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Archive for the ‘Robin Ellis’ Category

Suddenly summer!

Bursts in the fields, on the stands;

Yellow, red, golden.

Place Jean Jaures on a fine Saturday morning in the first days of summer is slowly coming alive as the stall holders–chatty and enthusiastic–finish setting up.

Meredith and I drive down the road beside the market at seven minutes past seven–and look at each other in astonishment–we made it! And it’s registering a mere 20C/ 68F.

The forecast is 38C/100F later in the day.

By 9am it will be hotter and more crowded; by 11am, a sweltering throng and much of the new summer fare, bought and carried off.

It pays to be early birds as summer starts to deliver.

Sunday morning 6.30am and our resident golden oriole is warbling a modest ‘good morning’ as I step unsteadily into the road to begin my first early morning walk of the summer.

It’s a surprise to feel a pleasant misty spray on my face after the intense heat of Saturday. Slowly the pistons and crankshaft start to loosen up and the old engine begins to move up the hill.

Thoughts unbidden pop into mind.

One of the joys of walking–unbidden thoughts. Couldn’t see the wood for the trees–my mother would say–last night, but the old computer left to its own devices has sorted things out overnight and gently suggests a solution to a problem.

Of course–why didn’t I think of that?!

I stop, half-turn–doing my best not to fall over– and give a desultory wave to whoever it is in the large white van looming up behind me. Could be Lionel, our plumber,  going to work on the house he’s building; could be Serge on his way to pick up his son for the weekend.

I walk on past a field of wheat that has turned golden in the heat of the last few days.

As I crest the hill I see in the distance the white van returning and think, “ah yes, Serge and son”. Then a ways behind the van, a lumbering noise with two headlights, descending. The mind, clearer now from the climb, twigs. Not Serge, but Celine in the van and Pierre driving the monster which is a garlic harvester* –and they are heading for their vast field of pink garlic to begin the annual harvest.

I barely survive as Pierre–looking anxious–edges past me and heads on for a long day mining his and Celine’s fortune.

Garlic gath’rers pass,

Leaving the scent in the air;

It’s that time again.

Life is far from dull for early birds.

*Meredith captured Pierre and Celine harvesting a few years ago.

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Today–30th June 2019–Winston Graham would have been 111!

I’m re-reading the Poldark saga books at the moment and being reminded of why this story still resonates.

WBGH Boston–home of Masterpiece, showcase for the majority of British TV drama in the States–is producing a series of podcasts to run with the showing of the fifth and final series of Poldark, stateside.

Mining Poldark is an epic undertaking–40 half-hour segments.  I’m co-hosting with Barrett Brountas.

It involves watching each episode–old and new– and re-reading the original books.

Barrett and I then spend  a half-hour dissecting each episode–agreeing and disagreeing in an agreeable fashion.

Coming Soon from MASTERPIECE – Mining Poldark

The team: Susanne Simpson (Exec Producer), me, Barrett (co-host), Nick Andersen (Producer)

We are nearly half-way through–and it’s a pleasure!

His wonderful writing lives on and is again a source of joy as well as–in this case–employment!

He wrote Ross Poldark, the first in the saga, in 1945 when he was 37 and bringing up a family of his own with his beloved wife–Jean at their home in Cornwall.

He finished the twelfth and last book, Bella Poldark, in 2002 at the age of 92!

This last tells the story of Ross and Demelza’s youngest child who becomes an actress–and with whom I’m sure Winston fell in love, as he’d done with Demelza–11 books earlier!

There’s as much PASSION in the last of the saga as there is in Ross Poldark.

He felt a loyalty to his characters–and this he passed on to his readers.

He was a supremely talented story teller.

Bonne Anniversaire, Winston!

 

 

 

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It’s currently 94F degrees in Lautrec and set to go to 103F this afternoon–so I’ve made Ma’s Gazpacho this morning with the first of summer’s tomatoes, peppers, spring onions and cucumber.

It is ridiculously simple.

I wasn’t sure it would be worth it with the vegetables available–not enough sun in them yet.

First taste after the food processor–just the pulverised vegetables–encouraging!

I stirred in the vinegar and oil, seasoned and popped the big bowl in the fridge.

Four hours will be enough–though overnight is better.

Thanks again, dear Molly!

Her recipe features in my second cookbook–Healthy Eating for Life and–as tribute to Molly in my upcoming book: Robin Ellis’s Mediterranean Vegetarian Cooking (which is with the publisher, and due out next year).

