FRENCH WORD-A-DAY

Bonjour, Jean-Marc here—Kristi's husband, aka Chief Grape, and the guy behind those sound files you hear in this journal. From January 6 to March 20, 2025, I’ll be cycling the legendary Carretera Austral in Chile and making wine in Mendoza, Argentina.

If you have friends or family in Santiago (Chile) or Mendoza (Argentina), I’d love any helpful connections to make this adventure even more special. I’ll send some trip photos to Kristi, who might sneak them into a post here while I'm away.

Merci beaucoup for your help and à bientôt!
Jean-Marc ([email protected])

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

If I learned French from books and teachers, and if it was my French family and friends who grew and tended my vocabulary, would you believe it was a humble cake that taught me la Cène?

The discovery came while I was leafing through l’Almanach Provençal, a treasure trove of Provençal traditions. I had just admired a sweetly decorated olive tree when my gaze landed on another ancient Christmas custom: la Pompe à l’Huile.

My first encounter with this gâteau was years ago at Cousin Sabine’s. Married to Jean-Marc’s cousin François, Sabine often hosts Le Gros Souper at their family vineyard nestled in the fragrant foothills of la montaigne Sainte -Victoire. It was there I first discovered les santons and their bustling village scenes: little clay figurines representing the local characters of Provence—la boulangère, le chasseur, and l’homme ravi, among others.

Sabine’s crèche was an elaborate tableau, complete with fresh moss gathered from the surrounding hills to form the floor of a miniature Provençal village. Off to the side but at the heart of it all was l'étable, the humble stable, quietly anchoring the scene.

After admiring the nativity scene, we gathered around Sabine’s mile-long dining table to enjoy a traditional feast that lasted until the sun dipped below the horizon. Annie, Sabine's mom, served home-grown chickpeas, still warm from the cocotte-minute. Sabine’s father, André, a hunter, tended the wild faisan which cooked in the fireplace beside our festive meal. A host of other dishes circulated the grand table along with family wines including Uncle Jean-Claude's Domaine du Banneret, from Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Then came the grand finale: the thirteen desserts, each laden with symbolism, representing Jesus Christ and the twelve apostles.

Among the sweets, I’ll never forget la pompe à l’huile. Modest and unadorned, these characteristics remind me of the manger, where Christ lay as a newborn. No matter how many times we sang Away in a Manger growing up, for me, it took learning French to fully grasp the poignancy of the English word "manger" in this exact context: Our Lord was laid in none other than a feeding trough for animals.

As for the pompe à l’huile, there was nothing pompous about its appearance. No icing, no layers, no filling—not even a couronne, like the one sported by another popular (but equally plain) cake. No, this pompe à l’huile was as plain as a felled sapin: a simple, round loaf delicately scented with orange blossom and made with olive oil—its namesake. Its history may explain its rustic charm. Born of necessity, the dessert originated as a way to save the last precious drops of oil from the press. Flour was used to "pump" or absorb the oil, with a touch of sugar added... and voilà! The flat cake was born, evolving over generations into the humble yet symbolic spécialité served in Provence during the holidays. 

I remember Sabine offering me a slice. I was hesitant. Olive oil? In a cake? It seemed counterintuitive—like eating dessert with spoons, as my tablemates were doing. But as I took a bite, something magical happened. Perhaps it was Sabine’s smile or the warm hospitality that transformed my palate. By the time my tastebuds registered, I could honestly answer her question.

“Alors?” Sabine asked in her Provençal accent. “Tu aimes?”

“Yes. I love it!”

Years passed, and though I loved the cake, I never attempted to make it. Part of me believed only a dyed-in-the-wool Provençal woman could do justice to such a traditional recipe. But this week, curiosity (and courage) got the better of me.

I lined up the ingredients: olive oil, water, egg, grated orange peel, flour, sugar, salt, fleur d'oranger, and levain. After mixing the ingredients, I shaped the dough on a lined baking sheet, scoring decorative lines across the top with a knife. Into the oven it went (375F…20-25 minutes).

When the timer chimed, I opened the oven door, and a whoosh of warm, citrus-scented air enveloped me. There it was—a golden cake, its surface glistening faintly. Despite a few miscalculations, c’était réussi!

