The aroma of cake baking in the oven elicited comments from many in the group about cooking traditions. Everyone had a favorite recipe.
“Chocolate chip cookies!”
“Banana bread!”
“Triple-chocolate fudge cake!”
The list went on.
The whole baking experience brought back sweet childhood memories.
The divine cake smells faded as the smoke of the wood fire floated through the farmhouse.
“There’s something about the smell of a wood fire that makes everyone feel good,” Barbara remarked to Bertram. “Ever since I was a young girl, I’ve been aware of that. I still have an apartment with a wood-burning fireplace.”
“Jolly good! I agree with you. Sadly, my wife is allergic to smoke”—he turned his head for a moment, reaching for the wine bottle, and muttered to no one in particular—“and every bloody thing else . . .”
“Oh, what a shame,” Barbara replied.
“Right! Bloomin’ shame! We never have fires, in spite of the fact we have two enormous hearths in our hunting lodge in the country. In our early years together, I would sneak in a few bloody roaring infernos when my wife went off to London for a few days. Nevermore. The minute she catches the slightest hint of smoke, she goes crazy. I’m enjoying this.”
After searing the roasts, Maurice flattened the flames. Then he settled the meat on a low grill over a bed of hot, glowing embers while the fire continued to smolder. “Deux heures! Two hours to perfection!”
Juliette smiled to herself. She knew that meant three hours, without question. Maurice was always an optimist when it came to roasts on the coals.
Maurice told them they were in for a treat, as this was Camargue lamb. “It’s a delicacy because of the special flavor that comes from grazing on the salt-marsh grass.”
Joan, John, and Arianna took the next shift. John chopped veggies and baked pita chips, singing along to an Eagles album he had requested from Juliette’s extensive music collection.
Joan blended chickpeas, garlic, lemon, and tahini to make hummus. They had to do several taste tests to ensure she had it just right . . . or so they said. Arianna guided her on the tzatziki, a very simple recipe, also made in the blender.
From time to time, she and Joan picked up spoons to use as microphones and accompanied John as backup singers. The mood was lively, with everyone wandering in and out of the kitchen, singing along.
Arianna felt transported to a time years before when this kind of atmosphere was very much a part of her family life. It occurred to her that she had not lost it or left it behind; it was simply different now. She was having fun again.
She made the avgolemono soup in a broth-like style, knowing this consistency was a pleasing complement to a lamb dish. She was thrilled to add a touch of her Greek heritage to the meal.
When she asked for some salt, Maurice seized another opportunity to talk about the products of the area.
“Did you know that fleur de sel is harvested by hand?”
Arianna admitted she did not, even though she always used that kind of salt both at home and in their restaurant.
He continued, “In the Camargue, this salt is only produced at special times during the summer when the wind is slow and steady or, even better, stopped! This causes millions of salt crystals to form at the surface of the water. That layer is hand raked and harvested. The aroma of violets and flower-like pattern of crystals that develop as the salt dries gives it the ‘fleur de sel’ name.”
He picked up a round container with a cork top that had a signature on it. “Each container is signed by the one who harvested that salt. The tradition continues.”
“Maurice, I love that! I’m going to look at my containers when I get back home and see who has signed them. That’s so cool!”
Champagne corks were popped. “It is, after all, l’heure de l’apéro! I hereby declare this cocktail hour!” Bertram announced with unabashed enthusiasm.
Everyone agreed they were beginning to appreciate the French love for their national drink. Foie gras on small toasts were set out, along with the newly created appetizers, and consumed with murmurs of delight. The talk was all about food.
Marti and Lisa would prepare their salad after everyone was finished in the kitchen.
“We’re very familiar with the French theory of keeping the salad simple in order to cleanse the palate and aid digestion after the main course. We follow the same philosophy at our restaurant,” Marti told them. “Then we serve the cheese platter, followed by dessert. It makes so much sense.”
The aromas of the roasting lamb, covered with a paste of minced garlic and fresh rosemary, filled the kitchen.
“Mmmm, that is just too divine!” Arianna said as she clinked glasses with Joan.
“Normally, I can’t stand the smell of lamb cooking, but this is making me salivate!” John admitted.
“Ah, these perfumes, combined with the whiffs of woodsmoke . . . My nostrils are putting me in a state of delirium!” Bertram staggered about theatrically. “More champagne, please!”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was almost midnight when Juliette stood with her finger to her lips to attempt to stop the conversation. The men were clearing the dishes from the table, leaving only a box of hand-dipped local chocolates to be passed around.
“Attention, s’il vous plaît! Shhhhh!” She laughed as the chatter gradually tapered off around the table. “I would say this dinner has been a great success.”
The men returned to their places, and applause broke out, along with a few cheers and a loud whistle from Lisa with her fingers between her teeth. All heads turned in her direction, followed by peals of laughter.
“I want to compliment all the chefs involved!” Juliette said, looking at each one around the table, including Maurice. “This meal was magnifique!”
Words of praise and agreement echoed around the table.
