L-r: it's poppy season, even behind the discount tile store; Simone paints a door, shocking the cutesy, gentrifying neighbors, who look upon our backside as the local disappointment [we do this in part to discourage break-ins]; one of many trips to Casto, home renovation, where dogs are always welcome; during the day we labor on the bathroom, during the night we spend 573 euros on a meal for three at Auberge du Vieux Puits, up a canyon in the middle of nowhere, one of France's 37 Michelin 3-star restaurants, an hour from our house; the entree on the left is fois gras [NOT pate; the real, full organ]; the plate on the right is various parts of young goat, including its mother's milk. Does that seem cruel? To me, too. I woke up in the midst of the night, as did Simone, ready to vomit from the rich food. Yet stood fast. I will be damned if I will puke out a 573 euro meal. But, yes, I have a lot of karma to repair. I am not running for sainthood. But I'm not aiming for rathood, either. Click any photo to enlarge and smell the roses...