Autumn Colours
It is the first week of winter and the vast oak forests of the Quercy are scarlet, golden and green, almost too beautiful to bear. In sharp contrast the vines are now completely naked and shivering in the cold winds, they’ve been severely pruned and appear as no more than dark shadows of their sexy summer selves.
The markets have shrunk to the core and the few local stallholders do a roaring trade. One of my favourites is a gentleman with a good line in patter. He woos the good Cadurciennes by addressing them as ‘jeune mademoiselle’, even when they’re pushing ninety – actually, especially when they’re pushing ninety. He juggles cabbages with breathtaking skill, a chou vert (Savoy), a chou rouge (red) and a chou fleur (cauliflower), perfections are pointed out, then all are up in the air and up for grabs. The ladies are dazzled and fumble about in their purses for the required coinage. Meanwhile he compliments their dress, admires their eyes and kisses his fingers in rapture. They giggle like a gaggle of schoolgirls and bashfully extend a modest acknowledgement, then lower their eyes and scuttle off as if they’ve just done something quite outrageous and will have to go to confession immediately to get it off their chests. It’s all thoroughly enjoyable, and unlike a fair this gentleman isn’t selling tat at exorbitant prices. It’s good wholesome stuff, grown on his own farm, all three vegetables for less than the price of a town centre café crème. If you’re a regular you don’t take part in this pantomime, you get the best, still stacked in the vast pile of crates at the back. I have been awarded this distinction now, and feel a ridiculous glow of pride as he roots out the largest cabbages, and the whitest cauliflowers, throwing in a couple of beautiful, damp leeks. He starts a soliloquy to my cherry lips – while he’s head down in the bucket of parsley – and then remembers he did that one last week. We both grin, and I head off to the café for a shot of caffeine and some semblance of normality.
Oysters
The shops are stuffed with produce now too, and the delectable delights of the festive season stretch before us. The blackest of our rich dark wines, truffles, foie gras and numerous beribboned boxes of chocolates dance before the eyes, a visual delight. Foremost amongst the essentials, however, are oysters from the Atlantic ports. Of course they can only be bought a week or so in advance, but the limbering up process is already well underway, and every café, bistro and restaurant has them on the menu. Did you know you have to wait a couple of days, at least, for the flavour to develop? Neither did I, my waiter told me. They’re served raw in this café, and the staff always seem terribly keen to press them on me – with many a nudge and a wink – I’m not a great hand with raw oysters, they never seem to glide elegantly down my throat as they’re supposed to, rather I find myself with a mouthful of salty chewing-gum. I do accept that they’re an acquired taste, and I’m practising – I haven’t got much choice – but I’m not acquiring it as fast as I’d like!
Geese
Out in the countryside the geese are already hugely fat, and you’re quite likely to come across a few in scattered farms while out for your morning constitutional. I jumped half way from here to Puy L’Eveque the other day. I was wandering down a rocky forest path, half a mind elsewhere as usual, when a sudden and tremendous honking lifted me off my feet and deposited me among the juniper. Four enormous geese, at the outlying gate of an old farm, were laughing their heads off.
It’s definitely goose for Christmas lunch.
© Amanda Lawrence 2006
