With apologies for the crib to the wonderful cookery writer, Jeanne Strang. As ever, it's been a greedy summer chez nous. We have had a house full of delightful teenagers, such a change from the usual coterie of 'soixante huitards' in varying stages of disrepair. The only constant is the drain on my time preparing two meals a day. Teenagers require more food than fully fledged adults but their sense of wonder and appreciation for one's timely efforts more than makes up for never getting beyond Chapter 5 of any book. Like everything else during the 'holidays' [ what a great euphemism!], my writing suffers, alongside the state of my nail polish and linen shirts straight off the washing line. A blog post? No chance!
This year I seem to have been particularly slow to put fingers to keyboard. I wonder if it's age? I used to be able to cook dinner, load the dishwasher [with some help] and polish off a blog or a paragraph or two of something else before the bottle was empty and my bed loomed. Nowadays, I seem to sit and chat rather more, deliberately avoiding the temptation to hit the 'Log In' page, especially where Facebook and Twitter are concerned. The mornings are different, of course, especially when daytime temperatures have frequently soared to the high 30's. I have become a complete Twitter addict, picking up news instantaneously and clicking onto links to read opinions, blogs and newspaper articles. Most days I don't need to get Radio 4 on i-player. Instead, the world is relayed very economically to me in 140 characters a pop. 'Incroyable!'
But I digress. Here in Ariege the local diet consists of duck, duck and duck. There are restaurants nearby where every principal item on the menu has been extracted from the duck. It never ceases to amaze me just how well we all feel on a diet saturated in duck fat. I cook our potatoes in it, with garlic and rosemary, I strain it through muslin after cooking 'magret de canard' and I slow cook 'cuisses de canard' in it to store in ancient 'confit' pots left by the previous owner. Just why it appears not to clog up one's arteries and slow down one's metabolism is a mystery to me. By all accounts, the people of our little part of France have the highest longevity in a country that has the highest longevity in Europe. The correlation may be a false one, for it may all be related to bountiful fresh produce and a relaxed life free of the stresses of urban living. Either way, we all feel on top of our little world.
The most extravagant indulgence in south west France is the 'foie gras', the best of which is produced from a sterile hybrid of Barbary duck and a native breed. The serving of it is a mark of status here and French dinner guests often bring it as a gift as a token of respect. It is as essential to this area as 'cassoulet' and the 'haricot'. Who am I to refuse? The ducks are initially fed a varied diet with normal exercise for strength before they are deprived of all exercise and force fed corn to produce the enormous fat livers that we know as 'foie gras'. Many find the the use of production line force-feeders so distasteful that they, understandably, refuse to touch the stuff. The old traditional method, usually involving a little old lady on a farm in the middle of nowhere moving from one duck to another with a funnel of food, may also be equally off-putting. I am an agnostic. I generally try not to actively seek it out but, with friends involved in the 'conserverie' business, I cannot resist a small 'tranche' of 'mi-cuit' [short for 'demi-cuit', or half cooked], sprinkled lightly with a little white or black pepper and served with a glass of chilled Sauternes or Montbazillac.
Garlic is the 'yang' to duck fat's 'ying' and I seem to get through strings of the stuff. I usually buy it from old men with smoker's teeth from our weekly Saturday morning market. This August, however, I finally fulfilled a long-held dream and managed to get to the St Clar garlic festival and contest. Peter, heroically, stayed at home to look after a bevy of bikini clad girls who needed feeding and watering. The festival is held on the third Thursday in August under the picturesque 13th Century covered market stall of the fortified village of St Clar in the Gers. Luckily for me, an old, dear friend of ours conveniently lives in nearby Mauroux. The population of less than a thousand is hugely swelled by visitors from the surrounding 'departements' and summer tourists, all excited to view and sample in sundry form its famous speciality, the fragrant and strong Lomagne white garlic. For the fifth time, although not last year, presumably to avoid any question of favouritism, this year's winner accepted her treasured accolade. To be the best in one's class in any village competition in France is tantamount to being an 'A' list local celebrity [something our pathetic TV 'wannabe's' would do well to learn from]. Hard work and dedication is rewarded and the prizes hard won.
We skipped the communal 'thonade' in the square in favour of a pizza in a more peaceful location [the price of going deaf!] but returned for the partying that followed. The loudest brass band imaginable, nicknamed 'les pruneaux d'Agen', rattled it's way through lots of favourite 'sing a long' songs, culminating in a fine rendering of 'YMCA' which got everybody up from the seats and onto the dance floor ready for the disco to follow. Many of the prospective dancers looked a little unsteady on their feet, which was hardly surprising as lunch and the day's jolly festivities had moved seemlessly into the evening's shindig. The whole event was so different from the all day drinking sessions which ruin many a warm evening in the UK. Three, maybe four or even five, generations were enjoying themselves, proud of their village, proud of their families and proud of their produce. Being just a little worse for wear was a badge of honour and not a single soul was rude, aggressive or out of order. As we left, people were slowly making their way home, smiling and happy, a joy to behold indeed.
Back at my friend Jim's house in Maroux, just five kilometres away, we finished the night with a Ricard or two. All was well in the best of all possible worlds until.......you've guessed it from the title of this missive, the dreaded payback for such hedonistic excesses arrived with a vengeance some five days later. Like a bolt from the blue, the searing pain of gout indiscriminately fells the most active of men. It wasn't pastis, we knew, because Peter doesn't drink the stuff. Likewise, it certainly couldn't have been garlic, renowned for its medicinal properties, that finds its way somewhere into most meals chez nous. We had had some fairly indulgent lunches and dinners 'sous l' arbre dans le jardin'', where the wine flowed copiously and four courses, sometimes five, had become the norm. But neither of us had anticipated the consequence. Experience should have guided us but, no, we failed to spot the signs. When Peter tried to get out of bed the next morning, he nearly fell over. As anyone with gout knows, it is a shared experience. He screams in pain; I scream with frustration.
Jim, himself a sufferer, advised a course of anti-inflammatory drugs only available on prescription from a 'medecin'. We searched the 'pages jaunes'. Eventually, we found a wonderful 'medecin' in St Girons called Dr Jean-Louis Vicq, who specialises in acapuncture, as well as regular medicine. After three sessions he can now walk again, but it was a close call. Trying to get across our 'tomettes' with the aid of a pair of steel capped hiking sticks was no joke! Going on all fours proved the easier option, especially up the stairs. I was relegated to another room, which was just as well as I think that I might have jumped out the window. There is nothing you can do except get it in the neck! I love the way that conventional and alternative medicine in France are considered natural bedfellows. There is no suspicion of quackery because most practitioners are also medically trained. Thank goodness we were able to find one so easily - a couple of days on anti inflammatory drugs will unsettle the strongest of stomachs.
Anyway, at the end of it all, after Peter had trawled the internet, he tells me that it's all the fault of foie-gras [oh, and my home made liver pate!]. Apparently, there is something in liver and kidneys that activates gout. Duck fat and garlic are fine. It has nothing to do with red wine, either, of course. To which my answer is, 'If you believe that, you'll believe anything!'
