Category: Savoring the Olde Ways (Page 7 of 9)

By Carole J. Bumpus

The few remaining WWII veterans of the U.S. Army’s 3rd Infantry Division (Rock of the Marne) are sleeping in their own beds tonight, their whirlwind anniversary tours du France a dim but savored memory.  None were able to return this year for the 75^th anniversary, but they can rest assured that they were celebrated all the same—whether in body or spirit—at the anniversary of the Southern Landing on the French Beaches (or Second D-Day) each August 15^th.

As this Veteran’s Day approaches, I’m wondering what these elderly men will dare to dream?  Will these Octogenarians and Nonagenarians dream of the few brief days they were celebrated as heroes in the south of France? Certainly, the friends and family members, who didn’t accompany them on these tours, will never understand.  The U.S. nation rarely grasps their valiant participation—in yet another D-Day. Will time separate them from the richness of French gratitude extended during their illustrious eleven-day tours?  If our veterans could hold on to only a few of the words delivered by French dignitaries and the hundreds (literally thousands) of men, women and children who came forth to honor them, lo these seventy-five years, then maybe their dreams each night have been sweeter.

Every year, on August 15^th, the anniversary of the infamous Southern Landing on French beaches (or the Second D-Day) begins on three beaches of the Côte d’Azur—Pampelonne near St. Tropez, at La Croix Valmer and Cavalaire-sur-Mer.  In years past, our men, despite being crippled by old age, stood tall and participated in all commemorative events.  They laid wreaths on the memorials of their fallen comrades, participated in parades, and were honored and celebrated with receptions, speeches, dinners, and fireworks displays.  Thousands were in attendance to cheer them on.

The following days of their ten-day trip found our veterans continuing north—along their original liberation tour—stopping at each of the villages (twenty-five in all) along the Rhone River, through the French Alps, the Vosges Mountains, into the infamous Colmar Pocket and ending in Strasbourg. The journey ended each year in a regal reception given for them in a former palace in Strasbourg, or at Chateau Thierry outside of Paris.  Throughout the trip, the pomp of full military accord with color guards, military bands, veterans of the 1st French Army, the French Air Force and members of the French parliament along with wizened Partisans and former F.F.I. members met these ‘reluctant heroes’ to make certain they received their just due.  Through parades, festivals, commemorative ceremonies, including receiving the French Medal of Honor, plus during receptions, luncheons, speeches from mayors, vice mayors, Counselor Generals, even the President of France, the messages could be heard.  But, one of the clearest messages came from the hundreds of villagers who lent their cheers and their tears to the soldiers who had freed them. 

The veterans themselves stood tall and accepted their praise, but still after all these years, their quiet response was: “We were just doing our duty.”   Especially while standing before the sea of white crosses stretched across the fields of the American Cemeteries, such as Draguignon, Épinal and the American Lorraine cemeteries, their voices remained silent; their tears gave way to their heart-felt grief and sadness.  Comrades lost; dreams unrealized.

But, it was probably the letters written for the veterans and read by the children of Saulx de Vesoul and Bennwihr, which touched the men most deeply:  “We will never forget,” they read as their small, but clear voices reached forth, rising above the church bells which began to ring.  “We will never forget how you brought liberty to our beautiful country.”  “We will never forget that you saved us from the grip of tyranny and freed us.”  “Because of your sacrifice, peace is now our second religion.”  “Thank you for the sacrifice of your lives.”  Throughout the readings, the church bells continued to chime, ringing the bells of Freedom and Thanksgiving.

Yes, that was always the echoing refrain: “We will continue the memory of your deeds of liberation with our children and our children’s children,” the French told our men.  “We will remind them of the sacrifices you made for us,” the mayors of each city invoked.  “We will tell them how you, not much older than children yourselves, came to a foreign land to liberate us.  No, we will never forget!”

Sleep well, our ‘reluctant heroes’, for you have made our world safer and there are those who will never forget your sacrifice.  Yes, the second D-Day for the U.S. may not be well known, but in France you, as veterans, and your deeds will never be forgotten.

Happy Veterans Day to our own beloved veterans

Happy Veterans Day to the U.S. Army’s 3rd Infantry Division (Rock of the Marne)

Hello again Culinary Travelers, welcome back to my 2019 Book Tour:

Yes, September was a busy first month of the whirlwind tour since launching my latest book, Searching for Family and Traditions at the French Table.  But now that October is here, an even greater abundance of literary happenings is on the agenda. 

