When I first met Maurice and we went shopping at the famous Central Food Market in Austin, Texas, he would always head right for the white peaches. I had never heard of them and thought I preferred the old stand by, the yellow peach.

 But it turned out that Maurice was right as the French often are when it comes to food. He was right about the smaller French strawberries being much better than the huge ones that arrived at the markets from Spain, and he was right about foie gras, about French cheese. I’ve learned to start listening when he talks about food except I can’t pass that barrier inside me about eating rabbit or brain. While the white peach doesn’t look as good to me as the yellow, it certainly tastes better-very juicy and sweet. I tried it in a peach crumble but the color bothered me-however, fresh, you just can’t beat it.

 One of my favorite villages to visit is the nearby village of Cucuron. What makes it special is the large pond surrounded by 200 year old plane trees which is in the heart of the village and which came into being when a tanner was in operation. They often set up festivals around it and, this year, the yearly brochante was spread out under the trees making it a pleasure to stroll around.

A view of the pond in the middle of Cucuron

I wonder if the little boy who once rode this is still alive?

A very Provencal mirror with carved wooden cyprus trees and the little figure riding a mule on the top. I like the phone too.

 I like these curtains. I wish they were the right size but I think they made windows smaller back then.

 I love these pottery containers-called Majorca, I think. I didn’t even ask the price because I know it would be high.

 In the end we bought a coat rack/hall tree that we have needed since we’ve lived here. Now we have a place to hang our coats as we come in the door and a place for guest’s coats as well.

 Picture France as seen from space. Then, Google like, the camera moves closer towards the south of France, then Provence and on to the Luberon area. Aix is left behind, the roads get narrower and a little village comes into view. The camera turns down a road below the village and a pink house with lavender shutters comes into focus and moves to the back yard. There is a party going on with twenty people talking and eating under a cabana recently painted pink by the hostess. The hostess had thought they would also be standing or sitting on the porch but the sun was beaming down and it was too hot.

 The hostess had thought, in her American way, that it would be fun and interesting to have everyone who lived on their road over for a cocktail party. Several of the neighbors have second homes here and are only seen in August, the month when the French take their vacations. She had met a few of them here and there but they didn’t seem to socialize much. At least she and her husband hadn’t been invited to anything except by the couple who lived above them and who built and moved into their home at the same time as the hostess and her husband. Only the occupants of two houses weren’t able to come.

 The hostess had read in her horoscope (although she didn’t necessarily believe in them but occasionally found something mysteriously true) only the day before that she should take special notice in the people around her and that the people watching would be fantastic providing new material for the inner stand-up comedian that had taken over her subconscious. Since her French was not good, she would spend most of the party observing people anyway. It would also provide fodder for her blog.

 The first people to arrive were the Swiss couple. They apologized saying that because they were Swiss they were always on time (“Could this be why the Swiss are known for their clock and watch making?”, the hostess wondered.) She told them that it was the same with Americans. The French seldom arrive on time. The host and hostess learn that he is a doctor, a generalist. They have a lovely home at the end of our road with an olive grove. They are very friendly and fun to talk with.

 Most of the French neighbors arrive in a group. There is the neighbor across the way from the host and hostess resplendant in a black and gold shirt and black pants. His wife is more casually attired in summer pants and top. Octave, a sweet, short, skinny and small man is with them wearing a white hat, pink and white striped shirt and a tiny pink belt around the waist of his navy shorts from which are seen his little legs. The hostess notices a surgical scar going from ankle to knee and wonders if he had some sort of heart surgery requiring a vein from his leg. The hostess sits next to him to ask him his secret of his wonderful looking vegetable garden. He uses chicken manure (he has several chickens) and covers the base of his tomato plants with leaves as a type of mulch. His wife doesn’t come with him. She is known for not wanting to attend parties or dinners and the hostess often sees her dourly trudging up the road on her daily trek to a nearby village for patunk games with other women. (“She must have some friends”, thinks the hostess.) The hostess never offers her a ride as she knows she would be turned down.

A lady not technically on our road also arrives with a bottle of champagne. Two other bottles of wine were brought by others. Interestingly, to the hostess, no one offered to bring food and she remembers how Americans always offer to bring something to help out. The exception to this is the neighbor up above. She and her husband bring extra tables and chairs and she brings food to help out. They also bring their two year old, full of energy, who spends the time throwing pebbles on the porch, pulling out bricks lining an area of the yard and, when he finds a plastic dish that the hostess uses to put water in for a dove who visits every morning, throws it down a level to the rock garden then goes down the stairs to get it, climbs up some other stairs and repeats over and over. The hostess doesn’t mind but thinks of her own grandchildren as she watches.

 At the end of the road, across from the Swiss, are a gay couple. One of them has a shop in Clingacourt selling antiques. He also puts on a performance every summer up at the village which is very professionally done. He gets other actors and sometimes dancers and the whole village turns out to see what he is going to do. His partner is a very nice man but the hostess always remembers the view she got of him from behind one day as they drove past when he was wearing a thong bathing suit.

 The neighbors below the host and hostess arrive a little late due to a concert they attended. She is French, he is Spanish and they live in Belgium. We only see them in August. The house is so much nicer when they are there with the shutters flung open, a table and chairs on their porch and life going on. They are very friendly. Also arriving late is a man who was involved in building the pool of the host. He is tall with broad shoulders and is wearing a black and white flowered shirt unbuttoned a few buttons to show his chest. His wife has cancer and isn’t doing well. The hostess finds out that it is pancreatic cancer, a cancer without a good prognosis. He only stays a short while.

