So, this fall I had a business trip to Paris which I saw as the perfect opportunity for Frank and I to finally take that cooking trip to the south of France I’ve dreamt of my entire life. After a scene literally taken out of Planes, Trains and Automobiles we arrived at the 17th century country house of Patrick Payet, a former restaurateur who’s all too quick to inform you of his mention in Peter Mayle’s popular book “A Year in Provence” which, in all fairness, is a really great book, but horrible movie starring Russel Crowe and this little actress named Marion Cottiliard. (We unfortunately Netflixed this movie the week before we left in an attempt to psyche ourselves up for our adventure, instead we ended up bewildered and mourning our beloved Ridley Scott, who’s clearly gone soft.) Anyway, I digress…

Roussillon was unbelievable. We arrived in the town center to meet Patrick at dusk, my favorite time. We caught our first glimpses of the of natural ochre colored houses and pale pink and orange cliffs in shadow but we really had no idea what we in for. Patrick then led us up the worlds windiest road and bumpiest driveway in our most exhausted state only to find his kind French family welcoming us into their home with what else, food.

They served us fresh fish with pink peppercorns, perfectly roasted root vegetables and lavender ice cream. We laughed about their daughters complete distaste for cheese and how this is French sacrilege! We slept like babies. In the morning we opened our window to the view of an old converted ochre dye pool, ancient olive groves and across the valley we could see the fading ruins of the Marquis De Sade’s castle in the morning mist. We were totally speechless.

We went downstairs to start our day like any sane person visiting France would, with strong coffee, flaky, chewy croissants, baguettes, local jam, lavender honey, fresh fruit and yogurt.

After our carbo-loading extravaganza we sat and tried to absorb that rarest of commodities, silence. Every now and then our silence was broken by frenzied dog barking and the boom of a hunters gun in the distance. “Eet iz za seeezon for zee wild boar,” Patrick informed us. “Eez too baad for zem zey taste so good, no?” he grinned.

For a week our days were filled with fields of ripe Cavaillon melons lit by the sun, acres of apples and butternut squash being loaded into crates and hauled off to market and endless vineyards dripping with ripe, juicy dark purple grapes—the last of which we were lucky enough to eat right off the vine just days before they met their fates as the Languedoc regions vintages of the future.

I can’t wait to share the recipes we learned in Patrick’s wine-soaked provincial kitchen. I plan on breaking it up into several posts so as not to overwhelm.

Bon appetit!