Hamburgers & Bad Parenting

by Amy

The child sat at the next picnic table and immediately spilled a Coke in one direction and knocked over the salt shaker in the other. His mother made Number Five take a pinch of salt and toss it over his shoulder. Gamache watched with interest. Peter brought over a platter of hamburgers, slices of barbecued lamb and a pyramid of corn on the cob while Olivier put down a tray of beers and bright pink lemonades.
“For God’s sake, qu’est-ce que tu fais? There’re ants everywhere, and just wait. Wasps’ll come and sting you.”
Mom grabbed the boy’s arm and yanked Number Five to another table, leaving the mess for someone else to clean up.

We’ve all been there. I don’t mean that we’ve all been that mom. I mean we’ve all been the person watching a parent blotch parenting. And we’ve all, at some point, been that kid. We’ve all made a mess at some point in our lives. And I’m pretty sure no one has lived any significant amount of time without ever being smack in the middle of a mess and hearing a scolding. We’ve all been there.

They all watched as Shithead [aka Number Five] took a lick of his Coaticook ice cream, spilled more salt and again shot the Coke can across the table. It skidded over the salt, hit a bump and fell over. 
He started crying. Mom, after soothing him, took a pinch of spilled salt and tossed it over his shoulder. For luck. Gamache thought the only luck Number Five would have would be if his mother made him clean up after himself instead of moving each time he made a mess.

It’s all too common, isn’t it?

I can’t help but think that this might have been Louise Penny’s revenge after watching one parent too many. I wonder if she felt like Gamache, watching with interest and thinking the child should be so lucky as to have someone teach him or her to clean up.

We’ve all been there. Watching the imminent mess and shaking our heads at the one who wasn’t able to prevent it or didn’t fix it once it happened.

She’s a double offender, isn’t she? She not only doesn’t make him clean up his own mess, she doesn’t even set an example by cleaning it herself.

I can empathize with mom. There’s an age where mess follows you around ALL-THE-TIME. I remember packing for a trip once and my mom questioning whether I really needed a clean pair of jeans for each day of the weekend trip. Couldn’t I just have one pair and change tops? Um… no. 

There were always dirty feet bumping into my legs, occasionally a dirty diaper leaking on my lap, and all too frequently sticky handprints everywhere.

It’s tiring to clean up after yourself at any age.

It’s utterly exhausting to teach someone else to clean up after themselves.

It’s oh!-so-very rewarding when they learn to do so.

It is true, though, that teaching someone how to do anything involves the willingness to do it yourself. 

The best teachers are those who set an example. First you show… then you do it together… and then you supervise. If you’ve done your job right as a mentor and the disciple is willing, the expectation is that they will not only do it themselves, but perhaps even do it better.

I kind of feel sorry for the kid in the story. He probably drives people crazy. I mean… Number Five and Shithead aren’t exactly endearing nicknames. It’s not all his fault though, right? The person who’s supposed to be taking the time to educate him into becoming a better person and a more acceptable social being oscillates between pampering and scolding – neither of which seem to be very effective.

Gamache looked over at the first picnic table. Sure enough, ants and wasps swarmed over the sweet puddles of Coke.
“Hamburger, Armand?” Reine-Marie held out the burger, then lowered it. She recognized the look on her husband’s face. He’d seen something. She looked over but saw only an empty picnic table and a few wasps.

But he saw murder.
He saw ants and bees, the statue, the black walnut, Canada Day and its counterpart Saint-Jean-Baptiste. He saw summer jobs and greed and the wickedness that would wait decades to crush Julia Morrow.
And he finally had something to write it that last column.
How.
How a father had walked off his pedestal and crushed his daughter.

Don’t you just love that? The “aha” moment?

Life is full of those – when we care to look. If we pay attention, life gives us opportunities and clues to unlock mysteries and find answers to our questions. Gamache pays attention. He’s always open to listening and learning from his surroundings.

I had a tiny “aha” moment when I realized this scene would be the perfect opportunity to try making my own veggie patties. I had never made them. We don’t frequently eat hamburgers at home. And I rarely eat them anywhere, really. I have had some veggie burgers in the past few years and I enjoyed them.

