I still have not gotten around to planting these poor strawberries, but they don't mind the neglect and produce our first own red strawberries. Nature is wonderful.
Pretending these came from our garden is an attractive thought... you know, me, the star-gardener, working the ground since the beginning of February. Defying icy winds and cold rains... working my hands bloody in the fields...
Lovely. So they were bought at the grocery store but still, they were good.
These ones were served with whipped crème fraîche and sugar. If you have not yet tried to whip crème fraîche, you should. It makes a world of difference.
How about trading best strawberry recipes? If you tell me yours, I'll tell you our favorite of all times.
ps: I have a whole mouth full of sweet teeth, so you better believe our strawberry recipe is worth some comment-recipe-sharing-effort.
I opted for a shop update and shall kiss Vincent later. Lucky me.
The illustrations you can purchase in the Lineanongrata shop now have been published in a German magazine for kindergarten teachers and school teachers for young children. They were linked to context but do make nice illustrations on their own, I think.
It's in the middle of so much work for the winery that I become impatient and want to go back to crafting and illustrating. Weekends and evenings have been busy times, divided between quiet time and even some sun, some barbecue experiments by Vincent (delicious), watching the plants grow (Honestly. You can almost watch them grow. I look in the morning and nothing is there to be seen. Around noon I look again, just in case, and green things are showing tender sprouts.), and making things.
The second photo was taken by Vincent. I hadn't seen it before but the two photos make a nice pair.
Yes, that's me playing Indian (oh dear, we shouldn't have left her unsupervised with all that unbottled wine. Now you just look and see what's become of her.).
But I'm not out of my mind. Not entirely, at least.
The other day Vincent and I went to a nice-things-and-lady-like-shop. Where you buy perfumes and such things. It was in February so we were scheduled to buy a birthday present for me and it was obvious we would end up in this kind of shop because there isn't much choice in the matter where we live as far as birthday presents go.
Vincent went in city clothes, trench coat and wool sweater, I didn't give the matter much thought in advance and went in holy and paint-stained jeans (Bon Jovi covets my pants).
Of course I felt completely out of place in the perfumery with all the sellers dressed in immaculate white and full of ladylike attention to skin texture, -color and what-not. Vincent was much more at ease, being the one who was supposed to pay. When asked what kind of product I was looking for I could only make vague gestures with my shoulders and grimace. Moreover the lady advising us had a flaw in speech and chpoke like chis.
As gentlemanly as I was dressed I suppressed any kind of giggles this might have provoked.
Until right at the end of the conversation when I had already said yes to a facial cream and she and Vincent had a private conversation about body lotion. I did my best to make a lot of 'no' motions with my whole body and face but my beloved didn't even look at me. Finally the shop lady took off with the facial cream PLUS the body lotion, turning around to say 'You'll chee, it'ch chublime !'.
Two weeks ago an employee of the Office National des Forêts came to visit us at the winery. The ONF are the guys who think about woods and the possibility the latter might catch fire. Which is a real problem in the southern parts of France because we don't have a whole lot of water down here and the woodlands get quite dry during the hotter seasons of the year. The nice but very stern person from the ONF told us that we needed to clear the underbrush all around the winery. All of it and preferably this month because afterward he'll come back and fine us if it isn't done (because underbrush is dry, of course, and dry things burn better than young sprouts. Of course.). As we don't have the necessary material to do what we'll need to do, there has been an ever increasing number of catalogs around the house:
... the stuff dreams are made of.
When they think nobody is watching the boys wander around the buildings, eying the underbrush with a light of pleasure in their eyes. When I listen carefully I hear François muttering: 'And while we're at it, this tree... and this bush...'