Chocolate Cake & How the Light Gets In

by Amy

“I brought dessert.” Gabri pointed to a cardboard box on the counter. “Chocolate fudge cake.”

I love Gabri. Who wouldn't?

“Could you show me your studio?” Gamache asked Clara, hoping to get far enough away from the cake to overcome the temptation to put his finger in it. “I realize I’ve never seen your art.”

So far in the series, we hadn’t seen much of Clara’s art either. Not in this depth. And no, I wasn’t as controlled as Gamache. I’m writing while eating (yet another) slice of cake and some Earl Grey tea.  (Shhhh… don’t tell Libby. My tea came from a bag.)

Gamache stood in front of an image of three elderly women, arms entwined, cradling each other. It was an amazingly complex work, with layers of photographs and paintings and even some writing. Em, the woman in the middle, was leaning back precipitously, laughing with abandon, and the other two were supporting her and also laughing. It ached of intimacy, of a private moment caught in women’s lives. It captured their friendship and their dependence on each other. It sang of love and a caring that went beyond pleasant lunches and the remembrance of birthdays. Gamache felt as though he was looking into each of their souls, and the combination of the three was almost too much to bear.

This is the one painting – of all the art described in the books – that I would love to own. It wouldn’t even need to be the original. I’d be happy to own a copy. I’d probably settle for a shot taken with my phone, if I’m honest. I just wish I could see it. I wish I could have this image somewhere nearby.

“I call it The Three Graces,” said Clara.

“Perfect,” Gamache whispered.

“Mother is Faith, Em is Hope and Kaye is Charity. I was tired of seeing the Graces always depicted as beautiful young things. I think wisdom comes with age and life and pain. And knowing what matters.”

This is one of my favorite Clara-quotes. “I think wisdom comes with age and life and pain. And knowing what matters.” Isn’t that brilliant?

“Is it finished? It looks as though there’s space for another.”

That’s very perceptive of you. It is finished, but in each of my works I try to leave a little space, a kind of crack.” 

“Why?” 

“Can you make out the writing on the wall behind them?” She nodded toward her painting. 

Gamache leaned in and put on his reading glasses.‘Ring the bells that still can ring//Forget your perfect offering,//There’s a crack in everything,//That’s how the light gets in.’

And this is why this is the one piece of art I’d love to have. I’m pretty much illiterate when it comes to visual arts. Whatever it is that moves people and speaks to them in color and shape and design has limited impact on me. It’s not that I don’t see it, but I’ve come to realize that I’m probably visually challenged. It makes more sense once I know the history behind it, the goal of the artist, the stories of those who have felt its impact… I suppose that means I need words to go with the images before their full impact is felt. Clara made this painting for people like me. She added the words! She explained it. That’s how the light gets in.

He read it out loud. “Beautiful. Madame Zardo?” he asked.“ 

No, Leonard Cohen. All my works have vessels of some sort. Containers. Sometimes it’s in the negative space, sometimes it’s more obvious. In The Three Graces it’s more obvious.” 

It wasn’t obvious to Gamache. He stepped back from the work, then he saw what she meant. The vessel, like a vase, was formed by their bodies, and the space he’d noticed was the crack, to let the light in. 

“I do it for Peter,” she said quietly. At first Gamache thought he might have misheard, but she continued as though speaking to herself. “He’s like a dog, like Lucy. He’s very loyal. He puts everything he has into one thing. One interest, one hobby, one friend, one love. I’m his love and it scares the shit out of me.” She turned now to look in Gamache’s thoughtful brown eyes. “He’s poured all his love into me. I’m his vessel. But suppose I crack? Suppose I break? Suppose I die? What would he do?”

I think there are many people who feel like this. The weight of being someone’s everything or even of being their one-something can be crippling in a sense. Early parenthood is a temporary foray into that kind of relationship. Every parent knows the feeling. In other relationships, an emotionally stunted person (like Peter) lays all their hopes and dreams and trust on another. In some cases, there is a palpable physical or emotional impairment. Sometimes it has to do with a relationship dynamic where one person loses some of their autonomy and relies too heavily on another. Parents of children with disabilities come to mind. A mother of a non-verbal autistic child once said that the foremost thought on her mind on bad days is his dependency. Suppose I die? What would he do?