They were a bit messy to make. If I’m honest, they looked gross in the process. I knew they’d probably taste good because every single ingredient was something I liked and they would have gone well together anyway, so I couldn’t see what could go wrong. But it looked like a mess.

The end result was yummy, though. Very yummy. If you’re not a big meat fan, that is.

In a bit of olive oil I sautéed about two cloves of garlic, 2 tablespoons of chopped onion, 1 tablespoon of chopped olives, and 2 tablespoons of yellow pepper (because that’s what I had, but I’m sure others would work just as well) and let that cool.

In a big bowl I mixed about 1 cup of chickpeas, 1 cup of black beans, 1 cup of oats, 2 tablespoons of breadcrumbs, 1 egg, and lots of spices – what I had at hand and knew I liked. Nothing special. And I’d be hard-pressed to tell you how much of anything, since I was just kind of throwing it in. I have made this again and added varied quantities of similar ingredients with successful results.

I added the sautéed vegetables to the mix and then made the patties. I refrigerated them for a few hours and then I cooked them in a saute pan with a little bit of olive oil.

I’m the worse food blogger EVER. It’s a good thing I’m not really blogging about food, right? This is an unfollowable recipe, I suppose. Not at all precise. Maybe Libby can make some veggie patties and post an actual “followable” recipe some other time.

Since I was probably messing up the original burger idea anyway (I don’t think Reine-Marie or Gamache were eating veggie burgers), I went ahead and used this soft flat bread they sell close to my home that I love and rarely buy, I smeared Djon mustard on the bottom, placed the pattie on top, and added a dollop of ketchup. I had a bit of cottage cheese on the side and some greens.

Chocolate Cake & How the Light Gets In

by Amy

“I brought dessert.” Gabri pointed to a cardboard box on the counter. “Chocolate fudge cake.”

I love Gabri. Who wouldn't?

“Could you show me your studio?” Gamache asked Clara, hoping to get far enough away from the cake to overcome the temptation to put his finger in it. “I realize I’ve never seen your art.”

So far in the series, we hadn’t seen much of Clara’s art either. Not in this depth. And no, I wasn’t as controlled as Gamache. I’m writing while eating (yet another) slice of cake and some Earl Grey tea.  (Shhhh… don’t tell Libby. My tea came from a bag.)

Gamache stood in front of an image of three elderly women, arms entwined, cradling each other. It was an amazingly complex work, with layers of photographs and paintings and even some writing. Em, the woman in the middle, was leaning back precipitously, laughing with abandon, and the other two were supporting her and also laughing. It ached of intimacy, of a private moment caught in women’s lives. It captured their friendship and their dependence on each other. It sang of love and a caring that went beyond pleasant lunches and the remembrance of birthdays. Gamache felt as though he was looking into each of their souls, and the combination of the three was almost too much to bear.

This is the one painting – of all the art described in the books – that I would love to own. It wouldn’t even need to be the original. I’d be happy to own a copy. I’d probably settle for a shot taken with my phone, if I’m honest. I just wish I could see it. I wish I could have this image somewhere nearby.

“I call it The Three Graces,” said Clara.

“Perfect,” Gamache whispered.

“Mother is Faith, Em is Hope and Kaye is Charity. I was tired of seeing the Graces always depicted as beautiful young things. I think wisdom comes with age and life and pain. And knowing what matters.”

This is one of my favorite Clara-quotes. “I think wisdom comes with age and life and pain. And knowing what matters.” Isn’t that brilliant?

“Is it finished? It looks as though there’s space for another.”

That’s very perceptive of you. It is finished, but in each of my works I try to leave a little space, a kind of crack.” 

“Why?” 

“Can you make out the writing on the wall behind them?” She nodded toward her painting. 

Gamache leaned in and put on his reading glasses.‘Ring the bells that still can ring//Forget your perfect offering,//There’s a crack in everything,//That’s how the light gets in.’

