Three Egg Day

Yesterday was a three egg day, with all the hens producing on full cylinders.

I remember way back when I was in junior high and I was a fan of the group Three Dog Night . . . now I'm into Three Egg Day.

As I picked nuts, the chickens came out to visit me, and didn't run off until a neighboring dog showed up. I didn't know that fowl are so "friendly."

Attila the dog follows me around the grove while I pick up nuts: blowing his feces-tinged breath in my face when I'm bending down, chewing up only the nice nuts, chasing the sheep to precipice of the river banki.

The sheep occassionally gather around me to keep me company. Yesterday, Blanche and Soixante-Douze ignored me but the four young ewes paid me a visit. I took a break, laid on my back in the tree dapppled sunshine and rubbed their bellies . . . now I'm their friend for life. We're still all waiting with baited breath for the bucks to arrive, but it looks like that will be a while longer, as the farmer is now in the middle of lambing. My husband is putting up a fence to keep them from toppling over the river bank.

Today, we dropped Preston off at the train station. He's going to Paris to check out the music scene there. Then he'll head to London soon after, and decide where he wants to pursue his musical career. Believe me, it's a lot scarier sending your kid off to a big foreign city without a job and only one contact, than it is sending him to the safety of a cloistered university.

I'm proud of him for deciding to pursue his dream and undertake this monumental challenge.

Our nut machine arrived yesterday. It had to be repaired because I ran it into a tree last year. We first initiated the repair work back in early July. It arrived on the third day into our nut harvest. We've been picking up the nuts by hand. However, as if on cue, the rain clouds are gathering ouside and so we won't be able to use the machine for a while.

My husband noted today that no one seems to have harvested their grapes. A late harvest here is the 15th of September. One year, it was as early as mid-August.

The walnuts always start falling in earnest on October 1st (this Saturday) . . .no matter what the season brings.

Trees are like the Germans who insist on maintaining a strict schedule. Grape vines are like the French and Italians, more along the lines of que sera, sera.

Secular -- Godless France

This could be the reason the crime and abortion rates are lower in France:

Religion's Negative Effects on Society

Walnuts and Meat

Yesterday was our first serious day of picking up walnuts and it heralds the start of six weeks of mentally bonding with my migrant farm worker brethren around the world as I literally feel their pain.

My husband and son set up the “nut factory” in the barn. After we gather the nuts they have to be washed and dried and then sorted through our small assembly line.

The chickens gave me two eggs yesterday. I’m really surprised by their fecundity since a neighbor told me that as the days get shorter, the hens slow down their production. We need to put a light up in their coop to stimulate their egg producing. But so far, they’re doing great without any artificial aids.

In the afternoon, I made vegetable soup. Spinach is now available. Unlike the U.S., the vegetables are only seasonally available here. At first I found that very frustrating. I couldn’t eat what I wanted when I wanted it; but now I don’t mind, and I find that the seasonality adds excitement to my cooking. Can’t tell you how surprised and pleased I was to finally find spinach in the market! So tonight at dinner we’re having spinach in the soup and in the pasta.

I try to buy my produce either at the open market or from one of two vegetable/fruit vendors in our village.

In France, the vendor is required to display the place of origin of the produce. So it’s very easy to buy locally and support your local farmers.

Montana tried to get a similar law passed this year, but it failed in the legislature. Seems like an innocent enough law that would help the bottom line of the Montana producer, but wealthier outside interests must have prevailed.

Yesterday at the supermarche (it was the only game in town as the shops are closed on Mondays here) I noticed that they had green table grapes on special from Italy! Here we are in the middle of grape country, table and wine, and they’re selling white grapes from Italy at 1.50 a kilo . . . no wonder the banker was warning me about going into the vineyard business. I won't be surprised to hear that Jose Bovè is in our village dismantling the supermarche.

My son and I went into town yesterday because my son wasn’t happy that I was making only vegetable soup for dinner. He wanted something more substantial. So we paid a visit to our local foie gras fabricant.

I served the foie gras cold on a plate with three little piles of coarse sea salt, freshly ground pepper, and fruit jam; accompanied by a small glass of Sauterne. A local restaurant serves it in this manner with some spiced cake bread. Foie gras really is a wonderful treat and it’s too bad it’s outlawed in California.

In my opinion, the production of foie gras is more humane than the factory production of pigs and chickens in the U.S. Here in France, the foie gras farms and factories are open to visitors. In the U.S., the meat factories are closed to visitors. So can you guess which systems are more humane to the animals?

