing operates here in France. I was fasting and doing aerobic and weight lifting-- It makes since that I got off at the wrong station in Limoges-- days of traveling, no food, a quick exit…Just 8 train minutes- away from my transfer station, I got off early at a station in the middle of no where. It is Sunday, everything is closed and that was the last train. No taxi’s. No buses. No more trains. A slave to a heavy bag.

But Rini rescued me and Norma welcomed me back home. I am at Montautre and have the next three weeks in dive into this book writing!!!

The fat man behind the bar grunted at me and then walked away. He proceeded to talk to a man at the bar. I was used to this. I waited.

He grabbed some keys and my heavy bag. He was panting, sweating as he pulled my bag and lead me down the street and around the corner and into a dark building where he opened up a room and walked away. No talk of price or payment or length of stay.

I slept restless with the city sounds below. I had been in such quiet.

When I awoke, I sat on my bed eating rice cakes and hard boiled eggs--a sure sign I was on the road yet again. Exhausted of the road I am, but there is this deep satisfaction of being on the go, free and where abouts unknown.

The Road is Life...

on the road again

Yet another adventure has come to a close.

It was time to leave the little village. D is off on his horse and I will be heading to lovely Limousin, France in a few days.

I was in tears as Miguel drove me down through the undulating hills where the fat farmers were cutting the hay and all the cows were out to pasture. Ah, the quiet and slow life-- I shall return, but it is near that oh so sad point on the road where I need to get me arse back to the homeland and find some work and replinish funds!

But, at least there´s a month of France posts!!

a sunny day

the home

Spring Water

Pictures!

This is Angela of the Fonfria Albergue and me, heading to town!

what´s the news

I think it was a week later, D informed me in passing that Michael Jackson had died, no details just that “he died”. I suppose he heard someone talking about it up at the Albergue. We have been so disconnected to all forms of news. Sure we go to the internet in town but that is always in a rushed hour, once a week, that all I do is post a blog and check e-mails.

The biggest news I receive here is that Miguel hit a cow in the road and sued the farmer from 200,000 euro. Apparently, the farmer was off in the pub catering to his need for drink while the cows were left to roam. But that was last years village news and the most current news to me, other than Michael.

Sp, here is my plead for you-- post me some comments on current events, what’s happening out there? How’s Obama doing? How is life in the Crisis?

Fiesta time!

D and Furan

African Merchant in Spain

the update

My bed is nestled up close to the window, it feels like it’s in or out the window. Last night I slept with it open for the first time. I figured I’d have to close it once the night time mountain chill came in, but it never turned cold and I felt fresh air upon my nose all night long. It was a beautiful sleep- deep and peaceful with the sounds of nothing but a crickets progression and a random cow bell off in the distance. I felt like I was sleeping outside and free, at home.

The light from the window and my use of only candle light because I am too lazy to walk to the other side of the room to turn off the lights (as well as I unpremeditatedly stopped drinking coffee, wine and eating chocolate) has matched my schedule with the sun. I have been sleeping at sunset which is around 11:30 PM and waking with the first signs of light at 6:30. Something feels so intrinsically right about being aligned with nature’s clock, I can’t remember the last time I felt so alive and on seven hours of sleep (I was sure my body particularly demanded 9 hours and no less).

At 6:45 there was a loud thump, I thought D fell out of his bed and he, in turn, thought I fell out of my bed and came up to check, “It’s probably just the cows,” he said eyeing my little open air haven, “Well, that’s quite a nice spot in the window, how relaxing.” He tells me about his dream and I tell him about what a great nights sleep I had and we listen to the birds as they start their morning serenade.

I spend most days writing (the cookbook/story book of deep France), but often irritated by listening to my own thoughts, I dilly dally in the fields, foraging and searching for edibles. I am sure I found psilocybin mushrooms on Furan’s manure the other day. It was the perfect climate humid, hot and moist-- the mountain valley fog had just lifted. Not that I care for hallucinogenic mushrooms, but there is something satisfying about finding something so camouflaged and being able to identify it and know its usable properties.

