French Front Door Security

magic key

How strange it was the first time I held the magic key in my hand. It’s the kind of key that you only see in old movies--long, heavy and dirty brass dark. It is a key evocative of magic. It is type of key that unlocks musty trunks and opens doors that hide unknown places. It is one more key clanking on a metal hoop of some spooky person. I wasn’t even sure I knew how a key like this worked. Turns out the lock is just as hefty and the key turns with a surprisingly loud and satisfying clunk.  

No need to enter Bourdeilles’ medieval tower, renaissance chateau, delicious bakery or hear the babble of french language to enter into the magical world of lost time in France. Just take hold of that ancient key and unlock the front door to our house.

It is interesting to me that we have constantly updated and converted all of our locks in the states. Our house here is no older than a lot of homes there. But, with the exception  of tours of historic homes, I can’t recall an old fashioned lock on a front door anywhere.

Tom loves what I hate about these relics-- they are unbelievably finicky.  “Unlocking your door is all about carpal tunnel syndrome!” groaned a house guest.  “No, it’s all about touch,” croons Tom.  I think the answer lies between-- a hard but thoughtful kick usually finds success for me.

Using this magical key is part of the mystery of the entry into another world here in our little home.

Friday's Petite Aquarelle

Cherry Blossoms Spring Fields

Good Science

In Newton's time, good science was seasonal.

Cherry Season

When we moved to Vermont we learned that there are actually 5 seasons. The fifth one being mud season. My guess is that they had a serious one this year with all of the rain in the U.S.

Now we are learning what extra seasons they have here in the Dordogne. Right now we are eating our way through cherry season.

Seems that half the trees we walk past and take for granted are cherry trees. We just haven't ever been here for their fruit-laden season. The tree’s abundant fruits should have been obvious to us. Tom has spent many hours painting these trees. His artistic eye caught the elegance of the trees and their juxtaposition to the village in the background. He noticed the delicate petals and the sweep of the branches. But we would always be back in Vermont in mud season before cherry fruits set on the trees. 

With this years uncharacteristically hot spring the trees are weeks ahead of schedule. I have picked buckets and buckets of deep black cherries. Reduced them down to preserves and had many left over for table fruit. 

At first it seemed daunting to climb up on a ladder and reach out for the fruits on the ends of branches, but as soon s one gets started it is easy to gently pull the branches down and pull off five or six cherries at a time. Holding on to the branch with one hand so you don’t have to reach with your fingertips and toes just that bit further than one ought to on a step ladder. I found that I got obsessive about getting every last cherry within my reach. It didn’t help that my ladder holder was just as obsessed as I was and kept saying, “Oh, look at that bunch just there. Go on I’ll hold the ladder just reach a bit more.” And I kept saying, “Sure, but do you have a hold of the bucket?” Because if all of those cherries fell out into the grassy field I was going to kill her!

Two days ago the entire village seems to have had enough of our glorious cherry season. Everyone started trying to give them away to the next person. It was like the annual Zuchini Plague back in Vermont. Enough was enough--cherry clafoutis, cherry preserves, cherries for snacks, cherry liqour, cherries for dessert, cherries sampled from neighbors’ trees as one walked by. And-- almost distressingly-- there are still some  varieties that haven’t ripened yet!

 Thank goodness they can just be popped into the freezer. We’ll appreciate all of mother nature’s largess on a cold, barren December day.