Shepherd's Pie & Keeping Grief Company

by Amy

“Clara had put the shepherd’s pie and apple crisp in the fridge. They’d been her own comfort food, after Peter had gone. She’d followed the casseroles back to sanity. Thanks to the kindness of neighbors who kept baking them, and kept bringing them. And who’d kept her company.

And now it was Clara’s turn to return the comfort and the casseroles and the company.”

Keeping company to someone in pain or grief or discomfort isn’t easy.

Empathic listening demands a willingness to put yourself in someone else’s shoes. Some of us are more talented at it than others. It takes sensibility, I think. A good imagination helps. And there’s that elusive ability: a knack for extrapolating feelings from experiences you’ve had and applying them to a new context.

I’ve always thought that that is what good actors did. Maybe good writers, too. They don’t have to have lived the exact situation that a character they’re playing or portraying does. They do have to dig into their own emotional history and repertoire to empathize and represent the character they are giving voice to.

The same skill is necessary in order to be a good listener, an understanding friend, a counselor, a psychologist…

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” Clara said, cradling the dishes. “But I know how much energy it takes to get out of bed in the morning, never mind shop and cook. There’re a couple bags of groceries in the trunk. They’re from Monsieur Béliveau. And Sarah sent some croissants and baguettes from her boulangerie. She says you can freeze them. I wouldn’t know. They never last that long in my house.

Clara saw a hint of a genuine smile. And with it a slight relief, a loosening of the tight bands holding Evie Lepage in, and the world out.”

I know.

Clara wasn’t relying only on imagination in order to understand Evie’s feelings. She knew. She had recently been in very similar circumstances. Clara thought she was welcome in the Lapage’s home because she had suffered a loss of her own. She thought she understood because they were in the same boat, so to speak.

“How’re you doing?”“It feels like my bones are dissolving,” said Evelyn. And Clara nodded. She knew that feeling.”[…]“Al won’t come in here,” she explained. “I have to keep the door closed. He doesn’t want to see anything to do with Laurent. But I come up, when he’s outside.”She swung the door open and stepped inside. The bed was as Laurent had left it, unmade. And his clothes were scattered about, where he’d tossed them.The two women sat side by side on Laurent’s bed.The old farmhouse creaked and groaned, as though the whole home was in mourning, trying to settle around the gaping hole in its foundation.“I’m afraid,” said Evie, at last.“Tell me,” said Clara. She didn’t ask, “Of what?” Clara knew what she was afraid of. And she knew the only reason Evelyn had allowed her past the threshold wasn’t because of the casseroles she carried in her arms, but because of something else Clara carried. The hole in her own heart.Clara knew.

We talked before of Clara’s willingness to confront her own brokenness and her cracks (HERE). Her strength and her talent for seeing into people’s souls lies in her courage in facing and admitting her own vulnerability.

I think that is the true reason why Evie opened up to Clara.

Loss, heart-wrenching grief, sorrow, and a gaping hole where her heart was all made it easier for Clara to understand. It wasn’t the only determining factor, though. There are those who go through grief and still do not know how to reach out to others who suffer similar pain. There are those who turn their sorrow into bitterness and self-centeredness and cannot see that everyone in the world has a burden of their own and that maybe, just maybe, in sharing, we can lighten each other’s load.

Clara has a talent for seeing others. She hears the unsaid and reads between the lines.

I think Evie let her in because she was willing to say, “Tell me”.

That attitude explains why Clara had let Myrna, Gabri, Olivier, the Gamache’s in her own home when dealing with her own grief.

Maybe, if Clara had walked in, know-it-all attitude, telling Evie what to expect and how to grieve and what to do, Evie wouldn’t have been as comfortable to share.

Maybe, if Clara had interrupted Al’s solitary vigil in the backyard, forced him to confront Laurent’s room… Maybe she would have been kicked out.

Maybe, if Clara had expressed, in so many words that she knew exactly how they felt, Evie would have felt judged, labeled, and unheard.

Clara didn’t do any of those things.

She knew grief, yes. But she also knew people.

“I’m afraid it won’t stop, and all my bones will disappear and one day I’ll just dissolve. I won’t be able to stand up anymore, or move.” She looked into Clara’s eyes. Clung to Clara’s eyes. “Mostly I’m afraid that it won’t matter. Because I have nowhere to go, and nothing to do. No need of bones.”

