Leftovers and Loafing

I just read the blog I wrote for Thanksgiving 2015.  How much I have learned since then.  I realized that my language skills have really improved.  When I get to chiding myself for loafing, like I have done all day today, (both the chiding and the loafing) I think back to where I was a year ago and where I am now.  I have an independent real French apartment, I have written nearly 100 blogs, improved my keyboard skills by regularly playing at the Protestant Church here, made new friends,  gotten my legal long-stay papers, bought French insurance, enrolled in the French health care system, and started the writing project I came here to do.  I think today I am entitled to loaf a bit.  I had this mystery--a psychological thriller--that I just could not put down.  And so I didn't. 

Not large dishes, but still plenty left over

I did not have guests for dinner yesterday.  For reasons I don't fully grasp, I am just not ready to entertain.  Maybe it's that I don't have enough--chairs, plates, wine glasses.  Maybe it's that I am still savoring peace and quiet and space to breathe.  I am not really sure, at base, what the reasons are. although I suspect laziness must be named in there at some point.  Thanksgiving entertaining is a lot of work and while I am not one of those people who thinks that because company is coming I should repaint the bathroom, I do make some effort.  This year, I just didn't have it in me. 

I did manage to cook--too much.  I bought a turkey thigh from Michel--no breast as well this year.  Since it was just going to me, and I prefer dark turkey to white turkey, I bought only a thigh.  Michel and his crew are not used to my buying a turkey thigh and leaving it intact.  They know that my usual order is a turkey thigh, skinned, boned and ground.  So, they didn't quite get what I wanted.  Michel boned it and then rolled and tied it, like a roast.  Interesting, but it takes too long to cook that way, so I won't do that again.  Christmas is coming and I will have turkey once again.

Monsieur Rabat, pere (Michel's father) and one of his cronies was in the butcher shop when I went in yesterday to get the turkey.  I wasn't making much headway trying to explain the concept of Thanksgiving.  Finally Michel stepped in and defined it as the American Turkey Day.  Ah, oui!!! That cleared everything right up. Monsieur Rabat was trying to explain me to his friend as the American, Michel kept trying to tell them that I live here now and the crony simply turned to me and said, "Trump,"  The entire butcher shop let out a big laugh.  How glad I am that this family already knows and likes me. 

The caukiflower gratin on the left??? So yummy

I halved or even made a third or a quarter of the recipes I found and I still ended up with too much food.  I had a hard time finding a yam that was not the size of Montana, and ended up eating maybe less than a quarter of the potato.  I also made shaved Brussels sprouts with walnuts and pecorino cheese.  I whipped up a small casserole of cauliflower gratin and I did make stuffing, with stale baguette cubes, prunes, apples, onions and a few nuts.  There was enough food there for four or five people.  I really did try to make less, but it's a war I can't seem to win. 

But today, I got to have leftovers.  I am always so glad to have them and it's one of the main reasons I like to have Thanksgiving dinners at my own house...the leftovers.  This evening's meal was a carbon copy of last night's with a fraction of the work.  

And that's a good thing, because I have been less than useless today--I have spent the entire day reading and writing.  The kitchen is tidied, I did get three French grammar lessons behind me.  But I haven't stirred from the apartment.  The sun streamed in, warm and comforting.  And I sat in it like a contented cat, my stomach and my heart full.  I wish this contentment for all.

Thanksgiving Eve

Rain on Thanksgiving Eve

The apple pie is baked but I am afraid the cranberry relish is going to fall by the wayside; I can't find fresh cranberries. I ordered some from the fruitier on Rue Verdun, but when I went to pick them up, she handed me a sac of dried cranberries.  Not quite what I needed for relish.  Too bad, as I had a great new recipe I wanted to try.  Oh well.  I read that you can maybe substitute fresh cherries--hello???? Cranberries are in season; fresh cherries are not.  Or you could try pomegranate....just how sweet will that turn out to be?  And with onions and rosemary?  Oh dear.  

I will pick up the turkey thigh from Michel Rabat's tomorrow morning.  Nelly was a little surprised when I told her that I wanted it whole--normally I get it skinned, boned and ground.  I am sure that it will be plenty for several meals.

I will make cauliflower gratin, and bake a yam.  I did cube up a stale baguette for stuffing, but I almost never eat it, so I am not sure that I will make it.  If not, the ducks and pigeons along the Aude will get carbs tomorrow afternoon.

