The New Regime

I am quite happy to report, as I sit at the Blueberry with a pint of Blanche, that the new regime looks a great deal like the ancien regime around here.

Perhaps it was not the best day to start a new regime – the weather, particularly to the west, was quite threatening looking. As a consequence, we decided not to go to the Gorge de la Nesque, but to stay closer to home. A trip to Suzette was considered, but I decided the downhill would be too treacherous in the rain. After some considerable deliberation, and an episode of a French soap opera, we set out via the little back roads of the valley to the Veau road and then to Entrechaux and Mollans sur Ouveze, where we had a café crème at the Bar du Pont.

It began to rain lightly. We went back towards Entrechaux and then into Vaison via St. Marcellin, then to Entrechaux again (where we had a pastis) and back home across the fields to a rather late lunch of leftover soupe au pistou and pasta and tomato salad and figs (I have already had at least 6 figs today). The whole ride occurred in heavy humidity, but by the time we got home the sun was also blazing.

Nick and Ellen had invited us to a concert at their naturist camp tonight, but our late return made that impossible. They have texted us, however, saying that there is another performance next Friday!

Soon I will be making a potato gratin for dinner, but I should be getting my thoughts in order to make my recipe contribution to the 25^th birthday edition of the Beaumont English Language Library (BELL) cookbook. I think I will describe the tomato confit (and tomato water martini) process.

Social Whirlwind

This post starts Tuesday evening. After the WiFi conclave had ended, we stopped in at Pat’s for a glass of rose and some snacks because it was practically our only chance to see her before she headed off for the Jura to teach. We also met Malcolm and Francoise, who are staying in the Mairie until Rosanna and I get there. Malcolm and I have been recruited to take on library duties the next two Wednesdays. We had a little training session yesterday afternoon on the software for checking books in and out. I also had some special instruction on the opening and closing of the place. It should be quite fun!

On the way home we checked out some damson plum trees we had been told were not cultivated so we drove up the road to have a look. The road was unfortunately narrow, but I was happy to note a turning around spot so I did not have to back up 500 metres. Glenn and Rosanna clambered up (halfway up in her case) the hill to gather plums and hand them to Peter.

The majority of my Wednesday was spent getting ready for our dinner guests, Nick and Ellen, whom Glenn and I had met last year. Our wee oven is perfect for making tomato confit (aka 7 hour tomatoes) because it has a really low temperature setting. We had those tomatoes on a bit of toasted sourdough bread with some warm chevre. We also had Carpentras melon with ham from the mountain men (from the Auvergne I think) in the market. Then we had soupe au pistou, a green salad, some bread and a St. Marcellin and a beaufort cheese, and another (better) plum galette with crème fraiche (63 centimes the tub!!). We also had some cookies furnished by Ellen. There was a lot of fine and lively conversation and much rose was consumed. I had a bit of a headache this morning, so I retired to my darkened room with a bottle of water (and an advil) shortly after breakfast, while Glenn and Peter went for a final ride and Rosanna did her laundry and read.

After lunch (the expensive egg noodle pasta from Bedoin) and loading up the Picasso, we headed to Avignon. I made Rosanna show me her driver’s license first because I was quite intent on getting her added on as a driver. In fact, that is practically the first thing we did after dropping the boys and their luggage in the station. I was so intent on achieving this outcome that I even paid .50 euros for exceeding the 20 minute free parking. We sent Peter and Glenn off with lots of snacks for their journey, and they left Rosanna with lots of riding snacks.

Happily ensconced in the navigator’s seat for the ride home, I immediately proposed a detour to the Velleron market. It is an evening market that occurs each weekday from about 7 pm and lasts about 45 minutes. It is all fruit and vegetables – no soap, or herbes de provence, or cheap linen shifts. It is also all small producers. We got a flat of 34 black figs from Caromb (8 euros), green tomatoes, bumpy red tomatoes, green beans, potatoes for a gratin, peaches, and eggplants. Then we went to the pizzeria in Mazan (my third visit in less than 2 weeks), which received good reviews. From there, home to retire early (maybe 9:45) and read. Friday was, after all, to be the start of a “new regime” – getting up and going early for a ride and being home for lunch before the heat of the day became oppressive and drinking “little, if any, alcohol”. Needless to say, I did not draft the Constitution of the new regime.

