Pain Doré and the Art of Salvaging

by Amy

“Gamache tried the door to the bistro and was surprised to find it open. Earlier that morning, over breakfast of pain doré, sliced strawberries and bananas, maple syrup and back bacon, Gabri had admitted he didn’t know when Olivier might reopen the bistro.”

“Maybe never,” he said, “then where would we be? I’d have to start taking in paying guests.”

“Good thing then that you’re a B and B,” said Gamache.

 “You’d think that would be an advantage, wouldn’t you? But I’m handicapped by extreme laziness.”

And yet, when Gamache and Agent Morin walked into the bistro there was Gabri behind the bar, polishing it. And from the kitchen came the aroma of fine cooking.“Olivier,” Gabri called, coming around from behind the bar. “Our first customers since the murder are here,” he sang out.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Gabri,” they heard from the kitchen and a pot clanked down. A moment later Olivier punched through the swinging door. “Oh, it’s you.”

I went to the theater the other day. The stage had a piano and four cubicle-like apartment sets. There were five people in one crumbling building. The play is a collection of moments in their lives, their longings, frustrations, and issues. A siren goes off sometimes. To the public, it signals a new scene or short monologue. The idea is that the building is a crumbling hazard and the characters are supposed to react (evacuate?) when the siren sounds. Eventually, in the end, the place is demolished and the four inhabitants of the apartments die. The old building becomes a new ruin. The last character – the outside observer throughout the play – ends the show saying he was (or could have been) the three year old child who was the sole survivor.

His last words are a reflection on what ruins are and what can be salvaged from disaster. What do you do with what is left? How do you pick up the pieces? How do you give new meaning and new function to the bits and pieces you ransom? What is the use of a broken past? Is it possible to find opportunity in chaos?

Sometimes I wonder if Louise Penny chooses these meals on purpose (of course she does, but could she be aware of all the double meanings, too?) or if it’s just serendipity. Another name for pain doré is pain perdu. That could be translated into “lost bread”. Old bread. It’s lost already. It would be trash. It’s salvaged. A new opportunity for what had been a ruin.

Pain perdu. Lost bread. Pain doré. Golden bread.

Olivier was ruined. He believed the bistro, the business, could be ruined. His life, as he knew it, was threatened. His reputation was lost.

I do think, though, that the man who was salvaged was better than the original. Just as pain doré is coated with flavor and toasted into golden yumminess, the character’s hardships gave him a “coat” of flavor, depth, and growth. I wouldn’t have wished his pain on anyone, but he was better for it.

Once again, I start talking about a recipe by saying I’d never made it before. I had never made French toast, pain doré, pain perdu or whatever else you’d call it. I looked up quite a few recipes and when I read the word “creamy” in this recipe I decided that this would be my first choice. Click here for the link.

It was yummy. I shared some with my assistant (who is a fellow bread-lover) and the two of us oohed and aahed over our brunch. It was spicy and full of flavor and yes, it was creamy. And not too sweet. Perfect.

There were so many recipes to choose from I felt like Julia Roberts in Runaway Bride trying to figure out how she liked her eggs. I didn’t try all of them. I just made the one that seemed to be the best match for me.

Rabanada (the Brazilian version) is frequently served as a New Year’s treat. I know my mother in law loves them. I asked how she makes it. She soaks the bread in milk (and sugar), then in beaten eggs and cinnamon. She then fries the bread and, afterwards, coats the fried bread in sugar.

Do you like French toast? How do you make yours? Is there any trick to your recipe? I loved the nutmeg and ginger that complemented the cinnamon. What flavors do you add? Butter or oil to fry the bread? Do you use “lost” bread? Or fresh?

More Muffins, promise, potential, and mistakes

by Amy

 “The next morning dawned bright and fresh. There was some warmth in the sun again and Gamache soon took off his sweater as he walked around the village green before breakfast. A few children, up before parents and grandparents, did some last-minute frog hunting in the pond. They ignored him and he was happy to watch them from a distance then continue his solitary and peaceful stroll. He waved at Myrna, cresting the hill on her own solitary walk.

This was the last day of summer vacation, and while it had been decades since he’d gone to school, he still felt the tug. The mix of sadness at the end of summer, and excitement to see his chums again. The new clothes, bought after a summer’s growth. The new pencils, sharpened over and over, and the smell of the shavings. And the new notebooks. Always strangely thrilling. Unmarred. No mistakes yet. All they held was promise and potential.”

This paragraph from the Three Pines books is reminiscent of Anne of Green Gables and her conversation with her beloved teacher when they say that tomorrow is always fresh, with no mistakes in it – yet.

Do you feel it, too? The tug when it’s the time for a new school year? Or is it New Year’s Day that makes you feel like it’s time to start anew? Or spring? Or maybe it’s birthdays? Or Mondays? Or a new book? Are there other things that mark beginnings for you?

I love the idea of promise and potential. And the fact that there are no mistakes yet.

“A new murder investigation felt much the same. Had they marred their books yet? Made any mistakes?”

Isn’t that true for so many other things?

