Steak Frites & High Standards

by Amy

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

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

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

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

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

Not his presence but his absence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We are also challenged in our humanity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Over the years I have done an archaeology of my own thinking, mainly to attempt an escape from assumptions that would embarrass me if I understood their origins. (When I Was A Child I Read Books – Marilynne Robinson)

Poor Peter.

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

You can’t run from yourself, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steak

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

Frites

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

Son had his very thin, crispy potatoes plain.

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

My husband had his with steak.

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

Salad and a Home Full of Beloved Guests

by Amy

“It had become a sort of tradition, these informal Friday evening barbeques at the Gamache place.”

Don’t you love those?

In these gatherings, friends and family mingle informally. Friends that are like family and the family that comes is the family that counts as the best of friends.

These are the gatherings where people are in and out of the kitchen and an outsider might have a hard time telling, for sure, who the hosts of the “party” are. It’s the kind of get together where the invitation sounds like an afterthought, when it is voiced at all, but everyone feels at home and invited.

This is such a wonderfully written scene. If you’re in a mood for a reread, grab your copy of The Long Way Home and read Chapter 3. Part of the power in the scene resides in the fact that we know these characters, too, and we feel close to them. The magic is that we are part of the scene. We, too, are invited into the Gamache’s home and are privy to these wonderful interactions.

Part of why I love this scene is because I can relate. I like having people over, but am not the kind of hostess who sets a beautiful fancy table with amazing dishes. I tend to be the kind of hostess who adopts guests and soon treats them like family. They are spoiled – when I can spoil them – and left to their own devices when I cannot.

I have said before that I can very much relate to Reine-Marie as a character. I see similarities to myself – although I wish I had all her wisdom and grace as well. She is just my kind of hostess. Always willing to add one more plate to the table or make an extra bed for a guest; but also perfectly content to be served at the bistro or enjoy someone else’s hospitality.

One of the joys in this scene is that Louise Penny scattered gems all over the scene. The bit where Gamache pretending to want to man the barbeque, although Monsieur Beliveau was more interested and probably more qualified for the job. Gabri flaunting his designer outfit. Ruth’s endearments… and Rosa’s disdain for Henri’s puppy love. Only Louise Penny would find a way to turn dog fart into poetry – and a philosophical reflection on steadfastness and courage.

Ruth and Rosa were now looking at the shepherd with something close to awe. The old poet took a deep breath, the exhaled, turning the toxic gas into poetry.“You forced me to give you poisonous gifts,”  she quoted from her famous work.I can put this no other way.Everything I gave was to get rid of youAs one gives to a beggar: There. Go Away.But Henri, the brave and gaseous shepherd, did not go away. Ruth looked at him in disgust, but offered one withered hand to Henri, to lick.And he did.

One of my own favorite gems, though, is the glimpse into Reine-Marie and Gamache’s marriage:

Reine-Marie moved among their friends, who were scattered around the garden, catching bits of conversations in French, in English, most in a mélange of the two languages.She looked over and saw Armand listening attentively as Vincent Gilbert told a story. It must have been funny, probably self-deprecating, because Armand was smiling. Then he talked, gesturing with his beer as he spoke.When he finished the Gilberts laughed, as did Armand. Then he caught her eye, and his smile broadened.

The intimacy isn’t in doing everything together. They rarely do, in fact. The closeness of their tie lies in their ability to connect, even when they are doing their own work, carrying on a separate conversation, living their own life. They have a rich and incredible relationship where they are both independent and full of life and dreams and plans, and they support each other, but don’t necessarily always walk side by side in every project.

Again, I can relate.

And then there’s Myrna.

“I left a bag of books for you in the living room,” Myrna said to Reine-Marie.

Really?! Isn’t that the best dinner guest EVER? Forget bringing wine or dessert. A bag of curated books?! Perfect.

Which reminds me. Yesterday I mentioned to my husband that although I am not working and still trying to figure out what our new budget is in a new country, I cannot live without buying books. He laughed and said, “I don’t care. If we run out of food we’ll just eat your books.” I think I fell a little bit more in love with him right then.

Myrna poured herself a white wine and noticed the bouquet in the center of the table. Tall, effusive, crammed with blooms and foliage.
Myrna wasn’t sure she should tell Reine-Marie they were mostly weeds. […] She’d been through the flower beds with Armand and Reine-Marie many times, helping to bring order to the tangled mess. She thought she’d been clear about the difference between the flowers and the weeds. Another lesson was in order.“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Reine-Marie said, offering Myrna a morsel of smoked trout on rye.Myrna smiled. City folk.[…]Myrna smiled at the weed centerpiece, still amused. And then she stopped smiling and noticed something. It was really beautiful.

