TODAY’S WORD: “la cousinade” : a family gathering of cousins and extended relatives, often spanning several generations

EXAMPLE SENTENCE:
Depuis plus de trente ans, nous participons à la cousinade en Provence.
For more than thirty years, we’ve taken part in this family reunion in Provence.

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A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE by Kristi Espinasse

Manhattan to Munich, Munich to Marseille. Et voilà. Just like that, our daughter is back in France for a two-week visit.

“That’s one of the perks of working with children,” Jackie says—all the school holidays.

Our nouveau New-Yorker arrived just in time for a lively cousinade, a stone’s throw from where she was born: Aix-en-Provence and its magnificent Sainte-Victoire mountain range.

Max drove us to the family reunion while Jackie redirected my attention to the serene white-tipped montagnes, trying to reassure me after I became fixated on the fact that we were fifteen minutes late.

“Mom, relax. We’re not late. We call this le quart d’heure Marseillais,” Max said, reminding me that arriving a little late is normal around here. No matter how normal, I still find it nerve-racking to arrive fashionably late in France.

Midway along a country road flanked by vineyards and stone cabanons, we spotted the bastide. A row of blooming lilacs draped it like a royal coat. The house belonged first to Sabine’s grandparents, then to her parents, Annie and André. When Sabine married Jean-Marc’s cousin, François, les jeunes mariés made it their forever home, too.

“Since before you were born,” I told Jackie, “we’ve been coming here,” enjoying Christmas beside Sabine’s wonderful crèche…or Easter, when the tulips bloom in front of the house, near the foot of the vineyard. 

Coming around the side of the massive bastide, beyond soft purple wisteria, we saw the cousins—well, half of them. The other half were here just last week. We’ve grown too numerous to gather all at once (or align schedules), so Sabine kindly organized two get-togethers. 

It seems our Châteauneuf-du-Pape cousins enjoyed a chasse aux œufs in the vines last Sunday…

“What? No more Easter egg hunt for us?” Max smiled, as Sabine met him beside the massive platane—the tree that seems to anchor our hellos and goodbyes. With nearly 20 family members to greet, we circled in for la bise, exchanging kisses and laughter.

We added our two tarts to the apéro table beside Muriel’s tourte au fromage and Cécile’s citronnade. Max listened as his aunt shared her recipe, “Take six lemons. Peel two and reserve the skins…” while I looked around at all the family members, some 33 years after I first met them at one of these picnics (a little nervous, I got super tipsy—it took years to get over the embarrassment). So much change and growth—how lucky we were to be here today—never mind the chilly weather. 

Beyond, François stood at the grill, tending to les moules. Marinated in a generous amount of olive oil and a hearty sprinkling of Mexican spices, they were delicious—une tuerie! And this was only the beginning. Over the next hours, in the salle de bringue, a rustic parade of dishes would follow—lièvre, sanglier, agneau—Annie’s tender, homegrown chickpeas, a sprawling cheese board, and desserts enough to rival any pâtisserie window. 

Between conversations with cousins and second cousins, I linked arms with Jackie and led her back to the old platane, beside which a lively game of boules was underway. There, on the front of the massive tree, in its puzzle-like exterior, a rusty metal box stood out.

“Notice the mailbox?”

My daughter reached out to touch it.

“When we first brought you here, it was fully visible.”

To think almost three decades had passed. But the mailbox was there generations before, when the mailman would pass this way, slipping letters inside. “Lettres d’amour—love letters,” the family likes to joke—but not avec recommandé! (no registered mail—which often brings bad news).

Now the trunk had grown around it, the bark folding in, year after year, until the little metal box was nearly absorbed—deep inside the tree’s widening embrace.

Every time we visit Sabine’s farmhouse to reunite with the family, it’s a joy and a comfort to see this simple phénomène de nature: the bark continuing to grow around whatever rests against it. An enfolding. Very much like this generous Provençal family, who took us in all those years ago—and, like the tree, never let go.

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That’s all for now. I hope you’ve enjoyed today’s story. I’m going to hurry off now, as we have a special guest joining Jackie this week. Can you guess who?

I leave you with the rest of this edition and a sprinkling of photos from the beautiful countryside chez Sabine. And if you see any “coquilles”, or typos, in my stories, thanks for letting me know.

FRENCH VOCABULARY

la cousinade = family reunion

le quart d’heure Marseillais = the habit of arriving 15 minutes late (Marseille-style timing)

la bastide = country house (Provençal estate)

les jeunes mariés = the newlyweds

la crèche = nativity scene

la chasse aux œufs = Easter egg hunt

le platane = plane tree

la bise = cheek kiss greeting

la tourte au fromage = cheese pie

la citronnade = lemonade

les moules = mussels

la salle de bringue = party room

le lièvre = hare

le sanglier = wild boar

l’agneau = lamb

le phénomène de nature = natural phenomenon

les lettres d’amour = love letters

le courrier recommandé = registered mail

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