We begin – a year, a month, a class, an exercise program, a diet, a schedule, a course, a marriage, a family… - with the best of intentions. We have promise and potential. We aim for perfection. No mistakes have been made and we’re still looking at a blank page. Unmarred. No mistakes. Yet.

We make mistakes.

Many mistakes are catalysts for learning. Any good teacher will tell you that. It isn’t the kids who get all the answers right that learn the most. It’s usually the ones who know how to ask the right questions. It’s the ones who wonder at the mistakes and question the accuracy of any answer. (Sometimes, in an educational setting, that means they seem to be asking the “wrong” questions and not answering much of anything). Sometimes we need the mistakes to better grasp the process.

Promise and potential are wonderful things.

Accomplishment and achievement are even better.

Promise and potential are like blank new notebooks. I love new notebooks. They’re so pretty and clean and unscribbled on. They smell nice. They’re neat. A just bought a new one online – my cousin is an artist and some of her work is being marketed on T-shirts and sketchbooks. It’s gorgeous. 

Absolutely unneeded, but I succumbed to temptation.

I always have a notebook in my bag. I take notes, scribble information, add “to do” lists, copy out quotes, make more lists, and keep little summaries of important information. At least it seems important at the time. It isn’t always important later. By the time a couple of pages have been filled in, I’ve already forgotten to use my best handwriting (all first pages of notebooks merit best handwriting).

Old notebooks are evidence of accomplishment and achievement. They rarely look pretty once they’ve really been used. I’m sure some people manage to keep things neat all the way through, but my own notebooks – and planners – are usually full of doodles and little hearts and crossed out items on to do lists. I have sketches by my son (done in moments of boredom when we’re in places that lack entertainment), grocery lists (that seem to always have the same items on them), and reminders and phone numbers and one word reminders that make no sense a few weeks (or days) after being jotted down.

I will always love new notebooks. I recognize that used ones, while less pleasing to the eye, actually have better stories to tell.

Some mistakes should be fixed.

Some mistakes are opportunities.

Some mistakes are serendipity.

Some mistakes are charged with regret.

Some are inevitable.

Some are growing pains.

Some are relative – depending on who you ask, they’re not even mistakes at all.

 “As he slowly circled the village green, his hands clasped behind his back and his gaze far off, he thought about that. After a few leisurely circuits he went inside to breakfast.

Beauvoir and Lacoste were already down, with frothy café au lait in front of them. They stood up as he entered the room, and he motioned them down. The aroma of maple-cured back bacon and eggs and coffee came from the kitchen. He’d barely sat down when Gabri swept out of the kitchen with plates of eggs Benedict, fruit and muffins.”

Gabri once ate his sorrow in muffins (this post: eating my pain). Lacoste is contemplating the power of muffins to fill emotional gaps in this scene. I wonder if anyone else considers muffins to be a sort of comfort food.

“Muffin?”

“S’il vous plait,” said Isabelle Lacoste, taking one. They looked like nuclear explosions. Isabelle Lacoste missed her children and her husband. But it amazed her how this small village seemed able to heal even that hole. Of course, if you stuff in enough muffins even the largest hole is healed, for a while. She was willing to try.”

I rarely make muffins in my home. I love them. I like muffins that are fresh out of the oven and smoking hot. My favorite is a recipe of apple muffins that I first ate in Sweden. The Swedish friend who gave me that recipe called it “apple bread” (although that’s the translation, I don’t know what she called it in Swedish). Maybe it’s because muffins are kind of like bread. Right?

Maybe the only reason they’re my favorite is because it was such a fun and friendly meal. My friend and I talked and baked and then sat down and enjoyed an ENTIRE batch of muffins before going out sightseeing. I was in my late teens, on a “gap semester” and having some time alone, away from home and family and the boyfriend (who I eventually married) and listening to my own heart and mind for a couple of months. Apple muffins remind me of that time.

My son won’t touch them. The little slivers of apple are too gooey for him. My husband tolerates them. Or, I should say, he used to tolerate them. At this point in our lives he quite freely grimaces and says, “Isn’t there anything else to eat?”

I am no longer in my late teens, but I would happily eat an entire batch of apple muffins all by myself. So I don’t really make them. Why risk it?

Since the pistachio muffins were a hit when I made them for the earlier post, I decided to try some chocolate muffins and call them brownies to see if my son would eat them. It almost worked. He ate one. After that, he looked at the muffin plate and said, “Can I have an apple next?”. My husband ate half of one and started rummaging in the refrigerator. Yet another muffin recipe that was not approved by the males in the house.

Me? I ate the entire rest of the batch. I thought they were yummy. Sigh. I really shouldn’t make muffins. The good news is I had no emotional holes or homesickness or regretted mistakes to fill up with muffins, so I managed to make them last enough that I don’t feel guilty. They freeze really well and worked great as a snack to bake, freeze, and pull out one at a time to enjoy with coffee or cappuccino or tea. The best part (my son disagrees) was having hazelnuts in them.

Recipe:

Ingredients:

·         1 cup of sugar (I used white sugar, but since I was the only one who ate it anyway, I’ll use brown next time)

·         ½ cup of vegetable oil

·         3 eggs – I beat them slightly before adding them

Mix these three ingredients until you have a creamy blend.

