A farm in France

The day I arrived at the farm was like a culture shock.

Walking through their front door into the kitchen was like stepping into a crime scene from the movie "Seven". There were flies everywhere. Not just a few buzzing around here and there, but a swarm, an infestation. There were at least 20 flies to every individual and since there were about 13 of us...

The first thing we did was sit down for lunch. I didn't bother to be polite and ask the flies if I could us one of their chairs. In this household it was typical to have an entree before the main course during some of the meals. The entree that day was a three day old pizza that had been reheated in the oven either before or after one of the cats had eaten part of it. I wasn't about to panic. I've lived with cats. I know what its like. I just wished that the flies would stop copulating next to my plate.

After a long nap that afternoon I got up and joined M. Philippe so that he could baptise me and teach me how to milk cows. If I had only for seen how literal a baptism it was going to be. Roughly halfway through milking the 30 head of cattle, I was leaning forward to attach the milking machine to one of the cows, when the cow beside it decided to lift its tail and let 'er rip. There was a big green stripe all down the side of my head and entire body. It was quite a scene and as much as I love poop pranks I think I'll have to pass that one up if I ever so get the chance in the future.

Over the next couple of days the food quality increased in insipidness. Pasta so over-cooked there was no need to chew. Boiled potatoes for supper. With butter. Thats it. Nothing else. Was it 15th century Ireland or was I just dreaming? And the "Piece de Resistance", and I use the term loosly, was a combination of the over-cooked pasta AND the boiled potatoes mixed together in a salad. Apparently, this was also before the peasants could afford salt.

During this delightful meal M. Philippe, as he always did, was picking his nose at the table. When he had finally found what he was looking for, using numerous digits, he made a common bourgeois gesture to show that they were of inferior quality and discarded them. As many Anglicisms and English terms do, it appeared that "let the chips fall were they may" has managed to cross the Channel because shortly after turning his nose up at its own "haute cuisine" and tossing them into the wind did one of them happen to tumble briskly onto my arm.

Another one of his casual habits was "pulling out his garden snake" where ever he pleased to give it some air, but I'll save that one for another time.

The next morning, as I lay in bed, I decided it wasn't going to get any better. So adieu you filthy farmers and may those very flies hatch larvae in your brains.