Yesterdays Bresse chicken was cooked to perfection, thanks to Yoann's instructions. Alex's eyes nearly popped out of his head on his return home from school. He followed his nose straight to the kitchen, all smiles. The skin was crisp and golden and the flesh juicy and tender. The flavour was stronger than what we are used to, a nice reminder of what nature can do when left to look after things. Happy chooks left to roam free and cluck their days away, taste so much better than otherwise.
With full bellies, we piled into Philippe's car and off we headed for the weekend, deep into the Auvergne countryside. We arrived late, the house was shrouded in the black of night, above us was a ceiling of twinkling stars. Alex slept in the attic bedroom with his bed under the window and fell asleep star gazing every night. In the morning he would tell me how beautiful it was. He says 'his attic' is the best bedroom he has ever had.
By the time we crawled out of bed on Saturday morning, Philippe had already visited the boulanger in the nearby village of Thionne, home to the famous French writer Rene Fallet. Back home, the breakfast table groaned under his selection of breads, white, seeded, long, round, soft, and crusty. He had filled a basket with croissants and, much to Alex's delight, pain au chocolat. I don't think Alex can believe he is allowed to eat chocolate at breakfast time and it is not considered naughty. Oranges were juiced and the coffee pot bubbled away on the stove. We spread our bread with cold butter and homemade conserves, chosen from the underground cellar the night before. After washing away the blanket of dust from the glass jar, the apricot conserve shone like burning sun. It was fruity, perfectly sweet and tart at the same time. The fruit for the cassis (blackcurrant) conserve was picked from Philippe's garden. The jams were made by his late wife. She passed some time ago after a long illness, I can feel his grief, I see it in the way he holds himself, his shoulders are sometimes heavy with loss, only made heavier by the loss of his beloved daughter to suicide some time after. Philipe is warm and his generosity is overwhelming. We hope that one day he will visit us in Australia so we can spoil him the way he spoils us.
With full bellies, we piled into Philippe's car and off we headed for the weekend, deep into the Auvergne countryside. We arrived late, the house was shrouded in the black of night, above us was a ceiling of twinkling stars. Alex slept in the attic bedroom with his bed under the window and fell asleep star gazing every night. In the morning he would tell me how beautiful it was. He says 'his attic' is the best bedroom he has ever had.
By the time we crawled out of bed on Saturday morning, Philippe had already visited the boulanger in the nearby village of Thionne, home to the famous French writer Rene Fallet. Back home, the breakfast table groaned under his selection of breads, white, seeded, long, round, soft, and crusty. He had filled a basket with croissants and, much to Alex's delight, pain au chocolat. I don't think Alex can believe he is allowed to eat chocolate at breakfast time and it is not considered naughty. Oranges were juiced and the coffee pot bubbled away on the stove. We spread our bread with cold butter and homemade conserves, chosen from the underground cellar the night before. After washing away the blanket of dust from the glass jar, the apricot conserve shone like burning sun. It was fruity, perfectly sweet and tart at the same time. The fruit for the cassis (blackcurrant) conserve was picked from Philippe's garden. The jams were made by his late wife. She passed some time ago after a long illness, I can feel his grief, I see it in the way he holds himself, his shoulders are sometimes heavy with loss, only made heavier by the loss of his beloved daughter to suicide some time after. Philipe is warm and his generosity is overwhelming. We hope that one day he will visit us in Australia so we can spoil him the way he spoils us.
Philippe and his butcher in Sorbier have a long relationship, one that sees him well looked after. We watched the butchers prepare and wrap Philippe's order of cote du boeuf, from the local breed of charolais cattle, a whole leg of jambon cru and a scoop of gratons for Alex. Accompaniments for the meat were bought at the Saturday morning market in Dompierre with stalls selling the usual suspects of cheese, charcuterie, and seasonal fruits and vegetables. Being a true country market, we noticed the inclusion of live chickens and ducks adding another dimension to our little bubble of happiness. Philippe bought trays of springtime pansies in precocious purple, crimson and yellow blooms (these make me think of Dad) and we loaded what must have been 50 punnets into the back of the car and placed them on top of the old well back at the farmhouse.
We all played a part in harnessing Quenotte, one of Phillipe's working horses, to her cart for a ride around the countryside - could life get any more perfect? We circumnavigated the distant town, its church as our compass, up a small laneway with the sound of Quenotte's hooves a dull thud as they pounded the earth. Phillipe coaxed her along gently, her ears twitched, listening for his voice. "She likes to know I am here, she listens for me. I don't use the whip to ever hurt her, just to stay in contact" he says as he rubs her broad back end with its end. We go from a gentle walk to a trot and back again until we return to the farmhouse with its shutters pinned open to capture the warm spring sun. The garden is dotted with wild cherry, walnut, and apple trees some sprouting tiny buds of life. The far end of the yard has a line of berry bushes that yeild the fruit for the jams that rest in the cellar. The farm's boundary is lined with thorny blackberry bushes, inhospitable today, but Philippe tells us they will be prolific with fruit come August, "one year we picked 22 kg in one day for jam" he says. Smack, Phillipe's fox-terrier, dashes about with excitement as we pull in the gate, his anxious wait over.
