France: Maxime's house

On the way from Dijon to Paris I stayed at my friend Max’s farm. Max and I were roommates in Moscow and since I was passing through his home country I figured I’d come say hello. The farm was called Saitainville, pronounced like “Centerville,” and is about two hours south of Paris.
The farm is out in the middle of a field. The closest neighbor is over 1 kilometer away. The house is within a compound with high barns and storage buildings making the walls, and a graveled courtyard in the middle.
When we drove up to open the gate, two dogs- a spaniel and labby mutt- ran up. Max’s dad came out to greet us, giving Max the customary French double-cheek kisses and shaking my hand. I asked him “where the hell are my kisses?” just kidding. His palms were calloused and a few of his nails were blackened with blood blisters where they had been smashed. Real farmer’s hands.
Max’s dad was animated and he talked happily to me in French, though I didn’t understand a word.
I’m still getting used to kissing strangers, but Mrs. LeComte radiated some maternal energy that made the cheek-pecks a filial duty.
They gave me a tour of the farm and I was given Max’s sister’s room for the night. The décor of the house was French hodge-podge eclectic. Lots of upholstery and furniture from the 1970’s mixed with some classic French design and a few hand carved armoires that must be family relics.
Max’s brother, Camille, had the same animated expression as his father. He was anxious to exercise his English, which is just marginally better than my French but not as good as my Russian (to give you an idea). Camille was a goofball.
Mrs. Lecomte keeps a big garden in the back and- just my luck- all of my favorites were in full fecundity! Three cherry trees had dark red ovaries dangling like ornaments. His Mom had already picked the strawberries, which were sweetened by the unseasonably dry weather that the region has had. The apples, pears and apricots weren’t bearing yet, but that was no loss.
We had “French barbeque” for dinner, which means four courses with two wines, plus the before dinner chips and drink.
So we started in the living room with a special liquor from the south flavored with anise seed- a bit like absinthe. To the kitchen for a garden grown salad and goat cheese on toast. Then came the barbecue that we’d cooked earlier over this little forge: pork and beef sausage, shish-kebab and pork chops. A plate of French cheeses and finally a cherry cobbler with strawberries and cream- all from the garden. We drank rose wine with all of it, which Max told me is customary.
The next morning we left for Paris where the streets are bumpy.