This first attempt turned out well! The lavender sprinkled on top must've been good luck! 

But what about la Cène? For years, I had taken bread and wine (that is, grape juice) at church without fully understanding the meaning of this French term for the Last Supper. Each time the pastor said the word, I wondered: was it la Seine—the river in Paris? Or perhaps la saine (meaning "the healthy one")? Then again, could it be la scène (the stage)? I thought our visiting pastor might finally clear up the mystery, but his thick Scottish accent while speaking French only added to the kaleidoscope of possibilities for what this word could mean. Sin? Seen? Sane?

My confusion lingered until this week, when I stumbled upon la Pompe à l’Huile while researching the thirteen desserts of Noël. That’s when I came across the spelling of a word I had heard so often in church—la Cène. Suddenly, everything clicked: it was the Last Supper of Christ and His apostles!

How fitting that a humble cake, steeped in tradition, would finally unravel the mystery for me.

Don’t wait as long as I did to learn the meaning of certain French words, especially la Cène. And don't delay in trying this modest cake—it’s a lesson in simplicity, an authentic taste of Provence, and a slice of history all in one. Joyeuses Fêtes!

***

"Sacred Heart." Attempt number two at making la pompe à l'huile, the dough was firmer. I shaped it into a heart, for a look as sweet as the taste. This flat cake, sometimes referred to as Fougasse, and sometimes as crumbly at a scone (depending on whether you use baking powder or yeast?) is delicious with a morning cup of coffee or tea. The problem is, we’ve been snacking on it all day long! Here’s a simplified recipe for la pompe à l’huile—no kneading and less time required:

Simple Recipe for La Pompe à l’Huile

Ingredients:

• 250g (2 cups) all-purpose flour
• 75g (1/3 cup) sugar
• 1/4 tsp salt
• 1 tsp baking powder
• 60ml (1/4 cup) olive oil (preferably extra virgin)
• 60ml (1/4 cup) orange blossom water
• Zest of 1 orange
• 1 egg
• 1/4 cup warm water

Instructions:

1. Preheat oven to 180°C (350°F). Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
2. Mix the dry ingredients: In a large bowl, combine the flour, sugar, salt, and baking powder.
3. Prepare the wet ingredients: In a separate bowl, whisk together the olive oil, orange blossom water, orange zest, egg, and warm water.
4. Combine the wet and dry ingredients: Gradually pour the wet mixture into the dry ingredients, stirring with a spoon until a soft dough forms.
5. Shape the dough: Place the dough onto the prepared baking sheet and gently press it into a round, flat shape about 1.5 cm (1/2 inch) thick. Use a rolling pin if necessary. Use a knife to make a few decorative slashes across the surface.
6. Bake: Bake for 20-25 minutes or until the edges are lightly golden. Let cool slightly before serving.

I made three pompes this past week. This third one had baking powder instead of yeast, which meant it did not need to rise before going into the oven. I forgot to include an egg and was surprised it turned out as good as it did (the third cake was Jean-Marc's favorite). I would love to know your ideas for additions to this cake. My sister, Heidi, suggested using almond flour. Let me know in the comments if what you would add. 

COMMENTS
Your edits and messages are enjoyed and appreciated. Click here to leave a comment.

I found this photo of a crèche Provençale in my photo archives. I’m not sure if it’s Sabine’s crèche or another, but it’s a beautiful example of their intricate beauty.

FRENCH VOCABULARY

Audio File Listen to Jean-Marc pronounce the following French terms

La Cène = The Last Supper
l’Almanach Provençal (m) = the Provençal Almanac
la pompe à l’huile = traditional Provençal olive oil cake
Le Gros Souper (m) = The Big Supper (for Christmas)
la montaigne Sainte-Victoire = Sainte-Victoire mountain
les santons (m) = traditional Provençal clay figurines
la boulangère = the baker 
le chasseur = the hunter
l’homme ravi (m) = the delighted man
la crèche = nativity scene
l'étable (f) = stable, barn
la cocotte-minute = pressure cooker
le faisan = pheasant, game bird
la couronne = crown
le sapin = Christmas tree
alors? = well?
tu aimes? = do you like it?
fleur de l’oranger = orange blossom
le levain = leaven, sourdough starter
c’était réussi = it was a success
saine = healthy
la scène = the stage
Joyeuses Fêtes! = Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays!

