Toxic Mushrooms

Autumn in France means one thing: champignons. City-dwellers take to the hills in search of the most elusive of delicate, tasty mushrooms. (Lessons from my French class back this up. The photocopied documents illustrate "a day in France: September 15" with an image of a family scrambling around on hands and knees, digging through the forest, to fill a basket with mushrooms.) At the Saturday morning market, the lines at the mushroom man's display have been phenomenal.

Our generous neighbors brought us kilos and kilos of earthy-smelling cepes, along with baskets of chestnuts. I was a little nervous about the poison potential, but they were just delicious sauteed with a little butter in an omelette. But sure enough, recent news broadcasts have sounded an alarm all across the southwest: champignons toxiques have led to a few deaths this year. Thus the importance of taking your gathered booty to the local pharmacy, where the pharmacists have been trained to identify the potentially hazardous mushrooms.

Heat Wave

It was hot today. So hot that we had to compete with at least 5 other groups of Sunday Petanque players (on a small little dirt plot in the park). The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, Spring was in the air... But wait. It's almost Halloween! I think the birds and bees and trees are as confused as I am. A few trees are sporting their crimson and yellow fall foliage, but our roses are in full bloom. And the pepper plants continue to produce like crazy.

I've been anxiously awaiting the winter, dreading its onset. In fact, I might be a little obsessed. When touring the chateaux of the French countryside, or quaint little villages, instead of marveling at the construction or the stupendous views, I shiver to myself-- even on the hottest of summer days-- imagining how utterly freezing it must be to endure the cold, cold, bitter cold winter inside a stone fortress, which entraps the cold inside. And the French just love to build in stone.

(The photo isn't France, but it is very French: the Caribbean isle of Guadeloupe.)

PS. We recently watched Al Gore's film, An Inconvenient Truth, about global warming. Days like today, though blissful for Petanque, are also a big cause for concern.

Finger-Numbing, Toe-Tingling, Nose-Running: Welcome to Limoges, the Coldest Spot in France

I had a realization tonight watching Le Grand Journal. As the lovely meteo lady recited the weather forecast, I noticed-- with horror-- the quickly-falling temperatures across the hexagon of the great French state. But then I realized something even more horrific. Limoges was actually depicted on the map-- a small point with the temperature in centigrade plotted on the green-- as the single, coldest place in the entire country. There it was. And numbers don't lie. In the dead center of France (slightly SW), the miserably low (hovering near the single digits) temperature was the lowest of the low, a cocooned valley of arctic froid surrounded by warmer, sunnier climes.

Turenne: The Most Beautiful Villages in France

Not far from Limoges, in the southern tip of the Corrèze department, there is a plethora of beautiful, charming, and often overlooked villages. Turenne is one of them. Wind along a lovely country road, through the rolling green hills dotted with tiny hamlets and grazing Limousine cattle, and the town of Turenne suddenly emerges in all of its majesty-- perched on a steep bluff high above the pastures below. The hilltop Château de Turenne holds a commanding view of the surrounding verdant countryside, the rooftops, and the town's enormous 17th century church. Pierre and I huffed and puffed our way up the hill, and then climbed the slippery, steep, winding stairs to the top of the tour César at the hilltop Château de Turenne to take in the panoramic views.

Historically, the powerful viscounts of Turenne controlled much of the surrounding region for a thousand years starting in 1000. Back in the day, the tour was used to send signals-- with fire and smoke-- across the Medieval landscape to villages we could barely discern on the horizon. The carefully manicured gardens within the Château were gorgeous from the birds' eye view.

Turenne is one of Les Plus Beaux Villages de France, an organization started by the mayor of Collonges-la-Rouge in 1982 to preserve, renovate, and promote the most beautiful villages in France, as many were hollow shells of their former selves, on the verge of being lost, after a massive rural exodus in the 20th century. (Indeed, when we visited our friends Fab and Audrey in the Pyrenees last winter, we witnessed an altogether vanishing way of life: country customs and habits of the elderly villagefolk who still-- for example-- collected their water in buckets from the river.)

The association was a brilliant marketing plan, as Les Plus Beaux Villages has since become a well-known organization by which visitors discover the gorgeous, tiny hamlets of France, many of which are off-the-beaten-path and away from the well-worn tourist circuit.

Ramadan in Limoges

The holy month of Ramadan is upon us-- a time of prayers, reflection, and most importantly, fasting. Muslims don't eat from sun-up to sun-down. The brave Turks in my French class, clad in adorable tweed suits, answer the teacher's questions enthusiastically and with a smile. I know I'd be griping to myself about my growling belly (that needs to be fed every three hours before the low-bloodsugar-bad-mood sets in).

But a little lesser known fact about Ramadan is the food: dainty, delicious pastries, dripping with honey and sweet goodness, shared by family and friends after sunset. Pierre and I have discovered the pastry shop, a nondescript hole-in-the-wall (without a name) that becomes quite the hang-out in the waning daylight hours. The selection of treats is vast; there's quite a spread. Baklava, almond cake, crispy fried dough oozing honey, flaky bite-sized morsels dusted with pistachio flakes. Mmmmm.

The sweet shopkeeper slowly, slowly places the selected items on a tray, and then slowly, slowly transfers them into a box, which he ties carefully with a pink ribbon. Watching his movements, I think about all the hungry stomachs, feasting eyes, patiently waiting their turn. (I'm glad we've been the last in line on our last couple visits. I'd feel guilty getting my pastries before someone who's fasted all day.)

