Sweet things

London, 29 September, 2011 – I have all my teeth. I have no fillings. Never having been weaned on fizzy drinks and sweets, mine is an anchovy tooth, all savoury and salty. Yet I am staring at preening ciabatta – stale until a few minutes ago, now puffed up having absorbed whipping cream and egg yolks and a lot of sugar. One side glows, already a healthy dark brown. The underside froths in butter, turning caramel too.

The lost hurrah

Nîmes, 10.23pm, 7 September, 2011 – On family holidays, on all holidays, the final meal has always been freighted with some special significance. Arriving in Nîmes I resolved, for the second time today, to happen upon a local bistro, to maybe order some frites…

A triple positive

Avignon, 3.44pm, 7 September, 2011 – I arrived in Avignon thinking that I would take in the sights of the city and enjoy what could only, surely, be a magnificent, consoling lunch. There were no floods of tears leaving the farm, not this time, but it was a wrench. A departure with the same sad sense that I remember from twenty years ago: the magic over, the usual end-of-holiday glumness magnified by knowing that – unlike any other holiday – the fairytale could come real, the wish that the holiday would last forever could be made reality. All I’d do is up sticks.

In the trenches. De-mob sad

6 September, 2011 – A sprouting column of green and red stretches as far as the eye can see. Each shoot is only an inch or two high, and the horizon admittedly is not very distant when you are six inches from the ground, but still, from this vantage point, from any perspective, it is an impressive, inspiring, sight.

An extravagance, but not de trop

3 September, 2011 – The tap splutters, dribbles dry. A spanner in the works: even organic tomatoes, especially mucky organic tomatoes, have to be washed.

Mud, sweat and shears

1 September, 2011. I can tell you exactly what we did today, we lugged squash. Cut from their thick stalks then heaved and lined up. The events of preceding days however have melded, been gently folded, various farm tasks cut through with assorted, but uniformly delicious, foods.

Wild artichoke place

Provence, 29 August, 2011 – Insects roam free; thoughts are unfettered. This is a place untamed by pesticides and where, while there is the internet, it is ever so easy not to log-on. My commute takes me down a few steps to a muddy field, by way of a kitchen table spread with preserves (tender whole apricot; sweet, fine blackcurrant), runny honey, ficelle Provençale and coffee refined, hot and ready.