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)