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 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.

Buggy Ride Back in Time With Lil’ Prince of Gaydon

How about a buggy ride back in time through an enchanting village in England’s heartland? Mormor, (that’s me) is driving! Mormor is grandmother in Norwegian, giving a nod to my Norwegian mom and our family in Norway. Lil’ Prince of Gaydon (nickname I gave my grandson) and I are taking a wild ride through town!

Gaydon, though not mentioned distinctly from Chadshunt in the Domesday Book of 1086, was a separate settlement. It became known as Gaidon by the late twelfth century, taking its name from the proper name “Gaega” and the Old English word for hill “dun”.

Homeward Bound

Gaydon is at the gateway to the Cotswolds in the Stratford-on-Avon District of Warwickshire. Surrounded by rolling hills and rich farmland, Gaydon is known for its picturesque countryside and meandering walking trails. While the rest of the England races by with its twenty-first century angst, the 500 or so residents of Gaydon can chill away from the big city hustle in a community where time stood still.

I bundle Lil’ Prince into his buggy and wheel down his street lined by stately, red brick homes with colonial windows. As we pass by, I wave to the young couple next door and hope for a sneak of their new baby.

It’s a boy!

Lil’ Prince will have a new playmate soon.

Allez op, off we go ‘round the cul-de-sac and down the other side of the street past the home of the proprietors of the local pub, The Malt Shovel.

On the corner, the decrepit Gaydon Inn, notorious in the eighteenth century for violent highwaymen, still stands, barely. In 1725, a Parliamentary Act brought the stagecoach trade to the village, increasing Gaydon Inn’s importance. It has since has fallen into disrepair due to zoning laws.

Across the street on Banbury Road, a busy highway for commuter rushing to the cities, the Esso station and a quick stop shop, reminds me modern civilization is never far away.

We turn and wind along Church Street, which leads us to the St. Giles Church, as does Church Lane. Like in yesteryear, all roads lead to the church.

Now at the site of original thirteenth century medieval chapel, the current one was rebuilt in the gothic revival style of the mid 1800s. Only the bell survived from the original church, but worn gravestones from past centuries remain in the churchyard.

Lil’ Prince appears to be enthralled by the bewitching stories I spin of ghosts lurking among the ancient tombstones tilting in the heavy Warwickshire fog.

“They look like Hobbit Houses!” I exclaim pointing out low stone dwellings across the lane from the churchyard. Anyone in my family would have to duck to enter the doorway, but I would love to see inside even if had to crawl through the visit.

Just past the church, in front of the town parish, I read aloud the Parish Council News and update Lil’Prince on village events. Next to town hall, a white stone, blue-shuttered thatched-roof house stands magnanimously.

Next we stop to admire the Manor House on Kineton Road, which dates back to the seventeenth century. Surrounding the village, open fields, farms and estates, date back to the nineteenth century and bear the titles Manor Farm, Gaydon Farm, Gaydon Hill Farm, Gaydon Field Farms and Poplars Farm.

: Thatched Roofed Stone House

: Eclectic Town Hall

: Poplars Farm

“How about that?” I laugh as I tell the Prince, “Now we are on Pimple Lane.”

Then, we stroll past the local village shop that opened May 2010. Volunteers run, the non-profit coop providing local produce, homemade gifts and daily essentials.

Last stop, The Malt Shovel, the local pub, which offers a cozy welcome to village life. With baby in tow, we pop in for a quick pint of apple cider, popular in the region.

This village is definitely worth a look see, but,”shh don’t tell anyone.”

If I advertised this gem, villagers would be dismayed. Gaydon’s natural beauty, unaltered by tourist buses, gift shops and fast food joints, is part of its charm.

Like the British would say, “Gaydon is a great place to stop and ‘ave a nosy.’”

Raclette – a Franco Swiss Favorite For 400 Years

Natives living in the French Savoie region or in the Swiss Alps will argue ’til the cows come home over who first invented raclette, but everyone who tries this traditional cheese/potato dish agrees it’s great. Raclette is thought to be at least 400 years old and remains popular today.

For centuries, herders in Europe’s mountainous regions have survived on this simple dish of boiled potatoes covered in melted cheese.

During its production, the raclette cheese is washed with salted water and bacteria smears. It must rest in a cave (real or man-made) with 100% humidity and a temperatures of about 60 degrees F,° which accelerates the breakdown of the protein and fat, creating different flavors, nutty, creamy and a bit buttery and aromatic when heated.

