When You Can't Get to France or Italy Soon Enough

Springtime, printemps, France and Italy.

What do these have in common?

They call to me so loudly that I am distracted on a daily basis.

Spring is entering my world slowly and steadily. Yesterday, I caught the first cherished scent of spring breezing in the air, the moment I wait for all winter. It's gentle stream of sweetness casually tickled my nose. I stopped and gasped At last! 

Buds are forming on tree branches. In the garden, bulbs have pushed cheery yellow daffodils up and out of the soil. Skittering squirrels in the yard, birds energetically bathing in their baths, grandchildren gleefully squealing on the tree swing. 

Rhapsody!

One ache remedied by nature.

But France and Italy don't waft into my neighborhood as spring does.

You know how it is when you've frequented a beloved place, but you are no longer there? Out of the blue something and many things vividly bring the place to mind.

Repeatedly.

For days.

Weeks.

Months.

Relentlessly.

Until you feel so distracted and lonely for the place you find yourself weeping during the day, in little bursts, tiny, personal, and very very powerful.

Circumstances beyond my control have cancelled an upcoming late spring European holiday for me.

I am gutted.

That being said, I am pragmatic about the postponement, for I know I will return soon. Pragmatism is my mind speaking.

For my heart, however, it's as if the promise of Christmas has been snatched away. All the feels are still there, the expectations, the joy, the glory of what was to come.

Then, nope. Gone. 

I don't give up easily. As a mother of four kids and four grandkids, I've learned to create work arounds to dispel disappointment.

So, work around it is!

Since I can't get myself to France or Italy right now, I deliver France and Italy to myself in the shape of favorite movies (A Good Year, From the Vine, Paris Can Wait), French music (Debussy and Satie), and in the form of favorite treats always enjoyed in France including some special new-to-me tastes from Italy. 

The movies and music soothe the aches. But not enough.

Today, my order of French and Italian treats came in the mail.

Hallelujah! Relief!

Here I sit, sipping my tea with a cube of rugged La Perruche sugar. I am transported to European cafés in powerful, lovely ways. So satisfying is one French sugar cube that the noise of the roofer repairing storm damage above my head fades. 

Well, kind of.

Add to tea sipping joy, a St. Michel madeleine. My daughter introduced these to me. She is married to a French man and goes to France often, every time grabbing a big bag of these for the visit and a few more for her return trip luggage. 

Because madeleines are part of every visit to France, for me these soft delicious petite cakes evoke the distinct emotions, aromas, pace, and beauty of the Old World. As though superimposed onto my western Oregon chilly February, rich French and Italian surroundings come alive via memories of stone buildings, castles, cathedrals, friendly people, heavenly organic foods, the clackity clunk of ancient cobblestones, the joie de vivre of country driving along narrow roads which take us to places unventured and inviting. 

To soothe my need to be in Italy, I selected some Italy to put into me: jam prepared in the Puglia region of Italy made from 55% Italian grown fruit. 

I've yet to sample it.

As a small business product, this jam fits the bill perfectly.

I will buy fresh made croissants from my baker on Saturday morning. I'll knife dollops of jam onto each bite. I'll sip French-pressed coffee my husband and I will make, adding French sugar cubes, bien sur.

France and Italy have entered my home, delighting my senses once again.

Music, movies, and tasty treats will stave me off for awhile.

If you catch me glowing, smiling, eyes half shut, know that I am dreaming of friends who miss me as I miss them.

Recaptured Memories

"It was marvelously quiet under a sky of burning blue. The air smelt of eucalyptus and tomatoes and heliotrope from the garden. I would get up early to work, and about noon walk out to a sand fringed cove named la Garoupe. There I would find the household sunbathing. Gerald would be sweeping the seaweed off the sand under his beach umbrellas. We would swim out through the calm crystal blue water, saltier than salt, to the mouth of the cove and back. Then Gerald would produce cold sherry and Sara would marshal recondite hors d'oevres for blotters. Saturated with salt and sun, some in cars and some walking, the company would troop back to the terrace, overlooking the flowers and vegetables back of the villa, for lunch.

