Green Pea and Mint Soup..."Some Malady is Coming Upon Us"

by Libby

Tureens filled with brilliant pea and mint soup sat on the table, next to baskets of fresh, warm baguette. (The Beautiful Mystery, Kindle, p.290)

By the time this meal is served Beauvoir has lost his appetite, and resonating in Gamache's head is the line, "Some malady is coming upon us", (from TS Eliot's play, Murder in the Cathedral). It is indeed a harbinger.

I think the food in The Beautiful Mystery, more than in any other book in the series, drew me in with its fresh seasonal produce. Its gentle nurturing and cultivation and the nutritious meals prepared from it by the monks are strikingly juxtaposed with the tension, simmering conflict and stark rage played out within the monastery walls.

Preparing food from new season produce, more than at any other time, is always a delight to me. Young vegetables and fresh herbs and flowers make for quite a delicious meal. There's little you need to do but savour the delicate, juicy flavours and crisp textures when vegetables are young. Recently I made a vegetable salad (served at room temperature) with young vegetables from the market and my garden. It was part of the vegetable course of a meal I prepared for friends.  As I put it together I couldn't help thinking of The Beautiful Mystery and imagining this salad on the refectory table.

It can be made a little ahead of time (always handy) and kept at room temperature. I loved foraging for all the herbs and flowers that added little punches of flavour to the salad. The vegetables were all quickly poached (to keep some crispness) in lightly salted water. I poached each vegetable separately, so as not to mask their individual flavours or colours by cooking them all together. By quickly transferring them to an ice bath you halt the cooking and preserve the colour.

I used different coloured baby carrots, radishes (which turn a delightful pink colour), asparagus, broad beans (I peeled them down to the heart), shelled peas, spring onions and cloves of garlic. After arranging the cooked vegetables on a large platter I scattered fresh nasturtium, borage, rocket and chive flowers, elderflower and lemon flower buds, fennel fronds and nasturtium, baby sorrel and rocket leaves amongst them. It was just a delightful, aesthetic experience watching it all come together. I love that! And I couldn't help taking a photo! A drizzle with good extra-virgin olive oil was all that was needed. I served the vegetables with a lemon confit, made with the zest and juicy flesh (all the membranes removed) of lemons from my garden. Cooked with sugar and reduced to a jam consistency it provides a lovely bitter-sweet contrast.

The Beautiful Mystery was a difficult one to read with Beauvoir's internal drug-fuelled crisis and loss of control, and Gamache's fight to save him which leaves him isolated and steeling himself for future confrontation. Never had both been so vulnerable. And never had the foundations of their relationship been so undermined and shockingly rocked.

Gamache grabbed at Beauvoir’s hand, trying to loosen the gun. From Jean-Guy’s throat came a wail, a cry of desperation. He fought wildly, flailing and kicking and bucking but finally Gamache twisted Beauvoir’s arm behind his back and the firearm clattered to the floor. Both men were gasping for breath. Gamache held Jean-Guy’s face against the rough stone wall. Beauvoir bucked and sidled but Gamache held firm. “Let go,” Beauvoir screamed into the stone. “Those pills are mine. My property.” (The Beautiful Mystery, Kindle, p.364)

There seems a striking parallel with the foundations of the monastery which, too, are collapsing.

Amidst all the dissent and internal conflict, a terrible rage emerges which has caused death amongst the monks, and threatens death amongst the Surete officers.

Gamache put his face against Francoeur’s. “You could’ve killed him,” Gamache snarled. “You almost killed him. How can you do this to one of your own?” Gamache had Francoeur’s shirt in his fist, yanking it. He felt the man’s warm breath on his face, in short, terrified puffs. And Gamache knew. Just a little more pressure. Just a few moments more, and this problem would disappear. This man would disappear. One more twist. And who would blame him? (The Beautiful Mystery, Kindle, p.366)

The enmity between Gamache and Francoeur is fully exposed. Gamache's rage is both shocking and buoying. Who would blame him, indeed!!

