Shepherd's Pie & Keeping Grief Company

by Amy

“Clara had put the shepherd’s pie and apple crisp in the fridge. They’d been her own comfort food, after Peter had gone. She’d followed the casseroles back to sanity. Thanks to the kindness of neighbors who kept baking them, and kept bringing them. And who’d kept her company.

And now it was Clara’s turn to return the comfort and the casseroles and the company.”

Keeping company to someone in pain or grief or discomfort isn’t easy.

Empathic listening demands a willingness to put yourself in someone else’s shoes. Some of us are more talented at it than others. It takes sensibility, I think. A good imagination helps. And there’s that elusive ability: a knack for extrapolating feelings from experiences you’ve had and applying them to a new context.

I’ve always thought that that is what good actors did. Maybe good writers, too. They don’t have to have lived the exact situation that a character they’re playing or portraying does. They do have to dig into their own emotional history and repertoire to empathize and represent the character they are giving voice to.

The same skill is necessary in order to be a good listener, an understanding friend, a counselor, a psychologist…

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” Clara said, cradling the dishes. “But I know how much energy it takes to get out of bed in the morning, never mind shop and cook. There’re a couple bags of groceries in the trunk. They’re from Monsieur Béliveau. And Sarah sent some croissants and baguettes from her boulangerie. She says you can freeze them. I wouldn’t know. They never last that long in my house.

Clara saw a hint of a genuine smile. And with it a slight relief, a loosening of the tight bands holding Evie Lepage in, and the world out.”

I know.

Clara wasn’t relying only on imagination in order to understand Evie’s feelings. She knew. She had recently been in very similar circumstances. Clara thought she was welcome in the Lapage’s home because she had suffered a loss of her own. She thought she understood because they were in the same boat, so to speak.

“How’re you doing?”“It feels like my bones are dissolving,” said Evelyn. And Clara nodded. She knew that feeling.”[…]“Al won’t come in here,” she explained. “I have to keep the door closed. He doesn’t want to see anything to do with Laurent. But I come up, when he’s outside.”She swung the door open and stepped inside. The bed was as Laurent had left it, unmade. And his clothes were scattered about, where he’d tossed them.The two women sat side by side on Laurent’s bed.The old farmhouse creaked and groaned, as though the whole home was in mourning, trying to settle around the gaping hole in its foundation.“I’m afraid,” said Evie, at last.“Tell me,” said Clara. She didn’t ask, “Of what?” Clara knew what she was afraid of. And she knew the only reason Evelyn had allowed her past the threshold wasn’t because of the casseroles she carried in her arms, but because of something else Clara carried. The hole in her own heart.Clara knew.

We talked before of Clara’s willingness to confront her own brokenness and her cracks (HERE). Her strength and her talent for seeing into people’s souls lies in her courage in facing and admitting her own vulnerability.

I think that is the true reason why Evie opened up to Clara.

Loss, heart-wrenching grief, sorrow, and a gaping hole where her heart was all made it easier for Clara to understand. It wasn’t the only determining factor, though. There are those who go through grief and still do not know how to reach out to others who suffer similar pain. There are those who turn their sorrow into bitterness and self-centeredness and cannot see that everyone in the world has a burden of their own and that maybe, just maybe, in sharing, we can lighten each other’s load.

Clara has a talent for seeing others. She hears the unsaid and reads between the lines.

I think Evie let her in because she was willing to say, “Tell me”.

That attitude explains why Clara had let Myrna, Gabri, Olivier, the Gamache’s in her own home when dealing with her own grief.

Maybe, if Clara had walked in, know-it-all attitude, telling Evie what to expect and how to grieve and what to do, Evie wouldn’t have been as comfortable to share.

Maybe, if Clara had interrupted Al’s solitary vigil in the backyard, forced him to confront Laurent’s room… Maybe she would have been kicked out.

Maybe, if Clara had expressed, in so many words that she knew exactly how they felt, Evie would have felt judged, labeled, and unheard.

Clara didn’t do any of those things.

She knew grief, yes. But she also knew people.

