By Georgeanne Brennan
From the writer of Under the Tuscan Sun comes one other remarkable memoir of a lady embarking on a brand new lifethis time within the South of France. Thirty years in the past, James Beard Award-winning writer Georgeanne Brennan got down to detect the dream of a relaxed, rural lifestyles en Provence. She and her husband, with their younger daughter in tow, received a small farmhouse with a bit land, and some goats and pigsand so started a life-affirming trip. choked with scrumptious recipes and native colour, this evocative and passionate memoir describes her existence cooking and dwelling within the Provenal traditionan entrancing story that might whet the urge for food and the spiritperfect for foodies, Francophiles, or a person who's dreamed of packing their luggage and purchasing a price ticket to the great lifestyles.
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Additional info for A Pig in Provence: Good Food and Simple Pleasures in the South of France
Each visit was a window that opened momentarily into the life I had once known, always falling shut before I could make my way back through. The visits were like dreams from which I awoke once more alone. As the snail’s world grew more familiar, my own human world became less so; my species was so large, so rushed, and so confusing. I found myself preoccupied with the energy level of my visitors, and I started to observe them in the same detail with which I observed the snail. The random way my friends moved around the room astonished me; it was as if they didn’t know what to do with their energy.
I observed my snail’s spiral shell from the outside, but what was it like to live inside such a shape? Just a month before the onset of my illness, I had visited the Guggenheim Museum in New York. Halfway down the rotunda’s spiraling interior, I stopped. It was dizzying to look up as the floors curved around and above me and equally so to look down to the ground level far below. Now I tried to imagine, were I as large in proportion to the Guggenheim as the snail to its shell, what it would be like to have my head stick out the main entrance below and my body wind all the way up the spiraling floor.
On the trail home, in the boggiest of spots, perched on tiny islands of root and moss, I found diminutive wild white violets, their throats faintly striped with purple. THESE FIELD VIOLETS in the pot at my bedside were fresh and full of life, unlike the usual cut flowers brought by other friends. Those lasted just a few days, leaving murky, odoriferous vase water. In my twenties I had earned my living as a gardener, so I was glad to have this bit of garden right by my bed. I could even water the violets with my drinking glass.
A Pig in Provence: Good Food and Simple Pleasures in the South of France by Georgeanne Brennan
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