Sunday Lunch

A hundred year old wagon sits outside the front door of Domaine Crestet.  At one time, it was used to carry wine barrels into town. Now, it sits and looks pretty against the hills of the French countryside.  What intrigues me most about the wagon are the two names that appear on either side of a small drawer underneath:  Farrud Clovis and Louis Carle.  Clovis was the proprietor of the wagon, and Carle’s name appears with the word ‘Forge,’ which likely makes him the blacksmith of the ironwork.

The wagon at Domaine Crestet is yellow, but there is a second, blue, wagon at another house that Paul and Miriam rent out.  I haven’t looked to see if there are names on this one.

I love these wagons, and I’ve left my folder of writing on my external harddrive instead of remembering to put it on my new computer after the backup. This means I can’t work on any old projects and becomes the perfect opportunity to start a new one.   I’ve been given two characters so far and somewhat of a setting; now I just need a story to write.  What sort of life can I give to Louis Carle et Farrud Clovis?

It rained a bit on Thursday and Friday. I’m actually surprised that it has been colder than I thought it would be. There is a wind that blows in the area with a name that sounds like Mistral when Omi (Miriam’s mother) says it.  The heat is also dry, which differs so significantly from Michigan’s constant humidity.  I prefer the weather here as I’m not dripping wet every second of the day.

I haven’t explored much on my own. I’ve gone along with Paul and Miriam on errands, a nice way to see the surrounding area, and I get to help out.  Saturday was cleaning day because there were people coming to the Olivier house, so I vacuumed and mopped the floors and helped to make the bed.  

Being helpful is an easy trade off for the wonderful opportunity I have.

Saturday night welcomes the new and current guests to the villas.  A welcome drink provides an opportunity for the different people to get to know their neighbors.  One couple in particular had arrived from Pennsylvania.  The woman, Joanne, enthusiastically greeted each person she met. I talked to her for awhile, since she spoke English (the other couples were German and Dutch, and they spoke some, but little, English). Joanne teaches French at a small college near her home.  She excitedly offered to help me with my French and seemed overly enthused to be in the area. I liked her; it is important to be excited and open to meeting new people.  I’m still a bit shy in that area, so I hope I will be able to see her again.

Sunday is Father’s Day in France as well as in the States, but the French also have a Sunday tradition, of which I learned today: LUNCH.  It goes without saying that France and good food are like tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches—a perfect combination.

The amount of good food I have consumed in the last five days makes my regular meals at home look like bean paste.  Maybe it’s because I’m somewhere new and it’s France, but even the simplest meals are beautiful and delicious.

But Sunday lunch is a big deal. In fact, the whole day is dedicated to it. We ate a very small breakfast this morning and had already started cooking for today’s meal yesterday.  However, there was more to be done.  I taught Miriam how to use a spoon to shell hard boiled eggs. Peeling eggs by hand works poorly for me, so I pulled out a spoon.  Miriam liked the trick, and it’s interesting to see what sort of weird things you take for granted that other people just know.  Stuffed (deviled) eggs were made by Fabienne (Paul and Miriam’s daughter) and me.  Paul put a leg of lamb on the barbecue.

At twelve/twelve-thirty, the parents and sister of Fabienne’s boyfriend (who couldn’t make it) arrived.  All eight of us sat in the courtyard to drink champagne and eat the eggs—lunch officially started.

I was thankful as we sat there when people spoke to me in English. I have been far too timid in my own use of French, and I’m sure it is probably rude of me. I say little sometimes because I’m not sure I’ll be able to form the words.  I will have to make more of an effort.

Eventually, we moved to a larger table.  We cleaned the small table of eggs and glasses and set the other for the larger meal.  Pasta salad made the day before and freshly baked and bought baguettes sat between wine glasses, water pitchers, and plates.  We helped ourselves to pasta and, soon, the lamb was done. Once again, the food is beautiful, simple and delicious.

Lunch turned into dessert and red wine into white. We ate a small chocolate cake and a raspberry dessert that I can only (unfairly) compare to the blueberry/strawberry dessert people make for the fourth of July with Cool Whip. Then back to the small table for coffee (or, in my case, water) and a bit of the chocolate Paul received for Father’s Day.

I said we started around 1:00PM, right?

Well, it wasn’t over until 6:00PM.

Five hours of good food and good company as a Sunday tradition. Beautiful.  We need to start doing this at home.