 The camera does a slow shot of the food moving across the table which has wine glasses and bottles of wine at one end and food and plates at the other. There is too much food as the host kept saying to the hostess, “There are twenty people coming. We can’t run out of food!” All of the guests keep saying, “Wow, there’s alot of food!” The hostess made guacamole with chips, and also has olives and almonds. She made hors d’ouvres of bread baked with either egg plant, tomatoes or onions on top cut into small squares (the host kept saying, “They have to be small. There are twenty people!”), an Italian bean salad that the host insisted on. The hostess wanted all finger foods as she didn’t want to have to fool with forks but she gave in in the end. The neighbor brought cherry tomatoes with cheese each on a toothpick stuck into a melon half looking rather like a satellite in space and some chick peas spiced with curry. There was also melon cut into cubes. And there was too much cheese. The hostess had let her husband get the cheese at the store. She was surprised to find eight cheeses in the refrigerator, most in huge sizes. Very little was eaten at the party and the hostess is wondering how long it will take for she and her husband to finish it.

 Half the guests left at 8 PM (the party started at 6:30) for a concert and the rest stayed until after 9 PM. The hostess reflected afterwards that it was alot of fun and was thinking that maybe they should have a party every year in August. She also realized upon replaying various scenes from the party in her mind that she had spoken most of her French, for some reason, using the past tense.

 Sometimes nothing more exciting happens than having lunch on my porch. It is so nice to sit there either at lunch or dinner and look out at our yard and discuss what we need to do next-and there is always something that needs doing. And then there is that incredible view. Usually we can hear nothing but birds and a few butterflies always float by if it is summer. And I usually have more than one glass of wine, mostly a rose when it’s hot.

 Being the wine expert that I am, I often buy a bottle because I like the shape of it or because I like the label.

Isn’t this cute? I liked the sun at the top, which you can’t see in this photo, and I love the cigale, such a symbol of Provence. The wine turned out to be good as well-and it only cost about 3 euros. I’m finding that I really like the taste of wine that comes from Coteaux d’Aix, which is over a hill and in a valley from us. We have some nice wines in this area, on this side of the hill, but I really like the ones from near Aix.

 A friend gave me this little cigale that hangs on the wall outside on our porch. I tried to put lavender and wheat inside the mouth but the mistral blows it away everytime. Maybe some super glue…

Our clock on the porch. You can see that we ended our meal almost at 2 PM. I’m becoming very French that way. There are alot of these types of clocks for sale in this area, most of them old advertisements on the face and the clock is made to look old. When I bought this, I thought it would be more the color of our house but, as you can see, I missed a bit. I still like it.

 We get some amazing skies here in Provence. There always seems to be quite a bit of breeze up in the sky and interesting things are done to the clouds. The mistral has been particularly present this summer and it always scrubs the air to a crystal clear brillance and shapes the clouds into lovely patterns.

 The view from our porch one evening.

 Isn’t this amazing? It looks like some fingers dragged their way through these clouds. Sort of looks like the back of a fish.

 And for all of those curious as to how our cabana turned out (the French don’t call it a cabana and look confused when you do) here is a photo of it freshly painted and part of the now refilled pool.

 The black roll at the end is not very photogenic but Maurice puts it on the surface of the pool every night to warm up the water. All of the pink that you see on the cabana was done by yours truly. After we filled up the pool, another tile came loose. I guess we will empty it this winter and see what we can do. I will not, however, be doing any more painting on the cabana, that’s for sure.

 I heard about this recipe from a friend and it isn’t technically a French recipe but rather one from immigrants to France. It’s called a tagine and it should be cooked in one of those neat dishes that I didn’t buy when I was in Marroco. I’ve seen all sorts of recipes using any sort of meat and vegetables and people add nuts and fruit as well. Mine is more simple and I’ve done what is probably an American thing and added wine. As I always say, anything tastes good if you cook it in wine.

 It doesn’t look that good in the photo, but it is.

Chicken Tagine

Any amount of chicken that you want

Any amount of potatoes cut in chunks. I microwave them for about 5 minutes before adding them to the dish to make sure they are finished cooking the same time as the chicken.

Dice garlic and chop onions into large chunks.

Oil the cooking pan that you use to save clean up time. Put olive oil on both sides of the chicken pieces and mix into the potatoes and onions. Salt and pepper everything and sprinkle everything with herbs de Provence or any other type of dry spice that you like. Sprinkle the garlic pieces over the whole dish. Squeeze the juice of half a lemon over the chicken (you can also marinate the chicken in lemon juice for a while if you like)and then pour white wine into the dish. I use about 1/2 cup usually-it depends on how much chicken I have. You can also put green olives into the dish but add them about 15 minutes before you take the dish out of the oven so they don’t over cook. I usually cut up the half of the lemon that I squeezed the juice from into wedges and add it to the dish as I like how it looks. I think you could use preserved lemons too which I never have. Cover well with foil and bake at 350 degrees for one hour. Remove the foil and then grill until everything turns nice and brown which usually takes 10 to 15 minutes. Squeeze the juice of the other half of the lemon over the chicken and serve putting the juice on the chicken.