The bbq was wheeled out of the old barn, a reminder of life in Oz and meals on our back deck. Philippe throws ribs on the bbq after cutting rosy slices of jambon cru from the leg and taking John down to the cellar, three glasses in hand to fill with regional vin rouge and rose. Philippe never cooks without a wine to sip. We sip wine and eat slivers of jambon. The ribs are welcome after a busy day, we eat them with green beans and crusty bread.
Phillipes new love was arriving by train so we hurry to the station in Moulins to collect her, my cup of coffee needed coddling in the car as we wound through the villages and the twists and turns of the country roads. His new love is a Parisian girl who now calls Lyon home. We fall into easy chatter, Philippe's grief is forgotten, his eyes twinkle with the delicious rush of new love, it has caught him by surprise he shares with me later. Her eyes twinkle just as much. They walk arm in arm, their adoration on display for all to see. Moulins is a pretty town and we wander around the old cobbled streets admiring the aged imperfections that have become part of our everyday lives.
Phillipes new love was arriving by train so we hurry to the station in Moulins to collect her, my cup of coffee needed coddling in the car as we wound through the villages and the twists and turns of the country roads. His new love is a Parisian girl who now calls Lyon home. We fall into easy chatter, Philippe's grief is forgotten, his eyes twinkle with the delicious rush of new love, it has caught him by surprise he shares with me later. Her eyes twinkle just as much. They walk arm in arm, their adoration on display for all to see. Moulins is a pretty town and we wander around the old cobbled streets admiring the aged imperfections that have become part of our everyday lives.
After our late lunch of ribs, we settle for grazing on foie gras, olive cake, graton and blue cheese bread, crab meat, gratons and jambon for supper. The champagne cork was popped and Alex indulged in his own kind of bubbly, a glass of coke.
Sunday morning's petit dejeuner is the same as yestesterday with a clean pink napkin added to the table setting as four is now five. We go to visit Serge and Alines farm, neighbours of Philippe's, they raise charolais cattle, one of which gave birth to twins last night. There are baby lambs who bleat as we approach, their new coats are soft and snowy. The farm dog, Happy, is much better at playing ball than working (which entertains Alex no end), and the cat, Petit Bou (little one) bathes in the sun. We are invited inside and all congregate around the long kitchen table. Serge dissapears to the cellar for wine and before long we are all sipping our choice of red, white, rose or pastis. John loves the liquoricy pastis and takes it neat, Serge has his with a little water transforming it to a cloudy liquid in his glass. Alex is poured a small glass of rose and sits sipping with us. A basket on the table holds pale blue duck eggs, chicken eggs and petit poulet eggs. Petit Bou sits on a pile of magazines at the end of the table cleaning cobwebs off her face while another cat sits on the window sill, peering through the lace curtains and rubbing on the glass as though it will melt away and allow her to join our party. The wine bottle does another round, I put my hand over my glass, "non merci" I say, but the glass is filled dispite my refusal, we all laugh and I leave with my head swirling.
Back at Philippe's, Alex discovered a shed filled with bikes of all sizes and commandeered one for a few laps of the yard, he weaved in and out of the bare fruit trees with Smack scampering around happily. The boys cleaned out the horse stable, after a visit to the cellar for some more wine, while us girls had a heart to heart about life and love, we enjoy eachother and arrange to meet back in Lyon soon. She has a son Alex's age so we will all get together next week. We set the table and prepared Sunday lunch, a serious tradition in France. You won't hear us complain! The bbq was cranked up again, sending the smell of yesterdays ribs into the air. John, Alex and Philippe provided the afternoon's entertainment with an impromptu game of back-yard cricket... hilarious. The slabs of cote du boeuf were put on the hot grill, the timer ticked away, "seven minutes" Philippe says. Us girls had prepared harricot beans in butter, thickly sliced cucumber with dijon vinigrette, jambon, foie gras and bread. The heart of the meat, which Philippe says is the best, is cut in slices off the bone, one slab, barely cooked at all, shows a bleu heart and the other is cooked only slightly more, it is tooth tender, soft and beefy, a fine example of quality French beef. The cork is popped on a balsy Bordeaux red... we are in France after all.
Generous wedges of cheese are brought to the table. A blue Fourme d'Ambert which is creamy and mild, a Tome de Savoie nicely aged, and my favourite, a fresh tasting Cantal from the Auvergne region, the region where this picture perfect farmhouse lies. After cheese comes strawberries sprinklled with sugar, they are the deepest red. It is Phillipe's first taste of strawberries this year, his love tells him to make a wish, a tradition performed when enjoying the first taste of new season's fruit.
It is not long before we begin to pack up in an industrious flurry, activity I have not seen for the last few days. The pace of the city is only a car ride away and is tapping us on the shoulder. Philippe delivers us home and gives us all a pansy punnet, he is carefull to give us all a different colour. We are sent on our way with a bag of surprises. Inside, an assortment of tin-foiled packages filled with cheese, jambon, olive bread and a cragy, aged saucisson.
If Philipe only knew how much his hospitality means to us. This weekend has truly been one of the most special times of my life. It is the simple pleasures that make my heart sing, family, friends, good food, wine, and now, the beautiful French countryside.
