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Quiet Creek Herb Farm & School of Country Living

Defy Conformity 

7/30/2012

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_ When dining over a French mushroom pasta dinner with our friend Alain, we admired his cultural diversity.  He was born in Algeria and had traveled the Middle East, continental Europe, and even America.  Alain speaks impeccable French, English, and Corsican plus a little Arabic which he wants to improve. 

Sheepishly we confessed that few Americans speak nothing but English and have never been out of their country.  The reason, he suggested, was that America is big enough so that if its residents wished to travel, there was no need to venture outside its English-speaking borders.  We agreed with him, but after experiencing our international sabbatical we were so pleased that we now view the world without boundaries.   

We were content; the small coastal town had much to offer, but why not gather the cultural diversity of Corsica.  With generous “mad money” from a friend back home and Alain’s encouragement to see more, we rented a car to venture out on a ten-day excursion around the island of Corsica.   

We began with Calvi, to the northwest, touring its citadel, the probable birth place of Christopher Columbus.  Citadels were marks of the Genoese, dominators from the Italian city-state of Genoa beginning in the 12th century.  They fortified Corsican cities with these castle-like settlements to protect themselves from rival powers.   Later that night at the base of the citadel, we jumped off granite cliffs into the Mediterranean Sea while listening to Calvi’s best in jazz; sipping on Corsican sparkling water; and eating marinated olives, sausage, cheeses, and grapes.   

The next day we visited Aleria, once Greek, but conquered as a Roman capital in the 1st century.  This museum offers artifacts and outside ruins where the Greeks then Romans had settled on the eastern coast.  Nearby snorkeling at Solenzara was my brother’s favorite; the gneiss outcrops displayed octopus, sea anemones and urchins. 

In the center of the island, we discovered Corte, a capital proclaimed by Pascal Paoli, Corsica’s lone liberator during the 1700s.  This mountainous city hosted a museum to help us understand Corsica’s geologic, ethno botanical, industrial, and religious influences. 

We then headed due south to Bonifacio with its citadel perched on100 foot white limestone cliffs.  Best known in this Corsican city is the iconic rock stack ironically called “Grain of Sand”.  We snorkeled in the swift waters around this huge limestone formation and I climbed a portion of it jumping off twice. 

Along the southwest coast, we hiked the Cauria plateau with several megalithic alignments dating to 4000 B.C., and then drove northward to Filitosa, the best-known megalithic site on the island.  The most intriguing of the megaliths are statue menhirs.  These tall stone pillars often have human faces with swords, daggers, and armor carved into them. 

Our final destination, Ajaccio, was named the present capital by Napoleon Bonaparte. This beautiful city perched on red granite is the birthplace of France’s last emperor in 1769.   We visited his Uncle Joseph Fesch’s art museum, France’s second best collection of Italian paintings, next to Paris’ Louvre.  There we thought of my Grandma Marilyn and her love of art and her father and my Great-Grandfather, Napoleon Bonaparte Parmly. 

On our way back to Moriani we stopped and hiked a small portion of the GR-20.  Known as the Grande Rondonnee, it is the most difficult hiking trail of all Europe. 

As you can see this small island in size has a tremendous amount to share.  It is considered an insignificant provincial region lost in the Mediterranean Sea and being one of the twenty-two in France’s geographic collection.  Corsica boasts of 6000 years of turbulent history; beautiful sedimentary, igneous and metamorphic rocks; coastline sites that excite even snorkeling experts, and changes in elevation from sea level to 8500 feet within 30 miles. 

So I challenge all Americans -- defy conformity by learning a new language and culture – go visit a another country.  If it is as tiny as Corsica or a huge as China, go explore.  


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Only in Corsica

7/23/2012

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_ Excerpts from Ashton’s journal --

          I have a good friend known as Benjamin who has taught me many things.  He is from the great region of northwestern France named Brittany. He works at a fantastic laboratory here in Corsica. There he is a chemist and is a very good one. 