No one is irreplaceable. Or everyone is irreplaceable, depending on how you look at it. While we are all unique and no one can quite fill your shoes, in your absence things will shift and somehow life will go on without you – whether it’s for a few days or for life. The movie My Life Without Me comes to mind.

But suppose I crack? Suppose I break? Suppose I die?

I’ve thought it, too. More than once. I still do. I probably always will. I have better answers to the questions than I used to, though. Whenever I ask myself these questions, I know what to tell myself.

Life will go on. It’s too big a burden to carry. It’s an impossible task. You have to be allowed to have cracks. To break. To be the one who needs help and support and care.

When we are in a position where we seem irreplaceable and it feels like those around us would not survive without us, maybe it’s time to step back. Reassess. In parenthood it’s a transitory process. You know your job is to make sure your children grow into their autonomy and independence. Your job is to teach them how to walk on their own two feet. Hopefully you can do that and end up with grown children who still enjoy your company. But, ultimately, the goal is to know that you can crack or break or die – and they’ll be okay.

Apparently, in my family, four years of age is the magical moment in which the child realizes that a parent could possibly crack or break or die. My mom tells the story that, at four, I asked her to promise not to die until I was married (which was my definition of being a grown-up).  The same promise was demanded by my own son when he turned four. “Mommy, you won’t die before I’m a grown-up, will you?” How do you answer that? Who can make that kind of a promise? Then again, why would I leave him with the insecurity of possibly becoming a motherless child? I wound up inviting him to talk to God and asking Him to make sure to remember not to let me die before he was ready to be on his own. He was satisfied with that solution.

Our job, as parents, is to make sure we raise him so someday he can know, deep down, that he’ll be okay. His parents can (probably more frequently than he imagines) crack or break and even die. He may hurt and grieve and feel gaps and cracks in his own life if that happens, but he’ll be okay.

I feel for those who have people in their lives that may never become fully independent. Some parents raise children who will forever depend on someone to change them, feed them or care for them. Some caretakers deal with emotional or psychological needs that can be draining. Some have spouses or family members that depend on them for so much. Maybe too much sometimes. Some have few resources to delegate or share the responsibility. My heart goes out to those caretakers, too.  It’s still their job to ensure autonomy, to the extent that it is possible, as well as a network of help. Some help. Even if it’s minimal.

“So all your art is exploring that theme?” 

“Mostly it’s about imperfection and impermanence. There’s a crack in everything.”

And that’s part of Clara’s genius. It is because she is willing to see her own fragility and the cracks and imperfection in her own person that she is brilliant, radiant, and filled with the light that gets in through the crack.

While it can be intimidating and daunting to care for those who are (seemingly) less capable than we are, including the children, the sick, and those with emotional or physical impairments, it can be a brilliant opportunity for growth. Those who have read Becoming Human, by Jean Vanier (the inspiration behind the idea of the fictional book BEING) will recognize the thought that interaction with those who are weaker (apparently) than ourselves may help us learn to see and acknowledge our own vulnerability and our common humanity and worthiness, despite our brokenness.

We are worthy. Our worth is not diminished because of our cracks. That’s how the light gets in.

“That’s how the light gets in, said Gamache. He thought of CC who’d written so much about light and enlightenment and illumination, and thought it came from perfection. But she couldn’t hold a candle to this bright woman beside him. 

“Peter doesn’t get it. Probably never will.” 

“Have you ever painted Ruth?” 

“Why do you ask?” 

“Well, frankly, if anyone’s cracked…” He laughed and Clara joined him. 

“No, and you know why? I’m afraid to. I think she could be my masterpiece and I’m afraid to try.” 

“In case you can’t do it?” 

“Got it in one. There’s also something scary about Ruth. I’m not sure I want to look that deeply into her.” 

“You will,” he said, and she believed him.

Fear is a crack. It’s a weakness. It can paralyze us. It almost kept Clara from attempting what was her masterpiece. She was probably right to be afraid. Ruth is scary. I am totally intimidated by her. I can sympathize with Beauvoir. I love her, but... She grows on us. I’m hoping the next book will look a little bit deeper into her, too. She still scares me a little bit. I'm pretty sure I'd be completely tongue-tied if I had to meet her face to face (and there we go again, treating these characters as real people).

