Wednesday, 30 May 2018


My mother made a bourride for the first time in 1983. We were staying in our caravan in Fréjus. I recall chicken pieces, boiled potatoes, carrot in broth. I was charged with making the aïoli. Handmade mayonnaise but with a clove of garlic crushed in the bottom of the bowl before I added the yolks. I can recall even now the eye watering perfume of the garlic permeating the contents of the bowl. It was an early supper, a perfect supper, the blandness of the meat and vegetables offset by the garlic mayonnaise. A view of pine trees and mountains.

I said it was the first time my mother ever made bourride. It was also the last. A few days later we left the campsite, my mother mysteriously ill. She had Guillain-Barré Syndrome it turned out. Although she recovered, months later, she commented that the associations with that disastrous holiday meant that bourride was not something she would ever want to make again.

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