On every visit home to Switzerland, my adult kids request raclette. Instead of the traditional equipment meant for the half cheese, we use an electric grill with individual serving trays and raclette cut into portions. Since moving to the mountains, we decided to try the authentic dish.

As you enter our village of St. Cergue, the Beef’n Cheese Restaurant is easy to locate off the round-about. A giant, red ceramic cow with a white cross symbolizing the Swiss flag, stands on the balcony. Locals stop for a beer at the cafe table out front.

The interior of the restaurant is a bit kitsch, but charming with its spotted cow upholstered chairs, long wooden tables, a wall-sized hearth and local decor. Cow bells hang from wooden beams, antique skis stick out of giant milk jugs and ski posters from the 40’s decorate the walls.

Our waitress brought us a half a wheel of cheese melting on the authentic raclette machine. Gerald tilted the wheel and scraped the top layer of cheese onto our plate of unpeeled potatoes. Raclette comes from the French word "racler," which means to scrape.

A basket filled with giant, marble-sized spuds are served with finger-sized vinegary cornichons and white cocktail onions. We ordered a side of charcuterie, a wooden cutting board laden with ham off the bone, jambon cru (dried beef) and dried saucisson à l’ail (garlic).

The “all you can eat” meal costs 31CH ($35) per person, which for a Swiss tourist town, is not unreasonably expensive. Traditionally, raclette is served with white wine, but our Frenchman ordered a Scramble Noir, a sublime red blend of five different grape varieties. Red or white wine, whatever, the French and Swiss agree never drink water with raclette. It will make your stomach bloat in indigestion!

Raclette was added to the 2024 World Championship Cheese Contest in Madison, Wisconsin.
”I personally love it," John Jaeggi, a contestant, said. "When it's cold, it's OK. But melted, oh my gosh, it's really good."
Though less well known in the US, I’ve yet to meet an American that didn’t enjoy raclette.

“Trader Joe’s stocks this cheese around the holidays,” my best friend, who moved back to the States, says, “I call and order ahead before it even hits the shelves, so I can throw raclette parties all winter.”

Whenever anyone visits us in Switzerland, we share this convivial meal and create memories for guests to take home.

No matter how many visitors we’ve served, we will never beat the new record!

In Martigny, Switzerland on April 5th, organizers of 'The Biggest Raclette Party in the World` brought together 4,893 people, including 361 raclette- scrapers, to claim the title.

Proper British Tea in Warwick’s 500-year-old Oken Tea Rooms

On a recent trip to England, our son took us to visit historic Warwick, an enclosed city. The highlight of the afternoon for me was going for a proper English cream tea at the Oken Tea Rooms.

The Tea room is actually several quirky rooms of the 500 year old house where the wealthy merchant and former mayor, Thomas Oken, once lived near the Warwick Castle. The house of yesteryear is enchanting for its’ old world charm.

The walls of the half-gabled house slanted and the roof sagged, looking like a picture in a fairytale. When we walked into the reception area by the till, sacks of 30 different loose leaf teas - jasmine, lemon grass, mango, Japanese cherry and others - could be purchased along with other sweet treats like caramelized clotted cream nuggets.

The waitresses, donning aprons over casual slacks, shorts and T-shirts, bustled about looking like they stepped out of the back kitchen where they baked homemade cakes and scones. Patrons spilled out of the ground floor tea rooms, so our waitress led us up a rickety, winding, ancient staircase that made me feel like I stepped into the old nursery rhyme.

“There was a crooked man…He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,
And they all liv'd together in a little crooked house.”

We ducked under the doorway and stepped into the past of what looked like a parlor from the eighteen hundreds. Stuffed sofas and antique chairs surrounded wooden tables where families whiled away time sipping tea.

We squeezed around a low table designed for short-statured folks of earlier times. We folded our long legs; our knees knocked into the furniture.

The tea was served on crockery that looked like it came straight out of great granny’s china cabinet. The tea, served in individual pots, included a strainer to separate the tea leaves. Fist-sized, fluffy, light scones balanced on trays alongside ceramic bowls, one laden with strawberry jam and thick, clotted cream in the other.

One bite of a cream topped scone was bliss.

Hungrier visitors could enjoy a full lunch or dinner or you could make a meal out of Tea for Three option, presented on a cake trolley, with a tiered glass plate towering with scones, cakes and finger sandwiches cut in triangles.

The only thing missing from our traditional tea was our lovely British daughter-in-law. I wished she had been with us to explain the difference between low tea and high tea. She’d probably say what any British person would tell you, anytime is a good for “a cuppa.”