Smells, Memories and Emotions -- Gabri's Muffin Platter Part 2

by Libby

'Muffins?’...‘... a special tribute to Jane called “Charles de Mills”.’ And with that Gabri disappeared and reappeared a moment later with a platter holding rings of muffins marvelously decorated with fruit and roses...‘You mentioned the Charles de Mills rose.’ ‘Jane’s favorite. He’s not just any rose, Chief Inspector. He’s considered by rosarians to be one of the finest in the world. An old garden rose...That’s why I made the muffins from rose water, as a homage to Jane. Then I ate them, as you saw. I always eat my pain.’ (Still Life, Kindle, p.84, 86)

Funny how we connect to people, events, times and emotions through our sense of smell. Gabri's memory of and love for Jane Neal will always be tied to those roses, their fragrance and rose-scented muffins.

While I could understand Gabri eating his pain over Jane's death, the connections made to the fragrant roses and scented muffins were stronger for me. Amy and I laughed about our different perceptions and interpretations here. I enthused over the sensory world of rose-scented muffins and the decorated platter, while Amy related to and then wrote insightfully about Gabri eating his pain (Sept 13, 2015 post). It's a reminder of how we can see the same things differently, based on our respective experiences and biases.

Lorraine Lee, a deeply fragrant Australian cultivar

Mention a rose and I think of fragrance, with pleasant memories evoked. For me, it is two roses (Lorraine Lee and Cécile Brünner) from my childhood that I grow in my garden today. Drinking in their fragrance, I am transported back to my parents' garden with feelings of comfort and the nostalgia of simpler, sweet times.

Cécile Brünner, an old/heritage fragrant French rose

Charles de Mills, old/heritage very fragrant bush rose

http://paulbardenroses.com/gallicas/demills.html

Some smells we just love and our spirits lift as we breathe them in. For me, the smell of drifts of autumn leaves, promising the compost that they will become, springs to mind. But some smells transport us to another time, remind us of a place, a person, something long forgotten or tucked away in the back of our mind.  And this can be accompanied by all sorts of feelings;  joy, comfort, calmness or disquiet, melancholy, distress. Emotional responses to scents are, of course, a very personal thing. Just as a scent can trigger pleasant physical and emotional responses in one person, so can it trigger negative responses in another. While someone else might have no response at all.

The associations between smells, memories and emotions has been pretty well established. Some behavioural studies suggest that our sense of smell is more strongly tied to bringing back memories, and associated emotions and feelings, than any of our other senses. These odour-evoked memories tend to be from earlier in life. On reflection, most of mine are from early childhood into my teens. The smell of fig leaves has travelled with me since the very young age of two when I first visited my maternal grandmother's home, on the other side of the country, with my mother. Inhaling the scent of those leaves always gives me vivid glimpses of being in my grandmother's garden, and my first sense of being in the company of women who cherished me.

There are writers who propel us into sensual worlds. Louise Penny is one. The sensory elements that she uses so richly in her writing, makes it very real. I love the way she engages our senses and draws us in.

The place felt like what it was. An old kitchen, in an old home, in a very old village. It smelled of bacon and baking. It smelled of rosemary and thyme and mandarin oranges. And coq au vin. (How the Light Gets In, Kindle, p.109)

The chapel smelled like every small church Clara had ever known. Pledge and pine and dusty old books. (Still Life, Kindle, p.52)

Inside, the room smelled of wood smoke and industrial coffee in wet cardboard with a slight undercurrent of varnish and that musky aroma of old books. Or timetables. This had once been the railway station. (Dead Cold/A Fatal Grace, Kindle, p.142)

This kind of sensory experience is deeply appealing to me. It adds so much to setting and place and our understanding of characters, or how we connect to them. The way the characters relate to scents, sights and sounds, as we all do constantly every day, makes them believable. We can identify with them and understand them more deeply through what they notice and how they respond. 

Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir looked round their new Situation Room and inhaled. He realized, with some surprise, how familiar and even thrilling the scent was. It smelled of excitement, it smelled of the hunt. It smelled of long hours over hot computers, piecing together a puzzle. It smelled of teamwork. It actually smelled of diesel fuel and woodsmoke, of polish and concrete. He was again in the old railway station of Three Pines, abandoned by the Canadian Pacific Railway decades ago and left to rot. (The Brutal Telling, Kindle, p.42) 

Now this is a familiar, work-focused Beauvoir on the case. But later we see another side of him with new and deepening sensibilities emerging. It's a surprising and wonderful contrast.

She’d leaned in and whispered into his ear, and he could smell her fragrance. It was slightly citrony. Clean and fresh. Not Enid’s clinging, full-bodied perfume. Annie smelled like a lemon grove in summer. (A Trick of the Light, Kindle, p.8)

I'm easily drawn into a work by these sensory experiences. It helps me to relate to characters and understand how they're feeling, see them in very real terms.

