Easter Tradition in Normandy

Though Gérald and I will dine tête a tête this Sunday, our hearts are filled with memories of holidays past when our children were younger and we were surrounded by family. As with every celebration in France, Easter begins and ends à table.

Normandy is appreciated the most at mealtime when land and sea are perfectly marinated. Mamie cooks the traditional Easter favorite, leg of lamb. At the head of the table, Papie carves the tender meat fresh from a newborn romping on the rolling green hillside only days before. But back up, each course is an event worth savoring.

toasting champagne

First a toast of champagne and a light aperitif. Next is naturally an egg based, a soufflé as light as cotton candy, followed by a platter of seafood: shrimp, crab legs, clams, oysters, something for everyone’s palate.

The main lamb course is always served with flageolet, a mini lima bean, that reminds me of the word flatulence and of course, bean jokes inevitably enter the conversation, sending the children into gales of laughter. Mamie always has a special dish for every family member, so a garden of vegetables -beans, broccoli, potatoes, spinach, tomatoes - also grows out of the linen tablecloth.

The children eat with the adults where they risk being reprimanded to sit up straight. However, I never notice table manners; my fork and knife are usually in the wrong hands. Softhearted Mamie excuses the grandkids early and they scamper upstairs to read Lucky Luke or Astérix comic books until called for dessert.

Each course is accompanied by wine, a light white Burgundy for the seafood starters and then a heavier Bordeaux for the meat and cheese. Every big meal is followed by a green salad and cheese platter with triangles of creamy local cheeses like Camembert and Pont L’Evêque.

family feast

Dessert always includes seasonal fruits, which in the spring means luscious strawberries. Like little elves, the children reappear to gobble up berries dipped in fresh cream. The kids magically disappear again when they smell the coffee brewing. Papie ceremoniously opens the antique Normand hutch and pulls out his bottle of Calvados offering, “a little taste.” True Normands swear that the fiery apple brandy aids the digestion. During weddings and christenings, the “trou Normand,” a shot served on sorbet in the middle of the feast, is customary.

boy with easter basket

Throughout each course a lively repartee of sarcasm, word play and arguments ensue that to a soft-spoken Norwegian American sounds like verbal abuse, but is only part of the French art de vivre and their love of language and debate.

Just when you think your belly will burst, Mamie rings a bell and the children race downstairs, for in France, bells, not bunnies, deliver eggs. As a token of mourning for crucified Christ, church bells remain silent from Good Friday until Easter Sunday. On Easter, when the chimes ring again, children rush outside to see the bells fly home to Rome, after dropping chocolate Easter eggs from the sky.

The children crowd onto the wrought iron balcony to find eggs tucked behind the potted geraniums and tulips. While they devour the chocolate figurines, the adults, too, savor a delicacy from the local chocolate shop . Everyone moans of stomachaches and swears they will never eat again, but a few hours later after a stroll by the sea, we are à table again discussing the favorite French topic, food.

Endearing Tradition – Swiss Celebrate Seniors With Christmas Dinner

In one of its most endearing traditions, Swiss villages celebrate their seniors by hosting the annual Christmas dinner for retirees. The “Repas de Noël” has become a beloved part of the holiday festivities.

In St-Cergue, at the community center next to the grade school, a few hundred retirees gathered around long tables to share fondue. Not the classic cheese fondue one associates with Switzerland, instead Vaud, like all 26 Swiss cantons, has adopted a variation of the Chinese fondue to celebrate Christmas Eve.

After individual starters of grated carrots and paté, we passed plates of veal, pork, chicken and beef provided by our local butcher. We skewered the thinly sliced meat on long forks and dipped them in slow-simmering broth in Chinese fondue pots. The meat was accompanied with rice and different sauces, ranging from curry-flavoured mayonnaise to zingy relishes.

For dessert, we savored the traditional Buche de Noel or yule log, a rolled sponge cake, with layers of buttercream. This extraordinary favorite had a local twist. It was crafted by a former pastry chef who perfected his art in prestigious French restaurants. To our great fortune Julien Maslanka relocated to Switzerland where he opened four different patisseries including Le Comptoir du Vieux Chateau à St-Cergue on our main street.

In a serendipitous stroke of luck, I sat next to an interesting jazz musician and a friendly, outgoing woman, who gave me all the contacts and links to activities for citizens in the community. When she saw me scribbling in my pocket notebook, I explained that I wrote a blog sharing European experiences.

“Oh, I have to introduce you to our American writer!” she said clapping her hands. Then she led me to a table to introduce me to a short, white-haired fellow with twinkly blue eyes who had lived in Switzerland for fifty-five years.

