On our anniversary, I was a herder of logs and mushrooms

The funny thing is that, him indoors didn't forget our anniversary.  Maybe he had been forewarned by a mysterious entity (you know who you are), or  he had read the arcane signs of a possibly tricky situation, in the flights of birds or in the entrails of the dead rodents the cats leave strewn around.  The fact remains he remembered and that's all that matters. 


The long awaited rain  followed by some short lived sunshine, brought out rings of plump field mushrooms (rosés des près, agaricus campestris) in the field at the back of the house. Harvesting them in the warm midday light  was just pure joy, a feeling of achievement and fulfillment that was made complete by the cooking of a big omelet, having first fried the mushrooms in "beurre d'escargots" (snails butter= garlic and parsley).  I used a trick my god-father gave me and which is totally waistline unfriendly but so delicious...add tiny bits of butter to your eggs whilst whisking.  That's it, nothing else but believe me, it will transmute your omelet!

Him indoors and I, some years ago, ate in la mère Poulard  in  Mont Saint-Michel (famous through out France for her over priced but delicious omelet) and he swore mine was better! I know flattery when I hear it but I have to admit that, that last one, with our own maverick mushrooms, was a bloody fine thing and I have no reason to doubt his sincerity...though in all fairness to Madame Poulard her souffléed and flambéed omelet with apples caramelised in calvados was a thing of great beauty which still has me drooling years later.

Meanwhile back on the range, the rest of the champignons were threaded and hung above the cooker to dry. A process that should take a few more days.  I have plans to preserve in oil the Pieds Bleus (blue feet?) that took over the lawn last winter, as soon as they make an appearance.

I also intend to eventually, track the elusive girolles, chanterelles, pieds de mouton and lentins  in the woods. whilst he dreams that Dougal is going to find truffles (now, I doubt that somehow).  I have spotted some puff balls which were still very tiny but I keep hoping to find one of those legendary ones that can feed a family of ten for a couple of years...ok slight exaggeration...but I have seen photos of ones that grew to be the size of footballs.
In my youth in the Ubaye valley, I did a lot of mushroom picking petits gris, sang du Christ. The whole spirit of gathering , was one of secrecy, whether it was lilly of the valley, genepy or sanguins, everyone had their territory accessed by ever changing paths.  There was an old  woman called Marcelle Morin, a bit of a witch and she knew all the best places, les coins à morilles.  There was good money in those mushrooms and my best friend's father, a lazy good for nothing ,  encouraged us children, to follow her discreetly and find her secret patches.  The old one must have been wise to his game and ours, for she took us up and down the pastures, in circles, time after time and  we never found a single one.  Some years later,Marcelle, a true Bas Alpine as tough and dried as the slopes of the Gaudissart, died, despite being courted by many, without revealing her secret.  Despite her destitute appearance and lifestyle, she died a millionaire, the richest single woman in the valley.  Not just from the morels, I guess.  There was some whispers of darker stuff too.  Still,  somewhere on the sunny slope of the Ubaye valley, is a field which would bring tears of joy to the eyes of the local restaurateurs.


But enough about miscellaneous mycology.   In the absence of him indoors who was doing very important stuff, like selling a kidney to keep us on the sweet side of the bank manager, I took the initiative and was off in the setting sun, to make a wood pile... and lo and behold I don't think I did so bad...As a matter of fact I am rather chuffed with my efforts.

All in all it was a great day,  a fruitful day which gave me a taste of what life is going to be when we can dedicate all our time to this way of life we have chosen. I can't wait.  I guess that's what this anniversary was really about, living the dream after all and in spite of all. We are blessed.

Lisnagun*

Tomorrow, Him indoors and I, will be celebrating the 19 th anniversary of our first kiss.  The chances are, that he will have forgotten, like he has forgotten many things including the date of our wedding anniversary and the exact type of saucisson I like.  He hasn't forgotten though, that 17 years ago, after he had driven me insane with playing the same phrase on the tin-whistle for  weeks ( I think they did some thing similar at the siege of Wacco) I referred to the said tune as "this silly little tune"...Ouch... I have apologized on a weekly base since, but he still bears the scars of my cruelty and his ego has never recovered ( ok, maybe it has but just a tiny bit).  My thoughtlessness is  paraded at the forefront of any sprouting row.  It is his universal excuse for just about any trespasses from his poor record on  socks to...mmm...let me see.. O yeah...forgetting anniversaries.

Anyway this year I will take it bravely and not over react.  Instead I shall remember that November night, when I took him, after far too many tequilas in Pa's, to visit Lisnagun, an early medieval settlement in West-Cork which was still being excavated.  Whether I  slid down  the earthen embankment graceful as a gazelle or, tumbled down drunkenly,  making outrageous claims such as : trust me I am a mountain climber,  depends on whose version you're listening to.  This is mine, so trust me, I AM a moutain climber.

I showed him around the wattle huts that were being reconstructed, I think he said something  relevant about medieval history,  the moon was but a nacred sliver...I said kiss me, he said are you sure?
At this point I have to add that he was, at the time doing a thesis for his master's in music and that the subject of his thesis was my then husband.   So, I  suppose, it was reasonable for him, to question the wiseness of this course of action.
Anyway, he did kiss me and that was the sweetest, tenderest, most beautiful kiss I ever had.  I fell in love immediately, left my husband two days later and  never looked back.
It's been anything but easy, especially the early days.  Our relationship did untold damage to his career as a musician. We had to fight some powerful demons (one day I'll write about them) together and we lost so much along the way, friends mostly.  But he has been a great father to our children solid and present (though he was but a child of 22 when  we first met and I, a brazen hussy, 11 years his senior) and to me, he as been the kindest, funniest and most wonderful lover.
19 years on, we are still in love, fusional and mad...
We live in the woods , under a silver moon" drinking each others 
 shadow"**

*Lisnagun, a tune he composed, has since become a bit of a classic in Irish music.  www.myspace.com/brendanringuilleannpipes  

** fabulous image from John's Spillane's cd "The Wells of the World" on which Him indoors played .

The gates were between worlds were opened

How could Saimhain have been anymore perfect?
As night fell, so did the fog, blanketing all in a milky glare. I walked under the opalescent moonlight, up to the big oak tree, followed by Squigz who mewed and rubbed against my legs, as a perfect witch's cat should.  No one else, no dog, no husband, just the night charged to the brim with souls and spirits and I felt I belonged and always had.