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- Quiz
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I'm a little... The « My Provence Pass »... Little story heard one night... - The Library of Passadoc
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Jean-Philippe Tinois
Unfortunately the sterile flowers have no pollen and it's just that the swarms of bees come back from a transhumance that they didn't want, weakened, because they couldn't produce new roommates because of pollen in their guard.
Passadoc!
...the site that crosses the seas and goes all over there telling the stories of our South
to the cousins of the Belle Province. Because Bernard Garant – Québécois and friend of Provençaux – had found the answer of the quiz!
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André Abbe
Araped
You are « seafood » Party dinner? Six weeks is Christmas! So André gives his advice and a word of Provençal slang:
As we approach the end-of-year celebrations, think about seafood that will have to be ordered from the local fisherman. Also, I want to take this opportunity to pay tribute to the most modest of them... that you won't find in a fisherman's house.
Here is araped, in French Chinese hat or more precisely Bernic. It should be noted that the shape of araped resembles the Vietnamese hat rather than the Chinese hat. Anyway, let's go.
My friend Henri cooks spaghetti with delicious arapeds (fried by him). He knows how to return these little animals. « Mastegable », otherwise you may feel like chewing a tire.
It is also in maritime Provence the person who does not want to let you go. »
Photo: André Abbe
Giselle Penat-Lorde
Araped, a « succulent » Madeleine from Proust, linked to lots of childhood memories ...
Araped – the bernic, the patella, the Chinese hat – a name that had the gift of making me laugh, child. Who knows why? especially when my grandparents and parents said in Provençal: « alapedo, arapedo ».
I also loved to eat them, when I accompanied my grandfather and/or father to the sea urchins, (as we said so well), jumping like a shelter on the rocks with beautiful plastic sandals, at the Issambres and on the side of the Sardinaux, picking them up with a canife of the rocks – to handle with dexterity and at those times, the good old opinel had to be out – always choosing the smallest ones, because less hard and easier to take off and eat. An iodine gum!! I still hear my father and grandfather say: Chew them well!
We also harvested them to bring them home and mom cooked them, with pasta and/or rice. I also continued to do so many years later. Mom was typing them to soften them, just like the octopus. And I was blundering that they were being hurt...
I also ate in Corsica: « Rice spreads » – « Lapare incù u risu ».
I had the vague memory that fishermen also used them as bait.
One could also look at any very interesting etymology of the word both in Occitan/provençal and Corsican language! I leave it to the specialists to do this research!
And unless you're mistaken, there's a street in Marseilles in the 8th, which bears the name of Rue des Arapèdes. Remembering my paternal grandfather, said « Marseille » among the companions of duty, and for which Marseilles, whom he knew better than his pocket, had no secret.
It's in Marius by Marcel Pagnol (1931), whom we find this magnificent replica:
I knew fifty of them who were talking about going around the world and who stayed cool in their store, instead of going to die in some shipwreck to fatten the rags on the coast of the Malabars.
In a novel by Lucien Lubrano (Manosquin writer, certainly less well known than Marcel Pagnol and Jean Giono – another kind of literature as well – discovered by passing through and dragging into the library/sector of regional writers, whom I love – His first three novels are a trilogy/science-fiction.
In order:
1. A glimmer in the eyes
2. The Choice of an Angel
3. Reflect of another time
But I'm calm, good mother! It's these two babaous, there, who pissed me off. They were peddling me like weeds.
The surveillance captain approached her both hands forward as if to protect himself. He moves in small steps to give the impression that he does not move. » (The Choice of an Angel)
It was... yes... from one to the next... and I didn't forget anything, no more than the Christmas tables with shell trays, but this is another story.
With another memory of a distant cousin, officer, who had lived in what we called « Indochina », exclaiming: Bernique, bernic, not a Chinese hat, but a Vietnamese hat, so we come to see the pretty Tongans with their hats. !
...and chain on « My tonkiki, my tonkkin... »
♫♫♪♪♪
I'm his little one.
His Anana, his Anana, his Anamite
I'm alive, I'm lovely
Like a bird singing
He calls me his bourgeois petite.
His Tonkiki, his Tonkiki, his Tonkinese
Others make her sweet eyes
But he loves me best!
♪♪♫♪♫♪
Iarapède put to all sauces!
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Jeanne Monin
My memories are those of summer, those of holidays...
For me, too, those shells were « Chinese hat » I discovered « araped » Only since I read « Passadoc » And I'm dating people from the South!
It's beautiful that word... it looks like « Arabic », such as lines that sinuous on the shell.