Then after the municipal employees took a bow on stage, the seniors gave a hearty applause in appreciation for their public services, especially for their swift snow plowing of our streets.

A senior dance group performed a polka, school children sang holiday songs, and then we joined in singing along to a French translation of Gloria in Excelsis Deo.

The only shadow on the festivities, was finding out that we lost our petition to save our local post office, which closes in 2026.

The convivial atmosphere resumed, when the master of ceremony invited us to pop open the tubes of confetti in a jovial grand finale.

Wherever you live dear friends and readers, however you celebrate the season, I wish you peace, health and hope for 2026.

Happy holidays from X-Pat & ze Frenchman in "Santa's Village" Switzerland!

The Village Shop, Soul of the Town

In a nondescript, brick building across from the Malt Shovel Pub, Gaydon’s Village Shop opened in May 2010 as a non-profit co-op where volunteers provide locals with staples and simple necessities that households might run out of on a weekend.

The shop’s shelves were stacked with a hodgepodge of essential toiletries like shampoo, soap, deodorant, toilet paper and toothpaste, as well as milk, eggs, butter and cheese and a limited selection of fruits and vegetables, canned goods, pasta and cereals.

Surprisingly, the Village Shop also sold fresh pastries and bread delivered daily from a bakery in the hamlet just down the road.

Beverages, such as bottled water, alcohol, beer, wine, cider, juice and sodas are also available for purchase.

I perused the shelves with childlike wonder. I picked up a chunk of cheddar, waved it at the woman behind the counter and asked, “Do you have grated cheese?”

“No” the lady at the till told me, “but I have grater at home that you can borrow.” Then, she picked up the phone and called her daughter and asked her bring it over.

Minutes later, the shop doorbell jingled and her daughter dashed in and handed me the family’s cheese grater.

Meanwhile, as we were talking, a middle aged man walked in with his father, who hobbled on an artificial leg from the knee down.

“Oh dear, what happened?”

“Felt my knee cap slip up me thigh when I fell,” the elder man told the woman at the cash register. “And that was my good leg!”

A spontaneous discussion between strangers unfolded as can only happen in these quaint, little communities where the time seemed to standstill.

Another shopper asked me, “Where you from?”

“Illinois,” I answered in my midwestern nasal twang. My very unBritish inflection was a dead giveaway.

“I’m from Normandy,” Gerald added in English with a heavy French accent.

“Normandy!” the elder gentleman exclaimed. “Lost my great uncle over there during The Landing. He was shot down parachuting over Ranville (towards Caen).”

“Me and dad were paratroopers,” the man’s son explained. “I parachuted in the WWII reenactment in Arnhem, Holland.”

Then the friendly fellow went on to recount his tales traveling to US and being in whiskey bar in Florida.

“We’ve just been to the pub,” the jovial, older man said, “Had a wee pint or two or three!”

Another young lady in the shop overheard us talking. She peeked into our baby buggy and asked, “Oooh, is that Nic and Larissa’s baby?”

“Yes,” I said beaming, “we are the proud grandparents.”

“I’m their neighbor,” she said.

“Glad to meet you!” I said. “I’ve heard so many nice things about you from our son and daughter-in-law; I feel like I know you already.”

If the Malt Shovel Pub is the heart of Gaydon, the Village Shop is its’ soul. Where else in the world does the pace slow enough to chat with locals, so trusting, that they’ll lend their own kitchen appliances to complete strangers?

Everyone feels at home at the Village Shop.

Even the “foreigners.”

The Malt Shovel Pub — A Pet Parrot, A Mascot Dog and Stories A-Go-Go

The ol’ pub (aka public house) has been a part of British culture for centuries.
England is known for its cozy and welcoming pubs; the best pubs create a sense of belonging, a place to be that isn’t home, but can become like a second family. Gaydon’s eclectic Malt Shovel is no exception.

The altered building, made of Hornton Stone, an ironstone found nearby on the Burton Dassett Hills, was first referenced in 1849 as an unnamed beer house. In 1874, it became known as the Malt Shovel when it was licensed to Robert Ayres.

Just off junction 12 of the M40, the Malt Shovel, opened daily, serves fresh, locally sourced food and a wide selection of cask ales, lagers, wines, spirits and soft drinks.

Everyone is welcome here including four legged friends. Though tolerated in many pubs, at The Malt Shovel, pets are offered their own doggie menu.

The pub has so many personal touches — a cozy, reading corner on a deck, stained glass windows, its’ own mascots, a parrot, a miniature schnauzer and knick knacks galore.

In addition to the special doggy menu, the proprietors’ humor can be seen in the proposed children’s menu.