Closing his eyes he breathed deeply, smelling the musky scents of the library. Of age, of stability, of calm and peace. Of old-fashioned polish, of wood, of words bound in worn leather. He smelled his own slight fragrance of rosewater and sandalwood. And he thought of something good, something nice, some kind harbor. And he found it in Reine-Marie, as he remembered her voice on his cell phone earlier in the day. (Bury Your Dead, Kindle, p.14)

Louise Penny never fails to take us a little further, into our own emotional landscape. She understands how smell can be very powerful in unlocking forgotten memories. Who couldn't relate to these reminders of emotions and feelings experienced in another time and place? It makes us think and remember too.

The sounds were familiar, voices bouncing off metal and concrete, shoes screeching on hard floors, but it was the smells that had transported her (Isabelle Lacoste). Of books and cleaner, of lunches languishing and rotting behind hundreds of lockers. And fear. High school smelled of that more than anything else, even more than sweaty feet, cheap perfume and rotten bananas. (The Cruellest Month, Kindle, p.324)

It had been a long while since Inspector Langlois had been in a library. Not since his school days. A time filled with new experiences and the aromas that would be forever associated with them. Gym socks. Rotting bananas in lockers. Sweat. Old Spice cologne. Herbal Essence shampoo on the hair of girls he kissed, and more. A scent so sweet, so filled with longing his reaction was still physical whenever he smelt it. And libraries. Quiet. Calm. A harbor from the turmoil of teenage life. (Bury Your Dead, Kindle, p.58)

I felt like I was stepping back with Lacoste and Langlois. These experiences resonated; some of them fond, some cringeworthy or disturbing for the awkwardness, uncertainties and fears of those years. Not only that...I'd always shamefully thought it was just me with the grotty habit, of letting cheese and 'something' sandwiches, and bananas, go mouldy in my locker! What a relief!

The heady smell of oil paint and pure turpentine never fails to take me back many years to when I was first studying painting, starting the journey of mastering technique and struggling with ideas in a visual medium. And one day, after a long time of saying not very much at all in a way of ignoring me, the lecturer says, out of the blue, 'Your work is very expressive. And you have a wonderful sense of colour.' And from the shock of it, a feeling emerges that maybe there might be something there worth pursuing. A small nudge onto the pathway towards self-belief? 

 

Now, however, I am lost in the heady perfume of rose syrup as I delight in the preparation of a dessert of rose-scented muffins, inspired by Gabri, to share with two girlfriends coming to lunch.

Rose-scented muffins 

What better way to scent a muffin than drench it with a wonderfully fragrant rose syrup! There are certain scents and flavours that just go together. Rose water, honey, lemon and pistachios are made for each other, so they are the basis of this recipe. The way they come together (and it's really very simple) elevates these muffins into quite the dessert!

The trick is to generously add the rose syrup to the pistachio muffins as they emerge from the oven. The freshness and potency of the rose flavour is ensured if it is added after baking. And what could be easier, and quite simply beautiful, than decorating them with fresh rose buds. Served with more syrup and crème fraîche, they are seriously delicious. We made a bit of an event of lunch and I served a rose cocktail with our dessert. I muddled strawberries with  home-made rose petal liqueur and grenadine, vodka and cranberry juice, shook it all with ice and strained it into cocktail glasses. I floated a few small rose petals on the surface. We had a really good time!!

Muffins are a mix of wet and dry ingredients and it is best done gently by hand, for a light result. Make sure all the wet ingredients are at room temperature. The rose syrup can conveniently be made ahead of time.

Rose syrup

half a cup of honey
100g/half a cup of sugar
120ml/half a cup of water
1-2 teaspoons of rose water (a pure distillation of rose petals is best)
1-2 tablespoons of freshly squeezed lemon juice

1.  Heat the honey, sugar and water gently in a saucepan, stirring until the sugar dissolves. Bring to the boil and allow to reduce for one minute. Remove from heat and cool.
2.  Add one to two teaspoons of rose water and one to two tablespoons of lemon juice, tasting to get a balance between the two flavourings.

Pistachio muffins (makes 12)

Wet and dry ingredients

Dry ingredients:
200g/one and a half cups of plain/all purpose flour
2 teaspoons of baking powder
half a cup of caster/superfine sugar
150g/5oz pistachio nuts (unsalted), chopped

Wet ingredients, at room temperature:
2 large eggs
113g/half a cup of melted, unsalted butter (cooled)
3/4 cup of whole/full cream milk

1.  Place a baking sheet on the shelf of the oven on which you will put the muffin tin at the time of baking. This keeps the base of the muffins from browning too much and drying out.

2.  Pre-heat the oven to 220C/425F. The muffins will be baked at this temperature for 5 mins only, to ensure a good rise. Then turn the oven down to 190C/375F for the rest of the time (13-15mins).
3.  Line muffin tins with patty pans or grease with butter.
4.  Sift flour, baking powder and sugar into a large bowl.
5.  Mix in the chopped pistachios, except for 3 tablespoons (reserve for sprinkling on the muffins).

Wet and dry ready to fold in together

6.  In a medium bowl whisk together the eggs, melted butter and milk by hand. Make a well in the dry ingredients and pour in the wet. Gently fold in together with as few strokes as possible, for a light muffin.
7.  Spoon the batter into each patty pan to two thirds full. Sprinkle with the reserved pistachios.
8.  Bake for 5 mins at 220C/425F. Reduce the oven temperature to 190C/375F and bake for another 13-15 minutes.

