Thought for Food

Reading the papers on my iPad in bed yesterday morning, I noticed a proliferation of articles about food and health......horsemeat DNA found in Ikea's famous meatballs (the same ones Iain and Issy rush to order at the cafe as soon as we make a visit to the Toulon branch of flat pack heaven.) I bought two 1kg packs the last time we were there a couple of months ago, and just half a pack remains. The whole house, apart from me, fights over who gets the most and when I'm stuck for a menu choice, the suggestion of spaghetti with meatballs and ragu sauce goes down a storm. I read the report out to Handyman, who without missing a beat, retorted 'Don't throw them out....I will eat them, even if Issy won't.' Personally I prefer my horses to look like the ones above, and frankly horsemeat is the least of the problems in so-called minced beef but that's another argument altogether.... A different report talked of Overeaters Anonymous and the food obsessions of the clinically obese (one woman used to dream of a spare room filled with Smarties.) A third report talked of the well known value and magic of a Mediterranean diet and why a food intake rich in nuts, olive oil, fresh fruit and vegetables is better for you than medicine in lowering statins and cholesterol, minimising the risk of serious illness. So far, so old hat and certainly not rocket science. And yet.... When I started my four month course of chemotherapy, 18 months ago. I consulted a Harley Street nutritionist. I was urged to eliminate fats, apart from olive oil and a couple of other good oils, meat, alcohol, gluten, refined sugar and dairy. Sounds harsh doesn't it? All the goodies we look forward to. It wasn't easy but faced with the stark choice of being sick all the way through chemo or fine tuning my already fairly healthy diet, it was a no brainer. I had substitutes (dark chocolate instead of milk chocolate, xylitol and agave syrup instead of sugar and two glasses of champagne a week when I didn't cheat and sneak a few more.) The treatment could also have made an impact but I went from my lifelong weight of 54 kg down to a mere and very scrawny 47 kg. Too thin for me and yet I felt as good as it's possible to feel while undergoing major drug therapy, was able to run, play tennis and ski occasionally during treatment and was not sick once. I came out the other side and relaxed my food plan a little (while continuing with the general principles) and went back up to a healthy 52kg, which is my current fighting weight. What I'm saying is that a lean, clean food plan (but not branded low fat or low sugar, which are usually stacked exhorbitantly high in other areas) can help you lose weight permanently, look great and feel energised without resorting to quick fixes, fads or starvation. I certainly don't recommend the chemo diet to anyone, but it was a valuable lesson in how to get through a life threatening illness and treatment feeling as good as it's possible to feel whilst retaining some element of control. I'm writing a book about it, but the concept works outside of illness and treatment. What's more, when Handyman embraced some of the same principles after a particularly rich and indulgent Christmas, he lost 6 kg without even really trying. Of course, one week long trip to Blighty and the 15 takeaways/roasts/liquid lunches proved an annoying blip. And the Ikea horseballs probably aren't helping.... Without doubt, it helps to live in the Med. My local market is bursting at the seams with small producers selling fresh seasonal produce. Certain things are much harder to source here....gluten free is expensive and rare.....but I have found a couple of boulangeries that sell pain au seigle and pain de petit epeautre (gluten free bread) although sometimes a Provencal or baguette finds its way under my arm. In the land of bread, cheese and fantastic wine, I regularly go off piste. Whether you make the changes because of illness, weight loss, lack of energy or a desire to get fit, one thing I can promise is you will never look back.

