Glass Half Full

by Caro Feely

'The stir-fry worked so well.'

  'Well, SF's garden is wonderful. The veggies taste so good fresh like that,' said Mum. 'But it is rather labour intensive, all that chopping.'

  'But that was the best moment of the evening – you had such fun preparing the food together.'

  'I suppose you're right – when everyone is together it is fun,' said Mum.

  'It makes me think of a kitchen saying I saw recently: "More chopping, less shopping."'

  'Ha ha, I like that,' said Mum.

  'There's an English journalist and chef, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. You know the guy who looks a bit like SF?'

  Mum nodded.

  'He's famous for his fights to stop battery-reared chicken and to raise awareness of where seafood comes from and so on. In one of his TV series he offered six people a transformation week to change their habits from instant packaged food to preparing it themselves. One of the women was retired but she still bought ready-made food from the supermarket even when she invited her friends around for dinner. At the end of the show she said something like, "For ten years I handed over the joy of cooking to the supermarkets. Now I remember how much fun it is, I feel like I've had ten years of enjoyment hijacked. I will never buy ready-made again." She had tears rolling down her cheeks.'

  'Oh, Toots! But you're so lucky to have SF who cooks as well. I cook every night and it gets a bit tiring even though Dad washes the dishes.'

  'I know. I agree. But I think it's because we aren't doing family food as a communal activity. If everyone is in the kitchen together it's fun. Plus advertisers present food preparation as drudgery and serving up smart packaged food presented as your own with a quick wink as clever. But the hours spent driving to the supermarket and shopping to buy ready-made food totals more than it takes to create things from scratch in your own garden and kitchen, plus it's an ecological disaster. All that packaging, the carbon dioxide, the food miles…'

  'Oh, darling,' said Mum, a little exasperated.

  There was no doubt I could be obsessive. I found myself feeling guilty for throwing a few crumbs from the breadboard into the bin instead of into the compost. In John Seymour's book about his self-sufficient farm, The Fat of the Land, they washed their crockery in pure hot water so the used water could be given to the pigs. There were no chemical washing products and the pigs enjoyed the flavoured water. It was a total closed circuit with no waste. Pure self-sufficiency. I loved it. But we couldn't turn back the clock on our modern citycentric ways. City living did not allow for raising pigs on leftovers and washing water. We had to find new and better ways to keep challenging the status quo.

  'Now I'm reflecting on this, perhaps we should do the dinner for the party ourselves. It would be convivial,' I said.

  We had handed the main dinner for the golden wedding over to Luc and Martine Merlin at the Lion D'Or. All I was planning to do at home were the cheese course, dessert and coffee.

  'Oh no, Toots! Absolutely not! You're too busy to even consider doing that. Look at you. You don't have a spare second to rub together. Anyway we've confirmed with the Lion D'Or. No, darling!' said Mum with finality.

  The following evening corks popped on our sparkling wine as guests gathered on the terrace of the Lion D'Or. Sue and Ian Cameron, friends from Saussignac who had recently moved to Cunèges, a village nearby, joined us.

  'We'll have to come and see you, Sue,' I said. 'I know it's only a short way away but it feels like another country. I preferred having you right here in Saussignac.'

  'We would love to see you for tea or drinks,' said Sue in her beautiful English accent. 'You know it isn't very far. You could even walk to us.'

  'Now that's the kind of challenge I like to hear,' I said.

  Sue and Ian were a wonderful, slightly eccentric couple. They had lived in India, Kenya, Zimbabwe and Cyprus doing many things, including coffee farming, then retired to France for a quieter life. Sue was a dynamo, a formidable force for good in our village, from the communal gardens to activities for the kids. Ian would walk their beloved Labrador across the bottom of our farm most days in the early years, a familiar figure clad in corduroys, flat cap and walking stick, followed by his blonde friend. We missed having them in our village.