9.  Remove from the oven and pierce all over the top of each muffin (about twelve times) with a skewer, so the muffins can soak up the rose syrup. Immediately spoon syrup onto the hot muffins, adding more as they absorb it. Be generous!

Spooning the syrup over the hot muffins

10.  When they are cool enough to handle, remove them from the tins and place on a rack. Continue to trickle more syrup onto the muffins but reserve some syrup for serving. I made the muffins a day ahead of serving.

Place the muffins on a platter, decorate with rose buds or rose petals. Serve with crème fraîche and rose syrup. And a cocktail?

Now, if the smell of roses has some adverse associations, these muffins are not for you!

Part 2 of Olivier’s tray: Chocolate-Coffee Mousse Pie & Apple Tarts

by Amy

You were a moth  

Brushing against my cheek

in the dark.

I killed you,

not knowing

you were only a moth,

with no sting.

The setting is familiar. We’re at the Bistro. Yolande, Jane’s niece, has just walked in and Clara decides to pay her respects. Everyone is cringing, snooping, and observing. Silence rules. Yolande is playing up to the scene. She wipes her dry eyes with a paper napkin and her acting is superb – although she didn’t convince the many people who had truly loved Jane and remembered what her relationship with Yolande had been like.

“I’m the official caterer for the disaster that’s about to happen. I can’t imagine why Clara is doing this, she knows what Yolande has been saying behind her back for years. Hideous woman.”

Why does Clara do it? She’d been planning a ritual, in Jane’s honor, when…

“Clara had spotted Yolande and her family arriving at the Bistro and knew she’d have to say something.”

It doesn’t say why. So we are left, like Olivier, wondering. I can empathize, though. I tend to also be the kind of person who always feels like she has to say something. And I often find myself, in the aftermath, feeling as Clara did after her interaction with Jane’s niece:  stupid, stupid, stupid.

“When she’d gone over to speak with Yolande, Clara had known this would happen. Known that Yolande, for some unfathomable reason, could always get to her. Could hurt her where most others couldn’t reach. It was one of life’s little mysteries that this woman she had absolutely no respect for, could lay her flat. She thought she’d been ready for it. She’d even dared to harbor a hope that maybe this time would be different. But of course it wasn’t.”

Clara’s one of those rare people that knows how things are – or can be – but still nurtures hope that things might be different. She doesn’t act on the (very high) probability that she’ll get hurt. She acts on the unlikely chance that this time, maybe this time it’ll be okay.

I wonder why nobody stopped her. I understand why Gamache wouldn’t. He was in the middle of a murder investigation and this was a perfect opportunity to observe the suspects. But why didn’t anyone else stop her? They just stood back and watched. I’ve been stopped before. By a whisper. A look. A nudge. An elbow. A little kick… No one stopped Clara.

I wonder if any of them had tried before, in similar occasions, and realized it couldn’t be done? I wonder if they understood the importance and were hoping against hope not that Yolande would be different ( I think only Clara would go that far), but that Clara would finally stand up for herself (I think Clara only really begins to do that in A TRICK OF THE LIGHT).

Regardless, it feels real. Doesn’t it? Louise Penny knows her characters. As Marilynne Robinson says in her collection of essays, WHEN I WAS A CHILD I READ BOOKS:

“There is a great difference, in fiction and in life, between knowing someone and knowing about someone. When a writer knows about his character he is writing for plot. When he knows his character he is writing to explore, to feel reality on a set of nerves somehow not quite his own."

I think part of the beauty in Louise Penny’s books is that she knows her characters and writes real ideas through fiction. I believe that fiction is, in a way, real. Fiction, as all art, is an interpretation of reality as seen and experienced by the author. Authors are able to put themselves in others’ shoes and write characters that make us feel along with them. And Penny excels in this art.

I can easily imagine myself in the Bistro. I’d probably try to stand next to Olivier so I could eat all of the dessert options on his tray. I probably wouldn’t stop Clara either. I probably would have watched, silently (or whispering to Olivier – or maybe Gabri. I’d love to hear Gabri’s take on the scene). Then I’d probably tell myself, I knew it! when Yolande, true to character, put Clara down. I can also imagine myself in Clara’s shoes, knowing something must be said (although I ask myself, WHY?) and being disappointed when the response wasn’t what I’d hoped for. 

What I cannot picture is being in Peter’s shoes. If I were Peter, I’d be standing next to Clara. I’d be squeezing her hand. I can understand – even applaud – that he felt Clara had to stand up for herself. He couldn’t – or maybe shouldn’t – do it for her. He wasn’t even available for moral support, though. He wasn’t beside her. And I think it’s interesting that, once hurt, Clara’s first reaction is to want Jane back. She’s surrounded by friends but none of them, not even her husband, can fulfill that role in her life. I think Myrna will, eventually, to an extent. But for now, it’s a Jane-shaped hole.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid. […] She wanted to run to Jane, who’d make it better. Take her in those full, kindly arms and say the magic words, ‘There, there.’”

