Chevre-Rit, St. Lothain

Yesterday the hoof men came to trim the horses hooves, which was an interesting time. Jean-Claude and two of his girls came first to help and then they arrived, looking like a combination of cowboys and military men in their buzz haircuts and fatigue-green clothes covered with special chaps that protect their legs when they're gripping a horse hoof between their knees. Unfortunately I didn't get a photo of them working on the horses but I'll just say it's always a pleasure to see people doing a job like that, that takes strength and skill and a certain special touch too. The three adult horses stood patiently, waiting their turns, and it seemed that they were enjoying the process while it was underway. The younger horse was a little less patient but she did fine and she didn't phase them a bit. I didn't understand much of what Jean-Claude talked about with them but it seemed they did a lot of admiring of the young Aleesha, wondering if her father was a quarter horse. We also tried to explain that the Appaloosas come from our neck of the woods, and I think that we finally got that communicated. I suppose if I had done some charades it would have been easy to get across the concept of Indians but I didn't feel all that outgoing in the mid-day heat.

We've been buying goat cheese at the Bletterans market on Tuesdays from a youngish sort of intellectual looking guy. Each week we've communicated a bit more with him; the first week we explained about being WWOOFers, the next week he suggested we come visit his farm, the next week I said I'd like to visit his farm and could he draw a map for me? He did so, saying any day is fine at 18:00, and we visited two nights later, which was last Thursday.

We drove east to St. Lothain, discovering some absolutely gorgeous tiny villages along the way, including Monay. Bois de Gand is in a broad flat valley but the hills start immediately to the east of here, with villages built clinging to the hillsides or perched atop the peaks. Everything is built with the same warm yellow limestone or limestone rendering on the outside with tiled roofs, and the new buildings too, so the harmonious effect of that contrasted with the lush greenery (this region gets a lot of rain in the winter) is a feast for the eyes. My pasture-loving nature thinks, this is where we ought to live! But we know that the winter is too long and wet for our taste. But I'd love to vacation here again someday, staying in a gite and just walking down the country roads, like we're doing now.

When we found the goat farm owned by Mr. Richard Bruno and his wife we quickly discovered that the appointed time - 18:00 - is when visitors are always welcome to watch. We were among a small crowd of people milling around during the evening milking. Some of the younger kids were helping a bit. I was dumbfounded at the little tricks he employed to make milking go smoothly. I may not have explained how the goats are kept in place for milking at Fromentaux and probably every goat farm in the world: there are boards with V-shaped openings between them. The goats put their necks in the slots, bend down to eat their grain, and you drop a hinged board down over the wide part at the top so they can't pull their heads out. Well, Mr. Bruno's hinged board was operated by a pull-cord on a pulley that he could reach from where he is standing with the milking machine suction cups. So he gets about 6 goats at a time, they run up the ramp and jostle into their spaces for the big grain treat (he has 50 goats total), hooks them up, and when they're done he releases the board and the girls trot down a little ramp into their big indoor stall, with a door that is also operated with a pull-cord and a pulley. I was gaping and trying to find the words to compliment him on these effort-saving innovations, and he tapped his head and said something to the effect of, "I study."

He showed me the racks of cheeses that they make from 100 to 120 litres of milk each week, all of the milk raw, or "cru." It was all the same procedure as at Fromentaux - raw milk, added enzyme, held at a warmish temp for 24 hrs, then the fromage blanc is ladled into the molds to drain off the whey, salted after 24 hrs. and turned and salted again and turned out to cure - just with newer, nicer equipment and on a larger scale. This operation is just 2 years old; Mr. Bruno's family is from here, he said. My favorite part of seeing the fromagerie was the baby paraphernalia scattered around, as he and his wife obviously have a fairly youngish baby who accompanies his maman to the fromagerie for the cheese making and turning each day.

Aperitif at Jean-Claude and Regine's

One of the neighbors about two miles away is also a good friend to our hosts; Jean-Claude Ayer is a dedicated horse man and he has two of his own and boards nine others for neighbors. He comes by the house a couple times a week to check on our equine charges. Last night he came over, helped clean Aleesha's hooves since she stomps around a bit for Walt, and then we went with him back to his house for an aperitif. Walt also asked him about the lime rendering he'd done on the stable, which looks great but is worrying Walt because it takes him so long to apply it. Apparently it is a very difficult thing to do and Jean-Claude never tries it himself. So that was sort of reassuring in a way. The sections on the side of the stable that he's done look absolutely fantastic so I hope he'll have the patience to keep going.

