by Caro Feely
'Thank you for a fantastic stay,' I said. 'And Inés for the truffling – the afternoon was magnifique.'
'Thank you for the wine. We will taste them and let you know,' said Guillaume.
We left them to serve breakfast. The retired Parisians had appeared and were limbering up to start their truffle egg feast. We were happy to leave them to it, the extravaganza of the previous night a strong cerebral and corporeal memory.
At home, we were thrown straight back into the cycle of long days and constant work. I followed up about the wines but we never heard back from St Amour. It left a little bitter note in the experience. They probably didn't have time to deal with individual producers plus it would be impossible to deliver to them for a reasonable cost. Or perhaps they hated our wines – I still had a sense of anxiety and momentary lapses of confidence in them. Like Bo Barrett in the film Bottle Shock, I hadn't learned to trust our wines and my taste buds.
A friend in St-Émilion, Vince Lignac, often said, 'I make the wine I like. I can't please everyone so I make the wine that reflects my terroir – a true wine, not a wine for a market.' That was what we were doing. I had to have confidence in them as much as we had to find balance in our lives. The fact that we had sold out of old vintages, despite the horrific labels that had graced them in our early years, was a sign that the wine was good.
But whatever Inés and Guillaume's reasoning, I had to get on and make wine sales. The gîte bookings were slow. I kept getting requests for a swimming pool and a television. We had made a decision to not install TV, wanting the experience for our guests to be about wine, nature and outdoors. With our precarious finances a swimming pool had been out of the question. A quick online review of competing gîtes showed that we had to have one if we wanted our accommodation to be successful. That and the rising summer temperatures of recent years made it a necessity.
The getaway had been good for our relationship but a single swallow didn't make a summer. We returned to our bad habits. Seán barely acknowledged my presence when he came through in the morning. I got a grunt rather than a hello or a kiss. We were supposed to be married but we were no closer than business partners. My concern about our relationship compounded my sleepless nights. I woke up at 3 a.m. and started writing my second book. I had to make something positive out of the situation.
CHAPTER 4
ORANGE EGGS
Seán stomped into the kitchen, back after four hours of pruning. I was oblivious to the time, wrapped up in front of my computer working on the final edit of Grape Expectations, my first book, due out that summer.
'Where's lunch?' he shouted. 'I'm starving!'
He was frozen and exhausted.
'I didn't notice the time,' I said.
'Yeah, yeah, sitting toasty in the warm house. Couldn't even be bothered to make a hot soup for her husband.'
I unbent myself from the keyboard and pushed back the old wicker chair that had travelled from South Africa with us decades before. Its feet scraped across the wooden floor. I needed a proper desk chair with support and wheels – for my back and for the floor. I hobbled from the 'office', a room in our house, through a dark landing and into our small galley kitchen. After being hunched over the computer for so long I felt stiff as a board.
We dreamed of renovating our house but it would be the last renovation on the list. Since the St Amour truffle getaway, we were crackling with ideas of how to broaden our farming base; thoughts of truffle trees, farm animals and how to make our tourism offer an even better experience. Years of investment and effort were required for these initiatives, all of which would take priority over our home renovations.
'Sorry,' I said as I entered the kitchen. Seán's disgust that I didn't turn out a fine farmer's lunch every day was an ongoing tussle with a pinch of joking and a tablespoon of serious.
'Guess I'll make it myself,' he said, putting a handful of just-picked wild leeks and kale on the counter. 'What's wrong with you?'
'Nothing. Just a bit stiff,' I said. 'Should have taken some breaks to stretch but I was so engrossed I didn't.'
'Every hour, Mrs C. You have to get up and stretch every hour. Or come and do some vineyard work – that would be even better.'
He stepped back on to the porch to take off his boots, put on his house clogs then washed his hands. He turned from the sink and took two homegrown onions from the vegetable rack, a thick wood board and the Henckel knife my sister had given us years before, then returned to the counter nearest the oven.
He chopped like a pro. His right hand took a bit of leftover butter and threw it into the iron pan, just warm from the gas flame. When the butter sizzled the chopped onions went in, then the wild leeks followed by kale and a handful of organic mushrooms that had been sitting in the back of the fridge. Cooked potatoes from a few nights before were chopped and followed the rest.
'Won't you grab a handful of parsley for me?' he said.
'Sure.'
As I stepped out into the courtyard the cold wind smacked my face. It felt good, fresh and alive. I needed to get out. I missed the outdoors when I was stuck inside doing administration or writing for days on end. The mass of parsley that Seán had planted in an old cut-out barrique was in good shape. Secondhand barrels made perfect plant troughs cut in half or laid sideways with a window cut out of the top like this one. The parsley was cold and damp to the touch. I lifted it to my nose and sniffed deeply. It mingled with the aroma of Seán's cooking wafting on the air, getting stronger with each step back to the house. My mouth started to water.
