FRENCH WORD-A-DAY

Our vineyard has a new name...more in today's story.

Check out "The Joy of Man's Desiring" a book by Jean Giono

sobriquet (so-bree-kay) noun, masculine
  nickname

            Le hasard est un sobriquet de la Providence.
         Chance is a nickname for Providence. --Chamfort
.

When Jean-Marc asked if I had an idea for a name, I blurted out the first thing that popped into my head: "Rouge-Bleu!"*

"C'est parfait!"* said he.
"But...I wasn't serious! I mean...the name is taken!"
"It's perfect, chérie.* It is just what I was looking for! It's settled. We'll call the vineyard 'Rouge-Bleu'!"

Oh, I had my doubts. Once those passed, I had my druthers. After all, I could choose NOT to share the name!

Sharing...it is something I am still learning to do in this marriage: from those canettes* of beer back when we first met...to today's bathwater: "Don't throw it out!" Jean-Marc still protests. I realize that the French are conservationists, but most don't slosh through mud and grapes all day long. It's enough to clog the plumbing! We've since come to a compromise: I take my bath first....

Herbs-n-spices for a melting pot...

For those of us who studied French a few years ago, or many, but still get stuck when it comes to speaking: "Tune Up Your French" by Natalie Schorr.

un creuset (kreuh-zay) noun, masculine
  1. a crucible, well, hearth
  2. a difficult "épreuve" or "test" (ordeal)
  3. a melting pot

Lorsque les gens choisissent de s'assimiler, on peut parler de...creuset...s'ils sont contraints de le faire on parle de...autocuiseur. When people choose to assimilate, we can talk about a...melting pot...if they are forced to do so, we talk about a...pressure cooker....

--From the book "La négociation interculturelle chez les filles franco-maghrébines" by Sandrine Gaymard
.

Of all the creuset* definitions* that I have combed through, in English and in French, this one struck me the most:

"A place or set of circumstances where people or things are subjected to forces that test them and often make them change."

The idea of change or "emotional growth" inherent in such testing circumstances motivates me and I find my mood lifting. That is, until I read this next definition:

Provencale produce waiting to "pleurer" or cry out their hearts via a swift sweat.

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dégorger (day-gor-zhay) verb
  to disgorge, to clear out
  to discharge; pour out, to surge (crowd of people)
  to clean, to scour

Eh bien, pleurez ! soyez triste ! Dégorgez votre coeur et dites moi, de temps à autre, comment vous allez. Well then, cry! Be sad! Pour out your heart and tell me, now and again, how you are. --From the book "Correspondance" by Gustave Flaubert
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A Day in a French Life... by Kristin Espinasse

Some French culinary advice for you today: Don't sweat it. Sweat the vegetables! I know this is what my mother-in-law would do. She knows everything about cooking and could separate an egg with her eyes closed. Make that one eye closed. Now imagine that very eye looking down the ridge of a great Gallic nose, or "pif". That is how my belle-mère* cooks: "Au pif" ("by the nose" or "by guesswork").

When our neighbor offered me that home-grown zucchini (as heavy as a magnum and about as big) he suggested I make a gratin de courgette.*

"Zucchini casserole"? I imagine the words coming out of a neatly painted mouth... Delivered as they were from our neighbor's chapped and wrinkled lips, the lines now erased after nine decades of wear, I couldn't help but wonder how a male of his generation knew anything about home economics. Not that a female from my own generation knows gazillions more about the subject. I made an emergency call to Marseilles.

"Allo?" my mother-in-law answered. I trusted she will be able to help. My belle-mère will stop whatever she is doing (whether that be watching her favorite show--Desperate Housewives--or taking her quotidian nap) to listen.

This desperate housewife's ear is now glued to the phone; on the table before me, a bill from France Telecom doubles as a scratch pad.
"Alors, chérie, il faut faire des rondelles..."* My belle-mère instructs me to divide up the zucchini into slices.
"N'oublie pas de les dégorger..." Don't forget to sweat the slices....
"...et les mettre dans un plat..." ...and to put them into a (baking) dish.
"...et faire des couches." ... and to make layers...

