the vanilla tides | Mauritius

It’s funny how, when you look back, there are some things that just feel like they never happened. A level of surrealism just clouds certain memories, hazy, the way steam rises from tarmac during sunshine after heavy rain. The time we had with Pruney is coated in that same kind of fog, was she ever with us, or just a figment of a dream? It seems unlikely we were ever lucky enough to share in her spirit, her character, her big hazel eyes… was she ever real? It’s just hard to believe that she was ours, and she was real. In many ways Pruney, her loss and her being, wove inextricably into how I remember Mauritius. Those arching beaches, in shades of flax, wheat, and bone; the calm sea, clear and glassy, burbling like a baby, somehow still guarding the secrets of pods of dolphins and coral rocks. Mauritius too, was surreal, perhaps another piece of a dream, some kind of postcard for a paradise island. The French flair, the English architecture, the passion of the people for the ocean; for fishing; for raggaeton music, which made it feel decidedly island-y, and even more unreal.

There were the luxurious jungles that stuck to the sides of steep rock like verdant tattoos, trees dangerously careening too heavily around bends that hid ghostly shrines, surreptitiously guarded from the view of passing tourists. The hills and forest echoed with the calls of a thousand birds, there were views over leafy hilltops and cane plantations surrounded colonial mansions still producing rum. The road through the hills linked back to a coast road that wove lazily through fishing villages, boats calmly bobbing at the dock, fishermen and small children with corkscrew curls mending the nets. On another side of the island and under the watchful gaze of the peaks of Le Morne we found a tiny beach with water clearer than clingfilm. The shadow of every tiny ripple was visible from the surface, the sun bathed us and everything in white light, while the vanilla tides kissed sands the color of toasted coconut. Palms swayed to delineate hotels from each other, quiet despite peak season, pools gurgled, left untouched, and we drove back to our villa barefoot and with a horizon filled with nothing but the blue of the Indian Ocean.

The sea was often tiger striped, but in blues, greens and azures. A breeze would pick up in the afternoon, there would be a pleasant scent of seaweed, dogs in the small neighborhoods of Blue Bay and Point d’Esny barked, revived by the growing shade. Inland the malls were busy, Port Louis bustled, and the botanical gardens at Pamplemousses burst into a bloom of greenery with giant leaves and tropical tree trunks. You could drive for miles over tiny copper-toned roads, the carmine red earth a reminder of the richness of Africa; the canes stretching infinitely around us, hiding orchestras of singing cicadas as a reminder of Africa’s wildness. Banana plantations snuggled in the arms of rolling hills that ran gently to the sea, the wash frothing like a latte back onto the pristine shoreline.

In the evening we would walk in the neighbourhood, where beautifully unkempt villas were slowly retaken by island flowers; bougainvillea and hibiscus; friendly semi-stray dogs lazed in the long grass, pigeons cooed from crumbling rafters. Local families walked their way up from the beach, the sun began to set, streaking dusky skies into canvasses of pale orange, peach, and lilac. The island was warm, it was slow, and the dreamlike beauty of the Indian Ocean hypnotic. There were moments when we felt like we were frozen in time, sunburnt and sea-salty. We were watching kite surfers hop the waves, colourful sails cutting through the water like jellybeans through a glass jar; we were playing with dolphins who raced our boat and brought tiny babies alongside.

Sometimes, in the tangles of my head, I still don’t know if my memories with Prune are real, or if I’m imagining. Mauritius seems far away too. But then there are moments of clarity, when I can remember what the morning sun felt like as it moved over the ocean and lingered over the jungly mansions of Point d’Esny’s coastal road. When we were at that hauntingly beautiful beach, with the perfect clouds, the glasslike ripples, the tendrils of golden sun, we wrote Prune’s name in the sand. She was with us, she had been the whole time, and she would see the message on that tiny beach, because she would always be there, watching over the ocean, entangled in the coral and the palms, chasing the dolphins, always.

