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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 6, Number 4, December 2012


Giselle Maya
Saint Martin de Castillon, France

A Sunday Lunch

I won’t mention all the dishes that were served nor the lenteur of the guests who savored each morsel and regarded the Banon goat cheese wrapped in chestnut leaves as though it were a holy relic, before slicing it into small sections.

One noteworthy delicacy was eggplant and red pepper roasted then bathed in olive oil, with fresh bread. Hours later squares of apple ‘crumble’ baked to perfection were lifted from a clay dish. The courses seemed to appear reluctantly, as though the flavor of the preceding dish was to linger, enhanced by praise and minute discussion of ingredients.

The word ‘miette’ was searched for in a giant dictionary; various flours were compared; a homemade vin de sauge waits to mature for a future repas.

I felt I had to rise for a spell to stretch my legs and took a tour of the garden. While others prepared their mokka I picked a twig of romarin, sariette, verveine and asked the host for a cup of hot, not boiling water. I immersed the herbs to steep while the conversation drifted to artist Nils-Udo and his land-art exhibit at nearby Musée Campredon.

I observed the ritual of farewells before returning home for a short siesta.

on the windowsill
a stray cat called snowdrop
waits for leftovers



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