super July

Two weeks of ups and downs, 17 days of sunshine and rain and paint and black  sandy dirt everywhere. Our little caravan is holding strong, with just some minor leaks and a few big fat spiders. 

We are spending the summer on the beautiful French island Oleron, just off the coast of La Rochelle. There is one bridge that connects Oleron with the mainland. This bridge is a permanent trafficjam. There is also a ferry from LR. Although at about this time the island is packed full of vacationers from all around Europe, we live on a quiet plot of land under the acacia trees. Our neighbor, who shares the land with us is a 60-something year old musician and poet who sings and plays the bossa nova.

Babu is doing fantastic, better than ever. We have a nice little corner set up for her to sleep. At ten months she is a curious little peach. I found a library in the village that has a whole room devoted to books for babies. We have two small baskets full of cotton or wooden toys. Otherwise she plays with mommy amd daddy on the beach, just a stone’s throw away. We bathe her with water warmed on the gas stove in a small inflatable pool.

Our diet is simple, we work on our market stand every day. We buy organic vegetables at the market down the road. I practice Ashtanga yoga in the shade. We sing and play music and lounge in the hammock. 

End of spring brings bigjuicy apricots :) here’s a easy French recipe with an Algerian hint on how to make it without using a premade crust or a rolling pin!

110 g flour (try using whole wheat, oat..anything but white!)

Pinch of sea salt

30 g butter, soft

Mix ingedients together with fingers until you have a homogenized sandy paste. Add 2 tablespoons of warm water, mix gently. Place in the middle of a shallow baking dish and roll out the sides starting from the center. You can use a flat-sided cup dusted with flour. This is a good way to shape the crust for those with limited space in your kitchen!

Go carefully. Soon your crust should be nice and flat and ready to bake :)

Poke holes with a fork to keep from sticking. Bake 12 mins at 175°C.

Meanwhile..

10-15 apricots

2 tablespoons raw sugar

Quarter the apricots and place them skin side down on the crust. Sprinkle the sugar on top. Bake 20 - 25 minutes, or until the tips of the apricots become carmalized.

Thalia crawls. When she sees an empty bottle of wine, an atlas, or a piece of bread on the floor she squeals with delight and hurries towards it knee hand hand knee. La Pallice is full of wonders. When she gets to her destination she slaps the floor energetically. She pulls on plants. The tiniest crumb is enthralling. She sticks out her pointer finger and tries to touch it. This morning she made it into the kitchen. Each day a new room, a new skill to master. When she laughs she offers a view of her first tooth, just poking through. It hurts her. She wakes up in a pile of drool, she complains. I try to massage her gums like everyone says to but she doesn’t like having fingers shoved into her mouth. I hold her against my chest and stroke her sweaty head. 

but different. a mini Paris with less tunnels are more peaks. I’m here, but only halfway. I eat the bread but I don’t drink the wine. They tell me that this is the land of the nuts. You are what you eat.

i sleep on air. Weak tea, weak knees. weekend inside. I have more strength than ever. I can calm children. But they are not from my womb.

The king and queens of the mountain are cats. They are burly cats, with thick coats and some are missing chunks of their ears. They are mountain cats. They are the royalty.

My new apartment is empty. I am not even inside. 

Long legs sheathed in black tights covered black feet inside of black velvet wedge heels slim black thighs big black coat red lipstick. This place is oozing with sex appeal.

I was walking down an unknown street that could have been any street with Haussmanian fronts and bistros. A man waved me down, asian style. Do you know what that is? He put his arm out, palm down, and waved his hand up and down. The man said with urgency, ‘’Come drink a mint tea!” and so I entered his Italian Moroccan fusion restaurant. He wanted to fondle me. I could read his thoughts. He looked at me with hungry eyes, licking his lips. I drank the tea. He offered me a trip to Marseille, just the two of us. He said, “i love American girls” and tried to feed me a croissant. I laughed in his face. I couldn’t help it. I left, still laughing at the purplish mole on his ear, at his drooping lips, at his uncanny resemblance to an animal in heat.

He represented the animal desire that we have the potential to possess. He was a drooling, panting, sex starved beast.