Summer Slides Towards Fall...

Armed with my big canvas bag and scissors, I roamed the lanes this afternoon in search of wild flowers to refill the vases and jugs. The selection is dwindling. A couple of weeks ago, I could find masses of clover and purple scabious plus several other kinds whose names I don't know. All that's left now is mostly cow parsley, fennel turning to seed and, here and there, other kinds. If anyone can identify them, please do. 

As these summer flowers leave the stage, enter the berries. As I walked and picked, I ate handfuls of mûres--blackberries--which, like blackberries everywhere vary hugely in sweetness and flavour from one bush to another. I also gathered some strands of the scarlet-berried briony that hang like bright necklaces on the hedges. They now have a home along the top of the stove. 

Free Gourmet Compote

What caught my eye, as I walked back into Léran this morning after a short amble into the countryside, were what looked like blue eggs in a dry ditch by the side of the road. When I say "blue", I  mean only a couple of shades away from the blue of a Gauloises cigarette packet. Turns out they were windfall plums so fatly ripe and juicy that their weight had detached them from the tree. 

I always carry a plastic bag with me for finds, so I was able to bring home half a dozen. Two nights ago, on our way to the café for a Sunday evening glass of wine, I noticed the walnut tree in the presbytery garden is laden, and a few had fallen into the street. Little ones, not as long as the first joint of my thumb.

So, simmering on the stove right now is a small pan of chopped plums and walnuts. I'm thinking of spooning it over our breakfast yogurt or on top of vanilla ice cream. 

Yet Another Flea Market

My Sunday mornings are settling into a routine. Some time with the U.K. Sunday papers, and then off to a vide grenier. 

We drove to Manses, a village just north of Mirepoix, beneath a flawless sky, passing fields of sunflowers, now into their "hangdog" phase as they droop their heads and dry. 

Even though we were there fairly early (by our standards) action was already brisk. Browsing these stalls of others' discards, you can't help but imagine the stories behind them. One old man was selling a large army of preserving jars, with the old-fashion wire closure. I bought two tall ones: different brands. One is Le Parfait, the other Triomphe. Swaggering, three-musketeers-ish names although some types are more modest. A smaller jar I bought has the down-to-earth name of Pratique--"practical."

Although I plan to eventually do lots of preserving, these jars are intended for storage of lentils, chickpeas, pasta and other dried goods.

Fromage Blanc: My Current Favourite Dessert

Translating as "white cheese", light and snow-white, this simple, slightly sharp substance--like yogurt but better--is a fine way to end a meal.

Dessert was included in the pizza lunch we ate yesterday in Foix. Nothing complicated. Just the usual choices of fruit tarte, chocolate mousse, crème caramel and--the obvious pick--fromage frais, topped with either honey or coulis.

In my time, I've had both. Honey cuts the gentle acidity of fromage frais. Coulis accentuates it. This was a raspberry coulis, the berries cooked, then pushed through a sieve, no extra sugar added. Not only delicious but a crimson and cream photo op. 

The Curious Appeal of French Supermarket Flyers...

"Pub" crams our mail box every Monday morning. The word is short for publicité, usually flyers for local supermarkets and other big box stores.  Back in Canada, these would have gone from mail box to Blue Box in one seamless movement. Here I don't have a Blue Box for recyclables. Instead Léran has a nifty central garbage area just across from the church. Plastic bottles and cans go into large yellow plastic bags provided by the mairie.  Slamming a half dozen empty wine bottles into a large bin with venom and force is a great way to get rid of aggression. Publicité eventually gets thrown into another big bin.

Meanwhile, French supermarket, and other, flyers pile up on the kitchen table. I read them cover to shiny cover. To begin with, it's a drop-dead simple way to learn French. See the photo. Look at the word or words beside it. Voila!  Now, instead of asking, in French, where to find a thing that wakes you up in the morning ("birds" would be one logical answer) we now know to request a réveille-matin. 

The other reason is the sheer fascination when you see what you can buy at even a small supermarket. Our local SuperU in Mirepoix, for instance, sells clothes, fridges, stoves and furniture. Quite nice furniture as you can see from the current flyer (above, at left. The photo was supposed to appear alongside the text, but I'm new at this blog thing). I certainly wouldn't turn up my nose at that solid pine sideboard. Called a bahut, as I've just learned. 

Cassoulet Day in Castelnaudary

Hot weather and cassoulet aren't obvious partners. But, even though it was 37 degrees, the chance to eat this iconic dish in Castelnaudary, the town where it's said to have been created was too good to pass up. So that's what we did last Saturday along with hundreds of others, at the 9th Fête du Cassoulet de Castelnaudary.

I really like the way that French people believe food and fun should take precedence over mundane things like traffic. Barriers stopped us going into the town centre so we parked in what we hoped would be a shady spot (P.S. it wasn't) and strolled up to the main square. Strung between the plane trees, blue bunting flapped and snapped while increasingly high decibels revealed we were closing in on the promised animation musicale non stop.

Restaurants, cafés, bistros, stalls, stands, everyone had some kind of cassoulet deal going on. What to do? A 15 euro package sounded good to us, especially when it included salad, bread, a cassoulet (with a free cassole--the slant-sided pottery dish that holds it included) dessert (let's not get excited here, it was canned fruit salad) a quarter litre of vin rouge and a cheery server.

Every cassoulet is different. Besides the essential beans, this one held a chunk of duck breast, a length of sausage, couennes (rolls of pork fat) and a piece of coustellou (rather bony pork)--in other words, all the ingredients pictured on the official poster. 

 Everyone sat at long tables under white tents. 

Outside, several kilos heavier, we browsed the stalls selling organic vegetables, honey, bread, hams, wine and crafts, slowly making our way back to the Canal du Midi for the afternoon's entertainment. Young guys teetered out on a long pole suspended over the water and tried to retrieve a French flag. A half dozen or so corporately sponsored  floats held a water battle. All were in costume. We're still trying to figure out why the McDonald's team was dressed as ancient Egyptians. 

Original Chocolate Sin

Shouldn't it be called "faux gras"? This disk on the left is made of solid chocolate--chocolate ganache coated with white chocolate. Below, a troupe of drum majorettes wearing smart leather boots the pale green of new spring onions.

The link is that we saw both this morning in Pamiers, a town a half hour away. We knew about the foie gras made by this little chocolate shop. I visit its window frequently but have yet to get up the

nerve to go inside knowing that I would leave in a chocolate-induced coma. 

We weren't expecting the majorettes. Instead, we were geared up for the weekly Sunday morning flea market, mais non. Instead, tables and chairs filled the square and the stage at the end was bouncing with brass bands and majorettes. Either they had several costume changes--the common element being very short, twirly skirts and spangles--or there were several majorette troupes. 

Just your average Sunday morning in France...