Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) (16 page)

‘It's the thought that counts sweetheart, and you and
Jean
did what you thought was best. It was a memorable weekend, and that's what you wanted for us, isn't it?'

‘Maybe not that memorable!'

‘Look, we had fun, we visited lovely places and we won't ever forget it. What more could we ask for? Besides, despite all his problems and faults,
Monsieur Frontinac
was truly delightful. He made us very welcome and apologised continuously for his shortcomings.'

‘Okay… you've convinced me. It wasn't all bad,' I said, still slightly dejected.

‘Here,
Chérie
,
Jean
interrupted, ‘I thought a drink was in order,' he said, passing around glasses of chilled
Rosé
and pistachio nuts.

‘You're an angel
Jean
,' I sighed. ‘I'm always telling him … he's full of good ideas.'

‘
Cin-cin … Salute
!' declared my father, raising his glass to the heavens. ‘To absent wives!' he declared passionately, winking at
Jean
.

‘And to present ones!'
Jean
added cheekily.

A month later my parents departed with sad hearts and tearful eyes. It was difficult to let them go, knowing in my heart, years would pass before our next meeting. I was comforted, however, in the knowledge that they were now familiar with my new world and had found it romantically appealing. We'd had our moments … oh, yes … but good or bad; we'd recall every one, for years to come.

The Indian summer showed no signs of quitting and the mild, shorter days of October brought an endless stream of paying guests to our doorstep. These late arrivals were not drawn to the region for its Autumnal beauty alone.
La
Corrèze
was renowned for its magnificent Oak and Chestnut forests and their precious, natural treasures. The rusty, golden carpet of fallen leaves hid, beneath their spongy depths, an abundance of wonderfully fat and heavily perfumed
champignons
.

The
cèpe
or Porcini mushrooms, as the Italians call them, are much sought after, for their delicious flavour and meaty flesh. The dense, virgin forests of the region hide a wealth of these little beauties and every man and his trusty dog, sets out each morning in search of these tasty clumps of fungus.

Jean
and I were amongst the eager, gumboot brigade that trampled the mossy slopes and shaded depths of the hills, in search of these weighty treasures.
Jean
's mouth watered with the promise of
Omelettes aux Cèpes
. I, on the other hand, loved the flavour but hated their effect on my metabolism. I must be allergic … or at least I think so. I become very, very dizzy after consuming them, in fact so dizzy that I've been known to hallucinate.

That doesn't stop me from traipsing up hill and down dale, my trusty basket and penknife in hand, set on that wonderful adventure – the Mushroom Hunt. On our arrival in
Treignac
,
Jean
had invested in two pairs of the most expensive rubber boots that are known to man. Apparently ‘
L'Aigle
' was the finest quality brand in France and I was always proud to don them for ‘
la chasse aux champignons
' or the mushroom hunt.

This event is given such legendary status in the backwaters of France, that the locals would gladly enter it as an Olympic event, given half the chance. The honour bestowed on those who are able to return with the day's highest yield, is farcical.

The awaiting onlookers, ‘OOOh' and ‘AAAh' in admiration, as the more enterprising amongst the collectors, weigh in their individual heists, in glad return for a wad of
Francs
. People have been known to make small fortunes during the season and irate property owners have been known to shoot at stray walkers, who trespass on private land in their search for the perfect
Cèpe
. That is the competitiveness of this annual sport. This is a serious occupation we're discussing, not an innocent tiptoe through
les chataignes
. (Chestnuts)

Jean
and I have never looked upon it as a moneymaking venture and prefer to enjoy the beauty of the hunt and the marriage of man and nature, so to speak. There have been times, when we've returned home with kilos and kilos of mushrooms, then, other days, we're lucky if we come home with a runny nose and sore feet.

That's the joy of it. You never know what you'll get and anything is a bonus. And sometimes you get something you never expected, especially lost in the depths of the
Corrèzien
woods.

Jean
and I had set out just after breakfast, hoping to beat the possible morning crush. Some days, there were dozens of cars, parked at the end of the forest lanes, other days you would find yourself completely alone … at least for a while. This was one of those days.

We returned to one of our usual haunts, a flat wooded area, several kilometres from the nearest hamlet or town. There was an eerie silence as we entered the heart of the forest; not a whisper of air could be heard rustling through the fallen leaves or crowded branches.