  I passed around the golden anniversary menu then ordered a whisky and soda for Dad and poured sparkling wine for Mum. As the guests perused the menu I explained what it meant to those unfamiliar with French cuisine. Rosie held up her glass for more and Gyles proposed a toast to the happy couple, then a toast to absent friends and family. I saw tears in Mum and Dad's eyes, felt them in mine and fought them back. We missed my sister and brother intensely in that moment.

  Dad selected the salade chèvre croustillant, a roasted goat's cheese salad, and Mum the nage d'escargots, a snail and mushroom soup that was so good people talked about it for years after having it. Both were paired with Feely Générosité, our barrel-aged Sémillon, but Dad paired his with whisky. For the main Dad chose suprême de pintade, a guinea-fowl dish with cream sauce, and Mum chose magret au Xérès, duck breast in sherry reduction sauce. Both mains were served with pommes de terres Sarladaise et haricots verts, potatoes fried in duck fat, a local tradition, and green beans. Feely La Source red wine was suggested with both and again Dad chose whisky. Perhaps being opposites was part of the secret of a good partnership.

  After an evening of banter and fine food, we walked home to do speeches like a real wedding. Gyles cracked jokes and gave a short speech while we served the cheese course. Mum said a few words then Dad spoke. He ended his heartfelt speech with a toast to Mum. After the toast he held up his glass and said, 'Don't leave me, Choekie' with tears in his eyes.

  I felt a bolt of panic. Perhaps Dad knew something that we didn't know. Both of them were in good health but recently Mum had learned that one of her kidneys had shrivelled up and was no longer operational. Now she only had one she had to be extremely careful with the anti-inflammatory tablets she took for her arthritis. She seemed more fragile than before. I set that thought firmly aside and focused on serving the next course, tarte aux abricots, apricot tart, with Feely Saussignac dessert wine, a classic pairing that was always a hit.

  'To Lyn and Cliff, fifty years of marriage. Here's to many more!' I said, holding up my dessert wine and wishing them one final toast, my eyes swimming with emotion. It was a great score. I read recently that more than half of French couples got divorced. Seán and I had come close to tearing apart many times and we were only at fifteen.

  The days took on a timeless quality and blended into a series of joyful moments. We picnicked on the highest hill near Saussignac. We explored an unknown path to Cunèges to see if we could find Sue and Ian's new house. En route I hesitated at a stream that was flowing strong.

  'Oh, come on, Caro,' said Sally, bending to take off her shoes and socks. Jeans folded to the knee, feet bare and walking shoes in hand, she waded in. 'It's delicious! Refreshing! Come on!'

  After fording the stream we crossed a small forest and followed a farm road up into the village of Cunèges. I didn't know which house was Sue and Ian's so we walked around the village looking for the finest garden. Thinking I had found it, I knocked on the door.

  'J'arrive,' came a voice of fine English-accented French. Bingo.

  'How lovely to see you! Come in, come in!' said Sue.

  'Oh no, Sue, with our muddy shoes we won't come inside. We dropped by to see where you are,' I said.

  'Well, come and see the garden at least,' said Sue, leading us around to the back gate. 'What about water for everyone?' she asked, already heading inside for it.

  The garden was a perfect blend of French chic and English cottage garden, with benches strategically placed for views of rambling roses and scenic plantings. An organised potager bursting with vegetables nestled towards the back and an old barrel for collecting rainwater hugged the stone wall. Sue returned with a tray of glasses and we slaked our thirst. They had transformed their house and garden in Saussignac and they were doing th
e same here. Given that Sue was over 70 and Ian over 80, it was even more awe-inspiring.

  Halfway back to Saussignac, Mum said she wanted to be collected. It was unlike my mum to drop out – usually she was raring to go. I knew she was worried about Foo and Wade but this seemed a bit more. I felt another bolt of fear.