Really, if Americans truly cared about the well-being of the animals they eat, they would boycott the monopolistic meat packers and the chicken factories, and insist that their supermarkets and butchers buy their meat from small family farms, where the animals roam freely and are well cared for.

I haven’t met a livestock producer, in the U.S. or here in France, who didn’t emotionally relate to his animals and care about the conditions in which they were being raised.

Here in our village, the award-winning butcher has a chalk board hung outside his shop that lists the name of the producers of the meat he has for sale that day. That’s how intimate the relationship is here between producer and customer.

Beautiful sheep that shall remain unnamed so I don't become too emotionally attached. 

Rainy Days and Mondays

We had a hard rain yesterday. Both my son and my husband felt the need to point out how stupid the sheep behaved during the storm. The fluffy things have a shed but they chose to come out and huddle under a small plastic tarp that hangs between a tree and fence protecting the salt blocks.

I thought the sheep were pretty smart to figure out that they could huddle under the tarp. As everything leaks around here -- the rain was pouring through a skylight yesterday and the faucet that directs water to the washing machine sprang a leak -- the sheep probably know more than we do about the state of their shed’s roof.

The rain means I’ll have to go out early this morning and pick up the nuts that were batted loose.

Back in July, my husband called to have our nut machine repaired. The repairman finally picked it up in late August and we haven’t heard from him since.

It doesn’t matter that it isn’t here yet . . . it’s useless in the mud.

The chickens presented me with two eggs yesterday, and so I made brownies. One of the eggs was another double yolk. I’m getting large double yolked eggs with dark brown shells and I’m getting small, light colored eggs. Can’t really figure out the reason why this would be happening as the chickens are the same breed, the same age, and eat the same things.

Chickens are great pets. They make me smile a lot during the day . . . when I discover an egg, and when I see them waddling around the yard following their Cock. They put themselves to bed at night so no herding is required. However, they are messy.

Was talking to a British family the other night at a cocktail party. They seemed to be a bit taken aback by my assertion that my days are spent in “feces management.” But that’s the British for you . . . uptight, until they want to tell you a dirty joke that makes no sense to you.

The British man asked me if I had ever considered moving to England. I thought about being a smartass and asking him if he had every considered staying in England . . . but I wasn’t drinking at the party so I bit my tongue.

I was the designated driver for the evening. In the past year, the French authorities have really cracked down on drinking while driving. It’s really ruining the culture . . . and it’s depleting the bank accounts of the small vintners.

At the cocktail party, we ran into our banker, and in front of my vintner neighbor, he loudly advised me, “Whatever you do, don’t go into the wine business. They’re going bankrupt.”

My husband pointed out the other night that even people who can drink without fear of being caught by the Gendarmes, have cut back on their consumption because of the law. For instance, Roger lives across the road, and can drink as much as he wants at our dinner parties; but being polite, he only drinks at the same rate as the visitors who have to drive a long way.

This behavior would explain why you don’t see people out of control at a French party. The British, now they’re a different matter.

Keep in mind that when I bash the Brits the criticism doesn’t extend to my friend Colin.

Merde!

French Train Lines on the Chopping Block

At dinner last night we discussed the horrible trend in France to emulate the U.S. policies . . . and this would be one of them . . . cutting back on public services.

I guess it's time to hit the barricades.

A French Day

Yesterday afternoon, I went into our village to buy a gift for a housewarming party and I was presented with a pleasant treat: a wedding party exiting from the mayor's office.

The French government does not accept religious ceremonies as binding legal contracts, so couples must be married by the mayor.

If the couple is religious, they'll have a ceremony following the mayor's official ceremony.

I parked the car near the mayor's office, not knowing that a wedding was taking place, and then walked behind the smartly dressed, assembled crowd that was waiting for the couple to exit the mayor's office. Women were wearing beautiful, brightly colored, large hats and trim suits. The men were attired in tuxedos with gray vests. Everyone looked so good, and had such impeccable fashion sense that for a moment I thought the assemblage was a photo shoot for a wedding magazine.

The shop owners came out and stood in front of their doors to watch. The pedestrians stopped in their tracks to await the bride and groom's exit. I stood with the uninvited contingency.

When the couple walked out the door of the mayor's office and glided down the stairs, the invited guests and all of us on-lookers erupted in joyful applause.

The invited guests broke out in song. We voyeurs smiled broadly.

I'm happy to report that village life, in the truest sense, where the community shares in the happiness and sadness of its members, still exists in France.

In the evening, a college friend of mine, took my family out to a superb dinner at an old beautiful castle.

I had a great day yesterday . . . and to top it all off, one of my hens presented me with a huge, perfect egg.