This coming week, I have a fun culinary affair scheduled at a local French bistro, Cuisinett French Comfort Food in San Carlos, CA., where Geoffroy Raby, owner, is going to be providing a little something from one of my latest French recipes. Come, sit back, sip an afternoon aperitif, as you munch on a little ‘amuse bouche’ and I will do my best to entertain you with a few excerpts from my book. 

• October 9, 2019 – 2:00 pm – 4 p.m.
  Book Reading – Cuisinett French Comfort Food
  San Carlos, CA. – Book Reading, Food / Cooking Event 

On Saturday afternoon, October 12^th, I will have the opportunity to participate in a special panel of women called:  Speaking Memory:  Remarkable Hidden Histories and Stories You Won’t Forget.  This is sponsored by the Women’s National Book Association and is an event celebrating National Reading Group Month, in collaboration with Litquake, San Francisco’s Literary Festival, a 10-day event celebrating writers of all genres.  Come and join the celebration of books and authors!

• October 12, 2019 – 3:00 pm to 6 p.m.
  Women’s National Book Association – Litquake Event – Book Passage
  San Francisco – Ferry Terminal Building
  Panel Discussion

* * * * * *

On the 15th of October, I have an extra-special day planned, as I begin the day celebrating my latest book with my dear friend, Josiane Selvage, (main character in my books) at the Towne Center Bookstore in historic downtown Pleasanton.  This is being touted as a ‘Croissant, Coffee and Culinary Reading with Carole,’ or something similar.  Come join me.

• October 15, 2019 – 11:00 am – 12:30 p.m.
  Book Reading and Signing – Towne Center Books
  Pleasanton, CA
  Book Reading

That evening, I will be hosting the California Writers Club – San Francisco Peninsula Branch in a celebration of local writers for California Writers Week at the San Mateo Main Library.  (In 2003, the California State Week for the celebration of local authors throughout all California libraries.) Sixteen of our own CWC authors will be given the opportunity to read from their own books, sell books, and have some of them placed in the San Mateo Library for check out.   A huge step for many self-published authors.

• October 15, 2019 – 6:00 pm – 8:45 p.m.
  California Writers Week Author Readings – San Mateo Main Library
  San Mateo
  Book Reading

* * * * * *

On the evening of the 24^th, I have been accepted into the highly esteemed arena of literature with five other award-winning authors to give a reading at Kepler’s Bookstore in Menlo Park.  This is a coup I’m proud to be a part of.  Purchase tickets below and do come join me. 

• October 24, 2019 – 7:00 pm
  Story is the Thing – Reading – Kepler’s Bookstore
  Menlo Park
  Book Reading with a Group of Six Authors

* * * * * *

Next month, you will find me riding high on the trail to Austin, Texas, where I will begin on November 2^nd at the infamous and much beloved bookstore, Book People.  If you are in the area, again, I would love to see you!  An amuse bouche and champagne may be served.  Stay tuned.

November 2, 2019 – 5:00 pm
Book Reading and Signing – Book People
Austin
Book Reading

Come out and join me at any time; any place!  I look forward to sharing this adventure with you!  Carole Bumpus

Spanish Traditional Cooking Class – Barcelona Cooking School

            Sweat poured down my cheeks, onto my neck and dripped down into my bra.  It was another extremely hot morning in Barcelona—July 4th to be exact—and one of the few days of this summer’s epic heat wave of Europe 2019.  Because I write about traditional cooking in my new culinary travel series, Savoring the Olde Ways, my husband and I were on a mission—to find the location of one special Spanish traditional cooking class known as, Just Royal BCN.  As noted in their brochures, it was to be a ‘gastronomic space, which for its idiosyncrasy and location in the heart of Barcelona at the Plaça Reial, was ideal.”   Whatever the “ideal” was meant to be, we had no idea, but at least we had found the Plaça Reial, which was the local plaza, where the cooking school was to be located.

