The Another

    My father’s dent-de-lions – Liberation




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    Every Thursday, passage in the kitchen and awakening of the taste buds. Today, how the dandelion revives the childhood memories of those who died too soon, before retirement.

    We were tall as three apples. It was spring. The time of blackthorns that bloomed white and dandelions that made yellow carpets. We watched the Old man pick the “lion’s teeth”, as he said, with his Pradel which cut off the stems of dandelions. We would have liked to do the same but not touch the knife. So we picked up dandelion flowers which we made into bouquets for the daronne, who put them in a small blue vase with “Colombey-les-deux-Eglises” engraved on it. We can never say enough how much Gaullism generated by-products (statuettes, medals, postcards, etc.) rivaling the great circus of the grotto of Lourdes.


    We always went to the dandelions in the same place, in the valley of the Loue which is dying today. “Between Men”, as the Old Man said, smiling, with the snack prepared by the mother. We were allowed to carry the bag containing it: there was a loaf of bread cut in half, a box of Olida pâté, a piece of sausage, cheese – often it was munster with cumin which the Old Man liked very much. – kid’s favorite crisps, marbled slices of Savane (the must for modern cake at the time) and a small thermos of coffee for the Old Man. We were very proud to ride in the front of the azure blue 4L with him. Without a belt, it was not compulsory at the time. We were delighted with our two-person outfits in all seasons. The dandelions at the gates of the pr


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