The End of the Harvest

Picked and sorted nuts this morning.
I probably only have about three more days left of harvesting nuts. I have to admit that I’ll miss the daily forced labor. Without it, I’ll have to start up my mindless running . . . at least nut picking burns calories for a purpose. Next week, I’ll spend my days sorting and bagging nuts. Then I’ll have the fun experience of getting screwed by a nut broker. But it’s all part of my French experience. I’m going to see if I can talk Roger into going with me to dicker with the nut broker.

The other day I took a break from my nut harvesting and sat on the ground to eat an apple. Blanche came moseying over to see what I was doing. I offered her a bite of the apple, but she wasn’t interested. I realized that I had never bothered to look at the number on her ear tag. When she had to stay in her shed all day, before we built the pasture fence, the tag was covered with dirt and unreadable. But I noticed that it was clean and at my eye level because she was nuzzling me so I read the number: 0372!!!!! In French, that reads zero-trois-cents-SOIXANTE-DOUZE! Blanche and Soixante-Douze were destined for each other. Wouldn’t it be cool if we were all born with some sort of marking on us, sort of like a puzzle piece, and all we had to do to find our soul mate in a single’s bar was to match up that piece?

Today, I was sitting out in the noyer, sorting through a bunch of nuts that I had piled in the wheelbarrow, when I heard Thérèse’s familiar “coo-coo,” which is the French equivalent of the English “you-who.” She was fumbling with the gate latch and looked so cute with her little basket full of Moissac grapes in one hand and a big bunch of zinnias in the other. Blanche and Soixante-Douze saw her coming, and they approached stealthily from the side. I could see what was about to happen, but Thérèse was oblivious as she tried to figure out the idiosyncrasies of the gate latch.

I decided I better get up to shoo Blanche away. Thérèse is a petite woman and Blanche is a giant sheep so they are almost equal in height. Thérèse was a bit shocked to turn around and find Blanche muscling in to try and wrestle the flowers from Thérèse. Initially, Thérèse said, “Bonjour, Moutons,” thinking that acknowledging them was the polite thing to do, but when she saw that Blanche only wanted her for her flowers, she quickly squeezed through the gate to stand on the opposite side of the gate and she shouted, “Au revoir, Moutons!”

The weather here yesterday and today has been uncommonly beautiful. The temperature this afternoon hovered around seventy-six degrees Fahrenheit, a few white sheep clouds floated through the sky, pushed by a slight breeze. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that it won’t rain tonight so that I can run the machine one last time through the large noyer. The rain is predicted to start Monday, together with a ten degree Celsius drop in temperature.

Tonight I’m going to an incredible restaurant about twenty miles away with a girlfriend. For all my squeamish, left-wing, California readers, I’m going to indulge in some creamy foie gras for my appetizer. Last time I was there I had a foie gras brûle – pieces of foie gras cooked in a custard of eggs with a caramelized topping. For my main course I ate an incredible piece of fish that the French call sandre. It was an unusual, but delicious dish as it was covered, and roasted with, a layer of finely sliced potatoes. You don’t often get fish served with potatoes . . . unless the fish is fried. For dessert, I had some caramel raviolis in a crème sauce. Superb!

Thinking about this Bill O’Reilly hoopla in the U.S., I have come to the conclusion that Karma must exist. For isn’t it ironic, that he, the instigator of the French Boycott in the run-up to the Iraq War, now, more than anyone, badly needs the support of the French: for if there is any country in the world, where the culture and the population would support his right to play out his sexual fantasies with an employee, it would have to be the French. But I don’t think that any Frenchman or woman is going to utter a word in his defense. Désolé, Bill!