Tag: Corsica

Feeling fragile!

April 2004. I haven’t aged a bit!

So 22 years ago, one of the children in an Easter workshop we were running came up with this painted egg. It came to light this morning as I was sorting through thousands more photos which, by reason of my disorganised non-filing system, had been marooned on a selection of removable drives and lurking in dusty corners of my study. For me, cataloguing and filing photos is up there with doing a tax return and so photos of Severnside were spread over a number of drives and my meagre initial haul in Google Photos is rapidly being dwarfed by newcomers. Wee hee I say, except so many of them are of rusty old hulks and grey days by the river – and my journey into the past released all too many glum memories from the muddy sediment of my recall – you may remember I wrote a couple of posts ago that one of the reasons I went walking on the banks was to put some mental distance between me and a difficult pastoral situation.

On the other hand I also found loads of photos from our european jaunts which reminded us of Corsica and France, Spain, and Italy and some mammoth car journeys back and forth across the Pyrenees. Presently we’re a bit confined by minor infirmities and hospital appointments and worse still, it’s autumn; the sunlight’s going out and this time of the year really gets to me. There was a time when I thought (hopefully) that this was some dark night of the soul which I’d be able to brag about; but when I presented it to my then spiritual director she dismissed it and said all I needed was some sunshine. She was right of course.

So, what with photographic memories, decreasing day length and an allotment that looks almost abandoned – I’m feeling a bit fragile. I wake up at night and have horrible nightmares . My roots in primitive Methodism assure me that a bit of suffering is really good for me but I think, no I’m certain, that’s bad advice. However I’m holding on to the childrens’ painted egg because it’s the best portrait of me I’ve come across. Thin skin, gritted teeth and fragile, with tissue thin hair and soft inside – what can I say? Prophetic comes to mind.

Anyway, here’s a happy memory from Collure where we discovered a local delicacy. They expose the local wine to the hot sunshine in giant carbouys where it oxidizes and thickens; turning into a kind of Madeira or perhaps balsamic and rather expensive –

and then a view from a villa we rented in the north of Corsica away from the crowds. we were on a steep sided mountain range on a road which simply petered out and gave way to a footpath. There was an overwhelming perfume of wild herbs and scrub as we walked up. There were olives, figs and myrtle and some beautiful butterflies which I think were Queen of Spain fritillaries. At night, down in the valley the Scops owls would call noisily for hours. The roads in the north on Cap Corse were so narrow Madame would adopt brace position for miles and much preferred the return journey where the precipitous drop to the sea was on my side. Our second trip there was rather marred by the scirocco wind which was hot, dusty and constant.

The mountains just beyond the back garden.

Tonight I’m cooking monkfish wrapped in parma ham with a brushing of basil/sundried tomato paste, balsamic vinegar and good olive oil – with a side dish of ratatouille from our own allotment. Some people turn to drink, but I turn to cooking. I know from long experience that this mood will lift and normal levity will be resumed.

It was Madame made me do it

The view from what the landlady called “The romantic room” on the dockside in Sète. “It’s where all the businessmen bring their girlfriends” she said. Hm!

And now we’re stuck in the south of France and she’s reading me chunks from Simenon’s “My friend Maigret” as we eat breakfast back at the Potwell Inn. This all started yesterday evening when we examined the fridge – a regular lockdown highlight – and she asked ‘what shall we eat today darling?’ – and found a couple of salmon fillets. There were fresh new potatoes from the allotment and sugar snap peas as well, so it sounded like a sensible idea. “Oooooh …” she said – “know what I’d really like? …..” – my heart is murmuring like the loudspeaker in a lift: – ‘ground floor, funerary monuments’ it calls quietly as it plunges into the gloom. “I have no idea,” I said, “what would you really like?” there was a pause, and she said – “Aioli”.

I see it. A fish stew, a bourride, that I once ate in Corsica when the proprietor took an interest in me and gave me minute instructions as to how to eat it properly. I didn’t mind because she was being helpful in the way that anyone might help a hapless foreigner struggling to eat a soup with bones, in a loud sort of voice. Anyway, Corsicans are a bit like Bristolians, they often sound a bit rude when they’re just being friendly with a local accent.

So once the thought had dropped into my mind I wasn’t so much making aioli as recreating a whole remembered experience without most of the ingredients. I certainly couldn’t make a bourride or a bouillabaisse; but I could make the aioli – inflected by lockdown shortages; for instance I wouldn’t normally use olive oil but I had a bottle of cheap oil that we’d bought in desperation during the shortages, and aioli is so strong you could probably make it with Castrol engine oil and no-one would notice. I was revving up in a cheffy sort of way, and so I decided to add a bit of sweet pimenton to add a smoky note, and then a good pinch of saffron that would have to stand in for the rest of the stew – a big ask, I know, but it played out well. We have fresh green garlic from the allotment so I had an enjoyable minute or two with the garlic (lots), some salt, the pimenton and saffron; grinding them to a paste in my biggest mortar. In with the egg yolks and then, because I have no shame, out with the electric whisk. Drip, drip, gloop, trickle, pour and five minutes later we had the golden mayonnaise.

Of course it totally upstaged everything else on the plate but that didn’t seem to matter. It was fierce and powerfully reminiscent of eating in France and Spain along the Basque coast. Engorged with happy memories we would have turned immediately to an episode of Montalbano if we hadn’t seen them all three times before. We only watch them for the scenery and the food – the plots are terrible except for the way in which they’re so humane and non judgemental – rather like Simenon you might think – which is how we got to Madame’s breakfast recital of the Maigret story, which was when things got a bit out of hand.

“This book had six pages – honestly – that mentioned nothing at all except sounds and smells” – she said, and I believed her. That led into a minefield of mild eroticism as she told me about JoJo the maid, and the way that Simenon allows Maigret to notice that she smells a bit sweaty and has underarm hair which, just as I was just getting into the toast and marmalade, allowed the emergence from hiding of the memory of walking into a French supermarket once with Madame and having a bit of a supercharged moment passing a similarly interesting woman; the memory, which I shared, led us into a conversation about human odour and thence to perfume and thence to Annecy where great danger was lurking that, due to the momentum of the conversation, I was unable to prevent.

“Do you remember that perfume shop in Annecy?” “Oh shit” I thought as I plunged into the millrace. It was a beautiful day with friends and we were treated to a spectacular lunch at the Cottage and then wandered into town where we found this little perfumery and Madame spent an hour with the lollipop sticks and fell in love with the kind of perfume that makes people stop her in the street. Among the many passions we share we both love really good perfumes. And there I was suspended between a memory and the laptop and an online order.

We went for a walk, back to the Bathwick Meadows today where we found more marbled whites and Madame became monosyllabic and answered ‘oui’ or ‘non’ to my questions so I called her Marie, and rather hoped she would call me Henri and we could have a fun role play, but no; just a cloud of very French thoughtfulness.

I knew what I had to do.

That was the most expensive aioli I’ve ever made!