Bread of Heaven?
Ministerial Meandering
Bread of heaven?
I have just been watching a link that one of you kindly gave me of this hymn being sung in a mixture of Welsh - and English (of a sort).
Sacrilegious though it may seem, the title triggered a notion in my head that I am finding hard to ignore. That is, that having come back from France only recently, I felt it would be wrong not to mention food.
For me, French bread is indeed a form of ‘bread of heaven’. Receiving it still warm across the counter, the light powdering of flour dusting off the crust that will soon crunch beneath your waiting teeth, only to sink into the welcoming softness of the holey dough, carefully spread with beurre sans sel, and perhaps a gentle layer of confiture d’abricot. Minus the jam, of course, this delicious tartine should be trempé (dipped) dans ton bol de café au lait, and the soaked result should render you speechless with delight for several ecstatic moments.
However, part of this idyllic picture is missing. The practice of serving café au lait in a grand bol seems to be something of the past. The majority of cafés now use the quick and easy cartonized coffees that only produce a cup at the most, and rarely (and never on our short break) was a coffee served that contained chicory, which gave the French coffee of my youth its distinctive flavour. We didn’t have the time - nor the need - to explore the local shops or supermarkets to see if such coffee was still sold on the shelves. Next time, for sure.
It was not easy, I will admit, spending our time in a massive wine-growing area, with beautiful wines brought out every night - and know that they were not on my menu. Nevertheless, I did enjoy, by proxy, the wines that Sheila drank, and I would savour the bouquet of each of her choices when she allowed herself a glass. Languedoc-Roussillon is an outstanding area for exceptional wine.
The local markets are an experience I have never tired of. Each stall has something of interest, even if it is just old brocante (bric-a-brac). The obligatory accordion player is installed in a strategic spot to be visible to most exploring the merchandise, and her (on this occasion) hat was regularly blessed with coins.
In the fruit and cheese stalls, it is expected for customers to pick up and test the ripeness of each, and if the stall-holder sees you hesitate, he or she will swiftly cut you a slice of the apple or cheese you cannot make up your mind over. If his Camembert or Brie is not runny in the middle, he will get no takers. He will always eat a slice himself - to prove it’s not poisoned!
We failed to find rillettes (potted pork or goose) on this visit, but we’ll get it next time; it makes a perfect addition to your pain du jour, especially good for picnics.
Smoke coming from one almost covered stall was attracting a lot of attention, not because it was on fire, but because of the amazing range of joints of pork, cooking, the crackling au point, all arranged onto a music stave of rotating spits - the crowd of onlookers barely able to contain their drool. It was especially hard leaving this stall with no purchase, but we had no home to take it to - and no Gracie to help us with any left-overs. As I say - next time - perhaps.
Philip+