     One of Sara's favorite dishes was poached eggs with Gold Bantam corn cut off the cob and sprinkled with paprika, homegrown tomatoes cooked in olive oil and garlic on the side. Sometimes to this day when I'm eating corn on the cob I recapture the flavor, and the blue flare of the Mediterranean noon, and the taste of vin de Cassis in the briny Mediterranean breeze."

If you are a regular reader of this humble blog then by now you know that John Dos Passos is one of my favorite writers. The above excerpt is from his book Best Times: An Informal Memoir. My soul is deeply touched by his description here, the heart of the man and his experiences laid across the years like masterstrokes of paint on a canvas, massaging my mind. I am moved. Moved.

"Sometimes to this day when I'm eating corn on the cob I recapture the flavor, and the blue flare of the Mediterranean noon, and the taste of vin de Cassis in the briny Mediterranean breeze." 

The blue flare of the Mediterranean noon. Poetry. Transportational poetry. 

I've been to the blue Mediterranean, splashed in her cool waters, bare feet supported by squishy tan sand. A dream come true that did not disappoint. I thought of Dos, and Sara, and Gerald and their friends Hemingway, Picasso, MacLeash, Fitzgerald, Porter, Cummings, the list goes on and on. Gertrude Stein called them the Lost Generation. For the ten years they played in Antibes they were really quite found. In addition to the sun, sand, and sea, they had each other and unconditional, deep, joyous friendship.

We've all had those corn-on-the-cob moments of vivid remembrance when an experience vibrantly. jumps to the forefront of our thoughts, our emotions riding them as if they were happening right then. Sometimes joy, sometimes sadness, sometimes melancholy, often longing. Longing to return to that hour, that day, not forever, just for a visit to say hello, to hug, to taste, feel, hear, see, smell the memory back to life.

Those longings can lead to new adventures. Often they lead to an ache, a deep tear-inducing ache which is the impetus to go again, to set your foot back on the path of the new and unknown, to catch-up with old friends and make some new ones, or to create something - anything - that will add to your collection of enriching memories tucked away and waiting. 

You never know when something will trigger a memory. But something will. And you'll recapture the sensations all over again, splendidly.

The Not So Lost Generation in Antibes, early 20th century

Here I am west of Antibes in the French Mediterranean. Bliss!

Joie de Vivre Moment #4 - Église Saint-Martial de Cazenac (Saint-Martial Church in Cazenac)

Serendipity . . . 

. . . of the soulful kind. . .

. . . deep in the heart of Perigord. . .

. . . in France.

Sundays on the road usually mean missing church. Tom and I usually set out for parts unknown on those days, just to see where God might take us.

One early sunny summer morning, after buying bread and pastries from a charming Beynac boulangerie-pâtisserie (bread and pastry shop), Tom and I decided to drive the long way home. We meandered down country roads, exploring, as curious vacationing people tend to do, eyes ever-scanning, taking it all in.

Cazenac, which is Beynac's neighboring village, was of particular interest to us. On this adventurous day we noticed  a directional sign pointing up a woodsy hill. It simply stated l'Église de Cazenac. 

"Église means church," I explained to Tom. "Let's check it out."

Tom steered our huge van up the hill on the narrow, winding road. The shady lane offered sun-dappled coolness under a leafy canopy, the air scented with moist soil, warm foliage, a fresh welcome.

Upon reaching the top of the hill, a grand vista presented the Dordogne Valley in her Sunday Best. Silence, but for the ruffle of a shy breeze, invited us to park our car, to set foot to history, to linger.

On the hilltop stood a tidy cluster of massive stone buildings and old walls guiding our eyes down a narrow drive which sloped away from where we stood. Dominating this little village, and anchored to the earth right in front of us, stood a tall church.

Built between the 12th and 15th centuries, l'Église Saint-Martial de Cazenac, made of cream-colored stone, stood behind huge locked gates, the sun shining through the bell-cutout high in the peak above the door. What a shame we could only photograph and view the exterior.

Undaunted, we let the rest of the village show us what she had to offer. No other people around, we had the run of the place. We began by reading the headstones in the church cemetery. Families, founders, and no doubt friends buried, their graves lovingly tended, immaculate.