THANKS REMERCIEMENTS
With heartfelt appreciation to the following readers for their thoughtful donations to this blog, along with the encouraging notes! 

Al K.
Julie C.
Linda F.
Linda C.
Karen B.
Elaine M.
Debbie E.
Theresa B.

Mille mercis, Kristi! —Julie

Merry Christmas from Virginia! —Karen

Joyeux Noël et bonne année Kristi! Amicalement, Al

Thanks for the years of enjoyment reading your blog. —Linda C.

Merci pour tout! J’adore l’Ollie. Happy holidays to you and your lovely family. Linda F.

Kristi , Merci beaucoup! Joyeux Noël et Bonne Année! Debbie from Canada

Meet "Ollie," our olive tree, who will soon be dressed for Christmas with baubles, ribbons and warm white lights. Discover the story behind this unique Christmas tree in today's post. Voici "Ollie," notre olivier, qui sera bientôt paré pour Noël avec des boules, des rubans, et des lumières blanches chaudes. Découvrez l'histoire de cet arbre de Noël unique dans le billet d'aujourd'hui.

L'ARBRE DE NOËL = Christmas tree (m)

PRONUNCIATION: [lar-bruh duh no-el]

EXAMPLE SENTENCE:
Autrefois, l'arbre de Noël était souvent un olivier, avant que le sapin de Noël ne devienne plus populaire. (In the past, the Christmas tree was often an olive tree, before the fir tree became more popular.)

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

On our way to walk Ricci on the beach, I paused at our neighborhood library—an old, beat-up telephone booth with its own certain charm—to check out the latest arrivals. There, perched atop a heap of books, was a familiar cover: Almanach Provençal 2008. I’d bought a copy years ago for its delightful watercolors and snippets of French customs, and here it was again, like an old friend rediscovered.

Entering the crowded cabine téléphonique, I picked up the book and opened it, eager to learn a few cultural insights for the French holidays. Flipping to the first week of December, a whimsical watercolor of an unusual Christmas tree caught my eye. The caption read: “…the beautiful potted olive tree is brought inside to become this year’s Provençal Christmas tree…” (“…on rentrera dans la maison le bel olivier en pot. Ce sera cette année notre sapin de Noël provençal…”).

Studying the illustration of the arbre de noël, with its simple, delicate embellishments, I was instantly charmed. The olive tree, with its bowl-like shape, slender trunk, and blue-green branches, was more than endearing—it was rich with meaning…

The Christmas tree hasn’t always been a fir. In the Mediterranean, people once decorated olive trees for the holidays. With its evergreen leaves, the olive tree evokes Christ’s entry into Jerusalem and the nearby Mount of Olives. Its branches, a universal symbol of peace, make it a deeply meaningful choice for Christmas.

Tiens! L’olivier! What a refreshing change from the usual. And to my relief, there’d be no need to climb a ladder to fetch our artificial tree from storage. No more wrestling with wiry branches that needed unfurling or debating over who would help decorate this year.

With Max away in Montreal for his work in the wine business, Jackie leaving school and at a crossroads once again, and Jean-Marc preparing for his next adventure—soon to be making wine in Argentina—no one was around to assist. But the exotic simplicity of an olive tree felt like decoration enough. I could already picture it: a few ornaments, warm white lights, a crisp ribbon around the trunk, and a golden star to crown this uncelebrated savior of a Christmas tree.

Ça y est! This year’s tree was practically chosen. All we needed now was to find it.

At our local pépinière, a young autistic man was carefully watering some poinsettias—les étoiles de noël (“Christmas stars” in French). “Can you help us with an olivier?” I asked. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, growing nervous. After some encouragement, he led us past rows of scentless sapins, through a back door, and paused at a quiet corner. There, we saw three types of olive trees: tiny potted ones (which I imagined disappearing behind a pile of wrapped presents), tall scraggly ones (too sparse for ornaments), and, finally, a last possibility—ornamental trees, similar to bonsais but much taller. They had a tall price tag too!