Pussy Jones in the Enclave des Papes

Actually Pussy is Edith Wharton’s childhood nickname (mine was Poopsy) and Jones was her maiden name. I just like the sound of it (so does Glenn). I AM reading her biography, but I certainly did not take the 800 plus pages of it with me today on our bike ride.

We started off quite a bit earlier than we sometimes get going – just before 9:00 am. It was Rosanna’s first trip on her rented Bianchi. The gear changing using the brake levers has been a bit of a learning curve for her. We rode across the fields to Entrechaux and then took the nice back road to Vaison by way of St. Marcellin so Rosanna could see it. We rode towards Seguret on the south road, then headed north and went to Villedieu by a very nice and not too hilly route. After a short period of refreshment in the town square, and an on-the-fly bike adjustment, Rosanna headed back to our terrace.

Glenn and Peter and I proceeded on to Buisson, Visan and Valreas. The latter two are in a weird little section of the Vaucluse department that sits smack dab in the middle of the Drome department. I meant to look up in a guidebook when I got back why this is so, but I forgot. Perhaps that information will be forthcoming at a later point. We lunched in Valreas, next to a table with three of the most well-behaved children I have ever seen at a restaurant. The littlest one was a girl of about 2, who very neatly managed to eat almost all of an enormous bowl of pasta without getting any on herself. She was very focused on the whole activity, until she had had enough and then she was quite focused on getting her big brother to walk her over to the fountain in the town square so she could splash around.

It was a very hot day, and we had ridden 60km to get to lunch, and I for one was not entirely sure precisely where we were or how many km we would have to ride to get home. I guessed 40, which turned out to be more or less accurate. In any event, the heat and the distance influenced our lunch choices. I had a tartine with ham, mozzarella, a tomato sauce and a fried egg on top, with a substantial side salad. Peter had a salade campagnarde, which involved chevre croutes on top of ham and greens. Glenn had a salad with grilled chicken on top. There is no photo of mine because a barely-fried egg makes Glenn queasy. But it was delicious.

On my way home I took a little detour and discovered another small hamlet of the Beaumont du Ventoux commune – La Tuilerie. I think Kate (and maybe Guy) might know it from running in the area last year. Once home, I managed to get to the point in my book where Edith (Pussy) Jones has married Teddy Wharton, but then a popular uprising in favour of decamping to the WiFi café prevented me from seeing her through her depression, his madness, her affair, and their divorce.

I have one significant think to report from yesterday – in the afternoon our Glenn rode up Mt. Ventoux. I had promised him a bottle of champagne if he did it in 1h30 or less. It took him 1h33, and he did it from the Malaucene (rather than the Bedoin) side, so he is still drinking rose from a box. Still, it is quite an accomplishment, and we celebrated with eggplant parmigiana and a blackberry galette. Here is the returned hero in his stretching attire (with his special little red massager).

To Market, To Market, To Buy a Fat Pig

Actually, it was a fat sausage from l’Ardeche, and it was purchased at the Bedoin market this morning, along with a lot of other things, but it reminds of another pork near-catastrophe I failed to report on at the aperitif portion of the Fete Votive evening, when the whole rack of hams (hundreds of pounds of them) plunged into the ashes and all the petanque players ran to help rescue them, but of course they (the hams, not the petanque players), and the rack they were on, were bloody hot, so not a lot happened for a moment or two. The whole crowd was mesmerized – it was like that scene of the moviegoers in Cinema Paradiso. Glenn desperately wanted to video the event, but thought it would be unseemly. So you have only my verbal account.

Back to today, which has been uneventful to this point (5:50 pm). We got back from the market around 11:30 or so and immediately began preparing lunch, which was a very photogenic and delicious spread. We had a soft Banon cheese from the flanks of Mt. Ventoux, wrapped in chestnut leaves (art directed for the blog by Rosanna) and another gold-medal semi-firm cheese the name and provenance of which the cheese purchasers (Rosanna and Glenn) could not remember. We had another beautiful green salad of oak leaf lettuce, a tomato and basil salad with a new local olive oil, a green bean-beet-chevre salad, sourdough bread, black and green olive tapenade, black and green olives, and the sausage mentioned above, which had a very meaty taste.

