Travel incompatible
Last week I did the great trek North from Lectoure to Edinburgh to meet my first ever grandchild, Felix James. These journeys are always preceded by a morning on the internet checking out travel options. Since there are no direct flights during the winter months from SW France to Scotland, planning the journey involves juggling with flight or train connections, and invariably none of them join up. Picture the scene, me and husband on separate laptops, panning for travel gold. Cries of 'Here we are, I've found something, I think this would work' invariably followed by 'Oh no, we'd have to be in Pau at three in the morning' or 'I don't believe it, 600 euros for the two of us, and that's single. They've got to be kidding.' Anyway, this time, for various reasons, I opted for the train and my husband went by car. Unless we're flying, Colin and I are travel incompatible. His idea of driving the length of France and England is to do it in the fastest possible time with minimum stops, apart from one overnight in a budget hotel. I on the other hand like coffee stops and lunch stops and the odd detour from the autoroute to admire the view. As for budget hotels, well to me that's just a contradiction in terms. If you're going to splash out on a hotel, you don't want nasty little words like 'budget' creeping into the equation.
So he dropped me at the station in our longsuffering Renault Scenic. The poor thing suffers from an identity crisis (the car that is, not my husband). It has seats that can be removed to give more space for loading assorted junk in the back. Our car spends so much time without passenger seats, it's now convinced it's a van.
Travel heaven
I knew I'd drawn the travel long straw from the moment the TGV, bound for Lille, glided into the station. I love train travel and the Train Grande Vitesse is a class act, the very Rolls Royce of trains. It makes its entrance like a diva, to a flurry of whistle-tooting anticipation on the platform. Passengers have already taken up their places in the chorus line, taking their cue from the platform plan which indicates the exact position where they should stand according to their carriage number - because the TGV doesn't suffer fools gladly. It keeps to a tight schedule and woe betide any unrehearsed extras still bumbling around on the platform when the train is ready to depart. Its doors spring shut with an elegant hiss and what must be one of the smoothest 250 km an hour rides in the world gets underway. A good book, a breakfast cup of coffee and croissant from the buffet, a comfortable window seat with occasional glimpses of turreted chateaux, acres of twisty vines and wide, slow-moving rivers. I still have a long journey ahead of me but already I've arrived in travel heaven.
Monday 28 February 2011
Sunday 20 February 2011
The perils of making cream sauce
Friendship means food
As you'll gather from a previous post, one of the features of ex-pat life here in SW France is getting together for meals. Before I had a home here, I was a bit snooty about Brits who choose to live abroad and then huddle together in ghettos when they get there, having no real contact with the natives. I still hold that view, but living here has also made me value a strong friendship network with people who literally 'speak my language'. And friendship involves food.
If you're the host, that means planning food, preparing food, serving food - and repairing to the kitchen every now and then for a quiet nervous breakdown. Incidentally, I never want a kitchen cum dining-room. My nervous breakdowns are strictly private affairs.
Feeding the kitchen sink
So, last Friday, it was my turn to host. I scoured the cookery books. The key is courses you can prepare ahead. What the recipe called luxury lasagne appeared to fit that bill. But luxury lasagne means cream sauce and that's where things began to unravel. I was supposed to keep stirring, not multi-tasking. A subtle burnt milk aroma reminded me that rinsing a casserole dish at the sink was not part of the recommended process for making cream sauce. I grabbed the pan from the hob and tasted a spoonful, then another. I needed a second opinion. Now my husband has learnt a few things in 36 years of marriage; one of them is: avoid post dinner party post mortems at all costs. You know the kind of thing:
"That went well didn't it?" (says he innocently)
"Mmmm. The lasagne was a flop though."
"I thought it was fine." (Fine? Fine! Whoever invented the word 'fine'?)
"It wasn't fine. The sauce was burnt. How can you say it was fine?"
Etc, etc -I'm sure you can supply your own variations on the script.
So my husband has come up with an avoidance strategy: brutal honesty while there's still time to change things is better than a painful post mortem when it's way too late.
