Celebrating Day 1 and Day 9,130

Today is my 25^th wedding anniversary.  A brand new blog and a big anniversary on the same day - what to write about?  Doubtful anyone is interested in my marriage, so, I’ll write about one of my all time favorite books.  An old pint that is still so tasty you’ll keep coming back for more.

Peter Mayle paints a picture of his anything but boring retirement to the south of France in his classic “A Year in Provence”.  This book is my “go to” book when it’s rainy and cold and I want to laugh.  The months serve as orderly chapter titles, but the French do things differently than the English so “the year began with lunch” instead of January.  Followed by dinner, dessert and of course wine!  With Mayle's delicious descriptions you can taste the food, smell the wine and know the characters like your own neighbors.  If you love crisp, creative use of language, you will love this book and the 4 or 5 that followed it.

From “A Year in Provence.”

On the French language:

The language spoken was French, but it was not the French we had studied in textbooks and heard on cassettes; it was a rich soupy patois, emanating from somewhere at the back of the throat and passing through a scrambling process in the nasal passages before coming out as speech.  Half familiar sounds could be dimly recognized as words through the swirls and eddies of Provencal: ‘demain’ became ‘demang’, ‘vin’ became ‘vang’, ‘maison’ became ‘mesong’.  That by itself would not have been a problem had the words been spoken at normal conversational speed and without further embroidery, but they were delivered like bullets from a machine gun, often with an extra vowel tacked on to the end for good luck.  Thus an offer for more bread – page-one stuff in French for beginners – emerged as a single twanging question.  ‘Encoredupanga?’

The French national pastime:

...Le Simiane was offering a six-course lunch with pink champagne...

By 12:30 the little stone-walled restaurant was full.  There were some serious stomachs to be seen - entire families with the 'embonpoint' that comes from spending two or three diligent hours every day at the table, eyes down and conversation postponed in the observance of France's favorite ritual.  The proprietor of the restaurant, a man who had somehow perfected the art of hovering despite his considerable size, was dressed for the day in a velvet smoking jacket and bow tie.  His mustache, sleek with pomade, quivered with enthusiasm as he rhapsodized over the menu...it was a gastronomic aria which he performed at each table, kissing the tips of his fingers so often that he must have blistered his lips. 

French neighbors:

    As I came up on him, he extended a cold, horny hand.  “Bonjour.”  He unscrewed a cigarette butt from the corner of his mouth and introduced himself.  "Massot, Antoine."

    He was dressed for war.  A stained camouflage jacket, an army jungle cap, a bandolier of cartridges, and a pump action shotgun.  His face was the color and texture of a hastily cooked steak, with a wedge of nose jutting out above a ragged, nicotine-stained mustache.  Pale blue eyes peered through a sprouting tangle of ginger eyebrows, and his decayed smile would have brought despair to the most optimistic dentist.  Nevertheless, there was a certain mad amiability about him."

and visitors from Paris:

    Our friend from Paris examined his empty glass with surprise, as if evaporation had taken place while he wasn't looking.  I poured some more wine and he settled back in his chair, face tilted up to the sun.

    "We still have the heating on in Paris," he said and took a sip of the cool, sweet wine from Beaumes de Venise.  "And it's been raining for weeks.  I can see why you like it here.  Mind you, it wouldn't suit me."  

    It seemed to be suiting him well enough, basking in the warmth after a good lunch, but I didn't argue with him.