One in particular stood out. Among all its neatly sculpted rameaux, one branch was bent back awkwardly toward the center. “Merci!” I said. “Je vais réfléchir.” But I had already made up my mind—this perfectly imperfect tree was parfait for our family. And, with a bit of girl math, I could almost justify the cost of this exotic olive tree taillé en nuage.

“Yes, thank you very much. You’ve been a great help,” Jean-Marc added. Only then did the young man return to his watering, standing a little taller, his confidence visibly blooming.

Another man came over to help carry the olive tree to our Jimny. Hearing his southern accent, I asked, “Do you know about the tradition of using olive trees as sapins de Noël?”

He grinned, tilting his head. “Ah, mais oui! C’était d’avant, ça—before we started importing Christmas trees… and Coca-Cola.” His voice carried that unmistakable Provençal rhythm, the words rolling out like a song.

It took one more colleague to help lift the olive tree into the back of our little jeep, with Jean-Marc and me pulling vigorously from the front. But our efforts were halted when the tree got stuck halfway in. Just when it seemed we would break those cloud-shaped branches with our forcing…whoosh!…our leafy prize finally slid all the way in. There wasn’t much room left in the passenger seat, but I managed to scooch in among the fragrant branches for the short ride back.

Once home, Jean-Marc and I lugged the tree into the house. With a bit of teamwork and loads of enthusiasm, we set it above the buffet. I loved seeing my husband fuss with its positioning, a small gesture that reassured me he valued the tree as much as I did, even though it might have seemed like a spontaneous buy. Quietly, we stepped back to admire this year’s arbre de Noël. It was taller than expected, its leafy branches brushing the iron beam above. And, like so many of our previous Christmas trees, it was lopsided. But that didn’t matter—I couldn’t wait to show it off to Mom, our resident art director.

“It’s fabulous!” Jules said, époustouflée. “You must keep it here year round!”
When I shared the pépinière's warning that the olive tree wouldn’t survive inside, Mom wasn’t fazed. “After Christmas, you can put it in the garden and bring it in on weekends. Too bad it wasn’t here for your dinner party last night! Why don’t you invite everybody back?”

Just when I began fretting about more guests, Mom diffused any hostessing angst by changing the topic. “What will you name it?” she inquired. This got me smiling, for while I had resorted to using girl math to justify its purchase, Mom was already a step ahead, making our olive tree priceless by adopting it.

“Voyons voir.... Let's see... How about Olivier? It’s French for olive tree.”

“Ollie it is!” Mom declared, baptizing the newest member of our family. Like the rest of us, Ollie would soon be gussied up in a sparkly something, ready to put on her best for the upcoming souper de Noël.

That reminds me… one more tradition the Provençal Almanach mentions is le pompe à l’huile, the olive oil cake—Ollie’s favorite dessert, I’m guessing. It’s one of the Treize Desserts of a Provençal Christmas, symbolizing Christ and the Apostles. After all this time, you’d think I’d know more about that, but I have never settled down enough to grasp its meaning. Comme quoi, il n’est jamais trop tard. Perhaps I’ll start by making one this year—and leave the Apôtres for later….

🫒🫒🫒

COMMENTS
Thank you for your helpful corrections and for sharing your stories. What are your plans for the holidays? What do you like to eat? Do you put up a tree? Click here to comment.

FRENCH VOCABULARY

Click here to listen to Jean-Marc pronounce all the vocabulary below

L’arbre de Noël (m) = Christmas Tree

l'almanach provençal (m) = Provençal almanac

la cabine téléphonique = telephone booth

Tiens! L’olivier =  Hey! The Olive Tree!