Louise Penny frequently writes that Gamache’s power as an investigator lies in his willingness to go into those hidden depths and locked chambers of people’s souls. She writes that he is only able to do so because he has faced his own. I think Clara is on a similar journey. She is a great artist because she looks deeply. Into the darkness. She forays into the cracks and finds the light.

“They’re marvelous, Clara. They radiate.” He turned to look at her in astonishment, as though meeting the woman for the first time. He’d known she was insightful, and courageous and compassionate. But he hadn’t appreciated that she was this gifted.

I have written before that I am jealous of Clara’s ability to paint souls. The scene I was posting about then was the one where she unveils her masterpiece: Ruth. Hope.

I love this scene. I love this conversation between Gamache and Clara. I love the concept of cracks being an opportunity for light to come in. I think it’s a beacon of hope.

‘Ring the bells that still can ring//Forget your perfect offering,//There’s a crack in everything,//That’s how the light gets in.’

Chocolate Cake

I didn’t make fudge cake. I followed a new recipe (for me, anyway). I wanted a moist simple cake that was heavy on the chocolate, not on the sugar. This one was perfect. My only tweak to the original recipe (I cannot seem to follow any recipe with precision) is that I only put in 2/3 cup of sugar instead of 1 full cup. Here’s the link to Nigella's Olive Oil Chocolate Cake. I made the version with regular flour and it was absolutely delicious!

Poached Salmon - "Not poached like that. Poached as in cooked."

by Amy

There are three poached salmons in the Gamache books

The first is referred to by Gabri as they leave the church on their way to their Christmas celebration in A FATAL GRACE.

“’Olivier’s getting the food from the bistro,’ said Gabri. ‘We made a poached salmon.’”

This is right before they eavesdrop on CC eviscerating her own daughter who had sung, like an angel, only moments before.

“They’d evaded the monster. Instead, it had devoured a frightened child.”

The second is uneaten by Peter Morrow’s cold and frequently hurtful mother in A RULE AGAINST MURDER. They are waiting to be interviewed by the agents after Julia’s murder. No one had much of an appetite; the salmon reminds Clara of Mrs. Morrow’s constant belittling of her daughter-in-law.

“The elderly woman sat on the sofa next to her husband, as though her spine had fused. Clara held out a small plate with a bit of poached salmon, delicate mayonnaise and paper-thin cucumbers and onion in vinegar. One of Peter’s mother’s favorite lunches, she knew, from the times she’d asked for it at their place when all they had to offer was a simple sandwich. Two struggling artists rarely ran to salmon.”

And, finally, in A TRICK OF THE LIGHT, the Morrows invite an eclectic group of people, including neighbors, police agents, artists, art dealers, and AA members to their house for dinner.

“’Are you and your people free for dinner?’ she asked. ‘It’s so miserable we thought we’d poach a salmon and see who can come over.’

‘Isn’t poaching illegal?’ asked Gamache, confused as to why she’d be telling him this.

Clara laughed. ‘Not poached like that. Poached as in cooked.’

Funnily enough, it took three books before Louise Penny included that little joke. It took about two minutes on our Facebook page. The first comment was from someone who – like Gamache – thought it sounded like I was poaching a fish, not poach-cooking a fish.

None of the scenes with poached fish tell us how the characters poached it. As it turns out, I discovered that there’s more than one way to do it. Apparently some people are pretty vehement that their way is the “correct” way. Others are unaware that there even is any other way to do it. Others, like me, made fish in a way that might be considered (by some) to be poaching a fish, but were unaware of the culinary term.

“Great. It’ll be very relaxed. En famille.”

Gamache smiled at the French phrase. It was one Reine-Marie often used. It meant “come as you are,” but it meant more than that. She didn’t use it for every relaxed occasion and with every guest. It was reserved for special guests, who were considered family. It was a particular position, a compliment. An intimacy offered.”

Except it wasn’t.

At least I don’t think it was. While I’m sure Clara considers the Chief Inspector to be a personal friend, I doubt all of her guests would qualify as people she considered to be family. It ended up not being a terribly relaxed occasion, what with the undercurrents of artistic envy, competition among art dealers, Peter’s  discomfort with Clara’s success, Castonguay’s belligerent drinking, and Ruth interrogating the agents on their investigation.

