definitely not recommended, but once olives are cured and seasoned, they are precious bursts of flavor. Try this one.”
One proved not to be enough, and in a matter of days Kat found she had a new addiction. She had begun to work her way through the many choices at the market. Like so many other foods in France, the simple, artistic ways olives were displayed invited her to try them.
Philippe’s friend, Émile, was a popular olive vendor at the market. He arranged glistening mounds of black, green, red, and brown olives—some herby, some spicy, others fruity—in large, colorful ceramic bowls. Long-handled olive-wood scoops rested on top, creating a visual Kat had photographed many times. The tastes were equally inviting. His varieties of tapenade were legendary, and he closely guarded their recipes.
“ Goutez! Trust me and taste,” Émile would cajole his customers. It was a rare person who bought without trying first, and he was a master at coaxing customers to his counter.
Philippe would bring home just the right cheese to go with the type of olives Kat had bought. She was hooked on these small fruits that were such a staple here. After sampling them all, she especially loved tapenade, and in particular the traditional Provençal combination of finely crushed black olives, capers, anchovies, garlic, and olive oil with a touch of lemon and thyme, spread on a fresh baguette.
Philippe and Kat would talk for hours together. For Kat, it was a refreshing change from the long periods of silence she had endured during her marriage.
There were times Kat found it hard not to dwell on what might be behind the mysterious note and the frightening chase on the way to Entrevaux. She even tried to convince herself the chase might have been the result of mistaken identity. Maybe Philippe was paranoid because of the note and had overreacted—big-time. To distract herself from these thoughts, she would get her camera and turn her mind to observing people and places in and around Antibes.
The more accustomed she became to her surroundings, the more her eyes were drawn to the little details: the texture and color of the ancient cobblestones; the grain of a wooden door; an intricate metal keyhole; the angles of loose shutters; the variety of shades of terra-cotta in the clay roof tiles; the peeling paint and the marks of centuries of wear. She found beauty and artistry in the little things all around her.
Now autumn had settled in, the lower angle of the light and the withered vegetation offering her new perspectives, and she returned to her favorite places to photograph the transformations.
One evening, while they were both working at their computers, Kat remarked, “I still cannot get over how much I use my camera almost every day now. It’s become part of my life here. It’s because I have much more time for it now, but it’s also because my eye is drawn to everything around me here. Even the fruits and vegetables look more appealing.”
Philippe drew his chair next to hers. “You know, you’ve only shown me a few shots here and there. It’s time I had a complete retrospective.”
Kat pulled up the file in which she kept what she considered her best work from her growing collection, and the slideshow was on.
Philippe watched it intently and with growing enthusiasm.
“You must take these to André at his gallery and let him see your work,” he said. “I’m serious.”
Kat thanked him, but she thought his opinion was sweetly biased.
“I’m just a picture taker,” she said.
5
Late in the afternoon on Thursday—two days after their trip to Entrevaux—Katherine kissed Philippe good-bye. She was going back to visit Véronique overnight.
“This is the first night we’ll be apart,” he said. “I’ll miss you!”
“And I you, Chouchou! I’m excited though. Thanks for encouraging me to go. I imagine I will have a much calmer trip this time, but I will watch out for black SUVs!”
Philippe looked
One proved not to be enough, and in a matter of days Kat found she had a new addiction. She had begun to work her way through the many choices at the market. Like so many other foods in France, the simple, artistic ways olives were displayed invited her to try them.
Philippe’s friend, Émile, was a popular olive vendor at the market. He arranged glistening mounds of black, green, red, and brown olives—some herby, some spicy, others fruity—in large, colorful ceramic bowls. Long-handled olive-wood scoops rested on top, creating a visual Kat had photographed many times. The tastes were equally inviting. His varieties of tapenade were legendary, and he closely guarded their recipes.
“ Goutez! Trust me and taste,” Émile would cajole his customers. It was a rare person who bought without trying first, and he was a master at coaxing customers to his counter.
Philippe would bring home just the right cheese to go with the type of olives Kat had bought. She was hooked on these small fruits that were such a staple here. After sampling them all, she especially loved tapenade, and in particular the traditional Provençal combination of finely crushed black olives, capers, anchovies, garlic, and olive oil with a touch of lemon and thyme, spread on a fresh baguette.
Philippe and Kat would talk for hours together. For Kat, it was a refreshing change from the long periods of silence she had endured during her marriage.
There were times Kat found it hard not to dwell on what might be behind the mysterious note and the frightening chase on the way to Entrevaux. She even tried to convince herself the chase might have been the result of mistaken identity. Maybe Philippe was paranoid because of the note and had overreacted—big-time. To distract herself from these thoughts, she would get her camera and turn her mind to observing people and places in and around Antibes.
The more accustomed she became to her surroundings, the more her eyes were drawn to the little details: the texture and color of the ancient cobblestones; the grain of a wooden door; an intricate metal keyhole; the angles of loose shutters; the variety of shades of terra-cotta in the clay roof tiles; the peeling paint and the marks of centuries of wear. She found beauty and artistry in the little things all around her.
Now autumn had settled in, the lower angle of the light and the withered vegetation offering her new perspectives, and she returned to her favorite places to photograph the transformations.
One evening, while they were both working at their computers, Kat remarked, “I still cannot get over how much I use my camera almost every day now. It’s become part of my life here. It’s because I have much more time for it now, but it’s also because my eye is drawn to everything around me here. Even the fruits and vegetables look more appealing.”
Philippe drew his chair next to hers. “You know, you’ve only shown me a few shots here and there. It’s time I had a complete retrospective.”
Kat pulled up the file in which she kept what she considered her best work from her growing collection, and the slideshow was on.
Philippe watched it intently and with growing enthusiasm.
“You must take these to André at his gallery and let him see your work,” he said. “I’m serious.”
Kat thanked him, but she thought his opinion was sweetly biased.
“I’m just a picture taker,” she said.
5
Late in the afternoon on Thursday—two days after their trip to Entrevaux—Katherine kissed Philippe good-bye. She was going back to visit Véronique overnight.
“This is the first night we’ll be apart,” he said. “I’ll miss you!”
“And I you, Chouchou! I’m excited though. Thanks for encouraging me to go. I imagine I will have a much calmer trip this time, but I will watch out for black SUVs!”
Philippe looked
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