Three Bathrooms and a Wedding Dress

The two most used words when texting on my phone this week are ‘On way.’ Yes, it’s the school holidays and I have turned into Karen’s Kabs as I get random messages from the teens about where and what time they need to be dropped off/picked up on any given day. Sometimes this doesn’t even involve a conversation, I will just receive a text from one of them from the depths of their bedroom to give me my orders. And woe betide if I am so much as one minute late on a pick up, I get a brief blunt ‘Where are u?’ flashing up on my phone as I hurtle to the bus stop. It’s all part of the joy of school holidays….not getting up before 11am, staying in a onesie all day long, making a den on the bed surrounded by copious supplies of drinks, snacks, screens (an iPad, phone and PC all being used at once to max out connections) and only surfacing to ask what is for breakfast/lunch/dinner. That’s enough about me though. I’m sure I’ll miss it when they have both headed off to uni. At least, I think I will. While the girls relax on their much needed break from academia, Handyman and I are busy trying to keep pace with work and the endless list of household and garden jobs that need to be done. I mean, who knew you had to prune a palm tree? I didn’t, but it turns out that if you don’t take off the lower fronds and remove the berries, you end up with a top heavy tree blocking out light and a pool full of hard round marble like fruits. The palm has been done and now the olive trees beckon, as they also need a hard prune back to the barest minimum every two years. My day today started with a visit to my favourite DIY store Leroy Merlin to haemorrhage even more cash on our third bathroom, while picking up the furniture for our second soon to be completed one. I am facing the prospect of a Saturday where instead of skiing or lazing in bed reading the papers on my iPad, I will be rubbing down and painting before the final fix goes in, transforming it from a bombsite to a haven of minimalistic beauty (well, until the girls move all their stuff in there.) The best news is they won’t need to barge into my lovely new bathroom at all hours of the day and night as they currently do, leaving used make up wipes, mascara and wet towels in their wake. I didn’t feel guilty about taking a day off work this week to take Issy snowboarding. It was her first time, and it might as well have been mine, as the last time I tried it was 11 years ago in Banff. However, we exceeded our low expectations, as you can see above, not only managing to stand up on the board but mastering turns and the horrors of the drag lift (one spectacular wipe out from me nothwithstanding) but I would be lying if I didn’t own up to a fair few falls. Luckily we have had record amounts of snow this season at regular intervals so the landings weren’t quite as hard as they could have been. Watching small children gracefully whizz by as we meandered down the nursery slopes was a reality check, but it’s the closest you can get to surfing on dry land so I think my skis will be swapped for a board once I’ve had a bit more practise. Being upright on the board and swooshing down the slopes was the most amazing, liberating and addictive feeling. After four hours, we retired, comparing bruises (I won, my butt and knees are attractive shades of green and purple) and high fiving our efforts as we drove home (thank goodness Issy doesn’t read this as she would be cringing at the use of ‘high five’.) I haven’t had so much fun since I went to Cannes with Milly to try on wedding dresses (her, not me.) She is getting married in October and is looking for something a bit special. We exhausted the high end and indie stores and decided to go to a meringue speciality store in le Cannet boasting rail after rail of very expensive looking net curtains. We should have got the message that we weren’t welcome when we were told not to touch any of the dresses. How do you know what to try on if you can’t even touch the fabric? Easy, according to the bossy and bad tempered assistant, who frogmarched Milly into a changing room and delivered one after another hideous monstrosity for her to try on. ‘Mais il faut essayer,’ she kept repeating like a mantra every time Milly shook her head. There was no discussion on what style Milly might like to try, Wedding Monster’s word was law. I wanted to take photos but of course, that was forbidden too. So I had to try and keep my smirk buried while Milly was poured into several frou frou confections that would not have looked out of place on My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding. As WM disappeared to fetch yet another horrific tulle and nylon extravaganza with matching diamante tiara and veil, Milly poked her head out through the curtains and silently mouthed: ‘Help me!’ We decided the best course of action was to say that one of them was just perfect but that as Milly’s mum was paying, she needed to come back to the store with her and see it for herself. (She lives in New Zealand reader, so we were safe with this plan.) But WM must have smelled a rat and did not want us to leave without putting down a €200 deposit, telling us: ‘This is the last one, you will be so disappointed if it gets sold before you return.’ We beat a hasty retreat, unable to curb the giggles any longer. Thankfully, that last pit stop was purely for entertainment but it’s horrifying how badly we were treated considering they were looking at taking €2 to €3,000 euros from her. We weren’t seriously looking for a good wedding dress experience from that store but we had to admit that it would have made a great Cutting Edge style documentary.

