Veggies & Herbal Butter... And Speaking Up

by Amy

Clara chopped the ends off the fresh carrots and watched Peter toss the tiny new potatoes into boiling water. They’d have a simple dinner tonight of vegetables from the garden with herbs and sweet butter. It was one of their favorite meals in late summer.

I didn’t really make this meal, did I? I started to… I thought herbs and sweet butter? Maybe I’ll try making herbal butter! I’ll take fresh herbs from the garden and smash them into some melted butter and then smear that on some vegetables… I didn’t really have fresh garden vegetables, though. And I made meat for the husband… and I couldn’t resist adding some tomatoes and carrot slices to the skillet afterwards…  The butter ended up being only for the potatoes and a sprinkle on the broccoli. I did enjoy the flavored butter! I used the leftover butter on some pasta for my son the next day. He loved it.

 “So,” she concluded, her plate almost untouched, “I don’t know what to do about Fortin. Should I go into Montreal and speak to him directly about this, or just let it go?”

I totally felt for Clara here. I think that’s the type of question many of us ask ourselves frequently. When should we make our views known? When should we take a stand? When should we confront someone doing something we disagree with? And when should we just let it go?

Peter took another slice of baguette, soft on the inside with a crispy crust. He smeared the butter to the edges, covering every millimeter, evenly. Methodically.Watching him Clara felt she’d surely scream or explode, or at the very least grab the fucking baguette and toss it until it was a grease stain on the wall.Still Peter smoothed the knife over the bread. Making sure the butter was perfect.

Sometimes it’s hard to decide because some things, while important to us, might not really matter in the long run. Like how butter “should” be spread on a slice of baguette. I’m with Clara. I’m sure some people would agree with Peter. No one is really “right”.

A couple of months ago I saw a Facebook rant (I won’t name names) where someone was very bothered because, when flying, the person on the seat in front of her had leaned the seat back. She was angry and posted about how the flier in the seat in front of her had no common courtesy. I mean, how could he? He’d taken up space that was hers… Hilariously enough, the sheer number of antagonistic comments proved that there were passionate people on both sides of the “to-lean-or-not-to-lean” debate. I had a chuckle and moved on.

A few weeks later, my husband was on a plane to England. As soon as he landed, he sent me a shocked (and infuriated) text saying the man seated behind him had ranted and raved and accused him of being an inconsiderate and uncivilized human being because he’d inclined his airplane seat. My husband is 6’5’’. A 10+ hour flight in the upright position (with the seat in front of him inclined, by the way) wasn’t exactly a comfortable flight. He said the guy was spewing such venom that it wasn’t worth arguing over, though. He was shocked. He was even MORE shocked when he heard that a couple of weeks earlier I’d seen a number of people who agreed with angry upright position passenger.

Sorry for the tangent. The point is, if it’s hard to agree on something like inclining seats… imagine how hard it is to agree on other issues that have more cultural or generational biases?

What should he tell her? To forget it? That what Fortin said wasn’t that bad? Certainly not worth risking her career. Just let it go. Besides, saying something almost certainly wouldn’t change Fortin’s mind about gays, and might just turn him against Clara. And this wasn’t some tiny show Fortin was giving her. This was everything Clara had dreamed of. Every artist dreamed of. Everyone from the art world would be there. Clara’s career would be made.

I can understand Peter’s point. It isn’t like anything Clara will say will actually change Fortin’s mind. We rarely do change anyone’s mind just because we preach our own moral code to them. If ever, really.

But that’s not the point, is it? Why would Clara speak to Fortin? Would it be to change him? Or to not allow him to change her?

Should he tell her to let it go, or tell Clara she had to speak to Fortin? For Gabri and Olivier and all their gay friends. But mostly for herself.

And I think that’s the point. But mostly for herself. It is for herself. Ultimately, she speaks to Fortin not because she’s trying to change his behavior, but because her response (or lack of it) defines her own.

Peter dug the tip of the knife into a hole in the bread to get the butter out.He knew what he wanted to say, but he didn’t know if he’d be saying it for his sake, or for Clara’s.

It’s easy, especially in hindsight, to accuse Peter of self-centeredness and jealousy. I think this is one of his redeeming moments. One of those times where we see the potential for the Peter he eventually becomes. He’s sorely tempted to give an answer to benefit himself. He is incredibly self-aware. I think the first step towards change is awareness. The fact that he acknowledges that his motives may not be the best and holds himself back makes me hopeful for his character.

“Well?” she asked, and heard the impatience in her voice. “Well?” she asked more softly. “What do you think?”

When we decide to speak up, we don’t do it to change the world. At least I don’t think so. When we speak up, we do so in order to take care so the world doesn’t change us. Not that any of us should be immutable. On the contrary, I think growth always involves change. But in which direction? And why? Conformism is dangerously easy. Staying true to yourself and your beliefs isn’t as comfortable. And consciously changing for the better – despite the context and setting – is harder yet.

