FRENCH WORD-A-DAY

All the colorful French words are in the story. Enjoy and Happy First of May! (Painting by my niece. Notice the dogs: Izzy, Ricci, and Loca--and our doves on the rooftop.)

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE...by Kristi Espinasse

Dear Reagan,

I hope you enjoy these memories as much as I enjoyed your visit last weekend…

After a semester in Italy, my niece has finished her study abroad program. Instead of flying straight back to the U.S., she returned to spend three more days with us in France. Wherever my niece lands she brings her adventurous spirit with her and she needs little advance notice to be ready to explore: she’ll simply throw her hair back in braids and illico presto! she’s out the door. 

As Reagan is the kind of person who says chiche—“I’m in!”—to just about anything, whether it’s sampling prickly oursins or trawling in Uncle Jean-Marc’s boat, we easily let the weekend unfold: wandering down to the calanque in Figuerolles, where we stumbled upon a movie set (a first for Reagan), hiking up to the sémaphore, a watercolor session on the sandy shores of Plage Lumière, or a spree to La pharmacie St. Jean for French lotions and potions. 

The night before Réré flew home, we introduced her to a decadent French tradition. “Raclette,” I explained, “is a kind of grill that you plug in and set in the center of the table. Beneath it are a series of little pans, or, poêlons, where each person adds a slice of fromage en tranchettes. After the cheese melts, you use a small spatula to scrape it over a boiled potato and add the accompaniment of your choice: ham, salami, coppa, prosciutto. Mushrooms, onions, sliced peppers, and more can be added to the grill above….” 

It’s a convivial and amusing way to gather for a meal. Depending on your table’s shape, it can be tricky to reach the grill, but Ana happily took charge of refilling Grandma Jules’s pan. Jean-Marc, at the end of the table, barely managed to set his pan beside mine—just in time to steal my just-melted cheese. Keeping an eye on my husband’s wandering hand, I listened as we all began sharing our favorite memories from Réré’s visit...

One highlight was an event at a beautiful seaside hotel, L’Hostellerie La Farandole, where Max had invited his cousin to a wine tasting. Not just any dégustation: it was the world-renowned Château de Pibarnon, and Eric de Saint Victor, the owner, was there to host. “We each had our own platter of cheese,” Reagan shared, “and we sampled several wines while Eric spoke. It was so interesting!” 

The next day, Max met up with us for a randonnée along le chemin de Sainte-Croix, and we each brought our dogs, Izzy, Loca, and Ricci. The hills are bursting with flowers this time of year: cistes, lavande, immortelle, coquelicots, valerian, and yellow broom steal the show… until you reach the top of the colline, where the cliffs of Cassis are stunning against the navy blue sea.

We followed the dogs back down the path and returned to kidnap Grandma for lunch at Max and Ana’s: roasted chicken, gratin dauphinois, and a strawberry tart from the bakery—until I hinted it was time for my sieste.

That evening, as I served chipolatas and roasted vegetables, grilled directly on the oven’s slide-out tray, Max shared an amusing word for roasting pan: lèche-frite—literally “lick-fry,” named for the way the ingredients (often fries) are set there to catch the drippings from the rack above.

Lèche-frite reminds me of lèche-vitrine (“window licking,” or window shopping), something we never got around to with my niece. It seemed she had already licked windows in Italy for, after the raclette, Reagan handed out gifts. We gathered around the coffee table to accept the presents: a beautiful bracelet for Ana from Florence, a bottle of wine from Tuscany for Jean-Marc, pasta tweezers (for twirling and plating pasta) from Rome for Max, and two watercolor paintings: for Grandma, a postcard-sized painting of the coastline seen from le parc du Mugel; for me, a delightful watercolor of our house—complete with all the dogs and even the tourterelles! The whimsical painting reflected my niece’s personality: bright, happy, energetic, clever, and well-balanced. If this painting could talk it would shout chiche! Yes—to life and all it has to offer!

As I reminisce about my niece—with her auburn braids, striped socks, and that sparkling smile—I’m reminded of my favorite childhood heroine, Fifi Brindacier. Not just for her wild hair and free spirit, or for her creativity (though she has that à gogo), but for the way she says chiche to life—that playful French dare that means “I’m in!” Bold, imaginative, generous, and always up for adventure, Fifi is a reminder of the joy in being fully yourself.

See you next summer, Réré. Whatever we do, I’m chiche to join you—braids, stripes, and a spirit of adventure… just like yours.

