FRENCH WORD-A-DAY

TODAY'S WORD: LA RECONNAISSANCE

    : acknowledgment, gratefulness

A YEAR IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

And just like that, 2024 has come to an end. As they say here in Provence, Bon bout d’an!—happy end of the year. 

How quickly the months have gone by. Like the gentle breeze sweeping the neighborhood leaves across the seafront, le temps vole! But to where, exactly, does time fly? However boggling this vast endlessness, there’s comfort in knowing these moments live on forever, in our memories, in our stories, and even into the mysterious ever after. 

Looking back over the past four seasons, I’m filled with gratitude and émerveillement—not only for the unexpected people who came into our lives but for those who’ve been there all along, making every little adventure and its built-in lesson more precious, meaningful, and lasting.

The year began with an intention to connect more deeply with the locals. I imagined myself frequenting cafés, supporting local establishments, and finding ways to weave more threads into the vibrant tapestry of life here in La Ciotat. But the universe had other plans. Instead of reaching out to others, it seemed others were sent to me, offering help in ways I couldn’t have anticipated—or even asked for.

The first spark came early in the year, on a sunny day at the farmer’s market. I had tied Ricci’s leash to a table while picking out some fresh vegetables. I turned away for just a moment, and when I looked back, she was gone.

In a panic, I rushed down the boardwalk, calling her name. But before I could begin to lose hope, several locals sprang into action, hurrying ahead to corral Ricci and guide her back to me. One after another, they closed the gaps, gently steering her back into my arms. That day, I realized just how quickly people can step in to help when you least expect it—and how much I relied on the kindness of strangers which appears when we least expect it.

When my husband left for New Zealand, my confidence in steering this boat quickly dwindled with the arrival of the first obstacles. Mom’s health began to require more attention, and with a medical appointment looming, I realized I would have to dust off my driving skills after years of being Jean-Marc’s passenger.

But I wasn’t alone. Ana, Max’s girlfriend, immediately offered to chauffeur us to the ophtalmologue and Jackie chaperoned us to the next appointment. Watching these young women navigate so calmly reminded me how much we all lean on each other, no matter our inner strength. As I slowly regained my confidence behind the wheel, what began as an ordeal opened a path for me to reclaim a bit of independence.

The challenges continued when we discovered Mom’s health card had expired. I braced myself for a bureaucratic nightmare, unsure how we’d navigate the French healthcare system. But once again, help came in the form of angels—nurses, hospital staff, and administrative workers—who quietly and compassionately ensured Mom received the care she needed, regardless of the expired paperwork.

In the end, all her bills were covered, a testament to the grace of a system and the people within it who prioritize compassion over red tape. I was deeply humbled by their quiet bienveillance.

Any challenges this year were punctuated by joys. In February, raising a glass of l’eau pétillante, I toasted to 21 cherished years of sobriety. In July, Jean-Marc and I celebrated our 30th anniversary and in October my dad, sisters, and I reunited on a Mediterranean cruise! You know it’s been a good year when you get to dig out your wedding dress and wear it twice (once for our anniversary dinner and again for the cruise’s White Night party).

In the fall, the tables turned, and I experienced an unexpected health issue. Physical therapy and the support of friends and family got me through. This year, I meant to reach out to others, but instead, they reached out to me. From locals at the market, to loved ones, and the medical angels who showed up when we needed them most, I was reminded again and again of the quiet ways grace flows into our lives.

Recalling everyone who played a part in this period of our lives, I owe so much to my readers. Thank you for helping me realize my goal of writing another year of stories--these essays will soon be published in the book A Year in a French Life. 

To those who followed my blog, commented, emailed, and encouraged me—you may not know it, but your support kept me showing up at the blank page, typing away. Writing isn’t something I can do in isolation.  A weekly deadline in which I report to you here provides just enough pressure to “gather all the butterflies”—or happenings—and settle them into a meaningful story. I'm learning to live with the anxiety, though I sometimes think, Why not just settle down in the garden and let the butterflies be? Wouldn’t that be more relaxing? I do not know what drives me to write, but your presence gives me the strength to keep sharing.

Special thanks to my book angels at TLC Book Design: Tami Dever, for taking on this book project and helping to market it, to Erin Stark, for designing the beautiful interior and for all her detailed work, thoughts, prayers, and valuable time, and to Monica Thomas, for the wonderful series of book covers she created so that readers could pick the winner!

