Blue & Smelly

After Elly came and broke me out of goat jail, we decided to take a good old fashioned American road trip to the cheese mecca of the entire country of France: Roquefort. I like to think that this pungent, difficult cheese is what separates the men from the boys in the world of cheese lovers. There's not a whole lot about Roquefort that's accessible or easy.

Roquefort is a protected region and the regulations about its production are strict and specific. The cheese can only be made and aged in the town of Roquefort, an area about 2 miles square. The sheep, from which come the delicious milk for the cheese, must be pastured on the mountainous land surrounding the town. The shepherds have formed a co-op for milk production, helping to organize the 2100 sheep farms, which each year contribute material for the 3 million cheeses produced in Roquefort.

The production of this famous cheese is a happy accident of geography. A fault line runs underneath the town and this has produced a network of underground caves which have steady, cold temperature...perfect for the ripening of large cheeses. Native to these caves is a very special bacteria called penicillium roqueforti. The bacteria is collected by putting under-baked loaves of bread in the caves and allowing the p. roqueforti to proliferate on it. It is then collected and inserted into the core of the cheese wheels and allowed to develop for several months.

And oh how tasty the result is. Having it directly from the source really changes the experience of eating it. First, the cheese was far more delicate and moist than varieties I'd had in the states. It was also far stronger than anything I'd ever tasted. It actually burned my nostrils as I exhaled, the same sensation as the few times I've had grappa or grain alcohol. To balance out this super strong flavor, we ate it with fresh figs, honey and mint. It was divine.

Photos from Le Bouquet

I have now officially added the term "goat herder" to my resume

The only escargot I'm likely to get here...

Daily cheese making.

Fresh milk each morning and evening

The little molds for fresh chevre

The Cat Ate My Quiche

I arrived last week at a new farm in a little town called La Caunette. Our new home, Le Bouquet, sits at the foot of the Pyranees, just a short drive from Narbonne and the beautiful beaches of Southern France. We had finally arrived at our destination for the trip: a goat dairy. Our host, Melissa, came to get us at the train station, greeting us with a kiss on both cheeks. I kid you not, her Bob Dylan fro actually had a caterpillar crawling in it; this woman was a true farmer.

Le Bouquet has a small herd of goats (about 30) that are milked twice per day and this is the mainstay of the business. Melissa inherited the farm from her parents and, amazingly, runs the whole operation by herself. She's a tough broad, and I gotta give her props for the huge amount of work that she manages all by her lonesome. It takes a lot of commitment to work a 12 hour day, 7 days a week and live by yourself with a herd of smelly goats. She really seems to enjoy it, and has managed to make a vital business from cheese-making.

My respect for her is the upside. The downside is that our relationship is characterized by mutual bafflement. I have never thought of myself as a particularly high-maintenance person, and since I started traveling and staying on farms, my expectations for daily comfort have drastically reduced. But somehow, I still seem to come across to this kind farmer as hopelessly posh. My daily shower was interpreted as extravagant. Heating milk for coffee in the morning is greeted with a raised eyebrow and a quick glance at the propane tank. I have never felt so bougeois in my entire life.

The entire WWOOF program is predicated on a basic agreement of three things:
1. You come and work
2. You are fed
3. You receive a place to sleep and bathe.
I have had no trouble with adapting to the lifestyle of my hosts...until now. We arrived on Monday and by Wednesday had eaten, literally, the same thing for every meal: the same loaf of bread, the same block of cheese, the same pot of plain, cold pasta, the same bowl of salad. Not that there's anything wrong with that...I just was in the mood for something, say, warm or perhaps, not pasta. Melissa went to the farmers' market on Wednesday morning to sell her cheese and left Elly and I in charge of making our own lunch. I got super resourceful and made a lovely quiche with whatever I could find; a bit of flour we found in the pantry, some leftover cheese from the evening before, a few eggs we had collected from the hen-house, a bit of mushroom and onion we scrounged from a bin and voila! delicious quiche.

Melissa came home and looked a little skeptical. I could see that she thought this was a bit of a production for an afternoon meal, but I was really ready to have something tasty and sat down to munch. I thought myself very clever to have made two so that we could have a bit for dinner as well and was congratulating myself for being so thrifty. It felt like a small victory. But I really had only won the battle not the war. This quickly became evident when I went into the kitchen post-lunch to clean up. On the counter was the bloody cat, hovering over my perfect, tasty, live-affirming quiche. She had eaten big bites out of the whole thing and I thought I might break into tears on the spot. Here's the thing about staying on farms: your whole world is reduced down into the most basic elements. You do not have movies or parties or social circles or any of the other things that make life so full and busy and rich from day to day. All you have is a full day of hard work and the promise of a bit of relaxing and eating in the evening. These basic elements take on a new meaning since they are literally ALL that you have to look forward to each day. So when that damned cat ate my quiche, I felt like someone had sucker-punched my new puppy.

