“I think it’s around here somewhere,” Josiane said, as she fumbled through her maps as she drove. Her GPS, Justine, had become cantankerous, as she was not familiar with this particular road and was continually barking orders at Josiane in French, “Retournez! Retournez! Vite!” Josiane Selvage, a dear friend and French traveling partner and I were in the heart of the Loire Valley, just south of Chinon one Spring a few years back. We had been on the road crisscrossing France while interviewing families about their favorite foods and traditions and we were headed for a unique experience: a truffle farm.
“Ah, there it is,” Josiane said, pointing at an immense 15th-century stone chateau. It was off the road and hidden by a small forest of oak trees. Beyond, the fortified walls with decorated turrets atop cylindrical towers poked above the tree line. Corbelled walkways, possibly used during battles I surmised, skirted the upper stories along the dormer windows.
“Oh, Josiane! This is wonderful! This is so grand!” I blurted out.
“Well, actually, the truffle farm we are seeking is over—there,” she said pointing to a few low-to-the-ground stone buildings, “behind the chateau. The truffle farm is housed in those old farm buildings.” She shrugged her shoulders, but grinned. “Sorry to get your hopes up, but I believe you’ll be pleased.”
“I think you also used the adjectives ‘surprised, and pleased’, before. You’re right,” I said with a hint of reticence, “I am surprised,” “But have I led you astray yet?” Josiane asked me. I grinned. As we climbed out of the car, a wild frenzy of barking set up. My eyes lighted on some broken down sheds and barns, with a couple of connecting rickety-looking gates. Between the outer gates, which led to an inner gate and courtyard, scrabbled two boisterous dogs.
“Ah, there’s our welcoming committee,” Josiane said cheerfully. She began walking toward the gate, while I lagged reluctantly behind. (I must confess I’m not always an exuberant dog fan.) As we stepped out of the shade of the oak trees, we could see a woman inside the courtyard beckoning us in. The dogs immediately quieted and raced off to the side to play in the garden. I was greatly relieved! Madame Gaulandau introduced herself with a shy, yet warm French greeting, (as she only knew French), and said, “Don’t worry about the dogs. They sound much fiercer than they really are.” She tittered into her hand. “The dogs are supposed to guard me, but they seem to have more fun challenging each other. But, welcome,” she said sweeping her arm toward the entrance of her home. But at the mere mention of ‘dogs’, the two bounded up once again. It was clear the older black and white Border collie was in charge. And it was also clear that she had her work cut out for her by keeping the lumbering dark brown, bright-eyed, scruffy-looking but much younger spaniel in line. At that very moment, the older one was demanding, with nips and barks, to have the spaniel settle down. Once success was achieved, Josiane let out a guffaw and the dogs began to frisk about once again.
“Oh, they’re not really just our guard dogs,” Madame Gaulandau said. “Poof!” she exhaled. “No. No. No. They are really our ‘truffle dogs’. They are most important to our operation. Zabou here,” she said pointing at the older of the two “has a gift of a most incredible nose and for years now has been leading the cavage parties . . . .”
“That’s the term used for scouting for those fragrant little tubers,” Josiane informed me.
Madame Gaulandau motioned the two of us toward her front door which led into what was once the living quarters for livestock many centuries before. The stone-on-stone walls which appeared ready to collapse supported an ancient, yet sagging red barrel-tile roof, green with years of mossy overgrowth. We stepped up to a deep-set doorway, past a Dutch door and into a large room which was obviously Madame’s living room. A black leather sofa, large overstuffed chairs and antique side chairs were interspersed throughout the room. Colorful tapestries covered the stone walls which leant warmth and richness to this interior. Over the ceramic tile flooring were red Oriental rugs and in one corner a television set was snugged in with numerous bookcases. Madame Gaulandau handed us keys to our rooms, then invited us to return for tea.
“Grab your notepad and your tape recorder, Carole. This may be the only time we get our interview,” Josiane said, as she headed into the main house. I zipped back to my room and when I returned I was surprisingly followed by two overly-curious dogs. Just as the large brown dog set one paw on the floor, Madame Gaulandau turned and stared him down. Zabou nipped at his younger counter-part, as if he knew this up-start was nothing but trouble. Clearly, he was saying, “Didn’t I tell you, Mutt-face, she won’t let us in?” They slunk down and backed away from the door.
An ornate tea service was set up in Madame Gaulandau’s living room and she handed us each steaming hot cups of tea cradled between small sweet biscuits on our plates. She settled onto the sofa with her own cup.
“Yes,” she said, “I will be happy to tell you about the truffle business, but I only have about an hour before I must leave.”
As I struggled to pull open my note pad and set up the tape recorder, Josiane began writing down recommendations for that night’s dinner in Chinon. (First things first: we always prepared for the next meal, first.) I had already settled down in a seat closest to the door, when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Madame must have left the front door slightly ajar as the lower half of the Dutch door slowly began to swing open. I must have looked surprised because Josiane took notice, too, and then burst out laughing. There, standing on the threshold were both dogs sheepishly staring in at the tête-à-tête before them. Although all eight paws were comfortably outside the door frame, one of the collie’s paws was stealthily—centimeter by centimeter—easing the lower half of the door open.
“Oh, you scamps!” Madame Gaulandau snapped, as she quickly stood up and firmly closed both sections of the door. She began to apologize to us, but could see we were laughing so hard at the comedic interlude; she simply smiled, shrugged her shoulders and sat back down again.
“Okay. Okay. So before we ask you about the truffle business,” Josiane said once she caught her breath, “you have to tell us about the dogs. Have you always used dogs to hunt for truffles?” Through a side window, we could still see the two dogs cavorting about in the courtyard as if they were puppies.
“Oh, mais oui! The work of the dog is marvelous. It is the same as the dog working with a game hunter. The dog is your leader and is much more convivial than a pig and much more interesting. Oh, my yes! In this area, there are not many people who work with pigs. But in the Perigord Region, older people still have pigs to go hunting for truffles. We tried at one point to use a pig, but the pig weighed about 300 pounds, so it was difficult to train. And if it pulls on you, you are in trouble, as you are not stronger than the pig. We found it horrible! Once we had a sow that pulled my husband across the snow and icy ground, then she escaped. And the whole day we looked for that ungrateful sow, only to find her late in the evening. We were only able to come up to three or four meters to her. In fact, we could almost touch her and then she would run away again and again. I could have killed her! Well, in any case, that is the way she was finished! Quite a tasty ham and rillettes, I must say,” she said, slapping her thigh and throwing her head back to laugh. (Stay tuned, for recipes for truffles and, perhaps, rillettes.)
My love of strawberries began the summer of my third year. Sneaking out of the basement apartment of my grandparents’ home, I would head down the darkened garden path, past the lilac bushes, through the back gate and into the warm, morning sun of Mrs. Nelson’s strawberry patch. There, I would swoop down with a vengeance onto the brightest red berries my chubby fingers could wrest free, brush away the dirt and leaves and quickly, quickly before my mother would wail, “Calamity Jane, are you at it again?” I would sink my teeth into one of those sweet, juicy, yet tangy red strawberries. In that moment, I could experience summertime explode in my mouth, ooze down my chin and then? And, then I could get on with the business of being three.