I rinsed the parsley and passed it to Seán. In a flash it was finely chopped like I could never do. Seán was a perfectionist chef. He chopped fine. I chopped rough. He threw the parsley in then piled two stacks of the mix on to our plates and popped them in the oven.
He placed two of Blanchette's eggs into the pan alongside two eggs bought from the supermarket to supplement our now tiny supply. We had kept chickens for years but only one, Blanchette, was left of the original batch of eight. Our homegrown egg supply had been a key part of our self-sufficiency. Blanchette still laid the odd egg but nowhere near what we needed for our family of four. The shop ones were a light yellow and Blanchette's were dark yellow, almost orange. Seán took the plates out of the oven and placed one of each on top of the mix. The aroma was savoury and delicious.
'Thanks, SF,' I said and took the plate. I sat down at my end of the old pine table and Seán settled into his end.
'Salt and pepper please,' he said.
I got up from my chair and leaned across the table to pass them. Even when it was just us we sat at the far ends, nearly two metres apart.
'Thanks,' he said, reaching to take them.
I cut into the home egg and the orange yolk spread across the mushroom, kale and potato mix. I took a forkful. It was bliss; the textures and flavours were in perfect harmony. I closed my eyes for a moment to appreciate the gourmet sensations in my mouth.
'That is so good, SF,' I said. 'I can barely find words to describe it. Earthy, salty, umami. Yummy.'
Next I cut into the shop egg and took a bite. It was egg but it was not bliss. The harmony was gone.
'What a difference!' I said. 'That shop one is a pale rendition of egg.'
'Exactly. That's what I've said all along,' said Seán. 'When we don't have our own we have to get the eggs from the organic lady on the Bergerac market.'
'It's like the truffle I bought in a jar compared to the real thing,' I said. 'It's crazy that such anaemic eggs can be called "organic free range". I guess at least we're sure the chickens aren't battery-style and they aren't eating genetically modified grain and antibiotics.'
'They are industriels,' said Seán, almost spitting the word out in disgust. 'They're following the letter of the organic law but not the spirit. That's what happens when it's all about lowest cost.'
Like some of the organic vegetables in the supermarket they had lost their soul, but at least they weren't packed with pesticide residues. I
moved the shop-bought egg aside and took another mouthful of the heavenly food on my plate.
'We need to think about getting new chickens,' I said.
'Not until we've had our summer holiday,' said Seán.
Friends had offered us their holiday house in Provence for a week. We had been before and were looking forward to another break at their beautiful mas, a traditional Provençal farmhouse. We needed it.
'But we need to have animals. To be truly biodynamic our farm needs to be a closed circuit. We need their presence, their energy and manure.'
'I know. But look at us. We don't have time to scratch our bums,' said Seán.
Whenever he used that expression I couldn't help but laugh.
'Anyway, before I forget, I need a new mower,' said Seán, looking at me drily. 'The old one won't fit down the new Cabernet rows.'
That stopped my laughter. The vineyard and winery were a bottomless pit of expense. My mind cast around.
'But what about sheep instead of a mower? Couldn't we get a band of sheep? Like we saw at Benziger and at the Fetzers' new place, Ceàgo, in California?'
'Someone has to look after the sheep. Animals take money and attention,' said Seán.
'But they'll generate income as well. Meat and wool,' I said.
'You can't give the wool away,' said Seán. 'In Europe it costs more to get a shearer than you can sell the wool for. I looked into that already. For the meat, yes, that will perhaps generate some revenue but there's a lot of red tape if we want to sell the meat. We need to research it more. But regardless of that, in spring when the first vine shoots are out and the grass is growing gangbusters, I'll still need the mower since the sheep would eat the young shoots.'
'Alors you'd better find out how much the mower will be and we'll have to build it into the budget,' I said.
'And you had better make sure you find the right eggs,' said Seán.
'Ecologically it makes total sense to get sheep,' I said. 'I met a couple at the Vinexpo Expression Bio Show last year. They've successfully run sheep on their vines for years. I'll contact them to ask if we can visit.'
Our lunch had been a working lunch again. Our work was our life and our life was our work. To be truly good at what we were doing we had to find a balance. We had to be more disciplined about taking time out for ourselves but the rising tide of our growing business needed all the hours we had.
That afternoon I called Andrea and Fearn, winegrowers and shepherds near Castillon, and re-introduced myself.
'You must come soon so your daughters can see the lambs,' said Andrea. 'Why don't you visit us on Wednesday afternoon? We can show you the sheep and then have afternoon tea.'
I felt Andrea's warmth and open spirit over the phone.
'Thanks, Andrea. That would be perfect,' I said.
We chatted a little about the season before I hung up, delighted to have the sheep research visit lined up.
Wednesdays were half days for schools in France. French school had gone from a four-and-a-half-day week with Wednesday off and a half day on Saturday to the half day on Wednesday then to a four-day week to save money on school transport and then back to the half day Wednesdays when the state realised the teachers couldn't fit all the work into a fourday week. We had barely got used to one programme when it changed again. Each time the days were changed or the order was switched, the teachers' unions would call for a day of strike action and no one would go to school. I wondered if it wasn't all just an excuse to have a day off.
