Notes from the Perigord 2
Apr 2nd, 2004, 04:13 AM
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Notes from the Perigord 2
Geese consider dandelions gourmet food, I learned this morning, after waking to a blood-red sunrise at 6:30 with a penetrating fog covering the valley floor. I thought I might go back to sleep, but between the honking of the geese and the crowing of the roosters, and the rays of sun filtering through my curtains, it seemed politic to just rise and get on with it.
Having downed a large bowl of coffee, I followed the honking geese sound to my neighbor?s house, where I witnessed a flock of geese close to euphoria snarfing down bunches of dandelions. It?s their favorite food, according to my neighbor, and watching them practically rip each other into cutlets over this or that leaf, I can believe it. Geese are nasty, evil, territorial creatures. They are incredibly protective, and it?s not uncommon in the Dordogne for a farmer to have his property protected by a goose ? which will stalk and bite you ? rather than, say, a dog. I have had scary encounters with geese ? they are a force to be reckoned with. But, AHHH, they give us foie gras. Is anyone complaining now? Anyway, geese love dandelions, and according to my neighbor, it gives a bit of tang to the foie gras. That seems to make sense. They all get force-fed (please don?t get PC about this with me- take it up with French farmers) large kernels of corn, but apparently the dandelions impart a unique flavor.
But enough horticulture and goosiculture. By 8:30 a.m., I am on my way to town. It?s a lovely, blowsy morning, with the sun making the dew sparkle on the hillsides and the freshly ploughed fields a milk chocolate brown. The usual characters are out and about ? the Hatfields and McCoys shouting and waving pitchforks at each other from their respective fields and tractors, the postman making his rounds in his little yellow Renault, Mme. Garrigue on her way to town on her bicycle with the big red basket. The man in the gray sweater who always stands outside the florist shop on the edge of town has apparently had surgery, as he?s no longer hanging onto his colostomy bag for dear life.
At the Intermarche I fill out a long form so that I can get a card that entitles me to store discounts, but the processing machine isn?t working, so I leave the form and browse. I could spend most of my life in a French supermarket; there are treasures on every aisle. But there?s only me to shop for, so I pick up some tiny shrimp, an avocado, some frisee, and fresh tarragon. On to the Bricomarche, where I fully expect the usual encounter with Jeanette, known to our family as the Bricob**ch. And yes, she?s there, waiting for me,with that coiled-and-ready-to-spring look. I need an adapter for my laptop and a lamp to replace one that renters have apparently pounded into small bits with a sledge hammer, and lightbulbs. I hunt in the electrical section of the store for a good 20 minutes without finding an adapter that looks right, so I snag Jeannette and ask, telling her it?s for ?un modele americain.? She gets that familiar twisted look and reaches up and grabs an adapter from the top shelf and says ?c?est le seul pour un modele americain.? The way she spits out ?americain? you?d think she had a mouth full of vipers. The adapter doesn?t look right (and I stupidly forgot to bring the cord with me), but I take it anyway. Then I select a lamp and head to the bewildering array of lightbulbs to see if I can find a match. Then a coffee at Fauque, the florist to buy geraniums and pansies, the maison de la presse for a newspaper, and home.
The adapter is, of course, not the right size, and the lightbulbs don?t fit. One does have to have a certain amount of patience to live in France, even for only a few weeks. No matter, it?s time for lunch and some serious gazing-at-the-valley activity. Shrimp salad and avocado on frisee, feet up on the wall, sun ablaze, and the pokey local train choo-chooing in the valley.
When the stores reopen at 2 pm, I make a visit to M. Goupilleau, whom I should have gone to for the adapter to begin with. He?s got exactly what I need. Then I go purchase the correct lightbulbs. Enough work for the day, it?s time for some ritual Aimless Wandering, which happily occupies me until dinner time. More gossip with the neighbors ? fascinating tales of hip replacements and corrupt politicians and the sale or non-sale of the Grotte de St-Cirq and the price of fish ? then the grueling task of building the best fire ever, pouring some wine, and heating up some cassoulet de Castelnaudary. The sky tonight looks just like a Van Gogh canvas.