Isn't this scene just sprinkled with inspiring interactions? This week I’d been thinking about how, as a parent, it’s sometimes a challenge to ignore the things that “need to be done” or taught or fixed, in order to allow time for the things that should be done. Things like cloud watching, snuggling, hearing (in detail) the ramblings on Minecraft or Pokemon… And, sometimes, in trying to teach children – or grown friends – the distinction between the flowers and the weeds, we miss the chance to see the beauty in the weeds. Reine-Marie was right. Who cares if they’re weeds? They were beautiful!

I recently had an impromptu dinner party. I wasn`t sure who was coming and when they would get here. There was a broad spectrum in food preferences and palates, but I had a little bit of everything so everyone was happy – I hope. The one thing I made with myself in mind (although there were no leftovers) was the salad.

Bowls of salad were passed around and Sarah gave Monsieur Beliveau the largest of the dinner rolls she’d made that afternoon, while he gave her the tenderest piece of steak. They leaned toward each other, not quite touching.

In this scene, they do eat salad, but we’re not told which kind. I thought that was a perfect opening for me to share my current favorite!

And Louise Penny closes the dinner scene with Henri’s reflections. It’s beautiful and poignant and such a wonderful definition of home and family. Considering that I am in the process of creating a new home here, having friends – like family – crowd in my kitchen and eat salad – among other things – and help build the bonds that make a house a home… This scene was especially apt.

Emilie.The elderly woman who’d found him at the shelter when he was a puppy. Who’d brought him home. Who’d named him and loved him and raised him, until the day she was no longer there and the Gamaches had come and taken him away. He’d spent months searching for her. Sniffing for her scent. Perking up his ears at the sound of every car arriving. Every door opening. Waiting for Emilie to find him again. To rescue him again, and take him home. Until one day he no longer watched. No longer waited. No longer needed rescuing.[…] The balm, he wanted to tell [Rosa] wasn’t anger or fear or isolation. He’d tried those. They hadn’t worked.Finally, into that terrible hole Henri had poured the only thing left. What Emilie had given him.
[…] Until one day the pain and loneliness and sorrow were no longer the biggest thing in his heart.
He still loved Emilie, but now he also loved Armand and Reine-Marie.And they loved him.That was home. He’d found it again.

Sigh.

I am grateful because there are people to love – and be loved by – in so many parts of the world. Because of that, there will always be homes far away from home that will be missed. There will also always be a chance to find home again. And again. And again, if needed.

Chickpea Salad

No secret to it.

1 can of chickpea beans

Grape tomatoes

Shredded carrots

Fresh basil – if you have it

Quartered cucumber or celery slices – I’m sure summer zucchini would be great, too

A few tablespoons of olive oil

A generous squeeze of lemon juice

A sprinkle of chopped parsley

About half a cup of crumbled feta - when I ran out of feta I just added parmesan or cottage cheese

Toss and enjoy.

I’ve made this quite a few times the past few weeks. With slight variations. 

Tomato Sandwiches and @sshole saints

by Amy

Dr. Gilbert poured them glasses of spring water and made sandwiches with tomatoes still warm from his garden.

I wanted to start off by saying that I haven’t read it yet. I just received my copy today and am looking forward to sinking into it this weekend. I think we should have a no spoiler policy for a few weeks (a month or two?) before we begin to talk about the new book. We don’t want to ruin it for anyone, right?

Dr. Vincent Gilbert lived in the heart of the forest. Away from human conflict, but also away from human contact. It was a compromise he was more than happy to make. As was the rest of humanity.[...]“What do you want?” Dr. Gilbert repeated, straightening up and walking toward them.“Drop the act, Vincent,” said Gamache with a laugh. “I know you’re happy to see me.”
“Did you bring me anything?”
Gamache gestured toward Beauvoir, whose eyes widened.“You know I’m a vegetarian,” said Gilbert. “Anything else?”

There’s something liberating about Dr. Gilbert and Ruth. They’re both so obviously assholes, that you always know where you stand. No filter. They’re also both capable of great kindness and insight – when they choose to use it.

I hadn’t noticed this line, “You know I’m a vegetarian”, until just now. I love how we find these brilliant little tidbits in the books. Wonderful humor. Poor Beauvoir. He seems to be targeted by the two assholes in these books. He’s also the recipient of their amazing kindness and gentleness.

Gamache reached into his saddlebags and pulled out a brown paper bag and the map.“Welcome stranger,” said Gilbert. He grabbed the paper bag, opened it, and inhaled the aroma of the croissants.Tossing one precious pastry into the woods, without explanation, he took the rest into his log cabin, followed by Gamache and Beauvoir.