Much dozing passing itself off as reading followed. I am on to the biography of Edith Wharton by Hermione Lee. I have just got the ancestors out of the way and Edith herself safely through her teens so I am hoping that the fun is about to begin. Peter has almost finished the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, Glenn is plugging along on the John Irving, and Rosanna is tearing through the New Yorkers I brought. Peter and I are now at the Bar du Cours, Glenn is pedaling in the neighbourhood, and Rosanna is making eggplant parmigiana. No doubt its portrait will be taken. As Peter and I were driving here, we noticed that the pottery shop in Beaumont du Ventoux was open and we stopped to look around. A few purchases were made. I was gifted a purchase I had intended to make. I believe it was for the quality of my efforts to carry on a conversation with the artisans (husband and wife), which included a discussion of the Olympic Games (and pointing out Vancouver on a map of the world), of the weather in Toronto (similar map assistance) etc. etc.

Tomorrow Glenn (and possibly Peter) will be making an attempt at Mt. Ventoux we think. It may depend on the wind, which has been gusty today, although the weather is now fine (it was overcast earlier) and not so gusty.

Buis les Baronnies, Finally

Finally I am able to write (or at least start writing) in the present tense. What a relief to be caught up. It is a very warm day here, with not a cloud in the sky.

Peter and Glenn and I decided to go for a ride around the Dentelles (counterclockwise). What with one thing (breakfast and a late start) and another (a knocking noise in Peter’s crank arm) we did not actually get really moving (from the bike shop) until about 10:45 am, by which time Rosanna had walked there to make her rental arrangements. She was then going to buy a couple of necessities, check out her e-mail and head home to make lunch (the long-anticipated frittata).

Our first 44 kms were just the way I like them, downhill with good pavement. We rode through Vaison to Seguret (avoiding the pottery festival) and then on to Sablet (that’s a really nice little stretch) and Gigondas and Vacqueyras and Beaumes de Venise. At this point, as I had anticipated, Glenn expressed a desire to take the road to Suzette, which I recalled as consisting of 10 km of uphill followed by 6km of downhill. Peter went with him. I went the other way towards Caromb and then Le Barroux. That was possibly a poor choice, because it involves 16km of climbing, albeit at a less steep gradient. At one point a French rider motioned to me to hop on his wheel and hauled me up an uphill stretch, then I met some Dutch riders doing a multiple ascent of Ventoux and explained to them (in a variety of languages) how to determine if the water in a fountain is safe to drink.

Then home to lunch. In addition to the frittata we cleaned out the fridge of leftovers (bye bye spelt and lentils). Peter and Rosanna spent a very long time fiddling with her camera and his computer and then her iPad

trying to organize her photos. I rested. Then Glenn left for another bike ride, Rosanna retired for a siesta, and Peter pretended to read for a minute or too, before falling into a nap about a foot from the desk where I am typing this. I hope to go to the Blueberry soon and post these entries (assuming the incorporation of photos is cooperative today, which it has not been of late), and meet Glenn after his ride. Later this evening we are heading to the lovely town square in Villedieu for pizza (by car). My only apprehension is navigating the wretched detour, which I will surely have to do as the place in front of the Mairie in Beaumont du Ventoux (the current Mairie, not the one we sometimes rent) will be closed again for dancing (with a DJ) this evening.

Now I am switching to the past tense – still writing about Sunday, but from the perspective of Monday. We went to Villedieu (using a slightly less wretched detour of my own devising). We had no reservation. We had no dinner. At least not there, but I seized upon the opportunity to take us to Buis les Baronnies, which has a lovely colonnaded town centre, and we had pizza and calzone and it was all fine, and the cook sang the first two verses of a lot of pop songs from the seventies in a loud but good voice while slapping the dough around. There are no pictures of this part of the day due to the exhaustion of the camera battery. Rosanna does not like the topography in that part of the country, but she agreed with me that there were nice wide well-marked roads for our return in the pitch black (no high beams necessary). The DJ party was in full swing as we detoured around it at 11 pm.

Fete Votive

Saturday was the day of the Beaumont du Ventoux Fete Votive. I rode to town right after breakfast to get some bread and salad greens for lunch before that long lunchtime closing prevented that. Almost immediately after I left itbecame apparent that our planned lunchtime main (frittata) would not be possible because everyone thought someone else had put the eggs in the cart at the supermarket. I returned loaded with breadstuffs only to find that we were now having pasta. It was tossed with lemon zest and juice and parmigiano reggiano and olive oil and was delicious, as was the salad made with beautiful red oak leaf lettuce I got at the vegetable monger for 80 centimes a head.