There’s also bright magenta roses growing wild. I took one whiff of it’s perfume and wanted to save the aroma, so I put the leaves in oil, for a massage oil, we will see if the fragrance infuses.

There’s snails too! Once they get big enough, it’s local-vore escargot for me! A little garlic, olive oil, white wine and parsley steamed together with the snails--I can’t wait.

I don’t interact with pilgrims much, to tell the truth, seeing it everyday sort of disenchants the whole thing from a romantic pilgrimage to tourism. Grumpy people, trudging along, rushing to find a bed and looking for a good deal, there’s good stuff, of course- but now I am seeing all sides of it. Reality-- the word of the year for me. It is all reality.

I head back to France in a month and then on to Chicago, so am lapping up every last minute of this freedom and enjoyment-- living well!!

Birthing Sheep

I need your advice!!! Norma and I are working on a book about French country life at her Chateau in Limousin, where I lived for nearly a year doing all things epicurean. I am currently writing the book as I am here in Spain and would love any advice? Below is what I am writing for the intro to Spring-- any advice would be loved--good, bad, or ugly? Do you think it´s book worthy?

Life begins to re-emerge, from under the heavy blankets of winter, the heavy snows, the dormant gardens and near hibernation- slave to the fire--stocking wood, making it, keeping it alive and tethered close to feel it’s warmth. It is Spring time in Limousin; birds are chirping in chorus, tractors can be heard echoing throughout the land as they till the dark and moist soils in preparation for planting, the outdoor furniture is being pulled out and oiled, windows are open welcoming the fresh air to push out all lingering reminders of the long, cold winter, flowers are blossoming-- tulips, daffodils, cherry tree blossoms, wild little daisies, the water is running free from it’s frozen pose in the spring again and after a long day of outside work, it is at last warm enough to share a glass of wine outside while watching the setting sun.

The chickens, revived by the sun, are beginning to lay more eggs, the cats are lazily stretching their limbs from their baskets and perking their ears to the sounds of Spring-time bustle outside the kitchen door, Monty and Chica are particularly excited running back and forth from the kitchen to the garden, “Hey guys,” I say petting their shiny black coats, “where’s Norma?”

They know where the action is at, they just can’t get to it because they’ve been locked out due to their uncanny instinct to herd. Monty and Chica will herd the cats around the kitchen with their heads lowered and eyes wide and Monty’s body will point straight and stiff as an arrow as she focuses on her herd of cats, pushing them around the kitchen. When taken out on a walk out down small country roads alongside the green fields of Limousin, they will dart back and forth the way a ping pong quickly flies from one end to the other along the barbed wire fences and wooden posts in attempt to herd the rust color cows at graze, who aptly ignore their efforts, continuing to chew their clumps of grass in the same manner a teenager loudly and churlishly chews her gum. On this particular day, the dogs are locked out from the fields, all wooden gates barricaded shut, which could only mean one thing: there must be something going on with the animals and Monty and Chica need to kept at bay.

In the sun chipped and faded blue stalls, you find Norma, hair placed in a knot atop of her head, squatting low in the hay, holding a panting and uncomfortably hot sheep. She is comforting the animal on the ground in her over-sized and well used leather pants, her work pants that will with stand gardening in the mud, working in the cold, painting shutters and now, birthing. Though, hot and nervous, the sheep is at ease with Norma, as most animals are, and seems to intrinsically know that she is being helped.

“She’s in labor and needs help. This is her first time giving birth and she can’t get the baby out,” she says with hands covered in mucus and blood. She had already helped the over-heated and nervous sheep break her water by reaching inside the birth canal and now she had been searching inside for the baby, able to feel it inside the mother but unable to grab an appropriate hold on it.

It is hot and humid inside the stall, it smells of barnyard, bret, and in the distance you hear the whining of Monty and Chica, desperate to be a part of the action. Norma keeps her calm intensity and inserts her hand into the warm, bloody vortex and with the intention of a football player getting the ball into the net, she reaches into the depths of the sheep, fishes for the two front legs and in a swift tug, she pulls out the slimy and shivering lamb and immediately holds it to the mother’s nose and mouth so she can lick her placenta off the baby and nurture this new life.