When we speak up, I don’t think we should expect others to change. We should expect to be challenged, questioned, sometimes ridiculed and confronted. Speaking up should imply a willingness to engage in reflection and debate. It should mean we are sure enough of where we stand that we are ready to defend our point of view, but respectful enough of the other person that we’re willing to listen to their opinion and concede their points. We might even shift our stand, if needed, to accommodate our growing understanding of the issue at hand.

It is not unusual for our discourse to be directed at ourselves. We speak up in order to remind ourselves of what we think and believe and value. We speak up so we do not condone unseemly behavior with our silence.

Peter was right. The likelihood of Fortin changing his opinions or his behavior because an as-yet-unknown artist disagreed with his attitude was slim at best. He was also right in that the reason Clara should speak up was for her own sake.

I frequently tell my son that we cannot change others. We cannot control their behavior. We can only control how we react. It is a valid lesson at any age.

When we talk about setting limits and boundaries, it doesn’t mean controlling what others do. It means establishing what your own limits are and what you will do when someone crosses the line.

Clara couldn’t change Fortin. She couldn’t make him respect Gabri – or anyone else. She could choose and control how she would respond, though.

We cannot demand respect. We cannot demand equality. We cannot demand certain standards of behavior. We cannot demand love. I’m wrong. We can, but that doesn’t mean we’ll get what we ask for. We can determine consequences and make our expectations and beliefs clear. We can establish boundaries and follow through with proper reactions when those boundaries are crossed. We cannot control others, but we can control our own responses. And, in doing so, we can ultimately influence others because we tend to gauge our actions according to expected reactions.

When we speak up we don’t do so to change the world. We do so in an attempt to avoid conformity, to stand our ground so the world doesn’t change us into an unrecognizable version of ourselves. But, in doing so, we become a beacon. Others who think like us are attracted to our stand, to our strength. We influence those around us, slowly and surely. We become an inspiration. When we speak up, we don’t do so to change the world. But, when we speak up, the world changes. A little bit. A drop in the ocean. A little light in the dark. A whisper. It is enough.

Pain Doré and the Art of Salvaging

by Amy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Strawberry Shortcake... And Souls

by Amy

“Peter handed Gamache a shortcake, which he cut in half, and Peter piled sliced ripe strawberries in their own brilliant red juice on top of it.

Gamache noticed Clara getting up and Myrna going with her. Olivier came over and put the coffee on to perk.

“Can I help?” asked Gabri.

“Here, put cream on. The cake, Gabri,” said Peter as Gabri approached Olivier with a spoonful of whipped cream. Soon a small conga line of men assembling strawberry shortcakes was formed. When they’d finished they turned around to take the desserts to the table but stopped dead.”

I’ve always loved this image of a conga line of men assembling strawberry shortcakes. It makes me smile every time.

“There, lit only by candles, was Clara’s art. Or at least three large canvases, propped on easels. Gamache felt suddenly light-headed, as though he’d traveled back to the time of Rembrandt, da Vinci, Titian. Where art was viewed either by daylight or candlelight. Was this how the Mona Lisa was first seen? The Sistine Chapel? By firelight? Like cave drawings.”

I’m jealous.

I know I’m confessing to an ugly sentiment, but I really am jealous of Clara and her art.

“He looked at it closely. Clara painted people’s souls, and he wanted to know what this soul held.”

That is an amazing concept. Can you imagine having the ability to paint, sculpt, dance, sing, play, or write a person’s soul? To be able to express that which cannot be said? To see beyond the surface, explore the depths, and to turn it into art?

That is probably where the magic is. The ability to convey feeling and emotion beyond words. Even when the medium involves words – as is the case in literature, poetry, even dramatic arts – the words go beyond their quotidian use.

“Clara Morrow had painted Ruth as the elderly, forgotten Virgin Mary. Angry, demented, the Ruth in the portrait was full of despair, of bitterness. Of a life left behind, of opportunities squandered, of loss and betrayals real and imagined and created and caused. She clutched at a rough blue shawl with emaciated hands. The shawl had slipped off one bony shoulder and the skin was sagging, like something nailed up and empty.
“And yet the portrait was radiant, filling the room from one tiny point of light. In her eyes. Embittered, mad Ruth stared into the distance, at something very far off, approaching. More imagined than real.”
“Hope.”
“Clara had captured the moment despair turned to hope. The moment life began. She’d somehow captured Grace.”

And there you go. Since I’m confessing, I suppose I should be completely honest.

I said before that I’m jealous of Clara’s art. I’m probably more realistically jealous of Louise Penny’s talent. She, after all, is the one who wrote the character – and described the image – that captured Grace and Hope. Her books see the soul and her words evoke an entire world that we fell in love with.

I can understand Peter’s feelings. They aren’t really nice feelings. In fact, they are nothing to be proud of. What they are is understandable. And, like Peter, it isn’t only the end product that I am jealous of. It is the fearlessness and dedication that Clara – and Penny – are willing to invest in their work.

