Hell hath no fury (wasps and plums)

It’s wasp season at Maffay, all because we were not able to pick the perfect red plums due to sheetrock duties. Next year, we will remember to pick the plums before the wasps get to them. Gabriel was stung on his ear on Sunday, which was good because we discovered to our great pleasure that he’s not allergic, and then I got stung and rediscovered the next day (today) that I am still allergic. But the story has a happy ending: FG and Izzy called and talked me through making wasp traps, and we actually made some even simpler ones out of yogurt containers, soapy water and honey, and in the mobile home alone today, have offed over 50 wasps. As for the plums: only three jars of jam were made, but M. Roullier père brought over a huge jar of wild plum jam, after having picked 7kg with Hélène, which will be gone in about three days because it is really that good. So much for saving up for winter.

La gnol

Post more pictures, Aunty Izzy and Tiny Mo say, we want to see Maffay (they’re coming at the end of August and are bringing the little baby in Aunty Izzy’s tummy!). Put up some sheetrock, says my conscience. So here quickly are some belated pictures of a delightful party down the road to the south, at our friends Cathia and Micha’s, with Cyril and, later, Aurélie, and Quentin, Noémie, Dorine and Gabriel. And Coca the donkey and Pitchoune the dog who watched us with bemusement.

It started out as an occasion to celebrate Micha/Romain’s boat license, and we began tasting some Coteaux de l’Aubance. And then Cathia graciously said that it would be fine if Willy stopped by to join us (had to run to Montreuil sur Ille to pick him up from the train, he was staying one last night in Maffay before taking off for England for two months). And then, there was Gros Manseng (because we had to compare it with the wine from the Loire) and then a nice red wine with dinner and then, we decided that we should go get Aurélie next door and so we went and managed to toss pebbles at her windows without A. breaking them or B. waking up M+H, and that was good, then Cathia kept coming out from the back room with fruits stewed in gnol, which is applejack but made right here. In separate jars, there were raspberries, little plums, cherries, pears, coffee beans, and many other things but I forget what, i think about this point the kids went to bed, and then Willy and Cyril put the collective honor of Martinique and Feins on the line in a contest in which they tasted the various bottles, and no one really lost, but Micha did say a few days later, that he had pain in his abs from laughing so much.

Willy went to sleep in the little green roulotte d’amis, and woke up the next morning in time to eat some pancakes, and then to eat some Feins chicken and stop by and say goodbye to our friends in the Southlands at La Chevrolais before running off to the train with a jar of sirop de sureau in his bag.

Come back soon Willy.

About the goats

It probably started with a conversation with Carolyn about goats and their creepy eyes, which we were possibly willing to put up with only out of our sheer love for goat cheese. Or maybe it was going to Jenny’s house in Bayfield and seeing her goat-cheese feta, and how healthy and happy her kids looked, because, she said, they drink fresh goat milk every day. In the order of time it is unclear which came first, but with Carolyn we’ve had plans for many years to start a little farm, raise sheep for the milk and and the fur which we would sometimes knit, sometimes use to insulate various outbuildings, and live in complete eco-terrorist harmony with nature (leaving Rich his motorcycle shop in the garage). Then, there was the Fête du village and at our table under the influence of a bottomless bottle of rosé, with our neighbors from the south we started talking about where to find good food around here – and the topic of goats came up. And Annick told me about a goat farmer over the hill by the lake, and plans were made to start a goat cheese cooperative, and Dominique is already lined up for the 5am milking, Annick is in charge of distribution, Cathia will sell at markets, and i think i promised to be in charge of making the cheese.

So in the next week, after recuperating from the excess of rosé, with Gabriel we went up and found the goat farm. And brought some bottles, and got some warm milk, and the wife of the farmer lent us some cheese forms, gave us some tips, and we rode home and tried making cheese. It’s very easy to do, but very difficult to do well. You take the milk, still warm from the goat, mix in a drop of présure per liter, let it sit 24 hours, then put the curds into the cheese forms, and let them sit, and then take them out and salt them and turn them and let them sit some more. It’s much easier than going to the supermarket to buy cheese, and the perfect occupation for lazy people like myself who like hands-off gourmandise.