  That evening Mum owned up to a terrible toothache. She had been keeping it quiet to avoid worrying everyone but it hadn't gone away. I called around for a dentist appointment. The best option I could find for an 'emergency' appointment was in a few weeks. They would be back in Canada by then. I knew dentist services in rural France were bad and now I realised just how bad. John and Morag, doctor friends from Canada, organised an antibiotic to control the infection and strong painkillers so Mum could tough it out until they got home. I felt awful that we could do nothing but John assured me it would be OK and perhaps better to have it dealt with by the dentist Mum knew. I was relieved that Mum's slowdown wasn't something more sinister.

  While I had been with Mum, John and Morag talking about the options for Mum's tooth, Seán had come in from the vineyard and was catching up on his email on my computer.

  He looked up with a frown.

  'Did you know you have the fourth of July entered twice?'

  'No,' I said.

  'Well, you'd better check it out.'

  He got out of the chair and I sat down to look at my booking sheet.

  'Oh my God!' I said. 'I've booked a Médoc tour and Play Winemaker on the same day. What am I going to do?'

  'You have to cancel one of them,' said Seán.

  'But I can't – everything is booked. The Coopers are staying in Saussignac for two nights specially to do the winemaker day, and the Médoc day is all booked and has been for months – we'll never get appointments for another day at this stage in peak season,' I said. 'OMG. What am I going to do? Couldn't you do one of the days?'

  'You know I can't. I don't have a day to spare this time of year and I wouldn't know where to start with giving a full-day tour. I can bail you out for a short visit but I can't do it for a long one.'

  My stomach clenched with stress.

  'What the heck am I going to do?'

  Seán lifted his eyebrows in a gesture that said, 'I don't know but you're on your own with this one.'

  I couldn't push either a day forward or back as the days were packed with bookings.

  The Médoc was the left bank of the Bordeaux area, the long finger that follows the Gironde estuary up to the sea. I was due to accompany the group in their car to do scene-setting en route but the visits would be with the châteaux' own guides. I reasoned that the clients could still do the day as planned and booked but without me. It was the only way out of the mess.

  I steeled my stomach, picked up the phone and explained my mistake, then offered to come over with details of the visits, maps and a guidebook to give the context to the visits that I would have done with them if I had been there on the day.

  For the following hours I was consumed by my mistake.

  'What's wrong, Toots?' asked my mum. 'You seem distracted.'

  'Oh, Mum, I made a double booking. It's a bit of a disaster.'

  'Oh, Toots, darling! I'm so sorry. You're so busy and all our guests have made things even more hectic for you.'

  'No, Mum. It's a stupid mistake. I shouldn't have made it in the first place and in the second I should have picked it up ages ago.'

  'Is there anything I can do?' said Mum.

  'I need to sort it out myself… Actually, since I'll be out this evening perhaps you could do dinner?' I said.

  'Of course,' said Mum.

  'Thanks, Mum. Sorry to rope you into work on your holiday, especially when you're not feeling so good.'

  Mum had been setting tables, washing linen, emptying my dishwasher in the tasting room, sewing buttons and helping in every direction. I had kept some days clear but we also needed to keep the revenue coming in. We had created a monster that needed constant feeding, loans, bottling costs, social charges, laboratory fees; a never-ending torrent that needed to be paid, and if we weren't actively working it wasn't.

  'It's nothing. We're worried about you, Toots. You work so hard. There seems to be no end to your days. We see you working at six in the morning and eleven at night. We don't want you to get burnout.'

  'He he,' I laughed nervously. 'It's better than being worried that we aren't getting the business. I know how hard it was to get the ball rolling in the first place.'

  That evening I took a gift bottle of our methode traditionelle sparkling wine and a profusion of apologies and explained the itinerary in detail. I offered my pocket guides that went with the day and refunded the deposit in full. The clients tried to be understanding but their disappointment was obvious.

  I needed to get a grip. I went through all my reservations with a fine toothcomb to be sure that I hadn't repeated the error. I hadn't but it didn't console me much. Managing the comings and goings in the accommodation, visits on the farm and beyond, and holding down the administration and marketing of our wine business at the same time as trying to be a wife, mother and daughter had me swamped.

