Winter's Content

It's alright, really.

Medieval stone buildings hold the cold, only sharing it with those trapped on the inside. The shop is therefore closed, except by arrangement, until April Fools Day, praying that fools last that long. The weather on the outside doesn’t much want us either, so one had better work on strengthening inner resources.

The last week found me frightened by the spectre of being left alive and standing without a sou, without a soupçon of how to proceed.

I find plenty of sous in the basket by the front door to go to market this Sunday morning. I must digress…I may actually be a millionaire if I would count the change in the basket. In the US, I/we(?) use almost no cash anymore. Here, in the French countryside, it is all cash, for a variety of reasons that constitutes another post. While generally sporting a lax attitude, I find myself cringing somewhat with regards to all these germy coins that pass from toll booths to farmers, wheezing store clerks to miserly parishioners. I guess their handlers are surviving just fine… Back to the point: I went to the Sunday market with my millions, because otherwise I feared shriveling away in my solitary lair.

In the nearby village, the Sunday market is lively with many vegetable stands offering green leaves and sturdy root vegetables, several cheese merchants, the pink-faced lady and her preserved pork products, and one flower seller who does not look me in the eye. I peruse his paltry stock, and pick for my birthday bouquet some rather too subtle roses and similarly flesh-colored cabbage heads. This is not one of those big birthdays, and anyway, bright colors would be painful in this grey weather. I decide to leave the other half million sous in my pocket so I can buy dog food on Monday when the supermarket reopens. The dog and I head back to the car.

Parked next to me is a teeny, tiny old car. I coo with delight and see that the owner is still inside. He smiles at me when he opens the door and I, too forthright and enthusiastic, always, ask if I can take a picture of him and his car. He answers, “Sure.” I pull the phone out of my coat pocket and ask how old it is. “Me?” he asks. “ “No, the car.” “Oh, I have no idea.” I snap the picture, and he gets out of the mini mobile. He is a dwarf. I am embarrassed, thinking he might have thought I was mocking him. But, no! I show him the photo and he is very pleased…that his unusual car elicited delight. He thinks nothing of his size. I have not offended him at all!

I drive home, put the flowers in a canister and note that my living quarters are looking like a plant nursery lately. I pull every edible veggie from the fridge, and root basket, and begin sautéing a root veggie soup. Adding a bit of the green curry paste I brought back from the US is a brilliant idea, and my kitchen sink soup (ingredients- everything but the kitchen sink) hits all the spots, just right.

(Put a celery stub in water. Watch your new celery grow.)

I think about the dwarf who’s proud of his tiny, old car. I think about all the people around here who don’t have much, but who muddle along, still joking and gossiping in the market. It may be a long, lean winter, but there’s life ahead, really.