The conflict amongst the monks to embrace 'modern times', the way that Francoeur 'had gotten into Jean-Guy', the corruption deep within the Surete and the evidence that Gamache uncovers to reveal that it goes beyond Francoeur, give substance to "some malady is coming upon us".

The last chapter is shattering with its volatility, uncertainty and ominous ending.

The Chief Inspector looked into the sky and felt the north wind on his upturned face. Some malady is coming upon us. (The Beautiful Mystery, Kindle, p.372)

We are confronted with the prospect of what Gamache must face next. But nonetheless we feel his quiet strength and steely determination.

It's not hard to make parallels to recent events that have left many feeling degrees of uncertainty, isolation, some trepidation and fear, and even rage about what the time ahead might hold. Finding positive means to deal with uncertainty and adversity, clear and respectful ways of expressing our feelings and responding to others, steeling our strengths and sighting the cracks that let the light in, challenges us all.

Green Pea and Mint Soup

This is a tasty, brilliantly coloured soup with the fresh flavour of peas dominating but greatly enhanced with a few additions, particularly fresh mint. It's perfect for a light meal, served with crusty bread. I rather enjoyed making it as there is something very therapeutic about shelling peas. Though I have to admit, after all the shelling I was a bit short on peas so I made up the difference with some frozen baby ones. A tasty, nutritious stock, which can be made well ahead of time, is the basis for this recipe. I made a chicken stock but a vegetable one would work well too.

The Stock

A little more body or thickness is given to this stock with the addition of a small amount of glutinous/sweet rice. The recipe makes approximately 1.5 litres/quarts, but you'll only need half of this amount. 

700g / 1.5lbs of chicken wings, each wing chopped into 3 pieces (I got the butcher to do this.)

2 tablespoons of light oil (I used grapeseed oil.)

2 litres / 2 quarts of water

2 small inner stalks of celery, finely chopped

6 spring onions, white part only, finely sliced

1 clove of garlic, chopped

2 teaspoons of chopped root ginger

100ml / 3.5fl oz of dry white wine, sake or verjuice (I used sake.)

30g / 1oz glutinous rice (also known as sweet rice or sticky rice)sea salt

1.  Heat the oil in a pot and sauté the chicken wing pieces until lightly coloured all over.

2.  Add the celery, spring onion, garlic and ginger and cook for another couple of minutes, stirring continuously.

3.  Pour in the wine, sake or verjuice to deglaze and reduce it until almost evaporated.

4.  Add the water, bring to the boil and then reduce the heat to a simmer.

5.  Skim the surface to remove any foam.

6.  Add the glutinous/sweet rice.

7.  Periodically taste the stock and add a little salt to help bring out the flavours.

8.  Allow the stock to simmer away for 1-2 hrs.

9.  Pour through a fine sieve and discard the solids.

10.  Cool the stock and refrigerate. It cools into a soft jelly.

11.  Decant 3/4 litre / 3/4 quart for the soup and freeze the remainder.

The Soup

This recipe will serve four as a starter, or two as a meal. It's really quite a simple soup but the addition of crème fraîche, lightly sautéed pea sprouts and fresh mint as a topping provides an enhancing burst of flavours and textures. They all go so well together in this soup.

3/4 litre / 3/4 quart of chicken stock

500g / 18oz fresh shelled or frozen green peas

2 tbsp unsalted butter

5 spring onions, finely sliced

sea salt

1.  Melt the butter in a pot over medium heat and gently sauté the spring onions for several minutes until soft.

2.  Add the peas and continue to gently sauté, stirring them well together.

3.  Add the stock and bring to a simmer. Cook until the peas are tender.

4.  Allow the soup to cool a little, then blend for a smooth texture. I used a stick blender which is so much more convenient than having to transfer the soup to a bench top blender.

5.  Add a little sea salt to taste.

Finishing and Serving the Soup

 

half a lemon

handful of fresh pea sprouts

unsalted butter

crème fraîche

mint leaves, finely sliced

cracked black pepper

1.  Stir a squeeze of lemon juice into the soup. Add more to taste.

2.  Lightly sauté the pea sprouts in a little unsalted butter until they wilt but still have their crunch. Season very lightly with sea salt flakes.

