Taking a look around

I think we may be starting to take that whole surrounded-by-stunning-vineyards-on-all-sides landscape for granted a bit. But as the woody grape vines come to life with new green shoots each day, as fields start changing texture and color, as the work the vineyard workers are doing has shifted from getting rid of the remnants of last year's harvest to encouraging the growth of this year's (even though those two are very much connected)... well, we decided we were long overdue for stopping to actually LOOK at (and photograph) the vineyards. So, even though it's been raining pretty much non-stop since my mom left (nice timing, Mom!), when Katie wanted to go on a walk after dinner, John grabbed the camera. And this is some of what they saw:
 

Then they stopped at Katie's favorite tree up in Les Chaumes, one she has christened "Coconut Tree" (not to be confused with Coconut Mountain, a.k.a. Mont-St-Victor, on the other side of the village). She loves it for the acorns (a.k.a. coconuts) she collects below it. We know she loves it, and isn't merely pleased by it, because every time she sees it she runs to it, shouting "I LOVE YOU COCONUT TREE!" And then she gives it a hug.

Oui, le vin est bon!

The room was packed, and people of all ages crowded on benches and leaned on tables. The smell of couscous and lamb mingled with the aroma of wine and sweat and rain. The band played over the laughter and conversations, and suddenly I heard the beginning of Chevaliers de la Table Ronde, a song I actually knew (courtesy of Madamoiselle Sullivan and my high school French classes in Colorado).

From the first verse:

Chevaliers de la table ronde/ Knights of the round table
Goutons voir si le vin est bon/ Let's taste and see if the wine is good
Goutons voir, oui oui oui/ Goutons voir, non non non/ Goutons voir si le vin est bon

through the tenth and last:

La morale de cette histoire/ The moral of this story:
C'est à boire avant de mourir/ Drink before you die!
C'est à boire, oui oui oui/ C'est à boire, non non non C'est à boire avant de mourir!

the crowd of people at the open house of a neighborhood winery sang, and drank, and laughed, and danced, and at one point (in between singing the "oui, oui, ouis" and "non, non, nons"), I looked around and just marveled at what I saw, the people, the music, the laughter, the wine. It all seemed so...French... and so very, very fun. I wished I could somehow bottle up that one moment and take it home with me, because it captured so much of what I have loved about our time in France -- friends, food, joy, wine -- and although we tried to get some pictures, I think we will have to rely mostly on our memories most for this one.

It was a great weekend from start to finish. After my quick market morning, we spent Saturday afternoon celebrating Penelope's 2nd birthday at our house. Kate and Liv absolutely adore Penelope (and Jack loves playing with her big sisters, Lauren and Claudia) and they had decorated the house with balloons of every color. After a few years of being the youngest, I think they are VERY happy to have someone else take on that role; they proudly showed off their mature, nearly-five-year-old-girl skills (like helping Penny put on her shoes, and picking up whatever she dropped).

And all five of the kids spent part of the visit trading Pokemon cards (Jack, Lauren and Claudia most seriously, although Kate and Liv got into the game). This is a mixed bag for a parent... the next morning, Katie proudly showed me a card and said "I traded my strongest card for this one because it's just so cute!" Hmmmm... she was happy, so that should have been fine, but we are wondering exactly how you teach a child to barter, bargain, and bluff, too (Jack had no trouble learning these skills). Not an easy task!

At any rate -- after the gouter (snack) and delicious birthday tarte, we all headed to Claire Naudin's, of Domaine Naudin Ferrand in Magny-les-Villers. The local winemaker, a friend of Franck and Laura's (and mother of a classmate of Jack's), was holding the annual winemaker's "open house" in the next village just one kilometer away.

As usual, John and I had no idea what to expect. And as usual, we had greatly underestimated just how great it would be. I think I had pictured it being a time to sample a few kinds of wine, and then we'd eat mediocre food prepared for the masses.

Instead, we arrived to a room filled with wine, yes (from seven different winemakers) but also crafts, locally grown food and specialty items (homemade jams, spice breads, salt), hot crepes, music (the band played off and on the whole evening and into the  night), and a craft corner and facepainting for children. The couscous dinner was delicious, and the wine was, of course, divine. We saw many people we knew -- one of the perks of living in a small village! -- and had dinner with Geraldine and Thomas as well as the parents of Laurie, a "big girl" who Katie has labelled as her best friend.

 

And the music and singing really capped the whole fun evening off. Aside from a Christmas carol or Auld Lang Syne on New Year's Eve, I can't recall a dinner where people starting singing (with great enthusiasm) drinking songs! Clearly something else we might need to bring back to Canada...

