It’s Tuesday! It’s lasagne day…a time of joy.

On the corner of the main street in our village, which is pretty much the only street, we find Chez Florence. It seems to me that Florence has been there forever: certainly, when I first found Rognonas towards the end of 2007 she was present and has been ever since; with the exception of high days, holidays and holy days of which, this being France, there are many. It was only in July just gone, however, that I discovered that Florence lives in Nimes which is probably an hour’s drive away for most people and around two weeks for yours truly – a tediously slow snail behind the French wheel.

So, for the last twenty or so years, this lovely lady has undertaken a round trip of about sixty miles in order to supply the great and the good, plus occasional tourists, with high quality food. Mais, pourquoi, you ask? Je ne sais pas, I respond but I’m jolly glad she does. Especially on Tuesdays when the lasagne arrives.

In France, I feel the decline of the small retailer, especially the literal corner shop, has been stemmed:if you want bread, go to the baker; tobacco and newspapers – to the tobacconist; stamps – off to the post office (if you can find one open) and so on and soforth.

Chez Florence is a little different in that one can find a veritable melange of fruit, vegetables, wine, cheeses and home-made meals, all of the highest quality. Today, for example, whilst searching for olive oil, she presented me with an old Martini bottle containing an interesting looking, if slightly cloudy conncotion which she’d made herself over in the Gard.

I suspect it’ll be delicious when I pour it over the haricots along with a little chopped garlic.

And as for Florence herself? I’m in awe of this beautiful woman who never ages.

All that driving around the countryside, making, bottling, running a business and she really does look the same as when I first found her. Only one problem. My friend, Eleanor, who lives not a million miles away on the other side of the Rhone, sometimes pops in for a bottle of Seguret and when she does, Florence rushes to the ‘ready meal’ side of the shop and asks if lasagne is required. And when I make an appearance, Florence is ready at the wine rack to demand ihow many bottles of Seguret I’d like.

In a village where foreigners are thin on the ground, we think that Florence believes Eleanor and I are one and the same person. A sort of composite of ladies fighting the end of the world. No matter. Without Florence, there would be no lasagne and Tuesday would be just another day.