Feasting in the Pyrenees

It occurs to me that an addendum is required to my previous post. Indulgent breakfast? You're probably thinking - Fran, you're pathetically lightweight! And, I would be inclined to agree with you since I eat that kind of breakfast - fruit, cereal and bread - pretty much every single day. So, I feel I must explain myself before I completely lose my reputation as a woman with a reasonable appetite.

The reason why I called it an indulgent breakfast is that I had no right being hungry or in any state fit for food consumption since I dined on a rather large and sumptuous feast the previous evening at Ann's. By the way, Ann is an English lady who lives with her husband, Malcolm, up the road from where I'm staying, living the very good life here in the Pyrenees. I have no idea how the French do it but Ann and Malcolm sure know how to eat. It was an uncompromising assault on the stomach. My mind and body battled it out. 'I don't need any more food' moaned my stomach as I took yet another roll of French bread and greedily smothered it in homemade pork pate. 'I don't give a fig what you need, this I want!' my mind responded voraciously. My mind won, it always does.

And so, I ate my way through every course, only declining a second helping of dessert, which actually consisted of three desserts (roasted home grown plums, ice cream and homemade lemon cake), such that one might say I effectively declined a fourth, fifth and sixth helping of dessert! I guess my body does have some control...I mean, it was lemon cake for the love of all that is delicious - one of my greatest weaknesses!

Ann and Malcolm have a flourishing vegetable and herb garden that induced pangs of desire in me, akin to how broody women must feel when they see a pregnant woman. The simple salad of tomatoes, rocket leaves, peppers and celery was alive with flavour in the way that only fresh vegetables can be. I consumed copious amounts of bread and homemade pork pate, made all the more precious knowing that it was the last jar of the year. Oh, how it broke my heart to learn that I couldn't buy ten jars of the stuff from a local shop. The slithers of roasted lamb, which had been procured from a neighbour in the village, were tender and juicy. I delighted in knowing that it had had a happy, albeit short, life here gambolling on the verdant hills. This was accompanied by a rustic casserole of carrots and lentil beans and followed by a course of cheese! Only in France.

The wine flowed, the bread basket seemed to replenish itself and I was rendered comatised. I didn't think that I would be able to eat this morning but as you know, I did! Now, I am in a state of excitement and anticipation. Something very good is going to happen - Ann has been busy preparing a feast of what sounded like an eternity of courses for the jazz musicians who will be performing in tonight's show. I can't even hum a tune in key but I've got a place at the table and I sure know how to eat with pleasure. I'm not even hungry yet but I know that my stomach has already lost the battle...