Here’s my original posting from July 2011 with the recipe written out on a yellowing envelope in my mother’s handwriting:

It’s a fair bet my Mother first tasted this traditional summer soup from Andalusia in 1953–when my parents took brother Peter and me to the Costa Brava for a two week holiday. (Dad worked for British Railways and got a certain amount of concessionary travel in Europe.)

There were five hotels at that time in Lloret del Mar. Five hundred plus now!

We stayed in one with a pretty courtyard–yards from the beach.

I don’t remember the gazpacho–but the egg fried in olive oil I can taste to this day!

Franco’s military police, patrolling the beach in funny hats and holding not-so-funny machine guns, also made an impression. No such thing at on the sands at Woolacombe!

About a kilo collected this morning–a little more than the recipe.

Molly Ellis’ Recipe (slightly adapted!)

Chop the tomatoes roughly–and put them in the food processor.

Chop up half a large, peeled cucumber and half a large,  red pepper–seeded–(she calls them pimentoes) and add them to the processor.

I add a couple of spring onions (scallions)–chopped. (Ma adds a yellow onion–which I’ll try next time).

Mash up 3 cloves of garlic, as she does, with a little salt–and add them to the processor.

Pulse the contents–not too smooth a finish.

Empty this already tasty mix into a bowl and adjust the seasoning with salt and pepper.

Stir in 3 tablespoons of red wine vinegar and two tablespoons of olive oil.

A few drops of Tabasco–as she suggests–a matter of taste.

(At lunch today I added an ice cube to each served bowl.)

Chill for a couple or more hours.

We found one ladleful each is enough–with a whirl of olive oil to finish.

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I wrote this “haiku” a couple of years ago:

Two Yank commandos 

Machined gunned from a sidecar

‘Mort pour Liberté’

Robert Spaur and Bernard Gautier were members of a fifteen-strong American commando unit parachuted into the south Tarn on the night of the 6th of August 1944, as part of an allied plan to disrupt supply lines in southern France prior to D-Day in the South–scheduled for the 15th August.

On patrol, a couple of days after the drop, the group spotted a Nazi motorbike unit heading up from Mazamet towards the small village of Le Rialet to investigate an attack by local maquis–that had succeeded in killing a cow and injuring a German soldier.

The  commandos decided to ambush the unit on its way down.

The plan went awry and in the skirmish two Americans, the oldest (Gautier 33) and youngest (Spaur 19), were shot and killed.

The story of the ambush on the back of the memorial at the spot where it happened

“Can you imagine the disbelief of a Nazi patrol driving up the narrow road from Mazamet towards Le Rialet in August 1944 when they see young men in American uniforms come out of the woods to attack them,” Meredith said, as we headed up the road to the annual commemoration ceremony on Saturday.

“D-Day had happened on June 6th in Normandy and the allies were still stuck there. The Germans must have thought–‘what on earth are American soldiers doing–so far south?’.”

The element of surprise might have given the OSS commandos (Office of Strategic Services–forerunner of the CIA) an added advantage as they attacked the German column–that split-second that counts.

Meredith was scheduled to carry the Stars and Stripes at the ceremony to mark the 74th anniversary.

She is the flag carrier (Porte Drapeau) at annual commemoration ceremonies in Castres and a few years ago was asked to attend this event in Le Rialet.

We learned the remarkable story of the commando unit’s existence from Gilbert Brial–whom we met at one of the commemorations.

Gilbert Brial with Thierry Pauthe–in the uniform of a GI.

Gilbert was 18 in August 1944 and a member of Corps Franc du Sidobre–one of several Maquis groups operating in this mountainous region of the Tarn.

The number of surviving ancien combatants has dwindled over the years Meredith has been attending the ceremonies.

Gilbert is 92 now and ailing, but has been an active campaigner to keep the story alive.

The French expression le devoir de mémoire–the duty to remember–perfectly describes Gilbert’s attitude.

Meredith had assumed the story was well known and that Gilbert must have told it to the media many times.

“Jamais!” [Never!] Gilbert said.

Intrigued and moved, she pursued the story and with the help of the American consul at the time, obtained a Fulbright grant, enabling her to record a series of on camera interviews with most of the surviving members of the Maquis–French rural Resistance fighters.

She was hoping to make a documentary of the story.

Sadly none of the American OSS commandos were still alive, though she made contact with some of their families and several have visited the Tarn.

The OSS team’s code name was PAT.

Read her full account of the remarkable Fourteen days in August 1944, when the surviving members of the commando unit succeeded in preventing local occupation forces from rushing troops and guns to Provence, where the southern D-Day was launched on a beach near St. Tropez.

They also helped liberate our local town, Castres, from Nazi occupation.

Next year is the 75th anniversary and Meredith is hoping for a large turn-out.