  

Rain blows under the streetlamo

I seem to remember potato salad and deviled eggs at Thanksgiving.  I know that may sound odd, but in our family, potato salad was a year-round special treat.  I will not be making either, as one kind of potato is quite enough.  For something green I am having shaved Brussels sprouts with walnuts and Pecorino-Romano cheese with a vinaigrette. 

As I write this, we are in the middle of a string of thunderstormsjust as the weather forecaster predicted.  It's really the first significant rain in a long, long time.  We have had some precipitation, but not enough to make the Aude run high.  I crossed it a couple of times today and while it was swift and clear, it's not high.  I keep thinking of the advice I heard as a youngster to stay away from windows during an electrical storm, but this is not particularly violent and I love watching the lightning from a safe distance.  I even tried my hand at getting a photo of the rain blowing under the street lamp on the corner.  I need to keep practicing.

Apple pie with dried cranberries

I have succumbed to all the cliches about enumerating the things for which I am thankful.  This is actually my third Thanksgiving here in Carcassonne, the first being in 2013.  On that Thanksgiving, I boarded a train on a very frosty morning to go to Paris to meet my friends the Moffits.  We've had nothing like that kind of cold or even frost for that matter so far this year.  There is snow in the Pyrenees.  I am thankful that it's there and not here.  I am thankful that I am here and not somewhere else.  

Castelnaudary Afternoon

Castelnaudary is quiet this noon

I read in the paper earlier this week that President Francois Hollande was going to be in Castelnaudary yesterday, to say a few celebratory words about the 350th anniversary of the Canal du Midi.   Men dug this ditch by hand--and it stretches from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic.  Every time I walk along its banks, I see them with shovels and pickaxes and marvel at their determination and vision. It was the deciding factor when choosing Carcassonne for my sabbatical in 2013.  I try to walk along its banks several times a week.

I also wanted to see the President of France, maybe shake his hand and thank him for doing all he can to keep his country liveable and for welcoming foreigners.  After all, I am one.  I bought a ticket on the noon train, packed my camera and journal and set out for a day of new experiences.

Light comes through banners of the French flag adorning the main street

When I got to Castelnaudary, I was struck by just how quiet it was, how deserted was the main street.  It sure didn't look like the most important political figure in France was due in three hours.  At first glance, the only clue was the row of French flags hanging over the street, tangled among the city's unlit holiday lights  Then it struck me--of course---it's lunch time!  As I headed up toward the Mayor's office where the President was scheduled to pay a visit after his remarks at the boat basin, I began to realize that the streets had been actually barricaded and that, too contributed to the ghost-town atmosphere. 

The iconic white kepi. 

It was also an anniversary of the French Foreign Legions barracks in Castelnaudary.  Legionnaires  had taken up residence in Place de La Republic, next to the big movie house, where the market is normally held on Mondays.  There were military men in all manner of uniforms, from green-faced camouflage to spit and polished brass button khaki. 

Axes and leather miner's aprons--white kepis

I decided to have lunch first--that had been the plan all along, lunch in Castelnaudary, and then photos of the President, poke around town for an hour or two and then hop the train home.  I was hoping to have lunch along the Canal, at Le Cybele, my favorite eatery.  But all of the restaurants along the water were shuttered and closed.  Whether it was due to security or the close of the season, I cannot say.  So I opted for a restaurant across from the Foreign Legion demonstration. 

I guess I stumbled into the restaurant where "important" people were dining, because the place was being guarded by a bodyguard. At first I just thought it was some random guy having a smoke.  But he never left his post and then I saw the earpiece.  What did I know?  I just wanted some lunch.  

Luckily, because I had no reservation, I was able to be seated and I ordered.  As I settled in and looked around me, I saw that most of the men were dressed in suits and ties.  Obviously they were meeting with M. Hollande.  As I got my first course, who should sit down next to me but Jean-Claude Perez, the ex-mayor of Carcassonne, and current Socialist Party candidate.  I recognized him and after our lunch, he will recognize me.

