Ok – I’m a bit of a mug sometimes. I do so want to be nice and kind to everyone….(Well, let’s leave my ex husband’s mother out of this. Actually, once I found I could sweeten her up by sitting her down with a lemon to suck we got on quite well). I went to La Foire Aux Vins in my home of Saint Savien. This is a kind of wine tasting hard-sell for people who know far more about wine than me. In addition to wine, there is cheese. Yes Gromit; cheese! Now everyone knows about cheese don’t they. It is that slimming product famous for being the perfect companion to Cognac or a glass of heart saving vin rouge.
So lovely I could cry….and I do!
O! live live live
The wonderful peasant Fromagesse (don’t worry, I made it up) behind the stall counter placed her revolutionary French guillotine tool on a block of cheese which looked like it had once been the corner stone of the Roman Empire. First she indicated a possible chunk of about the size of Scotland, but I realised that the Romans had been so terrified of their untethered skirt covered ginger genitals, they actually built a wall to keep them out. Little by little she placed her blade on smaller and smaller chunks until it was about the size of The Titanic. I nodded agreement, feeling so mean and unkind that I only wanted such a small sliver. She reminded me that this was genuine cheese made from the milk of magical mountain top cows who would only release the gold of their udders for re-sale to a woman of the finest beauty and taste. Hmm – lucky I showed up! I plucked up courage to ask what it was. She drew a deep breath and uttered the magic word “Cantal” and I recoiled in puzzlement, handed over 30 Euros and staggered on clutching my brick of magical mountain cholesterol. Luckily I was able to purchase a decent brandy to accompany it so that the alcohol will wipe out any ill effects. To balance the whole matter I bought a selection of goat, donkey and wild boar sausage. I’m gonna call it the Fatkins diet.
Village des fleurs et du ciel, Utter utter JOY!
Seriously though, my fellow bon viveurs, France is the place for flavour and savour. To convince you of the absolute need you have in your life to come to Saint Savinien Sur Charente I’m posting a few photos today to show you what you are missing. Bon Apetit mes amis.
Old goats still make a stiff sausage
Before I go I must share with you a complaint about the standard of modern spelling and grammar. A fine upstanding gentleman has taken the trouble to ask me on Facebook if I wish to see his very large Denis. Seemingly my new profile picture has interested him enough to dub me as “Senior but Sexy”. He is obviously a very inexperienced young man because ladies of my age know only too well that senior IS sexy. I’m sure that given time, his friend Denis will develop enough shades of grey to play in the senior leagues.
Emma thinx: Take the die out of diet and it’s time for tea.
I’m beginning to lose the plot. Not only is it National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and National Author’s day, but also it is the National-blog-everyday-for-a-month Fest (NaBloPoMo!). What I did not know until I went to ASDA was that it is also National Sausage Week here in the UK. Now come on guys, you’ve got to admit that all that literary stuff fades into the background compared to the English Sausage. I’m gonna be taking part in the slog the blog binge since I pump it out every day anyway. Seemingly sausage is now the number one meat choice in the UK. I do wonder if that is because it is relatively cheap. In recent years I have noted the sizzle of the gourmet sausage such as Venison and Tarragon endorsed by Igor Apronifico and similar culinary luminaries. I sometimes wonder how far this kind of kidology could go – maybe François Potagier’s Pheasant and Camomile Chipolatas? I reckon I know a few gourmo-snobs who would go for it.
Now – if you look at the above pic you may well wonder what it is. Last night was of course Halloween (La Toussaint). Eventually I heard a noise outside and took a shot with my camera hoping to startle them with the flash. After they had retreated with their haul of sweets I checked out the photograph. Now – perhaps the flash didn’t work or perhaps I was shaking with fear or perhaps……the Unthinkable. It all looks a bit spooky to me. Could be a whole new genre.
The headline shot today was sent by a friend in France who knows I am temping as a school bus driver. I believe the photo is from Morocco. Now, I know I complain a bit about my lot in life but well, all things are relative. I’m just so pleased that the bosses of the bus company are unlikely to see this image. I bet you there’s some bright shiny young thing with a modern tie and spiky gelled hair who’s just dying to wow them at the next cost cutting brainstorm meeting.
I note that as a foreigner I can’t win any of the NaBloPoMo Blogfest prizes. Well, I do not suppose I would be in the running but come on ….we gave the Fonz an MBE, or rather the Queen did. Next time I take tea with Her Majesty I may well raise the matter, although generally she raises this kind of issue with me first.
I’ve been walking quietly in the soft low sun as if I were still a poet. In the end my poem was one line, but so are we are we not?
Emma thinx: For each fallen leaf there is a branch with a memory.