“The island is ours. Here, in some way, we are young forever.” - E. Lockhart

drowning in a fragrant sea | Upper Normandy

For us it had so far been a typically humid lakeside early summer. Maybe there is supposed to be some kind of romance in the dense stagnant air; crowds magnetically drawn to the lake; the quiet of the night overridden by the whirring of fans, the countryside bursting at the seams with caravans and families on bicycles. Whatever there was, it was gone, like the birds who nest in the quiet marshes over the winter. Summer just set in too hard and too fast. It’s always the times when you don’t expect much that you find a part of you are looking for, even if you’re not exactly sure what that is, kind of like what people say about love. Nobody would have expected that you could drive four hours south and that the air would clear. In Normandy, mornings were so cool that crystalline layers of dew settled over the wheat fields, some fields still green with youth, some a warm flaxen gold and waiting for the first harvest. The sun would rise gentle and mellow, tinting the countryside with peach and bubblegum pink as dew dripped off the flowers clinging to farmhouse walls. We were close enough to the Landing Beaches that we could feel a coastal breeze wafting over pastures, tiny birds resting on the winds, towering benign cumulus clouds flitting across baby blue skies. Roads were so small that wheat seeds came through open windows and we were almost swallowed by meadows where cows grazed on shaded slopes. The delicate network of roads wound through flourishing villages drowning in a fragrant sea of flowers and timbered farmhouses. We parked at a crossroads and walked through fields basking in the gentle sun. Suzi sniffed between maturing stalks of corn and young pockets of blooming wildflowers, rambling, wandering. Baby cows met us by rusting iron fences, noses wet from dew as they nibbled our clothes, clearly curious of the early visitors. Red, blue, yellow, tractors hauled the first of the hay, sending stalks flying like confetti, a celebration of us being, for once, in the right place at the right time.

Mild rain showers cooled the evenings even more, fat drops pooling under the thatched roof. The evening air was suddenly encumbered by scents of freshly cut grass, the earth breathing through the rain, a marriage to the sweet sticky smell of molasses in the feed of the dairy cows next door. It was both floaty and lulling, lingering light in the sky tracing the clouds through the shadows. From the newly damp earth we tracked in shards of freshly cut grass, they stuck to the soles of our shoes and trailed lines of emerald into the house. Some days the afternoons were so mild you could nap in the sun, all dreams of poppies and molasses, and wake up sun-burnt. But even on the hotter days, it was the kind of southern dry heat that feels like a golden reward and not like a burden. The sky ran through a gambit of Pantone blues, washed like denim, and hay bales puffed like popcorn in the lee of chateaux.

Maybe the heat would build, and the landscape would turn deep yellow and burnt khaki. Maybe it wouldn’t. We left Normandy with mornings that were still cool and foggy, sunlight illuminating cobwebs, birds floating on brisk breezes carrying the seeds of dandelions like whispers. It would be how we would remember those early days of French summer - the baby cows and their molasses, Suzi and her fields of young corn, the forests’ eternal romance with birdsong. And the sun, endlessly flirting with the June clouds, her lover.

free and wild | peach + honey muffins

Prune girl,

What do you think about when you lie on your back, all four paws in the air and teeth showing, like your pretty face is caught in a grin? You can switch from deep slumber to paws-up in a second. In that deepest, most peaceful sleep, do you drift through pale pink clouds and run through long grass, wet with dew, chasing endless rabbits, barrelling through small streams and forests filled with butterflies? Is baby sister Suzi by your side as you run, always fast, but never fast enough to catch the rabbit, so your dream can go on and on? Do you dream that there’s a farmhouse in a green valley, with stone walls the color of honeycomb and roses climbing on trellises; with warm wood floors and soft beds for you to sink into after your chases? What are you thinking about when you’re dozing in the garden with the gulls screeching above you as they come in from the sea? Can you smell the ocean salt mingling with the inland breezes, bringing in visions of ships and barges and adventure, as you lie on the patio and sniff the air? Or are you thinking of the pheasants, roaming the countryside, running through wheat fields and pastures dotted with cows, where farm dogs roam, free and wild? Do you ever wonder what it’s like to be them?

