Five generations of my Russian peasant ancestors are rolling over in their graves. Long did they toil, sweat, struggle, to escape the shtetl. To make it to the New World, to live the American dream of streets paved with gold and Hebrew National salami. A chicken in every pot and a dryer in every mudroom. And now their progeny reduced (voluntarily, no less) to hanging her clothes out on the line in the garden. Oy.
G., of course, thinks it’s perfectly normal to hang our undies out under the stars. It smells good. It saves electricity. Yes. But. I’m American. God help me, I love a good tumble dryer.
Not only does the sun not fluff your towels, it comes with folklore as well. The other night, G. hesitated on his way out with an armful of laundry. "I feel like there’s something about not hanging your white sheets out in the full moon." he said.
Huh?
This was how I felt the first time I burned my finger in our apartment in Paris. G. sliced open a raw potato and put it on my hand. The starch, he said, would soothe the skin. I swear, sometimes it’s like being married to a Trappist monk.
PS – The potato actually works. As for the sheets in the moonlight, I’ve since heard various theories, all having to do with UV rays and bleach. Anyone. Anyone?
PSS - My mother arrived this week. I left the sheets up on the line, just to see her reaction. (What's the point if you can't have a little fun at the expense of the city folk. Especially since, until about three weeks ago, I was city folk...)
The Provencal tomato is a thing of wonder - small as a marble, large as a human heart, red like a valentine, yellow like a sunflower, orange like an overripe apricot, bright green like a brand new leaf, even purplely olive, like seaweed seen through moving water. The names are equal to the colors: Ananas (Pineapple), Noire de Russie (Black Russian), Brin de Muguet (Lily of the Valley).There's no messing with perfection (ok, a little messing, just for fun) - a few crystals of coarse sea salt, a drizzle of local olive oil and a sprig or two of purple (yes, royal purple, my favorite childhood color) basil. 
I did do some impromptu matchmaking...Baby tomatoes with smoked mozeralla, red onion, fennel and balsamic vinegar.
with a local sheep's milk cheese (feta would do nicely) and green basil.
The "sauce apricot" was an happy accident. While making the dressing for the green salad, I mistook a bottle of peach/apricot syrup for the olive oil. Since it was already at the bottom the bowl, I decided to try my luck. Mixed with dijon mustard and some olive oil, it was very nice - much sweeter than a French vinagrette, more like an American-style honey dijon. I decided to add it to my pretentious Parisian bistro dish because (believe it or not) they love imitating American food. Anyone who has been in Paris this past year or two will note the rise of "le Tchizzburger" (that's bistro for "cheeseburger").