Monday Morning Blues

Monday morning and I should be in productive spirits. The sun is shining and I’m about to organise my accreditation for the Cannes Film Festival and Monte-Carlo TV Festival (so expect celebrity snippets on both soon.) I have had a restful and chilled weekend, gardening all day on Saturday (for gardening, read pulling up my own bodyweight in weeds from the stone walls around the pool and the side terrace…my fingers are still stained from the soil.) A long soak in the bath was followed by a delicious Champagne supper at Neil and Helen’s, where we laughed and swapped salacious gossip (all of which has already disappeared from my rubbish memory, meaning it is no longer a threat to anyone.) It was too cold yesterday to spend too much time outside so I took the dogs for a stroll on the plateau above Magagnosc, which was still covered in snow and ice. I have just discovered this walk, a 10 minute drive from the house, with its spectacular views across Grasse and down to the coast as far as Theoule and the dogs love it too although the freezing sleet that started to soak us meant that we had to cut short our ramble and leg it back to the car. The afternoon was spent listening to Edith Piaf, which the girls bought me for Mother’s Day last year, while cooking a roast in front of a roaring log fire. Followed by Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte, in which Bette Davis was at her mad, bad best. Can a weekend get any better? Possibly only on the ski slopes, which were forsaken this weekend, although I couldn't resist taking the picture above of a rather exhausted tot in mum's sunnies last week. It was back down to earth with a bump this morning, however, when, waiting for some work calls and emails, I decided to make a list of the materials we need to finish off the top floor. Inexplicably, our builders threw away the empty pot of paint for the doors, and I have no idea what colour or brand it was. With a further four doors still to paint, I have spent the last half hour going through all the receipts we have collected since work restarted five months ago, in the vain hope of stumbling across a serial number next to a pot of paint. What is horrifying is the realisation that we have spent the equivalent of the GDP of a small country in Leroy Merlin, Castorama and Briconautes since the latest phase started. Flicking through a mountain of crumpled receipts with €1400 here and €3,000 there is a sure fire Monday morning mood dampener and begs the question why did we decide to keep them in the first place? And it’s not like we are anywhere near finished. The only slight consolation is that the novelty of lying in a hot scented bath with my Neom and Anthropologie perfumed candles burning and being able to see all the way across the valley from the newly finished master bathroom (of which I am mistress) has still not worn off, nor will it for many months to come I suspect. It is especially comforting after lugging one third of a tonne (yes, you read that right) of tiles, tile cement and grout single-handedly from the bottom terrace up to the top floor so that on the ground at least, I can pretend that I live in a desirable, comfortable non-building site of a home. And joy, I have just found the correct receipt for the paint, so the mental torment of seeing thousands of euros worth of bills has been somewhat alleviated. In other good news, I have just heard that I have secured a spread in Hello and a feature in the FT for two of my PR clients, so am feeling rather chuffed about that. Maybe Monday won’t be so bad after all.

A Well Kept Secret

One of the most amazing things about living in the South of France is the summer/winter balance. The pleasures of the Cote d'Azur in spring/summer are well known....hot sunshine, chilled rose, lunch on the terrace (as well as breakfast and dinner) and an all round outdoor life. (I could also mention tourist crowds, the jammed road to St Tropez from late June to late August and pesky mosquitoes lest anyone thinks it is paradise 100% of the time, but I won't.) The winter pleasures, however, remain a very well kept secret until you arrive here and discover that within an hour's drive of home, you can head off for a ski and still be back in time for lunch. Such was our day today. The snow has been falling and while we had fantastic conditions in Auron and Greolieres at the weekend, a huge dump of snow yesterday and last night signalled 40cms of fresh powder which simply could not be ignored. Handyman and I snuck away from our desks first thing this morning and joined Faye, Milly and seven year old Olly, whose school was happily on strike, for a knee deep powder ski on empty slopes a mere 40 minute drive from home. Needless to say, Olly out-skied us all. Even the journey there and back was spectacular, with a low snowline meaning everything looked like Narnia. Handyman hates skiing so it was totally out of character for him to suggest playing truant from work to head up for a morning ski. Typically it wasn't without trauma. In a fit of super duper organisation last autumn, he sorted through all of his ski wear just before the girls and I headed off to do a vide grenier and came across two pairs of ski trousers - one pair fitted perfectly, the others were accidentally left behind by our tall and rangey teenage nephew Josh a few years ago, when he was aged around 13. Guess which ones he ended up wearing, having put the wrong ones in a charity bag? Sadly I was prevented from posting the photo I wanted to post of him doing a fine impression of Coco the clown, complete with ill fitting braces and a fly zip that went up by less than an inch. Luckily (for the rest of us) he had a long snowboard jacket to cover his modesty, preventing him from being arrested for indecent exposure or suffering hypothermia of the nether regions, and was left praying even harder than usual that he wouldn't have a nasty accident and end up in a blood wagon. While females worry about whether they are wearing matching underwear in the event of a crash, Handyman was more concerned by the shock his exposed midriff and more could cause to a kindly pompier.

