Juniper, the berries of which are vital ingredient of that most vital spirit, the gin of my heart and dreams, grows wild on the hills and plains of the Cantal. I have been avidly reading through a library of books on wild foods and la cuisine sauvage and so am overburdened with botanical lore. The remarkable powers of the juniper tree (ahem,
Juniperus communis) are lauded by folklorists, particularly those averse to the supernatural. Juniper branches hung over doors and windows on May Eve repel witches; smoke from a juniper fire keeps demons at bay. An infusion made from juniper berries apparently restores lost youth. To dream of a juniper tree is bad luck but, oddly, to dream of juniper berries signifies coming success. The herbals proffered no information as to the significance of dreams of gin.
After lunch chez Roselyne, a hoary organic old chestnut who deserves but probably won’t get a post of her own, I decided to walk home to la Bastide and was duly charged with the collection of juniper berries. Life would truly have exceeded art had the juniper berries been solicited in order to produce organic gin du maison. They were in fact picked for the enhancement of the pâté and terrines du maison made later in the week.
To access the bright blue berries of the juniper (which ripen only in their second year on the bush), one must negotiate some tough and spiky leaves. Picking juniper berries is more taxing than drinking a gin and tonic in the late afternoon, to this I can attest. Berried picked, fingers pricked, I found myself terribly lost in the forest. My orienteering skills never were that crash-hot. I was charmed by the deer I saw leaping through the trees – such charm! – until I stumbled over a sign which designated the area a hunting reserve and had a strong and unpleasant sense of myself as a moving target. Oh là là… Clambering, trampling, muttering, sliding, swearing, deep-breathing, back-tracking and clear-headed focus were required to get me home. In spite of the trying circumstances, not one juniper berry was lost.
After lunch chez Roselyne, a hoary organic old chestnut who deserves but probably won’t get a post of her own, I decided to walk home to la Bastide and was duly charged with the collection of juniper berries. Life would truly have exceeded art had the juniper berries been solicited in order to produce organic gin du maison. They were in fact picked for the enhancement of the pâté and terrines du maison made later in the week.
To access the bright blue berries of the juniper (which ripen only in their second year on the bush), one must negotiate some tough and spiky leaves. Picking juniper berries is more taxing than drinking a gin and tonic in the late afternoon, to this I can attest. Berried picked, fingers pricked, I found myself terribly lost in the forest. My orienteering skills never were that crash-hot. I was charmed by the deer I saw leaping through the trees – such charm! – until I stumbled over a sign which designated the area a hunting reserve and had a strong and unpleasant sense of myself as a moving target. Oh là là… Clambering, trampling, muttering, sliding, swearing, deep-breathing, back-tracking and clear-headed focus were required to get me home. In spite of the trying circumstances, not one juniper berry was lost.
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