And this is why this is the one piece of art I’d love to have. I’m pretty much illiterate when it comes to visual arts. Whatever it is that moves people and speaks to them in color and shape and design has limited impact on me. It’s not that I don’t see it, but I’ve come to realize that I’m probably visually challenged. It makes more sense once I know the history behind it, the goal of the artist, the stories of those who have felt its impact… I suppose that means I need words to go with the images before their full impact is felt. Clara made this painting for people like me. She added the words! She explained it. That’s how the light gets in.

He read it out loud. “Beautiful. Madame Zardo?” he asked.“ 

No, Leonard Cohen. All my works have vessels of some sort. Containers. Sometimes it’s in the negative space, sometimes it’s more obvious. In The Three Graces it’s more obvious.” 

It wasn’t obvious to Gamache. He stepped back from the work, then he saw what she meant. The vessel, like a vase, was formed by their bodies, and the space he’d noticed was the crack, to let the light in. 

“I do it for Peter,” she said quietly. At first Gamache thought he might have misheard, but she continued as though speaking to herself. “He’s like a dog, like Lucy. He’s very loyal. He puts everything he has into one thing. One interest, one hobby, one friend, one love. I’m his love and it scares the shit out of me.” She turned now to look in Gamache’s thoughtful brown eyes. “He’s poured all his love into me. I’m his vessel. But suppose I crack? Suppose I break? Suppose I die? What would he do?”

I think there are many people who feel like this. The weight of being someone’s everything or even of being their one-something can be crippling in a sense. Early parenthood is a temporary foray into that kind of relationship. Every parent knows the feeling. In other relationships, an emotionally stunted person (like Peter) lays all their hopes and dreams and trust on another. In some cases, there is a palpable physical or emotional impairment. Sometimes it has to do with a relationship dynamic where one person loses some of their autonomy and relies too heavily on another. Parents of children with disabilities come to mind. A mother of a non-verbal autistic child once said that the foremost thought on her mind on bad days is his dependency. Suppose I die? What would he do?

No one is irreplaceable. Or everyone is irreplaceable, depending on how you look at it. While we are all unique and no one can quite fill your shoes, in your absence things will shift and somehow life will go on without you – whether it’s for a few days or for life. The movie My Life Without Me comes to mind.

But suppose I crack? Suppose I break? Suppose I die?

I’ve thought it, too. More than once. I still do. I probably always will. I have better answers to the questions than I used to, though. Whenever I ask myself these questions, I know what to tell myself.

Life will go on. It’s too big a burden to carry. It’s an impossible task. You have to be allowed to have cracks. To break. To be the one who needs help and support and care.

When we are in a position where we seem irreplaceable and it feels like those around us would not survive without us, maybe it’s time to step back. Reassess. In parenthood it’s a transitory process. You know your job is to make sure your children grow into their autonomy and independence. Your job is to teach them how to walk on their own two feet. Hopefully you can do that and end up with grown children who still enjoy your company. But, ultimately, the goal is to know that you can crack or break or die – and they’ll be okay.

Apparently, in my family, four years of age is the magical moment in which the child realizes that a parent could possibly crack or break or die. My mom tells the story that, at four, I asked her to promise not to die until I was married (which was my definition of being a grown-up).  The same promise was demanded by my own son when he turned four. “Mommy, you won’t die before I’m a grown-up, will you?” How do you answer that? Who can make that kind of a promise? Then again, why would I leave him with the insecurity of possibly becoming a motherless child? I wound up inviting him to talk to God and asking Him to make sure to remember not to let me die before he was ready to be on his own. He was satisfied with that solution.

Our job, as parents, is to make sure we raise him so someday he can know, deep down, that he’ll be okay. His parents can (probably more frequently than he imagines) crack or break and even die. He may hurt and grieve and feel gaps and cracks in his own life if that happens, but he’ll be okay.

I feel for those who have people in their lives that may never become fully independent. Some parents raise children who will forever depend on someone to change them, feed them or care for them. Some caretakers deal with emotional or psychological needs that can be draining. Some have spouses or family members that depend on them for so much. Maybe too much sometimes. Some have few resources to delegate or share the responsibility. My heart goes out to those caretakers, too.  It’s still their job to ensure autonomy, to the extent that it is possible, as well as a network of help. Some help. Even if it’s minimal.