Ça y est = That’s it!

la pépinière = nursery

les étoiles (f) de noël = Christmas stars, poinsettias 

l'olivier = olive tree

le sapin = fir tree

le rameau = branch

merci = thank you

je vais réfléchir = I'm going to think about it

parfait = perfect

la taille en nuage = cloud pruning

le sapin de Noël = Christmas tree

Ah, mais oui! = yes, of course

C’était d’avant, ça = that was from olden days

époustouflé(e) = amazed

voyons voir = let's see

le souper de Noël = Christmas dinner

le pompe à l'huile = olive oil cake

les Treize Desserts = Thirteen Desserts

Comme quoi, il n’est jamais trop tard = That goes to show, it’s never too late

l’Apôtre = the Apostle

A gâteau aux marrons is a flat chestnut cake. You might like this 3-ingredient dessert, recipe here. (Pictured: My mom's fish painting and some flowering rosemary on the cake)

THANKS/REMERCIEMENTS 
With heartfelt appreciation to the following readers for their thoughtful donations to this blog, along with the encouraging notes!

Ron F.
Jackie C.
Diane H.
Linda H.
Louise H.
Diane C.C.
Carmen C.
Suzanne D.

Happy holidays! —Diane

Thank you for sharing your French experience with all of us who follow you. --Ron

Grateful for your inspirational writings, and all my trips to France that bring me joy! Merci! --Linda

I always look forward to reading your journal! Merci for the lovely family story and the delectable ambiance and flavor of French culture!!! Happy Holidays! —Jackie

Thank you for enriching my life by sharing yours. You and your family are in my prayers always. You are a blessing. Keep writing : ) —Carmen

Ricci galloping on the beach

Le Bon Temps ("The Good Times")—the name of this local brasserie captures the spirit of why my son loves La Ciotat so much. Now, he's committing to a new home and a new chapter. In today's story, read about this exciting milestone. Below: a dreamy night view from Max and Ana's apartment.

TODAY'S WORD: La Crémaillère 

: housewarming party; housewarming

PRONUNCIATION: [kray-myeh-air]

EXAMPLE SENTENCE:
"Ce n’était qu’un coup de clé ce soir-là, la véritable crémaillère viendra plus tard."
"It was just a key-turning celebration that evening; the real housewarming party would come later."

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

1er Coup de Clé: On vous attend ce soir à 20 h pour notre premier coup de clé dans notre nouvel appartement.

The WhatsApp message read: “First Turn of the Key: We’re expecting you tonight at 8 PM for our first turn of the key in our new apartment.”

This was more than just an invitation—it was a milestone for Max and Ana. After several years together, this young couple had taken the next big step: buying a nest to call their own. For Jean-Marc and me, it was deeply moving to witness this commitment, a tangible sign of their journey and their shared dreams.

We were excited to see their new home, nestled just a few kilometers from Max’s previous apartment, closer to the foothills of La Ciotat and the famous, winding Route des Crêtes. This scenic road, flanked by purple bruyère fading to deep amber as the months grow colder, offered a hint of the charm in the new chapter Max and Ana were beginning.

Huddled in front of an open fenêtre, ice-cold air chilling our faces, we listened to Max as he continued our tour of the couple’s new digs.

"Here in the chambre d’amis, you can see the green hills in the distance—during the day, that is."

Looking out into the night sky, the scene was poetic: a full moon peeking through the clouds and the neighborhood below illuminated like a painting. A dark green pin parasol hinted at where we were in France—here near the Mediterranean Sea. “You can see it from the balcony," my son added. For Max, just like for his father, the sea, with its nearby islands to sail to, its prickly oursins to catch and savor, and its familiar maritime scent was an essential part of his habitat, given he was born near the coast and its rocky calanques. If, some 29 years ago, his first scent had been the rose petals his grandmother picked for him outside the maternity clinic, the next thing to tickle his nostrils was the salty sea air in Marseille!

"It's wonderful," I said. "The place has good bones!" Looking around, the walls were bare, exposing wiring, holes, and other secrets hidden behind the furniture the previous owners removed before their déménagement. From the looks of it, Max and Ana had a sizable renovation ahead of them, but from the sparkle in their eyes as they showed us around it was clear they were up for the challenge. Même pas peur! as the natives say.

Ana shared her plans for the following day: "Je vais attaquer le papier peint." While Max returned to work, Ana would be single-handedly removing all the wallpaper—in the dark (as the electric shutters would be completely closed and locked after tonight’s party, owing to the electricity being temporarily shut off).