Glenn and Rosanna napped after lunch. I finished the Chez Panisse book and Peter had his nose in the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, until I dragged him out of the house and down the hill to the middle of Beaumont du Ventoux to see how the dinner preparations were coming along. There were a lot of rough looking characters in the middle of the petanque tournament, and attending periodically at the bar, where Peter and I sat ourselves down with a couple of glasses of beer.

We didn’t go to the official petanque ground, but contented ourselves instead with watching the warm up tosses in a shady little alley between the pottery shop and the stage. They toss the metal balls in an underhanded and backhanded fashion, and the trajectory is that they describe quite an upward arc before landing, quite often with a loud noise of metal striking metal which makes me thing the objective must be to knock the opponent’s ball out of the area, but I am going to have to look up the rules on the internet later. In addition to that, we also saw the butcher building a wood fire and trussing hams (actually uncured pork haunches) onto a rack, balancing them, and then building anotherfire on the other side. A lot of basting and turning (hot heavy work) then ensued. We saw the ratatouille pot, but the preparation of that dish had not yet started when we headed for home, managing to pick more than a quartof blackberries on the way – Peter’s long limbs are a real advantage in straddling the ditch and reaching into the bush with actually having to embrace it (my problem). We suffered many fewer scratches from the thorns than I sustained last year.

Once home I had a brief lie down and then we all headed off on foot to the dinner. We showed Rosannathe blackberry crop that was out of reach of me and Peter andrequired a scramble over a ditch up a steep little hillside (we were in shorts and flip flops and not prepared to attempt that),and she is quite certain she can make it up there and harvest them. I am going to attend with a camera for that one! We had a bottle of local bubbly (from Die) before dinner, and then they served an apero of a glass of Beaumes de Venise, and then red wine and rose a volonte(bottomless) with the dinner, which was: melon with prosciutto; roast pork and ratatouille; baguette; a wedge of soft cheese and a slice of apple tarte (Glenn had two servings); a beautiful white nectarine; coffee. Welistened to the first five or six songs the band played and watched the little kids bouncing around in the blow-up castle. Once the Beatles covers started, Rosanna herded us all up and headed us for home, which involved a walk back through the dining tables. This provided an opportunity (which certain members of our party availed themselves of) to seize untouched bottles of wine and carry them home.

Chez Panisse Tarte aux Amandes

Friday started rather slowly as we all slept in until shortly after 9. We received some very sad news almost immediately when Pat called to tell us that her granddaughter Johanna, who had taken me walking to the borie and the quarry last year and then showed me where to pick blackberries, had sudd

enly died in the United States where she had moved and gotten married just last fall. Terrible, shocking news. We have of course offered to be of whatever help we can, but I believe that the family is surrounded by good old friends at the moment, so we have not been called on.

We did not do very much on Friday afterthat start. Glenn and Peter rode to Carpentras and Rosanna and I drove there and met them for lunch at Chez Serge, which ended up being a rather long leisurely affair (and not only because Serge had locked their bikes in his garage and then left the restaurant for a time), and was not overuntil past 3. Rosanna and I got a little turned around leaving town perhaps due to my taking an unfamiliar exit from the large parking lot that is the only advisable one to use on market day. On the long walk to the parking lot before that, I spotted aBazaarland (the same dollar store Glenn was so keen on in Vaison) so we popped in for a few things. By the time that was all over, we worried that Peter and Glenn would be home ahead of us and roasting on the terrace (I had the house key). Only Peter was there, as Glenn had decided to add some extra kilometers, and he was not as roasty as one might have imagined since there was at least a patch of shade – fortunately there is also a fountain (fed by the Mt. Ventoux) watershed just outside the gate to the house.

The four of us went to the Bar du Cours (next to the Blueberry) where they also have WiFi, and then abruptly had to dash out and get to the grocery store before closing. 4 shoppers, one list. Things were added, things were missed. None of it apparent until Saturday. We had to take a crazy little detour on the way home on account of the first night of the Fete Votive celebrations.

