Wild Boars, Jam, and Tomatoes
A short story and a recipe
I’ve been writing since I could hold a crayon. I still remember using old saltine cracker boxes to make book jackets, taping in pages and filling them with little stories—everything from tales about my grandmother Mamita Elena to silly childhood brawls with my cousins.
Creative storytelling, however, never quite became my profession. Instead, I chose the path of journalism—specifically in food, wine, and travel. Still, there’s always been a quiet desire to write fiction, perhaps even to blend stories with recipes.
While rummaging through files on my computer, I not only found the diary entries I shared recently, but also a story I had stashed away. Hardly worth publishing, I thought. I wrote it many years ago, on a sunny August morning during a month-long stay in Duras.
Like the diary entries, rereading this story stirred something in me, and I now feel the (humble) urge to share it. Who knows—maybe more will follow.
For now, I leave you with the tale of Hariette and her special friendship with her neighbor, Michel. At the end, you’ll find a recipe for ratatouille, just as mentioned in the story.
I awoke at a quarter past eight. Too late to set up my stand and too early to claim I had slept in. It might’ve been a productive day, had I not ignored both the alarm clock and the crowing of Michel’s roosters down the hill. I felt decidedly sorry for myself, especially since I had spent a good part of the previous day collecting plums and tomatoes and making the jams I’d plan to sell.
It was the last weekend of August, which meant tourist season was coming to an end. Tourists provided a big part of my summer income, so missing a day at the market was not something I could afford. But beyond the money, I really enjoyed the hustle and bustle. Most tourists are friendly and eager to try my homemade jams. Others are happy to stop by for a simple chat about how much they love our regional tomatoes or about the weather on that particular day.
With a few big yawns and stretches, I glanced at the sliver of sky visible through the gap in the curtains. It lacked its usual pristine blue and looked rather bleak instead. It reminded me of skies back home—the place that was once home, I should say. I still hated the sight of dark skies in the summer. Cloudy days left me sluggish and somber. Even after all these years in France, I hadn’t shaken the rainy-day blues.
I could handle days like this in winter and autumn—perhaps even spring—but summer, to me, meant sun. It was as simple as that. Perhaps a leftover trauma from growing up in a country where warm summer days were rare, little blessings.
I refused to grow old under gray skies, after years of an empty life and bland sandwiches at my desk. I loved it here in the southwest of France. I knew that from the very first time I visited.
“Hariette!”
I hastily tossed the covers aside, walked toward the window, and pulled the curtains open.
It was Michel—my ray of sunshine. In one grubby hand, he held a basket of eggs; in the other, two aubergines. Michel was my best friend—almost a father figure. He lived just outside the village with his chickens and his scruffy little dog, Tati, who followed him everywhere.
