On a quest in Limoges

Say the word Limoges and most adults will immediately think about the stacks of dishes in their grandmothers' breakfronts. Yes, the city of Limoges is known throughout the world for its porcelain, but that's not why we went to Limoges today.

My daughter Carolyn, who is with me on this trip through France, is a fine jeweler and metalsmith who did her graduate school thesis on conserving antique enamel pieces while studying metals conservation in England. This study has led to a fascination in and love of all things enameled. While in grad school she ventured to Limoges, France to visit the epicenter of enamel, but at that time in 2010, the Musée de Beaux Arts was undergoing a four-year renovation. So today we went to the museum to see the best of the best of Limoges enamels.

As she explained it to me, enamels are created by firing powdered glass over a base metal. To create the works of art here, the artist would have to layer color upon color and refire the glass after each layer. The resulting works have an incredible translucence and display vibrant colors that are unchanged even after half a century.

I really never thought much about enameled objects before today, but I was truly blown away by the complexity of the designs, the artist as designer, metalsmith, glassmaker, and the vibrancy and clarity of the finished works.

Saint Martin's Day

It's a big deal in France and in other spots around Europe, a day to remember Martin of Tours, a Roman soldier, who once cut his cloak in half to keep a beggar from freezing and was rewarded for his generous gift. In medeival times Saint Martin's Day was an agrarian feast that signaled the end of the growing season and the time to begin periodic fasting to ensure that the crops lasted through the winter.

These days the feast involves food trucks, tchotchkes vendors, children's games and amusements and a whole village celebrating food, wine and cameraderie. It's noisy and lively and I love being part of a village that goes all out for an occasion. Usually populated by about 1,200 people, today the streets of Duras coursed with three or four times that many as residents of smaller towns all descended here.

My favorite part of the day is the brocante, or antiques sales. From my door at the cottage, I only had to walk through the clock tower to reach the first of 100 or more vendors lining most of the streets. While I did not score anything extraordinary, I did end up with a few fun finds:

Déjeuner in Villeréal

Another rainy day here so when it came to be lunch time we parked the car and quickly dashed in the direction of a cozy-looking hotel and restaurant just off the square. It was warm inside and smelled of a grandmother's kitchen--all oniony and cheesy. I didn't look closely at the blackboard at the door as the rain was coming down too hard to stand and read it, so when we got to our table and the chef came over to ask if we were having "la formule," we just nodded and sat back to see what showed up. 

First course:

A pot of tomato and noodle soup, which was a perfect starter on a dreary day and enough for two bowls each.

Second course: 

A leek tart, which was delicious.

Third course:

Tête de veau with a delicious fresh sauce gribiche that included parsley, capers, red onion, garlic and chopped hard cooked eggs. A really unusual combination with the gelatinous boiled veal--it really made the dish and I think I will explore other ways to use it when I get home. Salmon maybe? Or sautéed chicken breasts?

Fourth course: 

Crème caramel, which was the perfect silky, light texture.

The price: €30.30 for two, including a half-carafe of wine and coffee. It was enough food to fill an adult for an entire day. I can't imagine how they survive pricing their food like that. 

Swooning over Saint Emilion

If there is a more photogenic ville in France or in all the world I would like to see it someday. For now I will continue to believe that ville is Saint Emilion in the Gironde department of France. 

Saint Emilion, for whom the village is named, lived the life of a hermit and devout pilgrims on the route to Santiago in Compostela often detoured to see the relics and places associated with this Benedictine monk who left his mark some 1200 years ago.

I have been to Saint Emilion five times now but today was the first time I took the tour of the underground monuments. For just 8€ per person an English-speaking guide will walk you through the historic sites carved in the limestone beneath the lively village. Because the sites are all beneath private property and owned by individuals and families of Saint Emilion, it's not possible to take photos.

We began in the cave where Emilion spent 17 years of his life. An arched opening in the stone included an altar, a seat where he did his praying, a bed and a natural water source that is said to have powers to cure diseases of the eyes. One of the people on the tour took a handful of the water and splashed it onto his face and in his eyes in hopes of curing some ailment. The seat is said to bring on pregnancy for infertile women and our tour guide asked if anyone wanted to take a seat to see if it worked. One elderly Scottish woman piped up and said "if that works for me it will truly be a miracle." Indeed.

Next we visited the Trinity Chapel, rich in carvings and paintings from the Roman period and later into the Gothic. We saw funeral relics from members of the knights Templar and the old Scottish woman took up our time trying to solve the Davinci Code. The catacombs for rich men only were next and then we were brought into the Monolithic Cathedral, which is carved from the limestone beneath the town. Its ceiling soars nearly 40 feet and the stone pillars supporting the weight of the massive above-ground belltower are wrapped in sturdy metal supports. There are many interesting carvings in the stone: men slaying dragons, a violinist, Sagittarius drawing his bow. None are typical Christian symbols, but they all add to the mystery of the time when much of Saint Emilion happened under ground.

Our guide shared that the cathedral is only used now for a mass on Dec.6, St. Nicolas Day, and for the events associated with the Jurade, or the men chosen to lead the guild of winemakers at their festivals.

Saint Emilion has a deep and dark underbelly rich with lore, but I am more than happy breathing  the fresh air above and celebrating the town for its food, wine and historic preservation.