My belle-mère tells me that, between layers, I might add gruyère rapé,* chopped garlic, and a bit of grated muscade.* I forget the muscade and add the bits of ham leftover from yesterday's assiette de charcuterie.* There are a few day-old slices of tomato that need to be used; in they go.... I top each layer with a swirl of olive oil and a sprinkle of salt, pepper, and the herbs (sarriette,* thyme, and rosemary) that Aunt Marie-Françoise has collected near the village of Fuveau.

When the layers are quits with the edge of the casserole dish, I crack three eggs into a bowl, add a bit of water, more herbes de Provence,* salt, and pepper, and beat the mixture together before pouring it over the top. I flip the pouch of grated cheese over, shaking it across the dish, so as to leave no stone (or scrap) unturned.

I hesitate to use the gas oven as there are only two temperatures: high heat and low heat. The oven is on loan from my brother-in-law (who, in turn, has borrowed it from Uncle Yannick. My French family borrows appliances as one might borrow a cup of sugar; indeed, what is not bolted down is borrowable).

I decide to not worry about oven temperature and cook the courgettes "au pif." Not forty-five minutes later, I peer into Uncle Yannick's four* and see the golden croûte* of a gorgeously scented squash. My mother-in-law's final instructions come back to me as I pull the savory dish from the oven. I'll share them with you now, as I have her recipe:

Bon appétit!

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References: la belle-mère (f) = mother-in-law; la courgette (f) = zucchini; Alors, chérie, il faut faire des rondelles... = So then, dear, you must make slices...; le gruyère (m) rapé = grated cheese; la muscade (f) = nutmeg; l'assiette (f) de charcuterie = plate of assorted cold meats; la sarriette (f) = savory; les herbes (f) de Provence = mixed herbs from Provence; le four (m) = oven; la croûte (f) = crust; bon appétit! = enjoy!

     Clearance sale on Emile Henry oval gratins! Check it out here.
     Herbes de Provence in a neat olive wood grinder.
   
:: Audio File ::
Listen to Jean-Marc pronounce today's French word & quote:
Eh bien, pleurez ! soyez triste ! Dégorgez votre coeur et dites moi, de temps à autre, comment vous allez.
MP3 file: Download degorger.mp3
Wave file: Download degorger.wav

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Enjoy life, piane-piane, as often as you can. (photo taken in Biot, France).

Imagine a vine-flanked country road beneath a sky full of clouds as fluffy as crème fouettée.* Now see a silver streak on the horizon, edging closer as our story unfolds. I recognize the car and, on closer look, that's Mr. Delhome behind the wheel. We could call him "le potier," but that would be incorrect. A potier is a potter--something Mr. Delhome is not, though he does putter, and occasionally toil, in his potager or "kitchen garden" (located across the street, beyond a field, and over the stream from his home--yet only ten meters from my own kitchen window).

But back to that silver streak, which is more like a smudge, for it would be an exaggeration to imply that Mr. Delhome drives fast. Neither face-paced or fast-tracked, his life might now be savored piane-piane,* like the slow-cooked vegetables from his garden.

When Mr. Delhome's car comes within a country block (or around a forty vine rows) of my own bagnole,* I send an excited appel de phare.* Monsieur responds by slowing his car and squinting his eyes. He soon comes to recognize "the woman from the kitchen window," who sometimes puts timidity aside to venture out and pick his venerable brain.

"I made the zucchini casserole!" I announce, rolling down my window.
(Monsieur looks confused.)
"...with the courgette* that you gave me the other day..."
"Oh!" he replies, brightening. "Would you like more zucchini?" With that, we each kill our car's motor, step out of our vehicles, and effectively block the one-lane country road.

Mr. Delhome flips the driver's seat forward and I see that there, in the back of his car near a dusty spare pneu,* are more newly picked vegetables.
"I was planning on feeding them to the chickens," he explains, "but they are getting fed up with the same ol' 'soup'. Here, you take them!"

