Birthday

And apparently the best way to wake someone up on their birthday it to find 100 chicken feathers and stick them all in their hair. Good Morning and Happy Birthday!

Merry Christmas. Eve. Day.

I made Christmas Collages. They are coming in the mail. But here are the other ones if ever you are curious.

Christmas Tree I

Wreath

Holly

Bell

Christmas Tree II

Bethlehem (Here are was starting to run out of ideas...)

New Years Champagne (so I switched to y more New Years theme...)

And finally the Christmas Tarantula (seriously. no more ideas....)

George`s Apples

Today George came over. And we drank some wine. And we danced to Bob Dylan. And we watched a Rollong Stones concert. AND we made the best roasted apples I have ever eaten.

If you have ever wanted an apple but thought to yourself, ``Man. This fruit just does not have enough sugar. Or enough butter. And it is far too hard for my teeth to bite it,`` then this recipe is for you. Also, it s very easy.

Core some apples.
Put in one of those deep ish glass bakey things.
Pour over a little (a lot) of sugar.
Put a spoonful of butter in each hole.
Fill bottom of pan with some water.
Put apples in the oven until the looked like they have melted and exploded.
Eat.

Water vs. Wine, the Eternal Debate

At dinner last night at Jean Francois and Martines`s I had three glasses of wine. Then I had a bit of a sour stomach from said wine so I drank some water. And everyone looked at me like I was crazy. Then everyone told me I was crazy. Then I learned that the French have some weird, anti water, pro wine ideals.

For example:

1. I dillutes the bacteria in your stomach rendering you completely incapable of digesting your food.

2. Even one glass of water will make you have to pee during the night more than one million equally sized glasses of wine.

3. It will make constant, loud, embarassing gurgling noises in your stomach.

4. It will give you a hang over if ever you drink it with wine (not kidding, this was argued).

Being a good American girl I was always under the impression that water might actually be good for you, and you should drink some, if not lots. Who knew. I guess the states are just way behind on this water vs. wine debate (not).

The Transhumance

Well this is what I did with my day, all in all about a two mile walk that took us only 45 minutes. All of it looking at cow butts.
Are you ready for a (not so) exciting story? With (not) very exciting pictures??
Well hold onto your pants!


Filigran, Embra, Frema, Caiops and I left M. Fautreil`s house...


And we walked.....


And we walked some more...


Until we got to the road...


And finally to St. Martin d`Entraunes...



Where we found some water...


And some apples.

THE END

Killing Pigs

The Fat Pig

Before the butcher comes to kill the pigs you have to move them inside to a small space where they can be easily caught. Two days ago we began the process of moving the pigs into the cow shed in preparation for the Fete de Tue Couchon.
Two of the pigs came easily. The other stayed behind, laying in the shack, unmoving.
I walked into the shack and kicked it a little to get it going.
It still did not move.
I shouted a little and it stood up.
Then it layed back down.
I shouted a little bit more and finally it waddled down to join its companions.
It walked 10 slow meters and its back legs started to tremble and then completely give way. It fell and started rolling down hill legs flailing in the air.
Now this is not just a hill but more or less the steep side of a mountain and if you have actually never seen the shape of a pig then I am sure you can imagine it in your mind. They are basically just made for rolling.
I stood there, mouth gaping, as this pig picks up speed, completely shocked and unable to move. Alfred, infinitely less clear headed in situations such as these but also considerably more active, runs down and stops the rolling tub of lard with his feet.
Ìt lays there, breathing.
I regain conciousness, ``You have to kill it!,`` I yell.
``But I don`t have a rope...or a knife,`` Alfred yells back.
He stays with the pig and I run to the house, fetch rope and knife, and return.
Fat pig is no longer breathing.
``It`s too late! He`s dead.`` Alfred looks angry.
``It`s still fine. Just do it.`` (I know nothing about the situation except that Alfred is generally very quick to give up.)
I tie the rope around one of the poor beasts ankles, around a nearby tree, and hold on as Alfred plunges the knife into its fatty throat. Fortunately blood comes gushing out onto the ground.
Well then comes the next problem. To prepare a pig after killing you generally scrape it clean after killing with boiling hot water and spoons (yes, spoons) thus removing the first layer of skin and the hair. Well we have no boiling water. But it`s ok because Alfred heard once that you can just burn it with straw. We get straw and matches and burn the sad, dead, fat pig`s carcass.
The smell is abominable. Indescribable. The worst thing ever. Period. And I have to scrape away at the burning, blitering flesh with my little knife.
All this in a wind that you have never seen before in your life.
In the end we called Nicolas who came, calm in his tractor, smoking a cigarette and asking for a glass of white wine, to hang, gut and decapitate the Fat Pig all before nightfall.
Today I had a nice delicious cutlet and I can assure you that at least the meat was saved.

Fall

La Berarde

Formentera, Spain. May 2011