carol's kitchen

Friday, August 24, 2007

gratitude

Once, if I remember well, my life was a feast
where all hearts opened and all wines flowed…

So begins Arthur Rimbaud’s masterpiece, A Season in Hell. Of course Rimbaud’s magnificent metaphor refers to his infancy; all that good stuff ended, as the title indicates, as soon as he grew up. And while I know things can’t go on like this forever, I’m like a joyful child; the image of Rimbaud’s time of feasting & drinking is how I look upon my journey in France.

How did I get here? Again, as he did last year, my Swiss friend Michel, a troubadour á lá Georges Brassans, offered me his house in Provence; a generous gesture that would have been unpardonably ungrateful of me to refuse. And so, difficult as it was to leave West Hollywood for the South of France, I packed my bags.

As soon as I buckled down for the nine and a half hour Air France flight to Paris the steward showed up with champagne. I was not in first class or business; alas, I flew economy, but that’s the French for you. Cheers! The meal was tasty: shrimp salad, chicken stew & vegetables, a ripe camembert, small bottle of good red wine, light chocolate mousse… omens of things to come. Time passed quickly.

The high-speed TGV train from Paris Charles de Gaulle airport to Avignon passed through lush countryside of fields, forests & blue skies. My rental car, a perky Fiat Punto, was ready & as soon as I got the hang of the gear shift & tuned in to a talk-radio station, I took off like the breeze, winding my way through narrow picturesque back roads to the tiny medieval village of Meynes where I will reside for the next two months.

I climbed the 12 steep steps of my ancient stone house, built in 1615, turned the key in the creaking wooden door, & stepped into a cool, spacious room of hand carved stone blocks & massive wood beams with a huge fireplace & gently-aged antique wooden chairs & tables. Just as I started to wonder how to get my luggage up those cruel stairs a neighbor passed by & carried them up for me.

In the kitchen I found provisions laid on by my thoughtful host: onions, tomatoes, eggs, coffee, a bit of butter, a bottle of milk, a bottle of red wine & a variety of staples. Freshly ironed sheets for my bed, a stack of clean towels, plentiful hot water, a good shower and a toilet that flushes: the Queen of France could not have asked for more.

There’s not much going on in Meynes, which is one of the reasons I love it. We get no tourists, no traffic, no noise, no problems; the glistening stone village sits on a hill in the midst of sun-drenched vineyards & olive groves; it is quiet, peaceful & calm. We have a bakery, fruit & vegetable shop, pharmacy, beauty parlor, post office, tabac, & a pizzeria with two tables.
There is also a café but it is an unsavory place where a few grizzled types drink beer or pastis all day & fill the room with thick cigarette smoke while staring glassy-eyed at the TV over the bar. Not for the likes of yours truly.

Each Wednesday morning two local farmers & a fish monger show up with their trucks of provisions to meet the needs of the housewives of Meynes.

Kids chase each other & ride in circles on their bikes. Old men whose expressions testify they’ve seen it all sit on stone benches beside the fountain near the mayor’s office in the center of town and take in the scene.

Few cars pass through the narrow, winding cobblestone lanes inside the crumbling village where my house stands, built into the hillside, next to the ancient church. The air is so pure I can actually breathe; everywhere the aromatic scent of rosemary & thyme. The water is sweet, food is great, wine the best; friendly people, luminous countryside, the most wonderful & varied I’ve ever seen; I look forward to crossing the bridges of Avignon & the Pont du Gard, visiting the Roman arena in Nimes, exploring the stark landscape of Les Baux-de-Provence, the shops in St. Remy-en-Provence, the undulating fields of heavenly lavender...

My life is simple: I have no TV, radio, internet; I don’t know what’s going on the world beyond my sleepy little village. The weather is fine. I water the garden each evening. I’m happy. My life is a feast where all hearts are open & all wines flow, & I’m grateful for every moment of it.
I’ve been invited to a party on Saturday night. My young swain will be there & the games will begin. But I won’t tell you anything more about that.

Saturday, August 11, 2007

On My Mind… on Food, France, Fat, & Fashionable Phrases

This morning I stepped on my scale & found myself 2 pounds heavier than I was yesterday. My friend Marcie took me out to my favorite Thai restaurant last night & we ate like maniacs. I know I’ll return to normal in a day or so, but I do get a little neurotic about it. I want to arrive in France skinny so I can really go crazy.

Don’t worry, I’m no anorexic or anything like that. Au contraire. In France I eat bread every day, croissants, baguettes, brioches, pain paysan, pain complét, you name it, smeared with butter, cheese, jam, paté, ham; anything I darn please, because it’s too good to deny myself that pleasure; & for me eating is a great pleasure.

Most people in this country don’t know how to eat; you have to search hard for good food, fresh food, prepared well, while in France it’s in every home. French kids grow up knowing what good food is and that’s why they demand it when they eat out. Our kids grow up eating junk; they suffer from obesity & grow up into unhealthy adults. When they go out they eat & drink garbage.

