Caught Red Handed

Red has been a dominant colour in this household lately. Last week we had the Basque fete wear wedding - red and white clothing was de-rigeur - and this week, I have mainly been making tomato puree. And tomato soup. And tomato coulis. And just about anything else you can think of associated with tomatoes.

This is because I belong to an AMAP, where once a week, I toddle off and get a box of veg, direct from the guy who has grown it. So far it has been fine. We’ve had a summer where our weekly boxes have been overflowing with green beans, salad leaves, leeks, new potatoes, peppers, aubergines and just about anything else nice you can think of. I suspect it is going to be a lot less fun by mid February when I am trying and failing to devise new and interesting things to do with turnips. And the children flatly refuse to eat any more sprouts.

Its been quite interesting meeting and observing the other group members too. There’s one woman who’s a dead ringer for Blackadder’s puritan aunt - the one who appeared in the episode where Percy and Baldrick discover a turnip shaped like a “thingy.” Every week she laughs uproariously at any vegetables that are shaped like “thingy’s” and this week, when she discovered a carrot, that came complete with two testicular shaped lumps, she could hardly contain herself. There was much excitement this week too at the arrival of the first squashes of the season. Because obviously, you can, “faire la soupe avec ca” - yes, well you can also do lots of other things with them too, but hey, the French are nothing if not conservative when it comes to cookery.

The farmer quite likes me - simply because when I request extra veg, I don’t ask for “400g of leeks, but not too thick” - I’m more your “Ten kilos of spuds please” type of girl. So when I spotted that this week, he had crates and crates of very slightly mushy tomatoes, I sensed the opportunity for a bit of a deal and came home with 20 kilos worth. He even threw some in for free, much to the annoyance of the very chic lady who always asks the per kilo price of anything that is available in addition to the weekly box. I think that is verging on the rude. The guy has been out in all weathers growing the stuff, he’s probably had to wee round the edge of his fields to keep the foxes away (or whatever else you have to do when you grow stuff organically), he’s dug it up, put it in his van and turned up, only to be asked “‘les onions, ils sont combien”? I mean really, how much is an onion likely to cost...

So I then had to do something with the bloody things. All was going well until I had to manage the ‘get the sauce from the pan into freezer bags’ stage. By the time I had finished, the kitchen looked like the set from a vampire movie and I looked like most of the vampire cast had dropped by to feed off me. Still, I can recommend tomato and basil sauce as both a hand and facial skin care product and once you have washed it out of your hair, you will find your hair is left shiny and with a smell of summer herbs.

Dress to impress

Since we moved to France, my dress sense has gone steadily downhill. It always strikes me as kind of bizarre, that whilst France is the home of haute-couture, it is also the country where the outfit of choice for rural womankind is a flowery overall (worn with gum boots) and the male equivalent is heavy duty navy blue trousers, held up with baler twine and topped off with a beret. If you are not yet old enough to carry off this look, the fashion choices are limited. There are a range of out of town warehouse type stores. These sell garments where the women’s wear features large quantities of black lace and ruffles (ideal outfits for the off duty hooker) and the men’s shirts crackle with static as they contain more nylon than an Easy Care Bedding set from the 70’s. Nice.

The preferred dress code chez nous is camouflage. The husband and nephew like old army surplus trousers. Cheap, comfortable, soft, fairly indestructible and ideal for wearing whilst renovating properties, as any concrete stains just add to the ‘desert cammo’ effect. Small son likes camouflage clothing too; he is still of an age where he plans to be a soldier when he grows up. The girls have several cammo items too for various reasons - I’m not really sure how this fits with their usual sartorial look but who am I to argue? I also own a pair, simply because they turned up in Emmaus (my preferred pret a porter outlet where everything is a euro) and, they fit perfectly.

This means that we have to be very careful not to all wear our camouflage clothing at the same time. Especially out in public. It has happened before now and I imagine that we look like one of those American families from the hills who have fifteen children, marry their cousins and are awaiting the Second Coming. Or Armageddon. I once invited someone for lunch and as she walked through the door, realised to my horror that all six of us were wearing black T-shirts and camouflage trousers. She probably expected James to tell the kids to go outside and shoot the lunch before cooking it.

So when we were invited to a wedding, my heart sank. The thought of finding clean, presentable clothing for all six of us, without looking like gangsters or mad survivalists, was daunting to say the least. Thankfully, the hosts had specified that the guests should wear ‘fete’ wear. In south west France, this means red and white clothing, along with a red scarf - foulard - all of which is easily and cheaply available at any supermarket throughout fete season. The only problem was, we are now well and truly out of fete season and there wasn’t a pair of white trousers to be bought in the whole of south west France. Frantic borrowing and an emergency trip to Emmaus sorted the problem and voila - we went to the ball!