Love,

Aunt Kristi

COMMENTS & CORRECTIONS
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FRENCH VOCABULARY

Click here to listen to Jean-Marc pronounce the French words below

chiche = I'm in! / game!

illico presto = right away

L’oursin (m) = sea urchin

la calanque = rocky inlet or cove

le sémaphore = signal tower / lookout station

la Plage Lumière = Lumière Beach

la raclette = a simple dish of (melted) cheese, potatoes, and cured meats

le poêlon = small pan

le fromage = cheese

en tranchette = in thin slices

la coppa = cured pork shoulder

le prosciutto = prosciutto / Italian cured ham

la dégustation = tasting (often of wine or food)

la randonnée = hike

le ciste = rockrose 

la lavande = lavender

l’immortelle = everlasting flower / helichrysum

le coquelicot = poppy

la valériane = valerian (wildflower)

la colline = hill

la sieste = nap

La chipolata = chipolata sausages

la lèche-frite = oven drip pan

le lèche-vitrine = window shopping (literally “window licking”)

la tourterelle = turtledove

Fifi Brindacier = Pippi Longstocking

Reagan, Max, me, Jean-Marc and Ana (who just celebrated her 29th birthday. Joyeux Anniv, Ana! Click to view photo (if it is not visible here)

REMERCIEMENTS
Merci beaucoup for your continued support of this blog. The internet is brimming with places to see and things to read—I’m truly grateful you take the time to visit here. Special thanks this week to:

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God bless you two! --C-Marie

J'aime vos histoires. . . . SVP, continuez les!! I love your stories....please continue them. --Jed

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Wishing you all a joyful Premier Mai! In France, it's tradition to offer un brin de muguet—a sprig of lily of the valley—for luck and happiness. You’ll see these charming little stands all around town, set up just for the day. 🌿 Photo taken this morning, in the background notice Ile Vert, or Green Island.

"Something good is coming my way." Try saying that and seeing what happens. More in today's story about a small miracle.

TODAY’S WORD: le prédicateur 

: preacher, speaker at a church service

PRONUNCIATION: [luh pray-dee-kah-tuhr]

Le prédicateur a parlé de foi et de résilience pendant le service.
The preacher spoke about faith and resilience during the service.

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE… by Kristi Espinasse

When I said it was spring fever that had me feeling lackadaisical, I was hiding the truth. The fact is le printemps is not to blame. There’s a hot-and-cold undercurrent teeming beneath my skin and, these days, all I want to do is go live in a cave.

I don’t want to socialize, plan the next meal, or even think about house repairs (seven years after we completed the rez-de-chaussée it’s high time to attack le premier étage. Considering my emotional short circuiting, this is not the time to commit to a home renovation—even if the electric sockets are hanging out of the walls upstairs (Jean-Marc used his trusty duct tape to fix that. Harrumph! Sometimes it seems our house—indeed our world—is held together by that sticky silver patch-all).

Because this is not the moment to up and drop out of life (is there ever a good time to run away?) I decided to walk off my sparky emotions. Doing brisk circles around our neighborhood, far from la foule along the boardwalk, I made my request to God: Lord, show me that something good is coming my way. Yes, of course, there’s heaven–and that’s already great! But, if it be Your will, make it that something good is coming my way today….

I returned home to face website issues, doctor dilemmas, an empty frigo and les impôts—oh, I’ve got to get to those. Even with an automatic three-month extension, taxes loom in the back of my mind—and aren’t they symbolic of the situation at hand: this treadmill of life. 

Finally, it was time to leave for the Easter church service, and I dragged myself out the door with three caillettes from the butcher and a loaf of homemade bread for the collation.

I don’t remember the message from that evening—my thoughts had an undercurrent of their own. And now everyone was moving over to the picnic table where a large array of food was on display: chips and guacamole, homemade accras, pissaladière (my favorite), quiche lorraine, pâté en croûte, oranges, melon, brioche, navettes, tiny chocolate bunnies, and two standing lambs (which turned out to be a kind of yogurt cake from a clever mold).

Making my way over to the little lambs, I decided to talk with our prédicateur about my recent cave-dwelling aspirations. “My thoughts are so negative lately. I just want to be left alone!” He smiled as I tried to laugh about a grumpiness that’s taken over like some kind of possession (now I understand the vivid Bible terminology—those “possessed” people were probably no more than moody men and women, just like my husband and me).

Speaking of my husband, there he was now, a little flushed from the wine tasting he’d been to at a nearby cave à vin (gosh, even he has a cave to go to for refuge!) No sooner did he walk in the door, to collect me for our walk home, than a church member recognized him. “T’es Jean-Marc?”

Before you could say lost sheep, the two men were patting each other on the back–Salut!

“You know each other?” I was amazed.

“Yes,” Jean-Marc answered. “Laurent and I played tennis when we were 15.”