“It took Gamache’s breath away and he could feel a burning in his eyes. He blinked and turned from it, as though from something so brilliant it blinded. He saw everyone else in the room also staring, their faces soft in the candlelight.”

We are attracted to raw honesty. Penny has not shied away from tough issues. Her characters aren’t picture perfect, nor are they typical models of success. Clara paints the elderly, the flawed, and even the ugly. The beauty in their art lies not in the perfection of its subjects, but in the cracks that let the light in, in the promise of redemption, in the hope found even in the darkest places, and in grace.

Both the author and her character are willing to explore their own souls, explore the souls of their subjects, and, through their art, encourage us to hold up our own souls to scrutiny.

“They’re brilliant, you know. You have nothing to be afraid of.”
“If that was true I’d have no art.”

I used the word fearless before, but I was wrong. There is fear. If there weren’t, the art probably wouldn’t be half as good. They carry on regardless.

I know for a fact that there is fear. Not only has Louise Penny mentioned it more than once in social media and in her newsletters, but when I first thought of writing this blog, I wrote to her and asked for permission. If there ever was a gracious writer, it is she. Her answer, among other things, was “Noli timere.”

Noli timere. Do not fear.

Just the fact that she recognizes that fear is a factor when you bare your soul is proof (at least it is to me) that she is not immune to such fear, but has chosen to face it. I often think of the process or production art and of an artist’s courage when I read the Gamache books.

The Brutal Telling is a book about secrets and lies. It is also the book where Clara’s art is revealed as brilliant. Unquestionably brilliant. We knew before. Now everyone knows. Everyone who matters to Clara, that is. Soon the whole world will know.

Clara’s art is the opposite of Olivier’s lies. The light to his darkness. Clara has spent a lifetime digging deep within and exposing her soul. She isn’t always understood. In fact, she usually isn’t comprehended by those who likely matter most to her. She is open, though. She is willing to look and explore and to try to understand…

“Nay, be a Columbus to whole new continents and worlds within you, opening new channels, not of trade, but of thought.” (Walden, Thoreau)

As I read, I am challenged to explore these depths within myself. Not infrequently do I wonder where I stand, what I think, who I am. It’s easy to get so caught up in the hectic rhythm of daily life that we forget to ask ourselves questions that pertain to our individuality, our identity, our core beliefs.

What makes me me? What are the things only I can say? When I leave this world, what will I have left behind of myself? Have I made a difference in someone’s life? What motivates me to get up in the morning? What makes me feel like I’ve had a good day? When people think of me, how do they see my soul?

Olivier hid under so many layers and so many lies that he no longer felt like he could be himself and be loved. In a way, the character he created was larger than the scared soul that lived inside. Clara, on the other hand, had very little polish and was apparently a wreck. But that is only because she let the whole world see the FINE (Ruth’s FINE: Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic and Egotistical) soul she was. Clara had no veneer. No pretense. She was who she was.

I’m still jealous of her art. I will never be able to paint a person’s soul. I highly doubt that I could ever develop any art to the point that it spoke more than words. I’ll have to stick to words. And maybe hugs.

"Language is a finer medium. 'Yes, for those who can't paint.'" (Middlemarch - George Eliot)

I do not need to be jealous of Clara’s fearlessness, though. While the results of my own forays will not lead to world-class art, I can learn to look into the soul. I can try to understand myself more elementally, and to try to look at others and see beyond the surface. I can recognize the shortcomings and failures that make me fallible and learn to love myself (and allow others to love me) in spite of them. I can see the cracks in the veneer of those around me and learn to offer grace and unconditional love.

I’d never eaten Strawberry Shortcake. Unlike Clara’s paintings and Louise Penny’s books, mine was not a masterpiece. Two attempts at making perfect homemade whipped cream failed. The first failed miserably (it was a very hot day and I probably should have let the cream freeze a bit instead of just refrigerating it). The second was better. The cake itself wasn’t anything special. They’re a good base for the strawberry and sugar mixture. I’m a chocolate kind of girl, so I think it would be perfect with brownies instead of shortcake. Is that sacrilegious?

I did like the lemon added to the whipped cream. That was perfect. I have a friend who gave me a few tips on the perfect whipped cream so I kept trying. I tried refrigerated cream. I tried it slightly frozen. I tried adding the sugar way after or soon after. I tried... Of course, the third time - when I DIDN'T have any strawberries - it worked. But then I don't know exactly what it as that I did differently. So what's your secret? If it is that you make awesome whipped cream, that is...

Here’s the recipe I used (with some few modifications): http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/strawberry-shortcake-recipe3.html

Unless otherwise specified, all quotes are from The Brutal Telling. The shortcake dessert scene.

Fettuccine with shrimp sautéed in garlic and olive oil

by Amy

“Gabri approached carrying a tray with four steaming plates. Within minutes they were sitting around the fireplace eating fettuccine with shrimp and scallops sautéed in garlic and olive oil. Fresh bread was produced and glasses of dry white wine poured.”