Why did he do that?

I wish we knew.

Is he taming some wild animal? Is it in honor of the hermit’s spirit or something? I wonder.

Some considered Vincent Gilbert a saint. Some, like Beauvoir, considered him an asshole. The residents of Three Pines had compromised and called him the “asshole saint.”“But that doesn’t mean he isn’t still a saint,” Gamache had said. “Most saints were assholes. In fact, if he wasn’t one that would disqualify him completely.”
The Chief had walked away with a smile, knowing he’d completely messed with Beauvoir’s mind.“Asshole,” Beauvoir had hissed.[…]Jean-Guy Beauvoir had seen great kindness in Gilbert, and ruthlessness in Gamache. Neither man, Beauvoir was pretty sure, was a saint.

I think our greatest qualities can also be our worst faults. Most things, in extremes, can be inconvenient, if not outright negative. I think that is one interpretation of what Gamache said.

Just as it is difficult to become great at anything without being slightly fixated on it (to the point of at least relative exclusion of other things), it is hard to be intense at anything without it sometimes backfiring.

Sometimes a good quality, a good characteristic, can become too much… or can be badly used.

I picked my child up from a gym class the other day. A friend was with me. She’s a teacher and we ran into one of her students’ moms. The mom was picking up her younger son who is in the same gym class as my son. She and my friend were talking about her eldest child and how neat and intelligent and well behaved and … all good things in an academic setting. A few minutes later she put an apologetic look on her face and mentioned that her son (a 7-year-old) was the polar opposite. 

She went on to say how he’s in trouble already at school and she’s told people at the school that she wants to “nip it in the bud”. As she was talking about how “unruly” he is, always in a school setting, I couldn’t help but answer.

I smiled and said, “Yeah… well… he’ll have to survive school. But we need people in the world with that kind of energy and creativity and ability to lead and inspire. The hard part in parenting and teaching children like your boy is finding a way to channel all those amazing qualities into good things. He’s probably amazing! He just has to learn how to use it in a good way.”

She looked slightly surprised. Then, “You’re the first person who’s ever said it like that. Usually it’s all bad. Yeah. He’s a good kid.”

It’s not easy to love the assholes. Or the prickly people. Or the tremendously honest. Or the ones with no filter between their brain and their mouth.

It’s not easy to find the good in the messy, maladjusted, unruly, dirty, annoying, non-conformists.

Sometimes, though, it’s worth it.

Sometimes, if you’re lucky (or blessed, I should say), you’ll meet the saint or the genius or the soft hearted, sensitive, brilliant, wonderful person that lives beyond the tough shell.

Or so I tell myself as I continue on my road to learning kindness.

Louise Penny’s books have grace in them.

Vincent Gilbert is redeemed.

Olivier is redeemed.

Beauvoir is redeemed.

Peter is redeemed.

Ruth seems to be on a path to redemption as well (although I hope she doesn’t change too much).

So many asshole saints. And we love them.

Tomato Sandwiches

Who knew?

I had a feeling of déjà vu when reading about tomato sandwiches. It was just like when I prepared to make oatmeal for the oatmeal post. Who knew there was a “right” way to make tomato sandwiches? 

Or that it’s even considered a “thing”. There are purists!

To all the purists out there – especially the “Southern Tomato Sandwich” purist group? Please do not read what I did. I completely blotched the “proper” sandwich.

From what I researched (I find it funny that so much has been written about tomato sandwiches), the “proper” tomato sandwich consist of cheap white bread – preferably the store brand kind, mayo spread on said bread, a thick slice of a big summer-fresh tomato – preferably picked from your own garden, but a farmer’s market tomato will do (store-bought, in this case, is a no-no), and some salt and pepper on the tomato. Period. Nothing else. Anything else will spoil the effect.

So… I can live with white bread. But I LOVE bread. Why does it have to be the kind I don’t care for? Why can’t I have yummy bread? I haven’t yet begun to make my own bread here, but there is a bakery in town that makes good bread. I decided on a fresh sourdough one. It’s white, right?

I never eat mayonnaise. My son won’t touch it. My husband doesn’t care for it. I love this blog, but not enough to buy mayonnaise for a “recipe” I’m pretty sure I would enjoy more if I tweaked it. So I used olive oil. Also… I toasted my bread with the olive oil. So wrong. I know. I read in more than once place that the bread should not be toasted in a tomato sandwich. I decided to be a rule-breaker here.

I don’t have a garden here. But a friend does. I’d gone through all the tomatoes she gave me. But I got a perfect one from the Farmer’s Market in town. So I did a good job with the most important ingredient, I think. I added a sprinkle of pepper, but no salt. It didn’t need the salt.