Having downed a large bowl of coffee, I followed the honking geese sound to my neighbor?s house, where I witnessed a flock of geese close to euphoria snarfing down bunches of dandelions. It?s their favorite food, according to my neighbor, and watching them practically rip each other into cutlets over this or that leaf, I can believe it. Geese are nasty, evil, territorial creatures. They are incredibly protective, and it?s not uncommon in the Dordogne for a farmer to have his property protected by a goose ? which will stalk and bite you ? rather than, say, a dog. I have had scary encounters with geese ? they are a force to be reckoned with. But, AHHH, they give us foie gras. Is anyone complaining now? Anyway, geese love dandelions, and according to my neighbor, it gives a bit of tang to the foie gras. That seems to make sense. They all get force-fed (please don?t get PC about this with me- take it up with French farmers) large kernels of corn, but apparently the dandelions impart a unique flavor.
But enough horticulture and goosiculture. By 8:30 a.m., I am on my way to town. It?s a lovely, blowsy morning, with the sun making the dew sparkle on the hillsides and the freshly ploughed fields a milk chocolate brown. The usual characters are out and about ? the Hatfields and McCoys shouting and waving pitchforks at each other from their respective fields and tractors, the postman making his rounds in his little yellow Renault, Mme. Garrigue on her way to town on her bicycle with the big red basket. The man in the gray sweater who always stands outside the florist shop on the edge of town has apparently had surgery, as he?s no longer hanging onto his colostomy bag for dear life.
At the Intermarche I fill out a long form so that I can get a card that entitles me to store discounts, but the processing machine isn?t working, so I leave the form and browse. I could spend most of my life in a French supermarket; there are treasures on every aisle. But there?s only me to shop for, so I pick up some tiny shrimp, an avocado, some frisee, and fresh tarragon. On to the Bricomarche, where I fully expect the usual encounter with Jeanette, known to our family as the Bricob**ch. And yes, she?s there, waiting for me,with that coiled-and-ready-to-spring look. I need an adapter for my laptop and a lamp to replace one that renters have apparently pounded into small bits with a sledge hammer, and lightbulbs. I hunt in the electrical section of the store for a good 20 minutes without finding an adapter that looks right, so I snag Jeannette and ask, telling her it?s for ?un modele americain.? She gets that familiar twisted look and reaches up and grabs an adapter from the top shelf and says ?c?est le seul pour un modele americain.? The way she spits out ?americain? you?d think she had a mouth full of vipers. The adapter doesn?t look right (and I stupidly forgot to bring the cord with me), but I take it anyway. Then I select a lamp and head to the bewildering array of lightbulbs to see if I can find a match. Then a coffee at Fauque, the florist to buy geraniums and pansies, the maison de la presse for a newspaper, and home.
The adapter is, of course, not the right size, and the lightbulbs don?t fit. One does have to have a certain amount of patience to live in France, even for only a few weeks. No matter, it?s time for lunch and some serious gazing-at-the-valley activity. Shrimp salad and avocado on frisee, feet up on the wall, sun ablaze, and the pokey local train choo-chooing in the valley.
When the stores reopen at 2 pm, I make a visit to M. Goupilleau, whom I should have gone to for the adapter to begin with. He?s got exactly what I need. Then I go purchase the correct lightbulbs. Enough work for the day, it?s time for some ritual Aimless Wandering, which happily occupies me until dinner time. More gossip with the neighbors ? fascinating tales of hip replacements and corrupt politicians and the sale or non-sale of the Grotte de St-Cirq and the price of fish ? then the grueling task of building the best fire ever, pouring some wine, and heating up some cassoulet de Castelnaudary. The sky tonight looks just like a Van Gogh canvas.
