As my time on the farm comes to an end, I am left to reflex on process of transformation that has happened. When I entered, every experience presented itself with novelty and a sense of uniqueness. As I grew into my role, tasks became routines and chores became habits. I have carved a niche here in Normandy that has changed me.
Some of those changes can be seen in my body. My hands have become hardened and filled with the tiny cuts of labor. Dirt has sunk into the crevasses my skin in ways that soap and water can not cure. The beard grows long and full from the effort to insulate a rain soaked face. Even my sense of smell has been altered. Smells that once showed their intolerance now have faded to become a feature of the landscape.
Even the pigs have grown comfortable with my presence. Rather than nervously pacing in anticipation they push a shove their way into the food trough. Noses that were once guarded, now sniff and press their moisture against my pant legs. They know that the squeaky wheels of the wagon being pushed by the big fellow in the floppy Norman hat will bring them sustenance and not harm.
With the hesitation of an unforeseeable future, I leave the farm to again take up the life of the traveler. The dirt and cuts will fade with time but the neurological grooves that have been plowed will persist. I will forever hold the memories of this place and its people close.
Some things that I want to remember about the farm but did not have the time, energy or discipline to write about:
-House rule. One of the first things that I learned dining at the maison is the specific way that you eat grapes. Often a bowl of grapes is served as a final complement to a meal. The first time this happened, I picked a grape here or there off of the community bunch. The second time grapes were served, I was informed of the house rule. Philippe explained that you should not pick a single grape from the pile but rather pull off a clump that you can enjoy to yourself. Eku later told me that in France (at least according to Philippe) it is impolite to share food from your plate with others. You ordered or served a plate of the food that you desire. Be happy with your selected contents. Lucky for me, this is not the rule in Japan. The few times that I dined out, everyone was concerned with feeding me a sample of their dish in exchange for a taste of mine.
-Bill's Birthday Feast. One of the experiences that I was fortunate to have that not many travelers are able to experience is a Norman feast. One of the first Saturdays at the farm, Philippe's brother in law celebrated his 60th birthday party in the Auberge. This was truly a feast to make the viking heritage of the area proud. The dinner began on the terrace overlooking the pond. Here we drank champagne and a blue alcohol filled punch and ate fried mackerel in a tomato cumin sauce, sea snails, blood sausage, cheese, bread and a collection of tappas. I would have been satisfied with this buffet for dinner but we had not yet begun. We headed inside to the tables and secured ourselves a beer. An apple liquor with a small scoop of sorbet was served to all. This was said to be a Norman tradition that renews the appetite. Prime rib, curry, bread and couscous soon followed. A massive wheel of brie and salad served as yet another course. Red wine matched the flavor of the cheese better so slurped a couple glasses. Finally, a dessert of chocolate cake, tira muissue and an apple tart were served with coffee. A final round of apple liquor was served as I retreated to my bed for a night of digestion.
-Dining with the Japanese. One of the strangest but most delightful aspects of my time on the farm was the constant presence of Japanese culture and food. Philippe spent a great deal of time earlier in his life in Japan and spoke (what I am told) very excellent Japanese. Combined with the fact that Eku is Japanese, the farm provides an excellent window into France for Japanese volunteers and tourists. On the second day of my stay on the farm, eight Japanese tourists were staying on the farm and presenting at a local ecological fair. I made an idiot out of myself when I introduced myself by stating one of the few Japanese words that I know, arigoto. Of course, this means thank you and not hello. Three female volunteers from Japan stayed the majority of my time. MeeWah was a child of one of the ladies that provided me endless entertainment. As it turns out, goofy faces work in every language. Also taking a child's socks when she hands them to you and placing them on your ears brings down the house. Finally, a Japanese couple provided excellent English conversation and a chance to reflect on the farm with others.
Each of these folks helped me consume a vast amount of japanese cuisine. Most meals were served with a bowl of rice. I ate at least one bowl of a variation of miso soup each night. Fish served as the main source of protein for these meals. I was taught which fish bones were good to eat and which ones to discard. I fell in love with a cucumber and seaweed salad that contained a vinegar flavor that I always crave.
These meals contained a atmosphere that I interpreted to be very Japanese. Conversation occurred in hushed tones but generally met an affirmative "hhhmmm!" in response from everyone. Everyone was always very polite and attempting to feed me before themselves. The few times that we used forks instead of chopsticks, I felt ashamed of my vulgar fork technique.
-Dining with the Paysanne. On one of my last days on the farm, we traveled near Coutance to pick up some piglets for the farm. The first farm that we stopped at presented itself with the many out buildings of the typical farm and a Saint Bernard. We saw know no at first and decided to knock on the door of the main house. A muffled clang suggested life before the door was eventually opened. We were invited into a room that had been suspended in history. In the Viking style, the roof held wooden beams separated by white plaster. A large stone fireplace poorly heated the stone floor. The long main table held the remnants of past meals and a smattering of mail and bills.
Conversation quickly took president over the work at hand. The animation and few words that I understood signaled politics. The farmer was a well built man in his 50's. His humble wife, kids and grand kids displayed themselves on mantles and cabinet tops.
When the conversation began to fade, the farmer disappeared into another room. I was informed that we would eat here. The farmer returned to spread the wooden coals in the fireplace and placed a grill firmly in the warmth. A handful of sausage was then rolled onto the grate. A can of three tuna (I think) was opened a displayed dripping in olive oil and served with bread and a bottle of cider. When the sausage was ready, a bowl of plain pasta was placed on the table and covered with a huge pat of butter. Philippe is on his grape fast and left the farmer and I to devour the bread, pasta and sausage. (We each at three sausages) More bread and cheese settled any residual hunger that may still exist. Finally coffee was reheated and consumed.
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