"You can't use that, it's burnt," he said, after one sip from the spoon.
It was true, but not what I wanted to hear. I wanted to be told it tasted all right to him, or maybe a hint of something, but you'd never notice when it was mixed with other stuff, or a bit more nutmeg will mask it - but no, I got it between the eyes. It's burnt, throw it away, start again. So I poured it down the sink and started again. Back to square one, I thought, thumping pans around.
Novels and cream sauce
Later, when the second attempt had worked and my luxury lasagne was smugly luxuriating in its dish, it occurred to me that the process of making cream sauce could teach me a thing or two about the process of producing a novel. You spend time and effort. You graft away and try to make it perfect, but something's not quite right. You desperately want a second opinion, but you don't want to be told to pour it down the sink and start again. You couldn't stand going back to square one and re-drafting, so let's just get it out there to agents and publishers, and hope none of them notice the acrid flavour of burnt milk. I know, I've done it. And the truth is, nobody goes back to square one the second time around. When I made my second batch of cream sauce, I chose a pan with a more solid base; I was in less of a hurry to add the milk; I added it gradually; I kept the heat much lower and I didn't stop stirring for a second. I'd learnt all that from making mistakes the first time. And the second time around, the sauce was destined for the table, not the sink.
As you'll gather from a previous post, one of the features of ex-pat life here in SW France is getting together for meals. Before I had a home here, I was a bit snooty about Brits who choose to live abroad and then huddle together in ghettos when they get there, having no real contact with the natives. I still hold that view, but living here has also made me value a strong friendship network with people who literally 'speak my language'. And friendship involves food.
If you're the host, that means planning food, preparing food, serving food - and repairing to the kitchen every now and then for a quiet nervous breakdown. Incidentally, I never want a kitchen cum dining-room. My nervous breakdowns are strictly private affairs.
Feeding the kitchen sink
So, last Friday, it was my turn to host. I scoured the cookery books. The key is courses you can prepare ahead. What the recipe called luxury lasagne appeared to fit that bill. But luxury lasagne means cream sauce and that's where things began to unravel. I was supposed to keep stirring, not multi-tasking. A subtle burnt milk aroma reminded me that rinsing a casserole dish at the sink was not part of the recommended process for making cream sauce. I grabbed the pan from the hob and tasted a spoonful, then another. I needed a second opinion. Now my husband has learnt a few things in 36 years of marriage; one of them is: avoid post dinner party post mortems at all costs. You know the kind of thing:
"That went well didn't it?" (says he innocently)
"Mmmm. The lasagne was a flop though."
"I thought it was fine." (Fine? Fine! Whoever invented the word 'fine'?)
"It wasn't fine. The sauce was burnt. How can you say it was fine?"
Etc, etc -I'm sure you can supply your own variations on the script.
So my husband has come up with an avoidance strategy: brutal honesty while there's still time to change things is better than a painful post mortem when it's way too late.
"You can't use that, it's burnt," he said, after one sip from the spoon.
It was true, but not what I wanted to hear. I wanted to be told it tasted all right to him, or maybe a hint of something, but you'd never notice when it was mixed with other stuff, or a bit more nutmeg will mask it - but no, I got it between the eyes. It's burnt, throw it away, start again. So I poured it down the sink and started again. Back to square one, I thought, thumping pans around.
Novels and cream sauce
Later, when the second attempt had worked and my luxury lasagne was smugly luxuriating in its dish, it occurred to me that the process of making cream sauce could teach me a thing or two about the process of producing a novel. You spend time and effort. You graft away and try to make it perfect, but something's not quite right. You desperately want a second opinion, but you don't want to be told to pour it down the sink and start again. You couldn't stand going back to square one and re-drafting, so let's just get it out there to agents and publishers, and hope none of them notice the acrid flavour of burnt milk. I know, I've done it. And the truth is, nobody goes back to square one the second time around. When I made my second batch of cream sauce, I chose a pan with a more solid base; I was in less of a hurry to add the milk; I added it gradually; I kept the heat much lower and I didn't stop stirring for a second. I'd learnt all that from making mistakes the first time. And the second time around, the sauce was destined for the table, not the sink.
