Strawberries and a Sad Note

Strawberries Etc
Local strawberries (from Carpentras) are now in full flood in the shops and markets. The first melons, from the same place, and cherries are also appearing and herald my favourite season when peaches and apricots join them and the fruit season really takes off. The apricots here can be the size of small apples and are rich in juice and flavour. Add to that the asparagus that is still plentiful and you really have summer eating.

I was thinking of this while sitting on my balcony, taking in the scent of the honeysuckle, eating strawberries and drinking a glass of rosé wine. It's the last point that brings home that summer is coming. Rosé wine is something of a saviour here for the local vignerons. Good red wines abound in the world and competition is fierce and thus prices to the growers and vintners low. I now love Côtes du Rhône wines but can easily appreciate those from many other parts of the world. Good rosés are much harder to find and this area produces some of the best. However, for me, rosé wine is a summer drink. I hardly drink a single glass in winter. In the summer, outdoors, it seems the ideal drink for lunch or as an aperitif. Rosé wine and strawberries on the balcony in the sunshine is a hard act to beat.

A Sad Note
Sylvère, whom I've mentioned before several times, died last Thursday and was buried today. He was a village character, well liked and generally looked after by the village. The mayor, in a speech at the graveside, summed him up well. He had had a hard life, a foundling from Marseilles, placed when very young with a farming family not far away and exploited by them. He came to the village in his twenties and continued in agricultural work, often taken advantage of because he was something of a simpleton, but latterly watched over and taken care of by the village. He remained single all his life so the village looked after his funeral too. Around a hundred or so attended a short service at the St Marcel chapel and walked with the coffin to the cemetery.

I remember him as good natured, a boules player who could be brilliant or atrocious, more often the latter, for which he was frequently jided but which he always took in a good spirit. He loved to have a mischievous dig at people. Knowing I was English he always asked if I was American and he would often talk to me in provencal knowing I'd have a job understanding. One of his favourite phrases, throwing a decent boule after a bad one, was “es miou” (c'est mieux), or “ben juga” (bien joué).

Mana, who attended the funeral, wondered why there had to be a ceremony at the chapel since Sylvère had never been religious. This raised a point in my mind that I had often pondered. One is always supposed to have respect for others' religious beliefs and, except in extreme cases, that is a simple enough courtesy to extend. However, the same courtesy never seems to be extended to agnostics or atheists and their beliefs. In the absence of anyone to defend them, they are liable to have religion thrust upon them. And this is accepted.

Footnote 1
Friend Steve has pointed out that in my list of generally eaten river fish I omitted to mention pike, or pike-perch as they are often referred to here. A serious omission; pike can be delicious and is often found on local menus.

Footnote 2
St Marcel is the village patron saint. However, there are two St Marcels. One of them is not only a saint but was also a pope. The village, centuries ago, opted for this one on the grounds that a pope saint would probably offer better protection than a mere saint.