            Slogging across the Rambla, a main thoroughfare in old Barcelona, skittering past motor scooters and an onslaught of cars, dodging between pedestrians and avoiding the collapse and spillage of a full cart of canned beer onto the sidewalk, we made our way into a courtyard.  As luck would have it, it was in yet another courtyard where we found the door, rang the buzzer, and were allowed to ascend to the third-floor apartment— (which in Europe, of course, is the fourth floor).  Oh, my! No elevator here!  Four floors of winding uneven steps on both wood and stone in a darkened stairwell, we wound up, up, up, until we were finally swept into a veritable blast of air-conditioned wonder.  As we headed to the nearest sofa to collapse, our cheerful host and cooking instructor, Teresa, thrust a couple of glasses of water into our hands.  Saved!

            Surprisingly, we were early, and I had a moment to look around the brightly lit, modern and nicely appointed rooms.  Black and white tile floors swept through the dining room (already formally set for ten) and sitting room with a white fireplace (not needed right now).  Vases with arrangements of driftwood and green plants. Chrome and white chairs, sofa and bar stools composed the sitting area.  And separating the modern cooking station with seating for ten was an ornate Moorish-style room divider. Classy!

            Within moments of our arrival, other stalwart sorts lumbered into the room, grabbed glasses of water, and before introductions could even be made, we were rushed out the door and back down those same dark steps—did I mention the darkness before?—and into the furnace of the day.  We were off to the Farmer’s Market, which was only a few short blocks away and right off the Rambla. 

            Now, I must tell you, I absolutely love the colorful array at a farmers’ market.  The displays and tables are piled high with the most luscious and lasciviously arranged red, purple and blue fruits, melons and berries.  Piles of pink shellfish with silver and black freshly caught seafood were cradled in troughs of ice.  Ah, but, assortments of fresh local cheeses, olives, Iberian ham and salami slices were held in second place to the famous acorn-fed Jamón Ibérico de Bellota (black hams) which were hanging on hooks wearing personalized black zip-off coats.  (Oh, this could set one back a whole month’s salary.)  Plus, there were displays of fresh pastries, almond candy nougat, saffron and more spices in abundance.  (Oh, but no black pepper and I’ll tell you about that later.)  My senses were on overwhelm on this magical whirlwind tour. No, we were not given time to purchase anything, yet I had discovered a treasure trove of edible delights and was in my glory.

            Teresa introduced us to her favorite purveyors, we bought only fresh tomatoes, took another quick look over our shoulders, and hurried back down the boulevard.  (She had shopped earlier that morning—6 a.m., I believe—for all the fresh seafood we would be preparing in the many different recipes she had in mind for us.)  Back up those lengthy steps we went, and before settling into our seats at the demonstration table, glasses of water were once again administered–and, oh, white wine was also served.  Okay now, we were ready.

            We donned our black aprons and leaned in close as Teresa began teaching us some of the finer points of Spanish cuisine.  “Some of you might consider Spanish food to be spicy,” she began, “but that is not the case. We love our food, but we do not love spicy food. So, if you find a black pepper shaker on a table in a restaurant, please know that it is only for you tourists.  We never touch the stuff!” she said with a lift of her chin.  And, then she smiled.  We were already eating out of her hand and . . . oh first we started with the preparation of tortilla de patatas, of which we needed to cut the onions, potatoes, break a few eggs, and boil the potatoes in two cups of olive oil. 

            “Two cups?” we wailed. 

            “Oh, my yes.  But we always reuse our olive oil. It is perfectly good for a number of days after its first use if stored well.” 

            We were dumbfounded.  Who knew?  I buy my olive oil through an olive oil club, which is much like a wine club, but not quite, and the price of a few precious ounces can give one pause for overuse.  It was obvious I had much to learn.  And, we still hadn’t started on the paella!

           In the course of three hours more, with plenty of ‘cooking’ wine to sustain us, we were able to participate in the creation of the Tortilla Patata, which is a potato omelet; Pescaito Frito (small fried fish); Catalan Cream (Spanish crème brulée); Spanish grilled jumbo shrimp; and—ta da!—seafood-filled Paella (with mussels, clams, calamari, squid, and jumbo shrimp, oh my!).  Definitely the freshest tasting and best paella I’ve ever encountered!  Well, you had to be there!  And, you could be, if you just contact the folks at Just Royal BCN the next time you are in Barcelona.  It was certainly an experience of a lifetime and one more peek inside another exciting culinary culture.  Olé!  Olé!

