Steak Frites & High Standards

by Amy

Peter had been here. He’d committed this sight to canvas, as best he could. Trying to record wonder. Awe. Not just beauty, but glory.

And he’d mailed it off. Away from here. Why?

And where was he now? Had he moved on, heading deeper into his own wound? Still searching?

Or – Gamache stared into the crater. Had Peter never left? Was he with them now, lying in the woods at the bottom of the cliff? Becoming part of the landscape? His silence profound because it was now unending?

Beside him, Clara stared at the river Peter had painted, and let the emotions roll over her. Her own, and his. She felt Peter very keenly.

Not his presence but his absence.

They’re walking in Peter’s footsteps. Retracing his steps. Trying to understand the path he trailed in search of himself. It was a very long way home. He made it, though. Part of the process was recognizing greatness, recognizing potential and not settling or conforming with mediocrity. It wasn’t about competing with other artists or being famous (although I’m sure that wouldn’t hurt). It was about facing himself and trying to fearlessly find his own own greatness.

Throughout the book, art is used as a metaphor for self-knowledge. Both Ruth and Clara expound on the theme of finding your place as an artist by expressing things that cannot be contained (Ruth’s lump in the throat), starting off with a mess, and growing from there.

Peter was a master. A safe, mediocre, playing by the rules, blanched-out, emotionally stunted master. What he did on his journey was hard. He divested himself of his expertise and started over. He went back to the basics and he learned to feel again. He used painting as a means of expression and relearned how to feel through his art.

Beuvoir got up and wandered around the brasserie. There were paintings on the walls, with price tags slightly askew. From years of dusting. They were pretty landscapes, but in Charlevoix a painting needed to be more than that to sell.

If he hadn’t looked into the windows of the Galerie Gagnon, Jean-Guy might have thought these were quite good. But he had looked. And now he knew the difference. Part of him regretted that. He might now like better things, but he also liked fewer.

Like Beauvoir, Peter might have continued to ignore the difference. But he was married to someone with a fearlessness and faith he lacked. He had lived with an artist who threw herself recklessly into exploration of her soul. He had seen a true master’s work evolve and take root and bloom.

Like Beauvoir, Peter had looked. And now he knew the difference.

That might be one of the hard things about coming face to face with greatness. Be it a wonderful piece of literature, a beautiful painting, a flawless dance, a perfectly cooked meal, or a person with genuine kindness and goodness? We are drawn in.

We are also challenged in our humanity.

It is easier to be contented with mediocre accomplishments when we do not have greatness to compare it to.

I don’t mean that we are all to be masters at everything. That would be impossible anyway. What I do mean is that we should, I believe, have high standards for the things we set out to accomplish. Isn’t there an old saying that ‘Any job worth doing is worth doing well’?

While we need not be masters at everything, we can all strive to be masters at being our own unique selves. We can strive for authenticity, honesty, integrity, kindness, and love. We can invest in giving our best in the things we propose to do.

It does not mean we will be brilliant. Sometimes the process to greatness starts with a dog’s breakfast, Isn't that how Ruth described it? Sometimes it looks like crazy paintings with upside-down smiles. Sometimes it’s a hand that trembles or a part-time recovering addict Surete officer.

And we’re all works in progress. We aren’t finished.

There are levels of competence. I think it works for anything we try to master: reading, writing, math facts, cooking, playing tennis, and our own characters. (Link: Four Stages of Competence).

Making mistakes is part of the process of learning competence. It is part of the humanity and slip-ups of maintaining competence.

I have written about kindness lately. In consciously trying to exercise more kindness I have become increasingly aware of my incompetence, my prejudices, my resentments, my sense of entitlement, my selfishness. Like Beauvoir, my standard is now higher, so I am more conscious of my shortcomings.