And what goes on in that head of yours when you’re napping quietly on a blanket and Suzi clumsily lies down, right next to you, maybe touching you? You have a really beautiful head, Prune girl, maybe more greyhound-like than the chunky, soulful faces of your Labrador cousins. But you’re not particularly impressed by all that closeness, are you? You know baby sister means well, so you wait, maybe a minute, then you heave a tortured sigh and go sleep elsewhere, a couple of meters away. You seem to have learned that people, and Suzi, mean well when they come to fawn over you, and they should be tolerated, at least for some amount of time. It is just so hard to tell what you’re thinking. Sometimes you seem to be embraced by a silent gray cloud of melancholy, your big amber eyes seem to drift so far away. From living with you we know it’s too simple to say dogs can’t ponder the past. Do you think of the friends you grew up with, your mother, those you lost? Your pups that are all grown up now, or the tiny pup that didn’t make it; who you kept returning to your bed to look for, long after he had faded away. We know you worry, often too much.

But we also know you can feel uninhibitedly happy. Is that how you feel when you gallop out of the wire gate in the morning when I hold it open before a walk? Are you thinking about the rabbits you’ll see as you drag one of your preferred humans through the tangled summer grass? And those small jumps you do, on the spot, when one of the preferred humans come home. It’s like your whole body is consumed by a bouncy spring. Your uncanny ability to sniff out all kinds of human foods, and to ignore anything remotely healthy. You know we’ll always give in; that we’ll take the mundane dog food out of your silver bowl, we’ll find a snack, you’ll grab it and run over to the rug in the living room, as sunshine streams through the windows and a sleepy Suzi naps. Because despite the fact you’ve been with us for almost all of your ten years, you will always know us far better than we’ll know you. You will always be a mystery, with your unreadable eyes the color of leaves after an Indian summer; your tentative cuddliness, and warm charcoal fur.

“the secrets inside her mind are like flowers in a garden at night time, filling the darkness with perfume”
- Fumiko Enchi

Happy birthday to Prune angel. One of my many nicknames for her is Pruney muffin, so here are some muffins, almost as sweet as our girl. This is a very simple muffin formula that I think would work well with any stone fruits, or any fruit/berry in other seasons. I hope you try them.
If you scroll down to the end of this post, there are some sweet photos of Pruney recently, doing aaalll the Labrador things.
Love you ❤️

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peach + honey muffins

1/2c (60g) brown rice flour
1/2c (50g) oat flour
1/2c (50g) almond meal
2T flax meal*
1tsp baking powder
1/4tsp baking soda
1/2tsp salt
1/3c (80ml) honey
2 free range eggs
1/4c (60ml) olive oil
2/3c (160ml) milk of choice
1/2T apple cider vinegar
1tsp pure vanilla extract
1 heaped cup chopped peaches

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Preheat the oven to 180’c, 350’f and line/oil a muffin tin.
Measure your milk of choice into a mug or measuring cup. Add the 1/2T apple cider vinegar, stir and set aside as you continue with the rest of the recipe. You can also use 2/3c buttermilk instead.
In a large bowl, stir together the flours, flax meal, baking powder/soda and salt. In a smaller bowl, beat the eggs with the oil. Add honey, vanilla and the milk-vinegar mix.
Gently toss the sliced peaches in the dry ingredients, which should help stop the fruits from sinking. Then add the wet ingredients, gently stir together until the batter is smooth with only a few visible streaks of flour.
Spoon into the muffin tray. Bake for 18-20 minutes, until a skewer inserted through the muff comes out clean. You can also make mini muffs, but they won’t need as long in the oven so keep an eye on them.
The muffins will keep well for around 4 days on the counter, but will freeze/defrost nicely.

*If you’re not looking to make these muffins gluten free, feel free to use 1 1/2 cups unbleached all purpose flour (or spelt flour) instead, no need for the flax meal. These muffs aren’t super fussy, unlike Pruney princess in these photos below.

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