Doesn’t it look like a summery-fresh meal?

So... what's your version of a tomato sandwich?

Quinoa & Pomegranate Salad and Mentors

by Amy

“And how’s Isabelle doing?” asked Gamache.

“Acting Chief Inspector Lacoste?” asked Beauvoir with a smile. His protégée had taken over as head of homicide for the Sûreté, a job everyone had once assumed would be his on the Chief’s retirement. Though Jean-Guy knew it wasn’t accurate to describe what had happened as a retirement. That made it sound predictable. No one could have predicted the events that had caused the head of homicide to quit the Sûreté and buy a home in a village so small and obscure it didn’t appear on any map.

“Isabelle’s doing fine.”

“You mean Ruth Zardo ‘fine’?” asked Gamache.

“Pretty much. With a little work she’ll get there. She had you as a role model, sir.”

And what a role model.

I read a book in my teens that has stayed with me. Don’t ask me the name or the author. I don’t remember. I was abroad, spending some months with friends, and found a book in English in their (very small and limited) library. The book was about the importance of relationships to keep you motivated and on track in life. It compared life to the Boston Marathon and mentioned the importance of motivation once you reach Heartbreak Hill. Relationships matter. The book goes on to describe five types of people in our lives.

It is a testament to the impact the book had in my life that over than two decades have passed and I still remember what they are (although I don’t remember the precise wording). The positive ones are the mentors, the friends, and the disciples or protégées. There are neutral people who neither applaud nor bring you down. Then there are the ones that drain you. They have a negative impact in your life.

The author distributes these people on a spectrum and turns their presence and influence in your life into a mathematical representation where mentors contribute with +++, friends ++, protégées +, neutrals 0, and drainers with -, --, ---...

Or at least that’s how I remember it.

Gamache is a wonderful role model. He not only sets a good example, but he makes sure to be available. That’s important. Some things can be learned by watching or reading, but it’s important to find the time to learn through interaction with people who know more than we do. The younger and the more inexperienced you are, the easier it is to find people to fulfill this role. As you yourself grow into a mentor, there are fewer and fewer people available to play that role in your own life. They should be cherished.

Sometimes books can act as mentors. We can converse with great thinkers long gone and we can strive to learn from their ideas. We can argue with their logic, and we can learn from their mistakes.

Friends – and even protégées - can sometimes play the role of counselors and supporters and listeners. 

But there is a certain comfort in talking to someone more experienced who knows what you’re going through, who you respect and whose opinion and validation matter. It’s like being able to crawl into a parent’s lap and be held. It makes you feel safe.

“Isabelle Lacoste called Gamache at least once a week, and they met for lunch in Montréal a couple times a month. Always away from Sûreté headquarters. He insisted on that, so he wouldn’t undermine the new Chief Inspector’s authority.” 

Lacoste had questions only the former Chief could answer. Sometimes procedural issues, but often questions that were more complex and human. About uncertainties, about insecurities. About her fears. 

Gamache listened and sometimes talked about his own experiences. Reassuring her that what she felt was natural, and normal, and healthy. He’d felt all those things almost every day of his career. Not that he was a fraud, but that he was afraid.”

Lacoste has Gamache, just as Gamache himself had Émile. When he was Chief he did the same. He visited his own mentor and, in his time of need, his mentor’s home was the safe haven he went to while he regrouped and recovered.

"Gamache stirred his coffee and watched his mentor.

He considered him a great man, one of the few he'd met. Great not in his singularity of purpose, but in his multiplicity. He'd taught his young protégé how to be a homicide investigator, but he'd taught him more besides.

Gamache remembered being shown into Chief Inspector Comeau's office his first week on the job, certain he was about to be fired for some mysterious transgression. Instead the wiry, self-contained man had stared at him for a few seconds then invited him to sit and told him the four sentences that lead to wisdom. He'd said them only once, never repeating them. But once had been enough for Gamache."

One of the things I admire is both these dynamics is that not only are the mentors willing to listen, but their protégés are respectful. It is not unusual for youth (and they say young is 10 years younger than you, right? So I'm not talking about an age group, I'm speaking of relative youth) to ignore, reject, belittle, or ridicule the past and those who lived it. I think both Gamache and Lacoste are wise in that they not only respect, but use their mentors as a foundation on which they build their own practice.

“Agent Cohen started this morning,” said Lacoste, taking a forkful of quinoa, feta, and pomegranate salad. “I called him into the office and told him that there were four statements that lead to wisdom. I said I was only going to recite them once, and he could do with them as he wished.”

Armand Gamache lowered his fork to his plate and listened.