·         1 ½ cups flour

·         1 teaspoon baking powder

·         1 teaspoon baking soda

·         1 pinch of salt

      Mix these in, but not too smooth. Unbaked muffin batter is supposed to be a bit lumpy, right? Just mix the dry and wet ingredients enough.

·         ½ cup of chopped hazelnuts

·         ½ cup of cacao powder or unsweetened chocolate powder

·         1 pinch of salt

·         100g of semi-sweet chocolate chips

Add those last ingredients, then spoon about two spoonfuls into each muffin tin. Bake for about 20 minutes.

All quotes – unless stated otherwise – are from The Brutal Telling: page 69 and 70 in the paperback edition.

Bury Your Dead... and don´t forget to eat your breakfast!

by Amy

Bury Your Dead.

That is probably one of my favorite titles. Well, that one and THE LONG WAY HOME. Sometimes a title is a poem unto itself. This one is. Once you've read the book, you have only to think of the words "bury your dead" and emotions will come in waves. Or is it just me?

“You must believe me, son. Nothing bad will happen to you.”

Everyone makes mistakes. That’s a given.

It’s our behavior after a mistake has been made that defines the kind of person we are.

If – by Rudyard Kipling 

If you can keep your head when all about youare losing theirs and blaming you,
but make allowances for their doubting, too;
if you can wait and not be tired of waiting,
or being lied about, don´t deal in lies,
or being hated, don´t give way to hating… 

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

BURY YOUR DEAD is an emotional book. Gamache is in a pretty dark place throughout most of it. Part of it is grief. He’s grieving for lives lost and anyone who has ever lost anyone can relate. But there’s more.. There is remorse when decisions – even with the best of intentions and knowing the risk and responsibility – lead to actions that result in damage and, in this case, lives lost. And then there is the grief every leader – at least every good leader – has felt at least once in his life. The higher the level of responsibility, the greater the guilt when things go wrong.

It’s not only about regret. Gamache is a great role model because he goes above and beyond. He realizes, rationally, that he cannot save everyone all the time. This was actually the subject of a previous post and Nancy (“Hi, Nancy!”) reminded us, in her comments, that “Myrna had to remind him that Jean-Guy’s choices and consequences will be something he and Annie will have to address”. Nancy is right. He has a hard time accepting that emotionally – although he recognizes it rationally.

I think this book isn’t just about feeling responsible for the consequences. It’s about making peace with his humanity. With his mistakes.

Everyone makes mistakes. Some mistakes cost us more than others.

“Gamache stared down one dark, dingy corridor in the abandoned factory then down the other.
They looked identical. Light scraped through the broken, grubby windows lining the halls and with it came the December day.
43 seconds.
He pointed, decisively to the left and they ran, silently, toward the door at the end.”

As I started to write this, I was thinking of the things we cannot fix. I was thinking of how you can always bake a new batch of cookies if you’ve burnt the first one… and I was listing, in my mind, the things that cannot be fixed: battles that cannot be refought (or, better yet, avoided before they began), trust that cannot be recovered, operations that cannot be fixed in patients that died on the table… Then I realized that the first batch of cookies can’t really be salvaged, either. They cannot be fixed. You can start over, though. And, sometimes, you can learn from your mistakes. Or the mistakes of others.

One of the things I love about stories is that they allow me to learn from the lives – and the mistakes – of others. By living vicariously through characters, I am gifted with multiple lives and have the chance to experience things I might otherwise not experience. Experience – fictional or not – does not always make us wise. I believe we should try to harness it so it _does_ make us wiser…

In a sense, that is what Gamache tries to do in this book. His own life, his own story, his own losses, and his own mistakes are too recent and too painful to probe. So he probes another story. He decides to dissect the mistake of another leader, another man who also led men to their deaths. In trying to decipher another man’s reasoning, he is trying to come to terms with his own misjudgments.

“Avec le temps.

[…]They’d had quiet dinners together in front of the fire, they´d walked the narrow snow-covered streets. Talked. Were silent. Read the papers, discussed events. The three of them. Four, if you counted their German shepherd, Henri.And most days Gamache had gone off on his own to a local library, to read.Émile and Reine-Marie had given him that, recognizing that right now he needed society but he also needed solitude.”

We don’t usually like to dwell on our shortcomings. And I don’t think anyone truly wants to investigate their mistakes, what led to them or their consequences. It’s particularly painful when the results are dire – let alone catastrophic – and when atonement is not an option. It is even worse when it is public and you are judged – or justified – not only by your own thoughts, but by the audience of onlookers. It is bad enough when our mistakes hurt us, but it is devastating when others have to pay a price or when they cost us the loss of trust, friendships or even lives.

Armand Gamache is in pain through most of this book.

I cannot even begin to imagine the depth of his pain.

I have my own mistakes and regrets to contend with. On a side-note, I cannot say the word “regret” without hearing Frank Sinatra’s voice in my head singing, “Regrets, I’ve had a few…”. Now it’ll be stuck in my mind all day.