“What is a soul?”
He looked up, smiled, studied her face. “Why ask me?”
“It just seems to me that you would know.”He shrugged. “On the basis of my vast learning and experience, I would say – it is what you can’t get rid of. Insult, deprivation, outright violence – ‘If I make my bed in Sheol, behold, thou art there,’ and so on…”(Home – Marilynne Robinson)

Recognizing a greater standard for greatness and embarking on a journey into oneself to try to reach it means we first run into incompetence. Before we begin to learn anything, we become aware of how very little we do know, how very incapable we are.

Over the 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)

Poor Peter.

He tried to run. He tried to find the magic “place” or muse or secret key to unlock the magic that shone in Clara.

You can’t run from yourself, though.

“It’s like the people who believe they’ll be happy if they go and live somewhere else, but who learn it doesn’t work that way. Wherever you go, you take yourself with you. If you see what I mean.” (The Graveyard Book – Neil Gaiman)

But while it is true that we cannot outrun ourselves and we cannot outrun our incompetence, we can grow. We can learn. We can strive to be better versions of ourselves. We can become masters at our crafts. We can gain competence. We can be brilliant.

“You’re always you, and that don’t change, and you’re always changing, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” (The Graveyard Book – Neil Gaiman)

While THE LONG WAY HOME centers around Clara’s search for Peter and Peter’s search of himself, one of my favorite threads in this book is the “new and improved Beauvoir”. In this book we see him a bit more mature and open-minded. Art is used as a metaphor for this as well. Where Jean-Guy once disdained most art and poetry, he slowly starts to realize his lack of knowledge… and slowly, slowly comes to appreciate art more as he learns (not always willingly or consciously) more.

He might now like better things, but he also liked fewer.

This is also a book where he regains his appetite. While I rarely share his taste (I’m not much of a meat eater), he’s one of those people I’d enjoy cooking for. Even through the books I can just picture how much he relishes his meals. Aren’t those the best guests?!

Steak frites all around, the steaks char-grilled and thick. The fries thin and seasoned.

I did make steak frites. Not quite like the ones described, though. The only judge of the steak was my husband. He said it was good. I confess that I didn’t eat any. It looked okay, though. The fries were oven baked potatoes. My son said the very, very thin ones were okay. The thick ones were “soft” (this is a child that loves French fries, but gags with mashed potatoes, so texture is an issue). I thought the potatoes were blissfully perfect. Especially the thick ones!

So… there’s another consideration. Even masters cannot please everyone. Also, perfection is subjective and dependent on the judge.

Steak

I used flank steak – I’m still learning about the types of cuts here. I marinated it overnight in lemon juice (about 4 tablespoons), olive oil (a splash… maybe 1-2 tablespoons), salt (about ¾ teaspoon), and I was going to add a bit of brown sugar, but I had the left-over juices from canned peaches, so I just threw that in. I popped it into the oven for about half an hour along with the juices from the marinade. It’s probably a bit more well done than most meat lovers would like, it’s still red enough to make me uncomfortable, and for the husband to eat happily.

Frites

Oven was preheated to 475 degrees (Fahrenheit) I used russet potatoes and peeled and sliced them. I made thick wedges, but about 1/3 of them I sliced thinner to make my son happy. I let them soak in warm tap water for about 10 minutes, then patted them dry. I covered a cookie sheet with aluminum foil and spread 4 tablespoons of olive oil and about 1 teaspoon of coarse salt onto the sheet. I added one tablespoon of olive oil to the potatoes and tossed those before spreading them out onto the cookie sheet. For the first 5 minutes, I baked them covered in aluminum foil. After that, uncovered for 30 minutes (flippling them at the 15 minute mark).

Son had his very thin, crispy potatoes plain.

I had mine (the thickest wedges) with a roasted tomato (with salt and fresh thyme) and sour cream and mustard dip.

My husband had his with steak.

We obviously cannot agree to all eat the same meal. Ever.

Lentil Soup & Unfashionable Beliefs, Kindness, and People Who Are Willing to Express Both

by Amy

“Why in the world would you confront Inspector Beauvoir? Especially now?”