Monsieur Perez and his companion exit the Mairie after meeting the President

I did work up the nerve to introduce myself to him and tell him that I had attended his political rally at Theatre Jean Alary back in 2014.  His eyes lit up when I told him that.  We talked for a little about his upcoming election and the just-held election in the US.  The entire corner of the restaurant groaned when I told him I was from the United States.  I apologized for disturbing his lunch and went on about my business.  At the table across from me, some high ranking Legion officials were dining in full dress regalia--grey with forest green undervests...snowy white shirts, polished brass buttons and snow-white gloves. 

These boys gave an impressive demonstration of physical fitness

I went into the demonstration area where the Legionnaires were showing their stuff.  It used to be, and maybe still is that one sure path to French citizenship was to join the Foreign Legion.  I have romanticized visions of Legionnaires with their kepis in desert locations.  What a load of horse manure!  I am not sure that there ever was anything romantic about the life of a Legionnaire.  

Part of the French Foreign Legion exhibit

I can tell you that the ones I saw and talked to were young, fit and polite.  I asked about the different color of kepis--the white ones are for the newest recruits--I think a man wears that kepi until he's got 7 and a half years of service.   Then they move on to red kepis.  And I didn't see any other color, but the red ones come with various shades and numbers of gold bands and gold braid.  

I can tell you that their uniforms were spotless, not a speck of lint or dirt, even on the ones of the guys who were putting on the martial arts demonstrations.  A group of Legionnaires acted as the honor guard for President Hollande when he entered and exited the Mayor's office.  These Legionnaires did not carry guns--they sported axes!  And leather aprons, many full of medals. 

President Hollande's car

His "head" bodyguard/Secret Service man

M Hollande's hairline.  He is very short! 

Not unexpectedly, we had to wait, longer than anticipated.  The President was late arriving and his business inside the mayor's office took longer than expected.  His entourage was larger than I expected, although probably only a fraction of what a US President brings with him when he visits a small town.  (I think of the Kennedys coming to Mass at Thurmont when they spent time at Camp David, near where I grew up) I felt especially sorry for the elderly lady who'd been standing, waiting longer than I, who kept asking, "C'est lui? C'est lui?--Is it him, is it him?"  Seeing her President obviously meant a great deal to her and I was sorry that M. Hollande could not have made it to our area of the line.  

From the bridge in the gathering twilight

When the show was all over, I didn't have as much time to kill as I thought I would have--only about half an hour to wait for the train home.  I made the stroll to the station a leisurely one, and stopped on the bridge over the Canal to take some photos in the gathering twilight.  Yes, the President of the Republic may have been in town, but the lives of those who live on the Canal were much the same as those hundreds of years ago--a snug boat, a cozy curl of smoke from the chimney, no doubt preparations for dinner.  

It had been a good afternoon, full of color and interesting things to see and interesting people to talk to.  It was nearly dark by the time I boarded the TER, and one of my greatest pleasures in life is to be going home on a train, in the dark, knowing that my own version of that cozy little canal boat is waiting for me.   

A cozy spot to settle into for the evening along the Canal

Strange Bagels and the Joy of Cooking

Sesame and black bagels

I found a bagel shop two blocks from my new apartment.  He's hardly ever open; when I stopped in yesterday, he'd been on vacation since the 10th, and told me that he would open today.  I popped in at about 10:30 only to be told that he'd open in half an hour.  I guess the concept of toasted bagels for breakfast is foreign to the Carcassonnais.

I puttered around the Bastide, window-licking, and returned at 11:00.  I bought two bagels, one blue-black and one sesame.  My first clue that there was going to be something different about them should have come when he handed me the bag--it weighed almost nothing and these are big bagels!  He did tell me that the French, or at least the Carcassonnais do not like the dense bagels I am used to having in the US.  To be fair, he did try to warn me that these bagels were going to have a lot of air bubbles.

Light as a feather bagel--good but odd

And indeed--I found the air pockets when I cut into the blue-black one.  I don't know what kind of flour this is, but I am convincing myself that since it's not white, it must be healthier.  It was like cutting into a feather-light croissant.  I put it in the toaster (where it barely fit) and pushed the button.  What emerged a minute or so later had the texture of a meringue!  Crumbly.  

Christmas Cactus is putting on a real show!