We all slept in on Sunday (which means til about 8 a.m.!) and although it wasn't officially Mother's Day here (in fact, it seems I will miss Mother's Day this year... it is at the end of May in France, was in March in England, and was yesterday in North America), John and the kids doted on me all morning, bringing coffee and food to bed, and leaving me alone to indulge in the weirdly addictive Twilight Series (why oh why did I start these vampire tales?).

We took a walk after lunch and came back to prepare a tarte aux fraises (strawberry tarte) for the gouter with my host parents, Denys and Christine. They LOVED the village and our France home, and marvelled at the beauty that surrounds us. Liv seemed to instantly bond with Denys, and spent much of the visit on his lap. I had asked Christine if she would bring her recipe for my favorite gateau au chocolat, and she took me through the process, step by step.

This is what we ended up with. Pas mal, n'est pas?

Denys also brought with him a painting he had done of me, from a picture I had sent them 17 years ago. It is black and white watercolor, and just amazing to see in real life. I am amazed at anyone who can create things with their hands (art, music, food) and will treasure this gift always.

And we returned back to regular French life this morning, with school for the kids and a work trip for John. The kids and I stopped for croissants on the way back from the train station since we were a bit too early for school, and I had to brush the crumbs off all three before sending them into their classrooms. They certainly have taken to French bread (big surprise there, eh?)

This afternoon, the girls (for who knows what reason) asked to hear the lyrics of O Canada on the computer. That led to a good half hour of listening to national anthems from around the world. If you find yourself with a bit of time, it's pretty interesting to read all of the lyrics as well as listen to the songs. The U.S.'s anthem, besides being r-e-a-l-l-y difficult to sing (Livie was NOT impressed with my "lan-and of the freeeeee!"), is SO focused on battle. I rarely thought about that when singing it growing up -- it just always did and still does give me chills when I hear it -- and often makes me cry. But I had never spent much time actually listening to the words (and who knew there were four verses?). Anyway... my other problem is that I always want to end it with an enthusiastic "Play ball!". I wonder if that instinct will ever go away!

France's anthem, La Marseillaise, always brings to mind that wonderful scene in Casablanca, but I had never read the English words until today. It is also a very bloody, bloody song. As the national anthem website explains:

The lyrics, speaking of bloody battles and a call for citizens to take up arms, have been debated endlessly whether to alter the words to suit the more peaceful times that France currently enjoys, but the original words, capturing the spirit of the French revolution, remain. This is probably due to the fact that "La Marseillaise" is now inexorably linked to France in the mind of the world.

The first verse of England's anthem is all about the Queen (later verses touch on everything from confounding the politics of its enemies and frustrating their knavish tricks). Croatia's is all about the land. Poland's anthem speaks to its tumultuous history of partition and preservation (Poland has not yet Perished). And Canada's anthem, which is so wonderfully easy to sing, has such different words depending on if you're singing it in French or in English.

Such interesting stuff.

Tomorrow should be a good day for Kate and Liv -- their class is going to ride ponies. And it will be a stressful (but hopefully satisfying) morning for me -- another haircut. Fingers crossed that it goes as well as the first one!

A plant update, but more importantly, while we're here, my in-laws are...

...trying to get the skunk smell off of our dog. Yes, I think we got the better end of THAT deal.

I woke up this morning to this email from my father-in-law, sent in reply to yesterday's blog about the mysterious plant.

Did it have a skunky smell? 4:00 am in the morning and Judy, forgetting possible skunks in the early morning darkness, complies and lets you know who outside. Many many many hours later and after spraying her with Skunk-Off and giving her a bubble bath outside with dog and cat shampoo she has been once again allowed into the house......She acted like she has never had a bath?? She shivered and tried to escape but I kept her in our outside bathing container and although she envisioned biting me with glee, she chose to take another path and let it happen. All three of us had minor and major roles in this adventure and we all thought about you guys (well, at least I did)....

Poor Jay. Poor Judy. And (I suppose), poor Kaia, the smelly dog, who hates baths and has only had two in her more than 12 year long life (she's rather cat like in that way).

I am just wondering how much Aligoté we'll have to bring back to make this up to them? Just what is the appropriate gift for someone who has taken care of your skunk-sprayed dog? I wonder if Miss Manners has ever contemplated such a question.