This isn’t the first time Gabri finds a culinary solution for an awkward moment. There’s a meal for every occasion and he is a master at producing them. I was looking forward to this one. I love pasta.

Once again, this project introduced an ingredient I had never cooked before. I like shrimp. I order shrimp at restaurants, but had never made any at home. The main reason is that I live far from the coast and sea-food isn’t as fresh or as affordable here.

The other ingredients were easier. I picked some basil, marjoram, and grape tomatoes from my backyard garden. I didn’t have scallops, but I had leeks and I absolutely LOVE leeks. So I used that instead. I cooked the fettuccine al dente while I made the sauce. I’ve actually made this meal numerous times – without the shrimp. Sometimes I’ll add chicken or sausage or some other meat, but I’ll usually make vegetarian pasta and make some kind of meat on the side for my husband.

This meal matches the scene in the books perfectly. It’s pretty effortless in terms of mental engagement. It gives the cook a chance to think about other things and listen in on conversations.  I’m sure Gabri was listening with at least half an ear (even if he was all the way in the kitchen) while Olivier and Gamache talked. I was cooking while my husband sat at the table nearby and shared tidbits on his day. In the meantime, my eight-year-old was pacing and talking non-stop about the new characters he’s invented to compose the Marvel universe and what adventures they – and the regular heroes – got into. I confess that I only listened to that conversation with half an ear myself. It was a very convoluted plot.

The only secret to this meal is that you cannot prepare it in advance. This is the kind of meal that you make minutes before you’re to eat it and, preferably, have the table set and everyone hungry before you’re halfway into cooking it… AND, ideally, there are no leftovers. I hate leftover sea food.

I sliced two cloves of garlic, 1 red chili (I removed the seeds, but I’m sure some people prefer to use them for a bit more bite), and half a large leek. I chopped the basil and marjoram leaves (I usually leave the thinner stalks as well). Then I halved the grape tomatoes.

In a large pan over medium heat, I placed a bit of olive oil and fried the garlic, chili, leeks, basil, marjoram and tomatoes. I added some white wine (about 2/3 of a glass) and the juice of one lime. I let it simmer for a couple of minutes, then added the shrimp and cooked it all for about 5 minutes. I didn’t add salt to the sauce because I’d cooked the pasta in very salty water, but I think some people might need an extra pinch of salt.

Toss the pasta with the sauce and you’re done!

“Chaos is coming, old son. It’s taken a long time, but it’s finally here.”

In a previous post we talked about secrets and the little lies we tell ourselves. I can only imagine how it felt like to be Olivier right then. He had so many secrets and lies… but he had questions, too. He knew the Hermit and he knew he’d been killed. But he wasn’t the murderer and he wasn’t the one who placed him in the bistro. On the other hand, he had so many of the answers that were crucial to the investigation and he wasn’t willing to share his information because it would compromise his secrets. He shared many of their questions, too…

“People lied all the time in murder investigations. If the first victim of war was the truth, some of the first victims of a murder investigation were people’s lies. The lies they told themselves, the lies they told each other. The little lies that allowed them to get out of bed on cold, dark mornings. Gamache and his team hunted the lies down and exposed them. Until all the small tales told to ease everyday lives disappeared. And people were left naked. The trick was distinguishing the important fibs from the rest. This one appeared tiny. In which case, why bother lying at all?”

This paragraph is the core of this book, in my opinion. Lies were exposed. Olivier was left naked and vulnerable. But the main question, for all of us, is “why bother lying at all”?

I wonder how frequently our little lies are an attempt to make us look better – even if the only ones judging are ourselves. Frequently they are reinterpretation of motivation and significance, not of facts. They are tiny lies when it comes to the facts of a murder investigation, but they might be crucial when it comes to our understanding of ourselves.

All quotes from The Brutal Telling. Page 33 in the paperback edition.

A Dinner of Interactions - Fettuccine with Basil, Tomatoes, and Brie

by Amy

“What does that piece of wood mean?” Gamache asked his team as they ate.“Well, it was just about the only thing in the cabin that wasn’t an antique,” said Lacoste. “And what with the whittling tools I’m guessing he made it himself.”
Gamache nodded. It was his guess as well.”
[…]
“Why would someone carve that for himself?” Gamache put down his knife and fork. “And you found nothing else in the cabin that looked as though it had been whittled?” (The Brutal Telling)

I love watching Gamache and his team interact. I love how they share the evidence that they’ve uncovered and then they speculate, interpret, and add to each other’s ideas. They seem to talk their way towards conclusions.

They all feel free to share ideas – even when they turn out to be far-fetched ones like going to the Charlotte Islands. Sometimes they fill in the gaps in the other’s line of thought with evidence that supports it. Sometimes they question a conjecture and will add their own reasoning and why they disagree. As a team, they complement each other.

