30th July 2010 – Pickled Giraffes

And lo and behold, what did I see the next morning as I went out to take in the dry clothes from the washing line and hang out the wet towels, washed after our swimming exploits the previous day? Xavier, of course, pushing a wheelbarrow in the direction of the dry toilet with a shovel slung over his shoulder. He didn’t see me at that point. I laughed inwardly, and thought what a particularly revolting job that one must be. A few minutes later Kira came past me, also on her way to the toilet. I stopped her, assuring her that she didn’t want to go up the hill at that precise moment. I told her that if she waited a moment, she would see what I meant. Sure enough, a minute later Xavier made the return journey, wheelbarrow heaped high. He gave us a cheery wave and wished us bonjour as if nothing were out of the ordinary. I supposed that for him it was a routine task. Once he was out of earshot, we creased up in giggles. 

My last time in the Jammery was, shockingly, not to be spent making jam. Instead we were making redcurrant chutney. This started off with us all sitting at the kitchen table cutting onions into fine rings, tears streaming down our cheeks and trying not to let them splash on the table. Xavier was preparing the ginger, which he wouldn’t entrust to anyone else in case we chopped it the wrong way. I didn’t know there could possibly be a right and a wrong way to chop the knobbly, pungent root. Michelle rolled her eyes at him in exasperation, and told us to take no notice of him. She kept asking me questions about chutney as we chopped. She seemed to assume that I was a chutney expert. I hated to disappoint, but chutney was far from being one of my specialist subjects. 

Onions and redcurrants at the ready, we loaded the van. Normally the WWOOFers would walk down after the van, but that day we caught a lift. The problem was that there were only two passenger seats in the van. And so I climbed into the back with the ingredients. I took off my glasses, tucking them into my top – in some strange reverse logic, I felt that they were less likely to get broken here than on my face – and clung on to the sides of the van. It was the bumpiest ride I had ever taken. With my glasses off and eyeballs shaken, I couldn’t see well; I couldn’t focus on anything. I couldn’t hear any conversation properly from the front of the van either. I wondered if this was what it was like to be old: not being able to see or hear as well as I wanted. 

Making chutney was almost exactly like making jam, but with added spices and vinegar and onion.  We had to use special pans so that we didn’t contaminate future batches of jam with the distinctive onion bite. girolfe. We weren’t quite sure what girolfe was (and it turned out to be clove) but it looked like giraffe. The thought of popping a bit of giraffe in chutney was quite absurd, and we wondered where this poor giraffe had been kept all this time. We didn’t imagine it was possible to hide a giraffe for very long. Perhaps it was lying down in a secluded yurt somewhere, neck curled in a yogic bend. 

Looking down the recipe as we prepared the pans, Kira and I got an uncontrollable fit of the giggles for the second time that day. One of the ingredients was

As the ingredients mingled and heated, their scent filled the room. I was suddenly strongly reminded of home. The smell of chutney cooking was a smell from my childhood. It was almost comforting, and I mused aloud on the thought. Xavier thought I was quite mad: he couldn’t bear to eat too much onion because the taste reminded him of the overwhelming smell of vats of chutneys and onion confits.  We stirred and boiled, we sang and shimmied, we sampled the hot, sweet vinegar, and we lidded and labelled; with 200 pots of redcurrant chutney for the taking, I bade a fond farewell to the Jammery. I had spent many happy hours there, but I was ready to learn something new.  

I had no real inclination to leave Lamastre, but I had been looking forward to my final weekend there. For the duration of my stay I had heard murmurings about the great party that was to be held on the Saturday evening. It was an annual event, hosted by a family with a large house and an even larger barn, tucked away somewhere between Fontsoleil and Desaignes. I had supposed to be moving on to my next farm on that Saturday morning, but – thanks to the flexibility of the WWOOFing scheme – I had extended my stay by two days so that I could attend. Everyone was going to be there.