Laurent nodded.

Giddy, I left the two to catch up and hurried over to the others, “Jean-Marc knows Laurent!” Not only did my husband know a new member of my church, but there was clearly a measure of respect for his childhood acquaintance. (I imagined he must have been a very good tennis player!)

The others at church were as awed as I was. So as soon as he finished talking to Jean-Marc, I hurried over. “Laurent! On compte sur toi!”

Laurent looked confused, having no idea what I was talking about—perhaps you don’t either, dear reader, so let me spell it out: if anyone could convert my husband… it would be a cool contemporary like Laurent!

As soon as I said as much, another member smiled. “It’s not up to Laurent. God works in mysterious ways. Let Him handle it.”

I thought back to my walk earlier. Whether or not my husband begins coming to church with me after all these years is none of my business. My job is to be an example of peace—something I suck at lately…

Enfin, what matters is that something great came my way today: and that great thing was the capacity to still be amazed by life’s so-called coincidences. Honestly, what are the chances that my husband would encounter an old friend from Marseille in a tiny Baptist church in La Ciotat?

I’d better not run off and live in a grotte just yet… or miss more of these miraculous encounters. In the meantime, as I go through this particular passage in life, I’ll try to resist the urge to grumble—or to preach! Better to leave that to les prédicateurs. I’ll focus on watching my own steps, trusting I’m never alone on this walk. With a lamp at my feet, the future is bright.

Jean-Marc and Laurent

COMMENTS & CORRECTIONS
Your comments are encouraging and your corrections help so much. 
To leave a message click here.

FRENCH VOCABULARY

AUDIO FILE: Listen to Jean-Marc pronounce the following words:

le prédicateur = preacher

le printemps = spring

le rez-de-chaussée = ground floor

le premier étage = first floor

la foule = crowd

le frigo = refrigerator

les impôts = taxes

la caillette = traditional meatball-shaped pâté from southeastern France

la collation = light meal or snack

les accras = Caribbean-style fritters

la pissaladière = savory tart with onions and anchovies

la quiche lorraine = savory tart with cream, eggs, and bacon

le pâté en croûte = meat pâté baked in a pastry crust

la navette = boat-shaped Provençal cookie

la cave à vin = wine shop

T’es Jean-Marc? = you’re Jean-Marc

Salut = hi

on compte sur toi = we’re counting on you

enfin = finally, anyway

la ruelle = little street or alley

grotte = cave

REMERCIEMENTS

Merci beaucoup for your continued support of this blog. The internet is brimming with places to see and things to read—I’m truly grateful you take the time to visit here. Special thanks this week to:

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Here is a tamaris tree. I talked about it in the previous post (about the presqu'île of Saint-Mandrier-sur-Mer).

IMPENDING MOVE….
Currently I am working between two blogs, as I begin the daunting undertaking of moving blog  platforms. There is a large learning curve involved and 23 years of posts to migrate. Please keep me in your prayers. Merci.

TODAY'S WORD: petite virée

PRONUNCIATION: [puh-teet vee-ray]

DEFINITION: A short, casual trip or outing, often for pleasure or adventure. Typically used to describe a spontaneous or relaxed excursion.

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

Before my family flew back to the States, while the house still buzzed with activity, Jean-Marc and I slipped away for an overnight escapade. My husband’s 58th birthday was the perfect excuse to échapper or escape our responsibilities here at home. I quickly decided his gift would be an expedition on the beautiful peninsula of Saint-Mandrier-sur-Mer, conveniently located near Toulon—just 45 minutes from our house.

“Enjoy your getaway! We’ll take care of Grandma and Ricci,” my family assured me. I could leave in good conscience, l’esprit tranquille… though not without risk. On va faire la fête! My sister, Heidi, flashed a devilish smile as the cousins exchanged conspiratorial glances. Woo-hoo! Soon they could crank up the music and bust out the BBQ—without me hovering around, trying to control every drip or decibel.

“Have at it!” I said. “Bring down the house!” I’m slowly learning not to take the bait among a family that loves to taquiner.

In our little two-seater jeep, we took the backroads through Bandol, Sanary-sur-Mer, and our favorite—le Brusc. The winding path above this picturesque port attracts a lot of cyclists and quickly sparked Jean-Marc’s interest. Je vais revenir! He exclaimed, pleased to find a new cycling itinerary.

Arriving in La Seyne-sur-Mer sans reservations, the plan was to check out a few hotels, beginning with the chichi one at the west end of the beach. After learning the price for one night, I quickly reconsidered Jean-Marc’s idea: the modest, family-run inn at the opposite end.