Mille mercis from the heart to my dedicated proofreaders Rajeev Bansal, Liz Caughey, and Sara Rubin—thank you for your invaluable feedback, dedication, and precious time spent correcting this manuscript. To Chief Grape, chief of my heart, Jean-Marc, to Mom, and to my family, near and far, thank you for your 24/7 love and encouragement. And to my longtime bestie, Susan Boehnstedt, a.k.a. Rouge-Bleu, for your timely WhatsApp check-ins—a needed diversion from the daily act of juggling life.

One year ago, I never imagined the quartet of helpers who would come into our home: un grand merci to the nurses, Nathalie, Roland, and Nicolas, and to our fée du logis, Fiona, who is like a daughter. Finally, thanks to my frères et sœurs at Église Évangelique Baptiste. France will always be a foreign land, but this little church feels as familiar as home.

As I sit here, watching the waves roll in along the shore in La Ciotat, I am overwhelmed by reconnaissance. These past twelve months weren’t what I imagined, but they taught me to open my heart and receive the help of others.

The phrase I mentioned earlier, bon bout d’an, is often followed by another: et à l’an que ven—“and to the coming year.” I leave you with many cheers and hope the new year finds you open-hearted, and ready to receive countless blessings. When you get the chance, lie in a garden and wait quietly for the butterflies or angels—grace in whichever form it may appear.

***


An end-of-year blessing to share: Mom is painting again! She is working on this scene of our house and garden. That's going to be me and Smokey (lower right), as this painting was begun before our golden retriever passed away.

COMMENTS
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FRENCH VOCABULARY

Sound file: Click here to listen to Jean-Marc pronouce the French words below

la reconnaissance = acknowledgement, gratefulness
bon bout d'an = happy end of the year
le temps vole = time flies
l’émerveillement (m) = awe 
l'ophtalmologue (nmf) = opthlamologist
la bienveillance = kindness, goodwill
l’eau pétillante (f) = sparkling water
mille mercis = a thousand thanks
un grand merci = a big thank-you
la fée du logis = house helper
mes frères et sœurs = my brothers and sisters
bon bout d'an et à l'an que ven = Provençal for happy end of the year and to the coming year

REMERCIEMENTS/THANKS
Mille mercis for your generous donations and unwavering support, which make it possible to publish this journal and bring my forthcoming book to life. ❤️

Jim S.
Beth M.
Tom D.
Patti S.
Chris A.
Odile G.
Share G.
Ashok S.
Karen M.
Susan B.
Nancy G.
Kathy K.
Laurie F.
Alicia A.
Rajeev B.
Mazzie W.
Douglas R.
Barbara A.
Kathleen C.
Rob & Debbie B.
Mary Catherine L.

"Over many years, you have become the good friend I will never be able to meet. You, your thoughts, your photos, your family are always welcome." --Barbara A.

The following story is a reminder it's the thought that counts, so don't stress over gift-giving this season (easier said than done, I know...)

TODAY'S PHRASE: C'est le geste qui compte

[say-luh zhest kee kohnt]

 : it's the thought that counts

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

Entering the studio on the side of our house, I find Mom bundled in bed, laptop propped on a pillow, watching the exciting réouverture de Notre-Dame in Paris. Organ music fills the room, and the iconic église, now rebuilt after the devastating fire five and a half years ago, sparkles brightly from Jules’s side. But no matter how glorious the event on the screen, Mom will shut it off to give her full attention to her visitor.

Since our golden retriever Smokey passed away, and 20-year-old Lili the cat moved back to the neighbor’s (unwilling to share the yard with Ricci), Mom’s ever-present companion has become her laptop. Connected to the speaker Max gave her, for better sound, Jules’s computer has become her portal to limitless adventures. With a single click, she’s back with her neighborhood horses in a barrio in Mexico, tending stray dogs in Greece, or soaring over France’s beloved cathedral for a view far better than even the president's!

Sliding shut the front door, I set down my keys and phone and join Mom in her world, sharing her excitement or concern, depending on the news she’s watching. However different our views on politics and current events may be at times, we try not to get too caught up in these passing emotions. Peu importe, the two of us always seem to find a truce over food.

“I’ve made another pompe à l’huile,” I say, grinning. “Version number three. Want to try it?”

“That sounds good! You go ahead, Honey. I’ll be right over.”

I head back, with Ricci trotting close behind. High up on a branch of our bay laurel tree, resident doves, Mama and Papa, follow our every move. Moments later, Mom arrives with two polished apples, les reines des Reinettes (“queen of queens”). She places them on our coffee table as if part of a still life. When invited over for a snack or a meal, Jules's automatic response is reciprocity: her spontaneous gifts range from canned peppers to sautéed shrimp to ice cream cones. Offer Mom flowers in a tall glass vase, and she’ll divide the bouquet in two, creating an elaborate tableau vivant—a living picture—by arranging the second half artfully in a clay bowl for my coffee table.