Apr 2nd, 2004, 04:56 AM
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Aaaaah, at my office, a nice cup o'coffee (not a bowl.. oh how I do wish!)and this story.
I'm thinking, StCirq, you are a word-smith. If I were a publisher, I'd give you a nice advance and quietly wait for your book...publish in 44 languages and then TADA the movie rights!
Without fantasy folks...the next JR Rowlings!!
I'm thinking, StCirq, you are a word-smith. If I were a publisher, I'd give you a nice advance and quietly wait for your book...publish in 44 languages and then TADA the movie rights!
Without fantasy folks...the next JR Rowlings!!
Apr 2nd, 2004, 04:59 AM
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StCirq, if your main goal is to make us all extremely jealous, you're doing a great job. I find things like shopping for the wrong lightbulbs and adaptors fun! But somehow I suspect foie gras from a dandelion eating goose may not taste as good as the "grind-the-corn-down-the-gullet" kind.
Apr 2nd, 2004, 05:17 AM
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Patrick, it probably would appeal if you were a lover of dandelion salad! Miss Scarlett could give a recipe for Southern prepared dandelion or greens. Actually sounds pretty good with a thick slice of pan-fried foie gras! OO-LA-LA!
StCirq-thanks for the Frenchjunkie fix. Since I can't be there, your report is just what's needed. Keep on sharing!
StCirq-thanks for the Frenchjunkie fix. Since I can't be there, your report is just what's needed. Keep on sharing!
Apr 2nd, 2004, 05:41 AM
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I am living vicariously through your experience! . . .wish I was in France, I read this while drinking a regular hum-drum cup of coffee. Very dull, I would kill for the coffee you started the day with!
Apr 2nd, 2004, 06:01 AM
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StCirq, reading the notes of your adventures and your vivid descriptions of the Dordogne make me extrememly happy that my vacation in May will be based in Le Bugue! Thanks for taking the time to do this....looking forward to lots more!
Apr 2nd, 2004, 07:28 AM
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Is the cheese man you wrote about still there? I love dandelion salad and cooked pissenlits, but alas, the flooding is killing any spring growth.
What's the weather like there this time of year? we await more!
What's the weather like there this time of year? we await more!
Apr 2nd, 2004, 01:10 PM
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St-Cirq's comments about the ferocity of geese remind me of the time my husband was chased by a large white goose near our hotel in St-Rémy. He ended up rolling end over end while the goose stood and hissed, flapping its wings and honking in what was clearly goose gangsta rap.
Apr 2nd, 2004, 01:37 PM
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There is a fabulous sign on the road to Badefols from St-Emilion with a picture of a goose on it and the words " Attention `a L'Oie." One has to love the local sense of humor.
Apr 2nd, 2004, 06:11 PM
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I grew up on a small farm in central Indiana. It was much more a recreational farm for my Mom who loved growing up on a farm. My Mom had everything from guinea hens to goats to horses to Rhode Island reds to cows to ducks to turkeys and yes, geese. Let me tell you, American geese are by no means nicer then French geese. 
When all the fowl were locked into a coop for the winter it was my job to water and feed them. One winter in the late 70's there was this particularly mean old gander that would rush me every time I entered the coop bearing the gifts of life, food and water. For a while I cowered, but I finally stood up to the mean old ba*tard. I lashed out and kicked him squarely in the chest as he had his wings spread and was trying to flog me. I developed a very neat drop kick to the far side of the coop for the idiot. He never learned. I must have punted him several hundred times over a couple of years before he finally passed on.
When all the fowl were locked into a coop for the winter it was my job to water and feed them. One winter in the late 70's there was this particularly mean old gander that would rush me every time I entered the coop bearing the gifts of life, food and water. For a while I cowered, but I finally stood up to the mean old ba*tard. I lashed out and kicked him squarely in the chest as he had his wings spread and was trying to flog me. I developed a very neat drop kick to the far side of the coop for the idiot. He never learned. I must have punted him several hundred times over a couple of years before he finally passed on.
