27th July 2010 – Delicacies of Fontsoleil

In the kitchen of Fontsoleil, under the window out onto the balcony, ran shelves, constructed from long and irregular planks of wood supported by bricks. My attention had entered kitchen territory. Upon the shelves a vegan glutton’s paradise was laid out with sturdy glass storage jars of many different flours: buckwheat, chestnut, lupin, soya and plain; pulses and grains: couscous, quinoa, red lentils, puy lentils, split peas, buckwheat; and one jar full of raisins; then translucent receptacles of breakfast fare: toasted rice flakes, quinoa flakes, oats, buckwheat crackers, almond butter and tahini. These were strategically placed at the front of the shelves to hide the not so sightly bright emerald plastic tubs which had, according to the faded label, once contained sauerkraut but now held sesame, pumpkin and sunflower seeds in abundance. 

Lunch and dinner were impossible to tell apart from each other. At every meal an impressive spread would be set out. On the table there was always bread, butter, at least two types of cheese, and yoghurt. There were salady bits – lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, baby courgettes, carrottes rappées – and a dressing of Dijon mustard, olive oil, sunflower oil and white wine vinegar in a special pottery dressing pot. Soy sauce, yeast flakes, salt and a spicy Indian pickle served as condiments. There was always fruit of some sort – peaches or apricots or berries or cantaloupe melon – and to drink, a jug of water and a jug of kombucha, and sometimes apple juice. I thought that seemed ample, the first time that I sat down at the table.

But no! At each meal there was also a hot vegetable dish and two dishes of carbohydrates or pulses: sautéed potatoes with cumin seeds and olive oils; courgette puree with coconut milk; rice cooked with cinnamon; fresh pasta; ratatouille of aubergine, courgette and tomato; barely-cooked carrots, mangetouts and peas with herbs; split peas; sautéed courgette and tofu with Corsican rosemary and garlic; boiled potatoes; lentils; wilted chard and Chinese greens; buckwheat groats; potato rösti; creamed chard leaves; samosas; flageolet beans; green beans with lemon and thyme; courgettes with cumin, or chilli, or coriander; stuffed red peppers; homemade chips; fresh tomato soup; mushrooms with tofu, onion and curry powder; tabouleh; green beans, courgette spiced with ras-el-hanout; hardboiled eggs; softboiled eggs; fried eggs; quinoa. The list went on.

We all had to take part in the cooking. I quickly earned the status of La Reine des Épices – or Queen of the Spices – because of my tendency to use coriander, cumin, cinnamon and ginger when I cooked. One day at market Chantal even took me to the vast spice stall to advise her on what spice mixes would work well. I enjoyed this new description of myself, and kept up the pretence, cooking up a curry for them later that week using vegetables fresh from the garden. 

If there were leftovers of rice or grains or lentils we would mix them with egg, buckwheat flour, grated courgette or carrot and spices – or even sugar for a sweet version –and form into patties and fry them. They were delicious. Even the dubious combination of rice and superfluous crumble topping mixture worked well, much to everybody’s surprise, not least my own.

At the beginning Michelle had said to me that they didn’t eat many desserts at Fontsoleil. She couldn’t fool me for very long. Aside from goodies brought back from market, like baklava, walnut tarts and creamy pastries, we indulged in left-over crêpes with jam, or goats´ yoghurt with jam, or fresh berries by the bowlful. Each WWOOFer was asked to cook a dish typical to their country, so we also sampled apple and blackcurrant crumble and a summer berry cobbler. And then there were the tiramisus. We made three tiramisus that week, not that we were obsessed with them at all. One was

plain: just marscapone, vanilla sugar, cocoa, coffee and cake. The others were less conservative. We added raspberries to the second between the soaked sponge biscuits and the cream, their juices adding to the infusion and their acidity cutting through the heaviness of the sugary cream. With the third we experimented further, supplementing redcurrants and blackcurrants, the soft, sepia-dusted peaks of cream studded with translucent jewels that caught in the light. This looked pretty, but I preferred the raspberry creation. There was something quite exquisite about that combination of flavours on the tongue.

No meal at Fontsoleil was complete without a glass of strong coffee or a bowl of tea, sometimes green and occasionally black, or sometimes a tisane of mint or lemon balm picked straight from the garden, or of ginger, or spiced chai. The bowls that we drank from were all made by Michelle, as were the teapots, jugs and plates that we used on a daily basis. Some of them were just regular bowls, although perhaps a little smaller than might have been expected. Some had handles, making them look like teacups from a giant’s tea party. Some were mounted on a sturdy foot, goblet-shaped and regal above their shorter counterparts. There was only one of my favourite shape: it was more closed than the others, as if Michelle had been trying to create a perfect sphere, and had given up with a quarter of the globe yet to close. It was just the right shape for cupping in both hands. To go with the hot drink there was almost always a square of chocolate; it was organic chocolate, of course, and it would be the darkest of all the dark chocolates that Michelle could find, sometimes adorned with slivers of almonds or candied citrus peel. And we would sit on the balcony and talk over the meal and the drinks about love, death, spirituality and goats.

The balcony had been built by Xavier years ago, and it was beginning to show its age. Mellowed wooden planks supported the semicircular platform from the ground below, buttressed to the house. The platform itself was constructed from the same wood. There were occasional splinters and multiple holes in the floor, resulting in frequent fork-loss at meals, especially if Bali was up to his cheese-snaffling tricks. One hole was particularly large and particularly dangerous. It wasn’t uncommon to lose a chair leg if care wasn’t taken to avoid it. The planks closest to the edge were very loose. I wondered at what point Xavier would consider it necessary to mend the decking. It looked as if it would be a hefty job. In the centre, and taking up most of the space, sat an expandable wooden table which had once been varnished but which had been so well used and weather-beaten that only flecks of the shine remained.

The wooden rails around the perimeter were overgrown with grape vines to one side and kiwi vines to the other. They looked so similar that at first I assumed they were the same plant, but the kiwi leaves were rounder and more heart-shaped whilst the grape leaves resembled those of the maple. And the leaves and stems of the kiwi plant had a striking blanket of wiry light brown hairs, the same as those that covered its fruits. Bali had a particular proclivity for leaping up onto the balcony railings and chewing on the kiwi vine stems, which extended downwards on a trellis over the driveway, providing shade for the car and van, and a whimsical facade for the house. Up the walls of the house grew roses, and every day I would catch my clothes on the spines as I walked outside.