[1] Nina spent the morning strolling through the charming streets of Mahone Bay with her mother; this had become their daily ritual since arriving at her grandmother’s cottage in Nova Scotia for the summer. Every day after breakfast, Nina’s grandmother would write out a shopping list for the evening meal, and the pair would venture into town to purchase the ingredients, always stopping to buy a bouquet of fragrant flowers from the local florist shop. It was absolutely stunning in Mahone Bay. In fact, Nina read on a sign that it was once voted the most picturesque city in Canada, and it was easy to see why.
[2] In the evenings, Nina would sit at the antique kitchen table and write about her daily adventures on her blog, knowing her friends back home in Florida anxiously awaited the latest blog post about her exploits. She knew they enjoyed perusing her photos of the Nova Scotia coastline and various wildlife pictures.
[3] “What are you writing about today, sweetie?” inquired Nina’s mother.
[4] “I’m writing about making Grandmother’s rappie pie today. Not one of my friends has ever heard of it, so I’m posting the recipe for them to try,” replied Nina.
[5] Nina’s mother perched on the edge of a chair at the table and said, “Honey, it’s pronounced râpure pie; it’s an Acadian dish that gets its name from the French phrase patates râpées: grated potatoes.”
[6] Nina sighed, playfully rolling her eyes while simultaneously tapping away at the keyboard. “I know, but none of my friends know what Acadian means, and they definitely don’t speak French. Besides, even the kids I’ve met around here call them rappie pies, too.”
[7] Nina’s mom gazed at her daughter thoughtfully and placed her hand gently on Nina’s arm, urging, “Well, then, maybe this is an opportunity for you to teach them a little something about your ancestral heritage.”
[8] Nina considered the idea and said, “OK. But tell me again what Acadian means? That our family is from France?”
[9] Nina’s mom nodded her assent.
[10] Nina nodded and said, “And part of the French culture that survived has a lot to do with the food and the language, right?”
[11] Nina’s mom smiled and said, “Yes, that’s right, the food and language are integral to our past. My family has long made râpure pies for special occasions and holidays. It’s something that I hope you grow to appreciate and prepare for your children one day.”
[12] Nina smiled and said, “Mom, you know how much I love Grandmother’s râpure pies. It’s just that rappie pies makes the recipe sound more, you know, modern and cool.”
[13] Nina’s mother reached over and lovingly tousled her daughter’s hair. “OK, my dear daughter. But don’t you think your grandmother’s feelings might be hurt for you to change the very essence of something that is so special to her, that was so special to her own grandmother, with just the stroke of a key on your computer?” Nina’s mom looked at her daughter intently. “I would just like you to consider what you are doing to a special and time-honored tradition in order to make your blog sound more ‘modern and cool.’”
[14] Nina sighed and gazed at her keyboard. “I didn’t think of the change as being something that might hurt Grandmother’s feelings; I guess, though, that it would be kind of disrespectful to change our family tradition, and I definitely don’t want Grandmother to think I don’t care about our history.”
[15] “I’m glad you are starting to understand how critically important word choices can be when writing about culture and history. I’m certain that your friends will find your ancestry fascinating. This is a wonderful opportunity to educate through your social media,” said Nina’s mom.
[16] Nina suddenly perked up and said, “I wonder if I should claim that I’m related to Joan of Arc or Napoleon Bonaparte!”
[17] Laughing, Nina’s mom replied, “Let’s just stick with being the grateful descendants of potato-pie artisans.”