Barbara stood up and raised her empty glass. Bertram picked up a bottle of wine to refill it, but she covered the top with her hand. “Non, merci, Chef Bertie! I’ve had more than enough! As the senior member in the room, I want to tell you this is the most fun I’ve had in years! I can’t believe I’m still awake. Merci, merci, merci . . . beaucoup!”
Maurice’s face reflected pride in their accomplishment. “I believe this all got started around the chopping block and mixing bowls this afternoon.”
Marti grinned. “There’s something about working together in a kitchen that goes a long way to develop camaraderie.”
The group had become a tight unit over the course of the evening, as delectable conversation was served up with equally delicious food. Stories were told and much laughter shared.
At one point, Bertram had slipped into the empty chair beside Arianna. Joan had been sitting there and had left the room for a moment. In spite of the good company he had been in the kitchen, Arianna felt herself tense up. She didn’t do well with inebriated men. Never had.
“Arianna, my dear girl,” he began, slurring his words ever so slightly. “There’shomething I’ve been wanting to tell you since Monday. I hope you don’t mind . . . and I would never have said it without the help of dear Bacchus . . .”
He swallowed a hiccup. “Damn! Please excush me! I had a sense you were struggling with your bare canvas when you first arrived, and this is what I wanted to say. It’s acshually advice from dear Vincent . . . don’t listen to voices saying you can’t paint. Paint, my dear girl! Paint! You can do it! Then those voices will be silensh . . . shilensh . . . damn! . . . silenced! Tha’s what I wanted to say . . .”
He weaved a little as he stood up. Then he patted her gently on the head. Arianna thought she would burst into tears at his thoughtfulness. She berated herself for judging him so harshly earlier in the week. She knew better than to let first impressions color her thinking.
Joan arrived back just as Bertram was vacating her chair. When she saw the look on Arianna’s face, she assumed he had said somet
hing hurtful. “What the heck happened? Tell me, and I’ll speak to him right now! I’ve got a bone to pick with him anyway!”
Arianna took Joan’s hand and held her in her seat. “No! Exactly the opposite. He just stumbled over and said the sweetest thing to me . . . something very thoughtful. I think I’ve been misjudging him.”
“Well, I’m surprised. Glad it wasn’t anything bad. Seriously, I’ve had a score to settle with him from the day we all arrived. I won’t do it while we’ve been drinking. But I have to agree with you. He does seem to be nicer than when he first got here.”
Arianna looked down the table to where Bertram had taken his seat again. He looked back at her and gave her a crooked smile. She mouthed the words “thank you,” put her hands together in front of her, and bent her head in a namaste response.
Dessert plates were set on the table. The pièce de résistance was the cake. Bertram’s recipe was declared just the right melt-in-your-mouth combination of richness and simple flavor.
Now he pulled himself together in an exaggerated manner. “The recipe for thish ambrosial comestible was pashed along to me by my dear old gran, Lady Sonia Lloyd-Goldsmith. She wash the custodian of my heart throughout my formative yearsh. Not that she would ever spend a moment cooking, mind you.” His oration was interrupted by a loud hiccup. “Excush me! But she maintained a treasury box of family reshipes transferred through generations and ensured they were faithfully and habitually served.” He wiped his brow with a flourish.
“A gentle explosion of chocolate and butter in the land of beaux gâteaux!” Cecilia expressed, recording into her phone, and then shared loudly over the table. “Merci, Chef Bertie!”
Barbara had created a garden of sugary delights on the top, in the shapes of roses, lavender, and other colorful blooms.
Bertram refilled his wine, stood up, and raised his glass. “A toasht to everyone! To my beautiful cake-baking companions and everyone elsh at the table! Three cheersh!”
Everyone joined in the toast and then continued to compliment each other on their particular contributions to the dinner.
While the cake was being consumed, Juliette placed a clear four-inch acrylic cube filled with cards on the table. “This is a great game to connect with each other. We each take a turn and answer a question on a card. If you don’t like the card you pick, pass it on to someone else. It’s good fun.”
How could it not be, with questions such as:
What song brings back the strongest memories for you?
Which is more important, intelligence or common sense?
If you could do something dangerous once, with no risk, what would you do?
By this time, everyone was relaxed. John had volunteered to answer the first question, and the ball was rolling.
Conversation about life, art, travel, politics, sex, and food floated around the table, ranging from deep and substantial to frivolous and lighthearted.
Maurice rolled a cart to the table. “Voilà les digestifs—brandy, cognac, whiskey—qu’est-ce qui vous ferait plaisir? What’s your pleasure?”
Bertram raised his hand.
And stories were told . . . by some more than others.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The mistral continued to roar for all of Thursday.
Bertram was unusually vocal as he joined some of the group for breakfast. “Jesus H. Christ! Doesn’t the wind know I’m hungover? It’s like a bloody banshee today! Sacré mistral!” He had picked up that “damn mistral” curse from Maurice.
Juliette had explained the day before that their visit to the Fondation Vincent van Gogh would be rescheduled for the following week.