And Clara knew then that as great as her own grief was, nothing could compare to this hollow woman and her hollow home.

And because she listened, she understood. She understood that while she could empathize and very likely understand much of what Evie was feeling, Evie’s pain was her own.

There wasn’t just a wound where Laurent had once been. This was a vacuum, into which everything tumbled. A great gaping black hole that sucked all the light, all the matter, all that mattered, into it.

Clara, who knew grief, was suddenly frightened herself. By the magnitude of this woman’s loss.

They sat on Laurent’s bed in silence, except for the moaning house.”

When confronted with another person’s pain, we can, at most empathize and keep them company. We can listen, give them room to vent, and assure them that they are loved and not alone. We can pray for them, encourage them, respect them.

“Tell me about him.” Clara walked back to the bed and sat beside Evie.

And she did. Abruptly, in staccato sentences at first. Until in dibs and dabs and longer strokes, a portrait appeared. Of an unexpected baby, who became an unexpected little boy. Who always did and said the unexpected.”

And we can listen to their story. The sorrow and the joy.

Clara knew that grief took a terrible toll. It was paid at every birthday, every holiday, each Christmas. It was paid when glimpsing the familiar handwriting, or a hat, or a balled-up sock. Or hearing a creak that could have been, should have been, a footstep. Grief took its toll each morning, each evening, every noon hour as those who were left behind struggled forward.

Clara wasn’t sure how she’d have managed if the grief of losing Peter was accompanied not by shepherd’s pie and apple crisp, but by accusations. Not by kindness but by finger-pointing. Not by company and embraces and patience, but by whispers and turned backs.

[…]

“We thought they were friends.”

“You have friends. Lots of them. And we’re defending you,” said Clara.

It was true. But it was possible they could have done a better job. And Clara realized, with some shock, that part of her wondered if the gossip wasn’t perhaps, maybe, just a little… true.

And we can offer them our loyalty and support.

Our friendship.

We can keep in mind that we might not be the person that is chosen to listen to their pain or to share their thoughts. Sometimes they aren’t ready and sometimes we aren't the right person (remember this post? Omelettes & Do you want to talk about it?)

Prayers, support, loyalty, and friendship are always (er… usually) welcome, though.

Shepherd’s Pie

I steered away from this one. I didn’t really know what shepherd’s pie was, but I do know when I first looked it up (about a year ago when we first started blogging) I just saw “meat” and wasn’t interested. Also, pies made me think of crust and of sweet pies (which my husband loves) and I ended up getting side tracked.

It keeps popping up in the books as comfort food. Or “practical” food. You know the kind? The kind of food that’s basically ready and doesn’t need much work or timing once it’s prepped. So you can have it handy to heat up whenever needed. Olivier & Gabri have left it behind more than once. They’ve mentioned to Gamache (or was it Jean-Guy?) that there’s shepherd’s pie in the kitchen (as they walked out of the B&B on their way to a potluck at the Morrow’s).

This week, in trying to figure my schedule out (haven’t managed yet) and trying to find some order in the chaos of little endless tasks that must get done (little success there as well), I started looking for meals that could be prepped ahead of time and/or frozen. To try to make life easier. It doesn’t help that none of us quite like to eat anything even remotely similar. We do find common ground, but we’re all happiest eating “our own way”.

In the midst of freezer friendly ideas, the one that stood out was Shepherd’s Pie. Who would have thought. I made a big batch based on Donna Hay's Shepherd's Pie. It’s a big recipe, so I put it in different sized dishes and froze most of them. I made a tiny one (heavy on the potato topping) and the rest I made in meal-sized dishes and froze. It was lovely to see the freezer filled with four potential main dishes for future dinners. Yey!

My recipe had slightly less meat, way more milk in the potatoes, a bit more of cheese on top, and no mixer, so the potatoes were a bit lumpier (fork and arm strength aren’t the same as a mixer).

All in all, I’d consider it a success.

Unless otherwise stated, all quotes are from Louise Penny's NATURE OF THE BEAST

On fresh bread & being a good audience

By Amy

“They walked slowly the length of the buffet. Octopus balls, crab cakes, halibut. Potato salad; fresh bread, still warm. Juices and water. No alcohol.”

