Thanks to a very generous friend, my family and I own an oak tree in Provence. Nestled in the thickly wooded hills of the Luberon between Lourmarin and Cadenet, is a large organic farm called Les Pastras (which means “the pastures,” in Langue d’Oc, the old Provençal language). There, grows our little tree. Les Pastras is now under the diligent care of Lisa and Johann Pepin, having taken the reins from Johann’s grandparents who purchased the farm some forty-five years earlier. It is comprised 11 hectares (27 acres) of gently rolling, verdant green meadows framed by a luxuriant forest. Clusters of fruit trees are scattered…

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Every Thursday morning from mid-November through February, truffle vendors file into Aups for the region’s most popular retail market for “Tuber melanosporum,” otherwise known as the “black truffle.” And following close behind are chefs from local restaurants, agents working on behalf of culinary establishments in Paris, people like me who simply love truffles, tax inspectors, and more gendarmes than a village of 2000 should ever expect to see, even at the annual peak of tourism in August. This past Thursday morning, when torrential rains periodically doused the crowd, the cast of characters was in place. The market must go on—there’s black gold wrapped in dish…

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Today is the third Sunday in January, otherwise known as “The Mass for the Truffles” in Richerenches: the annual blessing, auction, and feast of the black truffle. We’ve been there, huddled among the masses in the tiny church to witness baskets of black diamonds offered up to be blessed, walked with the parade of people to the Hôtel de Ville where our successful bids put several truffles in our pockets, and relished in the glory of a lavish meal devoted to the beloved Tuber melanosporum. I wish I were there now. But, alas, I am content with the memory of that chilly January day several…

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