The Magic of Provence: Pleasures of Southern France - Hardcover

Lenard, Yvone

3.32

31 ratings by Goodreads

9780871272126: The Magic of Provence: Pleasures of Southern France

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0871272121 ISBN 13: 9780871272126

Publisher: Elysian Editions, 2000

View all copies of this ISBN edition:

When Yvone Lenard returned to her native France and purchased a house in a hilltop village of Provence, an enchanted world of food, wines, and unusual adventures—including chicken rustling, flirtatious advances from neighbors, and a s�ance—was opened up before her. This is her account of the spell cast on her by Provence, from her first morning’s visit from a charming prince bearing a jug of the village’s vin ros� to the growth of her friendship with a duchess in the local chateau. Lenard shares tales of travels to St.-Tropez and of visits from American friends who find unexpected romance and magic in Provence. Told with verve, wit, and Lenard’s deep understanding of the French language and culture, this memoir includes tales of others who have been drawn to the region, including Vincent van Gogh, Brigitte Bardot, and Princess Caroline of Monaco. Ways to re-create the magic of the region’s sensuous way of life include recipes for food and drinks and tips for entertaining in the Proven�al style.

"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.

From the Author:

Yvone Lenard is a native of France. She is the author of several books on French language and culture including Parole et Pensee, and L’Art de la Conversation, and of a novel, Chantal. She lives in Los Angeles and Provence.

The night before, my husband and I had arrived at our new hilltop village house in the Luberon, heart of Provence. We slept fitfully, not yet adjusted to the time difference, vaguely aware of roosters crowing most of the night. Their enthusiasm rose to greet the day, and later the sun, streaming in through open windows, woke us up, as the belfry bell rang eight times.

No food in the house, but we were both too jet-lagged to be hungry. Wayne left soon afterward to pick up a rental truck and drive to Marseille, to collect crates of belongings we had shipped from the States. Alone, I wandered from room to room, discovering our still-unfamiliar domain, exulting in this adventure. Bliss and expectation danced in the air, like the brilliant motes caught in bars of sunshine traced by the shutters I had half closed against the rising heat of the day.

The sound of the kitchen door, noisily opened, drew me out of my trance. I would learn later that, in Provence, callers walk in through the kitchen door, ignoring more ceremonial entrances, not bothering to knock, simply calling out: “Y a quelqu’ un?” Anyone home? I found myself face to face with a tall, handsome blond man in his thirties, carrying a small, wicker-clad jug.

He didn’t introduce himself but took my hand and bent low over it. “Salut,” he said, “we heard you had arrived. Il faut arroser �a, one must drink to that. Do you have any glasses?” From the still-empty dish closet, I unearthed two jam jars and rinsed them, all the time thinking: This can’t be a village man, he is dressed much too casually. I suspected locals wouldn’t come calling at the house of strangers, wearing cut-off jeans and a shirt knotted at the waist. Obviously, someone else. But who could that be?

He filled the glasses with ros� wine. “Taste this,” he urged. “Just picked it up at the winery down below. Our ros� is the best in Provence. Can’t travel, doesn’t age well. But when it’s fresh, it’s the Virgin Mary in silk panties. Like it? It’s still cool from the barrel.”

Who, who in the world could that be? His casually knotted shirt was sans buttons, but he wore a signet ring with an almost worn-off engraving. No clues there. Obviously, I don’t know him, yet he seems vaguely familiar. A TV or movie actor? A chain hung from his neck, with a heavy gold seal attached. Engraved on the face of the seal I distinguished something like a double-headed eagle, perhaps the emblem of some royal house. Of course, now, I could figure out why that handsome face, with its square jaw, brought a vague feeling of d�j� vu. A couple of years earlier, a Town and Country feature’s lead photo pictured a beautiful young girl, strolling on the terrace of a castle in Provence, arm in arm with her fianc�. Given the uncertainties of politics, the man sitting now on my kitchen stoop, refilling my glass once more, stood in immediate line to a throne, and might very well, one day, become king in succession to his father.

Later, under the cool spray of the shower, I kept wondering whether or not I had had the visit of a prince that morning. One thing seemed clear though: Chance had brought us to a place that might just be holding in store something very much like magic.

"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.