Libby did an incredible job of making mille feuilles, meringues and little custard tarts. I made pie and little apple custard tarts – which were, in reality, an improvisation using left-over bits from a lemon meringue pie recipe. The pie was a dark chocolate coffee mousse pie which was so incredibly good I made it twice in as many weeks.

Chocolate Coffee Mousse Pie

Ingredients:

Crust

-          1 package of 200g of graham cookies (or similar)

-          100g grams of softened or room temperature butter

Filling

-          4 egg yolks

-          6 TBS of sugar

-          1 cup of heavy cream

-          200g of dark chocolate – chopped in big bits

-          1 TBS instant coffee

-          4 egg whites

Instructions:

Crumble the cookies and use a blender or a food processor to turn them into a flaky powder. Add butter and smash with your fingers until it’s the consistence of crust. Spread it on a pie pan and bake for about 10 minutes. Let it cool. You can always buy the ready-made kind (which we don’t have here), but this is so easy to make I think it’s worth it.

For the filling, beat the egg yolks with 4 spoons of sugar (I used 2) in a mixer until it doubles in volume and becomes a bit lighter in color. Set aside.

Heat the cream in bain-marie (I just put a glass bowl in a pan with 2 inches of water in it over the stove top. I improvised a bain-marie since I didn’t have the “proper” pan). Add the pieces of dark chocolate and the instant coffee powder and mix until you have a smooth cream. Add the egg yolk mix and mix well. Set aside.

Mix the egg whites and then add 2 TBS of sugar. Add this to the cream, but only fold it in gently without mixing much. The beaten egg whites are what will give it the airy mousse consistency. Pour this cream over your crust and place it in the refrigerator. Once it is firm (4 to 5 hours later), enjoy!

Apple Tarts

I used left-over pie crust dough and placed it in muffin tins. I baked that for about 10 minutes.

I mixed the juice of two lemons with 1 can of condensed milk to make the tart filling. It’s the same idea for the filling I usually use for lime meringue pie. That’s all you have to do. Mix them and place it in the fridge and it's the perfect consistency. I frequently use this also as a form of custard to serve with fresh fruit. It’s always a hit.

Then I sliced apples – thin slices covered in lemon juice so they wouldn’t brown – and placed them on the filling. I added a sprinkle of brown sugar.  I then placed them in the oven just long enough so the sugar would melt a bit and the apple slices would bake. These were sooooo good. Well, tastes vary. My husband thought it was too tart and not sweet enough. I thought it was just right. 

Except for the quote from Marilynne Robinson's WHEN I WAS A CHILD I READ BOOKS, the other quotes are from Still Life - pages 104 to 106 in the paperback version.

The Uneaten Danish

by Amy

“He’d watched her during the meeting, again choosing a seat one removed from the next person, not grabbing a coffee and Danish with the others. In fact, not doing anything anyone else did. It was almost willful, this desire to separate herself from the team.”

This post is about an uneaten meal. It’s an offering not accepted. It’s a refusal to engage or join in. It’s a form of self-denial in which Agent Yvette Nichol chooses, through a series of small gestures, not to be a part of the team. The sad part is that she yearns to fit in, to belong, to be accepted. She’s ill-equipped to do so, though. She hides behind a façade of aloofness while, inside, she’s crying out to be seen and understood.

I think we all have some of Agent Nichol’s fear of rejection in us. That fear influences our attitudes and our actions. We also all have at least a hint of Beauvoir in us – he can barely stand her (and maybe wouldn’t, if not for his respect for Gamache). Chief Inspector Gamache frequently sees beyond actions and at least tries to understand the reasons behind them. He was willing to give this inept agent a chance. Those who have read the books know it wasn’t just one chance, nor did Agent Nichol graciously step up and do well. She blundered and fumbled awkwardly and was usually more trouble than she was worth… but who’s to judge worthiness anyway?

It’s a fine line, isn’t it? The line between fitting in and staying true to yourself? Knowing when it’s important to stand up for your beliefs and when to go with the flow?

Just yesterday I was talking to a friend about how easy it is, as a parent, to teach children the bare basics. By that, I mean teaching them not to stick things into electrical outlets, touch fire, or pull plastic bags over their heads. Those are easy. They require attention (on our part) and much repetition of the rules, but we are in no doubt about what we are teaching and why.

Then there are the lessons we have a very hard time teaching because we have not mastered them ourselves. Sometimes I feel like the blind leading the blind when I am confronted with my child’s questions. They are frequently the same questions that bounce around in my own mind and to which I have incomplete and sometimes ambivalent and contradictory answers to. Some of the issues he’s struggling with are the ones I struggle with myself. I’m confronted with the realization that what I do, think and feel are very far from the high standards I would like to think I will set for myself.

One perk in interacting with children is in seeing the world through their eyes. It is fascinating to discover that we spend a lifetime reliving our childhood (to an extent). As preschoolers we start to deal with issues of conformity, individuality, egoism, altruism, manipulation, values, authenticity and friendship. And we’re never quite “done”, are we?