Even the cream cheese is different--much softer. Once I got over the initial shock of the texture, it tasted pretty good.  Kind of like a savory meringue, only blue black.  It will be interesting to see how the sesame one tastes.  The proprietor tried to talk me into having one with smoked salmon--he was deaf to my protestations that I don't like salmon in any form.  He assured me that his was better than anyone else's because he smoked his with Chinese green tea.  I still politely declined.  He did, however,  offer me a piece of pastrami that was the best I have ever tasted.  

Miss Prissy Camellia needs a new, bigger pot for Christmas

Not as easy as Libby's--note the still-missing lid!

So, while my pea soup cooked, I ate the bagel for lunch.  I also peeled and diced some pumpkin to make a puree, a trial run for a Thanksgiving pumpkin pie.  I have to confess, I miss Libby's.  But this will be good, too.  Cooking here is a joy, because of the quality of the ingredients, but once in a while, I long for a convenience food.  We'll see how the pie turns out!

11-11 and Remembering

To their credit, the French are determined to not forget that hellish First World War.  Ceremonies marking the Armistice that was signed on 11-11-1918 are being held all over France today, from Paris to the smallest hamlets out in the countryside.  I wonder if there is a family in the country who wasn't somehow touched by the butchery and losses incurred on this soil during those horrendous years.

Thus, this is a national holiday in France.  Stores are closed.  People gather at their local monuments, old soldiers in military coats just a shade too tight carry their flags.  A local bugler cracks out a fanfare or two.  The mayor and other local dignitaries will help children of the community place a wreath. The mood is solemn and respectful  I imagine that the crowd of attendees grows smaller each year, but the faithful still show up to remember.

My grandfather served in the U S Regular Army.  He was no freshly shaven farm boy on the original Armistice Day, but a young man in his 30's.  He had to have a different perspective than many of the younger soldiers.   I would give almost anything for just one day's conversation with him, to learn his story, his truth. 

He referred to himself as "your boy in blue"

If you have parents still living, talk to them.  Hear their stories.  Get them down on paper before it's too late.  If you are the adult generation now, write or record your stories for your children and grand children and great grandchildren.  They will want to know....maybe not today, but one day they will want to know who their "people" were.  If you served in the military, where did you go?  What were your favorite foods?  What was your childhood like?  Who were you?

We can use Armistice Day as a vehicle to remember always, not just the larger moments in history that shaped our nations, but the every day stories of those gone before us who shaped us as people.

Column from La Depeche

I am posting this here, although I have put it on my Facebook page, because I know that there are folks who do not belong to the Facebook community.  This was in yesterday's paper--can I tell you what a delight it is to have a Sunday paper?-- and it brought me to tears.  Never do I want to hear people tell me about the snobbish French who hate America.

 I am behind in getting my French grammar lessons done--so what's new.  I feel like I am behind in everything.  But this was good practice for me to translate Claude Marti's column.  Sorry, no photos.  Maybe tomorrow.

The word Salut, in French, means hello, but most people use it to say,  "Goodbye."

Salut to you, Mr. Obama

Like the majority of citizens of the planet, I was very happy on the evening of your first election, Mr. Obama! Before the image of the brand new America that you would incarnate, I decided to drive back the shadows of the past:  the cotton fields with their slaves, the brutal conquest of the West,  the breaking of 400 treaties signed with the Indian nations, the predatory war against Mexico to grab Texas, Arizona and California, the assassination of Sacco and Vanzetti, the coup in Santiago and the death of Salvador Allende, the atrocious war in Vietnam, and the invasion of Iraq triggered by a lie. 

With you, Mr. Obama, it was the other As , of the European age of Enlightenment, Mr. Jefferson, the principal author of the Declaration of Independence of the United States, who wrote in 1776, and for the first time in the history of the world: “We hold these truths to be self evident: that all men are created equal and are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, among which are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” 

The other America.  That of Abraham Lincoln, who, in 1862, abolished slavery and paid the great price of his own life; that of the physicist Gell-Mann, the first to define “the strangeness of elementary particles.”  The other America,  That which has the tapestry of Neil Armstrong and Eldwin Aldrin of the Apollo 11 mission,; that of the writers Norman Mailer, George Orwell, Ernest Hemingway, John Fante and the great Ray Bradbury of The Martian Chronicles.  That of Carnegie Hall and country music, of Pat Metheny, of Miles Davis, of Sidney Bechet, of Meryl Streep and of Kevin Costner, who dances with wolves. 