All in all, poached fish doesn’t seem to qualify as a comfortable meal for characters in Gamacheland. 

Listening to CC rant would ruin most appetites. Mrs. Morrow is probably the last person I’d choose to spend time with… (She scares me. Ruth is a sweetheart in comparison). CC is pathetic. Mrs. Morrow is mean.  She’s also intelligent enough that her attacks usually hit the mark.

The third poached salmon meal, while not quite comfortable, is the one I’d most like to have been around to help eat. I love gatherings where different people mesh and clash. A TRICK OF THE LIGHT is a book where Louise Penny’s central message is quite evident. In her acknowledgements she wrote:

“Many people were whispering in my ear as I wrote A Trick of the Light. Some still in my life, some now gone but always remembered. I won’t go on at length, except to say I’m deeply grateful I got a chance to write this book. But much more than that, I’m deeply grateful, after many years as a resister, I now completely believe that sometimes drowning men (and women) are saved. And, when coughed back, might even find some measure of peace in a small village. In the sunshine.”

Louise Penny writes about drowning characters. She gives them a chance of redemption. She knows what it’s like. This is an old interview I found when I first read this book and wondered how much was empathy and how much was drawn from some personal experience in redemption. (http://www.quillandquire.com/authors/louise-penny-s-second-chance/)

“And André Castonguay was left all alone.

‘He needs to hit bottom,’ said Suzanne.

‘I’ve hit many bottoms,’ said Gabri. ‘And I find it helps.’”

This book was a study on addiction and the strength of will (as well as loving support and community) necessary to fight it. I found myself remembering much of what Suzanne and the Chief Justice said when reading – in later books – about Beauvoir’s situation.

We don’t get to read about what happens to Castonguay. He gives us a glimpse of what it’s like on the way to rock bottom. Through other characters, Louise Penny treats us to tales of “drowning” people who are saved: Suzanne, Olivier, Beauvoir, Peter…  

We sometimes glimpse Ruth as a woman who is barely afloat. We realize, in The Long Way Home, that she’s Clara’s muse. Part of it is a form of negative inspiration – she’s a template of what Clara doesn’t want to become. She’s a hazard sign warning Clara to stay away from drowning. We see some of her pain (mostly in the latest books). Rosa gives her back parts of her heart. I’m hoping the next book will give her a measure of peace.

One of the (many) things I admire about Louise Penny is her ability to write grace. These books are, among other things, about grace. It isn’t a trick of the light. It is hope. It’s about the lifesavers thrown out to those drowning in self-doubt and despair. It’s about silver linings. It’s about crawling your way back after hitting rock bottom.

I usually bake fish. Sometimes I put it inside an aluminum foil envelope and fill it with citrus slices and white wine and herbs and bake it. When I looked up recipes for poached fish I discovered that some people refer to that method as poaching. Others describe a process of simmering liquid with citrus slices and/or vegetables with or without wine and various other herbs. Some say you simmer it for some minutes, turn it off, and then add the fish. Others say you keep the heat under it and add the fish but don’t let it come to a boil. Some add a rack so the fish won’t really touch the water. In this case it’s “steamed”. Others immerse the fish in the water. Some say you have to skin it first. Others say you leave the skin on and then remove it once you’re done. So many choices!

Thankfully, I’m put at ease by conflicting rules. My theory – in cooking, in motherhood, in my medical practice, and in life – is that harder it is to reach a consensus, the more likely it is that no one really knows for sure and you can kind of figure out what works best for you.

Part of the fun in this blog is trying new things. Since I usually use the baking method, I decided to poach this one in the liquid (although I've learned that the fancy French term is court-bouillon). One of the recipes I saw added fennel. I’d never added it to fish before and loved the idea. Since I had quite a bit in the garden, it was easy to make a generous bed of fennel and parsley for the court-bouillon. I also added lemon, lime and orange slices. I added a clove of garlic, two baby onions – coarsely chopped – and a carrot. I had no celery (which I love), but it’s not so easy to find here and doesn’t taste quite the same. Some recipes mentioned pepper, bay leaves, and dill. I skipped the salt and only added a pinch to my dill sauce. I’ve been kicking myself for forgetting the bay leaves, but I’ll be sure to remember next time. One generous cup of white wine was poured in and then enough water for the liquid to cover the colorful bed of flavors.

