Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) (7 page)

‘I'm not mad and I'll tell you why later.'

He smiled and shook his head. ‘I can't wait for this one,' he replied smirking.

Alleluia and praise the Lord, the bitter winds of winter have arrived.

Glacial winters, deep in the low mountains of south-western France, are unlike anything I have experienced elsewhere. You hear of seasonal peaks and troughs in the accommodation business, but I've never heard them mention the death of a season. A day arrives late in autumn, when you know that for at least the next five months, the doorbell will cease to ring. The phone will go dead and you can store the freshly pressed bed linen in mothballs.

I loved that day with a passion. To me, winter in France meant freedom. A time for decadent indulgences and selfish occupations. To do, what I pleased when I pleased. To go, wherever I wanted. To catch up with newly made friends and drink endless cups of
café au lait
. To wake to my own biorhythms, instead of the appalling shriek of my bedside alarm clock. To walk naked, from room to room if I fancied, without the risk of bumping into some petrified stranger.

I spent countless hours in the kitchen, experimenting with new, deliciously unctuous, winter recipes, much to
Jean
's delight. Slow cooked, wine laden pots of fatted duck, became my particular speciality and I adored the heavy aroma that lingered through the house, as the cast iron pot sat simmering atop the wood-fire stove.

One day, late in February, I spent nine solid hours preparing a Birthday feast for
Jean
and a few chosen friends.

The chestnut-stuffed poultry was moist and tender and the Birthday tarts and cakes, which I had purchased from ‘
Besse
', the finest
Pâtisserie
in
Treignac
, were, as always, divinely naughty.

It was a classically romantic dinner accompanied by copious flutes of Champagne and bottles of perfectly aged
Bordeaux
wines.

Our new ‘best friends' were highly impressed by my recently acquired, culinary skills and begged for return invitations in the near future. Who would have thought? The French asking me to cook for them.

Two new additions to my list of skills were knitting and needlepoint, which I attacked zealously during my first winter, much to my own amazement. Well I couldn't cook and eat my way through winter. That's if I didn't want to add an extra twenty kilos to my pre-spring figure.

I'd always seen handcrafts as hobbies for the elderly or infirmed, but soon realised they were wonderful hibernation pastimes, where hours could be spent sipping on steaming hot chocolates, whilst gently hypnotised by the soporific embers of the emblazoned hearth.

My neighbour
Charlotte
had introduced me to these very feminine occupations. She was an elegant, perfectly coiffed Parisian woman, slightly younger than myself, who had recently moved to her husband's rather gorgeous Manor house. He had inherited this rather sprawling residence and had decided to move his young family of five here in search of a better, country life. A French ‘tree-changer'.
Charlotte
was, in my opinion, the epitome of catholic
Bourgeoisie
, and yet, I sensed a naughtiness and zest for life, that perhaps few others saw. We made our newly adopted hobbies the perfect excuse for afternoon teas and regular gossip sessions. Despite her reserved façade, this woman was fun with a capital F, when unleashed from her daily humdrum of sick children, overenergetic children and incessantly hungry children, in that order. Not to mention her obsession for housework and well-pressed linen.

She never ceased to amaze me, arriving cheerfully on my doorstep, often totally impromptu, for a mushroom or chestnut hunt, dressed in cashmere twin sets, herringbone skirts, baroque pearl necklaces teamed with khaki gumboots. As they say in France, she was the original ‘
BCBG
' or
Bon chic, bon genre.
My definition; elegantly clad,
Bourgeois
yuppie. Dress codes and proper catholic upbringing aside, there is a deep- seated ‘
joie de vivre
' bred into most French men and women that religion and class casts swiftly to one side. Thank God for that.

I sensed that winters, despite the weather conditions would be highly fulfilling. No more ‘
Oui Madame…Non Monsieur
' for at least four months. Paradise!