These conversations might be a writer’s strategy to give us, the reader, important information regarding the mystery itself. Usually we move forward in the investigation by “listening in” on the team’s conversations as well as their interviews with suspects and witnesses. Louise Penny has mastered the craft. The conversations don’t read like information dump. You don’t have people monologuing about their findings. Even in these conversations, which could be a plot-advancing strategy, we are given a wealth of feeling and deep interactions.

“He liked the food, but what he mostly loved were the conversations with the Chief. Just the two of them.” (A Trick of the Light)

We can all empathize with Beauvoir here. That’s what this blog is all about, in fact. We all love the food. The mention of their menus frequently has me salivating (except for Beauvoir's meals in the earlier books – I’m not much of a meat eater). But what we really love most are the conversations interactions between the characters. The menu is less important than the company. Or is it just me (and Beauvoir)?

Some people think out loud. Others need time to process their ideas alone, and then they share them. Some people can easily switch from one train of thought to another and can go back and forth between ideas and contradict themselves and question themselves and easily incorporate other people’s ideas. Others have to follow a straight line and need time to digest and ponder over new lines of thought before they are ready to modify their own.

Gamache not only allows himself to use both strategies, he also encourages other to use either or both. Time and again he takes long walks after an interview with a suspect. I believe he uses that time to silently gather his thoughts. He organizes his ideas, but he doesn’t cement them. He values interactions with his team and is open to reordering his initial conclusions. I believe he asks his agents the questions he has asked himself already. He listens to their answers and adds their thoughts and impressions to his own. It is in this interaction that he gains a broader view. He is a better Chief and investigator because he is willing to listen. I think that's one of the things that makes Lacoste a good successor - she's a bit like Gamache that way. (Although  I think Beauvoir, in his own way, would have been just as great.)

On a tangent here, I'm kind of glad Gamache as the chief (and Louise Penny, as the author) had such a solid reason not to have Jean-Guy as the next chief. Beauvoir is still kind of growing up as a character. It's the growing up that makes him interesting... and I like that there's still so much that could happen to him! So many roads he could follow. That kind of potential is attractive in a character (in real people, too).

“It struck Gamache like a ton of bricks. Why hadn’t he thought of that? He’d been so overwhelmed by what was there, he’d never even considered what might be missing.”

I know exactly how he feels! Time and again someone will say something and I think, “WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THAT?” Of course, once it’s been pointed out, it seems so obvious!

Isn't it great how one comment prompts another? This is true not only of this scene. It’s not really an argument or a discussion. It’s more like they’re trying to find a path and it is in their wording and working through their impressions – out loud, sharing – that they slowly find their way together.

I understand Gamache’s need for alone time because I, too, need time by myself (preferably in silence, which is why running or walking is a good option) to process and organize thoughts. Once I do, they’re still kind of spread out and confusing even to me. It is in trying to verbalize them that I am able to actually explain things to myself.

There are few things I enjoy more than talking to someone who contributes to the process. I value the colleagues and friends that are able and willing to converse like this. Professionally, it is a blessing to have people to “think out loud” with. Frequently it is in interacting with other professionals, particularly those with different backgrounds, that we reach a better understanding of a patient’s needs. And in any role - personal or professional - it is always enriching to broaden my ideas through contrasting and complementing my perceptions with other points of view.

Books can play a role in this. In my life, at least, they do. Like I said in the Myrna post, I believe in the magic and therapeutic power in books and stories. However, there is a different (not better or worse) power in the interaction between people.

A friend told me recently that one of his two criteria for finding a life partner is “good conversation”. I think he has a point.

“The main courses had arrived. A fruit-stuffed Rock Cornish game hen, done on the spit, for Gamache; melted Brie, fresh tomato and basil fettuccine for Lacoste; and a lamb and prune tagine for Beauvoir.”

Lacoste and I make similar food choices. Sometimes it's the same choice because she is choosing a lighter meal (although there have been a few times where she’s drooled over Gamache’s dish while eating a salad). Usually because it is truly the one that most agrees with my own taste buds. This is one of those times. It didn't hurt that it was also the easiest of the three to make.

Versions of this meal are a staple in my home. Pasta is usually quick to put together and pleases most people. I have two versions here. One is the way I usually make it (the spaghetti pictures) and the other is from allrecipes.com. I think I like my own version better – it’s less oily and I prefer the brie on the side. But then, the reheated left-overs of the allrecipes version tasted awesome. I think it has to do with it absorbing the tastes longer. I'll have to keep making them to reach a decision...

This is one of the recipes: http://allrecipes.com/recipe/11932/fettuccini-with-basil-and-brie/. If I were to make it again, I’d keep the brie, but I’d probably use grape tomatoes and leave in the seeds. I’d also use half the amount of olive oil they recommended.  I did enjoy the touch of red wine vinegar. 