At the war memorial, Monsieur Yvan Cros, one of the few maquisards still alive, laid a wreath in memory of his comrades.

M.Cros with La Porte Drapeau Americaine

As the names on the memorial are read out, each is remembered with the spoken words–Mort pour la France for the French and Mort pour La Liberté for Robert Spaur and Bernard Gautier.


It touches the heart.

 

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I am sitting in the courtyard and two turtle doves are–well–courting–in morse code.

It is perfectly still with a suggestion of a spring breeze–quite sharp.

Ne’er cast a clout ’til May be out…

DOT DOT DOT (OVERHEAD)Dot dot dot (is the answer a little futher off).

Now the dots are fading–a meeting perhaps, behind the church!

I’ve been waiting for the “cuckoo morse”–longer and softer as a call.

At last–yesterday afternoon–there it was–a brief, but unmistakeable COO-coooo.

A sign that things are moving on.

There are others.

Our neighbor–farmer Pierre, passed earlier on his tractor.

He’s been busy.

Some of his fields are showing garlic, looking proud–about six weeks to harvest.

Others are pale green with wheat and barley–shifting in the breeze.

Into this patchwork of greens and looking out of place are empty fields of brown–finely tilled–waiting to show….

My guess is sunflowers.

Last week the markets were struggling to offer anything new–but today, it changed.

Small artichokes tightly packed and bunched in fours, peas and broad beans have joined the upstanding green and white asparagus.

It is a relief to see some action.

Dill, tarragon and chives joining the parsley this week and large spring onions.

I have been busy too; making Vignarole–a vegetarian spring speciality in Roman trattorias.

The same artichokes, peas, broad beans and spring onions with a shredded lettuce.

The preparation is labour intensive–but the cooking is the simplest imaginable.

The eating as I remember is sublime.

We’ll see if it gets the DING from Meredith ce soir.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Summer shot of Castres market

Our parking fairy is feeling generous this morning.

I am handed poll position–a hop and a skip from the fountain at the interesting end of Castres Market–to start my marketing.

The vent d’autan is strong–this is the warm wind from the east that can drive you mad when it lasts for days.

The stalls look strangely impermanent without their parasoles and the stallholders, embattled–showing a dogged determination to be of good cheer.

In fact the shoppers are compliant–keen not to robbed of the chance to celebrate a good week or put a less good one behind you with friends at one of the five cafés surrounding Place Jean Jaures.

It is 10:15am and the market has been up and running since 7am.

In the summer I’m here by 7:30 to grab the choicest tomatoes, peppers, aubergines and other summer delights brought in by local growers and picked just the night before.

I’m slower at the moment–finding it hard to get motivated when the changing season–winter to spring–is not showing on the vegetable stands.

A couple of sparsely stocked stalls selling asparagus–white and green–are the only sign that the year is on the move.

A weariness with winter vegetables is affecting me–same old cabbages, same old broccoli.

Much as I love them–love eating and cooking them, I’m ready for a change of color.

I wasn’t proud of myself yesterday buying eight tomatoes “on the vine” ho! ho!–but red, red, red.

(Halved, seasoned, dribbled with olive oil and a little balsamic  vinegar, oven at 200c for 45 minutes and hey presto, it’s summer!)

Green to red please and get a move on.

I rest my case!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Ben has a “spring” in his step this morning–he can’t contain it!

He’s been out in the sun and has caught the mood. There is change in the air.

A stillness that is palpable; a blue sky and birdsong.

I’d say his enthusiasm is a little premature, if he’s thinking  Spring is sprung.

Not quite, Ben–though the bird is on the wing.

The deciduous trees in the meadow behind the house are still leafless–but their branch patterns make an agreeable filigree to contemplate from the warm comfort of my snug at breakfast time.

But he’s right that it’s good to be alive, which is what he seems to be saying with his frolicking .

And there are signs….

The bitter almond tree at the end of the garden is full of blossom, as are its fellows all the way to Lautrec.

One moment they are bare; and the next, it seems, there is blossom.

Such is the miracle.

The clutch of daffodils at the entrance to the garden are in no doubt.

We spotted three heifers in the pasture yesterday, where we haven’t seen a cow for months–sent by mum, perhaps, to check the length of the grass for grazing.

No cows today–grass ain’t riz yet, Ma.

For those a bit puzzled…

Spring has sprung,
The grass has riz,
I wonder where the birdie is?
They say the bird is on the wing,
But that’s absurd.
The wing is on the bird!

Dad used to show off by speaking this with a Brooklyn accent.

…they say the “boyd” is on the wing,

But that’s “absoyd”.

The wing is on the “boyd”!

 

 

 

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