“It’s difficult to explain.”

“Try.” 

“Honestly, Thérèse, can it matter at this stage?” 

“Does he know what you’re doing? What we’re doing?” 

“He doesn’t even know what he’s doing,” Gamache said. “He’s no threat.” 

Thérèse Brunel was about to say something, but seeing his face, the bruise and the expression, she decided not to. 

[…] 

They’d already eaten, but saved some for Gamache. He carried a tray with [lentil] soup and a fresh baguette, pâté and cheeses into the living room and set it in front of the fire.

This meal takes place in the quiet of the night, amidst low voices and in the presence of friends. There’s turmoil, though. This is the last meal before the culmination of the “last battle” he’s been planning for months – maybe years. He knows this could be his last meal, his last night, his last chance to make things right.

“Why did you go to Beauvoir?” 

Gamache sighed. 

“I had to try, one more time.” 

She looked at him for a long moment. “You mean one last time. You think you won’t get another chance.” 

They sat for a long moment. Thérèse kneaded Henri’s ears while the shepherd moaned and grinned. 

"You did the right thing,” she said. “No regrets.”

It’s easy for her to say he should have no regrets.

At the risk of being controversial, I think only those who don’t care enough can truly say they have no regrets.

Regret and remorse aren’t the same thing. Regret, unlike remorse, doesn’t necessarily involve guilt. 

Where there is regret, there is disappointment in opportunities missed, frustration with unwelcome outcomes, or sadness due to occurrences that might be beyond the scope of control. I don’t think it’s possible to live life and have no regrets. There are so many regrettable things in life.

Both feelings have to do with the past, but the main difference is in how we would do things if given the chance to change our actions. Where there is remorse, there is guilt, and I think the predominant feeling is that if we could just go back in time and choose another path, all would be well. Regret is less straightforward. It is possible to regret the outcome, but not the action that lead to it. It is possible to regret the pain you cause someone, but realize that there was little else you could do. It is possible to own up to the responsibility, but understand that it is not the same as guilt.

Regret and remorse aren’t the same, but they’re close and both can cause a deep ache.

Gamache undoubtably regrets that Beauvoir is so lost. His protege and friend is so far gone that “he doesn’t even know what he’s doing”. Gamache regrets that he feels abandoned and betrayed and hurt and alone. He regrets that he had to leave him in the factory, that Beauvoir didn’t listen when they tried to reach out, that boundaries had to be set, that Annie set up boundaries and, ultimately, left him.

While regret and remorse aren’t the same, niggling feelings of guilt tickle at Gamache and make him wonder if he could have done any differently. He blames himself even if there isn’t anything to blame. He regrets.

And he’s running out of time.

The scene where he confronts Beauvoir, a few hours before he sits to eat his soup, is one of the most powerful scenes in the books to me. There is so much love and kindness in these books and one of the central love stories is this one. Gamache and Beauvoir. The Chief Inspector and his Right Hand Man. Mentor and Protégé. Teacher and Star Pupil. Father Figure and Adopted Son. Father and Son-in-Law. Friends. Family. This is one of the most beautifully written relationships in fiction. To me, that is. But it's not secret that I have a soft spot for Beauvoir. Not to mention a book crush.

He walked straight toward his goal. Once there, he didn’t knock, but opened the door and closed it firmly behind him. 

“Jean-Guy.” 

Beauvoir looked up from the desk and Gamache felt his heart constrict. Jean-Guy was going down. Setting.“ 

Come with me,” Gamache said. He’d expected his voice to be normal, and was surprised to hear just a whisper, the words barely audible. 

“Get out.” Beauvoir’s voice, too, was low. He turned his back on the Chief.

Can you imagine the pain? 

“Well, take your fucking perfect life, your perfect record and get the fuck out. I’m just a piece of shit to you, something stuck to your shoe. Not good enough for your department, not good enough for your daughter. Not good enough to save.” 