Some of my less than stellar decisions hurt no one but myself (like eating one – or ten – too many cookies). Others aren’t as easily dismissed and have cost me some sleepless nights. Worse. Some mistakes have hurt others. Those still give me nightmares sometimes. It doesn’t matter that they’ve been aired out, forgiven, and – when possible – been atoned. I still remember the hurt I caused. And it haunts me.

There are others that may not even be considered mistakes. In some ways, Gamache’s own experience falls into this category. We make the best decision we can with the knowledge we have available at the time. Urgency – as in Gamache’s case – sometimes gives us limited time to gain knowledge or to reassess our decision-making process. Sometimes, it is only in hindsight that the knowledge is available.

“That was often the equation, give up the few to save the many. From a distance it seemed so simple, so clear. And yet, from a distance you might see the big picture, but not the whole picture, you missed the details. Not everything was seen, from a distance.”

I have only practiced medicine for 10 years. In those 10 years much has already changed. Sometimes I learn something new and am reminded of a patient (or patients) for whom I made what I thought was the best decision, but now, in hindsight, if only I could go back in time... Nothing drastic. No lives lost. No severe consequences. Usually the outcome wouldn’t even have changed. As I write I am listing them in my mind and cannot think of one where the outcome would have changed. Maybe one or another would have had earlier behavioral interventions or something… I still feel guilty.

I can only imagine how Gamache feels.

I once saw a TED talk (Brian Goldman – Doctors make mistakes. Can we talk about that?) about mistakes in medicine and how doctors aren’t encouraged to talk about them. We aren’t supposed to fail. We aren’t supposed to make mistakes. But it is only in talking about them and airing them and assessing them and studying our own – and others’ mistakes that we can prevent them, make amends, or learn from our mistakes.

To err is human.

We do not need to ignore or cover up our errors, though.

While we do need to bury our dead, we need to grieve them and to make our peace with our role in their lives – and theirs in ours. We need marks. We need the headstones that remind us what those dead meant to us. The pain of loss can be important to make us aware of the responsibility we have towards those still around us.

We all make mistakes. Some mistakes are huge – but have few, or dismissible, consequences. Others are unintentional, small, apparently inconsequential, and lead to disaster. It is not the nature of the consequence that determines the weight and importance of the error. It is not being caught that makes it a sin. It is not discovery that makes you accountable.

We do need to forgive ourselves. But we cannot let ourselves off the hook too lightly or too quickly. We need to take time to assess our actions, our intentions, our motivations, and our reasoning. We need to evaluate the consequences of our choices. We need to rethink our steps and try to imagine different outcomes to different paths taken. Ideally, this is done before action is taken (although some people are paralyzed in trying to make the best decision and never make any decision at all). I believe, and there are studies to prove, that successful people and resilient people are not the ones who always make the best choices (I don’t think those people exist). They are the ones who take responsibility for their choices – and the consequences thereof.

“And while forgetting the past might condemn people to repeat it, remembering it too vividly condemned them to never leave.”

True forgiveness can only come after there is true understanding. Gamache understands this. He isn’t beating himself up in this book. He is giving himself time to heal. Then he is making himself relive it, bit by bit, and understand it… so he can come to terms with it and forgive himself.

“To be human is to accept ourselves just as we are, with our own history, and to accept others as they are.” (Vanier – Becoming Human)

It is only because he allows himself to retrace his steps and because he is humble enough to accept, and recognize, that he is human and susceptible to error – despite taking all precautions – that he realizes that while some things cannot be made right – Agent Moran’s life cannot be regained – there are things that can be amended. While Olivier will never be the same and the price he paid was, in a sense, higher than the mistake he made, Gamache’s error in that case could be amended.

Gamache became stronger physically after the raid. He was in better shape than he’d been in a long time. He worked at it. He was also stronger emotionally. He worked at that, too.

He is a good role model.

We all make mistakes.

It is what we do afterwards that make us who we are. 

Throughout much of the book there are many simple meals – most in local cafes and Émile’s home. Breakfasts abound. Much tea and café au lait is drunk throughout. I didn’t really cook a meal for this post. I did include some pictures of my own breakfasts (usually overnight oats – I always add a generous amount of cinnamon to the mix at night, and throw in some chocolate chips and fruit in the morning). Coffee and tea.

Full Breakfast and Awkward Interactions

By Amy

“Everyone was already around the table next morning when Morin arrived, more than a little disheveled. They glanced at him, and Agent Lacoste indicated the seat next to her, where, miraculously for the hungry young agent, there waited a bowl of strong café au lait along with a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon and thick-cut toast with jams.”

“Downstairs he found a full breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast and strong coffee.”

This blog keeps changing my grocery shopping list! I’d only ever bought bacon twice and both times were during long vacations overseas. Both my husband and son slept in, so I made myself a full breakfast one Saturday. Like Gamache, I ended up regretting the bacon and wishing I’d had the meal for dinner instead. It was a bit much for me that early in the morning.

The first scene is when Agent Morin comes back to the village after a night spent alone in the hermit’s cabin. The second is the breakfast Gamache eats in the Haida village right before flying to the totems and over the Gwaii Haanas.