Only moments pass before the floppy eared, beady eyed lamb shakily, the way a grandparent gets up from their recliner, legs unsteady and with concentrated determination, stands up. She pauses for a moment, as if she surprised herself by the sudden elevation and as if she had known all along, heads direct to the mother’s teat, kneels her front legs, pokes aggressively with her nose and than latches on for her first meal.

Norma relaxes, contently watching the mother and baby, satisfied that she kept them both alive but knows the amount of work that lies ahead for the next few weeks, making sure the baby is warm at night, that she is getting enough milk, that she doesn’t get trampled on by the other sheep, she knows that she will have to constantly check for ticks, diarrhea, and other illnesses. This is all just the beginning as things come to life again, for it is Spring, it is time harbor and tend to life, plant the gardens seeds, prepare the house, and anticipate the return of guests and dinners and begin the preparations for their first meal at Chateau de Montautre.

simply Sunday

A rustle, the same clicking sound a deck of cards makes when it is shuffled, can be heard as the wind rushes up through the valley.

The horse is nearby and I have been put in charge of watching him, in his new hobbles that allow him to graze without being tied to a tree or wall, horse-handcuffs, I call them, “They’re hobbles,” D reiterates correcting my improper terminology. The large white Spanish horse is happily eating clover in the pasture, inching his way down the buffet line of green grasses, oblivious to his drastically minimized mobility.

It is F. Scott Fitzgerald making the noise, the books that reside on the stone window ledge have caught the wind and the pages of his collection of short stories flitter about like a sail stuck in irons.

It is so quiet this Sunday, it is so calm that every tiny thing is immense- bees buzzing, birds chirping, cows bells chiming, tractors running and pilgrims in chat passing by.

D and I are invited up to Sunday lunch with the Spanish (Angela and her family), we grab some Rioja and head up the hill. The last time we ate with the family it was chunks of grilled goat meat and salad with ingredients fresh from a friends nearby garden and today’s special treat was whole grilled sardines. The dish was stacked high with the metallic little fish fried to a crisp and shimmering in their fatty oils, D pours the wine while plates of fish, bread, chicken, aubergine, salad and fries are passed around.

“When you fish for mackerel, you get one and then you gets tons, they don’t stop coming,” D says which somehow leads us into a conversation of sushi. The grandmother, always dressed in a flowery house coat and sweetly kisses my head as she call me guapo, mumbles in disdain about how she would never care to eat raw fish, entertained by the absurdity of the notion.

At this the son and his fiancé tell of their plans for their honeymoon in Japan--chorizo. They will pack their bags full of this spicy Spanish sausage for salvation from raw fish. D and I, the only Anglo-Saxon’s in the room, chuckle at their concern for starvation.

Lunch is casual and lazy, the way Sunday’s tend to be. We gorge on a bowl of Rosa’s cherries from her land, where “everything grows. We have cherries and all fruits and pimentos--huge ones. And tomato’s. You want to grow something-- it will grow where I am from.”

Life is simple here. Fonfria means “Cold Fountain,” I didn’t realize the connection until we were trying to spend less at the market and D informed me that there was a spring that the locals use for water. The spout is just across the street where all the village fills up containers of water and to both sides are two stone tubs filled with water, overflowing and constantly fresh. The old ladies bring their laundry to the tubs and scrub them clean on the hot stone wall, a scene from another time.

When we return from lunch, I pack a bag of water bottles and fill up for the next couple days.

We go to town once a week, we hang our laundry out to dry, there is no TV, no social life- just a random pilgrim conversation and it is quite lovely. The sky stays light until 11 PM giving us long days. We are tucked away on a little mountain, sharing friendship and conversation and me with my writing and simple pleasures of picking flowers and taking walks and D with his horse and his plans and creative projects-- it is a deeply satisfying brief interlude…

Pigs in Galicia

Wild Chamomile tea

the view

Pork, onion, tomato empanada

How fun it is to give a go at creating regional dishes. I have been attempting to make a typical Spanish empanada to feed the pilgrims at the albergue and have done pretty good from the get go, considering I am gluten-free and I have never made an empanada in my life.

We will see today, if the people think it´s as nice as I do!

Pulpo!