I used to see a lot of planeurs (gliders or sailplanes) in the sky above our neighborhood each summer. Since the pandemic, of course, none. Same for hot-air balloons, except I did see one or two in the distance this past spring. The gliders fly in giant circles around warm thermals, sometimes four or five at a time. It's like a silent ballet in the sky.
Bert stayed out until about ten-thirty last night. When he came in, he had another mouse. Mmmmm. Tasty.
This is un canard colvert (green necked duck), what English speakers call a mallard duck. It's a male with its characteristic bright coloration. The female is more mottled, with no green neck or white collar. In recent years, we've seen breeding pairs on the little pond outside our back gate. They nest on the ground under some shrubs at the edge of the water. The only ducklings I've seen in that time are two that Bert brought home. I'm sure the other neighborhood cats and the ducklings' natural predators (foxes and martens) take the rest.
I'm heading out to the market in a neighboring town this morning to get some more mussels for today's lunch. It's a bigger market than the Saturday market in Saint-Aignan and has several fish mongers, so there should be a good choice.
Bert woke me up last night just after eleven. Meow, meow! I thought he wanted kibble, so I got up and went downstairs to put his bowl down. He went further downstairs to the ground floor. I went back upstairs to bed. A few minutes later, he was back in the loft. Meow, meow! He was insistent. I realized he wanted, or needed, to go outside.
Out of bed again, down two flights, and I opened his window. He went out like a shot. I climbed back upstairs, back to bed and, thankfully, to sleep. Around two-thirty this morning he came back in making his "I have a mouse" meow. It woke us both up (and Tasha, too). I stumbled down the stairs and, sure enough, a little mouse lay on its back on the landing rug, tiny feet pointing skyward. Bert stood next to it, waiting for praise. I got a paper towel and took the mouse down to the utility room for Bert to eat. I closed his window so he couldn't go out again. Back to bed, where I tossed and turned for a couple of hours before falling back to sleep. When I woke up at six-twenty, Bert was curled up beside me fast asleep.
I made pizza for lunch on Tuesday, as planned. The first step, of course, is to make the pâte (dough). I made a whole wheat dough using half whole wheat flour and half all-purpose flour. The all-purpose flour lightens the dough and helps with the rising. After about three hours of rising, I punched the dough down and kneaded it a little to redistribute the yeast. Next, I divided the dough into two pâtons (balls of dough) and let them rise for another hour.
For toppings, we had a small portion of meat sauce left over from another meal in the fridge. I chopped up some leftover grilled zucchini and eggplant slices and a couple of ripe tomatoes from the garden. Ken grated some comté cheese. I added a few Greek-style black olives to the top.
I don't roll out the crust like I used to do. I discovered that rolling the dough pushes the air out and makes for a rather thin, tough crust. Now I form the pizza discs by hand. It's a lot easier than I expected it to be. I make one pizza first and we split it. When it's gone, we take a break while I top and bake the second pizza. We served them with a red Bergerac. These were quite good, if I do say so myself.
What makes me think that I took the last two photos in the small town of Mennetou-sur-Cher is that among them is this one, which is definitely of Mennetou. The old center still has part of its medieval wall, including a couple of portals like the one in this picture. And there's a plaque on one of them that says, more or less, Joan of Arc slept here. She set the example for George Washington to follow centuries later.
You might be surprised, but our weather sucks. Summer has taken a holiday. A long holiday. The weather is not really unpleasant, and it's certainly better than sweltering in extreme heat and high humidity. But it's still a little weird to be sleeping under blankets and wearing fleece jackets in early August. At least here where we live. Oh well. This, too, shall pass.
I'm not sure where this photo was taken, but it might be in the small town of Mennetou-sur-Cher. I know we were there with our California friends back in 2006 and spent a little time wandering around in the old center.
Ken and I really enjoyed our lunch of moules et frites (mussels and fries) yesterday. It was so good that I'm thinking of going over to a neighboring town's market on Friday for some more. That market has at least three fish mongers and I'll do some comparison shopping. Ken's blog post for today has some photos of our lunch.
The Sologne is a historical province in central France a little south and west of Orléans, south of the Loire River. Where we live is on its southwestern edge. In fact, Saint-Aignan is at the intersection of three historical provinces: la Sologne, le Berry, and la Touraine. This is a photo taken somewhere in that region from back in 2006 when we were exploring with some friends from California. This week's image of the week (in the sidebar), the Château de la Ferté-Imbault, was also taken then.
I was successful at the market yesterday and today we will be eating mussels for lunch. We'll either make them à la marinière (with shallots and white wine) or à la crème (with cream). I'm not sure which, yet. We'll serve them with French fries. Moules et frites (mussels and fries) is a classic dish served in many Parisian cafés and brasseries and in most coastal restaurants. Everywhere in France, really.
