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My rented treehouse is just a minute from the pristine beach where traditional Swhahili fishermen repair their nets and sails during the day and launch their boats after dark. They sometimes have time during the day to take me out to the reef for snorkeling...
...And yes, the milk goes off if you leave it out in the humid heat for 10 minutes, and the roads have huge potholes and often things run out in the local shops and you cannot buy what you need... But you CAN get hand-caught live prawns, crabs and clams every day, and the most delicious halwa in the world (handmade with locally grown almonds and pistachios and cardamom seeds)... and there are sunsets to make you cry with the beauty of it all... and children's laughter on the beach in the cool of the evening... and the hauntingly beautiful sound of the spiritually comforting, monotonous Muslim changing from the moxques... the vast, ever-changing, ever-pounding Indian Ocean... and wise old men in faded kikois and prayer-hats, leaning on their walkingsticks, on their way to evening prayer... and those gentle Swahili greetings - the way they lightly touch their foreheads and their hearts... Salaam Alaikum... Alaikum Salaam... I'm feeding my soul. By the bucket load.
(For the full article see Sabbatical in Africa)
...Some think its fleeting, heady perfume evocative and divinely sensual. Others rate it simply as a gourmet's delight. I reckon the truffle's scent is unmistakeably and unapologetically carnal - reminding me of the muskiness of an unmade bed after an afternoon of love in the tropics...
... It is a labour-intensive and unpredictable business and truffle hunters, like good journalists, protect their sources. For the latter however, watching a truffiste at work is not always without danger - especially if he has a wife! "Is it my 'usband you are taking photos of?" she demanded brusquely, taking a swipe at my camera...
But worrying about others' matrimonial demeanours need not have kept me awake all night, for it appeared that all had been forgiven the next day. At the Truffle Mass, celebrated in honour of Saint Anthony the patron Saint of Truffle Hunters, Madame La Truffiste sports a heavenly smile on her face... For let's face it. Where would the flutterings of love be without the truffle?
(For full article and truffle RECIPES see Truffle Hunting in Provence)
Whatever money is available now, choices have to be made. The leaking roof is obviously a priority, whilst the roof terrace, though extremely desirable, is not...
... first there was plumber number one: Monsieur P. The man was a little dote. I say little, because the level of his eyes just about reaches my breasts. However, he took great pride in his profession. His first task had been an unpleasant one, one that he nevertheless 'plunged into' with great relish. My only reservation was that he had insisted on shaking hands afterwards...
At around 10am on a Thursday the loudspeaker on the Mirepeisset Mairie sends out a scratchy message that the travelling volailler (poultry-vendor) and the jardinier with his fruit and veggies are installed on the square. They stay there for an hour or so. Minutes after the public announcement the housewives of Mirepeisset are queuing, panniers in arm, to purchase the day's dinner. It's an arrangement that has not changed since the 1930's. But then life hasn't changed here either. If it was in black and white, it could be mistaken for a day in the 1950's world of Fernandel...
Even at the age of 80, toothless and wrinkled, these men flirt with women and life in general. It's wonderful. And invigorating. This is how life should be lived. They haven't much and are content with little. But by golly, they know how to make the best out of it...
(For the full article see Restoring a House in the South of France).
My storm-tossed and weather-beaten 1974 edition of the JOY OF COOKING appears shabby and sad beside the new shiny 1999 volume. But tattered and stained as it is, sadness is most definitely not a feeling that springs to mind. Instead it jolts me back to happy times and recalls a hundred food occasions... my first attempt at chilli con carne in a tiny make-shift bush kitchen, the quiches I made for a lingering brunch under a bougainvillea-covered pergola, the banana bread created to sustain us on our expedition into the Tanzanian hinterland, in search of "The Tree Where Man Was Born"; and my very first scones for that simple but idyllic OUT-OF-AFRICA picnic on the Ngong Hills...
I was barely 21 and lived in Kenya then. Having just moved in with my boyfriend (a handsome Irish bush pilot who was to become my husband years later), I decided it was time I acquired some cookery skills. And the old lady who owned the Nairobi Bookshop persuaded me that the JOY OF COOKING was the only book to offer all I needed. Its price(KShs 80/-) written in her hand, is still inside the cover.
(For the full article see Joy of Cooking)
You know it is autumn when the Tuscans slip into their fur coats and the half-a-million-or-so Vespas don shiny windshields to protect their daredevil drivers from the chilling slipstreams.
But then again, you would already have known it was autumn if you had visited one of Florence's food markets, for its colourful autumnal fare is hard to ignore. Bunches of winter chard and bulging pumpkins are piled high beside the dark, textural winter cabbage cavalo nero. New season dried beans fight for space with a stunning display of sugared fruit. There are mature goats cheeses, wood mushrooms, wild boar sausages and all manner of trussed game birds...
LETTER FROM AFRICA...
