Postcards from Paris: { b o r d e a u x c o n t i n u e d }

I continue where I left off, in Bordeaux; the region that has surfaced new comforts and which has become a new sort of Provence for me.
To paint a story of experiences I focus on three main elements; often the music, if the moment beckons to a certain soundtrack, always the people, and most definitely the food.
So as we drove through the winding roads alternating between Josephine Baker and Luciano Pavarotti, a moment was defined. We passed numerous chateaux and old farmhouses. We drove on tree-lined roads and the vegetation of the region was still in its early spring phase of blooming. Being the passenger allowed me to escape from the responsibilities of driving, and I fell into an act of imagining beyond the present yet somehow defining it.
We arrived in a village near Bergerac, but stopped just before in front of a charming house on a slope, surrounded by a garden. We were greeted by the Great Uncle Marcel and then welcomed by Tata Nannie, who had prepared a wonderful meal for us.
Each course had simplicity, beginning with a savoury, sweet entrée of bacon wrapped apricots and prunes. The course were complete and we moved to the next, as small talk continued with the mentioning of names I couldn’t follow and stories of these names, a juicy melon arrived which we ate with silver spoons, then the main course surrounded by green beans from the garden. We ate artisanal cheeses and more bread was sliced, and then from the village boulangerie, came an array of sweet pastries to choose from. Each meal from was similar, always with bread as a staple and cheese to follow.  We gave away the afternoon by eating each course the way the French do so well, and which most Americans admire.
If I could, I’d still be there to witness all of Annie’s blossoms making their spring debut, but Paris was still present in my mind and called for our return. Before we parted, we bisous-ed Uncle Marcel and Tata Annie and I was given a small souvenir of Bordeaux: the first Lilac blossom of spring.
Bisous,
Reba