Only our footfalls softly clapping on the pavement interrupted the tranquility. Ancient buildings next to the narrow road looked like they had stories to tell. One with double doors high in the gable looked like a barn, another like a tradesman's shop, tightly closed and going nowhere. A fig tree with ripe fruit tempted us, but we resisted, just in case there were eyes peering from what looked like a residence on the other side of the road, its tiny terrace with lush potted flowers revealing recent human care. 

The stillness, serenity, and aromatic breezes lulled and rejuvenated us. Simultaneously. Energy flowed, fueled by curiosity. Feeling ourselves unwinding, we held hands as we explored further down the rue.

At last, we decided to return to our family in Beynac with our breakfast pastries and bread. The baby should be up by now, her parents ready for treats.

We strolled toward the car, one last lingering look at the graceful church, wishing we could have gone inside.

Buckling our seatbelts in preparation to leave, we noticed a man in an SUV speeding up the hill. He parked near our van. Peppy and pleasant looking, he hopped out of his car, pulled a set of keys from his pocket, and proceeded to open the gates. Then, he dashed over to unlock the church door, all smiles and gentility.

"Tom! Tom! I think maybe he saw us up here and decided to open the church for us."

Upon leaving the sturdy building and returning to the gate, the gentleman made eye-contact with me.

"Pouvons-nous entrer, s'il vous plaît?" (May we come in, please?) I timidly asked.

"Oui! Oui! Entrez et bienvenue!" (Yes! Yes! Come in and welcome!) He waved toward the church with a big smile while holding the gates open for us. What a nice man! 

"Merci beaucoup!" (Thank you very much!) 

At that, he nodded with great pride and satisfaction, nodding his head as we passed. He encouraged us to look around, then left us there alone to explore. We were giddy at this unexpected surprise.

Always respectful of new places - especially sacred ones - Tom and I courteously entered.

The first thing I noticed upon reaching the church door was the stone threshold, its surface worn into a deep smile-like curve by centuries of parishioners' shoes and boots stepping onto it when passing through. This heavy smooth stone spoke history. What history, I did not know, but it was clear this place had a vibrant past.

The next aspect to catch my attention was the coolness and that delicious unique smell of Europe's ancient buildings. If you've ever been blessed to enter one, you know the fragrance I describe. Musty, fusty, venerable. I love it! Natural light filtering in through the door and windows added to the ambiance. No electric lights were visible, if there were any at all. Warm gold-hued stone walls, a simple ribbed vault ceiling overhead, a rickety wooden staircase leading to an upstairs door, slender stained glass windows, and simple wooden chairs in neat rows invited wanderers to stay awhile, to reflect.

Speaking in muted tones, and joined by another couple our age, Tom and I separated, our interests piquing in different directions. Cobwebs in the corners and along the high windows informed that this is a visited place rather than a regularly used one. Well-kept and friendly, this tucked-away sanctuary exuded lovingkindness.

Soon, Tom and I found ourselves together again, sitting in the second row of brown seats next to a multi-colored reflection on the floor, vividly mirroring the window and sunshine from which it was formed. Tom looked as tickled as I felt by the colorful merriment on the cold surface near our feet.

"It's Sunday, you know. How about we have a little prayer meeting?" I suggested. Immediately agreeing, Tom held my hand, leaned forward, took a silent moment, then began whispering prayers.

We prayed for our kids and grandkids. We prayed for our brothers and sisters, aunts, uncle, cousins, nieces and nephews. We prayed for our friends. We prayed for our country, and the world, for wisdom, love, and understanding. We prayed for the other couple in the building with us, and thanked God for the kind caretaker who let us into the church.

Besides being a joie de vivre moment, this was serene serendipity. God provided the setting, the humanity, the sacredness, and the love for Tom and I to share His presence and peace in a nearly one thousand year old église where prayers, worship, celebrations, and sorrows intermingled, creating testimony that God's Truth turns hearts of stone into hearts of flesh in the lives of His people.

"I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh." ~~ Ezekiel 36:26

Joy and pensivity. Together. From a tiny church on a hilltop, under a golden arch, on a rustic wooden chair, my hand in my husband's, our prayers earnestly shared, we communed with God that Sunday morning, in rural France. He is never far from us.

