The farm...

Once again I am back in France, visiting my brother-in-law’s farm; a farm built in 1904 in the middle of nowhere. Well it is in the middle of nowhere for a rural suburban American girl. Actually, I am in St. Vincent d’Autejac, in the county of Tarn-et-Garonne. You are going to wonder why I have my computer on while living in such a heavenly environment. As I said, I am an American, and we go everywhere with our laptops, cell phones, and IPods (I don’t have one right now, but probably will soon). In the morning, I get up with birds singing and playing, or more likely fighting amongst themselves outside my bedroom window; since the noises they make at times can be deceitful.

I also met an old bachelor. They have a term in France, “un vieux garcon,” an old boy. He reminded me of an old Franciscan Monk with his white mane in some Robin Hood movie. He looks as if someone put a coconut on his head and cut around it. He and I walk three times a week from St. Vincent to Caussade; about 11 kilometers, each way. In the evening there are visitors, mostly Claude’s old friends from around here and some I knew back in the 70s. I must say that they do have strange nicknames such as Zorro, Tintin, Picsou, Guelle D’amour (Love Face), Bouffe Rouille (Rust-Eater), Cadiche, and Chien Pelé (Peeled Dog). Don’t ask. Also, I am not sure how the French farmers served wine in the old days when the mustard glasses weren’t yet invented...

Weekends? Weekends are heavy and hectic. Dinners with people I don’t know, but who all want to meet “The American.” My sister Georgette and my nephew Alain are part of the regulars. Well, all of this sounds just wonderful and dandy if I don’t have to endure the huge flies, the mosquitoes, the ‘frelons,’ and the fresh manure; and this morning I found a dead mouse. After all I am living in a real farm. In any case, I went from my 5 star apartment to a non-existing star French farm, priceless, absolutely priceless. Life couldn’t be better and life is grand.

I attended another birthday party, for the same person, they celebrate a lot around here. I am a bit of an odd character here. The American; yes, that’s me. Everyone is so curious about me, but of course. I totally look Asian, I speak fluent French (even if my French grammar leaves something to be desired, I don’t have an accent), and lo and behold I am an American. It is always fun to connect the dots about my looks, my life, why I am the only American in this dysfunctional family for them.

I am surrounded by farms, farm land all around me, with very narrow winding roads. It is serene, beautiful, and mostly peaceful with so little traffic going on. The non-polluted air of the country is what I need. The melons are being planted. In about a month or so the sunflowers will grace us with their huge yellow petals. The poppies are trying to push their way through thick grass.


It is such a privilege and bliss being here helping to renovate this farm. Most of my work is, “hand me a screwdriver, please.” Sometimes, I get to hand some glue; and of course it is important. Yesterday, I helped load some blocks of soft cement. Today, I held the plywood with a huge stick to they can screw everything on the ceiling. Don’t get your hopes up; I will never be able to renovate a house by myself, not in 100 years.

For now, I am taking a break from cooking and I am nourishing myself from whatever my brother-in-law puts on the table; which is mostly grilled meat and salad, and yes the various cheeses and baguettes. French baguette, the most delicious bread in the world. I really have to be careful or I will leave France not as svelte as I arrived here, but on the grassouillette side. In case you don’t know what grassouillette is, it means chubby in French.

If you are going to be called fat, it might as well be “grassouillette.” When a Frenchman says it, it sounds so poetic.

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