The last words barely made it from Beauvoir’s mouth. His throat had constricted and they just scraped by. Beauvoir stood up, his thin body shaking.“ 

I tried…” Gamache began. 

“You left me. You left me to die in that factory.”

This broke my heart. I cried.

Not good enough to save.

I think none of us are good enough to save. And yet, while we are all unworthy, we are all redeemable. By Grace. By Love. And made whole and lovable and “good enough”.

Not good enough to save.

There are echoes of Beauvoir's own words, years earlier, when they went into a burning building to save Agent Nichole. Beauvoir questioned their heroics then, even as he followed Gamache into the flames. She isn’t worth it. Gamache challenged him to think of someone he loved, imagined it was them in that burning building, and then face the flames.

Not good enough to save.

He’d clung to Gamache’s hands, and to this day Gamache could feel them, sticky and warm. Jean-Guy had said nothing, but his eyes had shrieked. 

Armand had kissed Jean-Guy on the forehead, and smoothed his bedraggled hair. And whispered in his ear. And left. To help the others. He was their leader. Had led them into what proved to be an ambush. He couldn’t stay behind with one fallen agent, no matter how beloved.

There is regret. Painful, unsettling, heart wrenching regret.

But Armand Gamache knows he did what he had to do. He couldn’t have done any differently.

He’d known the unspeakable comfort of not being alone in the final moments. And he’d known then the unspeakable loneliness Beauvoir must have felt. 

Armand Gamache knew he’d changed. A different man was lifted from the concrete floor than had hit it. But he also knew that Jean-Guy Beauvoir had never really gotten up. He was tethered to that bloody factory floor, by pain and painkillers, by addiction and cruelty and the bondage of despair. 

Gamache looked into those eyes again.They were empty now. Even the anger seemed just an exercise, an echo. Not really felt anymore. Twilight eyes.

Jean-Guy had been so full of life, of potential, of intelligence. Look at him now! He’s in the pit of despair.

“You left me to die, then made me a joke.” 

Gamache felt the muzzle of the Glock in his abdomen and took a sharp breath as it pressed deeper. 

[…] 

“You have to get help.” 

“You left me to die,” Beauvoir said, gasping for breath. “On the floor. On the fucking dirty floor.” 

He was crying now, leaning into Gamache, their bodies pressed together. Beauvoir felt the fabric of Gamache’s jacket against his unshaven face and smelled sandalwood. And a hit of roses. 

“I’ve come back for you now, Jean-Guy.” Gamache’s mouth was against Beauvoir’s ear, his words barely audible. “Come with me.” 

He felt Beauvoir’s hand shift and the finger on the trigger tighten. But still he didn’t fight back. Didn’t struggle. 

Then shall forgiven and forgiving meet again. 

“I’m sorry,”said Gamache. “I’d give my life to save you.” 

Or will it be, as always was, /too late? 

“Too late,” Beauvoir’s words were muffled, spoken into Gamache’s shoulder. 

“I love you, Armand whispered. 

Jean-Guy Beauvoir leapt back and swung the gun, catching Gamache on the side of the face.

[…] 

“I could kill you,” said Beauvoir. 

“Oui. And maybe I deserve it.” 

“No one would blame me. No one would arrest me.” 

And Gamache knew that was true. He’d thought if he was ever gunned down, it wouldn’t be in Sûreté headquarters, or at the hands of Jean-Guy Beauvoir. 

“I know,” the Chief said, his voice low and soft. He took a step closer to Beauvoir, who didn’t retreat. “How lonely you must be.” 

He held Jean-Guy’s eyes and his heart broke for the boy he’d left behind. 

“I could kill you,” Beauvoir repeated, his voice weaker. 

“Yes.” 

[…] 

“Leave me,” Beauvoir said, all fight and most of the life gone from him. 

“Come with me.” 

“No.”

I can only imagine how painful that was. For both of them.

I stole one of my husband's sunset pictures - he's obviously a better photographer than I am.

