Vive le Québec!

We arrived late Friday night, after making the mistake of landing in Montréal on a Friday at the height of rush hour. Seven hours and a mighty effort later, enfin, on arrive. There's no greeting better than a house lit up like a Christmas tree; it just shouts, "We're glad you're here!" Luc and Mirielle always make one feel like royalty. Their little corner of Paradise is enchanting, and we've just passed a fine weekend here working in the garden, eating like there's no tomorrow (the strawberries are in!!!), going out late to Vieux Lévis for Belgain-chocolate-dipped ice cream, leaving baskets of contraband in the form of Georgia tomatoes and peaches at friends' doors to announce our arrival, laughing hysterically on the trampoline, having dinner with friends Sylvie and Jean-François in their 1700's farmhouse, and the rest of the usual indulgences.

Everyone's complaining about the rain, which has fallen 19 of the past 26 days. We Atlantans would sure like to have their problems! I'm compulsively turning the taps down, and our friends here look at me like I'm nuts. Today we're enjoying a beautiful, sunny respite that looks as if it will hold into the night, when we'll make a bonfire and wonder at the countless stars set against a black velvet sky.

I read a book yesterday by a Montréalais, Eric-Emmauel Schmitt (not your typical French name, for sure), about a ten-year-old boy dying of cancer and his extraordinary relationship with an elderly hospital volunteer during his last days. My interminable laughing and crying took its toll on all of us... ;-) Truly, I was exhausted by the end of it! Among the wisdom little Oscar discovered was that one should strive to see the world each day as if for the first time. Kate and I tried it today, while lying on the trampoline. The cumulus clouds floating overhead, the wind whispering through the trees, their branches throwing dancing shadows across us...it was almost too much to bear. Que la vie est belle!

In the beginning there was dinner.

There was a time in my life when my circle of friends was disproportionately filled with epicureans. Well, really, one cannot have too many epicureans in one's life, just as one cannot have too much garlic in a dish. You're forgiven if you disagree with the latter; it's a sentiment held by this Italian girl once accused by a long-term houseguest of beginning every meal with olive oil and garlic (not entirely true!). Chez moi, the scent of sautéed garlic welcomes my guests before my open arms.

Regarding the epicureans, most have followed other paths and over the years I became inured to cooking without the camaraderie of food lovers. No more. The genesis of this blog lies in a meal created and shared with four serious gormand(e)s who, happily for me, are my neighbors. Gigi and Alan own a favorite local restaurant, Dakota Blue and Christine and Curt could own one, if they were so inclined.

After a meal featuring roasted veggies freshly gathered from the garden, Gigi presented a cutting board stacked with fragrant, sumer-ripe peaches and suggested we decide together what to do with them. Each of us took turns leaning into the peaches, inhaling deeply and releasing a sigh that the eat-to-live folks would find silly. After meticulous consideration of every possibility for those peaches, we came agreed upon a sublimely simple desert. What arrived at the table was a feast for the eyes as well as the palate: individual bowls filled with a mound of Greek yogurt (I'm sure this yogurt was on Zeus' table), topped with those mouth-watering peaches and toasted, nutmeg-laced, sugared pecans. A study in contrasts, perfected on the first try. Some might question how I could wax sentimental over something so simple, but hey - I'm just sayin'...