Very narrow (even by standards around here) road. Luckily I met no one, or I would have had to back up at least a kilometer to let them by. Once home, I made some puy lentils with shallots, and we had a large salad of butter lettuce and some bread and cheese, and then the tarte aux amandes for dessert. The inspiration was a recipe reproduced in a book I was reading (and have since finished) – Alice Waters and Chez Panisse. The recipe is North American, so measurements are in volume, not weight, but our only measuring cup is marked with the weight equivalents of ingredients commonly used in baking (sugar, flour, rice etc.). The tarte worked out okay, but was a little too sweet, due to some translation difficulties. I am prepared to take another stab at it. When I do, I will take a picture. Very happy to head to bed promptly.

The Road to Avignon

The route to Avignon was rather indirect and quite lengthy, nor did we fetch a girl with red pigtails at the end of it, but one just as wilfull as LM Montgomery’s creation, and with much more luggage. But I am ahead of myself.

This is Thursday’s tale. I was not inclined, after the efforts of Wednesday, to engage in a long ride, and it was quite a warm day. Peter was with me, Glenn not so much. Consequently, Glenn set off around 10 or so and Peter and I read quietly on the terrace, then we left around 11:45, planning to ride to Mazan to meet Glenn for lunch at the excellent little pizzeria there.

I am not sure where Glenn’s route took him, but ours took us to Bedoin, and then downhill all the way to Mormoiron (whee!) and west to Mazan on a wind-assisted 5km stretch of pavement in very good condition. Glenn was there waiting with a cold beer, and had already made a little tour of the town (meeting all the cats no doubt). Glenn and I had a delicious pizza provencal, with pesto, tomatoes, grilled eggplant and olives. Peter made what turned out to be an unfortunate choice, although it was apparently delicious at the time: crème fraiche, emmenthal, reblochon, potatoes and bacon (called tartiflette should anyone find themselves in the neighbourhood and in the mood for that sort of thing). It was a poor choice because since we had ridden downhill all the way to Mazan, it was inevitable that we would be riding uphill to get home. During the course of that ride, we began referring to the pizza as Peter’s baby. Very white -- just like him.

We did eventually make it home, even though I suffered the kind of mechanical failure (dropped chain wedged between crank arm and bottom bracket) that caused Andy Schleck to lose this year’s Tour. We paused very briefly in Malaucene to buy Rosanna a ticket to the Fete Votive dinner and then headed home, where Glenn surprised us with a very tasty dinner of a chilled puree of his ratatouille of the day before livened up with a bit of lemon zest and drizzled with olive oil accompanied by a little toast with tomato confit on it, then a tomato-carrot-beet salad with some leftover spelt risotto. Very tasty.

Although we finished dinner by 7:30 and Rosanna’s train was not due to arrive in Avignon until midnight, we piled into the Picasso right away (before anyone got sleepy) and headed there, where we parked right at the station and then wandered about the town, stopping for a drink and some sausage and dessert and coffee at a nice little café in a place where people also rode vespas and children played some martial arts game among the diners. Then we walked around and around and around the town, finally heading back to the station around 11:30pm.

We took one wrong turn on the way home, but that did not take us much out of the way. Then there was an unfortunate incident where I flicked off not only my bright lights but also my driving lights. Only for a moment, but still, not fun. Anyway we did arrive safely and we all had a glass of rose, and then Peter and Glenn went to bed, and then Rosanna and I had another glass and another and … so on until 4 a.m.

Stood up for lunch!!!

First off, a correction. I believe I reported that Peter had rented a Ridley Stratos. In fact, it is a Ridley Orion, for those to whom such distinctions are meaningful. Perhaps that is why he was able to reach for the stars today, or at least the heights that one encounters when venturing out on the tour of the Vallee of Toulerenc.

