By Peter Mayle
During this witty and warm-hearted account, Peter Mayle tells what it truly is wish to detect a long-cherished dream and truly circulation right into a 200-year-old stone farmhouse within the distant state of the Lubéron together with his spouse and huge canine. He endures January's frosty mistral because it comes howling down the Rhône Valley, discovers the secrets and techniques of goat racing during the heart of city, and delights within the wonderful neighborhood delicacies. A 12 months in Provence transports us into all of the earthy pleasures of Provençal existence and shall we us stay vicariously at a pace ruled by means of seasons, now not by means of days.
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Extra resources for A Year in Provence
It was time to stop pretending we were in a subtropical climate and give in to the temptations of central heating. I called Monsieur Menicucci, and he asked anxiously about my pipes. I told him they were holding up well. “That pleases me,” he said, “because it is minus five degrees, the roads are perilous, and I am fifty-eight years old. ” This he did every day to keep his fingers nimble and to take his mind off the hurly-burly of plumbing, and it was with some difficulty that I managed to steer the conversation away from his thoughts on the baroque composers and toward the mundane subject of our cold house.
Did I want a tisane, some almond biscuits, a glass of Marsala? What I really wanted was to see Monsieur Menicucci in his bonnet playing his clarinet, but that would have to wait until another day. Meanwhile, I had been given much to think about. As I left to go to the car, I looked up at the revolving solar heating apparatus on the roof and saw that it was frozen solid, and I had a sudden longing for a houseful of cast-iron radiators. I arrived home to discover that a scale model of Stonehenge had been planted behind the garage.
They will tell you, at great length, while the queue backs up behind you, how to cook it, how to serve it, and what to eat and drink with it. The first time this happened, we had gone into Apt to buy veal for the Provençal stew called pebronata. We were directed towards a butcher in the old part of town who was reputed to have the master’s touch and to be altogether très sérieux. His shop was small, he and his wife were large, and the four of us constituted a crowd. He listened intently as we explained that we wanted to make this particular dish; perhaps he had heard of it.
A Year in Provence by Peter Mayle