FRENCH WORD-A-DAY

Smokey's Excellent Vacation - We just returned from the Ile d'Oléron with all four--make that five!--members of our family. From a nightly game of Yam (Yahtzee) to regular forays to the ocean, we had a restful and memorable time together. See all the pictures right here. (And did you spot Mr. Sacks in the photo above?)

MILLE MERCIS
Thank you for your thoughful responses to the previous story, "Hostile." After reading your comments my Dad wrote to say, "Your readers are incredibly caring!"

I am deeply touched by your words and very grateful for this endearing writer-reader relationship. I hope it continues for a very long time! 

Amicalement,
Kristi

Today's Word: DEVOILER

    : to reveal, to disclose

dévoiler un secret = to reveal a secret
dévoiler ses batteries = to show one's hand (cards)
dévoilé = laid bare

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

Toward the end of our vacation, I learned my family had been keeping a secret from me.  To the relief of my husband, I was not angry on finding out the truth. I was only surprised at how little my family knows me--to think it necessary to spare me the grief. 

Le secret was revealed late one night, after Jean-Marc had taken me into his arms for the second time. "There is something I have to talk to you about," he said. The tone in his voice was unfamiliar and it woke the inner stranger inside of me.  As different as we are to one another--as mysterious as our hearts are even to ourselves--our married souls occasionally reveal an ongoing conversation, so that we will be thinking exactly the same thing at the moment one of us voices it (if not in unison).

Except this time. This time I could not have fathomed what my husband was about to say--his thoughts being nowhere on the cusp of my mind. Even my trusty vibes had abandoned ship. Instead, like a drawstring that closes a hood, it felt as though my skin was shrink-wrapping around my bones, and I held my breath, wondering: What is he going to say next? 

(To be continued...  Click here to read Part 2)

Just discovered another photo of Jean-Marc and his side-kick Mr. Sacks, in Italy. Don't miss the collection of Mr Sacks photos!

JEAN-MARC IN WINE SPECTATOR - Please read about Jean-Marc in this week's online edition of Wine Spectator! The story is called Parched in Provence.

TODAY'S WORD: le glaçon

    : ice cube

French definition of ice cubes from Wikipedia:

Les glaçons domestiques se réalisent en plaçant un bac à glaçons dans un congélateur. Sous l’action du froid, l'eau du bac (de préférence de l'eau chaude selon l'effet Mpemba) gèle dans le bac, puis il suffit de démouler les glaçons.

Domestic ice cubes are made by placing an ice tray in the freezer. Activated by the cold, the water in the tray (preferably from hot water according to the Mpemba effect ) freezes in the tray, then simply remove the ice from the mold.

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

The other night, I crawled into bed with a tall glass of freezing cold water. I had forgotten just how much I love ice cubes! And then a heatwave hit France - sending me back to the nostalgic past. Sitting in front of a cheap fan (air conditioning is as rare as ice cubes here), looking out the window at the parched countryside,  glimmers from my Southwest American childhood come back, reminding me of how we managed to keep cool in the Valley of the Sun.

ICE CUBES- Everyone used them in their cups, adding sun-brewed tea or pop from the fridge. You either bought your bag of ice cubes at the store, or your refrigerator door magically produced them (as at my friend Vanessa's house). Some people made their own ice cubes, bien sûr.

NO ICE CUBES IN FRANCE-is an exaggerated statement, but not that far from the truth. If you have been to France, you know exactly what I mean. Restaurants serve one (maybe two?) ice cubes when you order a soft drink. But forget about ice in your water!

Indeed, forgetting about ice became my coping mechanism when I moved from Arizona to France. So much so that now, 23 years later, it just wouldn't even occur to me to offer you an ice cube in your drink. My unconscious reasoning? The ice tea has already been chilled... in the frigo!

Press me and I might offer another explanation: Have you seen our ice cube trays in France? I've tried the plastic sack molds, only to watch a piece of blue plastic break off with each individual cube. I've used the built-in trays (in a new freezer we once had) but the "tray-flip" mechanism never worked...and was broken when it was banged on the counter in frustration. And I've attempted the "flexible" molds (you bend them inside out and still the tiny ice cubes cling on for dear life!!). All such effort produces a few broken cubes (the rest end up on the floor) and several frozen fingers. Might as well stick those in your cup!

ICE CUBE STASH
But when the temperatures hit triple digits last month, I was desperate to cool down and so resorted to using those crappy flexible molds to make a small cachette of cubes (hey, each for his own. If you want ice cubes around here--make them yourself. Suffer icy fingerburn!).

IT'S BAD KARMA TO HOARD ICE CUBES
Then, last week, Jean-Marc took my precious, Rare Ice Cube Collection and dumped it into a bucket to chill a bottle of his rosé! Hell hath no fury that describes the degenerative effect this had on me. (Because we had a guest at the time, I could not dump the icy bucket over my husband's head and pour his rosé into the Mediterranean!) 

PLAN B
The next day, I decided to see what French store-bought ice cubes are like--and they're huge! That evening, I carefully chose four--enough to fill a small canteen. I took the accoustic, stainless steel canteen to bed with me (see opening paragraph) and, each time Jean-Marc nodded off to sleep, I jiggled my drink, smiling when a percussion of cubes sounded off in sweet revenge.

Done with my evening reading (and drinking), I shut off the lights. No matter how many times I read my well-worn prayer book, I'm still just a little devil. 