“I don’t know. I was wrong. I’m sorry.” Lacoste recited them slowly, lifting a finger to count them off.

“I need help,” the Chief said, completing the statements. The ones he’d taught young Agent Lacoste many years ago. The ones he’d recited to all his new agents.”

And Lacoste is not only a respectful student, a good colleague, and a protégée who continues to honor and include her own mentor, but she is willing to do the (hard) work of mentoring others.

I was writing the first draft on a Sunday when a patient’s mom called asking me to talk to her little sister because she wasn’t feeling well. They’d just lost their mother to very aggressive leukemia. She died within three days of being first hospitalized. Her youngest daughter, at 11 year of age, was experiencing chest pains and shortness of breath. 

My patients frequently come to my home when there’s an emergency during the weekend or a holiday. So when she asked, I said sure. I’ll be waiting. And I was. My husband and son played a videogame inside and I sat in my living room with this child and listened to her pain.

This beautiful and articulate child asked me the questions everyone asks when faced with insurmountable challenges and pain. If it hurts this much now, will it get worse? Will I ever be happy again? How will I survive the pain? What if I feel so breathless that I can’t stand up? What if I faint?People say she can see me, but how do I know that for sure? She used to say change can be a good thing, but she was the one who helped me handle changes in my life – how will I manage this change without her? What if I can’t do my homework? Who will remind me and tell me to do it even when I don’t feel like it? What if I fail? She used to say she’d be sad if I didn’t do well at school – what if I’m so sad I can’t pay attention? Who will help me choose my wedding dress? What if I wake up in the middle of the night and forget she’s gone and try to find her? Who’s going to tell me jokes to make me laugh when I’m upset? Who’s going to tuck me in and say ‘I love you’? How will I tell my children about her?

We cried together. She told me stories about her mother and she made me laugh. She managed to smile and surprised herself when she realized she still knew how. At one point I asked if she wanted to curl up in my lap. It wasn’t the same, but it was available. She nodded and sobbed while I held her. I couldn’t stop my own tears. I didn't try. I'm used to getting emotional with patients and have learned that it's no use trying to stop myself from shedding a few tears (or a bucket-full) and people usually don't mind.

At one point she said her mother still sometimes cried when she thought of her own mother. I hugged her tighter and said, “So now you know what you’ll sometimes do when you talk about her for the rest of your life, right?” She nodded.

Her chest pains and shortness of breath were gone by the time she left for her mother’s funeral. I cried a little bit more for the little girl who lost her mentor. I cried at the thought of losing my own mother – who’s also one of my best friends. And I cried at the idea of leaving my own son behind when I know he still needs me. Needless to say, I cried while writing this post.

I have said, time and again, that this blog is a form of therapy. This time it was also preparation. I’d been writing right before she came. I’d been thinking of how wonderful it is to have mentors and to have people we look up to. I’d been thinking of how sometimes (and more frequently as we grow older or more experienced in our fields) there are less and less people to fulfill the role of mentor. I was thinking of how important it is to find the time to listen and help those who come to us for advice and help.

When I hugged this little girl and we cried together, we talked about how special her mom was and how she’d already taught her so much. The girl told me what her mother would have said and done if she were there. I repeated back to her what her mother would have said. I did what her mother would have done. It wasn’t her voice. My hug wasn’t the same hug. But, in the end, I told her she was stronger than she thought. And her mother was so real and present and important in her life that she knew exactly how to help me help her. I told her sometimes the people we need to hear are not with us. When that happens, we rely on memories, on stories, and on new sources of wisdom.

I realize not everyone is blessed with wonderful parents. Most of us will never have a professional mentor like Gamache. Maybe, at this point, we should remind ourselves to honor those we still have with us and gratefully remember those who are gone. But, more important still, we should strive to be good, empathetic mentors and to listen and share with those who are willing to learn from our experiences – and our mistakes.

My son and I both love pomegranates. They take very (very, very, very) long to ripen. It takes months to go from a flower to a ripe fruit. The tree is right outside my office window and we’ll both watch them bud and blossom and ripen. We both love to eat it plain.

I confess to feeling a little guilty for not sharing this one with him as he didn’t enjoy the salad. I cooked some quinoa and let it cool off. I then added pomegranate seeds, chopped parsley, a squeeze of lemon juice, a teaspoon of olive oil, a pinch (half a pinch) of salt, and a few nuts pulled out of the homemade granola jar that was on the counter. It was refreshing and delicious. I didn’t have any feta, but I didn’t miss it in the salad.