‘Guangzhou' our frisky Sharpei, accompanied us this particular day, and had, as usual, run amok the moment the car door opened. He would obediently return when whistled at, but we left him to wander free, as he could do little harm this far from civilisation.

I stooped over my first find, brushing away the damp, leafy crust and smiling as the smooth, shiny cap of fungus broke through. I cut its bulbous base and laid it in my basket.

‘I've found one,' I called to
Jean
, whose search was several metres from mine. ‘It's a beauty too.'

‘Good girl
Marisa
… keep it up. There's nothing over here,' he said as he headed towards me.

‘Don't go pinching my spot,' I joked. ‘Find your own.'

‘What's yours is mine and visa-versa,' he replied grinning.

‘Not out here, buddy. This is sacred turf … and my patch is my patch,' I bantered.

‘Greedy,' he replied, as he continued to scour the forest floor.

I shuffled over loose mulch, bending to displace the leaf cover here and there, in the hope of discovering another treasure. It was then, that I spotted a small batch of
girolles
or
chanterelles
, as they are more commonly known. These are the prettiest of golden fungi, small and tongue shaped with curly, scalloped edges. Their texture is fine and their perfume more delicate than their larger cousins. I prefer
chanterelles
, not only for their taste, but also for the fact, that they don't send me into hallucinogenic fits.

I gently plucked them one by one from their mossy bed.
Jean
noticed my continued stoop and watched on in curiosity.

‘Great view from here,' he chuckled.

‘What do you mean?'I called, looking over my shoulder. ‘Oh … you cheeky boy … I didn't know you were right behind me,' realising he was acknowledging the prominent round of my bottom.

‘Don't move an inch … that's a great position!' he continued, as he approached.

‘What are you up to
Jean
? I know that tone,' I replied nervously.

‘Come on
Marisa
… we've never done it out here before,' he goaded, patting my bottom.

‘
Jean
. Someone might see us. Stop that!' I squealed.

‘
Marisa
… there's no one else for miles … except for Guangzhou maybe, and he couldn't care less. C'mon…it'll be fun,' he continued, grabbing at my bottom.

‘
Jean
… Stop it,' I pleaded, smacking his hand half-heartedly, ‘there could be someone behind any one of those trees. We'll end up as a feature on the evening news.'

‘So … they'll get a pleasant surprise won't they? I think they'll get the gist of what we're up to … don't you?'

‘
Jean
, you're so naughty … I'm not sure about this,' I said breathlessly, as he caressed my breasts beneath my oilskin coat and woollen cardigan.

‘Ah ha! You like it now, don't you,
Mon amour
?'

‘Yes … but that's enough … c'mon
Jean
… we can't do anything else.'

‘
Chérie
, just relax … it's just you and me,
Ma petite Princesse
(my little Princess).'

That's it: my heart melted.
Jean
knows all my weaknesses and calling me his little Princess, is the greatest of them all. Call me easy but it makes me weak at the knees every time.

‘All right … maybe just a little bit but be careful,' I whispered.

‘Just pretend you're picking mushrooms
Chérie
… pretend I'm not even here,' he whispered huskily in my ear.

‘You have to be kidding,' I gasped, as he tugged on my jeans and lowered then around my ankles. I shivered in nervous anticipation.

‘Ooolala! That's a pretty mushroom,' he joked and proceeded on his merry way.

For several long minutes we made love amongst the
chanterelles
. It was deliciously naughty and I was sure we'd be caught out at any moment. The forest remained whisper still and my peaking gasps and breathless pleas for more, echoed throughout the shaded silence.

‘There, my Princess, wasn't that nice?'
Jean
asked, as he turned me to him, embracing me tenderly.

‘You're a naughty Frenchman … but I like you,' I replied, doing my best Dick Emery impersonation and giggling wildly, as I pulled my dishevelled clothes about me.

‘You only like naughty men, Marisa and you're unlikely to forget your mushroom hunt today. One of our more successful hunts,
n'estce pas?
(don't you think?)'

‘I think we've hunted enough for one day … let's get out of here before some
paparazzo
jumps out of the bushes with a video camera,' I replied, turning for the lane.

‘Okay,
Chérie
,' he laughed holding my arm. ‘Oh, by the way … where's Guangzhou? I haven't seen him the entire time.'