Saturday 19 February 2011
No Ordinary Child | Wild Goose Publications
Postscript
I wrote my meditation NO ORDINARY CHILD more than ten years ago, not long after one of my sons had 'come out'. I didn't write it with a view to publication. It was my personal account of the journey God was taking me on regarding my attitude to homosexuality. I felt prompted to seek publication when someone suggested it might help other parents in a similar situation, but it was by no means the end of my story. Only recently I came across an Amazon reader review of my book, written several years back, which I'd somehow missed at the time. This reader commented that they weren't convinced by the final chapter, one where I spoke of embracing my son's sexuality with joy. They felt I had a way to go to get to that point. I think maybe that was fair comment. So from my present perspective, I'd like to add a brief postscript to the book. Ten years down the line, I've seen a lot of prayers answered for my son, not least in the provision of a wonderful partner who, in spite of no formal ceremony, feels like my son-in-law. I treasure my relationship with both of them. I don't pretend to have all the answers and accept that everyone is at a different stage of their own personal journey, but it's important to keep travelling. 'Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.' (Psalm 30 v 5) Working through the deep issues of life often involves tears, but, as I'm sure many of you can testify, if you 'hang in there' the outcome is frequently joy.
No Ordinary Child Wild Goose Publications.
I wrote my meditation NO ORDINARY CHILD more than ten years ago, not long after one of my sons had 'come out'. I didn't write it with a view to publication. It was my personal account of the journey God was taking me on regarding my attitude to homosexuality. I felt prompted to seek publication when someone suggested it might help other parents in a similar situation, but it was by no means the end of my story. Only recently I came across an Amazon reader review of my book, written several years back, which I'd somehow missed at the time. This reader commented that they weren't convinced by the final chapter, one where I spoke of embracing my son's sexuality with joy. They felt I had a way to go to get to that point. I think maybe that was fair comment. So from my present perspective, I'd like to add a brief postscript to the book. Ten years down the line, I've seen a lot of prayers answered for my son, not least in the provision of a wonderful partner who, in spite of no formal ceremony, feels like my son-in-law. I treasure my relationship with both of them. I don't pretend to have all the answers and accept that everyone is at a different stage of their own personal journey, but it's important to keep travelling. 'Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.' (Psalm 30 v 5) Working through the deep issues of life often involves tears, but, as I'm sure many of you can testify, if you 'hang in there' the outcome is frequently joy.
No Ordinary Child Wild Goose Publications.
Friday 18 February 2011
My favourite way to shop
Friday morning is market day in Lectoure. Any of you who know and love France will probably count the weekly market as one of your favourite features of this diverse country. The Lectoure market stretches the length of the high street. It's not just a place to buy local goods and produce, it's a weekly meeting place, a place to catch up on news and gossip. Halfway up the steep lane that leads from our house into town, I can hear the buzz of chatter, long before the market stalls come into view. The atmosphere is convivial; you never know what you'll find or who you'll meet; it's fun and relaxing to shop there. I tend to postpone supermarket shopping for days, until the fridge is almost empty and I've run out of ingenious ways to rustle up supper from an egg, a lump of cheese and half a cucumber, but the Friday morning market is a shopping expedition I relish.
Satsumas with a bitter taste
Numerous stalls sell fruit and veg. You're spoilt for choice. But I've learnt which ones to make a beeline for and which to avoid. Two recent incidents biassed me and left me pondering how easy it is to alienate or attract without even being aware we've done it. First the negative. I stopped at a laden stall and selected a few satsumas and a couple of curly hot green peppers. I handed over my ten euro note. The stallholder gave me change of five. I pointed out his mistake and he immediately handed over the other five without even checking his cash box, always a suspicious sign. He apologised, I said 'Pas de probleme'. But I lied. He'd lost a customer for life. Maybe he mistook me for a tourist, a stupid Brit (can't hold that against him I guess) who not only spoke with a foreign accent but didn't know how to add up. Whatever the reason, he short-changed me and left me with a sour taste that even his sweet, juicy satsumas couldn't rectify.