I know. I speak of them as though they were real.

They are.

There are Gamaches and Beauvoirs everywhere. Annies and Beauvoirs. Sometimes, regardless of how much love is involved, boundaries must be set. Neither Gamache, nor Annie, despite their deep love for Jean-Guy, could follow him to the bottom. Sometimes, although your heart breaks, you have to confront the spiraling self-destructive behavior.

My heart breaks for Beauvoir. I can empathize with Gamache.

I confess, though, that in this scene I’m not sure who I feel for most. Beauvoir, at this point, is almost numb. Empty. Only half alive. Gamache is intensely alive, overflowing with love and sorrow for this child of his heart. Beauvoir is closer to him, in so many ways, than the children that share his blood. 

And he lost him. He’s grieving for the man he used to know and for the man Beauvoir might never become.

Armand Gamache had always held unfashionable beliefs. He believed that light would banish the shadows. That kindness was more powerful than cruelty, and that goodness existed, even in the most desperate places. He believed that evil had its limits. But looking at the young men and women staring at him now, who’d seen something terrible about to happen and had done nothing, Chief Inspector Gamache wondered if he could have been wrong all this time. 

Maybe darkness sometimes won. Maybe evil had no limits. 

He walked alone back down the corridor, pressed the down button, and in the privacy of the elevator he covered his face with his hands.

We rarely see Gamache give in to hopelessness. I think it is a measure of how heavy his heart is that he is on the brink of hopelessness here.

Just sharing the autumn mood - only decorated corner of the house - on this chilly day perfect for a bowl of soup!

I am so glad for Grace. For Redemption. Second Chances. Faith. Hope. Love.

I am so glad Jean-Guy is restored to himself. No, better than his former self. He is redeemed and is surprised by joy and becomes stronger where he had been broken. He is told, by his mentor, friend, and father-in-law, that he is a brave man in a brave country. He marries Gamache’s daughter and becomes the father to his grandson. He resumes his role as an Inspector, and continues to be Gamache’s loyal supporter, following him even as he makes difficult career choices.

He is redeemed. The boy Gamache thought was lost, is found. Darkness did not win.

As a reader. I was content already.

Then this scene came along, in A GREAT RECKONING.

** The scene that follows is not a spoiler, but if you'd rather not read anything from the latest book, skip and go to the recipe!

Oh Jean-Guy… You have outdone yourself. Bliss.

Louise Penny has openly spoken of her own battle with addiction and how she was surprised by joy and grace and forgiveness. She has touched so many of us with her stories, her insight into human character and interaction, and the grace and hope she writes in her books.

Jean-Guy, like Penny, has managed to turn his pain into strength.

There is a crack in everything. That is how the light gets in.

And he shines in this latest book.

“I thought I had the world figured out. Then everything I knew to be true, I started to question. And I hated him for it. […] But then the hate shifted,” said Beauvoir, speaking as though telling him a fable, a bedtime story. “I began to hate the very people I’d trusted. The ones who told me the world was filled with terrible people and that brutality was the same as strength. I’d learned to hit first and hard, and fast. 

[…] 

The world turned upside down,” Beauvoir continued. “It was at once more beautiful and more frightening than you’d been led to believe. And suddenly you didn’t know what to do. Who to trust. Where to turn. It’s terrifying. Being lost is so much worse than being on the wrong road. That’s why people stay on it so long. We’re too far gone, or so we think. We’re tired and we’re confused and we’re scared. And we think there’s no way back. I know.”

“When someone shoots at us, we return fire,” said Jean-Guy. 

Now Jacques did nod. 

“But it’s equally important that when someone is kind to us, we return that as well,” he said quietly. Careful. Careful not to scare the young man off. 

“It took me a very long time to come to that. The hatred I felt for Monsieur Gamache, and then the others, shifted again, and I began to loathe myself.” 

“Do you still?” Jacques asked, finally turning from the window, from the wasteland. “Hate yourself?” 