In other, less horribly smelly, news, I have a possible lead on the plant mystery, thanks to Liz, a friend of mine here in Burgundy. She emailed this morning with with a few thoughts. She said she will check with her favorite neighbor, an 82-year-old who heads south each winter but who is coming home this week and knows all about local plants, but in the meantime her best guesses are either wild asparagus (aka Ornithogalum pyrenaicum, aka Prussian asparagus, Bath Asparagus (it was once abundant near that city), Pyrenees star of Bethlehem, spiked star of Bethlehem or in French asperge des bois, aspergette, ornithogale des Pyrénées) or wild garlic (aka ail des ours, aka ramsons). Though concerning the latter, she wrote she has "yet to meet a Burgundian who shares my fondness for this and to plunge it in boiling water would be an outrage."

She included this link which included this interesting tidbit (for those of us who are always on the lookout for wild boar):
  
Ramsons (Allium ursinum) (also known as buckrams, wild garlic, broad-leaved garlic, wood garlic, sremuš or bear's garlic) is a wild relative of chives. The Latin name owes to the brown bear's taste for the bulbs and habit of digging up the ground to get at them; they are also a favorite of wild boar.

The photo on the left of ramsons has leaves that looked very much like the leaves the man pulled out of his pocket. And I certainly understand getting excited about garlic! But... why would he be boiling them? Garlic tea? Soup?

Liz did warn "if you do go looking for wild garlic remember to check for the distinctive flowers, as the leaves are very similar to lily of the valley which is poisonous." As for the boiling... I could almost see her shrug her shoulders as she wrote that "the French don't always deserve their reputation for knowing exactly what to do in the kitchen." And she thinks I would have been about to smell it (she said when you walk through a wood where they grow in profusion it can be quite overpowering).

Ah, the mystery continues.

And just for the record... to Jay and Judy, I am really sorry about that skunk. We'll make it up to you somehow.

Burgundy -- the wine

I just read this very interesting article on Slate about the great battle between Burgundy and Bordeaux wines. Here's the lede and a few other paragraphs:

I'm a Burgundy Man: Choosing sides in the great wine-world fight between Burgundy and Bordeaux.

By Mike Steinberger 
Posted Monday, April 12, 2010, at 3:53 PM ET

Hundreds of buyers and journalists were in Bordeaux the week before last tasting barrel samples of the 2009 vintage. The Bordelais are second to none when it comes to hyping their own wines, and long before the expectorating masses came to town, they had already declared 2009 to be a possible vintage of the century. Of course, they made the same lofty claim about 2005, and 2003, and 2000 before that; on the present trajectory, Bordeaux will have had 40 vintages of the century by the time the year 2100 arrives. But as ever, the buzz from Bordeaux prompted feverish speculation about the ratings that critics, namely Robert Parker, were likely to dole out and how much gouging the chateaux, who are also very adept at charging for their wines, would do. Indeed, as of last week, I literally had not seen a single Internet discussion regarding the 2009 vintage that hadn't morphed into a thread about scores and prices. And each of these conversations left me with the exact same thought: Thank God for Burgundy.

...Burgundy has always been a world apart from Bordeaux. While the Bordelais classified their wines by price, the Burgundians did it on the basis of terroir—on what they believed to be the intrinsic quality of each vineyard, as revealed over the centuries. Burgundy's grand cru and premier cru designations, which were formally introduced in the 1930s, are aesthetic judgments, not commercial benchmarks. 

...These differences seem more pronounced of late. While Bordeaux is increasingly corporate, its proprietors further removed than ever from the winemaking process, the overwhelming majority of Burgundy estates are still mom-and-pop operations, and the region's agrarian way of life has become even more entrenched. In Burgundy, the winery owners almost always do the winemaking themselves, and these days, the amount of time that a vintner spends in the fields is seen as a measure of his or her commitment to quality. The idea that great wines are made in the vineyard is now Burgundy's mantra, and its best producers work their vines with a fastidiousness that would put their fathers and grandfathers to shame. With Burgundy, you are not drinking a luxury label owned by a guy in a Brioni suit, but rather a wine made by a farmer dressed in boots, and for me, this authenticity is also part of Burgundy's attraction relative to Bordeaux.

...I suspect, though, that Burgundy's growing allure is also a statement about what people value in their glass. Wine writer Matt Kramer recently wrote a piece in which he recalled waxing lyrical about Burgundy to French critic Michel Bettane, who replied, "Ah, Matt, you want to dream your wines." I think that's true for most of us: The wines we feel most passionate about are those that offer not only compelling aromas and flavors, but a little romance and soul, too. It is hard to discern these qualities in most Bordeaux nowadays; however good the wines may taste, they have become so bound up in prices, scores, and luxury marketing that the romance and soul have been drained out of them. For me, and I think for an increasing number of wine drinkers, what appeals about Burgundy is not only the excellence of the wines, but the charm and character of the place itself.