  Mum and Dad and their friends left, and the season spun into high gear. All my waking hours were consumed with work. My nightmares about dying continued and if a nightmare didn't wake me then a feverish hot sweat did. With the lack of sleep I felt like I couldn't cope and my temper flared at almost nothing. I put it down to the stress of the growing business and resolved to have an apprentice in place before the start of the following season.

  CHAPTER 7

  MOTHERING AND MEMORY

  With high summer I took cold showers. They left me feeling awake and alive. My sister Foo sent intermittent updates about the progress of her husband Wade. A court case was brewing but it looked like it would take years. Foo posted bail and Wade was able to live a 'normal' life but the case was looming like a sword of Damocles over his head. Weeks turned into months. As summer drew to a close and autumn took hold, I felt grateful getting into a hot shower. It was a gift of energy that something and someone had to generate. Like a car and a phone, it was a luxury, not a right.

  I found a natural sleeping remedy at my local pharmacy. It helped a little but I was still depressed, tired and irritable.

  'I don't know what is wrong with me,' I said to Seán. 'I've been so ratty lately. I'm not sleeping well.'

  He looked at me knowingly, as if to say, 'You think we hadn't noticed?'

  'Maybe it's menopause,' he said. 'You should look it up on the internet.'

  I did a search and found that the symptoms I had been feeling for almost a year were signs that I was in 'perimenopause', the phase before menopause that could last years. Perimenopause created physical and emotional imbalance due to hormonal changes. The joyful list included hot flushes, irritability, depression, disturbed sleep, loss of libido, incontinence, weight gain, tension, anxiety, hair loss, memory lapses, irregular heartbeat, thoughts of suicide, dreams of dying and more. Longer-term problems that resulted from it included osteoporosis. Almost all the glorious signs had manifested in me.

  Since the start of menstruation I had wished it would end; now I wished it wouldn't. Thirty years before when it started, I thought I was dying. It was a time when we didn't talk about things like sex and menstruation. The day my period struck I was out with my dad. No matter how serious I thought it was, I would never have talked to my dad about bleeding in my fanny. I stuffed toilet paper into my undies and prayed that I wouldn't die. When I got home – fortunately still alive – I told my mum about the bleeding and she delved into the medicine cupboard. That the sanitary pads came from the place she went when we were sick served to confirm my hunch that it was a bad omen for my health. Before she could explain anything my mum was called away. Foo was home from boarding school for the weekend and explained what it was, along with her girls-onlyboarding-school version of the birds and the bees.

  With this new phase I felt a little like I h
ad when menstruation started. Why had no one told me about it? My menopause journey was relatively early on the bell curve of womankind, like my menstruation had been. My sister hadn't been through menopause yet even though she was older than me; neither had most of my friends. I had heard about hot flushes – usually spoken of with a nervous laugh – but I hadn't heard about the monster that had taken hold of me.

  The perimenopause had me so depressed and stressed I considered all manner of ways of getting away from the infernal pressure, even thinking I would be better off in jail away from the stress of my life or in one of our vats filled with carbon dioxide, in the peace of that long goodnight.

  Now I knew there was a reason for my strange behaviour that went beyond stress. With that knowledge I could do things to help myself cope. Top of the list were exercise, eating healthily and limiting alcohol intake. With the manic schedule required by our growing business, I had let my usual running routine fall by the wayside. I was walking to school with my daughters but that wasn't enough. I needed to exercise more. Many websites suggested yoga. A friend offered to take me to her yoga class. I tried it and enjoyed it but it was too far and too time-consuming. I couldn't afford to take a whole morning out of my schedule. The yoga idea slipped away but we ate healthily and I stopped drinking coffee. I laughed at a quote sent by a friend, 'It doesn't matter if the glass is half full or half empty – there is always room for more wine', but I cut back all the same, realising the hot flushes were worse after a couple of glasses.