After a blast through the valley, we headed back from minus 10 to plus 19 degrees and had lunch on the terrace in warmish sunshine, pictured above. What more can I say? Hollande might be squeezing every entrepreneur, professional and ex-pat to within an inch of survival in our corner of France but while he has mountains, beaches and a mediterranean climate in his back South Eastern pocket, there is a very strong reason for staying put.

Customer service? Mais non madame...

Yesterday morning I made my breakfast...sheep's yoghurt, fruit, honey and nuts - which can only mean it's January - whilst simultaneously cleaning up dog sick and conducting an important work call with a potential new PR client as Oscar continued to retch noisily. Today I received an intriguing invitation to sample the delights of one of China's oldest cities, Hangzhou, this spring. At least I'm hoping it was an invite. I quite fancy the idea of cycling through the cherry blossom and temples on the Yangtze River Delta. It looks AMAZING and quite honestly, gazing at the beautiful images has already cheered up my January no end whether it actually comes off or not. I was in need of more cheer than usual following a week of domestic disasters surrounding the renovation which is why I have already broken my New Year resolution to blog once a week. How can I blog when I'm on my 100th plus trip to Leroy Merlin to sort out yet another bathroom problem? After five years with no bathroom (just two very faded shower rooms) we were touching distance away from the completion of our beautiful, spacious and luxury new bathroom pictured above, and the anticipation of running a bath was making everyone chez Kershaw a little bit excited. So when the plumber announced that there was a problem with the new, very expensive bathroom tap, my heart sank. I was despatched to Leroy Merlin in Vallauris to exchange it with the bill. Not a problem, said my friendly plumber Robert, happens all the time and as long as you have the bill they will exchange it for you. I was pointed in the direction of a sales assistant in the salle de bains section with a face that looked like a slapped bottom. It didn't bode well. I explained as well as I could in my limited technical French that the thermostatic control appeared not to work. 'Where is the packaging and the box?' demanded Happy Face. 'Well, as the tap looked fine and was put in a place a few days ago, we threw it away only to find it didn't work when the water supply was switched back on for final testing,' I explained. I omitted to say that if we kept the box of every piece of equipment we have bought in the last three months, we would be able to build our own cardboard city. 'Well,' she shrugged, 'I can't exchange it as there is no packaging and how do I know your plumber hasn't broken it?' This was despite a guarantee and a bill. She grudging agreed to order a new thermostat only to announce with grim satisfaction that there was a rupture in the stock, meaning that they had no idea when they might receive the part in question and no intention of pursuing it further on my behalf. I was on the verge of hysteria after weeks of problems, builders not turning up, tilers citing hangovers and then tummy bugs to get out of work etc etc when the two guys behind me stepped in. 'Can I help you,' said Etienne, 'it sounds like you have a problem and she is not keen to sort it out for you is she?' Etienne became my translator, and while his Brazilian business partner Fabricio had a look at the tap and tried to see if there was a temporary fix, Etienne effected a total mood change in Happy Face, who managed to locate the part I needed at the factory in Marseille and order it for delivery in three weeks time. 'One thing you should know,' added Etienne, who happens to be French, ' is that there is no such thing as customer service in France.' Etienne was on a one man mission to rectify this problem. 'Can we come over on Saturday and see if we can fix the tap temporarily for you?' he asked. Despite Handyman's poor joke that it was probably my plumbing they were more interested in, they turned up as promised and spent two and a half hours creating a temporary fix. When I asked what we should pay them, they told me not to worry and to recommend their new fit out and bathroom company to friends. Now that's the way to do business. If anyone needs a friendly, honest, reliable bathroom/design team in the Cote d'Azur, let me know and I'll pay it forward. In the spirit of supporting local business, I took a surfing print that Sarah bought me for my birthday to be framed at our local framing shop. The guy was friendly and had a good selection of frames so I chose two of the simplest silver frames on offer, explaining that I wanted to hang it in the bathroom so didn't need anything grand. Bearing in mind that the print is a little bigger than A4 size, but too irregular to buy off a standard off the shelf frame, I was expecting to pay between €40 and €50. The cheaper frame was €136 and the slightly thicker frame was €156. I left in a daze, and ordered an identical one from Leroy Merlin's bespoke frame service for €44. I have driven past the frame shop four or five times since and the shop is always empty, which tells you everything you need to know. The irony of taking my business from the friendly local artisan to the faceless, unhelpful chain store that had already earned a black mark this week is not lost on me.