I was initially intimidated by the new culinary term (poaching), then felt like I might be in over my head when I read the first recipe that called for a court-bouillon. Now that I actually made it, I realize it’s so easy I feel like it should be taught as basic cooking. It’s easier (much) than scrambling eggs.

I turned on the heat and let the liquid simmer. Only one recipe mentioned that it was “necessary” to remove the skin before poaching. I ignored it since others disagreed and I thought it would be easier to skin the salmon filet afterwards. I was right. I turned the heat off about a minute after adding the fish to the liquid. I placed an orange slice over the fish to keep it immersed. It was done in less than 10 minutes.

This recipe is a winner! Why? It’s easy. It sounds fancier than it is. Cleaning up was quick and easy and the kitchen didn’t smell fishy. That’s the main reason I rarely make fish. I can’t stand the “fishy” smell.

I wish I could have found fresh dill. Fresh dill in Brazil is very, very hard to find, though. So I used dry dill and yogurt with a pinch of salt and a squeeze of lemon.

Perfect.

I think we can all agree that there’s more than one way to poach a salmon. We’ve already had a Facebook poll where some of you shared how you poach/cook fish. I do have another question, though. If you could share a meal with any of the Gamacheland characters… who would you choose?

Lemon Meringue Pie and seeing God

by Amy

“’I have a question for you,’ Gamache said, his change of tone alerting Reine-Marie. ‘Did I do the right thing with Arnot?’

Reine-Marie’s heart broke, hearing Armand ask that. Only she knew the price he’d paid. He’d put on a brave and firm public face. Not Jean Guy, not Michel Brébeuf, not even their best friends had known the agony he’d gone through. But she knew.

[…]

But he’d known all along what he had to do. And the fisherman had put it beyond doubt.”

We all need validation sometimes.

There is comfort in the certainty that someone, preferably someone who is an authority in any given subject, endorses us.

Little signs. Serendipity. Coincidences. Proof. The writing on the wall.

“Where there is love, there is courage
Where there is courage, there is peace

Where there is peace, there is God.
And when you have God, you have everything.”

Omniscient. Omnipresent. Who could be better to assure us that we’re on the right track than God himself? There is no greater authority. Be it in the guise of a fisherman or a homeless woman, He can give us the love, courage, and peace we need.

“You don’t know either,” said Myrna. “You want to believe it was God. I have to tell you, people are locked up for less.”

I suppose faith can seem like a form of insanity when you don't believe.

“I tell them there are certain attributes our faith assigns to God: omniscience, omnipotence, justice, and grace. We human beings have such a slight acquaintance with power and knowledge, so little conception of justice, and so slight a capacity for grace, that the workings of these great attributes together is a mystery we cannot hope to penetrate.” (Gilead – Marilynne Robinson)

One of the things I love about Louise Penny’s books is Gamache’s faith. He respects religion, he respects symbols and ritual and tradition. He even respects those who have no religion and/or no faith in the existence of a God. He isn’t preachy. But he has faith.  He believes in God – although he does not always condone or agree with all the man-made rules and traditions and rituals that have sprung from the interpretation of Scriptures.

I do not intend to turn this into a religious discussion. I certainly do not intend to preach. I don’t think faith can be explained into existence – nor can any explanation dissuade you from it if you believe. I do believe that God is bigger than doubts – anyone’s doubts. Including my own.

One of my favorite scenes with a clergyman was the answer given to the main character by a local priest in Andrew Davidson’s THE GARGOYLE. When the main character is found admiring statues in the church, he promptly tells the priest that he is an atheist. The priest doesn't hesitate:

“‘Well, God believes in you,’ he said. ‘May I offer you a cup of tea?’”

In A FATAL GRACE, both Clara and Gamache believe they met with God. Both are blessed with encounters that edify them and give them the validation they need.

“There was no movement. Clara grew concerned. Was she even alive? Clara reached out and gently lifted the grime-caked chin.
“Are you all right?”
A mitten shot out, black with muck, and cupped itself round Clara’s wrist. The head lifted. Weary, runny eyes met Clara’s and held them for a long moment.
“I have always loved your art, Clara.”
“But that’s incredible,” Myrna didn’t want to sound as though she doubted her friend, but really, ‘incredible’ was charitable. It was unbelievable. And yet despite the cup of tea and fire in the grate her forearms broke out in goosebumps.”

