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Hmmm. Today’s post is just a little thing, a mere will o’ the wisp. But I wanted to share some things that have been making me happy lately:

That the flower guy threw in a big bouquet of flowers with my roses. Just because. What are those flowers called anyway? My Mom and I both thought of “anemones” and then said at the same time “but wait, aren’t those sea creatures?”–we crack ourselves up.

That we finally hung up the Gobelin panel and it looks great. And that it was worth the carry-on back pain to haul back the cream cable throw and pillow (I suppose I am officially off my pillow detox now)  from the Ralph Lauren outlet in the States (and no I didn’t use them on the flight back. No bedroom pillows onboard!).

Due to the generosity of my florist, who may or may not have a crush on me, we even have flowers in the bathroom, where Remi thought to put out the maritime watercolor that he found in a tiny shop in New Brunswick. 

That my dog makes me laugh every…single…day. Hard.

That, upon hearing joyful shrieks outside of my window, I looked out and watched a waddling parade of mini-pirates, princesses and geishas stroll by, all dolled up for Carnival.

That freesias smell like the clouds of Heaven.

There you have it! And you? Anything making your heart go “hip, hip, hooray” today?

It has been an odd week and I feel chopstick rattled. Certainly, the killings in Toulouse and the following aftermath are a large part of it. 

Such destruction is a terrible counter to all of the life springing up around us. 

Better then to escape for a few moments by returning to the Chapelle de St. Martin, or more precisely, to the sacred spring just down the hill behind it. I want to lower my brow into its crystalline waters to pull out this weeks violence like a sieve. 

To slow down, to breathe longer and deeper. Certainly that is the state that I was in while gazed into the sacred source, one treasured for its offerings for at least a thousand years. Honored with offerings by civilization after civilization. I traipsed, one foot in front of the other, across the well-worn stones lining the pool to its far end. There, three steps lead down to a spout of the water, diving down into the ground to nourish the fields beyond. 

Being at Remi’s side during years of assignments and adventures, waiting with him as he finds the right light for his photography has at times been a true challenge for me. I fidget, I stamp, I sigh loudly. All to no avail. So finally, I give up, give in and sit down. 

And then start to take a look around…

There can be great beauty in such moments. When I stop projecting myself forward to be right exactly where I am. Just as by getting infinitely small, we expand with a sigh of the skies. Nothing new in that.

Wherever you happen to be and no matter what your week has been, I am sending out all my best for the weekend ahead. Just in hopes that you may have a few minutes to take a good look around you and appreciate the very fine view. 

The elderly lady, her hair spun of cobwebs, leaned in on her walking stick and didn’t miss a beat. “The Chapelle de St. Martin? Down the hill, ” she pointed a finger like a scythe, “past the wine co-operative and take a left. It’s about two hundred meters.” Ok then. We twisted through the tiny village of St. Victor Lacoste, unconsciously holding our breath at certain turns as if we were sucking in the belly of the car for it to pass, then being spit back out onto the plains with nothing in sight. Save for a tower, surpassing the tops of the cypress trees. 

For that is all that is left. A lopsided pile of cream stone, pockmarked and bitten by a hard history. “How old is this?” I asked Remi as we pulled ourselves out of the car and into the still, still air. “One thousand years.” He too didn’t miss a beat. A carved plaque explained the tip of the iceberg historical facts. The original chapel was consecrated in roughly 1050. A castle was built by Count Rostand de Sabran (I don’t have a clue who that is but am in love with his name. Say it out loud, you won’t regret it) in the 10th century but was torn down in 1223 by the order of King Louis VIII. In earlier times, the village was known as Ad Victorium Sanctorum, which means that as usual, the Romans picked the good spots first, especially those blessed with an underground spring (more on that soon). 

Considering its previous rack and ruin, the lieu was so peaceful that I immediately felt at peace. A deep peace that replaced the chipped chatter running on a loop behind my eyes with the rustle of one brave almond tree in bloom. Just one but with enough blooms to perfume the scene with such utter sweetness.

