Stories – Page 9 – Hungry Breton

Camelina Mayonnaise

Before being catapulted into adult life, we were taught a couple of life saving skills. After lunch, wait at least two hours before you go swimming in the sea, never EVER drink white after red, it takes ten minutes to get a hardboiled egg from the boiling point, spaghettis are cooked when they stick to the wall, how to make a vinaigrette, and, what was going to separate the men from the boys, the sheep from the goats; how to make your own mayonnaise. In a region almost surrounded by water, it was only going to be a matter of time before a friend or a family member would ask nonchalantly while preparing the crab claws and meat: “You do the mayonnaise, yeah?” You knew then that the last task of your right of passage had come before you.

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The Chipper’s Daughter

Stories

As long as I can remember, there was a chipper, Citroën van, parked on the main harbour. We used to call in, as a family, for a drive and a small “barquette” of chips, strolling along the quiet sleepy harbour. My mother, like a lot of other vagabonds, bohemian chip buffs, asked for a dollop of mustard; so was the way most of the crepuscular dreamers enjoyed them.

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Sea Biscuits

Recipes, Stories

I must admit, the journeys to my native Celtic peninsula have become a slightly sporadic affair in the past few years; the time between visits is getting less frequent. They say that life gets in the way, and I get the odd “oh sure, you are one of us now!”, or almost. The truth be told, we all have to cast anchor some day, voluntarily or not, or simply coming to terms with the inevitable. As a teenager, I often dreamed of my perfect place to live; lighthouse keeper of Ar Men, rock of all rocks at large of Sein Island, self sufficient in Swedish Lapland’s Sarek National Park or even honorary Highlander on the western Hebrides islands of Scotland. They say that Bretons never leave their native land… They bring it with them. I suppose this is true, there is a Gwen a Du flag (“White and Black”) hanging at the back of my office chair, a Breton map in the living room (old fashioned, but really neat!) and a hell of a lot of Atlantic sea salt in “the press” and butter in the fridge! The stripes to this Zebra…

Gwen a Du - Breton Flag — Gwen a Du – Breton Flag

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Winter Salad

Recipes, Stories

I know it sounds a bit weird, a salad in winter? Having made a big pot of ragù Bolognese yesterday, tonight’s dinner is already sorted and wintery enough! Almost as much as the weather forecast schedule to hit us in the next 24 to 48 hours; storm force winds, snow? Hard to imagine this lunchtime, the pale sun is beaming in the sleeping veg garden, where once again I promised myself to have beetroots and herbs, carrots and leaves… One can dream… Or ought to get his act together.

The dog and one of the cats reluctantly tagged along for a short walk through the woods, across the field and back in the garden. I asked my four legged companions if they were ready to go home for lunch; the dog is standing impatiently by the door of the house as if saying “wow, that was fun, we should do that again sometimes? Now open the door will ya?” They always seem to know when the weather is about to change; but saying that, I do leave the radio on for them in the afternoon.

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The long walk of a Cauliflower

Stories

I don’t know what is worse really; December’s over indulgences or January self flagellation? The debate is open. You can juice broccoli or bath yourself in Aloe Vera, the truth is we are still in the middle of winter, long nights and short days passing, cold lights and windy greys drifting. Don’t be too hard on yourself, don’t miss out on the peak season for small comfort treats.
Stews and soups are fun but I find satisfaction and healing in a good gratin. Anything “al forno” in fact, potatoes, pasta… Bring it on; but since we are trying to be good here, I have another idea to meet each other half way, the cream of vegetables, the blossom of all Brassicae, the flower of all cabbages.