And here's the real kicker: Bob Dylan served it for dinner anyway.

Aix Marks the Spot

Last weekend Elly and Jean-Hughes took a little holiday and I found myself alone in Aix. I got the chance to walk around in my underpants until 2PM drinking coffee, one of my favorite activities. A little rejuvenating solitude is always just the thing to restore my spirits.

The city of Aix-en-Provence is an old Roman town, originally a military station connecting the empire with the wilderness of Gaul. Everywhere you look there are Roman fountains, an old aqueduct, an underground catacomb. Laid on top of this structure is the provençal lifestyle with its simple, country cuisine, big markets and slow pace. The final layer of the town is newly acquired prosperity and chic facade: the stylish and attractive young people, the Dior shop on every corner and the white, modern restaurants. It seems like a resort town that could be in any number of Western countries, but there's a certain charm to the town...like a little layer cake of unique cuteness.

While Elly and Jean-Hughes were away I took an afternoon to wander around, and was swept up in the enchanting moment of being alone in Provence. I indulged my little girl fantasies of France one night by having a dinner of cheeses, foie gras, chocolate and pink wine while watching Sofia Coppola's Marie-Antoinette. After the movie was over, I went out to sit on the patio. Our apartment is on the top floor of an old building on a narrow street. From there I have a wonderful view of the neighbors, especially if I climb onto the tiled roof. It was like getting a bonus reel. One of my favorite past-times has always been to walk around neighborhoods at dusk. At this time of night people usually have their lights turned on but haven't yet closed their drapes, so you can peer into their private world. You see a couple making dinner, a woman talking on the phone and picking at her toes, or someone just sitting in front of the television. Usually people aren't doing anything terribly interesting, but there is a certain twilight calmness that I find in seeing these mundane moments. You also just get to see the insides of their houses or apartments. I'm always surprised by how many folks live with bare white walls...no posters, pictures or paint...just unadorned sheet rock. It's depressing, but an interesting peek into the mind of most of humanity. So as I was sitting on the little porch in Provence I was able to see the woman two floors down sitting at her computer, typing something, her lax face blue from the glow of the screen. I also saw a man in his Euro-brief undies hopping around on one foot trying to make dinner for himself. It's moments like these that make me delighted to be alone, to just watch and smile and not need to try communicating with anyone why something so insignificant as a nearly-naked and limping man brings me so much joy.

I also took a little adventure over the weekend to see an event called "Transhumance." In a small town called Eguilles, about 11 kilometers from Aix, they hold a yearly festival celebrating the moving of their sheep herds to summer pastures. The shepherds parade their flocks through the village, do some dancing, break some bread and get a blessing from the local priest. Apparently, this is fairly common practice in rural Europe. I arrived by bus on Sunday morning for the mass. I'll spare you the comedy-of-errors portion of the tale and just skip right to the details of the event. It was a traditional service, highlighted with music from the local "peasant" band: a group of people in head-scarves and vests who played flutes, drums and other rustic instruments. They brought one symbolic sheep inside for the mass and after communion the whole procession moved into the square where they joined the rest of the flock. The priest said a prayer for the health and safety of the sheep and sprinkled some holy water in their general direction. The ewes seemed a little freaked out and the music played on.

Overall, the event was nothing to write home about, but there was a moment during the mass that so clearly exemplified why I love being alone. I have to preface this by saying that I was raised deep in the church...going to church three times a week, marrying a youth pastor at 19, being exorcised twice kind of raising. My earlier anger and rebellion from this upbringing has mellowed, much to my surprise. What remains is a calm, soft place inside of myself that feels awe and mystery at very unexpected moments. I had such a moment at the church service for the sheep. The priest was transforming the communion. He took first the wafer and raised it to the heavens, concentrating and incanting. Then he took the cup of wine and did the same. After lifting both the wafer and the wine, this powerful, beautifully robed, old man bent his knees and bowed before the communion table. His posture when he knelt said that this kneeling was neither ritualistic nor obligatory. I have felt this same overwhelming moment before; when you kneel and prostrate yourself not because you have to but because you must. Your knees and head bow of their own accord in the face of an overwhelming feeling of smallness. This priest asked for a miracle, the miracle of turning a dry cracker and some cheap wine into something divine, and, even though he had done it thousands of times before, he still felt overwhelming awe.

