A great fountain in Aix that had a special golden light as the sun set.

Peach Melba (Poached peaches with raspberry sauce.)

Sometimes the best tasting recipes are the simplest. I find this especially true with French recipes-just a few ingredients but, oh, so special. At a recent dinner with a French couple I decided to have Peach Melba for dessert. The French aren’t huge at giving compliments but this dessert sure got them. They said that the best dessert on a hot summer night is one with fruit. I wish I had remembered to take a photo as it is a truly lovely dessert.

Peach Melba

4 cups water
1/4 cup sugar
1 vanilla bean, split lengthwise
3 large peaches
For the raspberry sauce:
1 pound fresh or frozen raspberries
1 Tab. lemon juice
3 Tab. sugar
3 Tab raspberry liquer (optional)
vamilla ice cream, to serve
mint leaves, to decorate

In a saucepan large enough to hold the peach halves in a single layer, combine the water, sugar and vanilla bean. Bring to a boil over medium heat, stirring occasionally to dissolve the sugar.
Cut the peach in half and twist the halves to separate them and remove the peach pits. Add the peach halves to the poaching syrup, cut side down, adding more water if needed to cover the fruit. Press a piece of was paper against the surface of the syrup, reduce the heat to medium-low, then cover and simmer for 15 minutes until tender. Remove the pan from the heat and let the peaches cool in the syruph. (I didn’t have wax paper. In fact I can’t remember the last time I did, so I just used foil.)
Remove the peaches from the syrup and peel off the skins. Place on several thicknesses of paper towels to drain. Then chill.
Put the raspberries, lemon juice and sugar in a food processor and process for 1 minute with metal blade. Press the liquid through a fine strainer into a small bowl. Add liquer and chill.
To serve, place a peach half, cut side up on a dessert plates, fill with a scoop of vanill ice cream and spoon the raspberry sauce over the ice cream. Decorate with mint leaves.

It is a great looking dessert with the bright red sauce flowing over the ice cream and the orange tinged peach. So nice when it is hot and a really lovely mix of flavors.

Castle in Tarascon on the banks of the Rhone.

Tarascon, a city lying on the Rhone River in western Provence, is the home of a fun festival celebrating two occurences at once with a lively parade ending at the lovely Hotel de Ville.
According to legend, Saint Martha, in the year 48, travelled up the Rhone and arriving at Tarascon, found that the villagers were being terrorized by a "dragon" from the river. They begged Saint Martha to rid them of this monster. Miraculously tamed by the Saint, the animal was delivered to the crowd and stoned to death. Every year for centuries, Tarascon has celebrated this victory during the Fetes de la Tarasque instituted by King Rene in 1474. The Tarasque is depicted being dragged along by the triumphant Chevaliers, known and Tarascaires.

A sculpture of Saint Martha in the local church.

In the crypt of the church is the mausoleum of Saint Martha from the 4th century

Mausoleum of Saint Martha

Model of the “monster”, Tarasque.

Tarasque being pushed down the street, wildly from side to side, and, hopefully, you won’t get knocked over as it looked rather out of control.

The parade also celebrated Tartarin of Tarascon from the works of Alphonse Daudet, a loud and boastful braggart, who brags about being a hunter. Forced to leave for Africa, he returns to Tarascon, telling tales of his extraordinary expoits with great triumph.

Here he is, having just stepped off a boat on the river amid much gun fire with his friends.

Many participants in lovely costumes who also did dances as they marched in the parade.

I especially liked the group of men with their “horses”.

At the end of the parade, Tartarin gave a speech from the balcony of the Hotel de Ville.

Another great festival celebrated not only all over France but all of Europe as well is the celebration of St Jean Day. Originally it was a pagan festival to celebrate the summer soltice but has now become a religious festival which celebrates St Jean, or John the Baptist, whose birthday falls on the same day. Fires are lit all over Europe and, as they burn down, dances are done around the bonfire and some brave people jump over the fire to bring good luck, fertility or marriage into their lives.
I attended the St Jean festival in Aix. It was very well done and enjoyable to watch. A flame was actually carried in Olympic Games fashion from Catelonia, Spain.

The jogger enters the square carrying the flame. It is then used to light candles inside lanterns of people representing other cities around the area. A representative from Spain was also there and gave a short speech.

A small procession of some of the participants in the festival. With the celebration of the summer soltice, there is a focus on wheat and the hope for a good harvest at the end of the summer.

Could this be Cezanne? They are celebrating the anniversary of his 100th birthday in Aix this summer.

A performance celebrating wheat and its harvesting was then done on the Rotunde, the location of a huge, gorgeous fountain in the center of a round about. It was so nice to be able to stand there without traffic roaring around. These children are spreading the seeds of wheat.

A dance done by what looked like professional dancers-they had bells around their ankles.

An intricate dance done with arches of wheat and flowers.

One end of the wreaths were put into one pot and then they circled around in dance.