-I don’t care (chicken nuggets, skinny fries)
-I’m not hungry (bangers & mash)
-I don’t know (chicken nuggets, fries? whatever (burger, skinny fries)
…all served with choice of beans or peas) bubble & steak, homemade pizza

When we stopped in for a drink, the man at the table behind us was sneaking fries to the schnauzer waiting patiently beside his table.

“Can I take a picture of your dog?” I asked.

“Of course,” the man said and chuckled, “but Belle’s not mine. She belongs to the pub owner.”

Sure enough, the little, gray and white dog had his own doggie couch where he could reign over the bar.

The man, a friendly trucker, pointed to the names written in chalk on wood beams around the bar,

“See the names up there?” He explained. “They were people who worked for JLR (Jaguar Land Rover) engineering centers at the edge of Gaydon on the land that was once an air strip of the RAF.”

Many of the patrons lining the bar look like they just finished a work shift and stopped in for a quick pint on their way home.

The charismatic pub was cozy and charming. Gemutlich. Nicknacks decorated the walls, including a tea pot collection.

“Where you from?” The trucker asked.

“Illinois,” I told him and then added, “My husband’s French.

“Where about in France?” he asked Gerald.

“Normandy on the coast.”

“Ever heard of a tiny place called Trouville?” the trucker asked.

Gerald about fell off his chair. “That’s where I grew up.”

“ I hauled a load there,” the trucker said.

“What do you haul?”

“Blacktop and gravel when they strip the road to repave.”

“What kind of truck you drive?”

He pulled his phone out and showed me pictures of his rig.

“Drove all across France, but grew up in Warwick,” he said, “Now I live in Casablanca. When I’m on the road, I live in my truck.”

As we were leaving, I thanked the bartender and told him, “We’re just visiting, but our son and daughter-in-law moved to the area.”

“Oh I know them,” the bartender said, “they live across street from me!”

It’s a small, small world!

In the spirit of the ol’ English pubs, The Malt Shovel unites people still today.

Celebrating the class of ’75 SHS Forever

This weekend at my alma mater, Sterling High School Class of 1975 celebrates its’ 50th reunion. Sadly, the Big Pond and 4000 miles that separate us makes it impossible for me to drop in, but pieces of my heart never left home.

Born by the Rock River in Illinois, I grew strong in my family (McKinzie) in my hood (19th street) and within the halls of Sterling High School.

The baby boomer names— Bob, Doug, Mike, Chris, Deb, Sue, Pat— of my classmates, no longer common, have gone out of style.

Over the past half century, names aren’t the only thing that has changed.

Back then, cell phones hadn’t been invented. Instead we dialed friends’ numbers on land lines and tied up the family phone for hours as we spread gossip and sorted out teen dramas.

Text messages, huh? We communicated by flicking hand written notes across the class room on paper folded into tiny footballs.

In spring of ’75, Bill Gates and Paul Allen founded Microsoft computer software, but my peers and I practiced the hunt and peck method on type writers. Anybody remember those antique machines?

Boys jostled in the halls and teased the girls, but dangerous bullies back then did not exist. Today’s 21st century bullies lurk on social media spewing hatred and vitriol. Predators hide online; deviants use AI to create fake photos and identities and blackmail innocent victims. Cyber bullying destroys teenagers’ lives.

In the 70’s, our streets were safer; outside threats smaller. We lined up on the playgrounds during fire drills and hid under our desks in tornado warnings. But no one could ever imagine a school shooting.

No one died at school.

Nobody owned guns except deer hunters.

Back then, we walked through the open school gates freely. Now security guards check backpacks at the door and roam the halls sweeping lockers for guns. Active shooting drills have become the norm.

As high schoolers in the ‘70s, we did stupid stuff. We hung out in cars, but nobody owned their own wheels. We cruised in our parents’ vehicles, spinning grease laps around McD’s, running Chinese fire drills at stop lights, pitching toilet paper out windows to TP trees.

My class was notorious for the “Moon Mobile!” Bare butts hanging in the wind became a common sighting!

Our shenanigans were annoying, but innocent.

Our greatest transgression — streaking (running buck naked) across the football field under the Friday night lights. We had slumber parties and seances and summer jobs.

“What’s happenin?” 70s gave way to the shake your bootie disco days of the 80’s. We grew up to the background beat of Motown and Springsteen’s “Born to Run,” during the Vietnam War Era, moon landings and Watergate.

At the time, we never appreciated the opportunities Sterling provided, giving us the chance to pursue our interests and hone skills in outstanding facilities. Drama club, robed choir, marching band, dance, pom poms, cheerleaders, chess, debate and sports a go go.