This is a very popular ride around here, and I think I might have reported on it twice last year (once clockwise with Glenn and once counterclockwise with Kate). Today we went counterclockwise, starting up (and I mean up) the Veau road, and then (really up) to St. Leger du Ventoux, then down (nice!) to Brantes and Savoillans, and gradually up to Brantes again, then down like stink all the way to the junction with the D5. At this point, the consequences of an unfortunate miscommunication were felt (by me). Peter and Glenn were ahead of me. I got to the junction and they were nowhere to be seen. I paused a moment, but of course I did not wait long since I assumed they were ahead. This was not so, however, since they had taken a wee detour into Brantes and did not catch me on the downhill. Perhaps you can guess where this is going. I turned right at the junction because Glenn and I had talked about having lunch in Buis les Baronnies, which I am happy to report is a very good looking town with a lively medieval centreville, but where I will have to return to enjoy lunch since there was no sight of those two and I waited a good 20 minutes, before deciding they had probably gone left at the junction to Mollans sur Ouveze. I had a hit of Hammer Gel(espresso) and reluctantly retraced my steps to find them, as anticipated, at a café in Mollans drinking beer and ogling the waiter.

Foolishly we asked for a menu, but it was the kind of humble place where you eat the menu du jour or go elsewhere. So we ate. It was a plate of charcuterie and garniture, followed by a vegetable stew of some sort cooked in a lot of olive oil and accompanying a cut of lamb that none of us had encountered before – it appeared to saddle the spinal column – and then a red fruit charlotte. All very tasty (even the parts we could not identify). And the carafe of rose was compris – all for 12Î each. From there we went on to Entrechaux and took the scenic route (via St. Marcellin – familiar to Kate) to Vaison and checked out a bike store and then came home, quite sweaty (31 and sunny today) and tired. Before any possibility of collapse set in, we piled into the Picasso and drove to the Blueberry, from which I write (with aching knees).

Now we are off home to make a spelt risotto with leeks (for a nice upper body workout to balance the leg-dominated activities of earlier today), and some sausage, and an arugula salad. We will contemplate tomorrow’s activity (aside from fetching Rosanna in Avignon at 11 pm) then.

The boys who played with fire

The attentive reader (modesty forbids me from assuming there is more than one) will have noticed that my attention to the blog is already less assiduous than last year, and that the posts lag the action (so to speak) by a day.

This post (posted on August 18^th) actually deals with the events of Tuesday, August 17^th. It started with the unmistakable pitter patter of Glenn’s barefeet heading downstairs at an early hour, followed by the sounds of the dishwasher being emptied and then the bikes cleaned and tires pumped up. At 8 I ascertained that Peter was still a big blue lump in his bed and I went downstairs to make the oatmeal, which we (Peter and I) enjoyed with another of the decadent yoghurts he had selected at the Super U (red currant and strawberry this time). We selected our yoghurts on the basis of the fact that they were packed in little glass jars, which we intended to convert (when empty and clean) into tealight holders, by which in fact I am writing this while Glenn and Peter play cribbage.

Breakfast over, we headed off to the town of Suzette, which is reached by a 6 kilometre climb (rather steep) from Malaucene, but worthwhile for several reasons: (1) it offers a superb view of the Dentelles, particularly today which was cloudless but not overwhelmingly bright; (2) it is a less steep approach to the view than coming at it from the opposite side; (3) there is a coffee shop with a lovely terrace with a vue desengagee (unobstructed view) when you get to Suzette; (4) there is an 8 km downhill to Beaumes de Venise where one hardly has to brake at all, and would not have to if the road were, alas, not shared with cars.

From Beaumes de Venise we headed east towards Caromb, and then to St. Pierre de Vassols and on to Crillon le Brave, where we had lunch on the terrace of the hotel overlooking the plain of Carpentras. It is only a short ride after that to Bedoin and then the lovely road between Bedoin and Malaucene, which involves some climbing (and some downhills) but not really steep climbing, and excellent pavement and vistas.

Once home we turned around and headed back to the Blueberry for a little beer and blogging. So absorbed was I in my blogging that I did not realize that none of us paid our bill, so that will be a groveling little experience to deal with tomorrow. Desolee, desolee, desolee. I had my knapsack with my computer so I carried home the new box of rose, but did not enjoy this activity much and will not be staging a repeat.

We had determined to grill some entrecote for dinner (purchased from the nice butcher in Bedoin). Our barbecue looked a bit sketchy (no BIG GREEN EGG that) in that it lacked ventilation from the bottom. Nevertheless Glenn made a valiant attempt to get the coals started (and ended up covered in ash from the newspaper he used to start the fired) before retiring with his ice pack to a blanket on the ground. Peter then had the clever idea of using a handheld bike pump as a bellows, which worked alright, but not as well as simply blowing on the coals. It took at least an hour and a half of attentiveness to get to the point where cooking seemed possible. Once we stopped blowing and put the steak on, however, the fire cooled down dramatically, so Glenn pan-fried them instead and we had them with the “on special” green beans Glenn bought at the grocery and with some new potatoes, garlic, and spring onions braised in olive oil. Very modest rose consumption occurred.