Check out Pierre's videos in the shop

Adam Gopnik on Alice Waters; My Organic French Garden

I have thoroughly enjoyed Adam Gopnik's Paris to the Moon, the New Yorker writer's account of his expat days in France. Among the brilliant essays, Gopnik's piece on Alice Waters visiting Paris really hit a chord for me-- as a bridge between beloved San Francisco and France, haute cuisine and organic, the neighborhood market in Limoges and Ferry Plaza Farmer's Market by the bay, the shared sentiment that eating a fine organically-grown meal (where you know where all the ingredients come from), lingering for hours with good friends and conversation, is a "soul-nourishing experience."

To quote Alice (as quoted in Paris to the Moon):

The sensual pleasure of eating beautiful food from the garden brings with it the moral satisfaction of doing the right thing for the planet and yourself.

And I must say our little plot of garden has become such a source of pleasure for me. To think that I was so scornful last spring, admiring Pierre for his industrious "hobby" (as I then called it)-- weeding, seeding, planting, watering, pruning. There's nothing better than walking outside and picking a handful of spinach leaves, cherry tomatoes, and a cucumber fresh off the vine for a salad. (Eggplant, squash, tomatoes, cabbage, salad, peppers, cucumbers, zucchini, leeks....) Eating well and knowing exactly where that good produce comes from. I'm a lucky lady.

Limoges: The Basketball Capital of France

Limoges is famed for its b-ball. Who knew that the French porcelain capital had such bragging rights? Historically, the Limoges teams have ranked right up there with the world's best. Back in the day, our neighbor played basketball here in Limoges and toured in the US. Tonight we went to see my Malian friend, Djene, play some serious basket with Limoges ABC, the professional women's team. They tore it up and the fans went wild, including the band of cute guys pounding away on their drums. The best part for me was watching their cool moves (and the American game I grew up with) with a French soundtrack.

The Unemployed Professional: Moi Thierry F. Chomeur Professionnel

The French don't need the Americans to tell them about the flaws in their social system. They are already well aware. We saw on the news recently a report about Thierry F., a self-described "unemployed professional" who just wrote a book about his experience of collecting sizeable benefits from various bureaucratic agencies for 24 years. He manipulated the system, and found all the sneaky ways to capitalize on its generosity, even though he's perfectly capable of working.

Likewise, there have been reports in the news about people making bundles by reselling free French medicine for sizable profits. There's a whole black market out there.

On the one hand, I believe that there are con-artist parasites everywhere in the world, and it's better to have a system where the sick are cared for, the unemployed provided for, than have people fall through the cracks and live hungry on the streets. On the other hand, recent reports indicate that this is a widespread phenomenon in France, and not just a few isolated crooks who are profiting. The French have come to expect the big State apparatus to care for them (taxes are enormous, after all!), and some actively look for hand-outs and ways to benefit from the system.

Petanque Is Fun

Now I know why the crowds of old men gather daily in the park-- even under the greyest of skies-- to play round after round of boules. Now I also understand why it always reeks of urine in the bushes nearby. After a perfectly French Sunday lunch (Pierre's perfect courses of aperitif with mystery-meat pate, roast beef with vegetables from the garden, cheese, homemade plum tart, wine, wine, and another bottle of wine ) with Vincent and Marielle, we partook in the perfectly-French pasttime of Sunday afternoon petanque. Rolling balls repetitively across the dirt for hours? I had my doubts. But boy, was it fun. Especially after three bottles of wine. The gentlemen in their cute, little caps-- all smiles, but all serious as they use sticks to carefully measure and determine the winning ball-- also imbibed plenty of tasty French vine (judging from their frequent disappearances into the bushes).


Image Via Petanque Postcards

Les Francophonies en Limousin

So maybe the grand metropolis of Limoges needs some help with its bus system (and bumper-to-Renault-bumper traffic), but it sure does lure some cool artists for festivals. Les Francophonies en Limousin, the 23rd annual festival in Limoges ongoing from September 26 to October 8 this year, has wowed a packed Opera House with powerful African music, brilliant dance, and theater performances nightly. Pierre and I heard Senegalese Toure Kunda tear it up on stage with an ensemble of incredible musicians. He spoke some moving words about changing the way we think about migration, and the crossing of borders. The vibrant energy of it got the crowd to their feet. Incredibly uplifting. We also saw the dance performace Un champ de forces, with four dancers each from Asia, Africa, and Europe: for Pierre it conjured ideas of man/civilization vs. nature, while I got all pensive about colonialization and the relationship between the continents. I think the choreographer was going for a dischordant, Stravinsky Rite of Spring thing.

Cacao et Chocolat: The Best Thing About The Marais

The sun shines in Paris and all's right with the world. I got to go to Paris last week for some meetings (oh did I count my lucky blessings) and spent all of Wednesday on my feet, in little tiny high heels, because it was too beautiful to take the stinky, crowded, pushy Metro and Paris is a city to be walked. Blisters the size of large (over-ripe and fermenting) plums? Didn't phase me. And of course my feet always take me-- past Hemingways haunts and the looming hulk of overphotographed Notre Dame-- to the winding alleys of the Marais. Oh how I love the Marais, recently highlighted in the NYT Style Travel Magazine on Sofia Coppola's shopping spree. But where I can only window shop and gape in wonder at the beautiful things in the pricey boutiques, I can indulge my heart out at Cacao et Chocolat, perhaps the best chocolate store on the planet. In fact, at this very moment I am trying my best to resist sampling another concoction from the beautiful little box that I purchased there. The box is a rich blue, and opens to the inscription:

Ici, le chocolat vous dévoile toutes ses saveurs… et vous inite à tous ses secrets.

Upon the dainty treasures is laid a tiny booklet-- with explanations of delicacies like the Teocali (ganache au chocolat noir amer) and the Quetzel (with a dash of Tequila and lemon). The store is all about celebrating the American/Aztec/Pre-Columbian tradition of chocolate making, where cocoa was deemed a sacred food.