But then, you know that thing with mentors? When it comes to gardening and cooking, Libby is waaaaaay beyond my skills. A whole other category (probably many categories). When we first thought of making this blog she had ripe pomegranates in her garden (what are the odds? we live around the world from each other and both have pomegranates in their backyards!). She went ahead and made this salad - I think it was one of the first meals she made and photographed. It was one of the meals that's been circling in my head ever since.

Here's her fabulous recipe:

Quinoa, Pomegranate & Feta Salad
by Libby

This late summer/autumn salad, when pomegranates are in season, is all about balancing taste contrasts and interesting textures. Quinoa is a high protein cereal and a good substitute for rice. You can cook it similarly to rice. I cook it in chicken stock for added richness and flavour.

The nutty taste of quinoa works well with the sweet/tart explosion of pomegranate seeds and the rich salty creaminess of the feta. The crunch of fragrant pistachios is an added contrast.   Caramelising some red onion and garlic as a flavour base ensures that the salad won't be bland. This is a dish to taste as you put it together, to check that the balance of flavours is right for you.

1 cup of quinoa

2 cups of chicken stock (or water)

1 red onion, halved and sliced thinly

2 cloves garlic, finely chopped

seeds of 1 pomegranate

300g/10oz of feta cheese, broken into small bite-sized pieces

2/3 cup unsalted pistachios, toasted

3 spring onions, finely sliced

2/3 cup of flat leaf parsley, sliced

extra-virgin olive oil

one lemon, halved

sea salt and cracked black pepper

1.  Bring the chicken stock (or water) to the boil in a medium saucepan. Pour in the quinoa and simmer for about 15 minutes until the germ of the quinoa pops out. Strain and set aside.

2.  Fry the red onion, garlic and a pinch of salt in extra-virgin olive oil in a large heavy-based frypan on a low to medium heat. Add a squeeze of lemon juice.Allow the onion to soften and slowly caramelise. This will give a lovely savoury base note to the salad.

3.  Reduce the heat to low and add the cooked quinoa. Mix thoroughly with the onion and garlic.

4.  Toss through the pistachios, spring onions, parsley and feta cheese.

5.  Generously drizzle with good extra-virgin olive oil and lemon juice. Season with cracked black pepper.

6. Toss through the pomegranate seeds.

Taste and adjust the balance of ingredients to maximise the flavour contrasts. You might, for example, prefer more or less feta cheese, or more lemon for added sharpness.

Serve warm.

I couldn't resist making a 'zingy' drink of freshly squeezed pomegranate juice, grapefruit juice and sparkling mineral water to accompany the salad. 

So there you have it! Two salads!

On Supporting Spouses and Peppermint Tisane

 by Amy

“Reine-Marie had always known this moment would come. From the first box they’d unpacked and the first night they’d spent here. From the first morning she’d woken up next to Armand and not been afraid of what the day might bring.”

“She’d known this day would come. But she’d thought, hoped, prayed they’d have more time.”

This section of THE LONG WAY HOME is a brilliant bit of writing by Louise Penny. She threads her way through three concurrent conversations: Annie and Reine-Marie drinking peppermint tisane on the Gamache’s porch, Jean-Guy and Gamache in the study, and Myrna and Clara (also drinking tisane – peppermint and chamomile) at Clara’s home.  The four women have parallel conversations about the men in their lives. Reine-Marie probably sees a reflection and reminder of her past as an inspector’s wife when she talks to her daughter. Their conversation is about recovery and peace, but there is an unspoken concern that they might live through pain and insecurity again. In the meantime, at the Morrow home, Clara shares her fears with Myrna as they talk about Peter’s unknown fate. Gamache asks Jean-Guy to help him answer Clara's request to find Peter.

I recently planted a garden. I think I’m in love. Who knew?! Like Gamache and Reine-Marie, I’m basically a city girl and had very little idea of how to start a garden. I have my own version of Myrna (a wonderful couple who is generous with their time and their knowledge) giving me hints and helping me decide what and how to plant. It has been a pleasure to watch things grow and to eat from the produce in the backyard.

The mint, in particular, has flourished. I add leaves to juices and have taken to making iced tea as well as adding it to water glasses. Yesterday I’d made myself some peppermint tisane (although I called it tea until I read this book and learned a new word) and had already taken a picture to show the gardeners how successful our enterprise has been. Later the same day, as I was listening to the beginning of The Long Way Home and ran across this scene, I knew it would have to be my next post.

 “Reine-Marie turned in her seat to look at the porch light above the door. What had started as a gentle tapping of mothwings against the bulb had turned into near frantic beating as the moth rammed itself against the hot light on the cool night. It was getting on her nerves.” 

 “Does it hurt? Reine-Marie wondered. The singeing of the wings, the little legs, like threads, landing on the white-hot glass, then pushing away. Does it hurt that the light doesn’t give the moth what it so desperately desires?” 