Salut, then, Mr. Obama.  You could not have done all that you dreamed of for America.  Will she keep at least part of this light that came into the White House with you?  

Snug

My Christmas cactus has tripled in size in less than a year

We changed back to Standard Time last week, so I have had seven days to get accustomed to earlier darkness in the evenings.  The weather seems to finally be synchronizing with the calendar--there is a welcome bit of a nip in the air today.  This morning, when I left for church, the sun was brilliant, although the air was cool.  I needed, at last, a jacket.  Now, there are grey clouds tumbling overhead and little drops of rain have made slash marks against the window.

Raindrops on the office windowpane

I pay no attention to the rain or the chill.  I am snug inside.  My new apartment is so warm, I didn't realize that I needed a jacket this morning.  Yesterday, I baked my first pumpkin cake of the season--no small task, given that I had to peel and chop some fresh potimaron to cook and then puree.  No canned pumpkin in this country! It was like peeling bark--that skin was tough.  I am almost daily reminded that saving for good knives was worth the effort and investment. And I keep them sharp!! One slip of a dull knife while trying to pare that tough pumpkin skin could have resulted in a severed thumb.  

Changing sky

First pumpkin cake of the season

Since I have so few pots, (and even fewer lids)!!!!!) I needed the same pot that is was using to cook the pumpkin for heating my leftover soup; lunch had to wait until the pumpkin was cooked.  So, I had to wait for my lunch--big deal!  The resulting cake was--is--delicious.  Today's projects will be "updated" chicken pot pie,  a French grammar lesson, and the Sunday paper.  I need not go out into this changeable weather; everything I need is in my snug little nest.  It's warm, cozy and bright and all is well in this little corner of the planet. 

All Saints Day at St. Michel's

Chrysanthemums bound on All Saints

This is the third year I have attended the wreath-placing ceremony at St. Michel's cemetery.  And each year it never fails to move me and provoke me to thoughts beyond my small life.  

Symmetrical rows of flowers and flags

I saw some of the same faces as in prior years, mostly in the military personnel who attend.  I noticed that there were more women carrying flags, as well as more women in uniform.  What I did not see were any women's names on the crosses in the military section of St. Michel's.  These deaths were from an earlier, different time.  I have to confess that I do not know the history of women's service in France's armed forces, but I suspect it is relatively brief and recent.  

Old friends visit while awaiting the start of the ceremony

The bugler did a good job this year with only one "crack."  I don't think the French have an equivalent of Taps, which is too bad.  The men and women who took part in the ceremony stood tall, proudly wearing their medals and sashes (which the French are so fond.)  All was scrubbed and pressed and polished, for what was a very short service.  Dignitaries from the government and civic organizations placed flower arrangements at the base of the flagpole, the honor guard presented arms, the children from the local junior high school sang the Marseillaise, and everyone departed.  There were no long wind-bag speeches, no droning of "We must never forget."  Showing up generation after generation rakes care of that.

I love these big showy flowers

And color!

Non military families came through the entrance is a steady stream, carrying baskets and pots of chrysanthemums to place on family plots.  Many tombs were already decorated with shades of yellow and garnet and lavender.  I remain impressed by watching family members--grandparents, parents and their youngsters coming in carrying pots of color.  Perhaps Carcassonne's population is not as transient as those of places I have lived in the US.  I don't remember ever seeing this kind of tradition.  I know it was not a part of our family celebrations.

So much white amid all the color

On my way out of the cemetery, a section caught my eye.  It was an interior section, not having any outer edge that bordered a path, almost as if it were being protected.   It struck me with all of the whiteness.  I had to investigate, so I edged through a space between tombs and entered the area.  The graves were covered in white flowers, chrysantemums, mostly.  It took me a few seconds to realize that this was the children's section of St. Michel's.  Most of the tiny graves were still lovingly tended.  The lone exception bore a sign asking if anyone had any information about this abandoned tomb could he or she please contact the cemetery administrators.  

Dominiquw lived 5 days, but now lies abandoned

Petite graves in this section

The cemetery cats were curled up in the potted plants decorating the tombs.  St. Michel's is a place of peace and beauty, especially at this time of year.  It always provokes thoughts in me about legacy and purpose.  Every time I go there, I see something new.  This visit was no exception. 

In the children's section