In the first scene Agent Morin is the personification of the rookie trying to do the right thing and not appear inexperienced. In the second, Gamache is very aware that he is the outsider in a group of people who weren’t always treated kindly or justly by previous visitors. While he himself respected them, he realized he might be lumped together with people who didn’t share his sensibilities or his ideals.

“The pilot’s deep brown eyes were suspicious, as well they would be, thought Gamache. The arrival of yet another middle-aged white man in a suit was never a good sign. You didn’t have to be Haida to know that.”

I could identify with both Morin and Gamache as they navigated these tricky social situations. I have traveled a bit since I was a child and my parent's home, and later my own, have always been very open and hospitable. I enjoy interacting with different people – it doesn’t mean it’s always comfortable. It’s always easier to be on our own turf, so to speak, where we have the choice of being magnanimous and encouraging as Lacoste was to Morin and Esther was to Gamache.

It’s much harder to be in Morin shoes facing a prickly superior like Beauvoir. The most uncomfortable situation, to me, is facing the Lavinas of the world. She’s beyond prickly. She’s defensive, suspicious, and unwelcoming. She probably has good cause to be, but it’s not easy to begin a social interaction with someone who’s that standoffish. Gamache, who’s always attentive to everyone, even forgot to ask for her name!

“… the young bush pilot looking at her watch. Was her name Lavina? To his embarrassment he realized he’d never asked her.”

The main difference, I think, is perceived superiority. As a junior agent, inexperienced in homicide, as well as younger than the other officers at the table with him, Morin subjected his behavior to their judgement and was found wanting.

“Why didn’t you call?” demanded Beauvoir, tearing his eyes from the carvings to look at Morin.

“Should I have?” He looked stricken, his eyes bouncing among the officers. “I just thought there was nothing we could do until now anyway.”

“He’d longed to call; only a mighty effort had stopped him from dialing the B and B and waking them all up. But he didn’t want to give in to his fear. But he could see by their faces he’d made a mistake.”

“All his life he’d been afraid, and all his life it had marred his judgement. He’d hoped that had stopped, but apparently not.”

We’ve all been there: trying to measure up to a mentor, a professor, a new boss. Sometimes it’s easy to figure out what is wanted, evaluate if the requirements are compatible with our capacities and adjust our behavior to meet expectations. Other times, we miss our cue, misunderstand the requests, or simply don’t comply – either because we lack the means or because it would mean compromising our beliefs and ideals.

Leaders (good ones at any rate) assume responsibility and guide their subordinates while they gain the experience necessary to improve judgement. This is true of parenthood and it is true in any job. Parents, teachers, mentors, older siblings… they are all models of behavior (including how not to behave) and we can profit from their foresight and experience. While it was embarrassing for Morin to discover his action had been interpreted as foolish, instead of brave, he was in a position where minor mistakes were almost expected. That probably accounts for Beauvoir’s prickliness and unwillingness to have him join the team in the first place.

While being a good leader involves assuming responsibility and being a good model and teacher, the subordinate also has a role to play. In this sense, Morin was an easier novice to work with than was Agent Nicole. Her lack of self-worth and defensiveness was so intense that it was hard for her to listen to instructions or learn from her mistakes. Being admonished made her disengage and lick her wounds while justifying herself and ranting against those who criticized her. Morin was the braver soul, in my opinion. He understood his own feelings well and, in the end, instead of retreating, he reached out to make sure that his safety net was still in place.

“That was foolish of you,” said Gamache. He looked stern and his voice was without warmth. Morin instantly reddened. “Never, ever wander on you own into the woods, do you understand? You might have been lost.”

“But you’d find me, wouldn’ you?”

They all knew he would. Gamache had found them once, he’d find them again.

The Chief knows the importance of teaching and mentoring his agents. He has taught the same to Beauvoir and Lacoste – who both become mentors throughout the series, although they all go about it in different ways. Gamache also recognizes the need to allow people room to use their intuition, judgement, and their own personal style of doing things. In A TRICK OF THE LIGHT he makes that clear, both to Lacoste and to Adam Cohen:

“No matter what orders are issued, you must only do what you know to be right. You understand?”

In the scene with the Haida bush pilot, Lavina, although Gamache was an authoritative figure - a Chief Inspector of Homicide - he had no direct authority over her. He also represented a group of people who had, historically, marginalized the Haida. I think she expected him to be condescending or inadequate. I have the feeling that it made him uncomfortable; interactions could shadowed by nuances he wasn’t personally guilty of, but represented all the same.

A quick read though Wikipedia (probably not the best source, but it's the most readily available) shows that the Haida are a fierce, proud people. They were defeated by smallpox, not by the Europeans and North Americans they fought with. It is a measure of their strength that so much of their culture has survived.

Lavina was the most unwelcoming of the Haida I wonder why that is. Having lived in more than once place and experienced more than one culture in my formative years, I can certainly understand her annoyance. Age usually teaches you that lack of knowledge is not the same as lack of compassion or interest. Informing someone kindly is usually better than biting their nose off. Gamache did his best and, while the others were more forgiving, she was the mirror that reflected his blunders.