Jean-Claude and Regine have two daughters of their own and 4 foster daughters, one of whom is special needs. Reed played with the 3 littlest girls in the sandpile while we settled down for drinks and snacks with the rest of the family at their huge dining table - it must have been 18 feet long. The Ayers house and stable have been in reconstruction mode for quite a while; apparently two years ago it was so dry and hot that the lime mortar in the stonework dried out completely (it's supposed to stay slightly damp from rain) and the walls started crumbling. The house has been shored up and is being reinforced but the old stone stable attached to the house is completely gone. Jean-Claude used all the old stones and tiles to create a well-drained area below the stable where he'll have a sand paddock. The new stable is in the process of being built, they'd just poured one of the big concrete foundation walls yesterday. Huge pallets of concrete blocks are waiting in the yard. The horses live in a temporary tent-like stable which looks quite clean and cozy.

Jean-Claude is Swiss and Regine is from Charente-Maritime out west, near where we'll be going in about a month. Both are willowy but strong; Jean-Claude looks almost completely pale skinned and Regine is darker complected with short black hair and intellectual looking glasses. I liked her right away. She was wearing a drapey, clingy flowered red dress over red pants with black heels - as if their entire yard wasn't a construction zone and she was in the city instead of on a horse farm. Their oldest daughter just finished her first year of University, studying literature, and she had enough English to do some translating for us when we got into a pinch. It was quite amusing at times because Jean-Claude is from Switzerland he'd tell us one thing about pronunciation or usage and Emilie or Regine would roll their eyes and tell us another way. We also learned a bit about the difference between formal/written usage vs. common/oral usage. French verb tenses are many and there are lots of nuances that I hope I'll learn eventually. Right now just being able to say "We have been" and "we will" instead of just "we are" is a major breakthrough.

The Ayers are wonderful people, the hour and a half just flew by while we drank rose' mixed with grapefruit syrup, champagne with creme de cassis, ate sausage and cheese and bread and quiche, and talked and listened in French, relaxed by our hosts encouraging attitude and good humor. What had been kind of a difficult day - Reed acted up after breakfast in such a bad way that I had to ground him to his room for most of the day and Walt was in a snit about the lime rendering - was completely rescued by Jean-Claude and Regine and their family.

Regine served us two quiches, one with bacon and one with leeks, which she had used in a quiche for the very first time. Coincidentally, I, too, made a leek quiche the other day for the very first time, with some of the leeks we harvested from the garden. Last year's crop had to make way for planting this year's crop.

I made the quiche the usual way, preparing a pie crust and fitting it in a big tart dish. Then I finely sliced the white parts of the leeks and sauteed them in a pan with some olive oil and sliced mushrooms, putting them in the pie crust and pouring the egg and creme fraiche mixture (about 8 eggs and a cup of creme fraiche) over the top. Salt and pepper the top, and bake at 350 until set. It was a great combination, highly recommended.

Fete Paysanne in the Jura

The weather has been blissfully warm and sunny for five days in a row and we've started taking our meals al fresco on the terrace. It's what we've been dreaming about since, oh, last November and it's incredible what fresh air does for the appetite and for my motivation to cook. I'm learning the art of fixing really good meals with a combination of fresh things from the farmers market, canned pre-prepared things, and stuff out of the freezer. Today's lunch, for intance, was a fresh lettuce salad with grated carrot with the dressing Isabella taught me (2 parts olive oil, 1 part balsamic vinegar, 1 big tablespoon Dijon mustard, and 1 part creme fraiche), bread from the boulangerie that I got on Saturday, herbed pork sausages from the freezer that I browned with some diced onion and then simmered all morning with half a can of canned lentils, water, and a sprinkling of dried veggie/herb mix, the cheese platter with a varied selection (Comte', two kinds we don't remember the names of, a fresh goat cheese that is gaining more character each day, and a Bresse bleu), and for dessert, some lemon cake that I baked from a Dr. Oetker's mix that Isabella had in the cupboard. We've adopted the farm and French custom of eating a bigger meal at lunch than at dinner; it seems to work nicely for our work schedule and also for digestion!

Yesterday we drove eastward, further up into the hilly country of the Jura, where the brown and white cows wear bells and clang harmoniously as they graze. The confederation paysanne fete was at a dairy farm just outside of Mignovillard, a very small town between here and Geneva. The architecture of the houses became more Swiss-like, with chalets and steep roofs with little pointy things on the roofs to break up the snow above doorways. The pastures were blazing green and many of them filled with dandelions, so big and beautiful it was almost as if they were cultivated on purpose. Certainly they're not in any danger of eradication; I wonder if the cows like to eat them? The pastures are edged with low gravelly lengths of what looks like collapsed walls but what are just ancient rock piles from cleaning out of the pastures, with trees and shrubs growing out of them.

