Farmer's Market

I called Roger this morning to get a report on the flooding problem in Serge's noyer. Roger had the forgeron come out and look at the vanne and in order for the forgeron to fix it, they have to drain the water out of the canal by closing off another vanne at the head of the basin, and letting the water run down an auxillary canal into the river.

I asked Roger to please complete the repair quickly because I didn't need to agitate the Crotchety Count at the end of the canal by turning off the water flow.

I was happy to hear from Roger that Serge and his father-in-law are not angry with us, YET. The water level in their noyer has gone down, and instead of having standing water, they just have boue (mud). So this is sort of good news, as it means that the problem was starting to repair itself.

Unfortunately, because it's warming up, we have to shut off the flow of water, because we can't take the chance that the trees will die. We have to get the roots "dried" out before the trees start budding.

My husband informed me that when I return to France, my first job is to take the new week whacker he bought me for my birthday and clean out the canal. Then we'll try to slowly bring up the water level. Hopefully, the silt brought in by the flowing water will continue to repair the leaks.

My husband and I walked to the San Francisco Farmer's Market. I didn't want to go, but he insisted. While this market is a nice affair, and it does promote organic goods, it isn't like the bonafide outdoor markets back in France. There's something too high-end and polished about the San Francisco version; and in fact, a majority of the booths are just offshoots of the trendy stores that are located in the newly renovated Ferry Building.

There were no barefoot, shirtless Dutchmen selling biologique vegetables and flowers. There was no cheese man flirting with all the ladies as his wife smiles at his side because he brings in so much business. There were no ninety-five-year old toothless men selling the garlic they had grown and braided themselves.

At this farmer's market, the biggest lines, naturally because we're in America, are at the booths serving up prepared food. And, quelle horreur, people are eating the food on the spot. In my little town in France, the biggest lines are for the cheese or fish vendors. One time I was walking around eating an apple I had bought at the French market, and at least three French people said bon appetit to me . . . which I interpreted to mean, can't you wait until you get home to eat your voracious American?. If you'll remember from my earlier musings, the French think that it is uncivilized to eat while standing up . . . only animals eat while standing.

Read this NYTimes article about some of the reasons French women don't get fat.
http://http://www.nytimes.com/2005/02/06/books/review/06REEDL.html?ex=1108357200&en=e43abac13262ae4f&ei=5070

As much as I try to not eat while standing, I can't give up the nasty habit, as evidenced by the fact that my husband and I walked around the market wolfing down a bag of sun-dried Mandarin oranges. They make great snacks as they're crunchy like potato chips and they're sweet but tangy . . . a fantastic alternative to candy.

A woman walking by me asked if they were good. Maybe she was of French origin and just passive-aggressively commenting on my rude behavior, but since everyone around us was eating something, I didn't interpret her comment as judgmental, and so I gave her an orange slice.

After wandering around the market, behaving like animals, my husband and I walked to the Financial District and had a very enjoyable lunch, sitting at the counter, and eating fish at Tadich Grill. After lunch, we parted ways. I'm going to paint pictures of my sheep; he'll wander around in the sun and then end up at his favorite coffee house talking politics.