There is heartache in Kindergarten. There are battles for recognition, attention, and prestige. There are bitter feuds (that are sometimes resolved in a matter of minutes, but are no less angst-filled because of their short timespan) and marrow deep friendships. There are broken hearts and disappointments. There is profound joy…  And there is pain (beyond that of scraped knees).

 “We choose our thoughts. We choose our perceptions. We choose our attitudes. We may not think so. We may not believe it, but we do. I absolutely know we do. I’ve seen enough evidence, time after time, tragedy after tragedy. Triumph over triumph. It’s about choice.”

When he is confronted with the choice between fitting in and staying true to himself, my son is constantly questioning the importance of being authentic and firm in his beliefs and the need to be open to change. He is questioning what his “non-negotiables” are and learning when and where he can be flexible. He is sorting through acquaintances and identifying who his friends are: those who like him the way he is, who understand his strengths and weaknesses and the little irksome – and delightful – traits that make him himself. He is learning how to forgive and how the same things that attract us in another can sometimes annoy us, too. He laughs… and sometimes he cries.

And he teaches me. He teaches me because he is mostly unarmed. He forgives more readily. The pain is bewildering and usually unexpected and may hurt more... but he still expects to be loved. Unconditionally. As I watch him gradually lose his naiveté in social interactions and begin to create strategies to protect himself, I find myself seeing the parallels in my own life and rethinking old lessons.

When he tells me that he needs to cry sometimes because only he knows how much it hurts, I am reminded that it takes real strength of character and self-awareness to acknowledge our pain. It takes courage to stand up for your beliefs and to swim against the tide. It takes wisdom to discern when to be firm and when to bend.

Some wounds are deeper and harder to heal. Sometimes the sum of hurts becomes unbearable and walls are erected, true fortresses, in order to protect the heart. This form of safety comes at the cost of loneliness and, sometimes, bitterness. Agent Yvette Nichol was so full of self-condemnation and fear of rejection that even a simple snack of Danish and coffee and the pleasure of being part of the team seemed to be too much to hope for. So, to avoid disappointment she sat apart and didn’t eat. What she may not have realized is that she also deprived the team of herself. In trying to be what she was not and making sure no one discovered her weaknesses, she removed herself.

The lessons my son has begun to learn are the same ones we all are confronted with throughout our lives. Love brings us both joy and pain, and much of that latter is, I think, a kind of “growing pain”. These are the pains of compromise, of being uprooted from our point of view, of being confronted with the reality that we are not the center of the universe and while we are far from perfect, we are worthy of love and acceptance. And there are the bitter hurts of realizing that not everyone wants the best for us, not everyone loves us, and not everyone will live up to our expectations…

Children might actually be better equipped than calloused adults because they trust more readily than we do. Some might view such vulnerability as a weakness, but I think it is, frequently, their strength. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could all venture beyond our hurts and scars and be brave enough to put down our weapons and defenses? If we were less self-conscious of the traits we perceive as defects and more self-aware of both our weaknesses and strengths as integral parts of ourselves and no less worthy of respect?

Scars are usually not as painful as the wounds that preceded them. Not all past hurts need cripple us. We can learn to forgive and, if not forget, be willing to trust again despite the hurt. Maybe we can even grow stronger in learning from the blows that we have been dealt.

Frequently, throughout the books, Beauvoir feels the need to protect Gamache from his apparent naiveté. At times Peter (and others) question Clara’s willingness to forgive. Olivier is humbled by Gabri’s loyalty and kindness. Yvette Nichol is also frequently baffled by Gamache’s actions. What many of these hardened (hurt and scared) characters have yet to realize (and some of them gain understanding as the series goes on) is the incredible power of faith. The shields we erect can sometimes distance and harden us.

As I watch my seven year old son, I pray that, (although he will inevitably be hurt sometimes), he manages to retain faith and hope and the courage to engage. I pray that he never loses himself or compromises his integrity and beliefs, but that he learns to bend. I pray that he continues to understand that forgiving and learning from our differences is one of the great joys of relationships. I hope he discovers that loving someone in spite of or because of their imperfections is more powerful than loving an idealized version that is easily shattered. I pray that he becomes a man who is strong enough to understand his assets and who doesn’t underestimate his weaknesses. And I pray that I learn, with him, to be all of that too.

My own Danish snacks were (appropriately, I suppose) ignored the first time they were set on the table. Once we started eating them it took no effort at all to finish off the entire batch. The star shape was fun to make, but they didn’t turn out as contained (the filling spread a bit) as the ones I saw pictured online. They’re basically fancily-cut croissants with jam or custard on them. I used the same recipe as the one for croissants (in earlier post) and just added the jam filling.

Quotes are from Still Life page 79 (Paperback Edition).

Mille feuilles, Custard Tarts, Meringues and Vulnerability

by Libby

'This is really awful to watch. Pastry?’ Olivier was holding a tray of mille feuilles, meringues, slices of pies and little custard tarts with glazed fruit on top...'I’m the official caterer for the disaster that’s about to happen. I can’t imagine why Clara is doing this, she knows what Yolande has been saying behind her back for years. Hideous woman.’ (Kindle, Still Life, p.125)

Clara has just approached Yolande, Jane Neal's niece, to offer her condolences. It's an action anticipated with dread by Clara, and painful inevitability by most of those watching on.

