I scattered Cosmos and Bachelor's Button in the dog yard. I lined the pétanque court with "starflowers" and "physalis" (aka amour en cage) careful that not one seed should hit the special yard (real French men do not like "love in a cage" encroaching on their playing field). Then up the stone stairs leading to the back yard, I tossed the orange Mexican poppies (in honor of the lovely stranger on crutches) and purple "Granny's bonnet". I haven't a clue what many of the flowers were called or what they looked like (some seeds were taken from mixed wildflower packets) but I had fun imagining which ones I was haphazardly tossing.Īnd so I scattered "pennycress" and "love in a mist" (I guessed) along the path beneath the front porch. next, I dashed through the kitchen, out the carport and beneath the wet sky, scattering seeds all the way! As my rubber-soled slippers collected mud and my pajamas grew soaked, I perfected a system whereby I would fill a pouch (whatever could be found in my flower seed box-an envelope, a coffee filter, the rest of a seed packet) with a mix of semences. There began an exhilarating back-n-forth sprint beneath the gentle rain. Mom is right: why not gather all the soon-to-expire seeds and toss them around the perimeter of the house? A rainy day was a perfect day to sow wildflowers! Only, returning inside to get the seed packets, another inspiration hit when I remembered Mom's suggestion that I not hoard flower seeds. I could use it to set out rows of plastic garden pots and begin filling them with compost and vegetable seeds-lettuce, tomato, cucumber, peas! I noticed an old shop table belonging to Jean-Marc's grandfather. Looking around at the piles of wood and the piles of stuff that needed a home, I heard myself nagging my invisible family, " Ceci ce n'est pas un débarras! This is not a junk room!" How many times had I said it in the months since moving to our new old home? I sprang out of bed and ended up in the covered carport, that mythic hangout of weekend industrialists.
but then- quelle horreur!-if I went over to FB I might lie in bed all morning until I began to sprout little green shoots! I reached for my IPad, thinking to share my potato-metamorphosis on Facebook. with him by my side. But without him would I turn into a couch potato? I found myself seriously considering this fate on Sunday morning while languishing in a half-empty bed. Wherever, he'd be getting stuff done! And so would I. But if Jean-Marc were here, I thought, he wouldn't be indulging in la grasse matinée or so called "fat morning"-no! he'd be kicking around in the utilities room or the cellar or in his maritime shipping container which doubles as our extra-storage room (I think it is his French equivalent of The Sunday Garage, where husbands tinker and putter on weekends). The cold, wet weather led to a guilty inclination to linger in bed. On closer look there was a steady stream of rain, just as my husband had predicted. and so begin his USA wine tour.īeyond the bedroom window the skies were gray and the forest was capped in black clouds. Jean-Marc had left in the night to make it to the Nice airport by 5 a.m. I woke up Sunday morning in an empty bed. The word aphte comes from the Greek word aptein which means "burn". Le mot aphte vient du mot grec " aptein" qui signifie brûlure. Un aphte sous la langue = a canker sore beneath / under the tongue Traiter les aphtes récividants = to treat recurring canker sores Soulager un aphte = to find relief from a canker sore Soigner un aphte = take care of a canker sore Terms and phrases found in an internet search: Is it all those oranges I've been eating? Or a food allergy or hidden stress? Or maybe an acidic mouth? Jean-Marc tells me to sprinkle baking soda on it and there he goes again, citing yet another " remède de grand-mère". I've been nursing a burning and painful aphte for a few days now. (You could always skip to the story column and learn sores-I mean scores-of flowery vocabulary.) If you are new to this word journal, I hope not to scare you away with an ugly first word. The rest of us are sitting ducks! (photo taken in the Queyras Valley, in the French Hautes-Alpes) Only scarecrows are immune to canker sores.