The road (that should) not (have been) taken

I arrived in Marseille late Friday afternoon (after an unplanned 4 hour stopover in Munich in which I dared not go the fabulous duty-free shops), picked up the Picasso and drove without incident (well, a stall or two) to Mazan, where I arrived about 7. Thankfully it was still light as the hotel I had booked (Hotel Le Siecle) was up a narrow street in a medieval courtyard. It was very clean and comfortable and the breakfast was top notch but the plumbing sounded like Niagara Falls. Right around the corner (on the road to Pernes les Fontaines) was a fantastic pizzeria (La Pizzeria) to which I am sure a larger group of us will return -- the crust was amazing and the place was packed.

After visiting Mazan optique on Satruday morning and purchasing new sunglasses and reading glasses, I made my way directly to the Caveau du Beaumont du Ventoux and bought a box of rose, then went to the Super U in Malaucene to stock up on some basic provisions (olives, petits ecoliers, lardons etc.) and drove to les valettes and met our landlord Isabelle by the fountain at 1 pm. Our little house is very lovely with an upper (dining) and lower (bike staging) terrace. There are two proper bedrooms and lovely built-in cupboards throughout, although not really comfy places in which to read indoors. Given that the temperature plunged precipitously on Saturday that is what I was inclined to do. Instead I made a roast chicken with green beans and salad for dinner after reassembling my bike and then watched two episodes of Medium back to back in French. I think it must also be

inexplicable in English.

On Sunday I picked Glenn and Peter up at the Avignon train station and we went to Vaison in case the huge supermarket was still open as Peter had neglected to bring a towel. No luck. But there was a bakery open where Glenn bought us all slices of pizza and orangina. Then we came back to Malaucene and descended upon the bike store where Peter rented a Ridley carbon Stratos with a triple chainring. Glenn rode it home, and then cleaned it up and put on an extra saddle he had brought (!!). I made quiche and salad for dinner. Glenn crashed, and Peter and I played half a game of cribbage, until he crashed too.

Monday morning we went to the Bedoin Market, arriving around 8:30, and bought a lot of stuff including 4 cheeses (L'Abondance, Tomme de Brebis Artisanale, le Petit Valreas, and St. Felicien) and a tablecloth. From there we went directly to Vaison la Romaine to the dollar store Glenn has apparently been wanting to go to since last year. We bought cushions for our outdoor chairs, Peter's towel, glasses for campari and soda and possibly some other things I cannot now recall. Then we went to the big supermarket, which we will never do again on a Monday morning, and Peter went nuts in the yoghurt aisle. He calls what he selected "yoghurt" but the varieties that actually tell you the ingredients all feature creme fraiche among them. After all that consumerism (which required 2 topping ups of the kitty) we went home and had a lovely salad of green beens, beets and fresh goat cheese, bread, the cheese platter with olive jam, two varieties of olives, and some delicious carpentras melons. Then we went for a bike ride.

We went without a map. The first three quarters went smoothly according to memory, and we rode to Entrechaux (over the fields, where Peter had a flat tire) to Mollans sur Ouveze to Faucon to Puymeras, and then, instead of heading towards Mirabel aux Baronnies at the next traffic circle we took a small road, which I quickly realized was completely unfamiliar. Glenn, however, said it was signed to "Villedieu" so we carried on and on and on up hill until we arrived at a gravel road (but rideable) which a local farmer said lasted only 650 metres. That was followed by some fresh blacktop (very hot in the sun) that went almost straight up. After this half hour of hell (measured from the start of the gravel) we finally arrived in Villedieu. Smiles all around. From there downhill to Vaison (or it seemed all downhill) and then home. Glenn made pasta for dinner (with olives, sun-dried tomatoes, sauteed spring onions, and a bit of lemon zest) and we enjoyed it with a lot of rose. So much that we drained the box!

This is our welcoming committee in Villedieu -- we are not sure if he was admiring Peter's new cycling shoes, or was after my Larabar!