The letter came from an architect. Architects are smart people. They have all sorts of training and education in a very particular field. They understand certain technical concepts and they have a specific vocabulary that goes with those concepts. To a hick like me, some words come across sounding like a foreign language.

The letter said that I was invited to attend a “charrette.”

I have attended a lot of special events in my life. Receptions. Weddings. Birthday parties. Trade conferences. I am not a hermit. I get out now and then. I own a nice sports jacket that goes with my jeans.

But I have never been to a charrette. I have never heard of a charette, nor have I ever been invited to one. I have no clue what one might wear to a charrette.

I can guess that it’s a French word. Sprinkle a French word or two into your conversation, and people take notice. Use one in a letter, and now you’re right up there with the elite. French words sound sophisticated, except in the mouths of us deeply intrenched southerners. We can butcher the French language like beating a drum with a baguette.

I did some research. It turns out that a charrette is nothing more than a strategic planning session. It’s a one-day intensive meeting where all the ideas are thrown together and no one leaves until the group comes up with a solution that works.

So, I’m thinking, why couldn’t he have said just that? But no, a French word is better. It’ll confuse the country boy.

I don’t think that was his intent. I was the one confused, so I’m not blaming him for that.

Now, I could see where using one word in place of long descriptive sentences seems like an efficient use of time and language. However, it is obvious to me that said architect knew from the start that we peasants would not understand his use of French repartee.

How do I know this?

For the next two paragraphs he went on to explain in great detail what a charrette is and how it works. In my mind, he could have skipped the Parisian reference and just said, “Hey y’all. We’re gonna meet all day long and hammer this out in one shot.”

What is it with all the French words showing up these days? Do we not have enough English ones to go around. The Oxford Annotated Dictionary of the English Language has about 700,000 good old English words to choose from.

In my case, I probably have about 650,000 like-new-words that I’ve never used. Good words with barely a scratch on them. The kind of words used to win at Scrabble.

But French words seem to be the thing these days.

Marion and I were invited to a Super Bowl party this past weekend. We were supposed to take a dish with us. Some finger food of some kind to share with the group.

I deferred to Marion. “What do you want to take?”

“I think I’ll take a charcuterie tray?”

“Really?” I’m giving her the look.

“I didn’t know you had French ancestors.”

Even though I cannot pronounce this word without laughing, I know what she’s talking about. I have received, as gifts, a couple of charcuterie trays in the past year or so. I had to ask what they were for. And while I appreciate them, they are still waiting to be put to use.

I did think that with all the scrap wood in my shop, I could probably go into the charcuterie tray business.

Apparently, we, in America, have fallen in love with charcuterie trays. It’s a thing. We no longer carry a snack tray to a party. The classy thing now is to walk into someone else’s house with a charcuterie tray in hand.

And, of course, we have Americanized the stew out of this French tradition. We take a pack of lunch ham from the grocery store, cut and fold it, and then spread it out on a piece of wood like a poker hand. We sprawl out a few slices of peperoni. Add some cheese squares. A few crackers. A few grapes. Maybe a small bowl of dip or spread of some kind in the middle.

“Voila tu l’as.” There you have it.

In France, an old fashioned and honest to goodness charcuterie tray is a wooden board full of nothing but bite sized pieces of smoked meat. Prosciutto. Salami. Mortadella. Bresaola. Rillettes. And, of course, Saucisson sec.

I don’t even know what these meats are. But I guarantee you that if I was at a party and somebody brought out a tray of smoked pulled pork, I’d be all over it like a dog on a ham bone. It wouldn’t even have to be served on a slab of scrap wood. Heck, they could serve it on a paper Chinette plate, for all I care.

I don’t mean to speak ill of the French. But for the last 100 years we have served snack trays of every kind in this country without having to call it anything but exactly what it is. I don’t need a French word added to it in order to appreciate meat and crackers.

But who am I to fight it? French words have been creeping into our everyday conversations for ages. In the 60s, if you lived on a street that had no outlet, you lived on a dead-end street. In the modern subdivision, you live on a cul-de-sac.

If you ever find yourself standing somewhere that you’ve never been, but with the feeling that you’ve been there before, you’ve just experienced what, along the banks of the Rhine River, they call Déjà vu.

Next time you’re at Waffle House and you order a bacon and cheese “omelette” with hash browns, and Gladys asks you if you want those scattered, covered, Andrew is smothered, try saying: “Oui ma dame.”

In case you’re wondering, we have the Norman Conquest of 1066 to thank for this French intrusion. The French speaking Normans invaded England that year and figured they’d add some spice to language of the Englishmen. Words like fork, garden, soup and sauce all come from French origins.

I don’t mind the derivations. Every word we use came from somewhere. We have Anglicized, Americanized and borrowed nearly every part of the English Language. I get that. Biscuits are not cookies, and football is not soccer. Not here, anyway.

Even the phrase “American as apple pie” is misleading. The first recorded recipe for apple pie was published in an English cookbook in 1381. Four hundred years later, we took their new land from them and the apple pie came with the deal.

Well, I’ve decided that in spite of the French invasion, I will attend the upcoming charette. I need to RSVP, which is French for “Répondez s’il vous plaît.” I will wear my red beret and prepare a fine charcuterie tray to take with me. We can eat our hors d’oeuvers before the meeting begins.

I just hope there will be dessert. Maybe a hot  slice of apple pie served a la mode.

“Bon appétit y’all.”