A Leek Casserole & The Arts of Silence and Conversation

by Amy

“When the first casserole, a fragrant cheese and leek dish with a crunchy crumble top, came by he paused, looking at the modest amounts everyone else had taken. Then he took the biggest scoop he could manage and plopped it onto his plate. Bite me, he thought. And the monks looked like they might.”

I love leeks. I love cheese. I love casseroles. What could go wrong? I actually followed a recipe for this dish. I usually change recipes to adjust to my tastes. This time I followed it, but I decided that if (when) I make it again, I’ll add other vegetables (about three or four times the amount called for in the recipe) and will experiment with different cheeses. Cheddar wouldn’t be my first choice. I think I’d like to use Parmesan – or maybe a blend of cheeses.

On a side note, cheddar is not only hard to find, but also fairly expensive in Brazil. I have an American friend here that has cheddar cheese high on the list of things she most misses from home. I’ve read comments by American expats in Europe complaining that they can’t find cheddar easily.

The mustard in the sauce was a new idea for me. I’d never done that and I absolutely loved it. I love mustard, though, so I’m biased. I’m used to nutmeg in white sauce, but had never considered mustard. What do you put in your white sauce?

“Near the end of the meal, the Chief folded his cloth napkin and rose. Frère Simon, across from him, motioned, at first subtly then with more vigor, for the Chief to sit back down. Gamache met the man’s eyes, and also motioned. That he’d received the message, but was going to do what he needed to do anyway.”

I love this silent exchange.

It reminds me of exchanges between spouses, parents and their children (of all ages), partners, colleagues, and good friends. I’m sure you’ve been there and seen the look, felt the elbow nudge or the kick in the shins and silently answered that you acknowledged the warning, but you chose to go ahead and do things the hard way, the unconventional way, the potentially dangerous way.

A couple of weeks ago, when I posted about the Haida and fresh bread, we talked about how Gamache and the Haida were good at silence. The Chief Inspector knows how to use silence to think, to ponder, to listen, and to understand. Silence is a tool. It can be a strength.

There is an art to silence. It can heighten nonverbal communication, increase awareness of nuances, and give both speaker and listener more time to ponder. Those who master the art know when to speak and when to hold their peace. They know how to use silence in order to listen respectfully and prepare a better response.

“Our order has been tested over the centuries. And this is another test. Do we really believe in God? Do we believe all the things we say and sing? Or has it become a faith of convenience? Has it, in splendid isolation, grown weak? When challenged we simply do whatever is easiest. Do we sin by silence? If we have real faith then we must have the courage to speak up. We must not protect the killer.”

Silence can be a strong tool. It can be a useful strategy. I can also be complacence. It can be laziness. It can be cowardice. It can be a mark of oppression.

I recently spent some time with a person who tends to choose silence. This is a person with incredible knowledge and experience and so much to offer. She sometimes comes across as blunt, unfeeling, and uninterested. She is, in fact, none of these things. She fails to engage. I sometimes get the impression that the effort of contributing thoughts and risking controversy or even slight discord seems to be too much. She is not only silent, she also not very responsive, even non-verbally. Once you draw her out, she is a wealth of knowledge and her ideas are interesting and, yes, frequently controversial. She`s sometimes telegraphic in her communication, though. You have to get to know her well in order to have an inkling of her thoughts. Absolutely worth it. Such an interesting mind.

Silence, here, may have been misused. While it is safe for her, keeping up a dialogue in her own mind, she (intentionally or not) deprives many of the depth of her thoughts. It’s easy, in this scenario, to become or be perceived as judgmental and distant. This is uncomfortable and disengaged silence.

“The monks looked anxious. And angry. At him. Gamache was used to this transference. They couldn’t yet blame the killer, so they blamed the police for turning their lives upside down. He felt a rush of sympathy.If only they knew how bad it would get.”

The monks in this book had taken a vow of silence. They weren’t uncommunicative, though. A wealth of information and interaction was exchanged without the use of words.

I have a good friend who, like me, was told she talked too much as a child. We both spent many years of our lives biting our tongues (or trying to, in my case). I frequently end my day replaying conversations, wondering if I said too much and listened too little. I judge my words. This friend and I both learned (the hard way) the art of silence and listening. She’s much, much better at it than I am. She’s one of my favorite people to talk to.

She, too, frequently chooses silence. I can sometimes look at her and see, in her eyes, that there’s a cascade of words tumbling in her mind. Many of them do not make it out. She’s learned concision and editing. She, like Gamache, uses silence. She isn’t silenced. There’s a difference.

I think we all have a story to tell. Having a voice is a powerful thing. While learning to rein in our words and master silence is a challenge, the next step is finding our voice and learning how to use it well.

The monks have mastered the art of science. They have reached a level I’m pretty sure I’ll never attain (especially since I am not called to live in a monastery and I tend to be the kind of person who uses words to engage with the world). They have now been challenged to go beyond silence. To find their voice. To tell their version of events.

I’ve been planning to try this recipe for some time. For one reason or another I postponed it. I thought I was going to write about something else when I first planned to cook this dish. It’s funny that I ended up making it today. I’d been thinking about the art of silence and conversation – and balance. 

When I reread the scene, I realized that was what I was supposed to write about.

I spent most of the week reassessing. I was talking to 12 year old me and remembering how painful it was to feel silenced. I tried to evaluate how far I’ve come and whether or not I have learned to listen. I had been aiming towards mastering silence. I spent most of the week discovering that while silence is a part of it, it is only half of the art. In order to truly be a master of silence, you have to have a voice that is willing to make itself heard when needed.

“When challenged we simply do whatever is easiest. Do we sin by silence? If we have real faith then we must have the courage to speak up.”

Therein lays the challenge. My first impulse is to speak. Not necessarily to “speak up”. I sometimes use words to pacify and smooth over. It’s an important tool. With so much polarization in the world, people who easily see both sides of an issue and try to find common ground are needed. That’s not hard for me to do. A friend recently told me, though, that not everything is relative and sometimes you have to make a choice. Sometimes the choice isn’t ideal.

I am reminded of a song by Emeli Sande (listen here).

I spent some time alone, in silence, the past week and have discovered that a greater challenge awaits me. If I wish to master the art of conversation, I have to learn to hold my tongue and master silence, to acquire the wisdom to ponder and choose my words, and also to have the courage to speak up.

Quotes are from The Beautiful Mystery – page 95 in the paperback edition.