It's Me, Sara Louise

Traditionally in Provence, lunch, is the main meal of the day. Monday through Saturday, this doesn’t bother me, because during the work week, I can send The Boyfriend off to work with his little packed lunch (lately more pastas and salads because he’s been complaining about all the sandwiches, too American apparently. It’s not like I’m sending him off with PB & J with the crusts cut off or anything, and beggars shouldn’t be choosers).

And Saturdays are not a problem because we are usually running around and end up at Quick. I love Quick, don’t ask me how, but it somehow seems a little healthier than McDonald’s, even though I usually get a Giant burger and a hot dog. (Oh my, I think my butt got bigger just thinking about it).

But on Sundays, the day of rest, Provencal tradition requires that I cook a large meal to be on the table at 12:30. And I know what you may be thinking. Why doesn’t The Boyfriend take turns cooking his share of Sunday lunches? Trust me, nobody wants that to happen. I’d end up eating partially cooked potatoes and a can of cold ravioli.

Now this gets on my wick and is usually met with a loud sigh and eye roll.

Sundays for me were always my relaxing day, which is no little feat, relaxation is not a natural state for me. But on a Sunday, it’s all about the newspaper, TV, and my feet up (when I lived stateside it meant a Lifetime movie marathon too, oh how I miss those. Meredith Baxter Bernie, Morgan Fairchild, Lindsay Wagner, always in distress before finding their inner female warrior, Oscar calibre stuff).

I have absolutely no problem cooking a large meal for Sunday evening, I love doing that, slowly cooking around 6pm with a glass of wine in my hand, moving at a nice pace, setting the table. After a lovely long day of Sunday relaxation of course.

But midday lunch? That breaks up the whole day, no relaxation at all.

It’s like wake up, have a little coffee, and then BAM, it’s cooking time. Where’s the relaxation in that? Especially when it’s inevitable that Honey Jr shows up to play chess with The Boyfriend around noon which means he ends up needing to be fed too. And then The Boyfriend can’t help with the dishes if he’s still on his little play date with Honey Jr.

Sunday lunch in Provence isn’t a fast affair. It’s a set table, an aperitif, a first course, a main course, dessert if you’ve got it, a cheese plate, lots of wine, and a digestif. And nobody even dreams of leaving the table for at least two hours.

Does this sound relaxing?

Yes, if we’re at Papa’s house and Papa’s Wife is cooking. But when it’s my turn, no no no.

I’m thinking of going on strike.

Now that would be very French of me.

P.S. Dreamfarm Girl sent a message asking if Le Petit Village was OK after the horrible storms battered France. Fortunately Le Petit Village was not effected at all. Thanks for thinking of us Dreamfarm Girl =)