Rien que le nom. Just the name was enough to sway me: Hotel George Sand, so-called after the famous author who came to this former station thermale to heal. While I haven’t finished one of her books, I admire her business savvy. Nearly two centuries ago, she hustled to make a living from her writing. Sand understood the potential of serial publication: rather than rely solely on book sales, she published her novels in popular newspapers such as La Revue des Deux Mondes, ensuring a steady income and keeping readers eagerly following each installment.

While I’m tempted to insert a “to be continued”—right about here—I’ll muster on, for no matter how vivid or romantic a place may be, if you’re not in the mood to talk about it—because spring fever has you in its lackadaisical grip—writing becomes a brick-by-brick slog.

Speaking of bricks… our recently renovated hotel, located along la plage des Sablettes, was clean and comfortable. The owner reminded me of another great character and novelist, Colette. I’m saving her story for a future installment, having learned a trick or two from Madame Sand...

Bon, enough side-tracking. Finally, we left our room (and its perfect view of the Mediterranean) and wandered over to the peninsula, part of la rade de Toulon. Behind our hotel, the streets were dotted with soft pink shrubs–les tamaris–after which George Sand named one of her novels. We passed by a cluster of humble baraques, their gardens a tangle of wildflowers and weeds—just like my own. I breathed a sigh of relief, leaving all cares behind as we made our way to the other side of the peninsula, where the pine forest meets the sea. 

Somewhere near the isthme (were we already on the stretch of land joining La Seyne to Saint Mandrier peninsula?) we crossed through a giant seaside park, passing several locals with their dogs. I made a mental note to ask “Colette” if animals were allowed chez elle—our berger américain would love galloping through the tall maritime grass and scrambling up the rocky coastline, where those little shacks gave way to avant-garde baraques—a word the French also use, tongue-in-cheek, to describe flashy or outsized homes.

We might’ve continued to the tip of the presqu’île, or “almost island,” but I was ready to turn back—hoping to cross the darkening forêt before sundown. 

Jean-Marc suggested we pause to enjoy the coucher du soleil, so we rested at the edge of a sandy beach, sur le muret, as the sun slipped behind the rolling hills. It was so quiet on the waterfront I could almost hear the sizzle of our barbecue and the clink of wine glasses on the other side of the colline, as my family enjoyed dinner back in La Ciotat… .

While it wasn’t the rugged adventure I had imagined for my better half’s birthday (we barely made it beyond the bottleneck of the peninsula), this petite virée was like a good opening chapter: enough to hook us. We’ll definitely come back to the area to discover more. Even better, next time we’ll bring along my spicy little band of rascals. For the amount we saved on the chichi hotel, we can get extra rooms for the family. That ought to perk up my story! What do you think, Madame Sand? 

Our balcony at Hotel George Sand in La Seyne-sur-Mer (on plage des Sablettes). 

Together on Jean-Marc's 58th birthday, sporting a pink glow from the sunset

COMMENTS
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FRENCH VOCABULARY

Audio File: Listen to Jean-Marc pronounce the following:

la petite virée = little jaunt

échapper = to escape

l’esprit tranquille = peace of mind

On va faire la fête ! = We're going to party!

taquiner = to tease

le Brusc = a small port town near Sanary

Je vais revenir ! = I will come back!

sans = without

chichi = pretentious or showy

rien que le nom = just the name

la station thermale = spa town

la revue = magazine or journal

les Deux Mondes = the Two Worlds (from the title La Revue des Deux Mondes)

la plage = beach

les Sablettes = name of the beach where the hotel is located

bon = well then, so

la rade de Toulon = Toulon harbor

les tamaris = tamarisk shrubs

les baraques = shacks or houses (used here informally for homes)

l’isthme = isthmus

chez elle = at her place

le berger américain = American Shepherd (dog breed)

la presqu’île = peninsula

le coucher du soleil = sunset

le muret = low stone wall

la colline = hill

REMERCIEMENTS--THANKS
Merci beaucoup for your continued support of this blog. The internet is brimming with places to see and things to read—I’m truly grateful you take the time to visit here. Special thanks this week to:

Trina S.
Holly R-J.
Laurence S.

A note from Trina S.: It's hard to believe how many years it's been since I read your first book and began following your blog. Your children were children. Jules was in Mexico -- with internet -- and chatting away in the comments, too. And, now, here we all are. So much has changed and yet so much is still the same--the things that bring us together, your readers, and your family, curiosity, kindness, the love of learning, the love of the written word, and beautiful photos of food, and markets, country, and ocean, city streets, cozy times at home, and, of course, les animaux de compagnie.

In the distance you can see Les Deux Frères--the two boulders out at sea.

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