I know many people who gravitate towards partnership for the magic that it affords even the most mundane moments. Drinking coffee each morning becomes an act of communion. Going to bed each night becomes a quiet, perfect moment for confession of the day's trials. I have felt this perfect peace in union. I also wonder why all of my moments of true transcendence are alone, why my feelings are amplified in the vacuum of solitude. Is this a paradox?

Fromagerie Tours

I may not have made this particularly clear until now, but the entire point of my travels in France is to learn the art of cheese making. While I was in Hawaii I fell in love with goats. There was a herd at my farm on the Big Island and my host taught me how to make basic fresh milk cheeses from the excess of our milkings each day. Perhaps it is my Aries nature, perhaps it's just their charming personalities, I'm not sure, but there is definitely something about goats that appeals to me. After Elly giggled through watching me milk one morning, we began to hatch a plan: go to the land of good cheese, stay on some farms and learn the art of making delicious French cheeses.

So now here I am in France for the summer. Our first farm happened to be on a winery (mostly because it came so highly recommended), but Elly and I told our hosts at Chateau Brandeau about our intentions for the trip, and they kindly set up some tours of local fromageries for us during our stay in Bordeaux. Last Sunday we went to the farm of their friend Regine. She has a small herd (70 goats) and handmakes her own cheese each day, mainly a fresh milk cheese in the Saint Marcellin style. Each day she and her husband milk the animals in the morning and then take them out to pasture for a few hours in the afternoon. Goats are very smart and easily trainable, so much so that they will stay within calling distance of their herder, not straying off and needing a fence or herding dogs to keep them close. Regine was trodging through the rain, leading her herd back into the barn when we arrived, and keeping dry under the most enormous umbrella I've ever seen. She said that she had sat under that huge umbrella the past few hours, calling to the goats every now and again to stay close, and reading a book in the soggy pasture.

Regine was also kind enough to show us her fromagerie (cheese making room) right off the kitchen in her chateau. We donned little disposable booties over our shoes, and, in half-French/half-English, she explained how she saves a little bit of the milk from the day before to start her culture, then forms the solidified curds into molds for the cheese. Most of her product is sold fresh the next day, but some she leaves to age in the cooler, maturing into a nutty, slightly firm disc of deliciousness after a month or so. In her cozy kitchen she let us sample different varieties, encouraging us to eat it with honey, sugar or jam. Some she had just made the day before and it was wonderfully creamy, with a little herby-freshness at the end.

The second fromagerie we visited was a less down-home and more modern. Fromagerie Van der Horst is a family operation which specializes in gouda. The patriarch is a Dutch immigrant who came to France in 1951 and started the business. He has passed down his recipes to his sons, who took over the operation in 1975. Unlike Regine, it is a cow's milk fromagerie and the Jersey girls were housed in a barn right next door to the tasting room.

Elly and showed up in the morning for our tour and were greeted by a very nice lady with absolutely no English. We know enough to get by in most situations, but this lady had us stumped. I thought that she was asking us "Ou est-que vous livre?" which in my head sounded something like "Where is your book?" This did not strike me as a question at all relevant to the situation, and Elly decided to reply that we were from Chateau Brandeau. This did the trick and we were introduced to a lady whose name sounds a whole lot like "livre." (Upon returning to Chateau Brandeau we asked Fearn and Andrea how to say this lady's name, but, though they both had met her several times, neither of them could pronounce it either; this made me feel like slightly less of an idiot.)

So "Livre" gave us some sanitary white clogs and took us into the big, state-of-the-art cheese making room to show us the ropes. She had taken milk from that morning (700 litres!), put it into a huge stainless steel vat and added a culture that made the milk separate into curds and whey. After a whole lot of mixing, the curds started to form up and she carefully and slowly drained and separated the solids from the vat. The next step was to transfer the curds into molds and press even more liquid out with a giant lever. Then the wheels were dipped into a brine bath to form the rind and allowed to age.

The cheese cave was a sight to behold: rows and rows of gouda wheels drying and aging to perfection. They were all sitting there, molding on the outside, but turning delicious and creamy on the inside. It was all dark and cool and peaceful and smelled heavenly. It was like a cheese sanctuary with mediating gouda wheels. Most of the cheese is sold after 3 weeks, but there are some varieties that are allowed to age for 3 or 6 months. The six month cheese was pure nirvana, nutty and full.

Elly and I bought a sampler platter of our favorites to take back to lunch at Chateau Brandeau and gave ourselves a self-guided tour of the barn. The baby cow were so friendly; one kept trying to lick my face like a puppy. Another took a shine to Elly and was licking and sniffing her jeans. A third was mysteriously attracted to my leather handbag and would have eaten it if I hadn't ran away. This gave me a little pang of guilt...like somehow my fashion choice was encouraging cannibalism. Poor little fella didn't know that the attraction was simply a misplaced camaraderie.