A few months ago Libby cooked and blogged about the feast. She’s so much braver than I am. When we first wrote out the list of meals for this project and I saw “octopus balls” I was so intimidated I thought of just leaving this on the “maybe someday” list of meals or hoping Libby would pick it so I wouldn’t have to. But then, the other day, I was skimming the list in search for the next meal I’d choose and bemoaning the fact that none of the characters ever baked bread (I love making bread). I wanted to post about my new yummy sourdough lemon rolls… That’s when fresh bread kind of popped up at me. Yes! Fresh bread.

I enjoy tasting new things. Bread is one of my alltime favorite things, though.

“Mais, c´est extraordinaire.”“Haw’aa.”Wide, gracious staircases led up to the balconies and at the far end of the room was a stage. Behind it a mural had been painted on the wall.
“That’s a Haida village,” she said, nodding toward it.“Incroyable,” whispered Gamache. The Chief Inspector was often surprised, astonished, by life. But he was rarely dumbfounded. He was now.”

I love how Gamache allows himself to be impressed and astonished. So many people, as they grow, lose the ability to feel childlike wonder. Gamache doesn’t.

“She then introduced him to everyone, one by one. He repeated their names and tried to keep them straight, though he was frankly lost after half a dozen.”

Louise Penny does a good job of keeping Gamache human. He’s courteous and he makes a point of treating people with respect and recognizing their individuality. But he's not perfect or an automaton. I can totally identify with his difficulty with names.

“Over dinner they all talked, but he noticed the Haida elders asked more questions than they answered. They were interested in his work, his life, his family. They asked about Quebec. They were informed and thoughtful. Kind, and guarded.”

I think this is one of the few times where we see Gamache in an environment where people have a similar approach to his own. If we read the description of the Haida elders, it sounds a lot like a description of Gamache himself. He asks more questions than he answers. He’s interested in people and in hearing about their lives, their work, their communities, their loved ones. He asks pertinent questions and he’s informed and thoughtful. He’s kind, and guarded. Maybe less guarded than the Haida elders, but he keeps many things to himself and doesn’t share with everyone. It’s not so much that he’s secretive; but that he’s respectful of the many secrets (of others) he carries in his head.

 “Gamache told them about the murder. The Hermit in the cabin buried deep in the forest. The elders, always attentive, grew even more still as he told them about the man, surrounded by treasure, but alone. A man whose life had been taken, his goods left behind. A man with no name, surrounded by history, but with none himself.”

Maybe it is because they are such good listeners that Gamache becomes talkative. While he is a sounding board for many, we don’t often see him think out loud. He takes walks. He listens to suspects, agents, and friends. He ponders. He’s frequently the one who summarizes and tells a story once the whole story is known. We don’t often see him “monologuing” for long periods of time. He found a respectful audience here. An audience much like he himself usually is. I wonder if, in a way, he recognized that?

“Hard to be both happy and afraid,” said Esther. “But fear can lead to courage.”“And courage can lead to peace,” said a young man in a suit.

Once again, the Haida remind me of Gamache. I think this scene is a bit like I imagine his inner dialogues are like. They listen. They read between the lines. They’re sensitive to tone of voice, unsaid words, and are more interested in the man the hermit was than in the gore of his death. And, like Gamache, they have grace and they have faith and they recognize the power of resilience. “Fear can lead to courage. And courage can lead to peace.”

It reminded Gamache of what the fisherman had written on the wall of the diner in Mutton Bay a few years earlier. He’d looked at Gamache across the room and smiled so fully it had taken the Chief Inspector’s breath away. Then the fisherman had scribbled something on the wall and left. Gamache had gone to the wall, and read:Where there is love there is courage,Where there is courage there is peace,Where there is peace there is God.And when you have God, you have everything.” “Gamache spoke the words, and there was silence in the hall. The Haida were good at silence. And so was Gamache.”

I would like to be really good at silence. That’s one of the things I’d love to be better at. Not “I’m-angrily-holding-words-in” silence. Or “I-couldn’t-care-less” silence. Or “I’ll-listen-to-a-book-or-a-show-or-a-song” silence. I would like to learn how to use silence to listen better. I think silence might help me to better listen to my own thoughts and my own feelings and my own intuition. I think silence, or gaps of silence in a conversation, might give me more of a chance to think about what I’m about to say before I actually burst it out. But, even more importantly: I think silence is crucial to give me time to not only hear what the other has said, but to absorb it, digest it, try to understand it, try to understand their point of view, and go beyond instinctive reaction… before I answer.