Compassion sells cauliflowers
I wandered on up the street to another fruit and veg seller who has his pitch in front of the cathedral square. His is a popular stall and I joined the queue. At that moment, a young man came storming down the street, waving a mobile phone, shouting incoherently. Everyone turned to look at him. Anyone in his path drew back to let him pass. 'He's in a temper today,' a customer in front of me in the queue observed to the stallholder. 'He's okay,' the man observed, 'he doesn't do anyone any harm.'
Now I know compassion as opposed to dishonesty won't necessarily produce a better salad, but no prizes for guessing where I go to buy my fruit and veg.
Friday morning is market day in Lectoure. Any of you who know and love France will probably count the weekly market as one of your favourite features of this diverse country. The Lectoure market stretches the length of the high street. It's not just a place to buy local goods and produce, it's a weekly meeting place, a place to catch up on news and gossip. Halfway up the steep lane that leads from our house into town, I can hear the buzz of chatter, long before the market stalls come into view. The atmosphere is convivial; you never know what you'll find or who you'll meet; it's fun and relaxing to shop there. I tend to postpone supermarket shopping for days, until the fridge is almost empty and I've run out of ingenious ways to rustle up supper from an egg, a lump of cheese and half a cucumber, but the Friday morning market is a shopping expedition I relish.
Satsumas with a bitter taste
Numerous stalls sell fruit and veg. You're spoilt for choice. But I've learnt which ones to make a beeline for and which to avoid. Two recent incidents biassed me and left me pondering how easy it is to alienate or attract without even being aware we've done it. First the negative. I stopped at a laden stall and selected a few satsumas and a couple of curly hot green peppers. I handed over my ten euro note. The stallholder gave me change of five. I pointed out his mistake and he immediately handed over the other five without even checking his cash box, always a suspicious sign. He apologised, I said 'Pas de probleme'. But I lied. He'd lost a customer for life. Maybe he mistook me for a tourist, a stupid Brit (can't hold that against him I guess) who not only spoke with a foreign accent but didn't know how to add up. Whatever the reason, he short-changed me and left me with a sour taste that even his sweet, juicy satsumas couldn't rectify.
Compassion sells cauliflowers
I wandered on up the street to another fruit and veg seller who has his pitch in front of the cathedral square. His is a popular stall and I joined the queue. At that moment, a young man came storming down the street, waving a mobile phone, shouting incoherently. Everyone turned to look at him. Anyone in his path drew back to let him pass. 'He's in a temper today,' a customer in front of me in the queue observed to the stallholder. 'He's okay,' the man observed, 'he doesn't do anyone any harm.'
Now I know compassion as opposed to dishonesty won't necessarily produce a better salad, but no prizes for guessing where I go to buy my fruit and veg.
Tuesday 15 February 2011
Two and a half cheers for St Valentine
I'm ambivalent about Valentine's Day, never sure if it's a wonderful opportunity to celebrate romantic love or a celebration to be shunned, on the grounds that it's just another opportunity for card companies to rip us off. But yesterday's Valentine's Day was a bit different. I'm married to a journalist who's good at thinking up innovative and usually hilarious ways to send me a Valentine message. This year he acknowledged my probably unhealthy obsession to gather six Louis Ghost chairs for our dining-room and made a donation to the chair fund. (So far, I have two, and if anyone out there is about to throw four in a skip, please contact immediately.) Anyway by 6pm we had a bottle of champagne on ice and were planning a quiet dinner 'a deux' when the phone rang - dear friends who live up the road from us in Lectoure were giving a Valentine's dinner party and two of their four guests had cancelled. Could we step into the breach? Now Lucy is quite possibly the best cook in at least the Northern Hemisphere and their company is always delightful, so we left the champagne on ice and accepted. And what an evening it turned out to be. Everything, from the canapes, through the five courses that followed, was pink and heart-shaped, and before I hear you go 'yuk' it was all absolutely delicious. The table was scattered with pink rose petals. Even the candles were heart-shaped. Elaborate, time consuming and demanding to prepare - I'd have died in the attempt. But Lucy was exercising a gift, and she used it to communicate love.