"For where two or three gather in My name, there I am with them." ~~Matthew 18:20

". . . the kingdom of God is within you." ~~ Luke 17:21b

Joie de vivre. Exuberant enjoyment of life.

Yes.

2022 Photos by Cherie, all rights reserved. Thank you! Enjoy.

Joie de Vivre Moment #3 - French Parking Meters

As in America, French parking meters can be found in parking lots and on streets. Ubiquitous, right, no big deal? Pay for your parking spot, and off you go. 

I've used these boxes at home in Oregon many times. They make sense and they work. I've witnessed French people using their parking meters with deft and ease, so I felt confident I would be just as adept when my turn arrived. How hard could it be?

I was about to find out.

High in the hills overlooking the Dordogne River, Tom and I accidentally stumbled upon the medieval town of Domme, France, designated one of the nations Les Plus Beaux Villages de France (The Most Beautiful Villages of France). In our little black rental car we motored up the hill on winding, tree-lined roads. Arriving on the hilltop, slowly creeping through narrow streets between ancient golden-stone buildings and under 14th century arches, we delighted in each vista unfolding before our eyes. What a view! So enticing was the village, we decided to explore on foot, maybe grab a bite to eat, check out the Dordogne River from on high. 

Locating a well-maintained gravel parking lot, we pulled in. Having visited France before, including the two weeks under our belt this trip, I easily located the raggedy, kind of sticky-looking gray box designed to gather parking fees. 

Stepping out of our car, cross-body gray travel purse securely slung around my torso, I briskly walked to feed the machine at the edge of the lot, Tom behind me putting his keys into his pocket, neck craning at the medieval village looming above. He quickly caught up, euro coins in hand.

At the box, a couple about our age fiddled with the machine, looking a bit flustered. A card seemed to be rejected. Then, cash was rejected. The woman spoke rapid French to the man, who in turn looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. "Je suis désolé." (I'm sorry.) "Pas de problème," I responded with an understanding smile. (No problem.) The couple stepped back in frustration, discussing what to do. 

So, I tried. I had the same problem. Not only did the machine refuse my payment methods, it wouldn't go back to the main menu.

A young German couple stepped forward, sniffing a bit haughtily as if they could show up these old people. Nope, they couldn't get it to work, either.

Immediately another lady appeared at the box. She tried, and failed. Then, as if inspired from within, she tried a new and very deliberate order to button pushing. It worked! She smiled a huge smile, took her ticket, then showed the first couple exactly what she did. They allowed me to observe over their shoulders. Success!

Walnut Cake in Domme

Tom's and my turn. We carefully pushed the buttons in the same order, added our information where needed, placed our euros into the slot, a confirmation showed on the screen and a printed ticket popped out. 

I spontaneously cheered, the way Americans tend to do. Instead of feeling the ire of the staid French for my Yankee outburst, I was pleasantly surprised when the couples who'd joined us in attempting to decode the box smiled, laughed, and waved their hands in the air with me. Some clapped in support. When multiple languages are spoken, gestures naturally increase. Other tourists heading for the meter enthusiastically smiled, pulled into our happy energy. One French man high-fived me, an act that seemed to thrill him. It certainly surprised me. His wife grinned and nodded. I can imagine him bragging to his friends about it. "I high-fived an American today!" Well, maybe not. 

A joyous moment! All those merry people from different parts of the world, speaking different languages and yet, today we were conquerors. Together. Over the parking meter. Huzzah!

To their relief, Tom and I helped the next couple, hapless victims of Monsieur Malevolent. As we backed away and began meandering up the road, we noticed the couple we'd just helped eagerly showing another lady the ropes. 

A joie de vivre moment! In that simple act of paying for parking, a dozen people, intently focusing on a fussy meter, enjoyed a bond of victory and celebration - even serendipity - uniting us in a silly, jolly sliver of time.  

As Tom and I strolled the lumpy cobblestones of Domme that afternoon, we happened upon our new acquaintances here and there. Eye contact, then friendly warm smiles were shared, with winks and knowing looks. What fun this added dimension provided our exploration in the stunning village of Domme!