My darling
Jean
and I have oddly never conversed in French. Strange as it may seem, we met in English and so we live in English. Even here, in the deep heart of ‘
Parlez-vous Français
?' It's an invaluable blessing, because it allows us to live in our exclusive English-speaking cocoon. It separates us from the general population in the very best of ways. We can be naughty or nasty, without the bitchy, grocery store owner ever suspecting a thing. I presume, she has never liked me, and I don't suppose I'm ever likely to be fond of her. That's no loss. There are an abundance of warm, affable locals and we've been fortunate to create burgeoning friendships with many of them.

I'm drawn to attractive people. I am a self confessed aesthete and have always been blessed withespecially handsome boyfriends. It's not a vanity thing, it's just who I am. I am drawn to all things visually pleasing and I love to surround myself with them, in all their possible forms. My own genetically mixed heritage, has favoured me with a certain curvaceous, olive skinned, dark eyed sensuality, which I suppose some people find attractive. I don't regard it as beauty myself, but I have never lacked male attention, so something must be in the right place.

Due to my personal, deep-seated attraction, the majority of friends we have made since our arrival, are in general a handsome lot. Perhaps it's fate. Perhaps the French are just a good-looking race in my estimation. I can't tell you for sure, but they intrigue and stimulate me, both physically and mentally. They regard themselves as modern-day philosophers and I find their need to intellectualise everything strangely amusing, though at times a soupçon annoying.

Our first, true friend here in
Corrèze
, is as handsome as any ‘Vogue' couture mannequin. His name is
Thibault
and as legend reveals he was once affectionately mugged, whilst strolling down Rodeo Drive in Los Angeles, by a swarm of confused, over zealous, teenage girls. I'm not surprised, as I'd equally mistake him for some sex God of the silver screen, given his physical credentials.

Apart from his pronounced corporeal merits and licentious lifestyle, he has an endearing heart of gold. He has taken us under his proverbial wing as his new pet project. Help the foreigners settle in. Make friends and influence people. He's actually a teacher of sorts by profession, but could have easily succeeded as a tennis pro, elite sportsman or financially successful, international gigolo.

If I thought
Jean
was the epitome of charm, then
Thibault
must have written the official manual of ‘Charms and Sexual Spells'. Sexual prowess oozes from every pore of his well-toned physique. His every word pours sensually from his cushion-like pink lips and his body moves with such sexual aplomb that women swoon as he nonchalantly passes them by. He is the walking, breathing dictionary definition of pheromone. You'd swear he bathed in the stuff.

Mothers lock up your daughters and gay men padlock your lovers, when Thibaut is in town. His allure is without boundaries. You can't help but fall for his indefinable charisma, as several of our female acquaintances have admitted to us. He has wounded many a heart but remains so adorable in his flagrancy, that the women still pine for him, regardless of his sweet disregard for them.

He is probably one of the world's finest flirts and I have suffered from his attentions myself on several occasions. Thank God, that I'm married to one of the most trusting husbands on the planet, who believes that jealousy creates bad karma, otherwise I'd really be in strife.

Besides,
Jean
was always a terrible flirt when we first met, so he can hardly complain about a fellow countryman acting in the same manner.

In fact, he and
Thibault
were both born under the same sign of the Zodiac. Now why doesn't that surprise me? Peas in the proverbial, astrological pod.

I am attracted to naughty men, the very ones that your mother warns you to be aware of and your father takes his shotgun to. They're so much more fun and I enjoy a challenge, otherwise I wouldn't be here, living in a foreign country, would I?

Thibault
has twin brothers, just slightly younger than himself and a group of close friends, who are an eclectic bunch of bohemian country folk and elite urbanites. The urban dwellers choose to holiday in their inherited country homes whenever suffering from an over consumption of Parisian smog. The common denominator, this often-mismatched group of people share, is an insatiable love of gourmet foods, fine wines, elite sports and the occasional, casual, weekend dalliance.

Our tennis weekends, which take place at a particular Parisian's lavish, country enclave, could well be described as an episode of the ‘Bold and the Beautiful', rather than an innocent Sunday interlude.

