Bye bye Burgundy. Friday 7th August 2009.

It is with sadness in my heart that I leave Burgundy. We have all made happy memories here, meeting new friends and making new family memories of moments we will all treasure forever.

Moving days are always tiring, it is a big job to pack, clean and get organised to move onto the next exchange and today was no different. I don't know how we manage to fit all of our stuff into our three suitcases, but somehow the zips always come together, even if a little strained.

Annie came, on time to the minute, to take us to the train station, she is such a sweetie. As we were unpacking our bags at the front of the station, Pauline appeared to give us a hug and a kiss and send us on our way. Pauline had only just returned from staying in our place with her family and just loved our home and the things she experienced in Australia. Then, Isabelle was there with a message for AJ from Jeremy who is staying at his Dad's place and could not catch up with AJ this week. The tears welled in my eyes as we said goodbye, Burgundy and its people will always hold a special place in my heart.

So, Paris here we come. The train ride took just over two hours, AJ and I were in a silly mood and annoyed JR for most of the way.

Our new apartment where we will live for the next 21 days is gorgeous. It is style, style, style all the way. The walls are hung with Warhol, and at long last I have decent knives to use, Porsche design no less. We are a 2 min walk from the subway, 10 mins to Place de la Madeline and a little less to the Louvre. You just gotta love this home exchange deal. The family in our home have arrived safely too and they have commented on how huge our place is. The apartment is small for us but that makes it no less wonderful, just different. As they don't own a car and will be driving ours while in Brissy, they have bought us three passes to cover all our train, bus and tram transport while in Paris.

AJ set tonight's itinerary and chose an amazing Italian restaurant in St. Germain. It was mind blowingly good. Everything was made in house, the raspberry tiramisu was heaven sent and made with the plumpest fresh raspberries God ever made. My tortellini was filled with spinach and swam in a rich gorgonzola sauce - loved every creamy, calorie laden mouthful too. The whole place was spot on from go to woe, couldn't fault a thing except for a loud American on his fifth visit to Paris complaining they still couldn't get his coffee right. You would think after five visits he would have learned to sit back and feel the love.

On AJ's agenda next was a night time stroll up and back along the Champs Elysees, the guy's got taste. What fun we had. AJ was car spotting and I think managed to see almost one of every dream car he had ever heard of. He and JR snapped photos and drooled curbside more often than not. Every step we took brought us closer to the Arc de Triomphe, we had never seen it at night before and it was beautiful.

The Champs Elysees was alive with people and it was magical and exciting to be back in a big city again after our time in the country. We got home late to our little apartment, the party upstairs was in full swing but we were not and were in bed before you could yell, 'turn that music down and would you mind taking off your high-heels so we can get some sleep down here!'

Baking Nonnettes. Thursday 6th August 2009.

The alarm sounded at 4.30 this morning. We had to be at La Rose de Vergy in Dijon by 7, in time to watch the fabrication of Nonnettes. Nonnettes have long been a specialty of Dijon and today we were lucky enough to be witness to their creation in an underground cellar of Dijon that has been converted to a kitchen. Nonnettes are made from the same mixture as pain d'espices, but instead of being baked as a loaf, they are baked into small rounds, split in two and sandwiched together with sweet confiture of orange, framboise or cassis.

The lovely Sophie made us a cassis Nonnette to enjoy with our coffee, they were sweet and homey.

We spoke to the owners of the business and they showed us an amazing sweet making machine that they still use today, it was made in the 1800's and has to be turned by hand.

Still no joy at the prefecture. We arrived at 1.20 pm, silly us, they close at 1pm on a Thursday in Dijon, we should have guessed.

We drove home along the Route des Grand Cru, the last time we will drive this road until next we visit Burgundy. We stopped to see the grapes for the last time, some had almost all turned into a deep purple colour. Now the sun will sweeten and ripen them, harvest is around the corner.

A day on the farm... Wednesday 5th August 2009.

Unfortunately we were fresh out of sheep's testicles this morning and AJ had to settle for a simple bowl of Special K for breakfast.