3. Ladle the soup into bowls. 

4. Swirl a generous dob of crème fraîche onto the surface. Add some pea sprouts and a generous sprinkle of mint. Finish with cracked black pepper.

After reading The Beautiful Mystery I remember devouring How the Light Gets In, with my heart in my mouth, to find out how it was all going to play out. Fortunately I came late to the series so was able to binge read the books in quick succession. Louise Penny did not disappoint.

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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Potato Soup & Civil War

by Amy

“Beauvoir took a hunk of warm baguette and smoothed whipped butter onto it, and watched it melt. Then he cut a slab of blue and Brie from the cheese board making the rounds. As Brother Raymond continued his liturgy of the faults in the monastery, Beauvoir took a spoonful of soup, with carrots, peas, parsnips and potatoes bumping together in the fragrant broth.”

The food in THE BEAUTIFUL MYSTERY is mouth-watering. Just reading that paragraph makes me wish I could spend a week in the monastery and partake of their meals, learn from their silence and slow down. Or pick blueberries. And eat them. With chocolate. Sigh. Any of you feel the same?

 “Are you one of the abbot’s men, or the prior’s men?”

The doctor’s gaze, friendly before, now sharpened, examining Beauvoir. Then he smiled again.

“I’m neutral, Inspector. Like the Red Cross. I just tend to the wounded.”

“Are there many? Wounded, I mean?”

The smile left Frère Charles’s face. “Enough. A rift like that in a previously happy monastery hurts everyone.”

“Including yourself?”

“Oui,” the doctor admitted. “But I really don’t take sides. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“Was it appropriate for anyone?”

“It wasn’t anyone’s first choice,” said the doctor, an edge of impatience in his friendly voice. “We didn’t wake up one morning and pick teams. Like a game of Red Rover. This was excruciating and slow. Like being eviscerated. Gutted. A civil war is never civil.”

Then the monk’s gaze left Beauvoir and looked first at Francoeur, beside the abbot, then across the table to Gamache.

“As perhaps you know.”

A denial was on Beauvoir’s lips, but he stopped it. The monk knew. They all knew.”

I must confess that I oscillate between writing an entire flood of words and feeling like there is nothing to be added to this scene.

A civil war is never civil.

I’ve spent a few minutes staring at the screen watching the blinking courser. I keep wondering how much to share and how this is a potentially dangerous topic to explore.

I am reminded of Lincoln’s famous “a house divided cannot stand” quote. It is true of nations. It is true of homes.

This soup was, unwittingly, the cause of friction in my own home. My son has issues with food texture and soup is his least favorite of all foods. We have a deal that he has to at least taste things. 

This particular meal was one where the enforcing of the rule led to an unpleasant meal since we weren’t all in agreement as to the particulars of the “tasting rule”. The whole process led to the need for diplomacy in order to find a truce and strategies for future soup meals. He has since had to eat (taste, really… he never has to eat more than a spoonful or two) many, many soups and the most tolerable one, to him, is the apple parsnip one I’ve already posted about.

Civil war is never civil.

There doesn’t always have to be war in times of contention, though. A willingness to listen, to negotiate, and to try to understand another person (or nation or group or…) and their point of view may salvage a situation and avoid a war. We didn’t reach civil war in my own home. Thank goodness. Diplomacy and tolerance won out. I must confess, though, that navigating family negotiations and mediating interactions made that first soup meal savorless. I had the leftovers the next day with a lighter heart and a much better sensory experience.

Differences in opinion are positive. Arguments aren’t always easy to deal with, but I believe the end result can be positive when all parties at least attempt to be civil. It is the respect for civility and the recognition of the other’s humanity that avoids “war”.