Out of the blue
Yesterday morning, unaware of the lovely surprise in store in the evening, I'd been reading the New Testament Gospel of Matthew, chapter 28, and thinking about all the ways that chapter demonstrates God manifesting himself in the lives of the earliest disciples. Verse 9 says, 'Suddenly Jesus met them'. Out of the blue, without warning, God sends us a message of love. Perhaps in a thought, something we see or notice, through a book or a film, the word of a friend or even a stranger, in a last minute invitation to a very special dinner - suddenly Jesus meets us.
I'd be interested to hear your thoughts about Valentines Day. And I'd love to know if God sent you a valentine!
Jackie x
I'm ambivalent about Valentine's Day, never sure if it's a wonderful opportunity to celebrate romantic love or a celebration to be shunned, on the grounds that it's just another opportunity for card companies to rip us off. But yesterday's Valentine's Day was a bit different. I'm married to a journalist who's good at thinking up innovative and usually hilarious ways to send me a Valentine message. This year he acknowledged my probably unhealthy obsession to gather six Louis Ghost chairs for our dining-room and made a donation to the chair fund. (So far, I have two, and if anyone out there is about to throw four in a skip, please contact immediately.) Anyway by 6pm we had a bottle of champagne on ice and were planning a quiet dinner 'a deux' when the phone rang - dear friends who live up the road from us in Lectoure were giving a Valentine's dinner party and two of their four guests had cancelled. Could we step into the breach? Now Lucy is quite possibly the best cook in at least the Northern Hemisphere and their company is always delightful, so we left the champagne on ice and accepted. And what an evening it turned out to be. Everything, from the canapes, through the five courses that followed, was pink and heart-shaped, and before I hear you go 'yuk' it was all absolutely delicious. The table was scattered with pink rose petals. Even the candles were heart-shaped. Elaborate, time consuming and demanding to prepare - I'd have died in the attempt. But Lucy was exercising a gift, and she used it to communicate love.
Out of the blue
Yesterday morning, unaware of the lovely surprise in store in the evening, I'd been reading the New Testament Gospel of Matthew, chapter 28, and thinking about all the ways that chapter demonstrates God manifesting himself in the lives of the earliest disciples. Verse 9 says, 'Suddenly Jesus met them'. Out of the blue, without warning, God sends us a message of love. Perhaps in a thought, something we see or notice, through a book or a film, the word of a friend or even a stranger, in a last minute invitation to a very special dinner - suddenly Jesus meets us.
I'd be interested to hear your thoughts about Valentines Day. And I'd love to know if God sent you a valentine!
Jackie x
Sunday 13 February 2011
So what's this blog about?
Perhaps I should start by telling you what this blog is not. Despite its title, it's not any kind of online SatNav. My sense of direction is non-existent. Neither does it have anything to do with the State of Israel or organised excursions to the Holy Land.
It does however take inspiration from the biblical Promised Land, the land 'flowing with milk and honey.' (The honey I'm okay with; the milk would have to be soya.) I've been a Christian for forty one years, albeit one who shouted at the radio this morning when I heard the news item about planned legislation allowing gay couples to get married in church. Apparently the Anglican church plans to keep its doors firmly shut against such enlightenment. Once I've finished this blog post, I'm planning a letter to the Archbishop of Canterbury. 'Dear Rowan, how do you square homophobia with the inclusive love of Christ?....something along those lines.
But stay with me. This blog isn't going to be a non-stop tirade about what's wrong with the established church - although that might crop up from time to time. Rather, I want to share the week in, week out flavour of what it's like to live half the year in a beautiful town called Lectoure in South West France and the other half in the equally beautiful city of Edinburgh, the place where I got married, raised three amazing sons and which still takes my breath away when I turn into Princes Street and see the castle silhouetted high up on its volcanic crag. Which place is my physical promised land? Probably both and neither, because whenever I'm in one of them, I'm homesick for the other.