“So all your art is exploring that theme?” 

“Mostly it’s about imperfection and impermanence. There’s a crack in everything.”

And that’s part of Clara’s genius. It is because she is willing to see her own fragility and the cracks and imperfection in her own person that she is brilliant, radiant, and filled with the light that gets in through the crack.

While it can be intimidating and daunting to care for those who are (seemingly) less capable than we are, including the children, the sick, and those with emotional or physical impairments, it can be a brilliant opportunity for growth. Those who have read Becoming Human, by Jean Vanier (the inspiration behind the idea of the fictional book BEING) will recognize the thought that interaction with those who are weaker (apparently) than ourselves may help us learn to see and acknowledge our own vulnerability and our common humanity and worthiness, despite our brokenness.

We are worthy. Our worth is not diminished because of our cracks. That’s how the light gets in.

“That’s how the light gets in, said Gamache. He thought of CC who’d written so much about light and enlightenment and illumination, and thought it came from perfection. But she couldn’t hold a candle to this bright woman beside him. 

“Peter doesn’t get it. Probably never will.” 

“Have you ever painted Ruth?” 

“Why do you ask?” 

“Well, frankly, if anyone’s cracked…” He laughed and Clara joined him. 

“No, and you know why? I’m afraid to. I think she could be my masterpiece and I’m afraid to try.” 

“In case you can’t do it?” 

“Got it in one. There’s also something scary about Ruth. I’m not sure I want to look that deeply into her.” 

“You will,” he said, and she believed him.

Fear is a crack. It’s a weakness. It can paralyze us. It almost kept Clara from attempting what was her masterpiece. She was probably right to be afraid. Ruth is scary. I am totally intimidated by her. I can sympathize with Beauvoir. I love her, but... She grows on us. I’m hoping the next book will look a little bit deeper into her, too. She still scares me a little bit. I'm pretty sure I'd be completely tongue-tied if I had to meet her face to face (and there we go again, treating these characters as real people).

Louise Penny frequently writes that Gamache’s power as an investigator lies in his willingness to go into those hidden depths and locked chambers of people’s souls. She writes that he is only able to do so because he has faced his own. I think Clara is on a similar journey. She is a great artist because she looks deeply. Into the darkness. She forays into the cracks and finds the light.

“They’re marvelous, Clara. They radiate.” He turned to look at her in astonishment, as though meeting the woman for the first time. He’d known she was insightful, and courageous and compassionate. But he hadn’t appreciated that she was this gifted.

I have written before that I am jealous of Clara’s ability to paint souls. The scene I was posting about then was the one where she unveils her masterpiece: Ruth. Hope.

I love this scene. I love this conversation between Gamache and Clara. I love the concept of cracks being an opportunity for light to come in. I think it’s a beacon of hope.

‘Ring the bells that still can ring//Forget your perfect offering,//There’s a crack in everything,//That’s how the light gets in.’

Chocolate Cake

I didn’t make fudge cake. I followed a new recipe (for me, anyway). I wanted a moist simple cake that was heavy on the chocolate, not on the sugar. This one was perfect. My only tweak to the original recipe (I cannot seem to follow any recipe with precision) is that I only put in 2/3 cup of sugar instead of 1 full cup. Here’s the link to Nigella's Olive Oil Chocolate Cake. I made the version with regular flour and it was absolutely delicious!

Pumpkin Pie

by Amy

The pie in the Pre-Thanksgiving Dinner is almost an afterthought. We only know they even had it because their stomachs are described as being full of pumpkin pie (along with turkey, port, and expresso) as they say their goodbyes.

I wonder who the baker was and whether or not it was anticipated and appreciated. In my own home, when a pie is baked, my husband spends most of the meal saving stomach space for dessert. He’s discreet about it (if guests are present), but he keeps an eye on the slices as they leave the plate and mentally calculates how long the pie will last. I don’t think he’s ever eaten a last slice without asking when the next one will be baked.