My own version involves chopping fresh basil and halving grape tomatoes. I cook the pasta (whichever one I have in the house) and once it’s cooked, I drain it. In a large pan I add a few tablespoons of olive oil and throw in the tomatoes and the basil and usually a squeeze of lemon juice (a couple of tablespoons, probably). Then I add the pasta. If necessary I add a bit more olive oil. I don’t like it too oily which is probably why I didn’t enjoy the other recipe as much. I sometimes add garlic and fry it a bit in the olive oil. Usually not. I prefer the lemon taste. I usually add some cheese. Sometimes on the side, sometimes mixed in. Usually Parmesan.

Which of the three main courses would be your choice if you were at Olivier’s Bistro?

In your line of work is conversation and interaction and important tool for problem solving?

Hanna's Cookies & Second Impressions

by Amy

“[Hanna] placed a cup of tea in front of Agent Lacoste. A white plate piled with cookies was also put on the spotless table.

Lacoste thanked her and took one. It was soft and warm and tasted of raisin and oatmeal, with a hint of brown sugar and cinnamon. It tasted of home.”

I think I misread this scene the first time around. I didn’t pay attention to the word “oatmeal”. I got caught up in the brown sugar and cinnamon and the taste of home. Somehow, in my mind, I pictured my favorite homemade cookies:  Pumpkin Chocolate Chips. They smell and taste like home to me. So I seem to have read it like this:

Amy thanked her and took one. It was soft and warm and tasted of pumpkin and chocolate, with a hint of brown sugar and cinnamon. It tasted of home.

I think I literally tasted the pumpkin cookies when I was reading. I’d already baked, eaten, and pondered on what I was going to write in the post before I wrote out the quote and realized that I’d made the “wrong” ones! I do love oatmeal cookies, but I usually add chocolate chips as well as (or instead of) raisins. I even have my favorite oatmeal cookie recipe which is perfect because it’s one of those “pour everything into a bowl, mix, and bake for 10 minutes” recipes. Don’t you love those?

I hope you’ll forgive my creative license. Or should I call it absurdly deviated interpretation of the text?

I think these cookies are startling because of their contrast to Lacoste’s impression of sterile angularity. The house didn’t, at first glance, look like a home. Hanna Parra's warm smile (and warm cookies), Roar’s contained temper, and Havoc’s charm prove that it is, in fact, more than concrete and glass. It is a place full of passion and emotions where this family feels comfortable and at home. While the building may be intimidating, I think the cookies are proof that first impressions aren't always right.

“Lacoste got out of the car and stared, amazed. Facing her was a block of concrete and glass. It seemed so out of place, like finding a tent pitched on Fifth Avenue. It didn’t belong. As she walked toward it she realized something else. The house intimidated her and she wondered why. Her own tastes ran to traditional but not stuffy. She loved exposed brick and beams, but hated clutter, though she’d given up all semblance of being a house-proud after the kids came. These days it was a triumph if she walked across a room and didn’t step on something that squeaked.

This place was certainly a triumph. But was it a home?”

It’s foreign. It’s different. It’s alien and out of place. It’s strange and, sometimes, difficult to read.

The house doesn’t blend into its surrounding. It’s not that the architecture is aggressive. It seems out of place, but the agents later come to understand that it was built as a huge window to best contemplate and appreciate the place this family had chosen to settle down in. It is, in fact, a testament to the fact that they appreciate their surroundings to the extent that they built a home that would showcase its beauty.

This scene, to me, is a lesson in first impressions. Lacoste is one of the most open and tolerant characters in the books. She’s thoughtful and doesn’t usually make rash judgments. If it were Beauvoir, we might expect him to be somewhat prejudiced and even derisive – he frequently is towards the Canadian Anglos - the Czech are probably beyond his comfort zone (Hanna Parra even accuses him of profiling in a later conversation although that wasn’t his intention).  As a younger man he sometimes seemed to perceive himself as superior to others – in particular those who were different from himself. I think it's a sign of his deep rooted insecurity. He matured – the hard way – and has become a very different man. But we’ll get back to Beauvoir some other time. This scene is about Lacoste.

“The door was opened by a robust middle-aged woman who spoke very good, though perhaps slightly precise, French. Lascoste was surprised and realized she’d been expecting angular people to live in this angular house.

“Madame Parra?” Agent Lacoste held up her identification. The woman nodded, smiled warmly and stepped back for them to enter.

“Entrez. It’s about what happened at Olivier’s,” said Hanna Parra.

“Oui,” Lacoste bent to take off her muddy boots. It always seemed so awkward and undignified. The world famous homicide team of the Sûreté du Québec interviewing suspects in their stockinged feet.

Madame Parra didn’t tell her not to. But she did give her slippers from a wooden box by the door, jumbled full of old footwear. Again, this surprised Lacoste, who’d expected everything to be neat and tidy. And rigid.”

Lacoste perceives differences and feels intimidated. She compares this triumph of a house with her own messy, loving home. She wonders at what kind of people would choose to live in a place like this and expects them to be angular, rigid, unbending.

