Pride

It's a moment that we'll take with us.  One of those few that, when we're gray and old and tired, we'll draw back... pull out from the depths of our lives, set in a frame of history and stand back and say, "yeah.  That was... something."

We planned ahead for the historic event, last weekend, as Sunday happened to be the "Journee de la Truffe" in Uzes, a city whose history is closely tied to the elusive tuber.  The Truffle Festival was in itself quite an event.  Set in the Place aux Herbes where the Wednesday and Saturday market is staged, the scene was a study in contrast, between the black clad, chapeau-ed patrons, dressed to the nines for this annual worship of the odiferous fungus and the leather-skinned, oil skin clad, massive dry, worn, rough handed vendors, hawking their black diamonds for princely sums that would stoke their kitchen fires well into the year.

We took in the festive day, browsing the truffle seller's tables, watching a bit of the auction where some sort of "Truffle Society" in oddly Moorish ceremonial garb oversaw the sale of the season's grandest harvest, and watched in wonder as four men worked tirelessly over a massive log fire heating the largest iron pan we'd ever seen as it was strategically moved over and then away from the ten-foot diameter smoldering fire by a forklift.  We figured out finally that it was eggs, and truffles of course.  We promplty amended our lunch pans and happily laid down seven euro fifty each for a heaping pile of scrambled truffle eggs, a hunk of baguette, and your choice of vin rouge ou blanc (bien sur).  Ellie declined the opportunity but Cole enthusiatically helped Amy polish off her plate.  He couldn't sign "more" quick enough to get another bite to his mouth.

After lunch we sauntered over to a ring at the edge of the square that had been filled with sand, planted strategically with tree cuttings, and emceed by a man introducing a series of crusty, charicatured, dog-handling truffle hunters who led their canine accomplices through the makeshift beach in a demonstration of how one comes into possession of a truffle.  The finale of the demonstration was when a small man with hands the size of Montana emerged from an egg-shaped micro-trailer with a swine that would take the prize at any county fair and proceeded to plow through the demonstration area as though it was the simplest paint-by-numbers, snuffing one truffle after another in abject mockery of his canine adversaries.

Not to let this moment pass, we bought our very own tuber melanosporum... with the help of a three year old, self-declared expert, rather than a giant hog, of course.  We planned out an entire truffle based menu for the evening -- enough to get us through the preliminary proceedings, the oath, the helicopter, the parade, and maybe even one or two of the Inaugural Balls before we would roll off to bed, ready for Change to Come.  We even splurged on a fine champagne to wash it all down.

Tuesday brought mixed news to us but the events that will transcend the small challenges that life brings were not to be overlooked.  We watched with joy and wonder and amazement as America and the World saw the light of a new tomorrow shine bright from the Capitol steps.  The vignettes that I will pull out and observe those many years along will be of both kids hopping down from their chairs, inches from the screen, to dance as the Queen of Soul sang My Country 'Tis of Thee, Ellie turning and telling me, "Barack Obama is my friend" and Cole, impromptu, waving and saying "bye bye" as Executive One carried its occupants on their way out of Washington.