                                   *    *    *

Smokey's prayer: Our Father Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy Rainbow Bridge come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Dog Heaven...

Another picture from my Instagram, titled "Generous Neighbors". Now read on for what to do with summer vegetables...



YVON'S "RATATOUILLAISSE" - and ANN MAH'S post
My friend and artist Yvon Kergal posted his delicious Provençal recipe. I made it an my family loved it. Now see Ann Mah's post for the hit recipe in English .

This deliciousness you are seeing, above, is French artist and friend Yvon Kergal's recipe for caramelized "Ratatouillasse" (apparently a valid scrabble word, though no other definition found...) It's the most delicious hamburger-ratatouille combo ever, find the recipe here!  


TODAY'S WORD: une carte de séjour

    : residence permit

AUDIO FILE: Listen to Jean-Marc:
Download MP3 or Download Wav file

Pour obtenir ma carte de séjour, je dois faire une lettre de motivation.
To obtain my resident's permit, I must write a letter of motivation. 


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

There comes a time in every parent's life when they want to run away. But this morning's escape wish comes at an inopportune time. Far from leaving my home, I am scheduled, tomorrow, to ask the French government for a new carte de séjour: my 10 year resident's permit has expired for the second time and I am once again in a precarious sans-papiers situation, no more than an étranger en situation irrégulière.

Add to that this morning's meltdown after my flesh-n-blood French counterparts returned from the States only to glander for days...while Mom does the cooking, cleaning and laundry rattrapage. And while caring for my kids actually releases endorphins in my body--the comfort I get in being able care for my children while I still can--it is for the very same reason (their burgeoning adulthood) that I am at odds with their relaxed attitudes: in order for them to succeed in life, they must learn to organize! 

But I should talk! Lack of organization is what has put me in this clandestin situation with the French authorities. "You do realize that your residence permit expired 3 weeks ago?" The woman behind the security window is not smiling. 

"Yes," I admit. "Veuillez m'excuser. I have been caring for a family member... who has since passed away." (I felt guilty using this information to my advantage, but surely Breizh would want to help in keeping me united with my children and my husband,  the family she looked after for nine golden years. Come to think of it, this may explain the sudden onslaught of emotions on entering the Préfecture in Toulon. As Jean-Marc and I sat down with an audience of immigrants (all waiting impatiently for their number to be called by a French authority), I burst out in tears.

"What is wrong?" Jean-Marc asked.

"I don't know! Je suis très émotive....."

Maybe it was the sight of so many people waiting to plead for residency... a 6-year-old boy, oblivious to his situation... a young mother wearing a headscarf... an older couple looking as fragile as the numbered ticket, somewhat wet and crumbled, in my hand.

I used to be awed by the expats in literature and yearned to be one of them. Decades later and I am a part of the expatriate community in France. But a funny thing happened the moment I became an official expat: the term suddenly didn't fit me at all. It sounded unpatriotic. Though I had left the States, I felt no less an American.

I once heard the term "immigrant" used by Americans in online expat forum. My first reaction was, how can you consider yourself an immigrant? Have you fled a war-torn country? Isn't an immigrant someone who comes to a country for a better quality of life?

Back at the Immigrations waiting room in Toulon's Préfecture, I look up at the surveillance camera and imagine what the authorities are seeing among the group of immigrés: a woman with tears streaming down her face,  sandwiched between a 6-year-old and an older couple. The tears are misleading given the catharsis taking place. I am so grateful to be here in France, having come here 23 years ago pour une meilleure qualité de vie. And it is the very reason I wish to stay here: to help my children understand the gift they've been given and to share this culture with others, by talking about the French way of life.

As I type this letter to you, I hear dishes clattering and silverware falling into the kitchen drawer. My daughter is done vegetating from her jetlag. When she's finished with the dishes, she has promised to help me with my lettre de motivation (A document the French government has asked for).  I began practicing with Jackie yesterday, by reading her the first line of my letter....

A l'attention dé Préfécture du Var. Chers Monsieurs. Chers Madame. Je suis très motivée de rester en France car....

 "Maman!" Jackie says, "It is called a une lettre de motivation... but that doesn't mean you begin it with "I am motivated." And never use "car"! We quit using car ( "because") after 5th grade!"

"OK. How about parce que... "

"No! Don't use parce que! You must not use "because" at all! In France, you must use argument to convince people!

*    *    *

Looks like I have a lot of work to do to get this letter ready for tomorrow. And I realize, now, I have one more point to add to the list of arguments as to why I should remain in France....

Dear Monsieur le Préfet, would you be so kind to grant me ten more precious years in France, car... parce que... ETANT DONNE QUE ... given that I have so many things to learn and to share.


Postnote:
A parent tries her best to raise considerate and responsible kids. I was so touched to receive, just after writing this story, a lovely note from Gail and Fred, the couple in Portland who allowed Max to stay at their home all on his own. Gail writes:

I just got my computer back and wanted to send Max a thank you for the way he kept the apartment. It was clean and neat...couldn't have had a better intern in the space. Also, he left a bottle of wine and tea set that I will write and thank him for.

FRENCH VOCABULARY
sans papiers = illegal, clandestine
glander = to veg out
le rattrapage = to catch up
clandestin = clandestine
le préfet = prefect, reeve
étant donné que = given that 

Picture of me and my daughter, taken 12 years ago in La Ciotat. Everything else that I would like to teach my children is summed up in this famous poem: Read Desiderata in French and in English here.