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So Far, So Good

Stories

A Breton Far Story It was the winter of 1985, like every morning, my Donkey Kong – now vintage and completely obsolete – pocket game rang 6 am… It was a normal December morning, crisp, frosty and bright; my eye lids were still stuck together, shimmering glitters of somewhat pleasant dreams. I washed my face and quickly headed downstairs for my cup of cocoa; a fat slab of bread and butter and the other with apricot jam; waiting for me. All seemed to be fine, but there was a more than usual sense of anxiety in the air. We were radio heads; always on, and our national weather forecaster, René Chaboud’s voice was disturbingly grave. To be honest, it went way over my head. I had other things on my mind, as Noël/ Christmas was closing in, meaning no more 6 O’clock in the morning “ding-dong”, no more 10 miles bus journey, and at the end… “Pressies” under the tree… Before I rushed outside to catch the communal bus, my dad grabbed me by the elbow; he handed me two pieces of “Far”, a healthy Breton Flan-like cake, made of eggs, flour, sugar, rum and butter; I loved the prunes that made the bottom layer. He just said: “Share that with your sister, will you?”… “Sure.” As if I could eat more than a 5 cm2 of my mother’s “Far”… Seriously.

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Triskel Dommage

Stories

If you ever drive on the back roads of Brittany, it is only a matter of time before you’ll find yourself stuck behind an old Renault 4, you are on holidays so you don’t mind. Your mind will start to drift as there are so many cauliflowers and artichokes fields one can admire before focusing on silly things. In this case it will be a sticker, displayed proudly on the boot of the car strolling in front of you. It will probably remind you of the Isle of Man’s flag, with smoother forms, mesmerizing like a painting of M. C. Escher. This symbol is called a Triskel, it means a lot to us and, since I live near a Neolithic cairn site, it must mean a lot to the locals too!

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Salt of the Earth

Stories

Coarse, Flower & Flakes — Coarse, Fleur de sel and flakes

I grew up in abandoned salt marshes, my playground. Running for hours amongst the Statice Sea Lavender, on mud levees and embankments, pole vaulting old sea channels to the sounds of Blue Throats and Avocets; what else would a boy want? I spent hours by a Fort-like salt loft, stone ruins and last landmark of a once prosperous time. I’ve often wondered what it must have been like, 1750 to 1950, when the last “Paludier”( from Latin Paludis meaning Marsh, hence the word Paludism), the last salt harvester finally retired. Decades later, this land once reclaimed was being called back by nature, leaving echoes to the imagination, patrolled by marsh harriers as lonesome shepherds.

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Fish Tale

Stories

September 1991 After two months spent on the side of a mountain in Glenveagh National Park, I decided to enjoy a couple of weeks off, around Donegal town before heading back to Brittany; many long walks around Lough Eske , its abandoned castle, native oaks and mountain ashes. We didn’t drive. One of my friends suggested to hitchhike to Killybegs, Fishing Harbour few miles west of the town. I like fishing harbours, for some strange reason, the smell of marine gasoil mixed with the smell of rotting fish has a certain appeal. Or is it the screaming swarms of cheeky Herring Gulls? Lorient, St-Guénolé, Galway or Howth, no matter how big or small they might be, the atmosphere surrounding them is always the same; dressed with rich colours, fumes, sadness and excitement, noise… Life, purring Diesel engines… Superstition… What’s not to like really?

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Last Drool before School

Stories

I was sitting at my desk at home yesterday, trying to send a few emails, get some inspiration by playing music while staring through the sash window at the swaying Crocosmia. My attention got caught when I noticed a little blue box, containing some neatly sharpened coloured pencils my nieces and nephews enjoy drawing with. As I was bored, I stuck my nose in it, expecting a flash back memory that didn’t disappoint; back to school and my pencil case, the last week of bliss before being sent to the pillory. As a form of acceptance, the last few days of freedom were quite pleasant, mostly foraging blackberries, with our neighbours and friends. The pain of lacerated limbs was soon to be healed and forgotten by my mother’s legendary “slurpy special” , straight from the pot, soon to be devoured by a small army of stained faces; the last meal for the condemned scallywags we were. As I was trying to reconnect with these delicious berries, nature sometimes gives so generously, I imagined them as a savoury ingredient, definitely with fresh goat’s cheese, a great companion to a pork filet roast … But I had another plan this time!

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