In a picture perfect, pastoral setting sits this extensive holiday retreat where gorgeous, well-attired players attempt to out-serve each other on the tennis court, while even more gorgeous individuals discover each other's scantily clad physiques in the hot tub or steamy sauna. There's a lot of primping and oiling of bodies and an almost tangible, sexual tension rests over the entire estate. Who'll end up with whom by the end of the evening, is the question on everyone's well-balmed lips.

I breathe the air of expectancy with palpable fervour. It's all too much fun and even if I'm not to partake in the weekend's irreverent festivities; I enjoy every moment of the spectacle.

Of course,
Thibault
is seldom alone and is in constant pursuit of his next ‘acquisition'. An excessive amount of whispering in corners takes place as does nodding of heads and secretive winks. No wonder
Marcel Marceau
was French. They're all incredibly adept at passing on discrete messages without the use of any spoken language. Masters of mime and sign language. I thought the Italians were clever, but the French have refined the art in the most delicate and sensual of methods. Once you have discovered its subtleties, only then do you become part of this secret society.

I thought I had to master the French language when I first arrived here; I had no idea I would have to master an underlying language of subtle gesture and innuendo. Thankfully, as the foreigner amongst them, I am not expected to understand and pleasurably, can feign ignorance when asked that trifle too delicate a question. You have to realise, that the fact that I am married holds no sway with the common, garden variety of Frenchman. If he likes you, he lets you know in no uncertain terms. He is charming and attentive, but he is also very direct and has never learnt that fine Australian art of beating around the bush or hiding behind a group of mates.

Fortunately, having celebrated my sixteenth Birthday year in Rome, I am
au fait
with European flirtation and don't find this offensive. It's disarming and causes harmless embarrassment at times, but in its entirety is extremely positive. Never will your female ego reach such dizzying heights, as it will in France. I've never felt so sexy or so appealing to the opposite sex as I have here. It's extremely refreshing and very exhilarating.

France is a bastion of female worship in this modern, male dominated world. A place where the male of the species, does not, at any time feel emasculated by his evident reverence for the opposite sex. You'll never find a Frenchman huddled with his mates by the bar, if there are attractive women present and available. The only times I've ever noticed a blatant disregard towards female presence, were during the ever important rugby or soccer matches, where they were too busy showing off their he-man side or during an intensive game of post-luncheon cards, where total, undisturbed concentration is called upon.

Regretfully, there are exceptions to the rule, but who cares?

It's true that you'll inevitably spend more time indoors during the icier months, but the chillier temperatures outdoors don't necessary mean your temperature won't rise.

There are, of course, those wonderful, crystal skied days spent rugged in cashmere coats and padded gloves, rolling down virginal, white slopes and slipping across wooded, mountain trails on Nordic skis. Countless are the times I have spent on my backside, helpless and laughing uncontrollably at my complete physical inability to regain the upright position without contorting myself into painful knots. Once my bottom and my ego had experienced enough distress, it was then time to seek refuge in one of our favourite mountain hideouts.

Après neige
, my favourite part of the whole winter experience, was spent huddled by the blazing open
cantou
of a rustic, mountain chalet, sipping on liquor laden hot chocolates, made to age-old recipes by the loving hands of apron-clad ladies in their country kitchens. These were authentic hot chocolates melted slowly over a gas flame. Not the artificial, sugar laden rubbish they try to pass as cocoa powder these days. My nose and eyes glisten and my cheeks turn incandescent from the effect of the potent liquid and the gentle glow of the crackling hearth. The steady rhythm of the resident
Grand-mère's
knitting needles enhance the soothing effect of the beverage and we are soon lulled into a quasi-soporific state.

My winters spent in France, are truly some of the warmest I have ever encountered and my nostalgia for these wondrous, indulgent days and cosy fireside nights will surely fill me with a secret, inner glow for years to come.

My favourite dessert recipe of all time, and a local speciality, cooked to order in many Corrèzien restaurants.

TARTE TATIN

Ingredients

Short crust Pastry

6 golden delicious apples or similar

30gr white castor sugar