Okay, I’m generalizing, but it’s true.

Not only don’t we know how to eat in this country we don’t know how to speak either. But what else can be expected of a people who elect an ineloquent, inarticulate, bumbling word-fumbler as their leader? (…who served hamburgers & hotdogs to the Prime minister of France when he came to visit.)

No doubt the French have their little clichés, silly phrases & overused words, but frankly, I’m fed up with my own country where every other word out of people’s mouths these days is “amazing,” and “awesome.” I’m tired of hearing it. I promise if anyone uses those words in front of me I will leave the room. I’m certain the people who say those words in every sentence they utter have never been amazed or awed by anything.

When overused, words lose their meaning. On the food channel, the so-called chefs, most of whom are nothing but culinary entertainers, describe everything they do as “perfect.” What’s wrong with calling something delicious? Or tasty? Or just plain good?

And what about ‘yum?’ I can’t bear to hear ‘yum’ or ‘yummie’ out of the mouth of anyone over the age of 3. And why must everything be caramelized? Is sweet the only flavor we enjoy in this country?

I used to love the Food Channel but now I hate it. The way that whacky fat lady from the south talks makes me sick. It’s painful to listen to her hideous cackle & screech. Both she & Sandra Lee, who looks & acts like a drunken hooker, talk to us as though we were small children. No, small children would be insulted by that kind of condescension. The Food Channel has degenerated to lower than the lowest common denominator.

And why do we need to listen to a female robot telling us we may leave a message at the tone, and that after we’ve left our message we may hang up? Don’t we all know that? Is there anyone who doesn’t? How many times a day do you hear that? Have you learned yet?

And when will NPR finally get rid of Garrison Kieler. Please! How does that man get away with it? Why must we listen to him all week-end long? He’s endless. Just when you think his show is over it’s not. Why does the audience applaud as though he had said something important or meaningful? Who gave him the right to sing?

I think the news announcer on KFI AM radio, Terry Rae Ulmer, should be shot. The woman doesn’t know how to speak & talks like she doesn’t understand a word she’s saying. She sounds like a speeding train wreck. And all the men who talk on that station have such high-pitched, irritating voices if makes dogs howl. And their so-called music, like helicopters colliding, is so hideous there aught to be a law against it. They do it intentionally to make us feel crazy.

I never watch network news. I abhor the chumminess & affectations of the bad actors who chat together on a set, pretending to be real people. What relevance has any of that to anything?

While I’m at it, why are all the cars so big? This is a city; not the country. Do people need to drive trucks & monster SUV’s to the gym & supermarket? I see tiny girls behind the wheels of great big vehicles pulling into spots at the post office. For what? What loads do they carry that they need haul so much tonnage around with them everywhere?

What I love is Shaquille O’Neil’s weekly TV show, Shaq’s Big Challenge, which documents the work he’s doing to fight childhood obesity. Shaq chose six morbidly obese kids in Dade county Florida, and has committed to help them lose weight, get healthy, and change their lives. He is a hero to those kids & to me too.

I choke up when I watch him working with those kids. Nothing condescending or inarticulate about that man. Even when he’s stern with them there is nothing but love in his eyes. The heart does not lie.

Not only does he challenge & motivate the kids on the show, he is actually changing phys-ed requirements in schools, and improving options in cafeterias and vending machines in the whole state of Florida. And this is just the first step in his nationwide quest to conquer childhood obesity. Maybe Shaq should be president.

Whew! I had few things to get off my chest. At least I didn’t yell & scream about my book that still needs to be published…

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Wednesday, August 01, 2007

notches

I recently read a newspaper report that, after exhaustive studies interviewing thousands of subjects, researchers have compiled 237 reasons why people have sex. I read the top ten, scanned a few more, & was surprised to discover something missing.

I remember well, during my frequent visits to swinging London in the 70’s, the most popular reason why people had sex was to add notches to their belt; the more the merrier. After the birth-control pill became freely available, everyone I knew, & many I didn’t, went at it like there was no tomorrow without giving a second thought to unwanted pregnancy or disease. It was like living in the Garden of Eden all over again.

I recall observing people meeting at parties &, within minutes, looking for a closet or an upstairs bedroom, or dark corner to get down to it; standing, sitting, lying down, in pairs, in groups. It was how people said hello in those days; and it was a numbers game. Of course this behavior is surely still going on now, but evidently it’s not one of the top reasons.

The article did not mention the fact that the research tells us nothing about human nature, only about current ideas & practices. People nowadays, if we’re to believe the report, are more interested in getting & giving affection, which was the last thing on the minds of those maniacs humping away on the carpet behind the sofa.

It was about adding feathers in ones cap, the experience; often anonymous, most of the time never to be repeated. “Hello, I love you,” was the theme of one of London’s hip, swingers, Jim Haynes, who went around the world fucking everyone he met.

It must mean things have changed. And if they have they’ll change again. I wonder what’s coming next?

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