For me, it's about the people. Precious kind people. 

"The everyday kindness of the back roads more than makes up for the acts of greed in the headlines." ~~ Charles Kuralt

All the photos but the first one are mine, taken in Domme, France. All rights reserved. Enjoy! 

Soaking in the Rue Royale in Paris

While sight-seeing on the elegant Rue Royale in Paris, a short street lined with high-end stores (think Chanel, Gucci, and Dior), creamy classical French architecture gleaming in the summer sun, the Place de la Concorde visible at one end of the street, the Place de la Madeleine at the other, I had to pinch myself to believe I stood in the middle of such history and magnificence.  

Amazed and dazed I drank it in. Wrought iron balconies, arched doorways, gilded shop names on sparkling glass doors, exquisite ornamentation everywhere. In my hand was a green Ladurée bag containing the store's specialty macarons in various colors. Delight! At the pristine glass counter I had ordered the sandwich cookies in French, which always makes me happy. To be understood! To understand! In French!  

Rue Royale is elegance itself. Every bit of it.

As my family and I stood waiting for our ride to pick us up on Rue Royale, I noticed tourists with their eyes on their phones as they walked past gorgeous window displays, lush flowers and trees, artful street lights, everything. 

"Look up!" I wanted to shout. "You are in the most beautfiul city in the world and you are missing it!"

I felt terribly sad. Sad that social media and immediate gratification evaporates evocative experiences for all of us. They steal our attention, our time, even our joy and often we are completely oblivious to this high-tech mugging. 

Then and there, Paris gave me a lesson I needed just as much as anyone else. 

"Be in command of your time. Be in command of your attention. Be in command of your life."

"Participate. Pay attention. Pursue delayed gratification." 

This lesson stays with me. My life is richer for it.

Thank you, Paris! 

You, Me, and a French Bench

Daydreams kick start my day. 

Friday morning, here, and I have yet to enjoy breakfast.

Daydreams and wishes gently couple and sway in a mind remembering.

My face is peaceful, relaxed.

Fond memories erupt one upon another, scenes from last summer, of Monet's Giverny garden. 

Crunching gravel paths underfoot. Endless varieties of floral offerings both dainty and colossal. Shimmering pink blossomed lily ponds and trickling streams.

Colors subtle and bold. Aromas sweet and spicy. Air humid and zephyrean.

In the rambling, welcoming maison, freshly painted sunlit rooms of pale yellow, sky blue, lavender, and Monet green rise from patterned tile floors and Persian rugs. Sheen-polished wooden antiques prompt musings, and masterful canvassed artwork overtakes high walls in the artist's gallery. 

As if existing in a painting, my senses immersed in loveliness, immense gratification floods my spirit.

With today's memory-beckoned daydream in mind, I welcome March. And with it hope of my own garden already sprouting, soon to flourish with surprise and expectation, serendipity and excitement. 

In my daydream, you join me on Monet's French bench in Giverny. Here we rest our feet and legs after crunching, inspecting, and sniffing our horticultural wonderland. Deep contended sighs from fresh-air filled lungs breathe in and out. Speaking in whispered tones so as not to disturb the bees and birds, even serenity herself, we gleefully design our own seasonal gardens.

In our whimsy, let's imagine today is the third of June rather than March. The cobblestones are warm, so is the bench. Blue sky overhead, greenery all around, with every color of flower floating above and within Monet's impressionist sea. Bird song. Humming bees. Giggling children. We find ourselves refreshed, rejuvenated, rejoicing in the enchantment of a friendly day in a lush and lovely place. 

Here we are, together, in le jardin de Monet. . .

. . . where dreams come true, their memory sweetly relived in daydreams.

Uncle Vincent - Almond Blossoms

Vincent Van Gogh's 'Almond Blossom' oil on canvas, 1890

In the South of France almond trees bloom as early as February and, like many early bloomers, were a signal that spring was on the way. For Van Gogh, almond blossoms represented awakening and hope. 

This painting celebrates the birth of Vincent's nephew and namesake Vincent Willem Van Gogh, the son of Theo, his brother, and Theo's wife Jo.

