Come Memorial Day in America, New Yorkers’ minds turn to thoughts and actions of a weekend in the country or a day or two or three at the beach. In Paris, come June, people start heading off in 360-degree directions to country and family homes in the hills or by the shores, or at least for weekend or week-long stays, with invitations from friends or family. A summer exodus, of course, is a historic practice, and summer vacation is an institution. The Roman emperors decamped for the seaside; the Popes head some fifteen miles to the Alban hills and Castel Gandolfo. Whether proverbial prince or pauper, people leave their village or city apartments and homes for rustic farms a mile away and “clean air and fresh breeze” or for thousands of miles for jet-set beaches and villas. The stories, variations, and examples are endless and worldwide in scope. Vive les vacances.
Here’s a bit of my live back-to-nature story in a village in Provence. It is a love story of sorts.
Comme d’habitude, we arrived around June 1 this year. A great time to be in Provence. When we got here, the temperature had been close to but slightly below 30 degrees Celsius (86o Fahrenheit), which means our beloved summer cicadas hadn’t yet revved their engines (that was still a few weeks away, but after mid-month, they were in full chorus). After the bustling, unbearable noise (ambulances and police cars driving us all crazy and deaf with their unnecessary, high-pitched sirens in New York City), the sounds of Provence are a very welcome change of pace and pitch. The early-morning symphony of chirping birds reminds us that we are in nature. “Vive la campagne.”
The Birds & Bees
We are happy to see the same birds roosting around our home. This year, a little miracle happened. My name, Mireille, is in Provençal Mirèio. Many years ago, for a special gift, Edward had a craftsman in Les Baux de Provence create a stone sign with a built-in mailbox for our 18th-century mas. People around here name their houses and have stone signs to identify them. Ours is Mas Mirèio di Jaisso. For the past few years, a family of little birds, common Great tits (mésange charbonnière) with black heads, white cheeks, and yellow breasts, has found our mailbox an ideal nest for their spring brood. It is certainly fortress-like and keeps them safe. The years we pass by around Easter time, we are lucky to see that year’s elaborate nest (what a job to bring twig after twig, grass after grass, through the narrow opening and build such base and nest), and inside, the tiny eggs, the kiddies always crying for food, and mom going and coming back to feed her hungry kiddos till they are plump enough and covered with feathers (a two-week or so process) to fly out and eventually take care of themselves. This year, a combination of weather and nature made time for “a second crop,” and to our surprise, when we arrived, the same tit was ready for her second brood, though the second nest was a bit less elaborate than the first. Urgency or emergency obliged? We are enjoying the daily development, and I can’t help opening the mailbox ever so gently and peeking in. A rarity, as it could tell mom a threat is in the air, and an abandonment could occur. Of course, we cannot get mail delivered in the mailbox for weeks and now months. We have a sign posted on the stone mailbox, and passersby often stop to read our do NOT drop any mail in the sacred mailbox.
Waking up to the sound of the various birds chirping and singing—at least three or four distinct calls—is indeed a gift of nature. And then there is the Eurasian Collard Dove (Tourterelle turque, in French) that lives on our tallest tree (super tall) and each morning and evening calls out with its coo-Coo-coo three-note phrase. (He gets carried away some afternoons as well…he must be desperate for a mate or feel threatened by his neighbor down the road, or both.) He seems never to get tired, and his call exists as part of our background sounds of Provence. For us, though, by mid-June, the cri-cri-cri-cri shimmering sound wall of the cicada’s buzz is the daytime ringing in our ears. But the most emotional sound in our soundscape is that of the thousands of bees that uninvitedly live with us throughout the summer.
Yeats famously wrote about the “bee-loud glade” of Innsifree when in his poem he dreamed of escaping the noise and artificiality of London and returning to the peace of the countryside he knew as a child. Just the thing. Come late June, and our lavender patch is bursting with color and fragrance, walking by its “bee-loud plants” is a wonder and a joy. It always makes Edward think of the Yeats poem. We once had a houseguest who was knowledgeable in such things and counted thirteen varieties of bees on just a few of our bushes. Yesterday, we counted six different types of butterflies on the lavender. We’ll have bees with us into the fall. They are no bother, almost companions. If we sit down to read a magazine on the terrace, they will visit flowers a foot or two away. Going down a walkway, they are everywhere, avoiding us, if they even notice us, as they go about their business. They never come inside our house but open any window or door and you can hear them buzz. Nice. Beats the hum of air-conditioners.