On our way to La Ferme de la Ruchotte, we passed through Bligny-sur-Ouche, the village we departed from for our little steam train degustation adventure a week or two ago. The usually sleepy streets were in full swing for the early hour, the line from the boulangerie door snaked out onto the street and the weekly market was bustling with shoppers in the main square. The last time we sat in this square, a sudden storm hit and our table and chairs nearly cartwheeled across the facade of the Hotel Dieu.

We arrived at La Ferme de la Ruchotte by 10 as espected, Frederic and his youngest son were already out in the parc feeding the chickens when we arrived. The farm is certified biologic, something very important to Frederic who raises all kinds of ancient breeds of animals whose meat is served at his restaurant table. The chubby black pigs were my favourite, the way they chortled as they rushed to the trough as Frederic filled it with their food. He patted the 'big boy' lovingly, clouds of dust rose into the air escaping from his wiry hair.

We chatted while he filled feeders with grain and legumes, and replenished the water for the hens. roosters, ducks, geese, goats and pigs. A lone lama stood watch as if given the job of the farmyard centry.

How lucky we were to wander in Frederic's 13th century garden, it's landscape wild, hiding edible and fragrant gems. If the herbs don't grow in here, he does not use them in his recipies. He proudly showed us his fruit trees and a wall of hazelnuts. As we headed back to the farmhouse, rustic with crumbling stone, he bent down and showed us a small oak tree his Mother had bought him, it has been impregnated with spores of the Burgundy truffle which one day will bear its rich fruit, Frederic hopes he lives long enough to see it.

Chubby puppies greeted us near the house and rolled over on their backs for a tummy scratch, their Dad, a local, is a blue heeler so they have a bit of Aussie in them. Frederic will keep one as a working dog.

Back inside, I sat with Fredric in the same dining room where we had enjoyed such a wonderfully authentic experience last night. He shared his thoughts on life and told the stories of turning his back on the Michelin starred life and about working in the big name restaurants of France. We bade him a fond farewell, it was time to go fishing with his son.

Bollocks! Tuesday 4th August 2009.

When talking to food lovers in this wonderfully rich gastromomic area of France, one meeting always leads to the next. When you hear the same name whispered more than once, it is hard to ignore it, and you feel you just have to check it out to see what all the fuss is about. This was the case with La ferme de la Ruchotte, a tiny little auberge hidden deep inside the forest above the village of Bligny-sur-Ouche.


As you step over the threshold of farmyard, complete with chorteling pigs, lamas, and all kinds of fowl, and into the dining room, some adjustment is needed to the psyche. Here you are in Frederic and Eva's home, at their table, looking through to their family kitchen, here you are part of the furniture.

It took some time to settle in, there are no staff to fuss over you, to pour the water, or to offer an aperitif, you don't even know what is on the menu. The wine order is taken and Frederic disappears to the cellar, returning with your chosen drop. Comforting, buttery smells begin to make their way through the open door of the kitchen, Frederic is busy at the pans. Our entree arrives, two discs of lightly floured, seasoned and pan fried something. We run our knives across the meat, it is soft and pillowy, a little like chicken but not as firm by a long shot. We are in raptures and mop up the juices on our plates with crusty bread, baked by Frederic of course. He enquires if we liked our entree as he passes by our table on a nother trip to the cellar. "Oui, tres, tres, tres bon", we all agree. "Do you know what it is?" Frederic asks. "Sweetbreads" is my closest guess, due to the softness, but unlike any sweetbread I have ever eaten and not nearly as rich. "Lower" he says, "much lower". It begins to dawn on us all that we have not just eaten, but devoured, a plate of pan fried and beautifully seasoned testicles, sheep's testicles in fact. Boy did we laugh, AJ just couldn't believe it, and JR's eyes had definitely widened a little. Welcome to French farmhouse cooking, this is the real deal!

The next course was a little more common, boudin, sometimes known as blood sausage. Frederic's version was a lot more delicate and fine in texture than others I have tried, and was served with buttery, pan fried apples, the ideal foil for the rich flavours of the sausage.