It's funny that just as I wrote about my days in France do not resemble in the least my former fantasy ideas about French life, I ended up experiencing a day that met all those fantasies!

Quaint village life, fresh eggs from my hens, eating dinner in a magnificent castle. I'm happy to report that Fantasy France still exists.

French Family Values

While I don't agree with this policy, it does illustrate that the French government does more than pay lipservice to motherhood:

Third Child Incentives

Cock to Hen Ratio

I prepared dinner at our house for several guests yesterday and made an apple tart that tasted better than ususal . . .perhaps that was becuse I used the still warm, just-laid eggs of my hens and some apples off of our straggly apple tree. One of the eggs had a double yolk.

Every time I walk out to the coop and find an egg, I feel a slight twinge of excitement. Perhaps I'm having pleasant flashbacks to my childhood Easter egg hunts.

At dinner, one of our guests told us that the perfect ratio for raising chickens is ten hens for every one cock. Roger was in agreement. So I guess I have to find seven more hens.

This guest went on to tell us that his parents had a cock and a few hens, and that the cock had a "favorite" hen that he wore out every day with his sexual escapades. Our guest claimed that the hen walked around with her head drooping, visibly worn out.

In case you're wondering, around these parts, the sheep producers tell me you need one buck for every thirty ewes.

Human males think they have such prowess but they are mistaken. The most reliable indications are that the "correct" ratio for humans is one male for four females . . . at least that is what is enshrined in law in some Muslim countries, and that would be our most reliable time tested recipe.

Of course some men behave more like sheep rams . . .my boss at the Embassy of Oman told me that his father had 250 wives. He wasn't proud of the fact, it bothered him. He'd be travelling in other Arab countries and he'd see someone who looked just like him, and he'd assume that the person was his brother, but he didn't want to be impolite by asking.

Yesterday, I was sitting on a bench in my kitchen, putting on my work shoes, while eating a rolled up crepe I had made earlier in the morning. Our dog was lying in the doorway looking attentively at me. The sun was streaming through the windows. My son was picking up walnuts in the walnut grove. My husband was in town at the hardware store.

I experienced a true moment of perfection.

As I contemplated that moment while picking up walnuts, I realized that I had creatred an unrealistic dream of moving to France. It was unrealistic because I had absolutely no idea what living in France meant. I think that deep down, I thought it would be the life depicted by old travel posters and Audrey Hepburn movies. It would be a castle with a tower, constant shopping and cafes in Paris, summers on the Riviera.

The initial dream that prompted me to lobby my husband to move here was a dream engendered by the media and by my previous tourist excursions to France.

The reality is something much less cosmopolitan and much more complex. It’s chickens strutting across my driveway . . . six-weeks of brown hands from picking walnuts . . . it’s my walking club of septuagenarians . . . it’s taking naps in the pasture with my sheep . . . it’s the endless repairing of roofs . . .it’s knowing that I can always depend upon my neighbors for help . . . it’s struggling with a new language and being really thrilled when I make a breakthrough. . .it’s shopping in Bordeaux and running errands in Toulouse . . .it’s occasional train rides to Paris . . .it’s incredible food and great wines . . .it’s gathering wood for your fireplace . . .it’s civilly discussing politics at the dinner table.

In short, it’s contentment.

The dream that propelled me to move here was full of images of elegance and excitement.

The reality is much more pleasing and rewarding.

But not everyone finds it so . . . the Americans from New York who owned a mill near some friends of ours sold their property and didn't buy another. Their mill would flood in the spring and was a nightmare. They sold it to some unsuspecting Canadians.

Unemployment in France

The newspapers claim that France has around a 10% unemployment rate.

Where it lingers, I haven't a clue.

My wonderful caretaker/housekeeper found a full-time job -- at 40 hours a week, not 35.
She left, and we miss her.

If you drive the 200+km from our place to the big city, there's development all along the last 90km of the freeway. Huge warehouses and corporate offices being built. Housing developments -- for the French.

The robust economy in my part of France is frightening because, as I've lamented in this space many a time, it's encroaching on my romantic dream of living in pastoral France.

Workers are so busy that you can't get anyone to install a fireplace insert, tile your floor, or put on a new roof, unless they have at least a nine month lead time.

Spent the day in the big city yesterday, Wednesday, and the streets were jammed . . . with pedestrians. The shops were busy. The restaurants were hopping. I've never seen a U.S. city so vibrant . . .and we come from San Francisco!

Alas, sadly I must report on another passing of a quaint French tradition. The shops in the big city now stay open during lunch . . . they don't close during the day. Au revoir la belle France, bonjour type-A America.

