Author: Heather Robinson

There are moments in life when we feel compelled to stop and go back for a second look. 

Remi and I were barrelling along a back road in the Var when in a flash something pulled at the corner of my eye. “Hold on, can we turn around?” By now, Remi knows that this is a question that I don’t ask lightly. He obliged and we were awarded with the view of a lopsided old bridge tucked in the hills of a forgotten valley. The noonday sun flattened out the land in the palm of its hand, something was missing. We drove on.

After enduring the winds rustling around Grimaud, we decided that they would keep us from enjoying a sunset glass of rosé in St. Tropez as had been our plan and turned back. “Why don’t we stop again at that bridge we passed earlier?” Remi suggested. I should have known. A perpetual light hunter, that one.

Ben jumped out of the back of the Range Rover with a shake of delight. How strange this terrain with its bumpy lava-like crust dotted with lichen. The parasol pines pushed the horizon out and up, in a very Seuss-ical manner. Curiouser and curiouser.

As can happen when faced with such utter beauty, some silent agreement forms between Remi and I. We both need to go our separate ways for a while and define it for ourselves. Ben plays tag between the two of us. As on that particular evening it happened to be close to the time when he usually hears his favorite word in the world, he shadowed my heels, looking at me questioningly “where are we?”.

“A rather good question,” I thought. I let my eyes tell me where they wanted to go and as has been often the case lately, they zeroed in on the small, the details. The minutiae. How they fill up our everyday lives, so often without notice, without appreciation for all of the joy that they can bring.

The little things constantly lead us to the big. I looked up and gazed at the bridge, now bathed in the love of last light. How many bridges did I cross to get here? To be right here at this moment? 

There can be whole blocks of time in our lives, weeks, months, years, where we feel “stuck”. Caught up in webs of worry or weighted down by grasping silent emotions. And yet like the water flowing underneath that ancient bridge, we are always moving forward and being moved. Particle by particle and hope to hope.

A shudder passed over me as the cold from the sun-drained lava crept up in my skin. But I shook it off and let my gaze soften, wondering what bridges to cross lie ahead.

What makes this years event so special is that it is celebrating the 500th anniversary of the Gardians, our French cowboys. Five hundred years! Yes, at times I can understand the comments about America being such a “young country.”

As the Arena’s ancient stone stairways are steep, all of the recent mother’s were forced to stay outside the gates and push their antique prams patiently in the strengthening sun. Tiny faces peeped out from underneath crocheted caps and lacy bonnets.

As always, I delighted in the swish of the women’s skirts. The art of the Female Female. 

The surrounding streets were filled with weaving and wandering visitors. Russian, Spanish, Japanese and Italian bumped up against over the French voices. While the First of May is a national holiday in support of worker’s rights, it is also the beginning of the high tourist season. 

The Place du Forum was already filling rapidly as I descended the hill with Ben. As with every festive occasion here, several paella’s bubbled in massive iron pots around the square. But for us I wanted something as gentle as the Lilies of the Valley that are the token flower of the day and so whipped together an eggy mess to make a wild smoked salmon and asparagus quiche. I hovered over it after I pulled it out of the oven in its pre-de-puffed state, inhaling deeply. Patience is not my strong point, non.

And yet I haven’t been able to relax into this festive day completely. There is an unexpressed tension in the air about the presidential elections that will take place this coming Sunday. We have already been through a wearing first round that resulted in an alarming support (18%) for the extreme right Front National party with Arles coming in at 25% and nearby Saint-Gilles at 45%, the highest in the nation. While I have long appreciated the long-standing traditions that are held so dearly in the region, I hope with all of my heart that this election will take a turn and move swiftly towards the future. That this pleasant First of May can be a harbinger of hope to come.

Remi, Ben and I had such a moment and we pulled it like taffy to make it last. 

We couldn’t immediately find the Chapelle Saint Romain on the outskirts of Villecroze. We had to ask several locals in the village for directions beyond head scratching and wide-mouthed gapes.

In back-tracking, we realized that we had simply sprinted past, as always too much in a hurry to already be at the point of arrival.

I don’t know what it was exactly. The chapel in itself, while lovely in its weather-worn simplicity was nothing truly exceptional. 

It most likely was the olive grove, filled with trees far more ancient than those that we can find here in the Alpilles. So solid the trunks, twisted and split but rising up to bloom into a fan dance of gray leaves rustling in the breeze. I felt so safe amidst such living things that had stood the test of time.

Best then to lay back in the soft spring grass and search for animals in the clouds overhead. 

To let the thistles whistle against our cheeks and tickle our noses. 

We lingered, knowing that even if we returned a hundred times, never again would the sun be so warm nor the sky so helplessly blue. We all know that there is no such thing as perfection and searching for it is a fool’s game. How lucky then, to be able to feel something so close, something just this side of wonderful.

Bon weekend!

*This is  repost of the original from April 25, 2012 that was taken offline in a flurry of spam frustration. Oops. Here it is again.*

As Remi has been away for the past day and a half, I have been thinking about what it is that I like to cook when I am cooking for one = me! Admittedly, most of the time when he is away from home, I put the kitchen in shut down mode. We cook in this house and because we both work from home that means two meals a day. Now lunch is usually of the salad variety but that can still require a lot of preparations, so it can do me a bit of good to just subsist on casse-croute, picking at bits of this and that.

The first evening I eyed the (albeit home-made) leftover pizza. Certainly that was the obvious option. But it just wasn’t ringing the tummy bell. What about that bunch of broccoli that was languishing in the veggie bin? The one that I had bought even though Remi doesn’t like it? Allez-hop! Now or never time. So I decided to make a pasta, arrabbiata-style. Why? Because, with the addition of a couple squirts of smoky harissa paste, I could make it as spicy as I wanted! As some of you might know, the French by and large (excuse the generalization) are not into culinary heat. Not so for this girl who used to go the East Village Indian guys so that she could gleefully cry into her curry. Another bonus? As the smoochee was nowhere to be seen I could spike my tomato sauce with as much garlic as I could see fit. And not just any garlic but le nouveau ail, the fresh variety, which frankly, I am addicted to. I can eat it raw like bonbons, just like some of the local old-timers do. A sauté of le bacon (think Canadian), yellow onions, fresh flowering thyme (a luxury in itself), herbs de Provence, red wine (I just happened to have some in hand, quelle surprise) and it all came together into just exactly the taste that I wanted. No photos because, even if I did think about it, it was in my belly too fast.

Not so the next day when I redid the same adventure for lunch. What do I want? Two other banned ingredients came to mind: red cabbage and raw pois chiches or chick peas. I added a little extra laitue that was on its last leaves, tuna, roasted peppers, shredded carrots, Trader Joe’s salt-free 21 Season Salute (why oh why aren’t there TJ’s here? Why?) plus a simple vinaigrette. It took me back to when I was a young ‘un living in NYC and I ate this salad all the time so I had the added contentment of memories à la Proust with each munch.  

Not that Remi is a food dictator, not in the least and he is more than patient with my no goes of beef, les abats and frog’s legs (I have done it but no they don’t really taste like chicken). True, he is the real chef in the family and is not afraid of attempting anything. Petits paquets de coquille St. Jacques au foie gras et bacon avec une reduction d’homard? Bring it on! I am just the comfort food girl, as you can well see. But it was really lovely to be a little selfish in my preparation and it got me wondering, what are your favorite tastes? The ones that you go to time and again for a little boost? That are “yours”?