“Non. It took a long time, and a lot of help. Jacques, the world is a cruel place, but it’s also filled with more goodness than we ever realized. And you know what? Kindness beats cruelty. In the long run. It really does. Believe me.” 

He held out his hand to the young man. Jacques stared at it.

“Believe me,” Jean-Guy whispered. 

And Jacques did.

LENTIL SOUP

I considered making a recipe that included bacon, but then I realized I was probably the one who would be doing most (all) of the eating, so I made a vegetarian version that appealed to me more.

Ingredients:

-          1 tablespoon olive oil

-          1 onion

-          3 small carrots

-          1 leek (only the white part)

-          1 green onion

-          2 cloves of garlic

-          1 bay leaf

-         Dried oregano (about 1 teaspoon) (also some pepper flakes, maybe an extra bay leaf and some thyme)

-          Salt & pepper (to taste)

-          Broth (I used chicken because it’s what I had, but a true vegetarian might use vegetable)

-    Water (I started out with about a liter of broth, but added both more broth and more water in unquantifiable amounts because I added as needed)

-          1 can of tomatoes and their liquid

-          1 package (about 2 ½ cups) of lentils

-          1 teaspoon red vinegar

-          2 or 3 cups of chopped spinach leaves

Instructions

Heat the oil and add onion, carrots, green onion, leeks and garlic until softened. Season with salt and pepper (if you’re like me you’ll add too much of something and slap yourself in the forehead and try to fix it later – it’s usually redeemable).

Add the broth and the tomatoes. Since I don’t like watery soups, at this stage, I put most of the veggies and tomatoes in a food processor and blended them, then poured the thicker mixture back into the pan before adding the lentils. This is optional.

Add lentils and the bay leaf. Allow to simmer for about 30 minutes. Add more liquid (broth/water) if necessary. Add the red vinegar and the spinach leaves and simmer for another 3 to 5 minutes before serving. I added a dollop of sour cream and, bemoaning the fact that I didn’t have a yummy baguette to accompany the soup, I sliced up some smoked cheddar to accompany the meal. Meals, actually. I enjoyed it so much it was both lunch and dinner.

This was the perfect soup for reflecting and enjoying the rainy cloudy autumn day.

** All quotes, unless otherwise stated, are from Louise Penny’s HOW THE LIGHT GETS IN or THE GREAT RECKONING

Jean-Guy Beauvoir and Chocolate-covered Blueberries

by Libby

Beauvoir had never liked dark chocolate. It seemed unfriendly. ... And on the wooden counter sat small mounds of very dark chocolate. Long rows of them, like tiny monks. He picked one up, turning it this way and that. Then he ate it. (The Beautiful Mystery, Kindle, p.64)

Jean-Guy Beauvoir has just made one of his more pleasant discoveries at the secluded monastery of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups in the Quebec wilderness. And with his usual loyalty, he shares it with Gamache in a companionable moment amidst the investigation of a murder within the small, reclusive monastic community.

Gamache picked up a chocolate and held it between his large fingers. It looked microscopic there. Then he ate it. And Beauvoir smiled to see the astonishment, and delight, on Gamache’s face. “Blueberry?” Beauvoir nodded. “Those tiny wild ones. Chocolate covered. They make them by the bucketload here. I found the chocolaterie when I was looking for the monks. Seems like the better find.” (The Beautiful Mystery, Kindle, p.84)

Both are still recovering in the aftermath of the raid that went devastatingly wrong. But Beauvoir, the more fragile of the two, has been buoyed, being three months into a deeply loving and committed relationship with Annie.

Beauvoir now seemed happy. Indeed, happier than Gamache had ever seen him. Not the feverish, giddy highs of the addict, but a settled calm. Gamache knew it was a long and treacherous road back, but Beauvoir was at least on it. Gone were the mood swings, the irrational outbursts. The rage and the whining. Gone were the pills. The OxyContin... (The Beautiful Mystery, Kindle, p.34)

And we see the return of Beauvoir's wonderful appetite for food. I've always enjoyed it! He approaches it with such gusto, and he doesn't hold back in the early meals at the monks' table. But for me, Jean-Guy Beauvoir will always be associated with those chocolate-covered blueberries.