In this one tense scene we gain considerable insight to Clara's character. She is powerless to stand up for herself when faced with this difficult, aggressive person. And it goes back to her childhood. Yolande's behaviour is the emotional trigger, a reminder of Clara's school experiences, her vulnerability, and the pain of being teased, rejected, excluded.

For many years Clara would remember how it felt standing there. Feeling again like the ugly little girl in the schoolyard. The unloved and unlovable child. Flatfooted and maladroit, slow and mocked. The one who laughed in the wrong places and believed tall stories, and was desperate for someone, anyone, to like her. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The polite attention and the balled up fist under the school desk. She wanted to run to Jane, who’d make it better. Take her in those full, kindly arms and say the magic words, ‘There, there.’ (Kindle, Still Life, p.127)

Clara's experience is a reminder, of the long-term effects of being harassed, intimidated and excluded as a child, of feeling inadequate and powerless. There are lasting consequences in terms of a person’s confidence, levels of anxiety and self worth which can make it hard dealing with difficult situations and challenging circumstances. We're reminded of those experiences that keep you captive throughout your life, that can define how you see yourself, that make you vulnerable. Your rational self knows that you can't control someone else's behaviour, but you can control your attitude or reactions to them. Easier said than done though when an emotional trigger is set off.

When she’d gone over to speak with Yolande, Clara had known this would happen. Known that Yolande, for some unfathomable reason, could always get to her. Could hurt her where most others couldn’t reach. It was one of life’s little mysteries that this woman she had absolutely no respect for, could lay her flat. She thought she’d been ready for it. She’d even dared to harbour a hope that maybe this time would be different. But of course it wasn’t. (Kindle, Still Life, p.127)

At another level, Clara’s issues of confidence and self-esteem are seen in her struggle with her identity as an artist, particularly compared to Peter's recognition and success. Her artistic expression is unconventional, searching for meaning, and this puts her on the outer; her works are not easily understood or saleable. She is still trying to find her artistic language while having to deal with feelings of inadequacy and anxiety. She has the comfort of supportive friends and an overtly supportive husband, but she is vulnerable.

Change is possible, though. Clara has recognised this by the time she sends the Queen of Hearts (with its inherent meaning of 'change') to Yolande. Over time, empowerment for Clara comes through her art as she faces her fears. She understands vulnerability, fear and courage, and she finds a language in her art to truly express this, through the portraits she creates.

When it came to the food in this scene in the Bistro, I was really struck by how Louise Penny created some telling contrasts. Olivier as ‘caterer for the disaster’ serves, ironically, delicate little pastries, while Yolande's family are described in the most revealing terms through the food they are consuming. Louise Penny creates this wonderful tableau of Yolande, her husband and her son, where their eating amplifies the buffoonish and ugly nature of their characters.

Yolande reached out a hand to take her husband’s, but both his hands were taken up clutching a huge sandwich, gushing mayo and meat. Her son Bernard yawned, revealing a mouth full of half-chewed sandwich and strings of mayo glopping down from the roof of his mouth. (Kindle, Still Life, p.126)

Well it wasn’t hard to decide what food to recreate from this scene. In terms of economy of effort, the mille feuilles, berry custard tarts and meringues were my choice. They go especially well together as the custard (crème pâtissière) is used for the first two, and the leftover egg whites for the last. 

For mille feuilles, a thin layer of pastry is baked between two baking sheets (to prevent the pastry from puffing too much) until it is crisp. When cool the pastry is cut and layered with crème pâtissière and a flavouring of choice. I used home-made apricot jam, given to me by a friend. A dusting of confectioner's sugar completes the mille feuilles. Pretty delicious!

Oh the joys of making your own puff pastry, if you have a bit of time on your hands -- not sure I'll make a habit of it though! I used Julia Child's recipe in Mastering The Art of French Cooking (a new addition to my cookbook library). The dough preparation and rolling and folding process is particularly well explained and illustrated. Of course if you're pressed for time, choose a quality ready-made commercial puff pastry.

But don't be fooled by these delicate looking mille feuilles. Pure unadulterated carnage can ensue when you try to cut them into slices for serving. I speak from experience! Fortunately this nifty visual demo of making and assembling a 'Napoleon' mille feuille also provides a 'trick' for successful slicing.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=KnyEzaPbdAQ

Crème pâtissière

6 egg yolks at room temperature
2 cups of milk
3/4 cup of superfine sugar
6 tablespoons of cornflour
1 vanilla bean, split

Bring the milk and vanilla bean to a simmer in a saucepan.

Whisk the egg yolks, sugar and cornflour in a bowl until thick.
Pour the milk into the bowl, remove the bean, and whisk until smooth.
Transfer to a clean saucepan and stir continuously over moderate heat until it thickens. Remove from heat and beat rapidly with the spoon. Pour through a strainer into a bowl. Cool, then cover the surface with a layer of plastic film to prevent a skin from forming. Refrigerate.
I added some thickly whipped pure cream to lighten and create a silky custard for the mille feuilles and berry tarts.