Sometimes, however, war is unavoidable. Or, if it is avoidable, we are not in the position of power to avoid it. Gamache could only avoid “war” by conforming to corruption, for instance. And sometimes it is as the doctor explained to Beauvoir:

“It wasn’t anyone’s first choice,” said the doctor, an edge of impatience in his friendly voice. “We didn’t wake up one morning and pick teams. Like a game of Red Rover. This was excruciating and slow. Like being eviscerated. Gutted.”

A few weeks ago, when browsing through my shelves to find a book to show a friend, I started leafing through my copy of LETTERS OF NOTE (Shaun Usher). I was telling the friend about the book and was reminded of the letter Gandhi wrote to Hitler, a little before the Second World War broke out. For the sake of humanity. It is a powerful letter. Link: FOR THE SAKE OF HUMANITY

May we all choose our battles with careful consideration.

May diplomacy win, if possible.

May we be conscientious and fair in the battles we choose to engage in.

May we avoid unnecessary or hurtful fractions.

May we not forget the price of war – civil or otherwise – and seek other methods, when possible, in order to avoid the devastation.

And, whenever it is impossible to avoid a war, may be not forget that “the other side” (even when its leader is Francoeur) is human, too.

I think the sad thing about humanity is that we seem to frequently repeat our mistakes. So my last prayer is that we learn from our mistakes and from those of the ones that came before us. Not only in the big sweeping historical occurrences, but also in the small, seemingly insignificant experiences of daily life.

I did make soup. It was a vegetable soup. There were little pieces of vegetables bumping together… But I’m not a huge fan of thin broth, so I pureed about two thirds of the soup in order to make it a thicker broth.

I’m sure you’ll all forgive me if it doesn’t look quite like the soup I pictured when I read the scene. It was loosely based on this recipe: Perfect Potato Soup

A Leek Casserole & The Arts of Silence and Conversation

by Amy

“When the first casserole, a fragrant cheese and leek dish with a crunchy crumble top, came by he paused, looking at the modest amounts everyone else had taken. Then he took the biggest scoop he could manage and plopped it onto his plate. Bite me, he thought. And the monks looked like they might.”

I love leeks. I love cheese. I love casseroles. What could go wrong? I actually followed a recipe for this dish. I usually change recipes to adjust to my tastes. This time I followed it, but I decided that if (when) I make it again, I’ll add other vegetables (about three or four times the amount called for in the recipe) and will experiment with different cheeses. Cheddar wouldn’t be my first choice. I think I’d like to use Parmesan – or maybe a blend of cheeses.

On a side note, cheddar is not only hard to find, but also fairly expensive in Brazil. I have an American friend here that has cheddar cheese high on the list of things she most misses from home. I’ve read comments by American expats in Europe complaining that they can’t find cheddar easily.

The mustard in the sauce was a new idea for me. I’d never done that and I absolutely loved it. I love mustard, though, so I’m biased. I’m used to nutmeg in white sauce, but had never considered mustard. What do you put in your white sauce?

“Near the end of the meal, the Chief folded his cloth napkin and rose. Frère Simon, across from him, motioned, at first subtly then with more vigor, for the Chief to sit back down. Gamache met the man’s eyes, and also motioned. That he’d received the message, but was going to do what he needed to do anyway.”

I love this silent exchange.

It reminds me of exchanges between spouses, parents and their children (of all ages), partners, colleagues, and good friends. I’m sure you’ve been there and seen the look, felt the elbow nudge or the kick in the shins and silently answered that you acknowledged the warning, but you chose to go ahead and do things the hard way, the unconventional way, the potentially dangerous way.

A couple of weeks ago, when I posted about the Haida and fresh bread, we talked about how Gamache and the Haida were good at silence. The Chief Inspector knows how to use silence to think, to ponder, to listen, and to understand. Silence is a tool. It can be a strength.

There is an art to silence. It can heighten nonverbal communication, increase awareness of nuances, and give both speaker and listener more time to ponder. Those who master the art know when to speak and when to hold their peace. They know how to use silence in order to listen respectfully and prepare a better response.

“Our order has been tested over the centuries. And this is another test. Do we really believe in God? Do we believe all the things we say and sing? Or has it become a faith of convenience? Has it, in splendid isolation, grown weak? When challenged we simply do whatever is easiest. Do we sin by silence? If we have real faith then we must have the courage to speak up. We must not protect the killer.”