The bees, the birds, the sunshine, the quiet, ah, Provence in the summer. Village life in Provence moves slowly. There are walks amid stone and ancient streets, out in fields among native plants and shrubs, and art and history everywhere. Need I mention cafes, bakeries, small shops, and market days? Friday rôtisserie chicken is obligatory in our house. There are thousand-year old churches (I enjoy the art exhibitions in our village’s medieval building), bridges built by the Romans two-thousand years ago but baked in heat that stops time daily in the summer between noon and 4 pm. Too darn hot. Except perhaps for a game of pétanque under some huge plane trees. (This year all of France is having a record-breaking heat wave in June. Our cheese lady tells us the goats are stressed and are drinking three times their normal amount of water.) People get an early start (I walk up the hill to the market daily at 9 am for exercise and nourishment). The bakery is open at 7:30, the little grocery and the cafés at 8. Gardeners arrive by 8 am before the heat, but don’t make noise with machines till 9. But bicycling at 8 pm is a delight. Did I mention village gossip? “The new baker is much better than last year’s; that restaurant changed owners in May—he got an offer he couldn’t refuse; did you know her husband died a few months ago?” Apart from having a few more celebrities and artists than most villages, the ambiance I am describing covers many charming towns. Our village of 1800 residents sits in the heart of the Alpilles, which in the inimitable words of one of our village’s real estate agencies’ free catalogs: “the Alpilles hills provide a dramatic, craggy silhouette against which the gentle undulations of pine trees, olive groves and vineyards shape the landscape and capture the soul.”
They left out almond trees. For a foodie like me, spring, summer, and other seasonal local harvests are highlights.
Nuts & Berries
The almond tree is my favorite tree. It symbolizes the arrival of spring and the warm days. It is also one of the most ancient trees in Provence, dating back to the Phoenicians and then the Romans (who we can also thank for all the vineyards, olive groves, and fields of wheat or barley). From the 17th to 19th century, the almond tree had its golden age both in the kitchen and confectionery (the calissons d’Aix are one of the thirteen desserts on a Christmas table, and then there are the almond-based galette des rois in January or the classic macaroon (not the colored ones, please). Almonds appeared in the bridal outfits and prevailed in fecundity rites. Little by little the cultivation, considered difficult because of frost, was abandoned by most and replaced with more olive groves and vineyards. But with the climate of late, there has been a Renaissance in the past ten years.
Things also changed with the invasion of California, where almonds were overproduced through heavy use of water (what a waste) and are often considered of unsatisfactory quality. As France is one of the world’s most important consumers of almonds, a reconversion came about as a few passionate growers continued producing and decided to expand.
Visiting Provence since childhood, I learned early on that a handful of almonds should always be in my purse as an “en cas” or snack. Like the oyster, it offers so many qualities in a few grams: rich in fiber, magnesium, potassium, phosphorus, calcium, iron, and zinc, but also vitamin E, B1, B2, B3, and B9. Along with olive oil, fruit, and veggies, almonds can be one of the essential elements of a Mediterranean meal. There are now over 150 producers in my hood, and the trend is growing, with about 40 varieties, each offering subtle differences. Here, we like to taste the first and freshest, peeling them off to eat the white (oh so sweet) and using them in fresh salads or to decorate and sublimate certain light dishes. The Alpilles is particularly proud of this renewal as the excellence of the almond was eternalized by Van Gogh, who painted his famous l’Amandier en fleurs near St. Remy de Provence. It is one of his most luminous works, celebrating softness, fragility, and the promise of renewal. It is just a branch (no trunk) against a blue sky, and you can see it today at the Museum Van Gogh in Amsterdam. The story goes that his painting was meant as hope and love to celebrate the birth of his nephew, Théo’s son. It symbolizes Provence and gives it its universal and artistic recognition.
And then, there is local produce that I eagerly await and devour. It gets better every year. Warm days, and good rain days in spring are helping. The local strawberries are amazingly sweet, and we are on a daily cure right now with different varieties spoiling us till fall. So are the cherries and apricots, though their season is shorter. I am ready to freeze some for our oatmeal combo and to offer late-summer guests my little cooked cherry or apricot dessert with a splash of crème fraîche and some fresh lavender. Kids may add vanilla ice cream, while adults prefer Chantilly. There are various tomatoes; our small producer around the corner has over 60 varieties, and a selection contributes to a very tasty rataouille for my weekly big pot and several serving variations.
July is approaching, which means melon de Cavaillon and plenty of peach varieties here. In America, there’s the July 4th celebration, and another non-excuse (none needed) for a little R&R and vacation plans.
I wish you a supercalifragilisticexpialidocious summer holiday.