Main course arrived at the table in an old copper serving dish. It contained slices of rosy pink pork fillet in a sauce made from morille mushrooms, quartered red onions, cream and stock. This is how meat should always be and so different to the usual animal flesh we eat. The flavour is deep, old, and truly of a farmhouse, it was real. The pig is called Grand Gascon and it is an old, old, breed with a history reaching back to Julius Caesar. Frederic is living his dream of raising his own meat from ancient breeds which are biologicaly certified, and serving them to appreciative guests in his home. The true greats of gastronomy are regular diners at his table, Trois-Gros, Rostang and Lameloise, just to name a few. Frederic shared with me his recipe of the dish they all adore.




The things I loved about La ferme de la Ruchotte were the honesty, the experience of eating typical food in a French farmhouse, the simplicity of the food and the deep flavours derived from the quality of the products, the way the meal was served in the middle of the table allowing us to help ourselves, Frederic's humility, and the old Limoges china we ate from.




And guess what? Frederic invited us back to see the farm in the morning! We are to be there for 10am to see the work begin.

Ponderings...

• Why are the backyards of France without pool fencing?

• Why are French kitchens void of tongs?

• Why are the chopping boards in French kitchens so tiny?

• Why do so few people in the world own a good set of knives?

• Why do kids at the public pools never wear rash vest to protect themselves from the sun?

• Why do French kids not wear board shorts?

• Why do so many of the village clocks go off on a little ramble after they chime in the hour?

• How did France ever become so beautiful?

A day in the countryside and a surprise around every corner. Monday 3rd August 2009.

We bit the bullet and decided that enough time had passed to allow the French authorities to respond to our letter sent from Lyon regarding our Carte de Sejour. We were at the prefecture in Beaune near opening time, it was the complete opposite to Lyon, gone were the queues of immigrants with tales of woe written all over their faces. In fact, there was not a soul in sight, except for the three, non-english speaking staff behind the counter.

We gave them a copy of the letter we had sent to Lyon prefecture and to date have not had a reply to. "What do we do we asked?" We would have to get our dossier forwarded from Lyon to Dijon, an hours drive away. "Could you please request our dossiers be forwarded," we asked. "Non Madame, you can call the Lyon prefecture to request this, I cannot." "Can we not do it here, we are tourists and we leave for Paris on Friday and will not be in Dijon?" "Non." "How long will it take for our dossiers to arrive in Dijon?" we asked. "It could take 3 weeks", was the reply.

The long and short of it is that we are a low priority for the administration so there would be no rush. Our hands really are tied, we try and try to do the right thing and are constantly met with an administration who does not seem to care. I hope they are as unfazed, if and when we are asked for our documents over the next 5 months! Somehow I think not.

So we returned home to call the number the Beaune prefecture had given us to enable us to transfer our dossiers, this number is merely a recording giving opening hours and you are unable to speak to anyone. We researched sending an email with our request, again we hit a brick wall, the web site says they cannot be contacted via email. Grrrrr!!!

Now for the fun stuff...

I must begin by warning you that some extracts of today's blog entry may sound as if they have been lifted from a fairytale, and it is quite possible they were.

We ventured past Autun, the town we visited a few days ago, into the Parc Naturel Regional du Morvan, a little slice of paradise in the French countryside. The landscape was one of rolling, pine covered hills, and where the trees were forbidden to grow, fat, milky-white Charolais beef grazed on lush pasture, I'm sure with internal grins. AJ played navigator for a while, deciding which direction we would take, he navigated us up a little road, ascending the side of a hill. The road lead nowhere, only to an old ramshackle farm house. One of the buildings had bird coups attached to its side, some of them tumbling down. The laneway we had driven was lined with wild blackberries which we plucked gently from their bushes, some were sweet and some were blushed dark purple with a tart inside, AJ seemed to find these ones. Most of the fruit that hung from their prickly hosts were red and hard and would surely be a surprise for visitors here on another day.