Berry custard tarts

short crust pastry  (I made an unsweetened pastry)
crème pâtissière
fresh blueberries, strawberries or other
2-3 tablespoons of blackcurrant jelly plus a teaspoon of superfine sugar

Bake the pastry shells until golden. Cool.
Gently warm the blackcurrant jelly and dissolve the sugar in it. Cook to reduce slightly, and cool. Fill the pastry shells with crème pâtissière. Top with berries. Glaze over the berries with the blackcurrant jelly. It adds a wonderful punch of flavour to the berries and gives them a glossy appeal.

Meringues

6 egg whites at room temperature
300g/10.5oz superfine sugar
1 cup almonds (skins on) lightly toasted and then roughly chopped
grated rind from 1/2 orange and 1/2 lemon

Whisk the egg whites on low speed and gradually let them build strength (the bubbles will start to appear smaller and more even). Increase the speed and as it thickens whisk in the sugar, a spoonful at a time, until the mixture is thick and glossy. Keep whisking until all the sugar has been dissolved. The meringue should not feel grainy. Fold in the almonds and citrus rind. Place tablespoons of the meringue on a baking sheet lined with baking paper. You might need to use two baking sheets depending on the size of your meringues. Bake in a low oven, 100C/210F, for 1.5 to 2 hours, until crisp on the outside and still slightly chewy on the inside. Leave in the oven to cool.

All those meringues made me think of a rather simple and 'messy' dessert, Eton Mess (a traditional English dessert). Now this can be a sickly, sweet affair if you get too carried away with ingredients including syrupy sauces. At its simplest and most elegant, Eton Mess needs only three ingredients; finely baked meringues broken into bits, a delectable berry of choice (which can be crushed to make a gooier consistency, if desired) and pure unsweetened, whipped cream. It's a wonderful explosion of flavour and texture contrasts, with the fruity acidity of the berries balanced with the sweet crisp meringue, which also brings more complex flavours to the Mess if you've added toasted nuts and citrus rind (or other flavourings of choice) to the meringue. And held together, of course, by the silky cream.

As I made it, I thought this 'messy' dessert might have suited what had transpired between Clara and Yolande in the Bistro. But I think Ruth had a better measure of it.

Ruth Zardo would also remember this moment and turn it into poetry. It would be published in her next volume called, ‘I’m FINE’: You were a moth brushing against my cheek in the dark. I killed you, not knowing you were only a moth, with no sting. (Kindle, Still Life, p.127)

 

Eating my Pain - Gabri's Muffin Platter

By Amy

I almost feel like I should apologize. I did write, in the short bio for the blog, that I’m not a writer or a cook by trade. I’m also not an artist – obviously. I could never compete with the master chefs in the books, but Gabri’s masterpiece of “a platter holding rings of muffins marvelously decorated with fruit and roses” was daunting to even attempt to make justice to.

I had originally intended to make many kinds of muffins, as Gabri had. He offered the agents a variety of carrot, date, banana, and a special “Carles de Mills” tribute muffin. I ended up making pistachio. I wasn’t cooking to drown out sorrow (Gabri was), nor did I have the excuse of a houseful of B&B guests to help me eat them.

So, in this interpretation of a book meal, I had only one muffin flavor, no roses (I did pick a leaf off my maracujá vine to add decorative vegetation), and only the single fruit I was actually going to eat for breakfast.

“Jane’s favorite. [Charles de Mills is] not just any rose, Chief Inspector. He’s considered by rosarians to be one of the finest in the world. An old garden rose. Only blooms once a season but with a show that’s spectacular. And then it’s gone. That’s why I made the muffins from rose water, as a homage to Jane. Then I ate them, as you saw. I always eat my pain.” Gabri smiled slightly. Looking at the size of the man, Gamache marveled at the amount of pain he must have. And fear perhaps. And anger? Who knows indeed.”

I confess that the first time I read this, I didn’t really pay attention to the bit about the muffins being on a decorated platter. I only noticed it after Libby mentioned being excited about this meal because the roses decorating the plate had enticed her imagination. I had no idea what she was talking about. Embarrassing, really. My brain registered “muffins” and moved on. I did pay attention to Gabri eating his pain. I could relate.

I ate my pain, too. I also ate insecurities, anxiety, unsuccessful quests for perfection, homesickness, frustrations, PMS and a typical adolescent search for identity. By the time I was 15 I had turned a genetic tendency for curviness into full-blown obesity. Not chubby cute. Actual obesity where there’s knee pain at 15 and doctors are telling you that you’d be okay if you just lost some weight. Then I started eating the feelings due to negative body image and the stress that comes from trying _not_ to eat. I knew exactly what Gabri meant about eating his pain.

It has been a couple of decades since I was compulsively eating my feelings and, in that time, I have made peace with my body, I have lost (regained and lost again) the excessive weight, discovered that I actually enjoy running, and have oscillated, for years,  within a healthy weight span. I will never be thin. The genetic tendency for curviness and a love of eating are unchangeable facts about me. I am healthy, though. Anyway, if given the choice, I think I'd always choose my own body over anyone else's (I'm used to it, it's part of who I am and what defines me) and I wouldn't want to lose pleasure in eating!

