When viewed from our balcony, the cool mornings of late have made for an enchanting vista of mist covered fields; slender steeples of the neighboring towns just peeking above the low clouds, serpentine narrow roads disappearing into the distance as though on a path to nowhere. The gentle hills and shallow valleys are covered with almost too ripe grapes, ancient fruit trees with branches bowing from the weight of a bouquet of apples, gnarled olive trees, trimmed by generations of love, filled to capacity, slowly dropping their harvest to the earth. The scent of burning wood and the aroma of freshly baked bread and pastries all jockeying for olfactory supremacy. A cup of strong café in hand, this is the Provence of my inner thespian. And in the distance… the call of a goat herder, no too harsh… a songbird? no, too shrill. Ah, yes… it’s my toddler. Snap back to reality, as Eminem would say. Although exquisite, the youngster only has eyes for the yogurt (although I must say, the Yoplait in the ceramic jar is pretty damn good).