The would-be fowl feed is transported from one car to the other, this to the extreme irritation of traffic, country traffic, that is (all of one car has had the misfortune of encountering the lazy loading zone). The sporty station wagon--beyond my back bumper, not far from where I am loading the chicken chow--is now honking impatiently.

"Qu'est-ce qu'il a, celui-là? What's his problem?" Mr. Delhome complains, only to poke his head back into his car and collect another zucchini or two. Mr. Delhome's nonchalance makes me nervous and I hope he will hurry and gather the produce so as not to keep the traffic waiting.

But Monsieur is neither in a hurry, nor affected by the impatient "traffic". As for the Hurried One, I suspect he needs a good home-cooked meal (to be scheduled into his fast-paced, fast-food life). Which brings me to my own hurries and worries--mostly imagined, though a daily struggle to overcome. The lesson is in those slow-cooked (and -constructed) zucchini casseroles that I've taken to putting together, piane-piane and like a prayer.

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References: la crème (f) fouettée = whipped cream; piane-piane = slowly; la bagnole (f) = car; un faire un appel (m) de phares = to flash one's headlights or high beams; la courgette (f) = zucchini; le pneu (m) = tire

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:: Audio File ::
Listen to Jean-Marc pronounce today's word and quote:
Piane-piane. Les maçons désoeuvrés venaient par habitude tourner chaque jour
autour des chantiers. Les mains dans les poches, chaussés de lourds sabots, ils arrivaient piane-piane...
MP3 file: Download piane-piane.mp3
Wave file: Download piane-piane.wav

Terms & expressions:
  allez-y piane-piane = go gently, "easy does it"

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Freshly turned earth feels so good under the hoofs.

"Tune Up Your French" by Natalie Schorr. "If you are among the many people who studied French in high school, college, or even beyond but still get stuck when it comes to actually speaking the language, this book is for you." (Publisher's note).

le sol (sol) noun, masculine
  ground; floor; flooring; soil, land

On ne peut pas poser les pieds sur le sol tant qu'on n'a pas touché le ciel.
You can't put your feet on the ground until you've touched the sky.
                                                           --Paul Auster
.

Our ever-joyful mason, Michel, is back. You may remember him for his talent in scaling French walls, tiles under arm: he is French Speederman* minus all that suffocating spandex (a Speedo will suffice).

Now that Michel has tiled the roof, he will tackle terre cuite.* Hundreds of rectangular terracotta pavers (parfeuille) were discovered by our contractor who carefully pried them from beneath wooden floorboards and set them aside--but not before pointing out the date of fabrication: 1696.

Michel and I are standing next to the stacks of ancient tiles. I have an idea (make that a conviction) about how the tiles should be placed: vertically and not horizontally. That is, when someone is standing at the front door, about to step in, the tiles should be vertical, like the long open road before the soul-searching driver. We don't want horizontal crossroads. Tiles, placed in this forward fashion, give the illusion of continuity. Place them horizontally and the eye will catch on a constrictive pattern.

I share my conviction with Michel, who simply smiles and smoothes out the air before him, in a horizontal pattern. "Let's go and see," I say to Michel, hell-bent on setting the matter straight. Vertically straight.

Michel pauses to collect an armful of tiles and we head over to the new entrance. I am still lecturing as we arrive at the front door; only, my convictions seem to float painlessly above Michel's head.

Michel begins placing the armful of tiles across the cement floor. Every once in a while, mouth still running, I look down. Michel quietly takes up the tiles and then places them vertically. Like a baker kneading dough, the direction of his hands (and the tiles) changes, his goal being to stretch my imagination.

Once again Michel places the tiles vertically, then horizontally. Back and forth the tiles go until my mind begins to shift; with it, my mouth ceases to motor.

Dumbstruck, I study the current (vertical) placement and notice how the eye is carried off, as if by a rushing current. The pattern is drowned out completely. It is now clear to see that the eye needs something to behold... a horizon!