Births, Marriages and Deaths

This morning while out on my not so early morning run with the dogs, I saw a lone teenage girl puffing and panting as she jogged along the lane. We said bonjour and a few minutes later, along jogged her even more puffed out parents, in spanking new trainers that looked suspiciously like they were on their first outing, along with child number two and closely followed by what looked like their very game granny bringing up the rear. The sight of two wilted Christmas trees forlornly standing by the recycling bin, one with fake dusty snow at the base, confirmed that January 1st has arrived. While the vast majority of us are already making plans for new fitness regimes and emptying the cupboards of endless supplies of mince pies and half eaten Christmas cake, it is gratifying to note that the French see no reason to stop the celebrations after New Year’s Eve. I’m with them on this as there is a half full bottle of Champagne in the fridge left over from last night and the bubbles simply won’t last so I will just have to finish it off later. As I ran past the second most popular restaurant in my village, the Jarrerie, I was greeted with cries of ‘Bonne Année’ from couples and families who were heading in for a long and lavish New Year’s lunch. Handyman announced this morning that his resolution this year is to lose 10 kilos. ‘Ok, well you need to cut down your portion sizes and do more exercise,’ I offered helpfully, immediately casting myself in the role of his personal trainer. ‘There’s some new outdoor gym equipment by the tennis courts and to help you get started, when I make a curry later, I will only cook half the usual amount of rice.’ ‘Great,’ he grunted moodily as he tucked into a mushroom omelette. ‘Well, I’m thinking as it’s a bank holiday today maybe I should just start tomorrow…..’ Instead of our usual New Year’s Eve party, we went to our favourite restaurant Ecole des Filles with our lovely and amusing friends Helen and Neil for a degustation menu that was quite simply one of the best meals I have ever eaten. The seven perfectly sized courses (I know, sounds horrific but somehow we managed) kicked off with a delicious tiny lobster bisque, followed by king prawns, scallops, then foie gras and venison for the carnivores and locally caught fish for me, locally produced gorgonzola and rounded off with a Grand Marnier soufflé worthy of a Masterchef:The Professionals final. Each course was accompanied by Champagne, white and red wines chosen by the sommelier and such a good time was had by all that we barely noticed when it turned midnight. Eve, who runs Ecole with her chef husband Stephane, was on hand to greet everyone despite having given birth to their beautiful daughter Manon less than four weeks ago, and little Manon lay in a baby carrier on the bar, blissfully sleeping through the festivities and captivating every guest who took a peek at her. It was a bit like having our own little nativity scene. The last year has been an up and down year for many friends and family. Pretty much everyone I know has suffered some sort of loss. We lost my lovely nanny Kit in June, and the world of journalism is all the poorer for the passing of Sue Carroll and Sue Malins, both hugely talented, wonderful writers who died way too young. I am convinced 2013 will be a good year, certainly for Mat and Milly, who got engaged after Mat proposed while mid-way through competing in a Transatlantic race, coming an impressive second overall on arrival in Barbados (but he won Milly and that’s what counts. ) After starting 2012 in treatment and not at my best, it feels good to be at January 1st 2013 feeling healthy, energised and en forme once more. My new year’s resolutions are to play more tennis, get my book published (it’s finished so that’s a start,) stay healthy and update this blog on a weekly basis (prompted by my mother in law telling me this morning that while she enjoyed the olive press blog so much that she read it several times, she would actually quite like to read something different now, so Jean, this is for you.) As I was too busy eating and quaffing and making merry last night to send out happy new year wishes, I am wishing all my family, friends and readers known and unknown a very Bonne Année, peace and good health to you all.