It’s a lovely reminder of a timeless custom and a simple truth: il ne faut jamais arriver les mains vides (never arrive empty-handed). While we're here, and before we return to our narrative, here are a few more thoughts in French concerning gift-giving:

--C'est le geste qui compte
--Donner, c’est mieux que recevoir
--Le cadeau n'est rien, c'est l'intention qui compte

“Your tree looks beautiful with the lights,” Mom says, entering through the sliding glass door, taking Ricci into her lap after settling on the couch.
“Do you think I should add ornaments? I’ve got blue stars and reindeer…”
“I would leave it just as it is!”
“I like that idea!”

Presently, les santons—what clay figurines we have left—are crowded at the base of the olive tree. After Jean-Marc borrowed la crèche for his wine shop a few years back, a few characters disappeared. A quick inventory reveals we still have le porteur d’eau, la bergère, les trois mages—and Joseph—but no sign of Mary, and, good lord, Jesus has gone missing! But there’s time to find him (yes, it’s never too late to find Jesus!).

“What do you want for your birthday?” Mom changes the subject.

“You already got me something: I’ve ordered the fluffy wool faux fur coussin for my writing chair.”

“Good! Now let’s get you something else!”

I stop to revel in Mom’s generosity when suddenly she asks, “How old will you be?”

“57.”

“57! You should have a present every day!”

“Aw, Mom. What about you? What would you like for Christmas?”

“Pajamas. I want my whole wardrobe to be pajamas!”

I laugh and hug her, a warm, unspoken understanding passing between us. No matter our ups and downs this past year, Mom will always be the apple of my eye, the queen of queens—just like those polished Reinettes she brought me.

It's these little moments—the laughter, the shared joy—that are the gifts that keep on giving. Whether for Christmas, birthdays, or any day, time with a loved one is the most precious cadeau of all.

*    *     *

And now, from our home to yours, Joyeux Noël! See you in a few weeks for the very last edition of the year....

Photo taken on my birthday, three years ago, after Mom got me matching pajamas.

COMMENTS/CORRECTIONS
Your messages and your eagle eye in spotting typos are encouraging and helpful! Click here to comment. Merci!

FRENCH VOCABULARY

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

c'est le geste qui compte= it’s the thought that counts
la réouverture = the reopening
Notre-Dame (f) = cathedral in Paris
l’église (f) = church
peu importe = no matter what
la pompe à l’huile = traditional olive oil bread
la reine des Reinettes = queen of queens (type of apple)
le tableau vivant = living picture
il ne faut jamais arriver les mains vides = never arrive empty-handed
donner, c’est mieux que recevoir = giving is better than receiving
le cadeau n'est rien, c'est l'intention qui compte = the gift is nothing; it's the intention that counts
le santon = figurine from a Provençal nativity scene
le porteur d’eau = water carrier
la bergère = shepherdess
les trois mages = the three wise men
le coussin = cushion
le cadeau = gift
Joyeux Noël = Merry Christmas

Lili the cat update: 20-year-old Lili, who moved in with Mom after Smokey passed away, has always been an outdoor cat, but for the past year, she has preferred to stay inside, where she is cozy in our neighbor's armoire. Sadly, Lili's 15-year-old daughter recently passed away at our neighbor's, where both cats lived.

Our doves, Mama and Papa, befriended Mom when she moved here 6 years ago. Though Smokey and Lili are gone, this sweet pair of tourterelles are as close to mom as any. "Mama" has a white patch on her left wing, and "Papa" is never far from her, making it easy to identify the two.


Photo taken at les roches plates in La Ciotat. The texture of this rock reminds me of the surface of the pompe à l'huile, or crumbly olive cake I made recently. How did yours turn out?

REMERCIEMENTS/THANKS
I'd like to express my heartfelt appreciation to the following readers for their helpful donations to this blog!

Karen L.
Linda R.
Cerelle B.
Michèle C.
Sue & Charlie JP

Thanks for the weekly smiles and sunshine. —Karen L.

Joyeux Noël to you, Jean-Marc, Jules, and your kids! —Linda R.

Have a Blessed Christmas, Kristin and thanks for the recipes. Hugs. —Cerelle


A mid-December hike with Ricci in the hills above La Ciotat, offering a glimpse of the wintry Mediterranean Sea beyond the crumbling ruins

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
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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