John and I have been thoroughly enjoying Burgundy wines since the night of our arrival. Although we haven't yet had a chance to do much in the world of formal tastings and degustations, we both have enjoyed the incredible choice, reasonable price, and delicious taste of wines grown, quite literally, in our own backyard.

We have learned that 2005 was truly a terrific year (for wine as well as for us -- that was the year Katie and Livie were born). The 2006 whites are also so very, very good. And we'll get a chance to learn a bit more about all of this on May 8 and 9, when we head to Claire Naudin's, of Domaine Naudin Ferrand in Magny-les-Villers. The local winemaker, a friend of Franck and Laura's (and mother of a classmate of Jack's), will be holding the annual winemaker's "open house" in the next village just one kilometer away. Apparently this is a family-friendly event that is not to be missed.

We can't wait to check it out. Like the author of the Slate article says: there is just something quite special about Burgundy -- its people, its countryside, and its wine.

GUEST BLOG: Splattered with mud, bottle firmly in hand...

While I am the primary writer and keeper of this blog as well as the blog I kept in Japan, there were times in Japan when John had a say, too. It seemed to happen when he experienced something the rest of us didn't (taking Katie to the emergency room for her head wound, for example), or when something was so momentous and huge, we both had a lot to say (the election of Barack Obama, for example).

So, although I had my own account of some of yesterday's fun, I thought it would also be good to hear the story from John's point of view. Enjoy!

***

While it is generally good to write about these experiences while they are still fresh, the timing certainly shapes the description. If I wrote my account just after the race, I might have raved about the event under the influence of a runner's high (and bolstered by the treats given out at the end of the race as well as the prospect of picking up my bottle of wine). The rain and mud on the race course may have been more prominent features in the guest blog if I had written last night, as I became increasingly sore.

Instead, I am writing the next morning. There is no runner's high nor crippling soreness. Just a bit sore--enough to remind me that I did not train properly and that I am 15 years older than when I ran this distance in a much quicker 42 minutes.

I thought a bit about speed at various times in the course even though I was more motivated to run this race by vin than vitesse. The lure of the vin lived up to its billing--both the beauty of the vineyards and the fun of receiving the bottle of wine at the end. However during the race I couldn't help but think about the vitesse, and the lack of speed.

This race is much bigger than any I have been part of. They cap registration at 2,500, and the #2330 that I wore suggests that they had full numbers. The course is beautiful but also fairly narrow as it winds through the vineyards. We came rather late to the race despite the advice of our friend Thomas that for a good time you must start near the front as you will otherwise be stuck in the crowd bumping into other runners. I started far from the front, and he was right.

Runners were excited and jumping around as men with microphones stoked this enthusiasm and then counted down for the official start. The gun fired and if I hadn't heard it I would not have known the race started. There were so many people in front of me that we just kept jumping up and down as there was no way to move forward for what seemed like a long time. So much for speed at the beginning.

As the race went on the pack spread out and there were opportunities to pass people while avoiding the big puddles and the deepest mud. This allowed me to feel reasonably fast while passing people. The race was messy but fun in the early stages like here where I saw Lisa and Jack near the 3k mark and when passing through the impressive Château du Clos-de-Vougeot at the point where we turned back toward Nuits-Saint-Georges.

Not long after passing this chateau there was a second table with cups of water along the near side and what appeared to be pate, more substantial snacks, and perhaps some wine on the far side. Next time I will have to stop, linger on the other side of the table, and indulge in the original reasons for doing this run. However, this time I was still thinking about speed and grabbed a cup of water from a volunteer--there were an amazing number of volunteers in this remarkably well organized event--while on the move.  

At the time, not slowing to eat or drink seemed the thing to do. I was pleased that I was not tempted to walk at any point in this run, but when a joker passed me near the 8k mark it became clear that my "running" was often mere jogging. Yes, this participant was in the costume of a joker, like on a playing card. I had left most costumed participants behind earlier in the race, but perhaps I should not have been surprised by this alarming development. After all, two very tall drag queens in miniskirts had passed me 1 km earlier. 

This led to more philosophical musings about speed. I had passed many more runners than had passed me (this is not difficult to do when you start behind so many other runners), but I think serious runners would have been less tempted by the pate and wine and more concerned about being passed by anyone in costume. I became somewhat resigned to the thought, which turned out to be accurate, that my time would likely be one minute slower per year of age since the race I had run full-out 15 years ago.

Of course this does not have to be true. We have a friend in Canada who is older than me and she runs marathons and ultra-marathons every year with what seems to be faster times with age. But I did not think of her. Instead, I thought--with growing empathy--about the old Ford Mondeo station wagon that we are driving around the village here in France. 