Eureka! The discovery comes to me as if by my own efforts (I suspect our monokinied mason intended it that way). As for Michel, he has remained persuasively silent throughout my conversion, reminding me that "Les actes parlent mieux que les mots".*

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References: Speederman = (French pronunciation of Spiderman); la terre cuite (f) = terra-cotta; les actes parlent mieux que les mots = actions speak louder than words

:: Audio File ::
Listen to my daughter pronounce today's word and quote:
SOL. On ne peut poser les pieds sur le sol tant qu'on n'a pas touché le ciel.
Vave file: Download sol.wav
MP3 file: Download solmp3.mp3

Terms & Expressions:
  le sol natal = one's native soil
  le personnel au sol = ground staff
  cloué au sol = grounded (aircraft); rooted to the spot (person)
  les exercices au sol = floor exercises
  la clef de sol = treble clef (music)

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Finish your meals as the French do, with a fragrant digestif: verbena tea.
Le Creuset Round French Oven -- for one pot meals including cassoulet.

The Aosta Valley (Italian Alps). See three adorable Italian brutes (brouters?) here.

brouter (broo-tay) verb
  1. to graze, browse (on grass)
  2. to chatter, jump, judder (brake, tool); to grab (brake)

Le buffle attaché n'aime pas le buffle qui broute.
The buffalo that is tied up doesn't like the buffalo that grazes.
                                               --Vietnamese Proverb
.

Brouter.* There's that word again. Just how many times does Alphonse Daudet use it in his famous nouvelles?* Perhaps under a dozen...or over the same.

As for me, I have never used the French word "brouter" until just now, having been bitten by the bucolic bug that was one writer's muse (la vie campagnarde*) and is another's mode de vie.* Impatient to employ the verb, I look out my window in search of grazers. Que dalle.* Not a donkey or a goat in sight (Though I can hear the noisy braying of the former, there across the field, one farm over, behind a row of cypress trees).

While I have yet to witness any "brouters" in my own back yard (not counting our dog, Braise (brez), who has a tummy ache and fancies a grass goûter*) I saw plenty of cud-chewers in the Italian Alps last week, where I devoured Daudet's chroniques* along with uncustomary amounts of crème glacée* (might one "broute" Italian gelato?).

The subject of browsing brings us to grass--something that is decidedly greener in the Aosta Valley, or so it seems after leaving our dusty construction site-slash-home for a needed reprieve. There, in a quiet meadow, I watch the grass-licking cows (have you ever observed a grazing cow? Italian cows lick grass (as if to mimic the tourist-spectators who nurse gelato, en face*).

I finish my cone and bid arrivederci* to the grass-lickers. Time to leave the quiet valley for the Vaucluse, back to Provence (one of the few things I have in common with Daudet). Mr. Daudet, it seems, had the luxury of writing from a quiet moulin.* Tra-la-la! La belle vie!* No hungry, Speedo-sporting lodgers to feed, no laundry to hang, no construction cords to trip over, no sick dogs to
nurse. I am convinced that the grass was greener over there at Daudet's moulin where the writer turned out prose as one turns out a dirt-filled sock before tossing it into the washing machine. (Such is the défi*--or defeat!--of a woman writer: to marry word-wrangling and washing--no matter the century.)

Ciel!* Only I could be jealous of a 19th-century man of letters whose storytelling would be cut short by syphilis! A man who, it turns out, never had the luxury of writing from a quiet moulin but was clever enough to imagine so. For his agile mind nibbled the vast stores of memory--the very grist for his writing mill.

The good news is--the grist is endless and up for grabs to the one who will but graze the sometimes murky pastures of gray matter, the mind being the only place where the grass is truly greener. As for finding the time to do so... best to nibble a few minutes here and there.