Throughout The Beautiful Mystery they are referenced, and along with his messages to Annie, seem to parallel Beauvoir's state of mind, and the spiralling changes that will take hold.

The Beautiful Mystery is a haunting work, as much for its setting as the harrowing contrasts of good and evil, light and dark: the deadly tensions amongst the monks contrasted with the wondrous beauty of their Gregorian chants; the delights of flavour rich, seasonal foods contrasted with the bitter pills of an addictive drug; the integrity and devotion of those who love contrasted with the machinations of those who seek to damage and destroy.

Early in the book it's easy to wallow in the happiness Beauvoir experiences with Annie, the love and playfulness they share. But also evident, and slightly unsettling, is something of Beauvoir's internal struggle, where self-doubt and anxiety reside. There is an unfamiliar vulnerability as he worries about Gamache's acceptance of his relationship with Annie, once it has been revealed.

They were a good team. A great team. Suppose he isn’t happy? The question snuck up on Beauvoir, out of the woods. Suppose he doesn’t want Annie to be with me? But that was, again, just fancy. Not fact. Not fact. Not fact. (The Beautiful Mystery, Kindle, p.22)

However Beauvoir and Gamache's familiar camaraderie as the investigation initially proceeds, his appetite for the monastery food, and his care and playfulness with Annie are reassuring.

“I found some more chocolate-covered blueberries and brought them back to my cell. I’ll save some for you.” ... “I miss you,” Jean-Guy wrote. “ Merde! All the chocolates are gone! How did that happen?” Then he rolled over, the BlackBerry held lightly in his hand. But not before typing, in the darkness, his final message of the day. “ Je t’aime .” He carefully wrapped the chocolates and put them in the nightstand drawer. For Annie. He closed his eyes, and slept soundly. (The Beautiful Mystery, Kindle, p.105)

But, just like the monastery's defences are breeched as its music has drawn the attention of the world and the Vatican, so too, over the course of the story, are Beauvoir's. His self-doubt and vulnerability are fuel to Gamache's nemesis, Sylvain Francoeur, whose ominous arrival signals the descent of Beauvoir into an eventual state of paranoia. And as Francoeur preys on him, relief from confusion and angst is soon close at hand, and it is not found in chocolate-covered blueberries.

Beauvoir thought about the tiny pills the size of wild blueberries. The ones still hidden in his apartment. And the burst they brought. Not of musky flavor, but of blessed oblivion. (The Beautiful Mystery, Kindle, p.186)

It is harrowing witnessing Beauvoir gradually isolate himself, even from Annie, increasingly powerless to control the turmoil he is feeling, as the OxyContin and Francoeur do their work.

Then he wrote back, describing where he was. Telling her they were making progress. He hesitated before hitting send, knowing while he hadn’t exactly lied, neither had he told her the complete truth. Of how he was feeling. His confusion, his anger. It seemed both directed at Francoeur and undirected. He was mad at Frère Raymond, mad at the monks, mad at being in the monastery instead of with Annie. Mad at the silence, broken by interminable masses. Mad at himself for letting Francoeur get under his skin. (The Beautiful Mystery, Kindle, p.240)

By the book's conclusion we are left stunned and saddened at Beauvoir's spiralling decline into a state of insecurity, suspicion and paranoia. As one of the monks prophetically tells Gamache:

“Most people don’t die at once.” ... “They die a bit at a time,” ... "They lose heart. They lose hope. They lose faith. They lose interest. And finally, they lose themselves.” (The Beautiful Mystery, Kindle, p.277)

Is this Beauvoir? His loss of trust, growing resentment and feelings of blame toward Gamache and his ultimate desertion of him are shocking. And with the choices made, we are left with someone we no longer quite recognise as Jean-Guy...and one final reference to the chocolate-covered blueberries.