The beauty in Lacoste’s character is that she’s always willing to rethink her perceptions. It takes very little for her to reassess her initial ideas and question her first impressions. Very very little. A smile, slippers, tea, and a cookie. She is able to overlook appearances – represented by the house – and see these people for who they are. Or at least to permit herself to be surprised.

“She noticed the teacup had a smiling and waving snowman in a red suit. Bonhomme Carnaval. A character from the annual Quebec City winter carnival. She took a sip. It was strong and sweet.

Like Hanna herself, Lacoste suspected.”

What I love most about this scene is that Louise Penny reminds us of the kind of people it takes to create a diverse community or a heterogeneous group of friends. In a small town like Three Pines, everyone is an outsider and a foreigner until they are welcomed. Three Pines is composed of a wonderful assortment of people. They embrace odd and strange and colorful and secretive and loud and thoughtful and hurt and helpful. The Parras may be more foreign, in a traditional sense, than the Gilberts, for instance. But, to Three Pines, the Parras have already become part of the patchwork that makes up their community.

In a later scene this is explained by Gabri. When he goes to apologize to the Gilberts he also justifies the town’s behavior towards them by making it clear that there is room for diversity and for newcomers, but not for competition and division. The town is wary of the Gilberts (initially), just as they were of CC Poitiers. There is acceptance of all sorts of people. The town is less tolerant of those who undermine or underestimate their own.

I can certainly empathize with the Parras (having frequently been an outsider and a foreigner in various places throughout my life), and I am grateful for all of the Lacostes and Gabris and Claras – and even Ruths - I’ve encountered. They have made me feel welcome.

I hope I, like Lacoste, do the same to those who choose to join us. The new child in my son’s class. The neighbor who moved in upstairs. The new colleague who joins our team at the hospital… And also the “odd” friends who have different tastes in architecture, music, fashion, politics, and books… but who challenge me because they remind me that odd is a subjective quality.

And last, but not least, there’s Havoc. 

One of my absolute favorite bits of Louise Penny’s writing (it makes me smile every time) is Lacoste’s inner dialogue when she meets Havoc.

After a few more yells a short, stocky young man appeared. His face was flushed from hard work and his curly dark hair was tousled. He smiled and Lacoste knew the other waiters at the bistro hadn’t stood a chance with the girls. This boy would take them all. He also stole a sliver of her heart, and she quickly did the figures. She was twenty-eight, he was twenty-one. In twenty-five years that wouldn’t matter so much, although her husband and children might disagree.

Isn’t that brilliant?! I love how Louise pens it. I’m assuming I’m not the only one who can relate to Lacoste’s losing a sliver of her heart. Of course, real-life people have to compete with fictional characters who frequently take over entire chunks of my heart. Beauvoir is one of them, my the way.

I haven’t forgotten the pumpkin chocolate chip cookies. I said they taste like home. And by home, I mean here. My home away from home. A little town we’ve frequently vacationed in and that bears some resemblance to Three Pines in its mountains and size and isolation and delicious bread from a café down the street. I first ate these cookies here and whenever I make them in my real home (often enough) I am transported to this place and these mountains and the trails I run here to make up for the cookies I inevitably eat too many of.

Chewy Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Cookies

Ingredients:

½ cup butter

¾ cup brown sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

6 TBS pumpkin puree

1 and ½ cups flour

¼ spoon salt

½ tea spoon baking powder

1 ½ teaspoon cinnamon

½ teaspoon nutmeg

½ teaspoon ginger

½ cup dark mint chocolate chips

Almond slices (optional)

Cashew nuts (optional)
Raisins (optional)

Blend melted butter and sugar. Add vanilla and pumpkin.

Mix dry ingredients.

Add wet to dry ingredients and mix well. Add chocolate.

Leave in refrigerator for at least 30 minutes – at this point I sometimes freeze the dough.

Bake at 350oF for 10 minutes. You want to pull them out of the oven when they’re still soft and look almost undercooked. That way they’re chewy. Perfection!

Chicken Pesto Sandwich and Letting Go

by Amy

“Hungry?” Gamache opened the door to the old train station and held out the brown paper bag.

“Starving, merci.” Beauvoir almost ran over, and taking the bag he pulled out a thick sandwich of chicken, Brie and pesto. There was also a Coke and patisserie.”

Years ago, when I first started dating my husband, I gave him a picture book. It was written by a Brazilian author and educator: Rubem Alves. It told the story of a little girl and her beautiful multicolored bird. The bird traveled all over the world and, every time he came home, his plumage would have the colors of the last place he’d visited. He spent hours with the little girl telling her stories of the places he’d been and the people he’d met.

The little girl loved her bird and his fascinating stories and yearned for his return whenever he flew away. One day she had a brilliant idea. She decided to build him a lavish golden cage. It was the most beautiful cage in the world and she was excited for his return because she knew he’d be happy in that cage, and she would be happy because he would always be with her and tell her stories.