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References: brouter = to graze; la nouvelle (f) = short story (read Daudet's pastoral "nouvelles"); la vie (f) campagnarde = country life; le mode (m) de vie = lifestyle; que dalle = nothing at all; le goûter (m) = snack; la chronique (f) = chronicle; la crème (f) glacée = ice cream; en face = across (from them); arrivederci = (Italian) goodbye; le moulin (m) = mill; la belle vie (f) = the good life; le défi (m) = challenge; Ciel! = heavens!

:: Audio File ::
Listen to my daughter pronounce today's word & quote:
BROUTER. Le buffle attaché n'aime pas le buffle qui broute.

Wave file: Download brouter.wav
MP3 file: Download broutermp3.mp3

Related terms & Expressions:
  un broutard = a grass-fed calf
  le broutement = grazing

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Gone fishing.


aveugle (a-vuhgl) noun, masculine/feminine

  : blind man, blind woman

adjective
   blind

Le monde est aveugle. Rares sont ceux qui voient.
The world is blind. Rare are those who see. --Bouddha
.

When your frigo* begins talking it's time for you to take a break. And so it is that this thrice-weekly letter will go on leave. The words will resume in under a fortnight (and after a fort* dose of R&R).

Entre temps,* and just to reassure you (and me) that I am not really "hearing things," I will partager* the nugget of "frigian" philosophy that our ice-box shared with me the other day when it offered up the following maxim:

     "Sur aveugle parole tombe."
     (Upon a blind man words fall.)

Boom. The French words hit me like hailstones (or sharp-edged magnets, according to the way the words revealed themselves: black on white, along a sticky, linear line, and over a metallic surface.)

I approached the fridge and stared at the door full of French word magnets, four of which had seemingly gathered themselves together, like foam above a windswept sea.

      "Sur aveugle parole tombe."

"Harrumph! Well THIS explains things!" thought I, remembering a certain stubborn someone in my immediate entourage. No use trying to talk sense into him--he can't even hear me. My words "fall" right off of him--he is blind to the truth!

My eyes remained glued to the magnetic maxim. How can one with blinders on "see the light" or "hear reason" or "be reasoned with" if you like (...or rather, if "I" like? For it IS all about me after all isn't it?).

This last inspiration is slow in coming, as is the tray of water destined to become one dozen ice cubes if you leave it be. (And if your husband hasn't returned an empty tray to the ice-box, as he does. But never mind that, it isn't about the ice cubes. It never is.)

Back to that last inspiration based on the pop psychology mantra: "It Isn't All About You!" OK, so it's not about me. It can be more about us and all of the things we have in common: l'espoir, la peur, la colère, l'orgueil; la tristesse, besoin. Le besoin d'amour.* And blindness. And deaf ears.

      "Sur aveugle parole tombe."

I look back at my freezer door behind which I was about to return a half-empty pint of Numb-Thyself-Noisette.* I run my fingers across the word magnets until the smooth surface and sage words bring my senses back to the here and now. No longer blinded by my emotions, I hear the music once again.

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References: le frigo (m) = fridge; fort = heavy; entre temps = meanwhile; partager = to share; l'espoir (m) = hope; la peur (f) = fear; la colère (f) = anger; l'orgueil (m) = pride; la tristesse (f) = sadness; le besoin (m) = need; le besoin (m) d'amour = the need for love; la noisette (f) = hazelnut

:: Audio Clip ::
Aveugle. Le monde est aveugle. Rares sont ceux qui voient.
Download aveugle.mp3
Download aveugle.wav

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Terms & Expressions:
  devenir aveugle = to go blind
  le point aveugle = blind spot
  faire quelque chose en aveugle = to do something blindly
  suivre quelqu'un en aveugle = to follow someone blindly
  l'amour est aveugle = love is blind

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Our summer camp director (seated in chair, far left) sassy in the role of Dalida

Suggested reading: Mots d'Heures: Gousses, Rames.  "A rollicking entertainment for words lovers, Mots d'Heures: Gousses, Rames will delight readers with its Frenchified, phonetic high jinks." (text from the back cover)

esprit (es-pree) noun, masculine
  mind;  wit; spirit

Il y a une  dimension spirituelle dans chaque relation. Lorsque deux personnes se réunissent, c'est que l'esprit le veut ainsi.

