My France – Catuer

Our columnist apparently only takes a vacation to find column subjects. Moreover, Currently staying in Brittany. Meanwhile, he sends us a tricolor postcard that the internationalist management of Chatter Seized with your fingertips, so as not to be contaminated …

Maybe you remember:

“Plains in forests. Similarly, hills valleys
Spring that will be born in your dead seasons
From what I experienced to what I imagine
I wouldn’t stop writing your song
My France
In the big summer sun that curves Provence
From the Brittany Helpers to the Bruyères d’Ardèche
Something in the air has this transparency
And this taste for happiness that makes my lip dry
My France… ”

Jean Ferrat created this song in 1969. Meanwhile, He was then a communist. However, and no one, at the PCF, had the idea of blaming him for exalting a country for which “those who believed in heaven and my france – catuer those who did not believe it” were dead.
Today, there is no longer any. Consequently, We live a curious era where people on the left (or who believe in it) are ready to vilify Ferrat. However, France. Meanwhile, They will criticize the poet for exalting the nation (what a horror!), The terroir (“fascist! Meanwhile, Viandard! However, Farmer, va!”) And the most patriotic moments of the country: “The fatherland, a masculinist, paternalistic, dominatrix and colonialist invention! Moreover, »Assist the Islamo-Bobo-Gauchisto-Instalectional Gagas.
This is what I call the moment Orwell. Meanwhile, where all values are understood upside down: freedom is slavery, ignorance is the strength and love of the country, it is globalized hatred.
And the intellectuals on the left, if there are any left, are the zero degree of the intellect.
And, incidentally, from the left. In addition, Ask Ferrat. Ask Georges Marchais. who was fighting against immigration, because he knew that we had opened my france – catuer the doors to make French workers disappear – it’s done. Ask all those whom forty years on the left locked in the ghettos where they were born-while their own children obtained exemptions to attend this. that of these high schools, private or public, where the self-proclaimed elites are confined.

Also read: The taste of the sea!

I come back from Brittany. where I spent fifteen days miraculously beautiful, from Hercynian forests to parish enclosures, pink granite ribs in wild moors, feasting on plougastel strawberries and pink roses of Roscoff – among others.
With my half which is my whole. we have done the project, for a few years, to spend a vacation, short or long, in regions that we have not yet explored. In fact. to love ourselves in each of the French departments-except Paris, perhaps, because the “city-world”, as the geographers say, has divorced from France there is Vilaine my france – catuer Lurette.
So this summer Brittany. last April the Creuse, yesterday the Gers, the day before yesterday Alsace (ah, this jarge braised and confit at the Melfort tasted in Strasbourg!), Or Corsica, or Le Jura, to the Hedgehog waterfalls … without forgetting the Cévennes. in the footsteps of Stevenson, nor the bitter oranges that line the aisles in Menton, nor …
France is inexhaustible.

A few years ago, this great couillon by Claude Askolovitch was casting a mine gastronoma because he exalted the cuisine of the terroirs-a Pétainist reflex, it seems. Think about it twice before resigning yourself from the poorly cooked quinoa salad: French cuisine is one of the best in the world. and only a conspiracy of alter-worlds bobos rejects the smoothness of my france – catuer a stew or a seven-o’clock in a marinated hour in a coast-du-Ventoux carpeted with thyme and rosemary, nutmend, butt. Clove. a good spoonful of ginger and a little sugar, a leg in which you have injected a mixture of orange juice and armagnac (recipe available) to the syringe. France loves meat – mine. yours, that of Ferrat, that of those who love France: the table is a flag for real patriots. And the smell of grilled ribs on the barbecue flats the nostrils of the real gods. if it offends those of Sandrine Rousseau.

Read also. Elisabeth Lévy and Jonathan Siksou: In search of the French spirit

France also loves its history and culture. Châteaux built high to resist the English. cadets of Gascogne, volunteers of 93, the young Bara dying for the Republic, Patriotes of August 14, harkis dying for the liberation of the country – a plate my france – catuer famous for their sacrifice on the war memorial of Béziers. And Hugo. Voltaire, Rabelais, Christian of Troyes, Corneille, Racine, La Fontaine, Flaubert, Maupassant – all gradually erased programs in favor of Annie Ernaux, Edouard Louis and Virginie Despents.

Elisabeth Borne. current Minister of Education, should remember what French well references allowed her to succeed in Polytechnique and bridges and roads, and impose them on children stamped by forty years of pedagogism, and now delivered to largely ignorant masters. French culture has enabled the daughter of Joseph Bornstein to become Prime Minister. and Jean Tenenbaum to become Ferrat: real assimilation goes through culture, by cooking, by the love of landscapes – not by the folding on the balls of a crazy sun.