I didn’t get any more good photos as dark decended. A bonfire was lit and more dancing occured. It was all, in a word, charming.

Our Santalina is blooming with little yellow flowers, the Lavender with lovely purple flowers and our garden is alive with the buzzing and the business of insects. I often sit outside and just watch this private little world and I often think of my Aunt Lois who told me that if she could contact me after she died it would be through butterflies. I don’t know if she has but I always think of her as I watch the activity in the garden. I wrote this little fable for my grandchildren. Of course, butterflies aren’t all female and the bees aren’t males, but it works for me.

A French Garden Fable

My story of the butterfly and the bee is similar to the grasshopper and the ant. The butterfly is a princess, Princess Priscilla, who only gets out of bed when the sun is well up as she was up late at a ball the night before. She doesn’t hurry to the garden but takes her time powdering her nose and deciding which hair style will look the best with her tiara. She then picks out her most beautiful gown in a breathtaking color to wear(and matching shoes) for the day where, flitting and twirling around above the flowers, sometimes exchanging a merry pirouette with a friend, she will look her best. She only stops dancing to sip herbal tea from the cup of a flower, with honey of course, from time to time to quench her thirst and perhaps have a nibble of a lavender cookie. Her only aim in life is to look pretty and enjoy life.
Burt, the business bee, is dressed in a stripped business suit with a tightly tied serious tie around his neck and a shiny bowler hat on his head. If he owned a company it would rival Microsoft, but his work is making honey. The word of the day, every day, for him is work and he is up out of bed and hard at work as soon as the sun comes up. No time to dawdle around doing any dances. “We have to gather nectar to make honey for our hive.” If he stops to do a dance with another bee, it could mean the hive wouldn’t have enough honey for them all. He looks at the butterfly princess with a frown. “What a waste of time,” he thinks. “The next thing you know, they will let those girly butterflies play golf at the country club.” Nothing can tempt him away from the job at hand.
The butterfly has a shorter time on earth than the bee. Maybe this has given her the desire to love life, laugh and to dance because she doesn’t have to worry about surviving the winter.

Nothing Can Capture Your Heart Like a Melody Can…Isn’t this a great line? It comes from an old album by Abba, the popular singing group from the 70’s. Like many people, I rediscovered them when I saw the musical, Mama Mia. I have a little IPod that I’ve copied music to, including the sound tract of Mama Mia. Every morning I get my rapidly expanding butt out to walk and the only way I can stand it is to listen to music. I often sing along with the music and have had heads suddenly pop up from behind a hedge to see who is making that racket.
There is a huge mountain behind me, part of the Luberon Mountain range, and I chug up it huffing and puffing. The best part is turning around and heading downhill back to our home. Then I have more breath for singing.

“Thank you for the music, the song I’m singing.
Thanks for all the joy you’re bringing,
Who can live without it? I ask in all honesty
What would life be- without a song or a dance what are we?
So I say, Thank you for the music,
(here I throw my arms wide)
For giving it to meeeeeeee!”

This is when I get surprised from behind by one of the many bikers on the road who give me a curious look–this loony singer walking down the hill.

Some photos of an interesting village deep in lavender country called Simaine de la Rotund:

A Transhumance Festival is a great way to look at life as it was in times past, something that most festivals in France do. My husband and I made the trip deep into Lavender country to the village of Riez to observe the transhumance, when sheep (and goats and cows in some areas) are moved from lower country up into the mountains passing through villages on the way. Nowadays, due to heavy traffic and cities not wanting sheep passing through their streets, sheep are transported up to the fields of the mountains with huge trucks. I saw one the other day stuffed with sheep and little lambs in a container at the very bottom.
Times have changed in the containment of sheep in fields as well. At one time a shepherd and his dog had to watch over the flock at all times. Now there are fences that are charged with a light electrical current and one of the flock wears a special collar that keeps it and the others from trying to leave the area.
The Transhumance in Riez is mostly a tourist happening, I would guess, but rather thrilling nonetheless. The bells of the church ring out at 10:30 and shortly afterwards a shepherd and his dog make their way down the street followed by hundreds of sheep. The sheep huddle together, not moving onto the sidewalks, afraid of the people lined up to see them. After they have gone through the village, they end up in a field on the other side of the village with old Roman columns eagerly eating the fresh grass.

The shepherd leading his flock into the village.

All of the sheep were marked with a painted green C on their backs. I think this ram-the only one in the flock-didn’t like the color as he had the paint all over his horns and face.

Riez has a wonderful little market going on on Sundays selling articles from Provence, such as lavender oil and soap and olive oil. There were also some men from the Alps playing their long horns and then some women dressed in traditional costumes did some dancing to flutes and drums. It was a delightful look at a part of life now gone but not forgotten.

The men playing their Alpine horns, the Alphorn.

The women dancing.

A look at a lavender field. The lavender is just starting to bloom. It will be a couple of weeks before it is fully alive with its divine fragrance and color.