The bird came home. He saw the cage. He loved the little girl and didn’t want to disappoint her. He stepped into the cage and did his best to keep her company, but when he lost the freedom to fly, he also lost the source of his entertaining stories. Without his travels, his feathers lost their reflected colors and became gray and lifeless.

I’m not sure what my husband – who was then a 20 year old in his first real relationship – thought I was trying to tell him. He did tell me - a few years into the relationship - not to mourn if he died doing something he loved. He enjoyed some risky sports at the time. I laughed and said he couldn't tell me not to mourn. I would keep in mind that he'd died happy... and that might be of some comfort. He is a lot like the bird, I think… In our twenty years together I have never tried to put him in a cage. Although, unlike the bird, I doubt he’d meekly comply and willingly lock himself in.

This is not an anti-marriage or anti-fidelity manifesto. That’s not what the story is about. The story was written for parents and children, originally, and speaks of the impulse we have, when we love someone, to keep them sheltered and safe and as close to us as possible. As parents we want to shield our children. As spouses, our reflex is to want to protect our loved one. Isn’t that what Madame Gamache knows so well and Annie is beginning to understand?

“Inspector Beauvoir finished his lunch and went to direct the setup of the Incident Room. Agent Lacoste left to conduct interviews. A part of Gamache always hated to see his team members go off. He warned them time and again not to forget what they were doing, and who they were looking for. A killer.”

The Chief, like most everyone, is both protected and protector. Beauvoir is probably the one who most watches out for him; he’s almost a mother hen at times – although I doubt he’d appreciate the comparison. Gamache's protectiveness carries the weight of leadership as well. It’s not an easy burden at the best of times and, in Gamache’s case, when the dangers are quite real and can easily boil down to life and  death, it’s especially fearsome.

“The Chief Inspector had lost one agent, years ago, to a murderer. He was damned if he was going to lose another. But he couldn’t protect them all, all the time. Like Annie, he finally had to let them go.”

He not only couldn’t protect them all, all the time, usually he can’t really protect them at all. This paragraph is foreshadowing. It proves he’s always known it’s a Herculean task. It doesn’t mean he excuses himself from the responsibility. Nor does it mean he forgives himself for the loss.

I know how he feels. I can empathize, as a mother, with the desire to keep a child safe and sheltered and away from all harm. I understand the angst of being aware of the dangers in the world and knowing, with devastating certainty, that even if I were to be with my son every minute of every day, I would not be enough to shield him from the minor, much less the great perils of life.

I think we all can empathize.

“It was clear as Chief Inspector he had to consider everyone a suspect. But it was also clear he wasn’t happy about it.”

This phrase says a lot about Gamache's character. While he is undoubtedly aware of evil and danger, he doesn’t dwell in it. While he recognizes that everyone is a potential suspect, he would prefer to view them all as potential friends.

At first glance, his predicament is very different from our own. Unlike Gamache, we are not required to consider everyone a suspect… Are we? I was shaken to discover that his unhappiness in having to suspect his fellow man wasn’t as alien a feeling as I’d first thought.

Walking alone in the evening in my city, I tend to see men as threats before I’d consider them friendly. If I stop at a street light and someone walks towards my car, I not only keep my windows up and doors locked, I tend to avoid eye contact. We teach our children not to talk to strangers (although my own son hasn’t been as indoctrinated as I was as a child – I probably err on the side of the pendulum that assumes people are nice and not potential kidnappers). But still. It’s a sobering thought.

It is in this world, full of peril and evil and danger that we must be prepared to let our loved ones go. I think the only way to do this (and not lose my mind) is to acknowledge that while there are risks, there is much more wonder. It’s worth it.

Life was not meant to be lived within a safety bubble. Letting go may feel frightening at times but, like the bird in the story, we should not deprive those we love of the wonder that is in the world. Like Gamache, we can recognize danger, but choose not to dwell on it. We can dwell, instead, on grace and beauty and love and goodness and hope.

Three Pines is a beacon of hope (even if it does appear to have the highest rate of murder per capita in the fictional world). Louise Penny wrote books in which light pours in through the cracks, goodness prevails and characters find grace and hope and resilience in trying and horrendous situations.

May we all, like Gamache, let our loved ones go… even as we keep an eye on them and do our utmost to ensure their safety without caging them. And may we all remember that while there is danger and evil in this world, there is grace. And hope. And goodness. And love.

On the homepage of her website,  Louise Penny says just that. And I quote:

“My books are about terror. That brooding terror curled deep down inside us. But more than that, more than murder, more than all the rancid emotions and actions, my books are about goodness. And kindness. About choices. About friendship and belonging. And love. Enduring love. If you take only one thing away from any of my books I’d like it to be this:

Goodness exists.”

She’s right. And, reading her books, it isn’t hard to acquiesce to her request.

Full Breakfast and Awkward Interactions

By Amy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But you’d find me, wouldn’ you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you’re from the Charlottes?”

“I’m from Haida Gwaii,” she said.

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

“Raven.”

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

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

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

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

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