One day he even invited me into his lab.  There I learned about making extracts using ultrasound technology. Everything is done in the metric system which makes so much sense, since it is based upon increments of 10, 100, or 1000.  We used an electronic balance to measure the cocoa bean, and then we measured the volume of alcohol with a graduated cylinder.  Benjamin explained that a sound bubble causes a stream which picks the cocoa bean.  It allows it to explode releasing the wonderful smell which is preserved in the alcohol/water solution called an extract.  He says chocolate shop owners will buy his cocoa extract and pipe it through their businesses to make people buy more chocolate. 

One Sunday morning Benjamin went to Bastia to the flea market with us where I bought a Tintin book.  Benjamin introduced me to this Belgium comic book a week ago; it is a series about a boy reporter and his dog.  We watched Tintin movies together; he practices speaking English, while I learn French. 

After the flea market we picked out Corsican meat pies, red peppers, oranges and apples.  Benjamin treated us to strawberries, grapes and cherries.  We drove to the most northern part of the island called Cap Corse, there we snorkeled and swam.  My mom got stung by a jelly fish.  She said it was just like stinging nettle and the pain lasted fifteen minutes. 

On the way home Benjamin pointed out the French cars -- Renault, Peugeot, and Citroen.   He also taught me French families pay taxes that supply funds for child care, public education through university level, health care, and retirement.  Their health care is so universal if I had hurt myself falling down the distilling steps, France would have treated me like a French citizen and taken care of my injuries.   Our two countries share many words; I asked him the French definition of a faux pas.  He said it is an embarrassing mistake made by a person; my mom said it is the same in English.       

Next week we are treating Benjamin to a train trip across Corsica.  We will end up in Napoleon Bonaparte’s hometown of Ajaccio.  Ironically, it was Napoleon and his French army who conquered the Corsican people in the late 1700’s under Pascal Paoli.  This was the only time Corsica was truly independent from years of being domination by the Romans, the Genoese, the Pisano.  Corsica’s independence lasted less than 20 years, but the Corsican’s patriotism still lives with a vengeance against mainland France. 

In fact, Benjamin even helped me understand the meaning a Corsican symbol that shows up on t-shirts, billboards, and pamphlets.   Benjamin agreed to pick my dad and me up from the car rental office.  While my dad was paying the bill, I was next door looking at cd’s.  Benjamin walked over to look at music with me and there was that symbol again:  a masked man crouched down holding a gun. 

I asked and he did not know, so he asked the lady in the music shop.  She said in an annoyed voice, “It is a rebellion symbol against French people, like you!”  She later said to Benjamin that I should not be touching the cd’s because they might break.

Benjamin then returned that remark by saying, “If he cannot touch them, then you should put a sign on a glass window around them that says DO NOT TOUCH and then maybe close down your shop.”  

He was so annoyed with what she said about French people that he even told her that we would drive 20 more kilometers from there so that I could buy the cd from someone that was not her. Evidently there is a group of rebels who wants to overthrow the French government in Corsica.

We eventually turned it into a joke and had a good time laughing hysterically; there is an example of a faux pas and the French.  I sure hope Benjamin comes to visit me in Pennsylvania.

 


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Immortal Scents

7/16/2012

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_ It is nearly the middle of July and I can see snow on the distant mountains.  I am sitting under the shade of a Pinus nigar, a black pine known for its straightness and height.  The thick trunks surround me, as well as ferns, thistles, and the precious plant, immortelle. 

This extremely fragrant, herbaceous perennial with bright yellow flowers is the reason my father, three of Steffi’s harvesters and I are so high up in the Corsican mountains. Immortelle has a high content of very fragrant natural oil and is coveted by the world’s perfume market. Today representing Italy (Roberto), France (Bruno), Morocco (Bolafki), and USA, we as the work crew are here to harvest its abundance.   

