A quiet afternoon in. The first quiet afternoon in weeks, as we’ve had a run of visitors this summer and lots of wine tastings, dinners, lunches and a trip to London even. So I thought it was about time to catch up on things.
I had photos from all sources: my old camera went on the blink a couple of months ago and I’ve been begging and borrowing cameras and phones from all parts. Then it was my birthday last month and I was treated to a new one (it was a ‘big’ birthday I’ll admit).
So anyway, here I was full of shots to download, ready and keen at the keyboard and then things started going WRONG!
To cut a whole (RRRRrrrrrrrrrr) afternoon’s story short: internet forums and friends on the phone come in handy!!! It’s amazing how much you learn when you stuff up (and isn’t it great when you re-experience the relevance of a cliche!! ).
So what you see above isn’t a quickie promotion for a brand , but my test picture to help try and retrieve, amongst other problems, my ‘lost’ photos during a hugely sweaty and stressy experience. So sorry for the plug – it just seemed appropriate to expose the culprit of my afternoon’s angst.
Scene – The kitchen, somewhere in rural France. Table set for lunch, wine open and salad ready for tossing
‘Who wants an egg, and how do they want it ?’ I shout over the vigorous conversation of the happy crew who are finishing off the last of their aperos and picking what’s left of the olives out of the bowl.
Orders are noted – soft, almost hard, soft – and I place the six eggs in the pot of water, place it on the stove and light the gas.
‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING ???!!!!???’
‘I’m making the eggs,’ I reply calmly, blowing out the match.
‘You’re What ??!??? You do NOT boil eggs like that. They need to be placed AFTER the water has boiled!!’
‘But (I say, hand on aproned hip, beginning to think that this coversation could take some time) I’ve always boiled eggs like that and we’ve always enjoyed them .’
‘No I do not think so. Like I said, that is NOT how you boil an egg. You can never boil an egg like that. It must be placed in the water only after it is boiling and then you must time it!’
At which point family member no. 2 adds :
‘Oh yes, that is the ONLY way to ever make an egg. It is nonsense to try it any other way. I have never heard of boiling an egg in this way.’
Okay, so I’m outnumbered in my own home.
‘What is all this about ?’ enquires family member no. 3.
‘Why can’t she just make an egg how she wants to ? …Actually, I must say that I haven’t ever heard of this method myself, but maybe it could work ?… We could give it a try ?…’
‘You really believe that ??!!!!???? But surely you are not being honest ! You have never seen eggs made like that, why would you say it is okay ??!!??’
Glad to have the vote of confidence, I soldier on with my defence that I’ve always done it this way, place the eggs in the water, bring it to boil and continue boiling for 3-10 minutes, depending on how soft-hard you want the egg, and that it’s always been successful.
But I don’t think I’m being heard. The conversation has turned up a notch and way past my comprehension.
Full-scale war you could say. And the time is 12.17pm.
It’s all on, men vs women and I’ve turned off the gas.
Family member 3 seems to be continuing valiantly in my defence but I’ve completely lost track of the ‘discours’ and am losing interest in the eggs. If they want eggs, they’re welcome to it. I’m not cooking them.
Suddenly the noise has lowered and family member no 1 is firing up the stove and asking how everyone wants their eggs.
Would I like a glass of red ?, family member no 2 gaily asks me ?
this amazing collection of colour is actually the floor of every room in our neighbours’ house
Actually, our neighbours probably DO think I’m bonkers as I’ve taken photos of their floor tiles too!
But really, it’s not just any old tiles – their house is full to the skirting boards of the most beautiful ‘carreaux ciment’.
These highly decorative cement tiles (also known as hydraulic tiles), along with terracotta tiles, are an extremely common form of floor covering here and the colours can be magnificent.
They are thought to have been first produced in Viviers, in the South of France, in the mid 19th century and you can see that it’s an incredibly hard-wearing floor when you think most of the houses around here still have the original tiles. And they’re wonderfully cool under the feet in summer. No wonder you see all the dogs and cats in their village residences sprawled out on them. Just be sure you don’t have shaky fingers, the morning after a big dinner party, with a favourite breakfast bowl…
On moving in to their home, our neighbour friends found a load of tile spares and cleverly laid them in the VIP room.
a work of art in the WC (in our house we call that a ‘loo’)
Mmmn, nothing like the flavour of the first fruits hand-picked from your own tree.
Lilas was thrilled to get out there and collect these three apricots herself (note boots for the summer heat) and they were delicious.
Since renting a house in Adelaide many years ago that had a huge apricot tree in the middle of the backyard, I’ve always dreamt of planting our own ‘abricotier’ (apricot tree). We’d go down the back to feed the chooks and guinea fowl and pick a few ripe, sweet apricots on the way through. What luxury.
Even though our tree is still small, the concentration of flavour was incredible. And the ‘abricots’ went down very well with a chilled glass of Minervois muscat.
The Vigneron's Wife 