I was very proud of my nineteen-year old son. We were hungry and on the outskirts of town, and I suggested we go to McDonald's . . . please don't tell anyone. But he was willing to hold out until I was done shopping at a box store -- again, I admit that while being deeply embarassed -- and we could make our way to centre ville to have a real French lunch.

We ate at a charming old cafe, under the watchful stare of Bacchus and a horned ram carved in the woodwork above our table. We ordered from the menu formule, the daily specials. My son had a salad of duck gizards, figs, tomatoes and lettuce. His main dish was roasted duck in a cherry sauce, a potato galette, and pureed carrots. I ate a trout, carrot, turnip medley. We sipped coffee and tea together afterwards. It was amazingly civilized and we greatly enjoyed each other's company . . . my son even admitted it.

Where seldom is heard a discouraging word . . .

This post has nothing to do with France . . . but I am putting it up because it illustrates my disillusionment with the U.S. and it's disdain for individual rights over the rights of the corporation.

There's a myth about the Rocky Mountain West that it's a society that favors the individual.

This rancher will lose his lawsuit . . .because the politics and court systems of states like Wyoming, and my home state of Montana, favor the pillaging of natural resources over the rights of individuals: Range War

Pave the Beasts and the Children . . .

Roger was right, Americans do want to pave EVERYTHING!

PAVE AMERICA FIRST CONGRESSIONAL CAUCUS

Napoleon is Dead

Well the good news is that my hens started laying eggs . . . where I can find them. They had been laying under bushes where the dog would find them and happily devour them.

I was so excited to discover the eggs that I immediately ran over to my neighbors Roger and Therese to tell them.

The eggs were small, but my neighbor Therese said they will increase in size as the hens age.

I'm very sad to report that my little buck Napoleon died, a week and a day after we put the cast on him. It was a horrible death. He died of an infection that started in the broken leg. He died in a pool of his own blood from the internal hemorrhaging.

It was a surprisingly traumatic experience for me. Initially, I was so happy and excited that we were able to save him from the butcher's knife. He he did great with his cast for four days.

But ignoring what the veterinarian told me, I put him outside with his flock, thinking that the sunshine and being with his buddies would do him more good than being cooped up in a dark moist barn.

But then he developed diarrhea from the anti-biotics, and the flies descended on him. I now have very negative visceral reactions to flies.

I carried him into the barn and washed him down. He did fine for a day, I got him to eat a little bit of hay and drink water.

To my helpless horror, he started to go downhill and I spent three days cleaning up diarrhea, and worms and maggots.

My husband arrived the day before Napoleon died. I walked in the house the next morning, and told my husband that he had to put the lamb out of his misery because it was obvious Napoleon was bleeding to death. This was not a task that my husband wanted to undertake . . . especially when he was suffering from jet lag.

My husband finished his cup of coffee, but by the time he went out to look at Napoleon, the lamb was mercifully dead. My husband found a large grain sack and thoughtfully put the lamb in the bag so I wouldn't have to deal with him.

I called the man who picks up the dead animals for the departement, and thankfully, he arrived within an hour. If you remember, when Olympia died, I had to wait four days while she bloated in the summer heat and the insects attacked her . . . she was too large to bag.

My husband was the optimist, he ordered another buck for me and THREE more yearling ewes. And the farmer we bought them from was gracious and said he'd loan us a mature buck for Blanche and Soixante-Douze . . . since their clocks are ticking.

I don't know if the farmer will stick to the bargain about loaning us the mature buck . . . because just before we were leaving my husband told him about how Napoleon was injured . . . by our dog chasing him over the river embankment.

I could tell the farmer was taken aback. However, my friend who introduced us told me that, while he may have second thoughts, he'll bring the buck.

I spent a day last week with a sheep farmer who was lambing his 300 ewes. I was in heaven . . . surrounded by the ewes and their lambs that ranged from a few seconds old to two weeks old. I sat in the pen with the lambs that were triplets, and their mothers, and held the lambs . . . some of these triplets are supplimented with bottle feedings so they are very friendly.

When the lambs die, they throw them in a corner of the lambing shed. Then they bag them, and the man that collects the dead animals picks them up on his weekly round.

The farmer told me that he expects to lose six percent of the newborn lambs.

Life and death are always walking hand in hand.

This is a pretty sad state of affairs . . .

. . .when people vacation in WalMart parking lots.

I guess people enjoy being surrounded by asphalt.

http://www.billingsgazette.com/index.php?id=1&display=rednews/2005/09/18/build/local/40-city-lights.inc