Immortelle is one of the beautiful smelling plants that make up the variety of floras known as the maquis, the shrubby undergrowth of Corsica including rosemary, cistus, lavender, and myrtle.  Fields of maquis blanket within the forest when natural forest fires destroy the pine growth.  The maquis envelops the olfactory sense; even the blind-folded Napoleon Bonaparte could identify the smell as he traveled by boat alongside his homeland on his way to exile. 

          To arrive at our destination, we first bicycled to meet Bruno and workers at Essences Naturelles at 7:00 am.  Then Dad and I followed them hurriedly in Steffi’s little white French truck, as Bruno progressed at an amazing rate in the bigger truck.  To fulfill their morning routine, we stopped three times to pump air in the tires, purchase baguettes, and fill water bottles at a high mountain-spring fountain.

          Next we traveled higher and higher into the mountains until our little truck could go no further.  At that point, we parked and then jumped into Bruno’s truck bed holding on as we were soon swaying back and forth up the curvy mountain road. We passed huge forests and rocky outcroppings.  The air grew colder, quite an alien feeling to me, after being in a constant warm temperature.  Finally, the field of immortelle, interspersed with young pines and thistles, came into view. It sloped down to the edge of a forest, on the lower side of the road, and up above us as far as we could see, touching the almost cloudless sky.

          With sickle in hand, Bruno showed us how to cut, bundle, and carry the immortelle which we weighed and stacked.  The heavy manual labor was unnoticed due to the cool mountain breeze, the spectacular aroma and view, and the quietness of the mountains.  At the end of the day when the truck bed was full, my dad and I climbed on top of our harvest, stretched out, and slumbered back down the mountain.  Occasionally, I opened my eyes to admire God’s creation while continuously smelling it.    

 


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Building Bridges

7/7/2012

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_ After learning the distillation process at Essences Naturelle, the owner Albrecht requested our family build an entryway from the garden to the distillation barn.  Six days a week the farm is open for tours which involve the entire essential oil process:  growing herbs, removing the oil from the herbs, and selling that essential oil.

As a marketer, Albrecht, wanted fluid movements  as the farm guests move from the garden, to the distillation warehouse, and then to the boutique for final sales. Before the O.F. (Orner family) all his guests had to backtrack through the garden out the one and only exit.  “This interrupted the flow of the tour,” as the owner expressed some slight annoyance.

He suggested another gate be built at the end of the garden, so the tour would proceed smoothly to the location where the oils were distilled and extracted.  At the location of his suggestion, there was a drainage ditch which diverted the winter rains (presently there has been forty days of sunshine).  Here a ramp-like bridge over the ditch would be needed, in addition to the proposed access.

We embraced the project,  that is -- me, my dad and my brother.  My mother was busy weeding morning glory from the acre of roses, but helped in the process  when the time came.  First we started by laying a 2 ½ meter pipe in the ditch and covering it with concrete.  Next my dad’s many skills came into play.

I had no idea he could teach me how to make archways and walls purely from smooth, flat-faced rocks we collected nearby.   My brother Ashton exclaimed, “It’s a Genoese arch!”  Sure enough, it was just like the many bridges we studied and explored in our experiential, homeschool lessons on Corsican history.

After assembling Genoese archways around each end of the pipe, we created dry stone walls in parallel to hold the earthen ramp in place. Dad was taught both techniques when working in New England and now he was passing the skill on to my brother and me.

Next Albrecht led us to a huge pile of composted distillation waste (rosemary, immortelle, lemon verbena twigs and more).  After digging several loads and spreading hummus, the ramp was complete.  Now it was time for the gate.

Dad had spied thick wooden beam perfect for teaching us how to form them into mortise and tenon style with chisels.  This old-fashion type of peg and hole conjunction made for a simple frame with no screws or nails.  We then cut fresh saplings in the woods (Albrecht directed us to the strongest trees that locals used to carve tool handles).  We wove these within our hand-made frame to keep out the dogs and the wild boars.  The end product was very heavy (70 kilograms or close to 150 pounds).

