Les Olives: Part Two

A week-long detour to France

I arrived last night relatively spry for just getting off a transcontinental flight. I don’t know if it was the relaxed solo crossing, the excitement of being back in a country I love, or maybe the anticipation of my pruning challenge, but I was vibrating.

The sun was just setting as my Uber pulled into the driveway.

The light in France, especially in the south, is astounding. There’s a reason why the Impressionists set up camp in Provence. Some say it’s the latitude, or something with the Jet Stream. I admit it might be more a state of mind. The sunset never disappoints. The horizon ignites into yellows, oranges, and reds. The last azure hues of daylight settle into darker clouds heavy with indigo and violet. What a welcome.

My aunt had a lovely dinner waiting for me. And of course, there was soup.

I love how much France is into soups. You can tell their admiration for this first course by the number of words they call it: une soupe, un potage, un velouté, un bouillon, un consommé. Most regions have a specialty, and the South is home to some of the heartiest. Whether you’re trying a fruit de la mer Bouillabaisse from Marseilles, the odorific soupe a l'ail of Languedoc, or the Provençal staple, soup au pistou, this place knows its stews.

Tonight’s was a simple courgette purée with just the right amount of garlic , and it warmed me right up. Why don’t I eat more soup at home? Other than my hearty Chicken Noodle Recipe (which my family enjoys as a main dish) I seldom remember to include soup as a side. I take a mental note.

The main course was merguez sausage, artichoke hearts, and steamed potatoes. Simple, smart, in season and filling. Dessert was a compote de pomme (that’s applesauce for you non-Frenchies) and a dollop of goat yogurt. Applesauce at home would have tasted saccharin sweet, and made my teeth hurt. But the subtle “appleness” and hint of earth in this modest last course instantly conjured up bucolic images of farmland left fallow through the long, dark winter. At first, my American sensibilities second-guessed the yogurt garnish, but the grassiness and tang fit perfectly. As I finished, my aunt reminded me that it was “good for the digestion,” another point seldom considered on American menus. Mental note number two. 

Another blissful part of eating in France is all the talking. I adore mealtime conversation, and the French are champs at erudite and thought-provoking dinner dialog. It’s no different at my aunt’s table. After catching up on all the family news, we dug right into politics, geography, history, and religion. Back home, these topics would either bore my dinner guests, or result in a shouting match, but the Frenchies relish in this banter almost as much as the food. Mental note three.  

My aunt also prefers to serve dinner in courses. I don’t know if this is customary at homes across France—it’s all I’ve known at hers—but I LOVE this little residential indulgence, even if it means doubling the dirty dish count. 

In the US, food is seen as fuel, and most people eat as quickly as possible so that they can get on with life. More often than I’d like to admit, I eat lunch standing up, and in a house full of teenagers, lengthy family dinners are ever less often.

At my aunt’s table, things slow to a leisurely stroll when the food arrives. We dip into the first course just as the conversation fires up. The soup almost gets cold between sentences. I clear the dishes, and we start the second course. It’s just the two of us, so we serve from the kitchen, but the conversation never misses a beat. Another glass of wine is poured. Another round of bread, and then we’re talking about reading lists, her adventures in Afghanistan in the 70s, or a recent France Culture radio program about Medieval Feminism. My aunt mischievously suggests I lick my spoon (how scandalous) so that we save on a few dishes. I look at the plates piling up in the sink and shrug, spoon dangling from my mouth.

I cleared the plates for the final course. The old clock in the corner chimes 10 o’clock. We’ve been at it almost three hours. In addition to digesting the conversation, my brain has had plenty of time to catch up with my stomach and say it’s full. We haven’t even had dessert. Do I have room? Mental note four. 

After dinner, we retire to the fire with a homegrown chamomile tisane. As the hearth crackles to life, I am filled with a fullness only experienced in this cozy country living room. My heart is warm, my stomach at ease, my brain filled with a hundred new thoughts. Not an anxious bone in my body. The world slows on its axis.

Je suis content.

We haven’t event entered the olive grove and the pruning has already begun.