It was unbelievable.

If you don’t believe in God, it’s just an interesting coincidence and wishful thinking. If you do, a homeless woman probably wouldn’t the first image that pops into your head when you think of Him.

Well, I do believe in God. I also believe that God isn’t a homeless woman or a fisherman. But I believe God has a sense of humor and endless creativity. Just as the “heavens declare the glory of God” (Psalm 19:1), I think the men and women he created in his image are also capable of, at times, being His emissaries.

I may be wrong, but I think that is how Gamache interprets it. He does believe the writing on the wall is a message from God. It doesn’t necessarily mean he believes Billie is God.

“He asked me to give you this.” She held up the small paper bag on her lap, protecting it from their latest family member. Henri sat in the back seat, listening alertly to their conversation and wagging his tail. Reine-Marie opened the bag to show Gamache a slice of lemon meringue pie.”

When Gamache was given the message from God he was eating lemon meringue pie. Don’t you love how there’s an olfactory and savory memory associated with the message? Isn’t it wonderful that, from then on, lemon meringue pie would be a reminder that God not only cared about his worries, but was willing to send him comfort in the person of a stranger?

My family recently went through a phase where doubts and questions abounded and decisions had to be made. There were no right or wrong answers, but one choice precluded others and had rippling effects on our lives. My husband and I talked, weighed alternatives, engaged in “what if” conversations… and prayed.

One day my husband came home and said, “You know what? This happened. It must be a sign for us to choose plan A.” If you knew my husband, you'd understand when I say he is not the type to look for signs - or to give them credence even if they come knocking. The next day he called me mid-morning and said, “You know what? This OTHER thing just happened. I think it’s a sign that God is saying that He isn’t really sending signs.”

We laughed.

But there were more of them. Little signs. Serendipity. Coincidences. The writing on the wall.

Like Gamache, we knew what we had to do. It still made us feel blessed and comforted that God was willing to send us "writing on the wall" and the memory of those moments – like the memory of the lemon meringue pie – to assure us that we’re making the right decision.

“Where there is love, there is courage
Where there is courage, there is peace

Where there is peace, there is God.
And when you have God, you have everything.”

Lemon meringue pie is actually a VERY frequent dessert in our home. Lime meringue pie, actually. It’s one of my husband’s favorites and we make it often. I don’t even think we have a recipe!

The dough for the pie crust is usually made with flour, butter, an egg and a splash of water (if needed). I’m not sure about amounts. Sometimes I use butter and an equivalent of graham crackers to make a cookie crust. I’ve been known to buy ready-made pie crusts when we’re in the US and I’m being lazy.

The creamy filling is the same (see? I have so few recipes!) lime filling that we use on every dessert apparently. Just mix the juice from two limes or two lemons with 1 can of condensed milk.

Then we add meringue. It’s supposed to be beaten egg whites and then you add a couple of tablespoons of refined sugar and keep beating the egg whites until they make peaks. Then bake for a few minutes just until the tips of the peaks start to brown.

One day we didn’t have refined sugar in the house. Or white sugar at all. We just added brown cane sugar, crossed our fingers and hoped it wouldn’t turn out too weird. It did turn out a bit odd. In a good way, according to my husband.

Now my husband has a new favorite pie. It doesn’t look as beautiful. The meringue is flatter and it tends to have this caramel-like gooey layer between the cream and the meringue. He says it’s the best thing EVER, though.

Since then, that’s how the pie has been made here. One day we didn't have brown sugar... He was terribly disappointed with the beautiful white peaks of meringue that didn't have the caramel-gooeyness he loves. Not that it stopped him from eating it...

Eggs Benedict and Self Worth

by Libby

 

Breakfast is my favourite meal so I always pay pretty close attention to the substantial breakfasts that Gamache and his team relish during their investigations. None is more popular than Eggs Benedict -- yes, I've counted! And one, in particular, was quite a revelation for the new found camaraderie between Jean-Guy Beauvoir and Agent Yvette Nichol. Who would have thought?