“I’m afraid it won’t stop, and all my bones will disappear and one day I’ll just dissolve. I won’t be able to stand up anymore, or move.” She looked into Clara’s eyes. Clung to Clara’s eyes. “Mostly I’m afraid that it won’t matter. Because I have nowhere to go, and nothing to do. No need of bones.”

And Clara knew then that as great as her own grief was, nothing could compare to this hollow woman and her hollow home.

And because she listened, she understood. She understood that while she could empathize and very likely understand much of what Evie was feeling, Evie’s pain was her own.

There wasn’t just a wound where Laurent had once been. This was a vacuum, into which everything tumbled. A great gaping black hole that sucked all the light, all the matter, all that mattered, into it.

Clara, who knew grief, was suddenly frightened herself. By the magnitude of this woman’s loss.

They sat on Laurent’s bed in silence, except for the moaning house.”

When confronted with another person’s pain, we can, at most empathize and keep them company. We can listen, give them room to vent, and assure them that they are loved and not alone. We can pray for them, encourage them, respect them.

“Tell me about him.” Clara walked back to the bed and sat beside Evie.

And she did. Abruptly, in staccato sentences at first. Until in dibs and dabs and longer strokes, a portrait appeared. Of an unexpected baby, who became an unexpected little boy. Who always did and said the unexpected.”

And we can listen to their story. The sorrow and the joy.

Clara knew that grief took a terrible toll. It was paid at every birthday, every holiday, each Christmas. It was paid when glimpsing the familiar handwriting, or a hat, or a balled-up sock. Or hearing a creak that could have been, should have been, a footstep. Grief took its toll each morning, each evening, every noon hour as those who were left behind struggled forward.

Clara wasn’t sure how she’d have managed if the grief of losing Peter was accompanied not by shepherd’s pie and apple crisp, but by accusations. Not by kindness but by finger-pointing. Not by company and embraces and patience, but by whispers and turned backs.

[…]

“We thought they were friends.”

“You have friends. Lots of them. And we’re defending you,” said Clara.

It was true. But it was possible they could have done a better job. And Clara realized, with some shock, that part of her wondered if the gossip wasn’t perhaps, maybe, just a little… true.

And we can offer them our loyalty and support.

Our friendship.

We can keep in mind that we might not be the person that is chosen to listen to their pain or to share their thoughts. Sometimes they aren’t ready and sometimes we aren't the right person (remember this post? Omelettes & Do you want to talk about it?)

Prayers, support, loyalty, and friendship are always (er… usually) welcome, though.

Shepherd’s Pie

I steered away from this one. I didn’t really know what shepherd’s pie was, but I do know when I first looked it up (about a year ago when we first started blogging) I just saw “meat” and wasn’t interested. Also, pies made me think of crust and of sweet pies (which my husband loves) and I ended up getting side tracked.

It keeps popping up in the books as comfort food. Or “practical” food. You know the kind? The kind of food that’s basically ready and doesn’t need much work or timing once it’s prepped. So you can have it handy to heat up whenever needed. Olivier & Gabri have left it behind more than once. They’ve mentioned to Gamache (or was it Jean-Guy?) that there’s shepherd’s pie in the kitchen (as they walked out of the B&B on their way to a potluck at the Morrow’s).

This week, in trying to figure my schedule out (haven’t managed yet) and trying to find some order in the chaos of little endless tasks that must get done (little success there as well), I started looking for meals that could be prepped ahead of time and/or frozen. To try to make life easier. It doesn’t help that none of us quite like to eat anything even remotely similar. We do find common ground, but we’re all happiest eating “our own way”.

In the midst of freezer friendly ideas, the one that stood out was Shepherd’s Pie. Who would have thought. I made a big batch based on Donna Hay's Shepherd's Pie. It’s a big recipe, so I put it in different sized dishes and froze most of them. I made a tiny one (heavy on the potato topping) and the rest I made in meal-sized dishes and froze. It was lovely to see the freezer filled with four potential main dishes for future dinners. Yey!

My recipe had slightly less meat, way more milk in the potatoes, a bit more of cheese on top, and no mixer, so the potatoes were a bit lumpier (fork and arm strength aren’t the same as a mixer).

All in all, I’d consider it a success.

Unless otherwise stated, all quotes are from Louise Penny's NATURE OF THE BEAST

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!