I have a fantasy that I become fabulously rich, learn to pronounce that tricky French "rrrr", and retire to the south of France to write about food. I am practicing for that right now, in fact, writing this column in a tiny Provencal village called St. Didier, not quite an hour from Avignon.

St. Didier is a pretty village, but that's not unusual in this part of the world that seems to specialize in pretty villages. In fact, it looks a lot like a postcard of itself — tree-shaded streets, cafes with grizzled French men drinking beer and smoking poisonous smelling cigarettes under colorful umbrellas, villagers going about their business with fresh baguettes tucked under their arms, and news agents' shops with racks of postcards on display, each repeating the scene in a weird endless loop of tourism and real life.

This is not our first vacation to the south of France, and the thing that keeps drawing us back is not its proximity to the glamorous Côte d'Azur and the celebrity-spangled life of the Riviera, but the food, the glorious sun-kissed food.

We are, after all, in an area where people are so taken with their produce that they erect statuary to celebrate it.

The town of Cavaillon, home of the succulent and sweet Cavaillon melon, has a giant concrete melon at the entrance to town.

Richerenche, the local truffle capital, has huge black truffes placed in the middle of a major roundabout.

St. Didier lacks the food sculpture, but it does have the real thing — lush vineyards and fruit trees (from my window I see figs, apricots, cherries, and quince).

It's so easy here where the sun and the soil produce a kaleidoscope of colorful summer produce that flirts and winks at you from the market stands, begging to be taken home and given a good time.

Provencal markets, with their fruits, vegetables, cheeses, fish, meats, and flowers are riots of color and noise and the enticing smells of roasting chickens, exotic spice, and pungent olives.

The rocky soil in Provence is good for grapes and the vineyards are everywhere, rolling across the landscape in evenly spaced, tidy lines of green.

Côtes du Provence, Côtes du Rhône, Chateauneuf du Pape — the famous names are common here, and appear on roadside signs everywhere, luring you off the road to taste and to buy.

One day we go with friends to Vacqueyras and Beaumes de Venise, both within easy reach of our village. I am not a wine drinker myself, and all things being equal, would like any extra baggage space to go for the importation of olive oils, sea salt, and candy.

This year I lose, and we buy enough bottles of wine to require the purchase of an extra suitcase to get us back home. I regret the olive oil we have no room for. Fruity, bitter, rich deep green — it deserves a suitcase all its own or, possibly, a steamer trunk.

Olive trees are starkly beautiful, etched against the sky in ageless profile, with narrow slivery leaves, and, in early summer, barely visible miniature green fruit.

The markets have olives of every sort — from the tiny purple-black Nicoise to the firm green Picholine — spiced with garlic, fennel, and herbs.

The pungency of olives is a back drop of most Provencal cooking — the healthiness of the so-called Mediterranean diet is likely due to the fact that olive oil replaces cholesterol-rich butter in almost all the cooking.

Monday morning we come home from the market in nearby Bedoin with a feast — much more than two people can eat in a week, and we have fewer days than that left in our village cottage.

We spread our bounty over the table that sits under the shade of the cherry tree in the garden just outside our front door. Bowls of olives, plates of cheeses (all from nearby farms), a crusty loaf of bread, cured meats, sausages, apricots and cherries. From one market stall we have brought a plate of thinly sliced eggplant, fried in olive oil, and topped with tomato sauce, redolent with fresh rosemary and fat cloves of garlic, from another a crispy roast chicken.

Another day, early, before it gets too hot to turn on the stove, I cook one of my favorite dishes, a classic Provencal ratatouille. The heavy purple eggplants, the red tomatoes bursting with tangy sweetness, the dewy green zucchini make the invention of ratatouille in this place seem inevitable. Of course this splendid dish, scented with garlic and the herbs of Provence had to come into being here, of course it appears everywhere, from home kitchens, to neighborhood bistros to Michelin starred restaurants. Ratatouille is Provence in the same way that hot dogs are Coney Island and it just tastes better here.

We spend only a week in the cottage in St. Didier, and then take to the road. There are several restaurants farther afield we want to try and we finish up in Nice for a couple of days. Nice is not quite Provence, but neither does it have the glitz of the rest of the coast. Old Nice is almost Italy, tiny winding streets, ancient buildings, tantalizing aromas from the street food that is sold everywhere.

 That street food is reason enough to be in Nice. We tear into freshly cooked socca, the trademark chick pea pancake, scraped off the pan in strips and stuffed into paper cones. Just chick pea flour, olive oil, salt and pepper, it is spicy and creamy inside, crispy on the edges. And we eat messy but delicious pan bagnats, sandwiches on crusty rolls filled with vegetables and tuna, and soaked with an olive oil dressing. And a tarte aux aubergines — a rich and flaky crust, a basil scented custard filling with fried eggplant slices, roasted red peppers, and gruyere broiled and browned on the top. We eat all this standing up, leaning on a wall along the Promenade des Anglais that looks out over the rocky beach and the glittering water. There is no shade and the heat shimmers in the air and the food tastes like the very essence of the sun.

The last night of the trip is one of the craziest, and one of the best: dinner at La Zucca Magica — the Magic Pumpkin. It has a set menu, all-vegetarian, no choices except white, red or rosé. There are pumpkins, pumpkins, everywhere, charming and jolly; everyone in the place seems to be laughing. And, bonus, the food is absolutely wonderful, although we are not always sure what we were eating. An odd, fantastic feast to end a perfect trip.

We are back home as I finish writing this. What does Provence have to do with Bloomington? Most of the year, not as much as I'd like, alas. But for a small window of time, in July and August, our farmers' market takes on the gay and festive colors of the Provencal markets — the tomatoes, eggplants, peppers, and summer squash piled high, ripe and tempting. Pick up some vegetables, aromatic herbs, fresh goat cheese and crusty bread, take it all home, do a little cooking early in the day, and spread it all out on a table under a shady tree. For a few happy months we here at home can enjoy our own cuisine of the sun.

Food Fare columnist Christine Barbour welcomes readers' comments and suggestions — especially on great food and places to enjoy it. Contact her via e-mail at cbarbour@heraldt.com. Food Fare partner Jennifer Piurek will take us to Gatesville and a big Brown County country breakfast in next week's column.