“So you’re from the Charlottes?”

“I’m from Haida Gwaii,” she said.

“Of course, I’m sorry. Are you with the Eagle clan?”

“Raven.”

“Ah,” said Gamache, and realized he sounded slightly ridiculous, but the young woman beside him didn’t seem to care. She seemed more interested in ignoring him completely.”

A friend, who’s a very vocal advocate about issues I won’t get into here (at the risk of deviating from the topic at hand) once told me that she realizes she comes off as bitter and judgmental. She says she hates my arguments and my concessions. While we share ideals, our approach is different. She says she wants to stay mad and angry and bitter and resentful. She wants to bother people and take them kicking and screaming away from their comfort zone. I obviously don’t feel the same, but I can understand where she’s coming from.

Maybe Lavina’s resentment has a deeper cause we may never find out about. Maybe she was having a bad day. And maybe the Chief was right.

“Gamache wondered if she was channeling Ruth Zardo. Was there one in every pack?”

Quotes from The Brutal Telling and How The Light Gets In.

Breakfast with the Gamaches & Why Arguments Matter

By Amy

“It had started over the fresh-squeezed orange juice, coursed through the scrambled eggs and Brie, and progressed across the fresh fruit, croissants and confitures.”

I obviously reinterpreted it.

Unlike Ruth’s meal, this one needed no modifications. I only changed it a bit in order to fit my hunger and the ingredients at hand. I realize I could have added the Brie when scrambling the eggs, but I forgot and had already made them the “usual” way – with some fresh herbs from the garden. Instead of croissants, I used my staple bread. There is no real recipe. I learned from my mom who adds “this and that” until it looks “right”, then waits for the dough to rise and bakes it. No loaf is ever like the other. I’d added some fresh maracujá fruit and lemon zest to the dough so it had a citrus zing to it. I realized I’d run out of oranges when I was going to take the picture so I just added the peppermint tisane I’d been drinking to compose the image. Reinterpreted, but close enough to the original.

“In the dining room of their apartment in Montreal’s Outremont quartier he could hear his second in command, Jean Guy Beauvoir, and his daughter Annie. They weren’t talking. They never talked. They argued.”

Don't you just love Annie? Before The Brutal Telling, her character doesn't appear much. Actually, when I read A FATAL GRACE, I thought Daniel would eventually have more of a presence in the books. I think Daniel was mostly a contrast to Beauvoir and an opportunity for us to understand how the younger inspector felt about his boss as a father figure. This book had me falling hard for Annie. She’s such a wonderful character, isn’t she?

“Annie Gamache became their cub. And grew into a lioness. But sometimes, on quiet walks together, she’d tell her father about her fears and her disappointments and the everyday sorrows of her young life. and Chief Inspector Gamache would be seized with a desire to hold her to him, so that she needn’t pretend to be so brave all the time.

“She was fierce because she was afraid. Of everything.”

Years ago, when my son mastered something that was hard for him (I can't remember exactly what it was, but it wasn’t anything big – something like tasting a new food or saying hi to a new kid), I told him he’d been brave. He said, “No I wasn’t, mommy! I was afraid!” I then proceeded to explain that courage is not absence of fear. That’s impetuousness. To be brave is to be able to face your fear, think about it, break it down into manageable parts, and try to conquer it. “You mean like Hal Jordan in the Green Lantern movie?” Ummm… Yes. Exactly.

Annie is brave. In my opinion, she's one of the pivots that turned Beauvoir into a braver man. I don’t mean a braver inspector. I mean a braver person.

“The conversation in the kitchen stopped as they listened to what he might say next. This was an argument played out every brunch, every Christmas, Thanksgiving, birthday. The words changed slightly. If not tasers they were arguing about daycare or education or the environment. If Annie said blue, Beauvoir said orange. It had been this way since Inspector Beauvoir had joined the Sureté du Québec’s homicide division, under Gamache, a dozen years earlier. He’d become a member of the team, and of the family.”

I absolutely love this. They eventually learn (spoiler alert) how to argue more effectively. Or, if not effectively, they learn how to do it nicely. I hope, for their sake and ours, that they never lose the ability to argue.

I’ve given this some thought over the years. I love to talk. Not small talk, really. I enjoy conversations where it’s possible to learn and grow and see things from different perspectives.

As a teenager, I would talk about controversial subjects because they could easily become a debate. Conversations like the ones Annie and Beauvoir “enjoyed” were right up my alley. I have grown up a bit and grown out of my infatuation with controversy. Too many people don’t know how to express their opinions or listen to other ideas without being offensive or feeling offended. All too frequently, points of view are taken to be “absolute truth”. Inarguable. So it defeats the purpose, really. These people don’t really argue. They state (and restate) their point of view and “win” the discussion through sheer stubbornness. Then there are those who are afraid to talk about what they think or believe. Some people are afraid they might change their minds or have their ideas challenged. It’s easy to get our opinions mixed up with our sense of identity. When that happens, any discussion of ideas can feel like a personal affront. That can be frightening.