The Olive Press

It's that time of year again when the olives are beckoning so I thought I'd let all my non South of France readers know how it works (as well as serving as a reminder of the process for me for next year!) We don't have a lot of olive trees (8) but we have enough to be able to call the last terrace in our garden, pictured above, an olive grove. I can't tell you how much pleasure that gives me, as a North London girl who now has an olive grove. Last year, the harvest was terrible, which was just as well because I was very ill and would not have been able to pick them anyway and would only have felt guilty letting them go to waste. This year it is a different story, the branches were literally bowing under the weight of the lush, plump mainly black olives. I saw olive nets being spread out in the valley in October but Rosine, my Italian neighbour and font of all food knowledge, said no picking until November at the earliest, and you can wait until as late as January or February providing they don't get hit by frost. After five days of rain, we had warm sunshine for days on end so the time was right. I asked the girls if they were interested in helping me pick, to be greeted with 'Nope, too much homework', uttered while watching back to back episodes of One Tree Hill and Gossip Girl. Handyman was too busy being handy and running the renovation of the top floor so it fell to me to head off to harvest toute seule. I don't have any fancy equipment (one friend has just bought an olive picking device for €900. Frankly I would rather gather by hand and have a new handbag/pair of boots, preferably both) but I have a rake and one set of nets, and these work just fine. I worked my way through a tree at a time, picking from the lowest branches by hand and bashing the rake at the highest branches to reach the plump bunches, which always seem to be just out of reach. The raining olives fell on the nets and then it was just a question of niftily gathering them up without treading on them and before Oscar the greedy pug had a chance to hoover them up, as he will eat literally anything, weeds, the grout between floor tiles, even half a dead rat a couple of weeks ago. I stopped short of climbing into the trees to go after the most elusive olives when I heard about Tony falling out of one of his last week, crashing through a fig tree below and narrowly escaping serious injury (I only laughed when I realised he was okay and not lying horribly maimed in hospital.) So bountiful was the harvest this year that it has taken me two weeks to finish the picking. Rosine came to help me marinade this week as I can never remember the quantities, and her method yields the tastiest olives we (and our impressed UK visitors) have ever eaten. First, sort the good from the bad (any pockmarked or slightly squishy ones can go in the moulin pile.) Then wash them in cold water and leave them soaking for two days, changing the water each day. Then drain them off and weigh them. We had a total of 55 kilos, not bad considering half of them are still on the trees out of reach, so we decided to marinade 20 kilos. You need a tuyau - a glass jar with a plastic cap - and the two I had were filled almost to the top. Then you top up with fresh water and add 80g of salt per litre of olives. We wandered around the garden picking bay and rosemary to make home made bouquet garnis to plug at the top before putting on the lids. Ta da!

They have to stay in a cool, dry place for seven to eight months before they are ready to eat. I have tried decanting into jars after marinading but as jars need to be sterilised and then kept cool, this means a fridge and wine fridge filled with olives and no room for food (or wine, perish the thought.) My new method is to leave them in the tuyau and decant as I need them. A rinse in fresh water (or not) and a squeeze of fresh lemon, a sprinkle of fresh garlic and rosemary leaves and they are ready to enjoy. Preferably by the pool with a glass of rose in hand. The remainder - some 35 kilos - I took to the Moulin de la Brague in Opio, where they weigh your quota and give you a proportion back in freshly pressed, cloudy green olive oil. My yield equated to five litres, enough to keep us going for a couple of months, and it really does taste different knowing that is freshly made from the olives in the local valley. The best way is to pick and chat with friends so if the harvest is anything like as good next year, I am going to throw an olive picking lunch, all guests need to arrive in time to do a couple of hours picking and the food and wine will be on me. As well as a jar of olives when they are ready. Lastly, and not on the subject of olives, I must mention some tea that I was kindly sent by Ali Silk at Tea Horse. I can't drink much coffee any more and have stopped drinking tea with milk so these Oriental teas are a great alternative, and even come with a cocktail recipe. Very tasty indeed. Try it.