Tim swears that the same guys who empty the bins are the ones who were put in charge of the village Christmas tree. If this is true, they do a very good job with the bins, but he same can’t quite be said for the tree. Are these lights that appear as if strung with love?

It’s nice that Roquebrun, as with most villages in the area, tries to fend off the winter doldrums by being festive. But to hang a big light thingy across the main avenue that’s missing the first letter is – I’m sorry to say this – definitely a faux pas.

Act like you care, people, or don’t bother…just saying.

Tim’s foraging instincts were sparked by this episode of River Cottage Autumn during which Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall gathers (and hunts) foodstuffs from the fields, streams, and forests, takes it back to his kitchen, and uses all of it in a dinner for his staff. One can only assume that the staff knew what they might be getting into when they took the job.

Ever since that show Tim has been bitten by the foraging bug. He now has one eye rolling, chameleon-like, to what’s available in and around our village. It began innocently enough with some fennel plucked from the roadside and a handful of figs that “fell” into his hands. (It was a miracle!)

A week ago, some kumquats offered a repeat performance to the figs. But neither the figs nor the kumquats compare to the olives. Tim has become, in a word, obsessed with olives. There are a lot of olive trees around the village that are absolutely laden with fruit right now. So he helps himself to pocketfuls. Truth be told, most of the found olives would become roadsquish because their rightful owners aren’t around at this time of year to properly harvest them. So, in a way, Tim is doing a service for the village roadwork crew. (Who also happen to be the ones who empty the trash bins and put up the Christmas decorations, but I’ll leave that for another post.)

My main point is that I’ve really, really enjoyed watching the man who reveres “the rational” go cuckoo for olives. It’s like watching Rufus when he sees our neighbor’s pet rabbit, and he starts drooling and squealing and popping wheelies.

Ok, Tim doesn’t pop wheelies but he gets fire ants in the pants if sees an olive tree that’s primed for picking. Because it would be unbearable if another forager beat him to those olives.

Until this morning there were two tall mason jars of olives that are a month into the curing process. Now there are three. Tim swears it will be his last. And it doesn’t matter if it is, because his olive habits have cost him his free pass to say anything at all about my blogging habits. We’re even Steven now.

Whiskey, le chien du village

This is Whiskey, the village dog. He wanders at will and is much friendlier (and cheerful) than this photo conveys. Rufus is very fond of him, and sometimes the two have a grand time seeing who can out-pee the other. Whiskey wins by a long, yellow mile, btw.

Technically he belongs to a woman who lives behind us, but we’re not sure to what degree she takes care of him, if at all. There’s another man in the village who is extremely kind and makes sure Whiskey isn’t hungry or left in the cold or in want of some scratches behind the ears.

For the most part, Whiskey seems to take his life in stride, doesn’t seem sad or neglected. In the summer he’s free to take a cooling dip in the river whenever he wants, or to sleep under the stars if it pleases him. But the weather is much colder now, and for an older dog like Whiskey (about 11 years old) a chill in the bones is no picnic. I wonder at how he holds onto his pluck.

The one thing about Whiskey’s life that really slices through me is his devotion to the woman he’s adopted as his patronne. He follows her with utter devotion even though she never has anything nice to say to him, doesn’t seem to care about him in the slightest. He’ll bark up at her as if to say, “Hey, I’m here. I’m here.” She just screams at him to shut up. If she’s inside someone’s house, he curls up outside the door and waits.

It’s not right. But that’s how it is with Whiskey. Why?

Our friend, Philip, took this photo today as we were giving him a tour of the village. The way we’re posed reminds me of many a promo shot for many a band. None of us has ever been in a band, though. We’re just a trio of wished-we’d-had-the-chutzpah-to-be-in-a-band types. (Philip, though, fancies himself a DJ…this explains some things which I will not mention here.) He’s a really good photographer by profession, so he gets a free pass for wearing his hired assassin black knit hat/black leather jacket ensemble…and for posing with his camera in hand.

I haven’t had the urge to post too much as of late. For one I’ve been mulling a lot over how moving abroad changes a person and yet it doesn’t, how some of the sticky issues you think you’ve shed as a result of being in a new place haven’t been shed at all. I’ve also been mulling a lot over what I want to keep up in 2009 along with what I want to do differently. This is a lot of heavy mulling. But I think it will pay off and help me jig up a wish list for the year ahead, things I’d like to see happen, to create, and to experience.

Drainpipe Tomato, Roquebrun

For now, though, here’s a photo from the village of the tomato plant that’s thrived in a drainpipe across the way from the Oui Oui, the village pizza place. I don’t know if anyone has been picking the fruit from it, but it’s been a steady producer from summer through the fall. Even with as cold as the weather has become, as of last week a couple of final maters were still ripening on the vine.

This photo is either a sweet sample of how good stuff can be found in the unlikeliest, muckiest of places. Or, it just shows how strapped for entertainment I’ve become. Or, the end result of over-mulling. Dunno.