Mirabelle Clafoutis

We are without Internet. It’s incredible how simultaneously frustrating, relaxing, alienating, and eye-opening it is.

When I say we, I of course mean, we in Paziols. Long-time readers know that my usual dearth of posts in July has to do with the four to six weeks I spend in my favorite of all places, the 300-person village of Paziols. Seeing as I serve as head chef for the thirty-some-odd people working and living at the Paziols French Center, I usually make a point of posting at least a handful of stories and recipes, but this is the first time — armed with the WiFi point of my Smartphone and crossed fingers that the one bar of 3G I have found in the corner of my bedroom while holding my breath and resting my phone on my knee — that I’ve found the time and energy to post… and these pictures aren’t even from this year.

This I say for honesty’s sake, though to be fair, it wouldn’t really matter. Paziols is the sort of place that exists outside of time itself, the kind of place where, even though it had been a year since I had last been here, the moment I arrived, I suddenly felt as though I had never left. I’ve been here three weeks, and it feels simultaneously like I’ve been here forever and I’ve only just gotten here. It’s strange, but I don’t mind.

Being without Internet, though, turns it into another kind of strange entirely. I feel completely withdrawn from my life in Paris, even with a few text messages from friends and quick glances at my e-mail from my phone when I have the time. To think that there was a point when being without Internet at all was normal; now the dearth of constant access and communication is enough to send a normal person into withdrawal, and for someone like me, who so relies on constant e-mail access for work, it’s frustration incarnate. Here, though, I’m doing without… and I think I’m OK with it.

Sooner than I think — I know, by now, after years of the moment creeping up on me — my real life will be back. It will be mere moments before I forget what it is to be here, surrounded by those who have, over the years, become another family to me. I will allow thoughts of the local café and Monsieur Henri, of Cabanel’s local grocery, of the Saturday evening pizza truck, of washing lettuce in the blue salad spinner, to drift to the back of my mind for another year. I’ll be consumed with work and school and Paris — another love, but nowhere near as poignant as the one I feel here, surrounded by things that were not part of my childhood and yet still so dearly feel like home.

Perhaps my love letters to Paziols are becoming overkill for those who have been reading for a long time, and while I can apologize for the repetition, I cannot truly be sorry for sharing the sentiments that have dragged me out of my writing cave. For better or for worse, I love it here, and every time I leave, a larger part of my heart remains. Though right now, if I never hear another person call my name from another room it will be too soon, I also know that, more quickly than I can imagine, I will miss the children who rest their elbows on the bar of the semi-opened kitchen and beg to know what we’re having for dessert.

Clafoutis again — this time with mirabelle plums — is a good answer. Here any kind of fruit that we have on hand — peaches, apricots, nectarines — becomes part of this dessert that, by now, is so easy that I can walk a child through it, so clafoutis here, more often than not, is made, not by my hands, but by those of seven-year-olds who will soon no longer be within reach for hugs and kisses… until next year, that is.

Mirabelle Clafoutis