The car we are borrowing has 250,000 km on the odometer and there are many signs that it is not as spry now as a decade ago. But, as they say here, il roule (it goes, it rolls), with a shrug suggesting that it is how it is and that is sufficient. That became my mantra when passed at 8 km by the joker. Il roule, et ca suffit.

Seeing the 9k sign was energizing and I shifted my inner Ford Mondeo into a higher gear and passed a dozen or two runners to finish in good form. Just as turning up a car radio can "fix" problems by preventing the driver from hearing thumps, whines, and sputters, I cranked up Lisa's iphone and ran that last km in the 4.5 minutes it took to play James' Born of Frustration.

After clipping off the electronic device on my shoe, which allowed them to record my modest time, I was pointed to an exit where I was given a bag of treats including this race shirt and a coupon to pick up a free wine glass at the tasting as part of the many festivities for the 49th vente des vins in Nuits- Saint-Georges.

Creaking body and all, it was great fun. The girls did not seem disappointed that I had not won the race and Jack and Lisa were able to see the full scope of the race and have very French race experiences of their own (she did get the wine and pate I had foolishly passed on). That link takes you back to Lisa's account of the day and the picture of the bottle of wine that initially motivated the run through mud-splattered spectacular scenery--vines, chateaus, jokers, drag queens, and all.

A day of castles, wine, chocolate...oh, and a 10K for John, too

The French, while certainly not perfect, do a lot of things VERY well.

I like the way they enjoy their food, and while I have been known to grumble occasionally to myself that stores and shops close every day between 12 and 2 p.m. (such PRIME shopping time for me!), deep down I am glad to know all of those employees get to go home and have a nice long lunch with their families, too.

I like the way almost all French people that I've encountered seem to actually LIKE children. They don't go overboard with accommodating them in certain ways (not a ton of booster seats or child menus in restaurants... but children are welcome to sit and enjoy whatever food they will eat off the regular menu)... but all that I've met (young and old), seem genuinely delighted with them, like to talk to them, and understand that they need to run and shout and play hard.

And, at the risk of losing my feminist credentials, I have to say I like the way French men treat women. There is none of the leering or staring or gawking... but there is a certain kind of appreciation of women that is just, well, nice. Doors are opened. Mothers are treated kindly. Feelings of respect and admiration of women are obvious (even to me, an outsider). It's pretty great!

I must now add another item to that fantastic list -- the French know how to do races just right. I asked John to write a "guest blog" to tell the point of view of the actual runner, but from my point of view, it was perfect. There were 2,500 runners, and more than enough volunteers to make things run smoothly. The race did in fact go through beautiful country, wrapping through a castle and along vineyards and up and down rolling hills. While he didn't do the official "gouter", John did see glasses of wine (and what he thought was pate) at some of the water stops. Back in town, he was able to pick up his beautiful, specially labelled bottle of a white burgundy.

And... the kids and I had a good time, too. Well, the girls took a much needed nap and spent the race looking like this:

Jack was wide awake and waited for the race to start looking like this:

After dropping John at the race start, I drove to the middle of a vineyard where the road was cut off. As soon as I explained that I had deux petites sleeping in the car but wanted to watch my husband and take some pictures, one of the kind volunteers let me drive forward, park by the blockade, and invited me and Jack to watch the race with him (see what I mean about French men?).

Some of the runners looked like this:

Others looked like this:

 John looked like this:

Allez, John, allez!

After cheering him on, the kind volunteer and I chatted some more. I mentioned how John had been eager to receive the bottle of wine after finishing. He said "oh, you like wine?" Bien sur, I said. So he pulled out an unlabeled green bottle of some wine he happened to have in the back of his van.

Then he pulled out some pate and crusty bread (see what I mean about appreciating food? I got the sense he'd never leave home without a supply of great wine and delicious snacks). He made sure Jack didn't hurt himself when he played on the old rock wall, and I enjoyed the wine and gout as we cheered the runners on (I shouted "Bravo!" while he shouted "Courage!").

And despite what could only be described as the world's least rigorous training effort, John finished in the top half or so of the 10K runners (I was impressed he finished at all, running in the rain and mud). A quick trip home to shower and have a gouter for the others who didn't enjoy the wine and pate... and we returned to Nuits-St-Georges for John to pick up his wine and for the kids and I to hit the end of the chocolate festival.

The kids were invited up to the stage to make little Easter confections. See what I mean about liking kids?

Yes, it's not a perfect country (no country is, right?). But the things they do right, the French seem to do so very, very right.

And -- to the American-Canadian-temporary-French man in this house --I just have to say bravo!