The fete paysanne was fun and a challenge for our language skills, but we did the best we could, checking out the solar cooking demonstration, watching the horse spectac (a little show with 8 huge horses and their riders) and buying some gingerbread made with honey, some basil starts for the garden, and tickets for the repas paysanne - peasant meal. 10 Euros per adult and 6 for children got us a borscht-like soup, some boiled potatoes that had been cooked in a huge cast iron pot over a fire, tender roast beef, applesauce, a slice of bread and a large hunk of Comte' cheese, and some brioche and coffee for dessert. Thankfully there was plenty of shade and lots of tables set up in a tent (pictured above) and also in the cow barn, where some of the calves watched the crowds dine. We drank the water provided but others bought bottles of wine or fresh cider from some of the vendors present; the chatter was deafening, even when after we finished we headed up into a shady pasture for a rest, at least 300 yards away. Walt and I discussed whether or not the distant French chatter would sound the same if it was in English or any other language. I think it would sound the same, Walt thinks it would be different. Anyone done studies on this?

On the way home we stopped for an afternoon stroll in historic Nozeroy (pictured above), site of the ruins of a chateau built by some Prince and his ancestors whose last name was Chalon (as in Chateau Chalon, where we went last week) who used to rule this part of the world back in the 1400s and 1500s. These historically important villages are always up on top of hills, the better to see their enemies coming, and so the views are breathtaking (pictured above), especially now that the fields are so green and the trees are leafing out. I can see why people would put up with snowy winters here, if spring is this glorious all the time.

We've definitely got an owl and chicks living under the eaves, above the living room ceiling. We hear them in the evening and see the mama owl heading out on her hunting trips. And this morning, bits of moss and some sticks had fallen through the ceiling onto the stairs from an invisible crack between the ceiling boards. Walt and I sat outside as the sun set around 9:30 pm and watched the bats swoop silently around the yard eating bugs. I saw the owl for the first time too, just a light shadow that came out from under the overhang and was gone in a moment. Her wings don't make a sound. The chicks make plenty of noise in the evenings, though. They squeak and squabble and someone makes an eerie, long drawn out moaning cry that sounds almost alien.

French Neighbors

We went for a walk after dinner on Friday to enjoy the lingering warm light and to take our next door neighbors, Nadine and Jean-Luc (parents of Alex and Tomas, fishermen extraordinaire), some of the extra eggs that the hens have given us this week. You always read that French people don't invite people to their homes but perhaps out in the country it's different; Nadine and Jean-Luc asked us in and gave us an aperitif, a choice of whiskey or port and for Reed, some water with grenadine syrup. Nadine also opened a bag of potato chips for us to nibble on. We struggled through conversation about the difficulties of cleaning a huge house (Isabella and Doug's is quite large and Nadine and Jean-Luc's is small), places where we might want to go while we're in the area, our preference in common of living in the country despite it being sort of boring for the older children, taking care of animals, where we'll be going next in France, etc. Reed got frustrated with not understanding anything although he liked the potato chips - and finally we managed to convey that we needed to continue our walk and said a bientot, see you soon!

We said hello to the friendly horses in the next pasture up, and went as far as Bois de Gand's mairie - funny to have a tiny little hamlet in the country with just a few houses have its own town hall and city council, for about 60 residents - and then turned back, to be met at the corner by the woman who owns the old house there and uses it as a country getaway, despite living in a very small town just 8 kilometres away called Desnes. Walt had talked to her the night before on his walk without me, as well as another neighbor, Maurice. She explained that she had gathered bouquets of muguet to put on her mother's grave. Nadine had bouquets of muguet all over the house, so I was able to recognize it as lily of the valley, apparently growing all over in the woods this time of year. This lady - we still don't know her name - invited us in as well but we begged off for another time since we had to get back to take care of the horses as the sun went down. She is staying out here in the country indefinitely and we have two more weeks so we all agreed another time would be fine. She's a character, I think, telling us outright that my French is better than my husband's. I was gratified to hear that but sort of annoyed too - Walt studies hard and I don't and he doesn't need that kind of discouragement. But secretly it gives me hope. So far the only person who has spoken English with us here is the vet, and I'm glad he could.

Walt and Reed got the garden planted yesterday and then we all rigged up the watering hoses. Now I just need to fill it in with some fresh herb starts, especially basil. I found the yeast at the store in Sellieres this morning and some good mozzarella so we'll have pizza for dinner tonight. Reed suffered through a couple of stir fries this week so I thought we all deserved one of our favorite meals. Although Reed also seems to love our clean out the fridge lunches, where we have bread, cheese, tortilla chips, salsa, guacamole, leftover canned fruit, cold pasta with fresh dressing, leftover salad mixed with cooked potatoes and given a new vinaigrette dressing, bits of leftover sausage, pickles, and so on.