“She got up and turned the porch light off, and after a few moments the beating of the wings stopped and Reine-Marie returned to her peaceful seat. 

“It was quiet now, and dark. Except for the buttery light from the sitting room window. As the silence grew, Reine-Marie wondered if she’d done the moth a favor. Had she saved its life, but taken away its purpose?” 

“And then the beating started again. Flitting, desperate. Tiny, delicate, insistent. The moth had moved down the porch. Now it was beating against the window of the room where Armand and Jean-Guy sat.” 

“It had found its light. It would never give up. It couldn’t. 

“Reine-Marie got up, watched by her daughter, and turned the porch light back on. It was in the moth’s nature to do what it was doing. And Reine-Marie couldn’t stop it, no matter how much she might want to.”

I have long identified with Reine-Marie.  While there aren't a large number of scenes in which she is present, her presence is felt throughout the entire series. She is an integral part of Gamache; a half of the whole. He is able to be who he is, in part, because of her support. In A RULE AGAINST MURDER we are shown how understanding she is when their anniversary vacation is waylaid by crime. We are privy, time and again, to her hospitality and acceptance of the people Gamache works with and brings into their home. We are told of her worry, indirectly, when Gamache notices the inflection of fear when she tells him to be careful in BURY YOUR DEAD. And, finally, when Annie is placed in a similar situation in THE BEAUTIFUL MYSTERY, the women spend time together and Annie wonders whether the solitary fear is how her mother felt through all those years of saying goodbye to her Inspector husband when he went on his missions. As far as I remember, though, this is the first scene in Madam Gamache’s point of view.

“Much is said about brilliance. Less attention is paid to those who live next to it. Spouses, children, assistants… if anyone thinks of us at all, it’s generally to remark upon how lucky we are to bask in the light of genius…” (Megan Hart in BROKEN)

So many people are curtailed in their expectations and dreams because those who love them don’t quite see or understand them. The two couples, the Gamaches and the Morrows, provide an interesting contrast.

Clara and Peter have a lopsided relationship. It is so evident that even people who don’t know them well – such as the art dealer who wanted to represent Clara – wondered if she would give up her art because of her husband. Peter tries to be supportive. He even realizes his failure to do so. But he doesn’t know how to love her enough nor is he strong enough to allow her the freedom of being herself. It breaks them. We are left to wonder if, in his quest to find his own soul, he found the strength to mend the broken pieces. We learn throughout the series that things are stronger where they are broken. In this case, we aren't given the chance to see that unfold. (Although the romantic optimist in me believes that the "new" Peter we see in the end of THE LONG WAY HOME is, in fact, a different man from the character we'd seen so far).

Clara is, in a way, Peter’s soul. He didn’t really see her. Or, when he did, he only saw what he lacked, what he needed, and how she could (and did) fill the empty places inside of him and save him (to an extent) from himself. While he did have redeeming moments (Earl Grey tea in Still Life and the night he held her in the aftermath of Jane’s death come to mind), he usually wasn’t aware enough of her feelings or altruistic enough to be truly there for her.

In contrast, Reine-Marie is the perfect example of a supporting spouse. She is as crucial to Gamache’s success as are the many spouses and friends and family of great men and women in history. I was recently reading a memoir/tribute by Rebecca Stead called My Life in Middlemarch. I was fascinated by her take on the men in George Eliot’s life:

“Though Spencer later claimed that he had early on encouraged Eliot to write fiction, she did not find her fictional voice until she was loved by someone who saw beyond her capacity for brittle cleverness – in whose company she did not feel the need to be on her emotional guard. Even so, her experience with Spencer informed her understanding. He was part of her education, as Dorothea was part of Lydgate’s education, and as all our loves, realized or otherwise – all our alternative plots – go to make us who we are, and become part of what we make.” (Rebecca Stead in MY LIFE IN MIDDLEMARCH)

Louise Penny herself has said (I’m relying on the internet here, although I’m hoping someday I’ll have the chance to hear her say so in person) the importance of Michael’s support in her writing career. I wonder if we’d have known Gamache-land if it weren’t for Michael, just as I wonder if we’d have a Virginia Woolf without Leonard. Or the Shelley's and their work interaction feeding off each other both for inspiration and for improvement of their craft. Or… it’s a long list to contemplate, there are numerous examples. There are also so many unknown and unsung heros in this arena. 

Neil Gaiman, for instance, in the acknowledgements for one of his books, thanked his wife for her presence throughout the writing process. I think it's one of the best parts of a great book.