With some feeling a bit foggier in the head than others on Thursday morning, the day’s schedule was left to the artists. At their insistence, the music was back on. Barbara convinced Bertram to forgo his headphones for part of the day, and more than once he was caught in the act of twitching his hips to the music.
By noon, everyone was up and about. The kitchen held a wealth of leftovers to be consumed when desired. The guests favored lamb sandwiches on crusty baguette with mint from the garden. Juliette had braved the wind to pick some fresh stems, assuring everyone there was a way to deal with the mistral after you had been through it enough times.
“The biggest danger—apart from falling over—is getting hit by a flying object. Otherwise we carry on but certainly don’t go out as much as normal. That’s another reason some people say the mistral drives them crazy. You can be housebound for several days, depending on the strength of it. I have to admit I relish being held captive at home, but many don’t.”
Everyone was immersed in their work. Inspiration and motivation were the buzzwords being shared. The general consensus was that the presentation by de Villeneuve on Tuesday and then individual sessions with Juliette the day before had been huge catalysts.
“I’ll be at work in the studio all day, and you know I’m available for any questions or help you may wish,” Juliette reminded them. “I’m delighted several of you have already set up in there with me. There’s room for all of us . . . so think about it.”
Arianna liked the relaxed overall atmosphere and the fact that the course encouraged independence as well as collaboration. She had spent the morning mixing her paints to re-create the silvers, grays, and greens of the leaves on olive trees as they filled her canvas.
Occasionally, she would take a break and spend time in the pages of a coffee-table book of van Gogh’s art she had borrowed from the well-stocked bookshelves in the salon.
The day passed in relative quiet indoors, background music notwithstanding.
But the roar of the wind outside continued unabated. Maurice had mentioned the mistral sometimes continued for well over a week. Arianna hoped that would not be the case this time.
Later in the afternoon, appetizing aromas began to waft through the house. Maurice had used the remainder of the lamb and roasted vegetables to put together a mouthwatering stew.
Listening to an optimistic report from la météo, that evening he told them it was predicted Friday would be the third and final day for this mistral. The news was greeted with cheers.
Discussing weekend plans over dinner, everyone wanted to visit the marché on Saturday. It would be on again, Maurice assured them, and it would be busy after the disruptive weather.
Since they had essentially missed out on two days of exploring Arles, some suggested that Saturday afternoon they take the walking tour offered by the tourist office.
“Besides, Juliette deserves a break!” John proclaimed, and there followed a chorus of accord.
In addition, they all agreed they were eager to visit the Camargue on Sunday. Maurice was amenable to driving them in his van.
Friday proved to be only slightly breezy by comparison. The mistral teased the trees and shrubs, but relief could be found.
Some spent a little time outside drawing, eager to capture the movement created by the wind. Protection could be found by stone walls or on the south terrace near the house. Others moved quietly around indoors. After the socializing of the previous few days, a hushed mood prevailed.
The artists were at work.
For a while, Barbara and Bertram set their easels back to back, apart but together. Pausing for the occasional break of tea for her and wine for him, they shared conversation in low, muffled tones.
The day passed.
Arianna spent most of it in her room with her easel in front of an open window. She liked to be alone when she painted. She’d discovered that distractions and interruptions, music notwithstanding, slowed the process for her.
If she was honest, she was also there because she still felt her work was inferior to the others’. But she was beginning to accept that, really, everyone’s individual pieces were just that. Individual. She had even received some compliments about her work, for which she was grateful.
I just have to become a believer.
With much of the color and texture detail
well established, she worked purposefully. Now her emotions transferred to the canvas. She looked out over the olive grove and the vineyards stretching beyond and let the natural surroundings affect her.
A long sigh escaped her lips as she took in the unfolding panorama. Her view swept across the unevenly spaced grove of olive trees with their silvery leaves to the orderly dark-green rows of vineyards. She imagined the bounteous clusters of grapes slowly flourishing on the vines.
The celebration of the olive and the vine . . . true Provence . . .
Beyond, the jagged, rocky mounds of the scrubland-covered Alpilles formed a dramatic backdrop. Avenues of tall cypress trees dotted the landscape, and she glimpsed, here and there, steep little roads leading to perched villages.
She thought of the proud words of Jean-Marc, her young driver from Avignon, when he spoke of his love for this region and how it embodied the “authentic” Provence. They were certainly getting a sense of the proud traditions of the area from their hosts.
Her mind frequently wandered to thoughts of van Gogh. Being in this environment made it easy to understand how he was so inspired to produce such a prolific volume of work. At the same time, the speed with which he must have worked was a cause for wonder.
She looked to the collection of vintage photos on one wall in her room that included this quotation from Frederic Mistral: “When the Good Lord begins to doubt the world, he remembers that he created Provence.”
Bringing her thoughts back to her painting, she felt even more motivated. Mixing her paints, she worked with ultramarine blue and a lemon yellow to produce a dullish green. She had learned long before not to bother with green pigments but rather to mix others to create the color she wanted. Once she came close to the hue she sought, she began to experiment with a dash of violet to warm it up. Juliette had made the suggestion, and Arianna was pleased with the results.
Drawing Lessons Page 14