Holes for the stout gate posts had to be dug and my mom showed up just in time.  We cemented them in after leveling them as best as possible.  The following week we returned to hang the gate and place two menhirs  at the entrance to the ramp.  Menhirs are standing stones sometimes over two meters high(ours were only one, but very thick and heavy).  They are found throughout Corsica dating back to 6000 B.C.  Some have faces and daggers, and others carved out of granite or gneiss.

Albrecht kept pacing up and down the ramp and opening the gate while admiring the “Masterpiece.”  We proudly accepted his compliment knowing we too,  in our small way, had contributed to the ardent relationship between our two countries.  Granted, we were not Lafayette and his army nor had we bestowed the Statue of Liberty, but we felt gratified that we were building bridges, figuratively and realistically.


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Good Appetite

7/3/2012

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          We are huge advocates of eating locally at home and abroad.  Since the beginning of our sabbatical, we have munched on mangos while living in Jamaica, eaten flowers off the southern coast of France, and discovered many Corsican delights.  Advantageously, the French government requires all foods be posted with their farming origin and the use of genetically-modified foods is outlawed (unless under strict supervision for research purposes only.)

          In our villa complex, our family is jokingly known as “the crazy Americans who eat grass.”  Our first week here Marcel, our neighbor, approached Rusty  and boys while picking greens for Claire’s French fig, sheep cheese and arugula pizza accompanied with lamb’s quarter, fennel and cistus salad.  The farm Bordeo where we volunteer also shares their potatoes, zucchini, eggs, and herbs every time we work. 

We’ve befriended Alex, the neighborhood butcher, who weekly suggests a local pork sausage called ‘charcuterie’ as well as grass-fed steak.  Rabbit is also widely available and the boys love their ‘lapin’ spicy and fried. 

          Void of much fish in the hills of Pennsylvania, we especially are savoring the Corsican coastal treats.  After a bicycling trip to a Sunday market, we relished ‘Fruits de Mer’, a seafood medley of lobster, shrimp, sausage, and mussels over saffron flavored rice.  With mussels under their belts, the boys wanted more. 

We discovered the Etang of Diane just twenty kilometers south of our villa, a brackish bay where these mollusks are cultivated.  Here on long chains suspended into the bay, the mussels attach and grow.  The chains are then hoisted out of the water with huge cranes, harvested, sorted by size, and sold to seafood lovers. 

We purchased 2 kilograms, steamed them up with local chicken broth, parsley, olive oil, tomatoes, lemon juice and white wine making a specialty called ‘Moulles de Diana’.  Along with French bread toasted under rosemary, garlic butter, the fifty mussels and their broth were sopped up completely with not a drop left over. 

When steaming, every bivalve should open perfectly to insure its freshness.  They are deliciously tasty, not too fishy as some seafood, and reasonably priced when bought directly at the harvest site. 

As everyone in France states at mealtime –Bon appetit! 

Moulles de Diana

  • 4 pounds mussels
  • 2 tablespoons olive oil
  • 1 shallot, minced
  • 2 garlic cloves, shaved
  • 4 sprigs fresh thyme
  • 1/2 cup dry white wine
  • 1 lemon, juiced
  • 1 cup chicken broth, low-sodium
  • Pinch red pepper flakes
  • 1 tomato, peeled, seeded and cut in large dice
  • 1/2 cup roughly chopped parsley
  • 2 tablespoons unsalted butter
Directions

Rinse the mussels under cold running water while scrubbing with a vegetable brush. Discard any with broken shells. Heat oil in a 6 to 8-quart stockpot. Sauté the shallot, garlic and thyme to create a base flavor. Add the mussels and give them a good toss. Add wine, lemon juice, chicken broth and red pepper flakes; cover the pot and steam over medium-high for 5 minutes until the mussels open. Toss in the tomato, parsley and butter, recover the pot, and steam for another minute to soften. The tomatoes should keep their shape. Serve with plenty of grilled garlic bread.

 


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    Author

    Walker Orner, son of Rusty and Claire Orner

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