Let’s start with the obvious: the French eat. With butter, with wine, with joy. Meanwhile, across the channel or indeed the big pond, we seem to eat with an undercurrent of apology. We talk about “being good” when we skip dessert, or “cheating” when we don’t — as if a pastry were a moral failing. Somewhere between the calorie counter and the confession booth, food stopped being nourishment and became a referendum on self-control, by which we often judge ourselves unkindly Thi

There was a time when a social visit began not with a text message or a hopeful knock, but with a small, stiff rectangle. The calling card was both introduction and safeguard — a way to say, “I was here,” without barging into someone’s day. It was etiquette in miniature, a pocket-sized handshake. Each card bore its owner’s name, sometimes a flourish of script or a modest emblem. One might slip it onto a silver tray in the hallway, where a family’s social geography was quietly

“Travel whispers to the soul’s boldness. It asks not for the absence of fear, but the courage to lead into the unknown, to embrace both the journey and the self that is discovered along the way”.                      Attributed to Mark Twain                       Every step beyond what is familiar is an invitation to growth. We do not travel to coll

October is the opal month of the year. It is the month of glory, of ripeness — and of walnuts. It's a grand month in France, is October. The days are still and temperatures kind. It's good market weathr land walnuts are everywhere. Craggy little treasures, it feels so good to plunge your hand into a sack of them just for a grin.I am not sure which nut wears the kingly crown, as they could all make a pretty good case, but the walnut could easily be annointed. They have that re

If Fridays had faces, it would be the mug shot of a pair of donkeys. Unhurried, not bothered, standing in the most shetered part of a wet meadow, the very picture of end-of-the-week sufficiency. The error we make, according to most donkeys, is in seeing these sweet and gentle creatures as slightly under-evolved horses. It is a subject of both slight resentment and constant discussion in all places where donkeys gather. They readily admit they lack the sleek flanks and polishe

If you ever thought wood and clay had nothing in common, Stéphane Miglierina would like a quiet word. From his workshop in Monpazier, he takes the humble tree and the stubborn lump of clay and persuades them into a marriage so harmonious you’d think they’d been courting for centuries. His secret weapon? Raku firing. It’s a process that makes clay crackle with character, like fine laugh lines on a well-loved face. Then Stéphane pairs it with wood — walnut, cherry, whatever spe