Silence can be a strong tool. It can be a useful strategy. I can also be complacence. It can be laziness. It can be cowardice. It can be a mark of oppression.

I recently spent some time with a person who tends to choose silence. This is a person with incredible knowledge and experience and so much to offer. She sometimes comes across as blunt, unfeeling, and uninterested. She is, in fact, none of these things. She fails to engage. I sometimes get the impression that the effort of contributing thoughts and risking controversy or even slight discord seems to be too much. She is not only silent, she also not very responsive, even non-verbally. Once you draw her out, she is a wealth of knowledge and her ideas are interesting and, yes, frequently controversial. She`s sometimes telegraphic in her communication, though. You have to get to know her well in order to have an inkling of her thoughts. Absolutely worth it. Such an interesting mind.

Silence, here, may have been misused. While it is safe for her, keeping up a dialogue in her own mind, she (intentionally or not) deprives many of the depth of her thoughts. It’s easy, in this scenario, to become or be perceived as judgmental and distant. This is uncomfortable and disengaged silence.

“The monks looked anxious. And angry. At him. Gamache was used to this transference. They couldn’t yet blame the killer, so they blamed the police for turning their lives upside down. He felt a rush of sympathy.If only they knew how bad it would get.”

The monks in this book had taken a vow of silence. They weren’t uncommunicative, though. A wealth of information and interaction was exchanged without the use of words.

I have a good friend who, like me, was told she talked too much as a child. We both spent many years of our lives biting our tongues (or trying to, in my case). I frequently end my day replaying conversations, wondering if I said too much and listened too little. I judge my words. This friend and I both learned (the hard way) the art of silence and listening. She’s much, much better at it than I am. She’s one of my favorite people to talk to.

She, too, frequently chooses silence. I can sometimes look at her and see, in her eyes, that there’s a cascade of words tumbling in her mind. Many of them do not make it out. She’s learned concision and editing. She, like Gamache, uses silence. She isn’t silenced. There’s a difference.

I think we all have a story to tell. Having a voice is a powerful thing. While learning to rein in our words and master silence is a challenge, the next step is finding our voice and learning how to use it well.

The monks have mastered the art of science. They have reached a level I’m pretty sure I’ll never attain (especially since I am not called to live in a monastery and I tend to be the kind of person who uses words to engage with the world). They have now been challenged to go beyond silence. To find their voice. To tell their version of events.

I’ve been planning to try this recipe for some time. For one reason or another I postponed it. I thought I was going to write about something else when I first planned to cook this dish. It’s funny that I ended up making it today. I’d been thinking about the art of silence and conversation – and balance. 

When I reread the scene, I realized that was what I was supposed to write about.

I spent most of the week reassessing. I was talking to 12 year old me and remembering how painful it was to feel silenced. I tried to evaluate how far I’ve come and whether or not I have learned to listen. I had been aiming towards mastering silence. I spent most of the week discovering that while silence is a part of it, it is only half of the art. In order to truly be a master of silence, you have to have a voice that is willing to make itself heard when needed.

“When challenged we simply do whatever is easiest. Do we sin by silence? If we have real faith then we must have the courage to speak up.”

Therein lays the challenge. My first impulse is to speak. Not necessarily to “speak up”. I sometimes use words to pacify and smooth over. It’s an important tool. With so much polarization in the world, people who easily see both sides of an issue and try to find common ground are needed. That’s not hard for me to do. A friend recently told me, though, that not everything is relative and sometimes you have to make a choice. Sometimes the choice isn’t ideal.

I am reminded of a song by Emeli Sande (listen here).

I spent some time alone, in silence, the past week and have discovered that a greater challenge awaits me. If I wish to master the art of conversation, I have to learn to hold my tongue and master silence, to acquire the wisdom to ponder and choose my words, and also to have the courage to speak up.

Quotes are from The Beautiful Mystery – page 95 in the paperback edition.