“The ability we have to manipulate ourselves, so that the foundation of our beliefs is never shaken.” (ELEGANCE OF THE HEDGEHOG – by Muriel Barbery)

I still tend to enjoy arguments. I don’t mean disagreeing or fighting just for the sake of it. I don’t frequently indulge in the kind of passionate exchange Annie and Beauvoir got into whenever they met. I can't even remember the last time I did. I try to avoid in depth conversation with people who are overly enamored of their own opinion. Furthermore, whenever I talk to such people, I tend to have a little voice in my head whispering, am I like that? When am I like that? I must take care so I don't turn into someone like that!

"To recognize our bias toward error should teach us modesty and reflection, and to forgive it should help us avoid the inhumanity of thinking we ourselves are not as fallible as those who, in any instance, seem most at fault.” (WHEN I WAS A CHILD I READ BOOKS – by Marilynne Robinson)

I’d define “good” arguments as a form of debate. Dictionaries and thesauruses do place them as synonyms. Arguments can be statements proffered as evidence, or conversations where two sides disagree, or even a set of statements where you reason your way from one to another in order to reach a kind of conclusion. I also think arguments, when these definitions are taken into account, don’t necessarily have to include disagreements. You can make a statement and the person you’re talking to might ask you to explain your statement to clarify it. The other person might add to it or question it. It’s not really a disagreement, it's more of a joint effort in reasoning in search of a better statement or a more complete truth. I love that idea. Myrna and Gamache give us a good example in this scene:

“We all change. Only psychotics remain the same.”

“But isn’t that more growth than change? Like harmonics, but the note remains the same.”

“Just a variation on a theme?” asked Myrna, interested. “Not really change?” She considered. “I think that’s often the case. Most people grow but they don’t become totally different people.” (A TRICK OF THE LIGHT – Louise Penny)

I suppose what I'm saying is that arguments are, in a way, passionate dialogues.

Some people can do this in their heads. My husband is like that. He’ll think a problem through and reach a conclusion. I talk, read (or write) my way towards my ideas. I enjoy input from others, they challenge me and force me to perfect and fine-tune my ideas. In this kind of approach, you bounce thoughts off someone else and you have to be prepared to listen. You run the risk of changing your mind (which can be a good thing). Being open-minded doesn’t mean you lack an opinion. It means you’re open to being convinced (not brow-beaten) of another “truth” if your arguments (as in your reasons or justifications) for your initial “truth” aren’t as solid as the ones presented to you.

“On all sorts of grounds I would go to the barricades to defend their right to make me uncomfortable of course. They have caused me to ponder many things, to my great benefit.” (WHEN I WAS A CHILD I READ BOOKS - Marilynne Robinson)

I tend to steer clear of controversial subjects, especially with extremists. Conversations with fanatics (even those we mostly agree with) tend to be pointless and draining. Fanatics and extremists aren't, by the way, restricted to sports, religion and politics. Food is frequently an explosive topic for discussion. We once tried to order plain spaghetti for our son at a quaint restaurant in a little town in Italy. It was a hilarious conversation. Spaghetti was served with oysters. Could we have it plain? Shocked look from the server. No! Of course not! Spaghetti must be served with oysters. Could we have it with just plain tomato sauce? No! Why? Is it already mixed with the oysters? Offended look. Of course not! The pasta is cooked fresh. Um... then can we just have some of it plain before you mix the oysters with the... OF COURSE NOT! Spaghetti must be served with oysters. How do you argue with that?

On the other hand, if we stay out of  all arguments (even internal ones), we’re depriving ourselves of the chance to perfect, fine-tune, and question our own ideas and “truths” and we’re depriving those brave souls who are interested in challenging themselves, too.

"If I had lived a generation earlier, I might have thought about many of the things that interest me now, but not with the discipline that comes with writing about them or teaching, and not with the rigor that comes from being exposed to response and criticism. [...] So my mind has been formed by the uses I have been able to make of it." (WHEN I WAS A CHILD I READ BOOKS - Marilynne Robinson)

I think there are two main things to keep in mind regarding arguments and debate. One is that we have to know when to engage and when to stop. The other is figuring out who you can and can’t “argue” (or discuss, debate, converse) with and about what, and determine what each person’s limit is.

“Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other’s eyes for an instant?” (WALDEN – Henry Thoreau)

We don’t necessarily have to engage in an argument in order to learn from those we think we disagree with. Sometimes I'll write out an answer - and not hit send. Sometimes I argue with myself – just to try to think about an issue better. Sometimes I try to explain, defend, or justify a position that is alien to me as an exercise in understanding. It's like a congenital affliction. I can't help it. I don't think I could stop if I wanted to.

“Democracy, in its essence and genius, is imaginative love for and identification with a community with which, much of the time and in many ways, one may be in profound disagreement.” (WHEN i WAS A CHILD i READ BOOKS - Marilynne Robinson)

Annie and Beauvoir don’t set a very good example here in the form and tone of their interaction, but I think the scene makes me hopeful for their relationship and how much they’ll grow because they challenge each other! I don’t have many friends with which to freely “argue”, but there are three or four who come to mind. They’re special. And they know it. Sometimes we end conversations – arguments, debates, discussions – thanking each other profusely for the right to talk freely and contradict ourselves as needed.