His old self had despised Agent Yvette Nichol, but this morning he found himself quite liking her and not quite remembering what had been the problem. They’d had breakfast together at the B&B and ended up laughing hysterically at her description of trying to warm up his hot water bottle. In the microwave. ‘Sure you find it funny,’ said Gabri, plopping two Eggs Benedicts in front of them. ‘You didn’t come home to find what looked like the cat exploded in the micro. Never liked the cat. Loved the hot water bottle.’ (Dead Cold/A Fatal Grace, Kindle, p.255) 

Perhaps even more surprising was what transpired the previous night, when Agent Nichol attentively nursed Jean-Guy as he languished with the flu. Wasn't this taking things a little too far in her efforts to inveigle herself back on the team? Weren't we all puzzled by such out-of-character, generous behaviour? The sense of it was revealed much later.

She’d felt something for Beauvoir, that night when she’d nursed him, and the next morning when they’d breakfasted together. Not a crush, really. Just a sort of comfort. A relief, as though a weight she never even knew she was carrying had been lifted. (Dead Cold/A Fatal Grace, Kindle, p.372)

Yvette Nichol makes for quite a study. In Dead Cold/A Fatal Grace, Louise Penny reveals just what a layered character she has created. Nichol is not so easily dismissed as a troublesome, unlikable bugbear. At the heart of it all is self worth. It's hard for her to have much when she has struggled with her sense of belonging through her childhood. She has grown up with the criticisms and disapproval of her mother's family ringing in her ears, and is trapped by the expectations of her father and the burden of guilt and shame that her family carries.

Her father exhorts her, 'Don't mess up.' Hard to really value yourself as a person, when you have your father's admonitions constantly repeated. Nichol's worth seems to be based on living up to his expectations and getting his approval. He has done her no favours by catching her up in his own web of lies, failings and dependency. Little wonder she has built barriers between herself and others. She has learned to isolate herself, being defensive or resentful, using blame as her coping mechanism.

 

As Amy said in an earlier post 'the shields we erect can sometimes distance and harden us'.  Yvette Nichol is a case in point. Who is there in her life to reassure her, who she will trust, who values her for herself? No surprise that she is unable to rise above her fear of failing and sabotages herself with her negativity and lack of trust and hope. She 'wears', an attitude like she wears her clothes and keeps her appearance -- badly. There's a measure of self-loathing at work.

On reflection, there are probably few people who haven't felt isolated at some point in their life and channeled a bit of 'Yvette Nichol'. Somehow we need to be mindful of our own unique strengths and talents and inherent value, and not measure self worth against what other people can do, or how we meet other people's expectations. I know sometimes I have to practise being kinder to myself and less negative. It's important to remind ourselves how we contribute to our family, community and society (even in small ways), and of our capacity for generosity and compassion.  And pause to reflect on how we encourage and value others for their unique qualities and strengths, which goes a long way to building their self worth too.

The moment we all had to feel some empathy for Yvette Nichol was surely the trauma of hearing, 'She's not worth it'. And this from Beauvoir! That was pretty shocking but in his defence he was in the throes of a terrifying panic as some of his own childhood demons were unleashed. What a brutal reality for Yvette Nichol to face; she wasn't worth the risk of saving from a burning building.  It is something of an epiphany for her, though. When she is saved, she can finally tell herself she matters.

‘I’m worth it, I really am,’ Nichol had said, slobbering and weeping and grabbing at him. I’m worth it. Gamache didn’t know why, but it gave him pause. (Dead Cold/A Fatal Grace, Kindle, p.328)

Gamache, who has strongly doubted her trustworthiness, has an epiphany of sorts himself as Nichol reveals the burden of her family's past. He is prepared to take another gamble (for pretty high stakes) and invest in her. Isn't it in our imperfections and weaknesses that true character lies? There is always more to be discovered.

'There's a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in'.

This is what Gamache so wisely recognises, thanks also to Clara and her insightful painting.

When we leave Nichol  in Dead Cold/A Fatal Grace, we're still left with some doubts about her. Well she's not going to change overnight, is she? She is still 'scalded and burned' by recent events.

I like to think that down the track there will be other breakfast opportunities for Yvette Nichol, full of camaraderie. There is hope!

So, back to breakfast. Eggs Benedict elevates any breakfast or brunch to another level. But why go to all that trouble without spreading the delight? It's the perfect dish to share with others.