We headed along the road, turning left at AJ's insistance. Ahead was the village of La Grand Verriere and a darling of a picnic spot. We ate crusty French bread and our usual haul of saucisson and mustard. The vegemite was a ring in today and was nice with a little cold butter on soft bread (thanks Bugs!). We opened a wheel of Soumaintrain fromage from our visit to Gaugry last week, it was soft enough to spread over our bread in a cheesy blanket and was devinely creamy. The stream that ran beside our picnic table provided a tranquil soundtrack, there we sat soaking up another magic moment shared by just the three of us. We perched ourselves on an old stone wall just along the stream from where we ate, AJ and I sat together, we sat, and sat, and sat, just making memories. Behind us the road was lined with wild blackberries, some of which were cannopied by apple trees laden with fruit, beginning to turn rosy and sweet.


As we drove out of the village and over the bridge, we noticed a fly-fisherman, slowly stalking upstream, the movement of his action was practiced and graceful, it was mesmerising. We hopped out of the car and were careful not to make a sound, you could tell he was here enjoying the solitude of his sport, he was contemplative and seemed not to notice us at all. His rod bowed a little and I knew he had caught something. It was just a baby, but a trout none the less, he gently released it, easing it into the water to catch again another day when it would be more of a challenge.

We began to chat a little and he shared that he travels 20 km to fish here twice a week, I understand why, it is a lovely part of the world, a little slice of heaven with a stream running through it. "Would you like to try it?" he asked in his broken english. He stood behind me, placed my hand on the fishing rod and held it firmly while he coaxed my body into a gentle rhythm, back and forth, occasionally dropping the line into the water. AJ had a turn next, another wonderful life experience I hope he will never forget. Our fly-fisherman was a peaceful man, quiet and gentle and I liked him for that. He suited being in the lovely stream that encircled his long waders.


Back in the car, I could not stop thinking about the things we are experiencing and the people we are meeting, everyday brings so many wonderful moments and I am so thankful to be experiencing them all. We tootled along to a place called Bibracte, an old archeological site on Mount Beuvray. The bus took us along winding roads to the top of the mountain. The view was spectacular, rolling hill after rolling hill softened by forest and pasture, it looked over the Auvergne region in the direction of Mount Blanc. It felt like we were on the top of the world.



We walked to the bottom of the mountain through the pretty forest, filled with bushes of deep green, wild holly. Archaelogical sites were marked on our map and we stopped at a few and marveled at the discoveries that had been made over the years, walls, roman houses, Franciscan chapels and the like. My attention was drawn deep inside the forest where the trees were covered in a soft, hairy moss of lime-green. I ran my fingers through it enjoying its softness. Wild mushrooms were scattered over the forest floor amongst the leaf litter, if I was more educated on which were safe to eat, I would have filled my bag and transformed them into something yummy on our return to Combertault. The old, gnarled trees made shapes like wild animals and as the evening came, the light was low and illuminated the forest in a warm, soft glow.

It was 7pm when we returned to the bottom of the mountain, we had had such a wonderful time discovering that time had escaped us. We hurried to see the archaelogical museum and only had 1/2 an hour to scoot around it, never mind, I think we experienced the best parts of Bibracte and discovered her true inner beauty.

Autun. Saturday 1st August 2009.

Ten out of ten for the picnic today - water views by the lake, ducks quacking, good food, great company and summer sun.

Autun was especially beautiful in the late afternoon light. The tiny streets of the old town, surrounded by ramparts looked soft and dreamy. They were lined with window boxes of flowers. The Cathedrale Saint-Lazare et son Jardin dominates the top of the hill of old Autun, inside was the voice of an angel as she sang for a weddding ceremony being held.







We did the tourist train jaunt around Autun, passing the major sights, fortifications, Roman Ampitheatre etc.

Before leaving Autun we stopped at a little Italian Restaurant for a casual dinner. The goats cheese pizza was tres bon, service was efficient and friendly, we were happy campers.



The village of Sully was only 4 kilometres off the road that we travelled on our way back to Beaune, so we took the detour to see the Chateau in Sully, it was a beauty. It was after-hours and was closed although there was a private reception being held, we could see the people gathered in the distance. Sully itself was pretty as a picture, resplendent in bloom. Gosh i'm sounding old!