Old friends, old houses

Last weekend we went to see a friend who I've known since we were babies. Our parents were friends in Santa Cruz, and so we grew up playing together. When her parents moved to Washington State, and my mom and brother followed a few years later, we picked up where we'd left off in California, playing dress-up, digging for clams on the shore of the Sound, stomping around in our pink Moonboots in the snow.

Esme wrote me a few months ago to say that she would be in La Dordogne with her son for a week, and let's meet up. I jumped at the chance to see her and meet her six-year-old son, whom I'd heard so many wonderful things about. Of course, knowing he'd have an older boy to play with was the ultimate sell for Jacques, and during our drive up to the Manoir de Beauregard, he asked precisely 100 times "Il est ou Ty ? Elle est ou sa maman ?"

Our weekend was heavenly. Seeing dear Esme and meeting her charismatic little boy after many years was like reuniting with family. There were so many stories to recount and news to catch up on. And Esme is a cook. After a trip to the farmer's market in nearby Bergerac (fictional home of Cyrano, yes) we enjoyed many a sumptuous, creative meals, blends of American spontaneity and French savory ingredients. 

As we hugged our goodbyes, we planned the next reunion for 2017 in Santa Cruz, so we can get the other rug rats (former and actual) in on the memory-making action.