I think Gamache is an incredible role model. There are many things to learn from him. I’m close in age to Beauvoir and Lacoste and tend to, like them, read Gamache as a mentor and not so much a contemporary. There are many things to admire (and I’m glad we’ll have so many chances to talk about him). This is one of them.

The Haida are good listeners. They are respectful and empathetic. They are kind. They know the importance – and the power – of silence. And they serve fresh bread. What could be better?

Sourdough Rolls:

This recipe comes from a friend. Her recipe comes from a book. It’s no longer from the book and I have slightly modified the recipe the friend uses. So… here’s “modified” sourdough rolls (based on a sourdough bread recipe).

Ingredients:

2 packages of active dry yeast

1 ¼ cups warm water

1 cup sourdough starter at room temperature (there are recipes on how to start your own)

¼ cup vegetable oil

¼ cup sugar

2 teaspoons salt

2 eggs (slightly beaten)

5 to 6 cups of flour

Melted butter

First combine the yeast and warm water and let stand for 5 minutes.

Combine the yeast mixture, sourdough starter, oil, sugar, salt, eggs and about half the flour in a bowl. 

Gradually add more flour until it’s a soft dough.

Turn the dough onto a floured surface and knead. THIS IS THE BEST PART. I think kneading bread dough is one of the most therapeutic things ever. I love bread. I love making bread, eating bread… 

Knead it until it’s smooth and elastic, then place in a well-greased bowl and let rise 1 to 2 hours or until doubled.

Punch it down, divide in half (I sometimes make a double recipe, so I’d divide it in quarters) and place on floured surface. Roll into a rectangle – or just stretch it with your hands until it’s a rectangle.

You can just roll it up and place it in a loaf-pan, let rise for another hour, then bake.

You can roll it, cut the loaf every 1 ½ inches and bake them as rolls. Or you can make cinnamon rolls (butter and cinnamon) or lemon rolls (my favorite - butter and lemon zest) or sandwich rolls (husband’s favorite - sliced cheese and ham) or cheese rolls (this one is my son’s favorite – butter and parmesan) or maybe even pizza rolls (tomato sauce, cheese and basil)… I think the possibilities are endless.

And then, of course, I have to mention my favorite fresh bread. Mom’s recipe. Part of the fun is that there isn’t really a recipe. It’s a bit like life – you can never repeat a day and you can never eat the same loaf twice. Even if you add the same ingredients (and I never measure, so I don’t know how much of anything), there’s also the heat, the humidity of the day, and other factors you can’t control.

You start with the yeast. It’s one of those liquid yeasts that you “feed” and reproduce so you never run out. It’s not like sourdough starter. My mom gave me the first jar. Every time I only have one jar left, I mix the contents of that one jar of yeast, two jars of warm water, 1 tablespoon of salt, 4 of sugar and 5 of flour. You let it rest for 12 hours, then split it into 3 jars. One you use to make the bread. The other two you refrigerate for the next time you bake bread.

To make the actual bread, you add some kind of fat (cream, butter, oil, olive oil…), some kind of sugar (sugar, brown sugar), and some kind of flour until it reaches a consistency that’s softer than dough. Kind of gooey. You let that rise for 6 to 12 hours. Then you knead it with more flour and add anything else you want (nuts, cacao nibs, chia, etc). You divide it into three loaf pans and let rise for another 3 to 8 hours. Then bake for 40 minutes.

I’ve made it with herbs, with lemon zest, with nuts. With only wholewheat flour, only white flour, a mix of both. I add flax, chia, quinoa, seeds, oats. I add leftovers sometimes… This latest edition has cacao nibs, chia, flax, quinoa flakes, oats, the leftover liquid from a peach preserve, the leftovers of blueberry jam (I just added some water to the jar and shook it so it was jammy water), whole wheat flour, white flour, butter and a pinch of cinammon… It turned out so yummy. Some turn out better than others. Some are so good I try to rack my brain to remember what I put in there (I don’t have a scientific approach to it and usually don’t remember exactly what went into it). Some are just passable. The kneading the dough is therapeutic. Scent of fresh bread is lovely. And I’m sure that by now most of you know that I love eating bread!