Like true joy: giving out of propane for the stove, going down in my little Twingo, Boyce driving, to change the propane pot (box? thing) and picking up "festive" baguette for lunch -- had one last night with "cereale" -- all sorts of seeds, and some Breton butter from the one remaining grocery store (the 11 there used to be disappeared when the madder ("garance") on which the little village lived was no longer used for soldiers' pants, because Germany had fabricated a chemical that did the job more simply. Crash went our little village back in the 19th century.
Now sitting peacefully under the overhanging vines are Matthew and Theodore, each with their computers, Boyce under the overhang we had to put up to have the rooms -- old and newer -- touch, regulations, with the paper, me figuring out what to say to the forthcoming piece about Picasso and Jacqueline Roque (at the Pace, while our Picasso and the camera will be at the Gagosian) -- you set up a phone interview, this for next tuesday after we get back from Les Florets for Matthew's birthday, or wednesday after we take them to Avignon, alas, but we leave only a day later, doubly alas.
The sun is glancing hrough the vines, I have cut up yellow courgettes to try to imitate the superb yellow courgette soup we were served way up the mountain beyond Sault, cut up cucumbers to delight the table, and will serve the gorgeous vegetable dish Connie Higginson left when she and Leon Selig (whom I've known both of for ages) came with their friends 2 days ago .
We swiim in the lake at 3-ish, and then bring back the Twingo for Matthew and Theodore to swim in the Bedoin pool (you have to have regulation French bathing suits), then to Villes to try out a new restaurant. Utopia indeed.
Tomorrow to neighbors for lunch, next day big anniversay party for provencal neighbors -- Matthew will take his guitar -- and the next day some journalist friends and Arabic specialist friends will come for drinks, etc. The way it is. I wouldn't change a thing.
Now sitting peacefully under the overhanging vines are Matthew and Theodore, each with their computers, Boyce under the overhang we had to put up to have the rooms -- old and newer -- touch, regulations, with the paper, me figuring out what to say to the forthcoming piece about Picasso and Jacqueline Roque (at the Pace, while our Picasso and the camera will be at the Gagosian) -- you set up a phone interview, this for next tuesday after we get back from Les Florets for Matthew's birthday, or wednesday after we take them to Avignon, alas, but we leave only a day later, doubly alas.
The sun is glancing hrough the vines, I have cut up yellow courgettes to try to imitate the superb yellow courgette soup we were served way up the mountain beyond Sault, cut up cucumbers to delight the table, and will serve the gorgeous vegetable dish Connie Higginson left when she and Leon Selig (whom I've known both of for ages) came with their friends 2 days ago .
We swiim in the lake at 3-ish, and then bring back the Twingo for Matthew and Theodore to swim in the Bedoin pool (you have to have regulation French bathing suits), then to Villes to try out a new restaurant. Utopia indeed.
Tomorrow to neighbors for lunch, next day big anniversay party for provencal neighbors -- Matthew will take his guitar -- and the next day some journalist friends and Arabic specialist friends will come for drinks, etc. The way it is. I wouldn't change a thing.
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