"As this book entered its second draft, as I was typing out my handwritten first draft, I would read the day's work to my wife, Amanda, at night in bed, and I learned more about the words I'd written when reading them aloud to her than I ever have learned about anything I've done." (Neil Gaiman in THE OCEAN AT THE END OF THE LANE)

There are, of course, those who flourish and survive despite relationships that try–malignantly or not – to undermine them. Clara’s success is especially remarkable and is probably a testament to the network of friends and community that made up for Peter’s difficulties.

I think, when we read, we are allowed to wear someone else’s skin for a little bit. Or, as Marilynne Robinson put it: “to feel reality on a set of nerves somehow not quite [your] own." (WHEN I WAS A CHILD I READ BOOKS) I can identify, at times, with all the characters, but  Reine-Marie is special to me. I can easily slip into her skin. It feels as familiar as my own. Madame Gamache is frequently in the background and is her husband’s friend, his sounding board, his support, his home. She is the safe harbor he knows awaits him, and the person he connects to in order to recharge.

Reine-Marie and Gamache are a unit, but they know how to function separately. They have their own interests and occupations, but they share a rare bond. And she sees him. She understands him as few others do. He’s a wise man, a great man, a leader. It’s a lonely place to be. He’s also an only child and an orphan. That’s another source of loneliness. He is frequently surrounded by people that he likes, but cannot fully open up to because they are possible suspects or at least indirectly touched by a crime. That’s lonely, too.  And as the series goes on and his involvement in Suritê issues becomes increasingly complicated, he has less people he can trust and a growing number of people to protect. He becomes more and more isolated. She's still right there beside him. She knows how to love the man – not the job or the status or the trappings. But she also understands that those things are a large part of making him who he is.

In Middlemarch there’s a scene that breaks my heart. A young man, full of ambition, fully in love with his profession is told by his wife that she wishes he worked with something else. I think he spends the rest of his life aware that he is misunderstood and not quite appreciated by this woman who doesn’t know him, see him, or understand him enough to fully love him.

“It is the grandest profession in the world, Rosamond,” said Lydgate, gravely. “And to say that you love me without loving the medical man in me, is the same sort of thing as to say that you like eating a peach but don’t like its flavor. Don’t say that again, dear, it pains me.” (George Eliot in MIDDLEMARCH)

Reine-Marie loved the whole of Gamache. Even when it hurt her. Even when it hurt him. She was wise enough – and loved deeply enough – to know that sometimes love hurts and demands certain courage. Annie is just beginning to understand what that means.

“After spending most of her life scanning the horizon for slights and threats, genuine and imagined, she knew the real threat to her happiness came not from the dot in the distance, but from looking for it. Expecting it. Waiting for it. And in some cases, creating it.”

Reine-Marie knew it was in the moth’s nature. She knew that while Gamache had retired, he might never be mistaken for the retired university professor or journalist she’d fantasized he resembled just a few hours earlier. She knew, deep down, that a part of him would always be an investigator, his past was an integral part of who he was and he carried knowledge, memories, and scars that would forever be embedded in his identity. She knew that keeping the porch light on gave her a chance to be a part of the moth’s struggle and a part of its story and recovery.

“There were things I wanted to tell him, but I knew they would hurt him. So I buried them, and let them hurt me.” (Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close – Jonathan Safran Foer)

Unlike Peter with Clara and her art, Reine-Marie is both strong enough and wise enough to love Gamache . It's not easy and, in this book in particular, we are shown how it sometimes costs her to see Armand become increasingly committed to joining Clara's quest. But, ultimately, she is not only accepting of his involvement, but becomes involved herself. She is, as usual, his sounding board and his ear, but she also plays an active part in research. In an earlier scene, Clara quotes Gilead and tells Gamache she prays that Peter will learn to be brave and useful. He could take lessons from Madame Gamache.

 “I’ll pray that you grow up a brave man in a brave country. I will pray you find a way to be useful.” (Marilynne Robinson in GILEAD)

Most of us aren’t faced with spouses or friends who are as brilliant or outstanding in their fields as are Clara Morrow and Armand Gamache. Regardless, I believe that there are few things more romantic or more integral to long-lasting love and friendship than seeing and being seen. There is a special kind of magic involved in understanding the essence of another and encouraging (and sometimes nudging) them to be the truest version of themselves they can be. I’m talking about the kind of love that looks into the soul and applauds authenticity. 

I pray that we all nurture the Reine-Marie in us… and that the Peter Morrow that lives inside of us finds a way to be brave… and useful.

For there’s some would hear my words and think our love flawed and broken. But God will know the slow tread of an old couple’s love for each other, and understand how black shadows make part of its whole.” (Ishiguro Kazuo in THE BURIED GIANT)