Not for girls.

Not right away. But when Title IX started rolling, we were one of the first schools in Illinois to provide girls’ competitive sport programs.

Back then, I probably had a chip on my shoulder because I wanted to play ALL sports like my male peers. But I was lucky to come of age at the tip of Title IX and be there at the beginning—first girls’ teams, first female Roscoe Eades recipient, first women’s athletic college scholarship recipient, first women’s pro basketball league (WBL) draftee.

I will always have a special affinity for the class of 75, but after graduation, age differences blur. Once we tossed that blue cap to wind, we all became proud alumni. In retrospect, boomers raised in big families had so many siblings at SHS at the same time, class distinctions never mattered.

I recall my older brother’s talented class of 73, with his brainy bunch of friends headed to the Ivies, and equally exceptional athletes off to the Big Ten. I’ll always remember the Sweet Sixteen boy’s basketball team that let me play in pick-up games, long before girl’s hooping was a thing. And who could ever forget my lil sister’s winning Illinois’ 1st girls’ state basketball championship in 1977.

Did we appreciate our fortune surmounting those challenging rights of passage on our campus, as impressive as any university? For a blink in history, we shared a common bond. We grew up in the same place, at the same a time, when graduation to adulthood was simpler, safer, saner.

We were basically good kids.

If we ever failed to toe the line at SHS, we had great character-building role models, teachers, coaches and administrators who held us accountable and made us own our mistakes.

We learned lifelong lessons of dependability, honesty and integrity through team participation and performances in the arts and sports.

Sadly, since those carefree times, we have lost family members and loved ones, including friends from our graduating class, like Mouse, Bob, Jay, Laurie and others.

Many classmates attending our 50th reunion will have replaced worn out body parts, survived heart attacks, endured cancer, COVID and other chronic diseases.

My old friends will gather to celebrate, to watch a football game, tour the SHS campus and reminisce about the good ol’days!

Somewhere across the globe, a tall, slender gal will raise a glass in their honor.

Thanks for those magical 70’s memories.

Our Sterling years remain etched in gold forever.

Health Care Professionals Deserve Standing Ovation

I stopped blogging when overgrown connective tissue crippled my fingers from Dupuytren’s Contracture, a hereditary condition. A hand surgeon split my palm open, removed the diseased tissue and attempted to straighten my little finger. The dozens of ragged stitches across my hand healed, but on top of muscle memory, the tendons and ligaments pulled my finger back into a clawed position in a protective natural reaction.

If my pinky was the only problem, I could cope, but while addressing other ongoing health issues, doctors concluded my spine, damaged in too many areas, can’t be fixed. Nothing more can be done medically to alleviate my back problems. My knees are kaput too.

I limp along trying to remain upbeat.

And failing.

Never a candidate for back surgery, knee replacements loom ahead and my finger may be contracted forever. Un-huh. No way. No pity party for me. A hearty can-do cheer would be welcomed.

When my surgeon suggested I see an ergo-therapist,(occupational therapist, aka a hand specialist) for the first time, I thought, “oh no, another specialist!”

Then, I gave it a go.

After a half a dozen visits, the ergo-therapist put my hand in thin, plastic glove and dipped it in warm, melted wax. Then she kneaded my palm and finger to break up scar tissue, restore mobility and coax tendons to loosen their hold on the joint.

I fought back tears of frustration.

“Go ahead. Cry,” she said, patting my arm. “Progress is slow, so hard to see or measure.”

While I gathered my composure, she crafted splints to straighten my finger.

“Wear the hard, plastic orthotic at night; the velcro one in the day,” she instructed. “If it’s too uncomfortable, take it off. Wiggle your fingers. Go for a walk. Relax. Sometimes our bodies need to heal in their own time.”

My physical therapists and chiropractors, too, have always emphasized that mind/body connection. After my accidents, they partnered with me to help me recover and regain as much mobility as possible.

Modern medicine has evolved thousand-fold, but healing remains an ancient art. Those called to the profession — like my son, my daughter, my nieces — are gifted.

Lately, the medical field has been broadsided. Healthcare workers face endless scrutiny and skepticism under a tsunami of misinformation on social media and inaccurate directives from the authorities. That, along with major funding and resource cuts, make their job even harder.

Skilled surgeons helped spare my life, but it was auxiliary health care professionals — therapists, chiropractors, masseurs, counselors, nurses— that saved my broken heart when I wanted to give up.

Never underestimate the healing power of those dedicated people, whose soothing voice and gentle touch (like my “hand whisperer”) ease suffering and save souls.

They restored my faith in humanity.

Kindness matters.

More than ever.