The world's gone crackers

We woke up to the worst possible news this morning and sat numbly for awhile with our coffee cups getting cold in our hands. Not sure how or what to do or think next, I finally said I'm not going to let HIM ruin our vacation and so we got dressed.

After a day in Saint Emilion, one of the most beautiful wine towns in the world, Carolyn and I decided to stop at the Leclerc supermarket on the way home to buy some ingredients. Last night, quite randomly, she asked if I'd ever made my own crackers. No, but it was on my list of things I'd like to learn, I told her.

So at the market, we searched for "farine" and some herbes de Provence for flavor, then, because I have never baked at the cottage, we bought a measuring cup. 

The recipe was simple: flour, salt, sugar, oil, water, but because the quantities were in American measurements and the new chemistry-beaker like measuring cup was in metric, we had to convert everything. "Pas probleme," as the French like to say and we muddled through cups to grams and cups to mililiters and figured it all out. 

As a team we added and mixed and adjusted the quantities to get a dough that could be rolled out. I don't have a rolling pin at the cottage, but a bottle of chilly rosé did the job and was a nice treat to open later after the glutinous mess was washed off.

We cut the crackers into rough rectangles and struggled to scrape them off the countertop and onto the baking sheet. Carolyn topped each with a sprinkle of herbes de Provence and some crunchy sea salt and they were set in the 450 degree, I mean 232.2 C degree oven for about 12 minutes.

We ate our creations with rabbit pate, a duck and figue pate, some Emmental and fresh goat cheese. While the world was going crackers with the news of the new leader of the free world, we were dealing with it by being resourceful, working as a team, trying something new, embracing the very simple pleasure of homemade crackers.

The door sausage

I took an inventory of the cottage last night and made a list of items I needed at the bricolage, or do it yourself store. After lunch today in Eymet we drove over to the Bricomarché in St. Isaac Pardoux where I wanted some batteries, a new shower head and a lightbulb for one of the kitchen fixtures. I also wanted a draft stopper to quell the cold breeze coming in under the front door. 

I thought to myself that I would have no idea what to ask for in French if I could not find the draft stopper. I looked up weather stripping on my phone and came up with "temps décapage," but I doubted that would get me to the soft, squishy thing you put on the floor in front of the door. We circled the big store a couple of times not seeing anything resembling what I was hoping to find. Then finally I saw them hanging up near the holiday decorations and the wintry things. Carolyn pulled one down from its hook and I stood there--too short to read the label above the hook.

"Waddaya call that thing anyway" I asked Carolyn, who stood on her tip toes to read it to me. 

"Um, it's b-o-u-d-i-n de porte," she reported. 

"That's a door sausage," I snorted.

We both got into one of those inexplicable giggle fits where you can't talk amid the waves of ridiculous laughter that just overwhelm you. We walked another couple of laps around the store to compose ourselves and also picked up a pretty mum to put among my potted plants outside.

Farewell dinner

It was a little to cold to sit outside on the petit balcon this week, but late this afternoon as the sun streamed in the glass doors, I made myself a little snack and an Aperol spritz and sat at my bistro set in the warm sunlit spot enjoying my little corner for the last time in 2015.

I feel lucky to have been here three times this year. Enjoying the quiet, the peace, feeling nourished by the fresh air, the open skies, the blinding sun as it sinks low behind my castle. The familiar always feels good, like a favorite sweater, but new discoveries are welcome too.

I met my neighbors Stuart and Neil today. Londoners who bought the large house diagonally across the corner, Stuart was out front sweeping his stoop and I introduced myself. We chatted a bit and I told him I was a gardener and heard he had a lovely courtyard out back. Well this led to an invitation for a quick tour. To say I was floored is a major understatement. Not only do they have a stunning courtyard, about the size of my first floor, they have turned their first floor rooms into timeless, elegant spaces. Looking around at the choices: the art, the lighting, the antiques, there was no question that at least one of them was an interior designer.  

The courtyard reminded me of the Spanish houses we'd seen in Granada, influenced by Moorish themes--it even had a pool!  Then I remembered they owned a house in Marakkesh. Sue told me of it as she is also their housekeeper. I asked about it and we had a long talk about the magical country of Morocco. Stuart said he rents his place and it comes with a cook and housekeeper. There's even a direct flight to Marakkesh from Bordeaux.  I was never interested in traveling there before, but who knows, each new connection can lead down an interesting path . . .

My neighbor Stefan was delighted to find me at home yesterday. We chatted for awhile to catch up on neighborhood gossip then said au revoir. He told me to send "peace and love from France" to Joe. Later, he knocked on my door to give me a gift: a box of his favorite insense, which, he says smells like honey and curry. I told him I would bring it home and try it there. He beamed.

I cleaned up my potted plants, removing all the dead leaves and letting anything green and vigorous stay a little longer. I pulled up the cherry tomato and ate the only two ripe ones off the vine.

The suitcase is packed. The house is clean and ready for Mandy and Michael, who arrive tomorrow and stay for six weeks. I'm a little jealous as I haven't been able to put together my own six weeks here yet, but they are a lovely couple and I feel I am leaving the cottage in good hands. We have an invitation to visit them at their new place when we return in the spring. 

So that's it. Au revoir from Duras.