And the first batch was almost a Selles-sur-Cher, really, made with apple cider vinegar instead of présure, because it hadn’t arrived at the pharmacie yet. The second and third batches were a stiff sort of saltless feta, like really hard tofu that smelled like goats, and it was ok on salad and i managed to sneak it into quesadillas without much protest on Gabriel’s behalf: the mistake was too much présure. Two months later, we’re getting the hang of it, and our little cheeses mature in the cool stone walls of the real house, in a little garde-manger that we found at the store that sells everything, Marchand in Montreuil sur Ille (where they said they’d sell our cheese, if it was any good).

We’ll take some pictures of the goats soon, they’re really lovely animals and are always smiling.

We are not goat owners, yet, though.

Suspended ceiling

Looking down the stairwell, before we put in the guardrails.

The finished side, before the electrical housings are threaded in behind the rafters, and before the insulating Deltareflex aluminum layer is stapled on.

The skylights before Jean-Luc put up his special open windowframes.

The UM Grizzlies cap, always a good choice to protect the hair from sheetrock filaments.

In at least two senses of the word: suspended in time, because there was a hang time for a long while with our ceiling, where there was work in other places to finish before attacking the summit of our little house, and suspended because the system of rafters (©Clow/Hingamp) is a second skin for the roof, quite similar to the way that Brunelleschi made his Duomo. On a much simpler scale of course, here at Maffay. The collective input on the ceiling as it takes shape has required the creativity and labor of most of the neighborhood and Quebriac too: Gaël and Romain for the skylights, Rich and Simon for the design of the entire structure and its little breathing eyes, and tiny Carolina for flitting among the rafters to put up the first layers of insulation, Simon and Olivier for a consultation about ideas for making it even tighter, and recommandations for stainless steel staples, M. Yves for the first guardrail and a solution for covering the stairwell, Fabrice for the opening for the future chimney, Pierre-Yves for motivation and the horrible messy work of the second layer of insulation, Sandra for motivation and support and more of the same horribly prickly insulation work, Romain for cutting pegs on a Saturday morning, Jean-Luc who devised a beautiful system for skylight boxes that are sloped out to let in more light, and Gabriel and the kittens who have gamely trucked up the stairs every night to sleep under the project as it continues.

We’re almost there, a few more layers of insulation, a few more pegs, a few more rafters, and it will be ready to (sheet) rock.

More pictures to come.

Dernier jour de l’école

C’était le 7 juillet, et Gabriel, Noémie et Dorine ont dit au revoir à Mathieu pour le revoir en septembre en guise de CPiens. Quentin est venu aussi faire coucou à son ancienne maîtresse Christine, qui part pour le nord Combourgeois, quittant Feins.

Mais Mathieu, le maître qui a fait évoluer la classe de GS/CP 2007-08 à Feins vers une chorale d’enfants/maison de production de disques (Badoum Badoum, Casse-bonbon et Sarah la Ponette sont désormais les vedettes de tous les lecteurs-cds dans les landes des châteaux), Mathieu le maître guitariste et arrangeur grammaticale et mathématique de nos grands enfants, va rester. Et les apprendre à lire et jardiner et faire ma comptabilité, je l’espère très fort.

Ensuite nous sommes rentrés à la maison où l’EDF (la Déesse, comme dit Gabriel) était en train de nous poser un boîtier sur la route pour que la maison soit allumée par la fée électricité. Pierre-Yves lui a donné un bulldozer pour fêter le dernier jour à l’école et la société de travaux publics de Gabriel a vu s’étoffer son offre en routes et ponts dans le pile de sable devant la maison.

14 juillet

In memoriam, PG and PV.

Cipriano Armenteros

Yes, we have another new cat. This one is Pif’s second son, the strange puzzle-printed animalito who i discovered one morning in early May at Malin/Simon/Anton/Klara’s house. Let me anticipate your questions:

1. You’re not a cat person. You live in a mobile home with a gargantuan six year old with a penchant for mud and general disorder. Your parents are horribly allergic to cats. You’ve said in the past that you think cats are “bitchy” and standoffish.

Yes, all this is true. Did you read the post back in May about finding the mice babies in the compost heap? Also, Sandra said tonight that she found various parts of a rat in the back of the manor. Cats are many things, but my love of cats is inversely proportional to my dislike of rats.