Neither of us wanted to leave and so we stayed.

The Chapelle de St. Martin, as little of it remained, became in my mind, a sort of Good Witch to banish the gloom of the Haunted village that had held us in thrall. Just replace Glenda’s glittery gown with pink petals and revel in the coming of spring.

I would be crazily remiss to talk about life in Ann Arbor without mentioning Zingerman’s Deli. These folks opened in 1982–yep, that is 30 years ago, meaning not that far off from the time period when Perrier was considered to be a human being (as I previously mentioned) and if you asked for a “knish” you might very well have been responded to with a “Gesundheit.”

For once, and once only, to say that Zingerman’s is an institution is absolutely without the least bit of exaggeration. Is it regularly on the “Best Delicatessens in America” lists? Check. Heralded by the James Beard Foundation? Yep. Loved by Oprah? Even that. It is exhausting and their empire was built up brick by brick, year after year, the hard way! Food geeks, dig in here for more history.

Admittedly, I did not get to glaze over in stupefaction while trying to pick from their gazillion sandwich choices because why? The line was simply ridiculous. Why I suggested even trying on a Saturday at lunch time…well, I was jet-lagged and senseless is all I can say. It was the coldest day of my visit, whip-smackingly so and yet there was a half-hour line outside. That, my friends is how good these gobblings are. 

Inside, the joint is jumping and luckily my Mom and I were welcome to poke about even though we hadn’t slogged through the line to order. Phones were ringing, orders being called out, finished goodies being delivered. Bustle, bustle. 

Yet again for the food geeks, Jane and Michael Stern named Zingerman’s Bakehouse Rye bread as the best in America last year. Um, if that isn’t worth taking the plane (for those of you that do not have the most lovely Mom and Sis on the planet in Ann Arbor), I don’t know what is…

…save perhaps for the Apple-smoked Bacon that this fine lady offered up to the poor souls that were frozen from the wait outside. Admittedly, I kept the napkin that the little piece was served on and smelled it for days after. I know that is odd, but they could bottle that scent as perfume.

Now, where things get especially interesting for me is Z’s extremely fine taste in all worldly delectables. Yes, of course, there are moments of pricing of madness. Sixteen smackeroonies for a tiny jar of wild artichokes from Italy? Well, yes because where else exactly do you think that you are going to find wild Italian artichokes in these parts, hmmm? 

Ahhh, mais oui. La grande mais oui. Because of the relatively selective olive oils for sale, gasp, oh gee, there is to be found both types (fruity and nutty) from the our own very dear Moulin Cornille in Maussane. It is a co-operative and even our friends that live in the Baux Valley bring in their olives to add to make this oil! It is fine stuff indeed. 

I could barely approach the cheeses but to say that the choice was equally worldly is another understatement. Murray’s NYC look out! 

After the wait, the worthy that wish to eat sur place can take their victuals over to the charming little Victorian next door, which also has a slew of baked goods on the offering, too tempting for anyone to turn up their noses for dessert. 

Z’s prides itself on the quality of all that it does, that is why it has grown and become so loved. They smoke the meats, they bake the bread, they sweeten the chocolate. It is amazing actually, especially when you think of how completely ahead of their time they were and continue to be. Their success is well-deserved and that they kick back to the community is zooming them into the future. And yes, I did have a bit of Zingerman’s–a wonderful brunch at their Roadhouse restaurant. My Mom, Sis and I all chose the same dish as it was the dish to be chosen, without a doubt: the Georgia Grits and Bits Waffle, which is filled with grits and cheddar and topped with bacon and the most amazing syrup. Yes, you read correctly. The ghost of Elvis take heed. Zingerman’s has a new staple for you! I ate half (you will notice that I actually felt the need to order a side of scrambled, poor me, I had no idea what was coming my way).