When it came to making Eggs Benedict, it was the poaching of those damned eggs that sparked a fear of failure in me...'I won't mess up'! I've always liked poached eggs but mostly avoid cooking them because I've never mastered how to prevent the egg white from racing away from the yolk and breaking up into a thousand untidy bits bobbing all over the surface of the water. Doesn't make for an appetising presentation!

Well, I should have just researched 'perfect egg poaching' a lot sooner. Correct technique is everything! This video debunks a few poaching myths and gives a foolproof method, and a nod to the British chef Heston Blumenthal. I am now the queen of egg poaching -- my life is complete!

http://www.seriouseats.com/recipes/2014/04/foolproof-poached-eggs-food-lab-recipe.html

A beautiful thick, glossy hollandaise sauce to smother those poached eggs is not a difficult thing to make either. The classic version is quite simply a warm emulsion of egg yolks and melted butter, flavoured with lemon juice and seasoned with salt and white pepper. Many chefs and cooking writers favour the addition of a vinegar reduction to the mix, to make the flavour of the hollandaise a little more complex. And some heat the butter to make beurre noisette a golden, nutty flavoured butter. I've tried it all!

At the heart of this meal are the eggs. Freshness is key, but so is knowing that the hens providing the eggs are treated with respect (there are many that are not). This means free ranging hens with plenty of green pick at their disposal. And we're rewarded with brilliant orange yolks and a tastier egg.

Here's Heston Blumenthal's complete take on Eggs Benedict. It's 'edifying' the way he simply arms us with the science of cooking and technique.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=k-RHFu0WnZ4

Eggs Benedict

hollandaise sauce

2-4 large, very fresh, free range eggs for poaching

sour-dough grainy bread, lightly toasted

fresh flat-leaf parsley, shredded

Hollandaise sauce

200g/7oz unsalted butter, cubed

2 extra large, free-range egg yolks

1 tablespoon of vinegar reduction, if used

half a fresh lemon

sea salt, white pepper

Vinegar reduction

1 sliced shallot

1/2 cup of white vinegar

6-8 white pepper corns, cracked

Hollandaise process

1.  Melt the butter over a low heat and allow it to cool. Alternatively you can make a beurre noisette, which is what I did. Heat the butter over medium heat until it sizzles and the milk solids turn brown. Watch it carefully so the solids don't burn - it can happen very quickly. Pour off the liquid, leaving the solids behind. I poured it through a paper coffee filter.

2.  Make the vinegar reduction. Gently heat the shallot, vinegar and cracked white peppercorns in a small saucepan until the liquid is reduced to a third. Strain and cool.

3.  Place the egg yolks and a tablespoon of vinegar reduction (if using) in a bowl over a saucepan half filled with barely simmering water. The bottom of the bowl must not make contact with the water. Whisk continually by hand until the yolks thicken. It takes a bit longer with the vinegar reduction. The heat must be very gentle so that the yolks don't become grainy or scramble.

4.  Very gradually, a tiny trickle at a time, whisk in the melted butter/beurre noisette. Each trickle must be fully absorbed by the yolks before adding more. Remove from the heat. The sauce should be thick and glossy. Add a squeeze of lemon juice, salt and white pepper to taste. Keep the hollandaise over lukewarm water, while you poach the eggs.

Egg poaching

1.  Heat a saucepan of water, with a teaspoon of salt, to 80C/175F and maintain that temperature.

2.  Place a cracked egg in a fine mesh strainer, allowing any thin egg white to strain off. Gently pour the egg in to the water and cook for 4 minutes. Repeat the process.

I served up each egg on the toasted sour dough bread, seasoned them and gave them a generous covering of hollandaise and a sprinkle of parsley. I had planned to accompany them with some smoked salmon slices, but it was such a complete meal I settled just for salad to balance out the richness of the dish.

I simply made it with leaves, herbs and flowers from the garden; lettuce leaves, rocket/arugula (leaves and flowers) coriander, chervil, sorrel, kale, nasturtium, calendula (pot marigold). Dressed with a little extra virgin olive oil, a squeeze of lemon juice and a grind of black pepper, it was a pretty companion.

Leftover Hollandaise sauce can be gently warmed (It should never be hot) and served over poached Atlantic salmon or other fish, with a sprinkling of fresh parsley and chives. It's also delicious with steamed vegetables, particularly asparagus.