2. What is his name?

Cipriano Armenteros, from the perfect Rubén Blades song of the same name. Buy the album Caminando and listen to it over and over. He’s an honorable bandolero, and little Cip has already distinguished himself for his bravery, hissing blithely in the face of Machin, and bears his white standard nobly on his chest.

3. Are they driving you crazy?

Yes, half of the time, when they’re not asleep, which is kind of the same way i feel about kids. This is karmic retribution for all the sibling rivalries i had with Izzy growing up – i find myself saying, why do you have to be so mean to one another? can’t you just get along? And Cip, who is very verbal, yowls and scratches some more with Max, i consider googling the french translation of ASPA. They’ve started getting along now, which means that one of them will start licking the other one All Over, and i wonder at times if i should tell Gabriel not to watch this until he turns 18 or so, unsure of the age limit for watching homoerotic kitty porn. Then I send them all outside to play in the dirt.

4. Is this one of those strange Freudian scenarios where you’re substituting cats for children/boyfriend?

Yes probably, but they do eat much less, and do not pee on the toilet seats: and, one day, they will eat rats. How many women can say that of their child/lover?

5. Are you going to turn into one of those crazy cat ladies with 600 cats in your house, covered in cat hair and reeking of cat spray?

No. Both boys will become neutered Its at six months old, we are not engaging in any reproductive experiences here at Maffay, and they really will be outside cats, because we have work here on the house for which the collective experience of Grandpas and Grammas is required. However, we might get a goat or two… (to be continued).

Lucky star

Un mot en français pour changer, point de repère pour un évènement extraordinaire… je suis allée jusqu’au centre de la France mercredi dernier pour un rendez-vous professionnel, et suis arrivée avant l’heure, voulant me poser après la route, recharger les batteries de l’ordinateur portable et préparer encore un peu pour la réunion qui ensuivait. Sur la route jouxtant le lieu où se tenait mon rendez-vous, je suis entrée dans un ‘resto rapide’, un de ces petits trous dans le mur, traduction malécoutante du ricain dans le texte, de tendance vietnamienne avec les portes grandes ouvertes sur rue. A l’intérieur, des tables fondaient dans l’obscurité. Et soudain, sur le pas de la porte, je me fais saluer par une de mes meilleures amies au monde, mamzelle Nicky, celle qui a revue notre maison et y a amené la lumière – elle-même venue à la capitale berrichone pour un rendez-vous le matin. Nous nous retrouvions là sans savoir ni l’une ni l’autre qu’on était dans la même ville le même jour, la même heure, le même restaurant.  Elle m’a fait partager son thé au jasmin en essayant de me calmer (‘ne parle pas trop rapidement’) et nous avons refait une photo que nous avons déjà pris sur le pont de Brooklyn au cœur d’un décembre verglacé quelques années auparavant. Que c’est bon de boire un thé avec une amie par surprise, dans une ville inconnue, dans le resto de bonheur, manger des rouleaux de printemps en été. Le propriétaire nous a dit que nos retrouvailles nous porteront chance. On refera la pose de cette photo autour du monde dans les années qui vient, car il y a toujours besoin d’un peu de chance par-ci, et par là-bas. Au cœur vaillant, rien n’est impossible (c’est Jacques qu’à dit). Bisous à ma Nicky!

(a really extraordinary thing happened: last week i went to the heart of france for work, and walked into a restaurant, and at a table by the door, happened on my very dear friend Nicky, who was in Bourges for a meeting of her own that morning – and neither of us knew we would be there, in that day, in that town, that restaurant. She shared her cup of jasmine tea with me, soothed me and told me not to talk too fast as i prepared for my meeting, and we took this picture, the same pose that we shot a few years back on the Brooklyn Bridge on an icy December night. the owner of the restaurant said that our meeting in his restaurant would bring us luck; Madame Mekhtoub and i will have to take this same picture, in the years to come, all around the world. hugs to our wonderful Nicky!)

Fête de l’école

The end of the year party at school, this weekend. Everyone sang, some louder than others, mostly everyone ate slow-roasted pork stuffed with a dried fruit filling, some shot at things, one did not win the truck he hoped to win, and everyone had their faces painted, some by rain, all by sun, and a lucky few, like tigers.

Dorine and Noémie/Doémie and Norine were behind a pole so I didn’t get any pictures of them but really, Gabriel’s favorite twins do exist and pictures are coming soon.