Vincent wrote to his mother of the birth of little Vincent saying: How glad I was when the news came . . . I should have greatly preferred him to call the boy after Father, of whom I have been thinking so much these days, instead of after me; but seeing it has now been done, I started right away to make a picture for him, to hang in their bedroom, big branches of white almond blossom against a blue sky.

A tender soul, our Vincent Van Gogh. Uncle Vincent to his namesake. 

Beautiful.

 

La Chandeleur - Of Candlelight, Coins, and Crêpes

February 2nd is celebrated as La Chandeleur in France, Belgium, and French-speaking Switzerland. Also known as Candlemas, this Catholic holiday marks forty days past Christmas in its commemoration of the presentation of Jesus at the Temple, based on Luke 2:22-40. In the Torah it is written that a mother cannot visit the Temple until forty days past the birth of a son and sixty past the birth of a daughter. Hence, the timing of la Chandeleur.

Not to be confused with Shrove Tuesday aka Pancake Tuesday on February 21st, la Chandeleur is also known as Crêpe Day. Besides marking Christ's presentation at the Temple, this celebration also marks the hope of Spring. Crêpes, with their round shape and golden color, remind people of the sun's return after the darkness of winter, or crêpes can remind of gold coins and prosperity. (Superstition promises that if you hold a gold coin - a gold louis - in one hand while flipping a crêpe in the pan with the other, you will have good luck and prosperity all year.) 

A summer visit to Sarlat, France last year afforded me the opportunity to indulge in freshly made street vendor crêpes neatly folded into quarters, sprinkled with sugar, and served on tiny paper plates [see photo below]. My husband and I meandered to a sturdy ancient bench in a lovely gravel-pathed park colored with late-summer flowers and shrubs which surrounded war memorials etched with the names of those who died for freedom's sake. A pensive - and delicious - moment, for sure. 

Some traditional Chandeleur rhymes include:

     À la Chandeleur, l'hiver se meurt, ou prend vigueur.

     At Candlemas, winter dies or gains strength.

     À la Chandeleur, le jour croît d'une heure.

     At Candlemas, the day increases by an hour.

     Rosée à chandeleur, l'hiver à sa dernière heure.

     Dew on the Candlemas, winter in its last hour.

     Si le ciel n'est ni clair ni beau, nous aurons plus de vin que d'eau.

     If the sky is neither clear nor beautiful, we will have more wine than water.

     Chandeleur à ta porte, c'est la fin des feuilles mortes.

     Candlemas at your door, is the end of dead leaves.

My husband and I will celebrate la Chandeleur today because it snuck past us on the 2nd. Candles will be lit for illumination during our evening. Luke 2 will be read. Crêpes will be enjoyed in the glow of waxy candles as we contemplate our love and gratitude for Jesus our Saviour and for Joseph, Mary, Simeon, and Anna, all servants of the Most High God.

Spring approaches! Soon we shall welcome longer, warmer days and new growth bursting from soil. May you have spiritual prosperity all the days of your life, health and happiness, too.

Joyeuse Chandeleur! 

French Press

Don't get excited at the title of this post. I am not going to teach you secrets of making happiness inducing coffee the likes of which only sorcerers can conjure.

No, I am in my mid-sixties and have never been a coffee drinker except for the rare occasions when I eat at my favorite Greek restaurant and sip an after meal tiny cupful of sweet Turkish coffee, which I love.

Regular coffee makes me grimace.

I'm sorry. Well, no, why should I be sorry. 

I know! I am sorry that I have only the most rudimentary knowledge of how to make coffee and no knowledge of why so many of you enjoy it. I can make drip coffee and percolated coffee. That's it. I don't even know if it's good because I don't like it.

This brings me to the point of this post. (Yes, there is a valid point.)

When I was visiting friends in Paris a few years ago, my son-in-law's père (father) proudly placed his steeping French press coffee maker on the tablecloth-covered kitchen table, with a grin, and a finger pointing to it in gleeful anticipation, head nodding his pleasure. He speaks no English. I opened my eyes widely in dramatic enthusiasm and said, "Oh! Merci!" 