The echo of our voices in the empty apartment, the pitter-patter of scratchy dog paws, and the tap tap tapping of our heels gave the space a lively, festive feel. But I couldn’t help wondering if the neighbor downstairs could hear it all. Would they complain about the noisy celebration? I hoped this spirited start wouldn’t get things off on the wrong foot with les voisins.

Thankfully, the younger generation doesn’t worry as much as I do. Everything fascinates them, especially human potential. "The woman above us, on the 4th floor is 92 years old," Max shared, raising his glass for the toast. "There’s no elevator, and she climbs the stairs at least once a day whether or not she has errands to run."

By the way, in France, what Americans call the 5th floor is referred to as the 4th floor. In the UK and other countries, where the ground floor is followed by the first floor, this system will feel more familiar. In France, the ground level is called the rez-de-chaussée (ground floor), making the first floor the one above it. It’s helpful to know this quirky system when navigating French buildings—or climbing stairs!

I could just picture the sprightly nonagenarian and her daily aller-retour on the central staircase. I love these examples of gumption and fortitude, whether from the venerable like the 92-year-old upstairs, or the young, like Ana, who can’t wait to make a dent in this renovation with a sledgehammer.

Making our way back through the hallway, we found a lively crémaillère underway. My brother-in-law Jacques and Ana were back in the kitchen, discussing which wall would come down, as well as drywall options—something Jacques specializes in.

In the living room, surrounded by the young couple's closest friends, ma belle-sœur Cécile and I helped ourselves to Ana's quiche maison. There were no chairs and the only furniture was a fold-out plastic table where the buffet, including une tarte aux pommes, several boxed pizzas, and some homemade bread was set. Noticing a few small gifts on the table, I wished I’d brought more than bread and toilet paper (le PQ seemed like a good idea, given the lack of supplies this first night). But this was really only a premier coup de clé, just hours after la signature chez le notaire, and not an official crémaillère. There would be plenty of time to find just the right cadeau—perhaps a lovely tapis to soften all the echoing. For now, though, it was enough to stand in this new space, surrounded by family, friends, the scent of homemade pie in the air, and the clickety-clack of dogs' paws marking their approval as little Izzy the beagle and Loca the French bulldog/Jack Russel bounded through the apartment.

Toasting to Max and Ana’s new beginning, it felt magical how a simple set of keys could unlock so much more than a door. It had opened a new chapter—a place for laughter, shared meals, and the dreams these two tourtereaux continue to build together in their new nest between the sea and still-blossoming hills above.

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Purple bruyère, or heather, fading to amber this time of year

In Max's previous apartment, Ana with flowers and Loca, the French bulldog/Jack Russell mix

In the heart of town, just across from the Tourist Office, colorful buildings echo the rich hues of autumn leaves, while the real estate office entices passersby with apartments and houses for sale or for rent.

COMMENTS
Your messages, corrections, and shared stories are much appreciated. Click here to leave a comment.

FRENCH VOCABULARY

Audio File: Listen to Jean-Marc pronouce the French words in this story

la crémaillère = housewarming party
la Route des Crêtes = Crest road
la bruyère = heather
la fenêtre = window
la chambre d'amis = guestroom
le pin parasol = umbrella pine
l'oursin (m) = sea urchin
le déménagement = the house move
même pas peur = not even scared (a playful or defiant expression to show bravery)
Je vais attaquer le papier peint = I’m going to tackle the wallpaper
le/la voisin(e) = neighbor
un aller-retour = round trip 
la belle-soeur = sister-in-law
la quiche maison = homemade quiche
la tarte aux pommes = apple tart
le PQ (papier toilette) = toilet paper
le premier coup de clef = first turn of the key
la signature chez le notaire = the signing at the notary’s office
le cadeau = gift
le tapis = rug 
les tourtereaux = lovebirds

*In France, the ground floor is considered "0," so the "4th floor" is actually the 5th floor in American and English numbering systems.

THANKS/REMERCIEMENTS
With sincere appreciation to the following readers for their continued support over the years:

Michèle J. 
Bill and Mary E.

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