Jean-Guy looked down as they banked. A few monks were outside the walls, picking wild blueberries. He realized he didn’t have any of the chocolates to take back to Annie. But Beauvoir had a sick feeling that it no longer mattered. (The Beautiful Mystery, Kindle, p.371)

Inspirational site

Last year two dear friends and I toured the Eastern Townships region and visited the Abbaye de Saint-Benoit-du-Lac. It was Louise Penny's inspiration for Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups. We were fortunate to witness a service in Gregorian chant, but alas, the Abbaye had run out of the chocolate-covered blueberries for which they are renowned!

Chocolate-covered blueberries

While I would love to be able to use wild blueberries (for their 'immediate wallop of flavour') in this recipe, the only ones available here are cultivated. Good dark chocolate for the covering is readily available, though. But this recipe isn't just a matter of dipping the blueberries in melted dark chocolate. I have been uncovering something of 'the beautiful mystery' of tempering chocolate. This is what chocolatiers do to coat fruit and all manner of tempting fillings. 

Tempering is what gives chocolate its sheen and snap and stops it from melting on your fingertips as soon as you touch it. Tempering is about re-stabilising the crystals in the cocoa butter in the chocolate once it has been melted, through a temperature control process. Tempering prevents the chocolate from getting a whitish bloom when it sets.

A digital or chocolate thermometer is best used for tempering to get accurate  readings needed for success. You need to use chocolate with a high cocoa butter content, and that is why couverture* chocolate is used by chocolatiers with its minimum cocoa butter content of 32%. 

* The Hot Chocolate and Regret post gives the lowdown on couverture chocolate.

300g/10.5oz blueberries

380g/13.5oz dark couverture chocolate

* I used Valrhona couverture with a cocoa mass of 66%.

1.  Wash and completely dry the blueberries.

2.  Chop the chocolate into small pieces. Place 3/4 of the chocolate (set aside the other quarter) into a bowl that will fit snugly over a saucepan. No moisture must get into the chocolate.

3. Heat about an inch (3cm) of water in the saucepan until boiling. Reduce the heat so that the water is barely simmering and not steaming.

4. Place the bowl of chocolate over the saucepan (the bowl must not touch the water) and stir continuously with a flexible spatula as the chocolate melts.

Keep checking the temperature of the chocolate until it slowly reaches 116-119F/46-48C (don't let it exceed this temperature range).

 

5.  Immediately remove the bowl from the heat and stir in the remaining chocolate.

6.  Continuously stir the chocolate to gradually reduce the temperature (it will take a while) to 82-84F/28-29C to temper it.

7.  Now raise the temperature of the chocolate to the optimal working temperature of 88-91F/31-32C by placing the bowl in another bowl of warm water with a temperature of no more than 91F/32C. Stir continuously, moving the chocolate from the sides of the bowl as you do.

Maintain this temperature while dipping the blueberries. If you exceed this temperature the chocolate will come out of temper, and you will need to re-temper.

8.  Use a skewer to dip each blueberry into the chocolate. Allow excess chocolate to drip off.

9.  Use a second skewer to help ease the blueberry onto a tray lined with baking paper.

 

10.  Allow to set.

11.  As you work stir the chocolate occasionally and keep the temperature constant in the 86-88F/30-31C range.

12.  Eat the chocolate covered blueberries within two to three days. Leftover chocolate can be spread onto a sheet of baking paper and later broken into bite-sized pieces for eating, making hot chocolate or stored for later use.

I need to practise tempering to learn to manage the temperatures better, particularly when you have a load of berries to painstakingly dip, one by one. It will be worth it though as I really love the burst of the berry as you bite into and snap through the chocolate covering, and let it all melt in your mouth. The chocolate has a deep, rich flavour without being sickly sweet. And serving them with a glass of whisky is quite a match!

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