Author: Heather Robinson

How it happened I am not quite sure but that foggy caffeine-resistant mentality turned to a dark roiling anger that scared off all that came into contact with me on Saturday. And certainly there was no reason for it. As a surprise, Frederique swung by so that we could do the market together, both of us with baskets over our arms and leashed dogs in hand. Right away I had the good fortune of finding my very favorite roses à l’ancienne, its creamy pink an increasing rarity. The vendor even gave me an extra, gratos, with a wink no less. I found a hyacinth for one Euro with the color and scent of the gloaming. A feast of Vietnamese dumplings bought. A surprise of three poignées or fistfuls of Autumn-orange girolle mushrooms for Remi? Check. And yet. I found myself growing increasingly annoyed, impatient with the crowds, the dampness in my bones, my ever-sniffing dog until my breath felt stifled in my chest.

Remi took a good look at me as I stormed into the kitchen, dramatically flinging my goods on the table. He wisely said nothing but later on, I could hear him taking out the beloved Creuset dish. Random chopping sounds. And then the perfume, the balm of something as warm as a mother’s hug wafted over me. My honey had decided to take matters into his own hands and made me roasted duck with garlic, white wine, oh so many things to soothe my blues. It is so nice to have someone to just take care of you sometimes. When we don’t know what to do with ourselves. Remi and I had a lovely evening talking and talking, laughing and on. Lucky girl I am.

Amazingly, the weather has decided to not only get its act together but to strive towards what I would consider perfection. And so this is it, those few days of Fall that I will dream about the rest of the year. Azure sky, that soft light falling across the old stones, just a slight breeze. Ben and I went for an hour long walk yesterday morning, both of us in good spirits, wanting to be out for as long as possible.

My Frenchy Golden even went on strike, refusing to budge from the entry to Cilantro, one of Arles’ Michelin starred restaurants. We could see (and smell) the sous-chefs preparing for lunch. The highlights of yesterday’s menu:
Gnocchis with chanterelle mushrooms and tomato confit in a parmesan emulsion
Gigot d’agneau (Provence is lamb country) with artichokes and stracci
A crunchy bitter fruit tart with a vanilla mousse and basil mandarin sorbet
You can have all of the above for 30 Euros ($43). A splurge, admittedly, but it sounds wonderful, doesn’t it?

I can understand why Arlesians are so grouchy when the weather is bad because it is so addictive when it is good! Today, I was given a little gift–just enough of a reprieve in the wind to be able to sit out in the garden for my breakfast. With my turtleneck sweater on and Ben under my feet to stay warm, but still. The leaves of the mystery tree (it grows like a wild thing and so far no one has been able to tell us what species it is) are fading and falling. Tiny “red tails” are chirping wildly and hopping along the roof of the Frere Precheurs. It is quite something to have a real jardin de curé against the walls of a church, even if it is getting ready for the big winter sleep. In some ways, so am I, but not just yet. A last sip of coffee and then I am out the front door, off to rediscover Arles all over again with my funny friend.

Yes, you read correctly and no, it wasn’t a banquet for a king, just an everyday midweek type of thing. Remi and I actually weren’t even certain that it was a lunch as the invitation was to “stop by for a glass of wine after the market.” Hmm, ok, at noon? Sure enough, when we walked in the door the table was set and a bottle of Champagne was popped before we could pretend to protest. As our friends were taking care of their visiting grand-daughter there was lengthy chatting and munching of ‘tomato caviar’ (aka sun-dried tomato paste) covered toasts while she played with her pasta. And then for the adults, aioli, the quintessential Provençal plate of steamed legumes and mountains of stinging garlic mayonnaise (just in case you thought it was a healthy dish).

The little one gave a round of bisous, or little kisses, before heading off to nap time and I could have joined her save for the melty Brie that was brought out. To at least try. One bite. And then who can say no to a home-made apple tart? Not this girl. Slight pickings at the lemon cake that I had brought and mercifully strong coffees helped to keep the conversation fuelled. I tried to properly express my disappointment at the mid-term elections, the “tea party” power over the press and that Obama is not actually a Muslim. The sun was already rosy by the time we headed out to the car, talking all the while, grateful that we didn’t have an office to report to, at least not today and such wonderful friends to share an afternoon with.

Why the time doesn’t change on the same date the world over I’ll never understand but today leaves me feeling as disoriented and untrustworthy as it always does when we lose an hour. So no Happy Halloween here. No flickering Jack o’Lanterns or martinis downed while sporting an unwise Lady Gaga meat dress. Just rain whimpering through most of the day, mottling out the sun. Nothing better to do than keep the fire stoked and The World of Interiors handy.

This evening was the first with Ben’s post-dinner stroll in the dark and the streets were appropriately empty. Everyone is elsewhere as Toussaint is the French Thanksgiving of family gatherings and I find myself missing mine. Remi and I spoke of my Dad’s passing over lunch. It was the right thing to do. Tomorrow I will head to the cemetery with a friend as she pays her respects at her father’s grave, bringing flowers, clearing away leaves.

For a bit of light amidst the shadows of this very serious holiday, I accepted Frederique’s offer to take in the last day of the retrospective of the photographer Pierre Jahan’s work at the Musée Reattu. Housed within the former Grand Priory of the Knights of Malta, the 17th century fortified structure was once the center of a network of such priories between Toulouse and Geneva. Gargoyles hover over every corner, a poignant contrast to the tender nudes shown within that Jahan took to illustrate a poem of Jean Cocteau’s celebrating love, life. After all, best to appreciate on this All Soul’s Day that we are still here.