What a fake I am. 

Joël, père's name, was so proud and honored to be able to serve my husband and me in this way. We'd brought delicious croissants from the boulangerie et pâtisserie (bakery and pastry shop) located in the nearby village where we'd rented a studio apartment from a guy named Sylvio. Serving us coffee to enjoy with the delicious treats was the perfect offering. Joël even placed a full jar of Bon Maman strawberry jam beside the croissants. What a host!

I stared at that jolly little French press acutely realizing my profound ignorance. How have I lived this long without learning how the things even work? Embarrassment prohibited me from investigating then and there, so I resolved the wrong would be righted weeks later once at home.

You guessed it. Goal met.

Only three and half years later, two weeks ago, in fact, I took it upon myself to buy a French press. I looked at its box when it arrived from Amazon. I left it unopened in its package. It sat for a week on the counter next to my Kitchenaid mixer. For some reason the thing intimidated me. Why?

How to proceed, I wondered.

I know, ask for help from my Wisconsin son-in-law who uses one every morning to make his coffee. He is like a scientist about it. He knows me, though. I'm not a scientist - at all. He sent me carefully selected information on where to buy which coffee beans, how many to use, and advised me to not get caught up in the details of the meticulous - and art directed - video he sent on exactly what to do and why. 

Okay. I've got this.

I notified my husband to pick up the beans on his way home from work, letting him know that we were going to learn to make French pressed coffee. We will imbibe every Sunday morning as a treat. How special!

Sunday morning rolled around. There sat the box, with the press still packed inside. My husband gently reminded me that he did pick up the beans, and Sunday morning had arrived. 

Okay. Okay, I've got this. Courage building.

With my accommodating husband - he really loves me - I studied the video and son-in-law's instructions. 

We prepared. We began. 

Husband washed the press.

I filled the teal electric tea kettle, pressing its 'on' lever.

Beans were measured and ground - intoxicating aroma! - and dribbled into the device. (Device?)

Waiting for the water. Waiting. Waiting. Ah, it clicked! It's done.

"Never use boiling water," said the well-groomed young man in the beautiful video. "Wait at least 30 seconds before adding the water so as to not scorch your beans."

27 . . 28 . . 29 . . 30 seconds. Water added. Timer set for four minutes.

Fingers tap. A watched timer never beeps. 

Two minutes! With a spoon we stirred the crust that formed at the top and gently placed the smashing thingy in the top of the press.

Patient Tom pours

Wait two more minutes. 

BEEP!

"May I do it?" I was very excited.

"Sure."

I slowly pressed the thingy to the bottom. Giddy!

Naturally I took a few artful pictures of the press, full of brown liquid, sitting on the pretty green flowered tablecloth on our kitchen table, a vase of purple flowers nearby, and alongside two cups and saucers. Out our huge table-side windows could be seen yellow flowering bushes, daffodils, merrily blooming heather, and aromatic hyacinth surrounding verdant lawn, blue sky framing it all. The scenery made for a lovely photo session.

Patient husband finally slowly poured the coffee into one cup, then the other. More pictures.

As directed, he lifted his cup to his lips - he has always loved coffee, this was not new - and sipped, then gave me a thumbs up, again as directed.

"It's smooth and silky somehow," he said. He enjoyed his treat quite a bit. (He can't drink much coffee as it makes him more hyper than an ADHD five year old, which he actually was at one point in time. He turns into a maniacal chipmunk.)

My turn. I hand the camera over to him and begin my long-awaited adventure. What if coffee is appealing made this way? What if I become a coffee fiend like just about everyone else I know? Have I been missing out?

I sip. 

Oh no. Oh no no no. It's still ghastly. But my husband was right, it is smooth and silky. It's not bitter, either. It takes me a good long while to finish my cupful, the liquid less than lukewarm when I down the last tablespoonful.

Alas, I still don't like coffee. But it is fun to make it this way, and I will do it again every Sunday. A tradition is born. My husband can enjoy something he loves which doesn't love him, and I will only sample the results. More for him! I will learn to make it for  my guests, proudly and with pleasure, just as Joël made it for me.

Dream realized.