‘Neither have I … whistle for him…he's never far.'

He whistled several times before the sand coloured rolls of Guangzhou's pelt could be seen dashing through the lower branches at lightning speed.

‘You've not been up to mischief, I hope?' I said, patting his sturdy hind. He wagged his tail with whiplash speed. He had a mad-dog grin and his muzzle was wet and slimy.

‘He's been up to something … probably caught the scent of a little squirrel.'

‘In the car, Guang … up you get,' I said, pushing on his rump.

He jumped onto the back seat of the
Citroen
and instantly dropped into a weary heap.

‘Look … he's even more exhausted than us' I said, my cheeks still aglow.

‘Exhausted? Did our little mushroom hunt, tire you out,
ma pauvre Chérie
? (my poor darling)'
Jean
smirked.

‘You know what I mean, you saucy devil.'

We had only travelled two or three hundred metres, when a
paysan
(peasant) sporting a navy beret and khaki overall, strode in front of the car, waving his walking cane in the air.

‘Oh My God … do you think he saw us? He's stopping us to report us to the
gendarmes
for indecent exposure, for sure,' I squealed anxiously.

‘No,
Marisa
… calm down … if he's stopping to tell us anything … it'll be to congratulate us. Having sex in the woods is an age-old, French pastime,' he said, winding the car window.'

‘
Oui
,
Monsieur
…
Bonjour
, he called, as we pulled along side.

‘
Bonjour
Monsieur
…
Madame
,' he replied, tipping us his beret in a genteel salute and offering us a large, toothless grin. He then lent closer to our vehicle, scrutinising both us, and the car's interiors.

‘
C'est votre chien?
(Is that your dog?)' he finally asked.

‘
Oui
,
Monsieur
… that's our dog. Why? Is something wrong?'

‘No big deal really,' he replied. ‘He killed two of our hens. Snuck into the pen. I managed to stop him before he killed the lot.'

‘
Merde
! I'm so, so sorry
Monsieur
. What can we do? Can we pay you for the chickens?'
Jean
asked sincerely.

‘
Non. Ne vous inquiètez pas
. (No, don't worry about it)' he said, shaking his head. My wife … she has already plucked them and put them in the deep freeze,' he assured us amiably.

‘We're so sorry
Monsieur
… he's never done this before … are you sure we can't pay you?' I insisted.

‘No, no …that's not necessary
Madame
… though I suggest you and your husband keep a sharp eye on your dog next time … he's done it once, so he has blood on his nose, as they say … he'll do it again,' he warned us, then added, spotting the half full basket of dewy morsels on the back seat, ‘Distracted with the mushrooms I suppose?'

‘
Oui, c'est ça, Monsieur
(Yes, that's right
Monsieur
)…we'd had our minds on other things … we'll be more careful next time. We promise,'
Jean
replied.

‘
Ah, les champignons! C'est bon!
(Ah, mushrooms. They're so good!) When you find some, it can be very exciting,' he winked.

‘
Oui
Monsieur
, that's true. Finding mushrooms can be quite thrilling,'
Jean
replied.

‘
Bon… A la prochaine.
(Good…see you next time)' the old man called, leaving us to blush.

‘He knew … he saw me blush … I'm sure he knew,' I whispered, embarrassed.

‘Maybe … maybe not? He's old, but I bet he's seen a few varieties of mushrooms in his time. He lives right by the woods,'
Jean
laughed.

‘Stop it! You're a bad, bad boy!'

‘And proud of the fact!'

CONSERVES DE CEPES

You must never wash mushrooms, or so the French and many a Chef will tell you.

Therefore, you brush them to remove as much dirt and leaf grit as possible, wipe them with a wet cloth and only ever run them under water if they're really dirty.

Slice them into firm, fine slices.

Fry them in a good quality olive oil adding garlic to taste.

When still hot, place them into sterilised screw top, conserving jars or ‘
le
Parfait
' flip-top jars. Make sure their rubber seals are in good condition for a firm fit. Fill the jars and ensure the
cèpe
s are well covered with the olive oil.

Seal the jars … and
Voilà
!

All you need do then, is open, reheat and serve with chopped parsley and a little salt to taste. Of course one of our favourite ways to eat them is in a good, French omelette.

It's as simple as that…though try preparing 50 kilos or so at a time… now that's another story.