The Mouse-erator

One of the hazards of keeping grain around to give to the horses is the attraction to mice. They're everywhere in the stable, jumping out of the grain bags and running for their lives when we go out in the evening to take care of the horses and goats. They also hide in the straw in the stable during the day and yesterday when I was pitching the straw around a mouse came flying out of the forkful as it landed and ran to hide under the gate.

So Isabella and Doug have several mousetraps in the tack room and in our housesitting instructions is a reminder to dispose of mice every day. This we have been doing and our skill at knowing where to put the mousetraps is now finely tuned. But there were so many that drastic action was called for. We learned from WSU organic farm manager Brad Jaeckel about a trap they use to catch scores of rodents every night. The contraption is a bucket full of water, with a bar or thin pipe across the top edge, with a pop can or tin can skewered through the pipe the long way so that it can rotate freely. The can is smeared with attractive bait such as peanut butter or cream cheese, and a board ramp goes up to the edge of the bucket. The mice go up the ramp, make a leap for the can, and when they land it turns and they slide off into the water.

We created one of these things for the first time yesterday and this morning discovered 5 victims, along with the 3 in the tack room in the regular traps. Walt was mighty pleased that something he made worked exactly right the first time.

Chickens and Eggs

Some people might call me crazy - my own child did - but when Reed and I went out to the hen house this morning to clean up one of the gals was making noises like it was egg laying time. So we stood in the corner and tried not to move around while two of them got settled in the nesting box to lay. Reed lost patience after about 10 minutes and left but I stuck it out while they cackled and picked and jostled for space and finally, settled down to concentrate on the business at hand. First one, and then after another 10 minutes, the second one, and then the other girls were coming in and letting them know in no uncertain terms it was time to make room since they'd completed their duty. So I hung around for the second round of two more eggs from the other two. I don't know how long I was out there, at least an hour, but this was a first in a lifetime for me and I enjoyed coming back to the house with the four eggs that hadn't been there when Reed and I first arrived. Reed thought that the chickens were too nervous about my presence to do their job and I had assured him that if I stood still it would be okay. I don't think I'll feel the need to watch this process again any time soon now that I've done it and satisfied my curiosity. But it was definitely worth the long wait just this once.

And yes, we ate them for lunch. soft-boiled, with a bit of fleur de sel (the finest sea salt). Delicious. The only time in my life I've eaten eggs that I saw come out of the chickens.

Sunshine in the Jura

All of us have enjoyed a full day of sun today after frequent spring rains have puddled on top of the very clay-ey soil here in the Jura, making the trip out to clean out the chicken house and gather the 4 eggs each day (someone is still slacking off!) into a mucky adventure. Fortunately the grass still grows, and the pastures are lush and green, dotted with tiny yellow and white flowers. I've taken to going for a late afternoon walk down the country roads where I never see any cars, and it's quite different than going for a walk on the grid of roads between the corn and soybean fields of my native Iowa. The roads here go off in all kinds of crazy directions, taking curves for no apparent reason, and you don't quite realize how barren acres and acres of unplanted corn field looks in the springtime, compared to a verdant hayfield or a cow pasture, edged by forest. The birds are singing, the green lizards dart into the ditches off the warm road surface, the farm dogs are baying. So some things are the same everywhere, it seems.

There is a tiny wooden cabin not too far away, obviously someone's weekend getaway, which is next door to an ancient and rundown stone farmhouse/barn, which looks unoccupied, but is someone's home, as evidenced by the two dogs that run out to chase me away, the new regulation mailbox, and the male voice from inside that shouts at the dogs. There's no door, and a tattered curtain hangs in the doorway, but my desire not to pry has so far outweighed my desire to try to see inside as I walk by. I finally got a chance to say Bonjour monsieur to the old man who lives with his wife not too far away in another very old but somewhat maintained rendered stone house, who has a collection of watch dogs, a bunch of chickens, and a lovely little garden that he tends carefully. He didn't respond, but he at least called off the little dog, which was progress, I think. All the other times I've walked by the dogs have just barked to their heart's content until their job was done and I was away. The trick with the farm dogs I think is to not look at them, not change your pace, and keep moving. So far it's worked. I like to think to myself, if I lived here these would be my neighbors. If I lived here I would take them chocolate chip cookies, always a good way into the French heart.