'Wait for us, Mum,' said Sophia.
She and Ellie were a few steps behind me on the library stairs. I stopped and waited for them to catch up.
Seán had started a Saturday routine of library and market in Bergerac, a working town with a beautiful historic medieval centre, 20 minutes from Saussignac. In season, I was hectic with gîte changeovers and clients on Saturday; now, in winter, I had time while Seán had to be out pruning on all the good-weather days God gave us. Some days, like today, the expedition would stretch to include a cream tea at the Victoria Café, offering a touch of glamour to the outing.
From the library we followed the main street to the market, the place to find our artisan organic egg producer. The eggs had dark yellow yolks and a taste that told us the chickens were outside eating grass and insects, not only grains. It was not merely the taste that was affected: eggs from outdoor 'grazing' chickens had up to twice as much vitamin E, 40 per cent more vitamin A and three times as many omega-3s. Our egg mission addressed both health and taste.
The winter sun's cool rays played across the streets packed with stalls, light and shade changing with the constant movement. People's breath rose like smoke in the air. Sometimes an unknown salesman would take up prime position in front of the church. That day the product was a plastic kitchen utensil and the presenter had a large crowd looking on as he played out his routine. He promised that his gadget would transform your life. It seemed so out of place. I felt like chasing him out of town. We had learned to buy equipment that would last our lifetimes, if not generations; iron pans, solid metal graters with no plastic attachments. We knew the real thing, like a metal pan or a cast-iron pot, was good value if you considered the lifetime value rather than the one-time cost. My most recent purchases, of dustpans, were metal. Already they had lasted longer than any of the plastic ones in my past. The price was 25 per cent more than the plastic version and I had already recouped that in longevity.
We found a passage through the crowd growing around the salesman and I led the way down the side street to the left of the church. Our first stop was our organic baker, a shy man. I had bought from him many times but never struck up a conversation. With the church towering above us, we stocked up on wholegrain bread and perfumed chocolate brioche buns for Ellie and Sophia, ending the transaction with a quiet 'thank you'. With bread and brioche safely stored in our cloth shopping bag, we took off again. I found pleasure and satisfaction shopping on the market and getting to know our suppliers. Here a person's product was an extension of themselves. Like us, their products reflected their personalities.
'Wait for us,' shouted Sophia a few steps behind me. 'You're going too fast, Mum.'
I stopped and hung the bag over my shoulder so I could take their hands, gave them both a squeeze and slowed down the pace. Usually I was in such a hurry I raced around the market circuit like it was a Formula One track. I had to learn to slow down, to take in the environment with all my senses.
I became aware of the smells as I passed, the pungent freshness of the vegetable stands and the rich yeasty aroma of the boulangers, the conversation between market goers and stallholders, the cooing of the pigeons on the church above us and the hum of cars on the main street nearby. I looked at the stalls more closely, as if seeing the patchwork of colours and movement for the first time.
There were large stands packed with masses of produce; traders rather than producers. There were farmers' stands, sometimes two generations or even three, working side by side. At one stand, a couple, weathered and well into their seventies, sat behind a small wooden table garnished with plastic containers of walnuts and mushrooms. Behind the containers were a few jars of honey and home-made jam. I wondered how much change they had seen in this town and market in their lifetimes. I was tempted to stop but a quick look at my watch told me that if we wanted to get to the Victoria Café before the lunch rush we had to keep moving.
On the lane that hugged the other side of the church I found Valérie, a natural organic cheese and yoghurt producer that created tarin, an unpasteurised cow's-milk cheese that came in small and large rounds and in bricks. It was creamy and delicate and we loved it. We joined the queue. The tall grey-haired man in front of me ordered his cheese.
'I like your cheese so I buy it but I don't see the difference between organic and not organic when it comes to dairy,' he said to Valérie. 'I don't see why I should pay more for organic milk. Aren't they all out eating grass?'
Valérie took a deep breath a
nd a dose of internal patience. She reached for the cheeses he had requested and started to wrap them. Once composed, she looked up and gave him a little smile.
'Well, Monsieur, a few things are different. With conventional you could be drinking milk laced with wormicide, antibiotics and weedkiller, to take a few. Organic dairy means no herbicides, no pesticides, no genetically modified feed and no antibiotics in your milk. They can be part of your daily dose if you consume conventional dairy.'
'I never thought of that,' he said.
'Beh oui, Monsieur. There are many differences. To get back to what you said about the grass, conventional dairy cows can be fed grain indoors for part or all of their lives so they may not be eating grass at all, whereas with organic dairy pasture-fed is guaranteed. And of course, the organic rules mean better care and better health for the cows. I could talk for a long time on this but I must serve Madame. Thank you in any case.'