This was my first time making a pumpkin pie. Maybe it’s because pies are usually baked with aforementioned pie-loving husband in mind. I tend to ignore recipes that he won’t enjoy since I’ll end up eating them all by myself. Pumpkin doesn’t rank high (or anywhere near the middle) on his list of favorite flavors. Another (very likely) reason is because pumpkin pie is unusual in my part of the world and there is some truth to the cliché that ‘out of sight is out of mind’.

I’m sure I must have tasted it at some point, but I can’t remember. To me it is a “borrowed memory”; it is my mother’s favorite. My memory isn’t of the pie itself, but of hearing her praising the wonderful blend of cinnamon and nutmeg with pumpkin. I remember the nostalgic look in her eye when talking of autumn desserts shared with friends when we lived in the US decades ago.

She loves pumpkin pie, yet I don’t think she’s ever baked one here. She might have, once or twice, but while I remember listening to her talk about it, I have no visual memory of her actually eating a slice.

As soon as I realized it was on the list of meals for the blog, I called her. Mom said she started salivating as soon as she heard I was planning to share her favorite pie with her, but the one thing she repeated over and over was, “I love pumpkin pie. I don’t know why I never bake it!” Her voice held a hint of disbelief every time she said it. Now, it would make perfect sense if she didn’t cook or if she had never incorporated into her diet any of the dishes she’s learned from various international friends. However, we’re talking about a woman who bakes her own bread and who is fearless about tasting new dishes and adding to her repertoire from the flavors and meals she’s been introduced to by friends both here and abroad. So why doesn’t she bake pumpkin pie?

I wrote out the list of ingredients and realized most were staples in my pantry and none were hard to find. In the meantime, I pondered on why my mother had, for so many years, denied herself something that was so accessible.

It was only today that it came to me: a possible reason why. It is probably the same reason why I usually make the pies my husband likes best and why the only cake that can usually be found in our house is the only one my son eats (carrot). If what we love is not shared by those we love, there is less pleasure in indulging. Mothers frequently lose sight of their own preferences in their role as caretakers. If “the girls” (my sister and I) would rather eat fudge or brownies or chocolate chip cookies or rice crispy treats as reminders of a childhood in the US, she chose those over her own preference of pumpkin pie (which we’d probably have turned our noses at, at the time).

I think it’s easy to get lost in the needs of others. I may be wrong, though. I may be biased because I am surrounded by wonderful people who recognize joy in those around them and choose to rejoice with them. I was raised by parents who seemed to think nothing of meeting our needs and sharing our delight in the smallest of things. The same mother who never forgot to make chocolate chip cookies and brownies was the young woman who, during a much-anticipated cross-country trip, nodded a yes to two little girls who begged to stay longer playing in a plastic ball pit. With a young son of my own, I can now empathize with the young couple who gave up on their ambitious touristic schedule to sit quietly, smiling, as their daughters thwarted the family vacation plans. This is the same woman who now, as a grandmother, easily gives in to her grandchildren’s requests for “Again, vovó!” or “Can you stay a little longer?” The same woman who adjusts her plans to be there in our lives whenever and however she can.

No wonder she didn’t bake herself pumpkin pies. She was too busy thinking of what everyone else wanted. Now that I’m a mother myself, I can absolutely understand. There is a magical kind of pleasure in seeing your child enjoying something you have made or helped make possible.

So now I know that the taste of pumpkin pie will carry with it a three-fold reminder. I will now eat pumpkin pie and remember that (i) I was blessed with parents who taught me that they loved me enough to rejoice in my pleasures and opt to indulge in what I loved, at the expense of frequently putting aside their own preferences, (ii) I should remember to give my son – and others around me – the same loving gift, and (iii) I should bake my mother more pumpkin pies. She deserves it.

I asked mom if the pumpkin recipe lived up to her memories… She said it was delicious, but there seemed to be something missing. She’s right. I didn’t have powdered cloves. I’ll have to bake another one and, since this time we weren’t able to eat it together, we’ll try to make a date to indulge in what will now be a shared pleasure. With my mother, that is. My son refused to taste it. He might grow into it – I did.

The pumpkin pie is mentioned on page 25 of the paperback edition of Still Life.

Here’s the recipe I used: 

http://www.simplyrecipes.com/recipes/suzannes_old_fashioned_pumpkin_pie/