We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
1:10 Hear the word of the LORD, you rulers of Sodom! Listen to the teaching of our God, you people of Gomorrah!
1:11 What to me is the multitude of your sacrifices? says the LORD; I have had enough of burnt offerings of rams and the fat of fed beasts; I do not delight in the blood of bulls, or of lambs, or of goats.
1:12 When you come to appear before me, who asked this from your hand? Trample my courts no more;
1:13 bringing offerings is futile; incense is an abomination to me. New moon and sabbath and calling of convocation-- I cannot endure solemn assemblies with iniquity.
1:14 Your new moons and your appointed festivals my soul hates; they have become a burden to me, I am weary of bearing them.
1:15 When you stretch out your hands, I will hide my eyes from you; even though you make many prayers, I will not listen; your hands are full of blood.
1:16 Wash yourselves; make yourselves clean; remove the evil of your doings from before my eyes; cease to do evil,
1:17 learn to do good; seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow.
1:18 Come now, let us argue it out, says the LORD: though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be like snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall become like wool.
I didn't mention that our hiking trip in Provence was mainly in Le Luberon National Park. Lots of villages in the area. Best times to go are May or October - no heat, few tourists, and off-season prices. Plenty of gnarly mountains which can be considered foothiils of the Alps to the east.
Mrs. BD's favorite village was Lourmarin. It's surrounded by villas and farms. Expensive to buy there. I doubt Lourmarin is crowded in peak season because there are few places to stay unless you rent a villa.
My topic for this post is routine shopping in a village. In Lourmarin, market day is Friday. All of the producers and farmers and clothing-sellers assemble in a different village each day. No supermarkets anywhere near. Clothing, fish, meat - everything. The marketplace is filled with people and dogs, and by 4 pm it's disassembled from the village square and moved on.
For starters, the only daily food store in Lourmarin is the place below. True, they do make a lot of those great 4" deep kiches each morning but they are sold by 9 am. I think people drive once in a while to regular supermarkets in the suburbs of Aix or Avignon for supplies in the way we drive to Costco.
Some of my Friday marketplace pics are below the fold -
Plenty of pics etc. of the Friday market below the fold -
She wanted - no, needed - to visit the active monastery of Senanque - with better photos than I can do. Cistertians - they will not speak and otherwise live by Benedictine rules. Nowadays, the monks raise lavender and make honey. Oh yeah, also, they have a gift shop and charge for admission. The core of the abbey was built in the 1100s.
Their lavender fields had already been harvested. Besides olives and grapes, lavender is a big deal in Provence. There is even lavender ice cream.
Since it was a hiking trip, we had to go the long way over the Petit Massif, up to the wild west-looking plateau, and down to another valley. Then back to our place over the mountain again. 6 hour hike, spre quads for sure. The hiking paths were rated as "mostly gentle", but it's a Brit company. In the US, they would be rated moderate at least. Mostly stoney paths, easy to get lost, and every one uphill. Will post hiking pics later.
Here's their cloister. Lucky John D. Rockefeller didn't buy it and ship it to NYC:
There's nothing magical about that number, but it's a lot more active than 100 steps. On average, 10,000 steps is 5 miles. That's easy for New Yorkers and other city-dwellers, not so easy for suburbanites.
From a practical standpoint, body fat can only be gained, or lost, through nutrition. Exercise is minimal for fat loss. I'd make an exception for those hiking 15 miles/day on the Appalachian Trail while carrying 40-60 lbs of gear, food, and water. Or the kid.
I have seen people treated for cancer until the day they died with the poisons still dripping into their veins. I disapprove, although I am not an oncologist. There is a time to be born, and a time to die. Hospice care is a blessing with opioid meds as needed.
We spent a day in Aix before heading to the Marseilles airport, attempting to fly to Paris for our JFK flight. All planes were late, so a not-fun snafu. Anyway, on Saturday afternoon I was having a beer or two sitting in the hotel's garden (Hotel Le Pigonnet - lovely, formal old-worldy hotel just a 25-min walk to downtown) while Mrs. BD strolled the splendid formal gardens with her usual Ginger Beer when she ran over to me with urgency. "You have to see this!"
OK. So, in an obscure corner of the lovely garden was a sign, and the view below. Sign said (in French) "From this spot in our garden, Paul Cezanne painted many of his hundred paintings of Mt. St. Victoire in varying lights and times of day." Sheesh. He lived in Aix, and the French at the time reviled his pictures. Readers know that he is my hero of "modern" fine art. A thrill.
A small view of the hotel garden
The view from the garden's pergola where Cezanne liked to paint:
18:9 He also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt:
18:10 "Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector.
18:11 The Pharisee, standing by himself, was praying thus, 'God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector.
18:12 I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.'
18:13 But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even look up to heaven, but was beating his breast and saying, 'God, be merciful to me, a sinner!'
18:14 I tell you, this man went down to his home justified rather than the other; for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted."
Hunting Canada Geese is good fun. Get out in the dark, set up, hide, wait, drink coffee. It can be tricky though, and picking the right spot to set up makes all the difference.
You can do it on a fancy French ship, Le Commandant Ponant (which the two chuckleheads give you a tour of, below), or on a more spartan Russian ice-breaker (second video, with much more Arctic scenery).
Readers know that my idea of a healthy breakfast is two coffees and sometimes a little nicotine. For adults, the idea that "breakfast is the most important meal of the day" was debunked long ago. Growing kids, of course, need food all the time including protein at breakfast.
If you do heavy labor all day, it's another matter. All I do is to work out at the gym for an hour or so every morning, and some yard work on weekends (as little as possible because I have become bored with it), and take good walks on weekends. That is sedentary.
Sometimes, though, there are occasions for a hearty breakfast.
I have always liked kippers with some eggs. In Scotland, the kippers are about a foot long. Too much. The canned kippers that you find in US supermarkets are barely OK.
Another breakfast that some hate but I love: Creamed Chipped Beef on Toast (aka shit on a shingle). A classic prep school, and military, breakfast.
And the ultimate American breakfast (South and Midwest especially): Biscuits and Gravy. Every family has its own recipe, so I won't link one. Those Bob Evans restaurants make a fine one, but I don't think they let you in unless you weigh over 250 pounds. Grits on the side are good.
To stay multicultural, I can't omit the English Breakfast. Blood sausage:
Why 60 years of feminism
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