The hide & seek promised land
I also plan to weave in anecdotes about my journey to my spiritual promised land, a journey in which I'm often baffled, perplexed and asking 'which way?', but one that I persevere with. Lectoure is an ancient town, perched high up on a hill, visible from miles around. From the terrace of our house on the town's stone ramparts, we have a jaw-dropping view of the surrounding countryside. Along the horizon stretches the jagged, distant outline of the Pyrenees. For a good percentage of the time, you wouldn't know that mountain range was there. It's invisible, cloaked by cloud. But then, for no apparent reason, it appears, sometimes so clearly defined you can see each snow-capped peak and steep, precipitous gully glistening in the sun.
That's why I doggedly keep going to my spiritual promised land - I know it's out there, even when I have to take that on trust.
Does seeking a promised land ruin your life?
My day job is writing and like many writers, I'm also persevering with the often weary journey of securing an agent and getting published. It's a promised land that unlike, the Pyrenees, may be nothing more than a mirage, shimmering on the horizon of all my hopes and dreams. I love to write, can't imagine the euphoria of someone actually paying me to do it, but if that never happens, have I wasted a good chunk of my life? Can the vision of the promised land keep you from enjoying the more mundane landscape that surrounds you every day?
What do you think?
Perhaps I should start by telling you what this blog is not. Despite its title, it's not any kind of online SatNav. My sense of direction is non-existent. Neither does it have anything to do with the State of Israel or organised excursions to the Holy Land.
It does however take inspiration from the biblical Promised Land, the land 'flowing with milk and honey.' (The honey I'm okay with; the milk would have to be soya.) I've been a Christian for forty one years, albeit one who shouted at the radio this morning when I heard the news item about planned legislation allowing gay couples to get married in church. Apparently the Anglican church plans to keep its doors firmly shut against such enlightenment. Once I've finished this blog post, I'm planning a letter to the Archbishop of Canterbury. 'Dear Rowan, how do you square homophobia with the inclusive love of Christ?....something along those lines.
But stay with me. This blog isn't going to be a non-stop tirade about what's wrong with the established church - although that might crop up from time to time. Rather, I want to share the week in, week out flavour of what it's like to live half the year in a beautiful town called Lectoure in South West France and the other half in the equally beautiful city of Edinburgh, the place where I got married, raised three amazing sons and which still takes my breath away when I turn into Princes Street and see the castle silhouetted high up on its volcanic crag. Which place is my physical promised land? Probably both and neither, because whenever I'm in one of them, I'm homesick for the other.
The hide & seek promised land
I also plan to weave in anecdotes about my journey to my spiritual promised land, a journey in which I'm often baffled, perplexed and asking 'which way?', but one that I persevere with. Lectoure is an ancient town, perched high up on a hill, visible from miles around. From the terrace of our house on the town's stone ramparts, we have a jaw-dropping view of the surrounding countryside. Along the horizon stretches the jagged, distant outline of the Pyrenees. For a good percentage of the time, you wouldn't know that mountain range was there. It's invisible, cloaked by cloud. But then, for no apparent reason, it appears, sometimes so clearly defined you can see each snow-capped peak and steep, precipitous gully glistening in the sun.
That's why I doggedly keep going to my spiritual promised land - I know it's out there, even when I have to take that on trust.
Does seeking a promised land ruin your life?
My day job is writing and like many writers, I'm also persevering with the often weary journey of securing an agent and getting published. It's a promised land that unlike, the Pyrenees, may be nothing more than a mirage, shimmering on the horizon of all my hopes and dreams. I love to write, can't imagine the euphoria of someone actually paying me to do it, but if that never happens, have I wasted a good chunk of my life? Can the vision of the promised land keep you from enjoying the more mundane landscape that surrounds you every day?
What do you think?
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