There is a spiritual dimension in every relationship. When two people come together, it is because the spirit wanted it that way. --African proverb
.


I arrived to pick up my daughter at summer day camp where the director greeted me with a cheery "Hello!" After her warm English greeting and a bit of shoot-the-breeze papotage,* she pointed to my daughter's necklace with its cross pendant.

"Are you Protestant?" she inquired.

Here we went again with The Religious Affiliation Question. I'd gone over this before with the Catholic priest during premarital counseling.* If it was difficult to describe my spiritual orientation then, I must confess that, thirteen years later, I still haven't quite pinned it down.

"No, I'm not Protestant," I began.
"Catholic?" the director guessed.
"No, not really," I answered, regretfully, for if I were Catholic I would have "l'embarras du choix" or quite a selection of churches to go to given the number of églises catholiques* in France.
"But your children were baptized?"
Oh, dear! This is where things get complicated...
"Er, yes... in the Catholic church."
The director looked as confused as I felt.

"I'm not Methodist," I continued, by deduction. Perhaps Baptist? Was I Baptist after all? "Baptiste" is a popular French prénom* that signifies "plonger dans l'eau."* I myself was immersed in water, there in a desert church (on Central Avenue, to be exact) and not far from Katz Delicatessen where I would, years
later, nurse a bowl of matzo ball soup and wonder about how to convert to Judaism. My boyfriend, Howard, had explained to me that, should we marry and have children, our family would observe certain rituals. Words like "brit milah" and "bar mitzvah" were as foreign to me as the French language which,
unbeknownst to me, was just around destiny's corner...

"I am Muslim," The director offered encouragingly. Catapulted back to the present moment, I looked over at my daughter's cross and realized how differently life has turned out. No more visits to Katz's deli. I had lost my best friend when my relationship with Howard ended. But, just as it wasn't religion that separated us, I sensed that the same was true for the Muslim director and me.

I know little about the Muslim religion and when I admitted as much, the director's warm response included an invitation to a congrès* where villagers of all faiths come together in the spirit of breaking down barriers.

As I contemplate my religion, the vision of white robes swaying, hands clapping, and feet dancing takes me away... to Dorothy Love Coates & the Original Gospel Harmonettes...and to The Soul Stirrers and their thumb snapping tune "Jesus Hits Like The Atom Bomb." Tunes like "Oh Happy Day!" and Jimmy Cliff's "Many Rivers to Cross" speak to me like no denomination can. "Amazing Grace," whether sung by Judy Collins or Ani Difranco, moves me like ministry.

I still hadn't answered the director's question. The time had come. I looked into her searching eyes with my own and, for the first time, understood the uncommon denomination that best described my faith: not Methodist or Mormon, not Born Again or Buddhist, not Catholic or Confucian.

"Do you know music?" I asked. "You know, 'le goh-spell'*..."
"Oui," the director said in anticipation.
I cleared my throat and my conscience at once when the following words tumbled out:

"I'm Gospel."

                                    *    *   *

The director looked at me with compassion in her eyes. We were no longer American, French, or North African, no longer Muslim or Christian. We were soul sisters.

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References: le papotage (m) = small talk; premarital counseling: don't miss the chapter "attendre" and learn about my wedding day and more, click here; une église (f) catholique = Catholic church; le prénom (m) = first name; plonger dans l'eau = to plunge into the water; un congrès (m) = conference: goh-spell = (French pronunciation for "gospel" music)

To advertise at French Word-A-Day, contact Kristin

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:: Audio File ::
Listen to my son, Max, pronounce today's word & quote:
Esprit: Il y a une  dimension spirituelle dans chaque relation. Lorsque deux personnes se réunissent, c'est que l'esprit le veut ainsi.
Download esprit.mp3
Download esprit.wav

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Shop -- and help support this word journal :-)
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Rosetta Stone French: Learn French at home