My rented treehouse is just a minute from the pristine beach where traditional Swhahili fishermen repair their nets and sails during the day and launch their boats after dark. They sometimes have time during the day to take me out to the reef for snorkeling...
...And yes, the milk goes off if you leave it out in the humid heat for 10 minutes, and the roads have huge potholes and often things run out in the local shops and you cannot buy what you need... But you CAN get hand-caught live prawns, crabs and clams every day, and the most delicious halwa in the world (handmade with locally grown almonds and pistachios and cardamom seeds)... and there are sunsets to make you cry with the beauty of it all... and children's laughter on the beach in the cool of the evening... and the hauntingly beautiful sound of the spiritually comforting, monotonous Muslim changing from the moxques... the vast, ever-changing, ever-pounding Indian Ocean... and wise old men in faded kikois and prayer-hats, leaning on their walkingsticks, on their way to evening prayer... and those gentle Swahili greetings - the way they lightly touch their foreheads and their hearts... Salaam Alaikum... Alaikum Salaam... I'm feeding my soul. By the bucket load.
(For the full article see Sabbatical in Africa)
TRUFFLES - the millionaire's mushroom...
...Some think its fleeting, heady perfume evocative and divinely sensual. Others rate it simply as a gourmet's delight. I reckon the truffle's scent is unmistakeably and unapologetically carnal - reminding me of the muskiness of an unmade bed after an afternoon of love in the tropics...
... It is a labour-intensive and unpredictable business and truffle hunters, like good journalists, protect their sources. For the latter however, watching a truffiste at work is not always without danger - especially if he has a wife! "Is it my 'usband you are taking photos of?" she demanded brusquely, taking a swipe at my camera...
But worrying about others' matrimonial demeanours need not have kept me awake all night, for it appeared that all had been forgiven the next day. At the Truffle Mass, celebrated in honour of Saint Anthony the patron Saint of Truffle Hunters, Madame La Truffiste sports a heavenly smile on her face... For let's face it. Where would the flutterings of love be without the truffle?
(For full article and truffle RECIPES see Truffle Hunting in Provence)
FRENCH DIARY - restoring a house in the Languedoc...
Whatever money is available now, choices have to be made. The leaking roof is obviously a priority, whilst the roof terrace, though extremely desirable, is not...
... first there was plumber number one: Monsieur P. The man was a little dote. I say little, because the level of his eyes just about reaches my breasts. However, he took great pride in his profession. His first task had been an unpleasant one, one that he nevertheless 'plunged into' with great relish. My only reservation was that he had insisted on shaking hands afterwards...
At around 10am on a Thursday the loudspeaker on the Mirepeisset Mairie sends out a scratchy message that the travelling volailler (poultry-vendor) and the jardinier with his fruit and veggies are installed on the square. They stay there for an hour or so. Minutes after the public announcement the housewives of Mirepeisset are queuing, panniers in arm, to purchase the day's dinner. It's an arrangement that has not changed since the 1930's. But then life hasn't changed here either. If it was in black and white, it could be mistaken for a day in the 1950's world of Fernandel...
Even at the age of 80, toothless and wrinkled, these men flirt with women and life in general. It's wonderful. And invigorating. This is how life should be lived. They haven't much and are content with little. But by golly, they know how to make the best out of it...
(For the full article see Restoring a House in the South of France).
THE JOY OF COOKING - a bookreview
My storm-tossed and weather-beaten 1974 edition of the JOY OF COOKING appears shabby and sad beside the new shiny 1999 volume. But tattered and stained as it is, sadness is most definitely not a feeling that springs to mind. Instead it jolts me back to happy times and recalls a hundred food occasions... my first attempt at chilli con carne in a tiny make-shift bush kitchen, the quiches I made for a lingering brunch under a bougainvillea-covered pergola, the banana bread created to sustain us on our expedition into the Tanzanian hinterland, in search of "The Tree Where Man Was Born"; and my very first scones for that simple but idyllic OUT-OF-AFRICA picnic on the Ngong Hills...
I was barely 21 and lived in Kenya then. Having just moved in with my boyfriend (a handsome Irish bush pilot who was to become my husband years later), I decided it was time I acquired some cookery skills. And the old lady who owned the Nairobi Bookshop persuaded me that the JOY OF COOKING was the only book to offer all I needed. Its price(KShs 80/-) written in her hand, is still inside the cover.
(For the full article see Joy of Cooking)
OLIVE PICKING in TUSCANY...
You know it is autumn when the Tuscans slip into their fur coats and the half-a-million-or-so Vespas don shiny windshields to protect their daredevil drivers from the chilling slipstreams.
But then again, you would already have known it was autumn if you had visited one of Florence's food markets, for its colourful autumnal fare is hard to ignore. Bunches of winter chard and bulging pumpkins are piled high beside the dark, textural winter cabbage cavalo nero. New season dried beans fight for space with a stunning display of sugared fruit. There are mature goats cheeses, wood mushrooms, wild boar sausages and all manner of trussed game birds...