Carole Bumpus

www.carolebumpus.com

(A revised excerpt from A Cup of Redemption, an historical novel) 

“When were you born?” I asked Marcelle Zabé, my 83-year-old French guest.  My question must have floated out of the blue, but Marcelle immediately put her coffee cup down on the table and sat forward.  The deep lines in her face smoothed as her rich voice lifted.

“I came into the world with a bang!” Marcelle Zabé resounded. “Gunshots, shouts of wild rejoicing, cries of joy and great jubilation echoed through the streets of my hometown, Vannes in Brittany,” she said, as her hands took flight.  A new sparkle danced through her eyes.

“Music played in the streets for the first time in four years. People danced, sang, hugged and cried. It was quite a wild affair, I was told. Not just for my birth, of course,” she laughed, “and, not just for Brittany, but for all of France. I was born on November 11, 1918…Armistice Day, the last day of World War I.” Her voice held a triumphant lilt.

She stopped talking for a moment, picked up her fork and stabbed a morsel of lemon tart.  Popping it into her mouth, her eyes rolled, and she swooned.  I was pleased that she approved of my meager culinary talents.  Then, Marcelle continued her story. 

I had been interviewing Marcelle, along with her adult daughter, Josiane, about French foods, recipes and family stories in the comfort of my own kitchen.  As a retired family therapist, I had been relaxing into the idea of gathering stories for a book I was thinking of writing.  It could be more like a cookbook with family anecdotes, I remember considering.

“My Grand’mère often told me the celebration was just for me,” Marcelle continued.  “Why, they even thought of naming me ‘Victory.’”  She laughed again at the old family tale which rolled off her tongue as being oh, so familiar.

“Grand’mère used to tell me many things about that time, as she was the one who raised me.”  Marcelle closed her eyes for a moment as she reflected back over her more than eighty years.

“What did people do during the Great War, Grand’mère?’ I used to ask her. I must have been seven years old when we first started this game. ‘Well, ma Cherie, it was a difficult time,’ she would respond. ‘The men who marched off as soldiers in November 1914 expected to return home in time to eat their Christmas goose. Everyone was surprised when the war lasted four very long years. No men were left to handle the fishing boats,’ she would say, waving her hand in the direction of the nearby sea, ‘and, no men were around to bring in the few crops which grew. War was not a time for choice, Marcelle; only a time for survival.’

“‘So, what happened after the War?’ Marcelle said as she continued to recount her grandmother’s words, “and always I received the same response, ‘The losses of men left mothers, fathers, young wives…all weeping in the still of the night or filing into the Church to pray to their saints. Your mother was among them, you know. Many a day, the only sound to be heard was the chink…chink…chink…of the masons chiseling the names of those who died into stone on the village war memorial.’

“‘Was my father’s name among them?’ I would ask her.”  Marcelle stopped short, she turned to me, and said, “But no answer ever came my way.”  Her eyes dropped to her now-empty coffee cup.

My head instantly snapped to the side to catch her daughter’s reaction, as Josiane had been quietly translating her mother’s every word.  I know my eyes must have been boring into her to prompt her to give me some clue.  Where should I go from here?  As a therapist, I knew the importance of her mother’s statement and this was huge!  I didn’t want to pry, but I also didn’t want to blithely continue a simple interview about French food and families if this was uncomfortable.  Josiane continued to stare into her own cup.  After a moment, she looked up at me and shrugged.

* * * * * * * * *

Marcelle Zabé was born 100 years ago today – November 11, 2018 – into a world celebrating the end of the Great War.  But what Marcelle was forced to contend with during her entire 84 years of life was the lasting burden of war.  She carried the last name of a father she never met—knew nothing about.  Had he died during that cataclysmic war or just failed to return home?  Were her parents even married?  Any conversation on this subject was always swathed into silence.  Abandoned, too, by her mother due to economic circumstances, her greatest influence was her grandmother. Despite her difficult start in life, her subsequent trials as a single mother during World War II, and her contentious marriage to a former Maquis (World War II résistance fighter), she achieved the highest goal she had set for herself. She was the proud mother of four fine children and an appreciative and loving passel of grandchildren.  Why?  Because she had learned the hard way – what war steals away from family can only be restored with patience and love.

CLICK HERE to purchase my book directly from the publisher, She Writes Press.