In Brittany, he is called « Bernic ». And like the patella, no storm as strong as it is can tear it from its rock.
Once, I did it! Probably a dizzy one who had forgotten that vacationers are capable of everything and that was yawning in the sun. Feared, she's all curled up, like an oyster that gets lemon in her eyes. So confused, I rested it so that it would continue to graze its microscopic algae: « Excuse me for disturbing you.«
I just read that when she goes on a walk, she does the same thing as Poucet: she leaves a trace (viscous) that will allow her to find her way back and return to the house!
Another discovery that I cannot keep: there is the verb « bernicate » [you knew?] and I intend to use it!
– Bernique. — Go away and stay away. Word for word: act as if you said bernic. — (Lorédan Larchey, Historical, etymological and anecdotal dictionary of Parisian slang, 1872).
– Bernicating, it's also musing, lambining, wasting time, having fun at little things. — (Revue of Linguistics and Comparative Philology, 1903).
Other readings:
– CThat's how she designates her little guy soon 2 years old. Arapède, always glued to his mother.
And Georges Duhamel in Chronicle of the Pasquier, (Mercury of France, Paris, 1938):
I gave them cigars and they didn't like tobacco. So, bernic, it's over. More gifts.
Come on! Until goodbye...
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The « My Provence Pass » Do you know him?
Three words that irritate strong André Abbe!
Ce « Pass My Provence » ne s’adresse pas aux anglophones en visite mais aux habitants des Bouches-du-Rhône ! Il leur propose, à l’occasion de la visite d’un monument, d’un site, d’un musée du département, d’offrir un billet gratuit à la personne qui accompagne quelqu’un qui aura payé son billet.
Cent cinquante ans après avoir voulu abandonner le provençal au profit du français, des renégats provençaux sont prêts à abandonner le français au profit de l’anglais, au nom d’une modernité de façade.
En plus, « Pass my Provence » n’évoque rien. Il faut lire l’explication qui suit pour comprendre.
Je suis Varois, je ne devrais pas me mettre en colère puisque ce « Pass My Provence » ne me concerne pas. »
Et cet anglais – trop fréquent dans notre « hexagone » – n’agace pas qu’André !
Jean-Pierre Violino
Nos élites ont abandonné le français… La langue officielle de l’Europe est l’anglais alors que le royaume uni n’en fait plus parti. Dans les musées en Italie tout est écrit en anglais, plus rien en français … alors …
Claude Boyer
– Bravo Dédé… Entièrement d’accord avec toi !
Jeanne Monin
Belle colère d’André !
Bien sûr qu’il faut s’insurger contre cet anglais trop envahissant ! même s’il est entré par ruse dans notre vocabulaire avec « week-end » et « tramway » par exemple.
Saine révolte, même si l’anglais a déjà gagné ; il est partout, dans le scientifique, dans le commerce et ne parlons pas de l’informatique ! Je lutte à ma façon – microscopiquement, nanoscopiquement ! – en utilisant « courriel » de préférence à « email ».
Mais comme tout le monde, je mange des sandwichs, des steack-frites, ou un hot-dog… me vois mal demander un « chien-chaud »…
À côté de « Sauvons le français ! », il nous faut aussi sauver les langues régionales. Quel travail !
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Petite histoire entendue un soir d’été, sous l’olivier…
Enfant, Vincent n’était pas bien causeux… ; aujourd’hui encore, il ne dit que l’essentiel :
– Quand on aura fini l’été, on se mariera…
– Quand on aura vendu assez de moutons, on partira en voyage…
– Quand on aura plein d’argent, je te bâtirai un château !
Ça fait sourire Juliette :
– Ah ! toi et tes « quand on aura » !
Pourtant, tout n’est pas que paroles vaines : ils ne sont pas partis en voyage mais ils se sont mariés ; Vincent n’a pas bâti de château mais il a construit une jolie petite bastide, près du mas de Madame Louise. Et sur le linteau de la porte d’entrée, il a fait graver : « Cantonnora«
C’est bonheur de les voir heureux… trois enfants sont nés… et puis la ville les a happés. Madame Louise ne les voit plus que l’été. En août dernier, ils lui ont dit :
– Nous ne viendrons pas l’an prochain : nous allons vendre la maison. Au revoir Madame Louise ! Et surtout, prenez bien soin de vous !
Ce matin, un employé de l’agence est venu poser un panneau.
– Dites-moi… que signifie « Cantonnora »
Madame Louise a souri… et malicieuse, elle a répondu :
– C’est du vieux provençal… ça veut dire « Rêves ».
Text Jeanne Monin
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Photos François et André Abbe.
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