That said, my relationship with food is an ongoing learning process. I think anyone who has ever considered weight loss has gone through various attempts in dieting: restrictions, calorie counting, crazy diets, single-food-group diets, restriction of carbohydrates, vilifying of certain ingredients, binge-eating, manic avoidance of sugar – only to consume enormous quantities of it a few days (or hours) later… The list is long.

I remember laughing through Jennifer Crusie’s Bet Me, when the character Min tries (unsuccessfully) to make Chicken Marsala. Since she is constantly dieting and has subjected herself to a fat-and-carb free diet (Ha!), she is trying to make it with no butter, no olive oil, and no carbs. It’s a disaster. The scene is hilarious. The message is not.

While I no longer eat feelings like I used to, that girl still lives inside of me. Every once in a while she takes over and it takes some effort to control her (and I’m not always successful). Frequently, unlike Gabri’s beautiful homage, the ingestion of negative feelings is associated with tasteless quantities. I have challenged myself, in the past years, to go beyond the boundaries of over-restrictiveness, and to explore tastes and "prohibited" ingredients (Ah, the joyful freedom of allowing myself butter and olive oil).

It is impossible to abstain from food in our lives (unless you can photosynthesize) – to do so, as my seven year old says (wide-eyed and with an exaggerated scary whisper), “If you don’t eat, you’ll DIE of hunger! For real. Literally.” Unlike other addictions where the solution for control is frequently sought in abstinence, unhealthy use of food must be resolved with some kind of equilibrium. I have proposed to seek indulgence in taste and flavor, instead of quantity. I have slowly come to an awareness that food is not the enemy (nor should it be a crutch), that overeating doesn’t make anything taste better, and that it is alright to treat oneself if there is balance.

When I first mentioned this project to some friends who are not readers of the books, I had varied responses. One friend thought I was trying to crack the cookbook market. Another, who's recently discovered a love of cooking in the past few years, thought I had caught the gourmet-bug. A reader friend (although she has yet to read Penny’s books) thought it was a kind of book review. As I heard their interpretations of what they thought I was trying to do, I tried to explain it to myself. The best I could come up with is that maybe it’s a form of therapy.

Part of the fun of this project was to ransom some of the flavor in food. Sometimes there is no substitute. Sometimes you NEED sugar in a recipe. Sometimes you NEED butter. How do you make croissants without butter?

I think most people have been there, trying to adapt recipes (or other parts of life) that aren't easily changed. Of course, sometimes change is necessary – or just plain fun. There may be healthier versions of recipes, just as there should be allowances made for personal tastes or local ingredients. Both Libby and I, while not vegan or restrictively vegetarian, aren’t big meat eaters. Libby doesn’t eat red meat at all, and I only do so rarely… We live on opposite sides of the globe and might not find the same kinds of ingredients in our local markets. Many of the meals we’re preparing for the blog have been adapted.

There’s a big difference, though, in adapting a recipe to suit your taste and adapting it to suit a calorie count.

The muffins were delicious. My husband came home mid-morning to get something he’d forgotten and grabbed a muffin (or five) as brunch. They ended up being a celebration of a breakthrough in one of his projects. (He and a student had been working on something for days and they couldn't find a solution to the problem. He was beaming because they had finally made things work!).

If we can eat pain and inadequacy, we can also learn to eat the joy of celebration, the happiness in good company, and the sensuality of amazing blends of flavors. Eating with joy might be less compulsive and may be both more pleasurable and more moderate.

I enjoyed fresh maracujá juice with my own muffin and contemplated the fact that while my mind may have rationally understood these concepts, I still have a long way to go in my relationship with food.

Pistachio Muffins

Ingredients:

1 + 1/3 cups of flour

2 teaspoons of baking powder

¼ teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon of ground cinnamon (I always put more)

¼ teaspoon nutmeg

1 teaspoon lemon zest

½ cup pistachios, chopped (in theory they’re supposed to be finely chopped… but… my muffins weren’t green because I used brown sugar and a bit of whole flour, too)

½ cup butter

2/3 cup sugar (I used brown)

2 eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

½ teaspoon rum extract (I didn’t have any and didn’t add it)

½ cup milk

½ cup pistachios, coarsely chopped

How To:

Preheat the oven (the recipe called for 425 degrees, I just put it on the highest) and grease muffin tins (I use silicone ones so I didn’t need to grease them).

Combine dry ingredients in a large bowl. Cream butter and sugar together. Beat the eggs, one at a time, into the creamed mixture until light and fluffy. Add vanilla and rum extracts.

Slowly add the dry mixture (about ¼ at a time) and milk, briefly mixing after each addition. It’s important not to overmix. Pour into tins. The original recipe (see link below) says to sprinkle the tops with the coarsely chopped pistachios. I didn’t have enough, so I left mine “unsprinkled”.

Bake for 15 in 375 degrees.

I adapted my recipe from: http://www.food.com/recipe/green-pistachio-muffins-239041

The quotes are from page 70 of the Paperback copy of Still Life.