Death, taxes, French lunch and dinner. Sacred moments, bien sur. In France, you can count on the sacristy of two times of day- no phone calls, no dropping by. C’est l’heure de dejeuner or l’heure de diner. If you want to write, meditate, snooze or eat a wonderful meal, rest assured, you won’t have to unplug the phone between 12:30-2:00 or 7:30-9:00pm

Food remains king here in the countryside. Paris may bustle, but here you can depend on le silence, a sacred moment. Not only is it silent, more so than usual, but rather comforting, like Christmas eve. Knowing age old rituals mean something,  the delight of slowing down is still sacred here in the pays.

(Originally written one Sunday afternoon, when all was quiet and the French were inside eating Sunday lunch. Fall 2005)

They say one can count on two things- death and taxes. But in France one can add another ingredient to the mix, or recipe to be exact, and that, mes amies, is lunch.

Here, deep in the countryside, lunch is sacred. At noon, not at 12:05, but noon sharp, all shops take up their awnings, turn off the lights, put down the gates and shut down tight. All that is, but the food purveyors,.They steadfastly make themselves available for another 30 minutes so their neighbors, the other shop keepers, and we who tarry over our various morning errands, can make a mad dash for lunchtime provisions.

By 12:20 -12:40 the mad dash home is under way. Careening around lovely scenic bends in the landscape, Mesdames et Monsieurs dash at ticket speed homeward for that sacred mid-day repast.

Who knows what delights wait behind those stone walls and shuttered windows? Are these French people really sitting down to a luxurious warm meal of local fare? Soupe de citrouille avec chabrol*, ever present as fall and winter commence? Perhaps a warm filling pot au feu, or confit de canard to stave off the slight chill for the remainder of afternoon walnut harvesting.

Alas, not chez moi. I am content content with last night’s soup, some fresh bread and a petit gout de pate de compagne avec cepes.  Lot’s of yard work and bulb planting await me l’apres- midi, that nebulous term that means after lunch, but exactly at what time does it commence? Always a wonder when one is waiting for the plumber to arrive!

chabrol- the custom of putting a bit of red wine one’s soup bowl at the very end of the meal and picking up the bowl and slurping it up enthusiastically as you enjoy the last drop.

(Originally written Fall, 2005)

Recently, a new face began to greet me at my favorite wood oven boulangerie. Young and jovial, a slight, yet muscular 20 something has taken over the green tiled store front bakery in Cazoules. Back breaking, but satisfying work, my wide eyed young monsieur cheerily chops all his own wood for the bake oven. Proceeding to bake over 300 loaves per day for his devoted clientele,
baking no doubt, most of the night and opening bright and early ,I wonder if he ever sleeps.

His bread is recognized by its pointy ends, which lends itself,to superlative crunch and crust. Slaine, my young pooch, particularly
likes these baubles. Any wonder his shelves are nearly empty each time I arrive. And sometimes, they are empty and he has closed early.Then other times, if you return at 5:30 when he again opens, no doubt, having himself a sieste during the afternoon, you might find a day old half baguette, a dim but grateful prize that is still tasty.

Last week, when a used cooler showed up one day, I asked his very helpful mother what was in store. Her reply was gateaux (cakes). I for one, can hardly wait!

(written in early November, 2005)

To really begin to make the quantum leap of understanding the French. one must cultivate, especially in the rural areas, a major attitude shift. The list of where to begin, is full of subtleties. It has no beginning nor end. Perhaps this is why, for ions, franocphiles have been in love with France. She (often referred to as a feminine culture) remains an elusive, charming, elegant, maddening, earthy temptress. For these and countless other reasons, we love her dearly.

Here, for matters of brief discussion, let’s begin with the art of conversation.

Our American need for need for clipped efficient conversation gets one no where in France. Additionally here in the states, the notion of la politesse, being polite, simply saying hello, goodbye and thank you, does not really exist. In fact, thinking about it, the actuality of connecting with the person across the counter, frighteningly moves one a step away from anonymity. Heaven forbid, it might add a few nanno seconds to an interaction to boot. Most inefficient.

But the French value, even insist, on these small offerings of acknowledgment, these pearls of civility. La politesse and the natural, rightful ending of a conversation, no matter what the length, are what count.

In France, you must immediately throw out any notions of vitesse, (speed) in conversation. These will get you no where. While waiting in line at the bank or the post office, in a hurry at the boulangerie, my advice, surrender. And surrender also to the fact, that once they get going, they speak reams and with vitesse amongst themselves.

The French speak in paragraphs. They cultivate conversation, no matter what the topic. Discourse is key and time is not of the essence. You may think so, but not the person in front of you who is talking with the maitresse of the establishment. Remember, the French love their language and love to use it.

So, to quote Polly Platt, author of Savoir Flair! and French of Foe?, the key is to “take time for time” This little phrase, when put into practice will open up a whole new world to you. This is truly a foreign concept for we type A’s.

Take time for time. Repeat it 3 times slowly. Not only in France, but in life. I used this little travel mantra a lot this fall, and it really gave me a deeper perspective. What’s the hurry?

The French language is like a subtle flower. Like an aural scent, it is full of chewy mellifluous sounds. It doesn’ t matter if you can not understand what is being said. Just listen, its musical. The cadence is so different than English. And even if your comprehension in limited, you realize, more and more, the poetic dimension of the language, the nuance and subtlety.

Mais oui, discourse rules. Those never ending paragraphs. No place to breathe! Think of it this way. The French examine the contents of a conversation as if lifting a finely cut goblet to the light, and turning it in all directions. Ah, those bon mots, bursting forth like fragrant fruit.

(Originally written after waiting in a very long line at the Souillac Post Office- everyone had their day and say! Fall, 2005)