I have told each of these friends that they are “second friends”. In his book SURPRISED BY JOY, C.S. Lewis describes the joy in finding the “first” and the “second” friends in life. I have been blessed with “second friends”.

“The First [friend] is the alter ego, the man who first reveals to you that you are not alone in the world by turning out (beyond hope) to share all your most secret delights. There is nothing to be overcome in making him your friend; he and you join like raindrops on a window. But the Second Friend is the man who disagrees with you about everything. He is not so much the alter ego as the antiself. Of course he shares your interests; otherwise he would not become your friend at all. But he has approached them all at a different angle. He has read all the right books but has got the wrong thing out of every one. It is as if he spoke your language but mispronounced it. How can he be nearly right and yet, invariably, just not right? He is as fascinating (and infuriating) as a woman. When you set out to correct his heresies, you find that he forsooth has decided to correct yours! And then you go at it, hammer and tongs, far into the night, night after night, or walking through fine country that neither gives a glance to, each learning the weight of the other’s punches, and often more like mutually respectful enemies than friends. Actually (though it never seems so at the time) you modify one another’s thought; out of this perpetual dogfight a community of mind and a deep affection emerge. But I think he changed me a good deal more than I him.” (SURPRISED BY JOY – C.S. LEWIS)

Annie and Beauvoir are Second Friends. I’m pretty sure that the concept and the attraction of the kind of friend C.S.Lewis describes is why so many romance novels use precisely this kind of interaction between the main characters to spark romance. My own “second friendships” are much (MUCH) tamer and have never reached the point of “respectful enemies” nor have any of our conversations escalated into “dogfights”. But they’ve taught me quite a lot nevertheless.

"A good sermon is one side of a passionate conversation. It has to be heard that way. There are three parties to it, of course, but so are there even to the most private thought - the self that yields the thought, the self that acknowledges and in some way responds to the thought, and the Lord. That is a remarkable thing to consider." (GILEAD - M. Robinson)

And then, of course, there are books. Books have made me think, they have challenged my ideas and thoughts about the world and myself, they have “forced” me to look through other eyes… I have also had the privilege of discussing books with other readers. The joy in book discussions is that you are able to discuss ideas, culture, feelings, relationships, history and a myriad of other issues with people from different backgrounds, genders, age groups, cultures, etc.  Sometimes you come away from a discussion and view a book differently because of someone else’s input.

I’m defending arguments (although I’m adding a caveat in that I’m defining what I believe an argument is). I don't believe that disagreements and discussions are always positive (they usually aren't, I think). Sometimes people – couples in particular – aren’t really arguing or even talking to each other. They’re just putting each other down by correcting one another all the time. It’s worse when only one person in the relationship does it. Then it’s demeaning. A kind of abuse. Remember Sandra and Thomas?

“There, you see. Can’t you just let me say something without correcting me?”

“You want to be wrong?”

“It was in the pauses. Never the words, but the hesitations. Sandra had spent the first few years ignoring it, agreeing with Thomas that she was just too sensitive. Then she’d spent a few years trying to change, to be slim enough, sophisticated enough, elegant enough. Then she’d entered therapy and spent a few years fighting back. Then she’s surrendered. And started taking it out on others.” (A RULE AGAINST MURDER – Louise Penny)

So yes. I like arguments. I like people who enjoy dialogue. I like it when someone is willing to engage and to debate and to help me become aware of the frailty of "my" truths, the incompleteness of my arguments, and the incredible amount of faith that is required for some unjustifiable beliefs (which doesn’t mean you lose faith, just that you realize how big your faith is). Conversation with people who have a different perspective is what helps us comprehend how incredibly small our view of the world is.

"People meet in life, converse, argue, fight, and do not notice that they direct themselves to one other from afar, each in his own observatory situated in a different place in time." (Milan Kundera)

To muster up the energy to argue, to discuss, to analyse, to question is really a form of showing you care about the subject at hand. Most of us only defend things we care about. An argument is a defense of an idea. If you're willing to discuss it, it means it matters. It's worth it.

"He takes it seriously, though. He thinks it's worth quarreling with." (GILEAD - M. Robinson)

I will be forever grateful for the people in my life who challenge me to be a better version of myself.

"I still have not answered your question, I know, but thank you for asking it. I may be learning something from the attempt." (LILA - Marilynne Robinson)

I’m pretty sure this post was too long, but I’ll conclude with a few last thoughts. Breakfast is an important meal. Homemade bread is yummy. I love grapes. I think coupling Annie and Beauvoir was an inspired move by Louise Penny. I love Annie’s character. And I want to grow up, like Marilynne Robinson, as an archaeologist of my own thoughts...

"Over years I have done an archaeology of my own thinking, mainly to attempt an escape from assumptions that would embarrass me if I understood their origins." (WHEN I WAS A CHILD I READ BOOKS - Marilynne Robinson)

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.