Part 2 of Olivier’s tray: Chocolate-Coffee Mousse Pie & Apple Tarts

by Amy

You were a moth  

Brushing against my cheek

in the dark.

I killed you,

not knowing

you were only a moth,

with no sting.

The setting is familiar. We’re at the Bistro. Yolande, Jane’s niece, has just walked in and Clara decides to pay her respects. Everyone is cringing, snooping, and observing. Silence rules. Yolande is playing up to the scene. She wipes her dry eyes with a paper napkin and her acting is superb – although she didn’t convince the many people who had truly loved Jane and remembered what her relationship with Yolande had been like.

“I’m the official caterer for the disaster that’s about to happen. I can’t imagine why Clara is doing this, she knows what Yolande has been saying behind her back for years. Hideous woman.”

Why does Clara do it? She’d been planning a ritual, in Jane’s honor, when…

“Clara had spotted Yolande and her family arriving at the Bistro and knew she’d have to say something.”

It doesn’t say why. So we are left, like Olivier, wondering. I can empathize, though. I tend to also be the kind of person who always feels like she has to say something. And I often find myself, in the aftermath, feeling as Clara did after her interaction with Jane’s niece:  stupid, stupid, stupid.

“When she’d gone over to speak with Yolande, Clara had known this would happen. Known that Yolande, for some unfathomable reason, could always get to her. Could hurt her where most others couldn’t reach. It was one of life’s little mysteries that this woman she had absolutely no respect for, could lay her flat. She thought she’d been ready for it. She’d even dared to harbor a hope that maybe this time would be different. But of course it wasn’t.”

Clara’s one of those rare people that knows how things are – or can be – but still nurtures hope that things might be different. She doesn’t act on the (very high) probability that she’ll get hurt. She acts on the unlikely chance that this time, maybe this time it’ll be okay.

I wonder why nobody stopped her. I understand why Gamache wouldn’t. He was in the middle of a murder investigation and this was a perfect opportunity to observe the suspects. But why didn’t anyone else stop her? They just stood back and watched. I’ve been stopped before. By a whisper. A look. A nudge. An elbow. A little kick… No one stopped Clara.

I wonder if any of them had tried before, in similar occasions, and realized it couldn’t be done? I wonder if they understood the importance and were hoping against hope not that Yolande would be different ( I think only Clara would go that far), but that Clara would finally stand up for herself (I think Clara only really begins to do that in A TRICK OF THE LIGHT).

Regardless, it feels real. Doesn’t it? Louise Penny knows her characters. As Marilynne Robinson says in her collection of essays, WHEN I WAS A CHILD I READ BOOKS:

“There is a great difference, in fiction and in life, between knowing someone and knowing about someone. When a writer knows about his character he is writing for plot. When he knows his character he is writing to explore, to feel reality on a set of nerves somehow not quite his own."

I think part of the beauty in Louise Penny’s books is that she knows her characters and writes real ideas through fiction. I believe that fiction is, in a way, real. Fiction, as all art, is an interpretation of reality as seen and experienced by the author. Authors are able to put themselves in others’ shoes and write characters that make us feel along with them. And Penny excels in this art.

I can easily imagine myself in the Bistro. I’d probably try to stand next to Olivier so I could eat all of the dessert options on his tray. I probably wouldn’t stop Clara either. I probably would have watched, silently (or whispering to Olivier – or maybe Gabri. I’d love to hear Gabri’s take on the scene). Then I’d probably tell myself, I knew it! when Yolande, true to character, put Clara down. I can also imagine myself in Clara’s shoes, knowing something must be said (although I ask myself, WHY?) and being disappointed when the response wasn’t what I’d hoped for. 

What I cannot picture is being in Peter’s shoes. If I were Peter, I’d be standing next to Clara. I’d be squeezing her hand. I can understand – even applaud – that he felt Clara had to stand up for herself. He couldn’t – or maybe shouldn’t – do it for her. He wasn’t even available for moral support, though. He wasn’t beside her. And I think it’s interesting that, once hurt, Clara’s first reaction is to want Jane back. She’s surrounded by friends but none of them, not even her husband, can fulfill that role in her life. I think Myrna will, eventually, to an extent. But for now, it’s a Jane-shaped hole.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid. […] She wanted to run to Jane, who’d make it better. Take her in those full, kindly arms and say the magic words, ‘There, there.’”

Libby did an incredible job of making mille feuilles, meringues and little custard tarts. I made pie and little apple custard tarts – which were, in reality, an improvisation using left-over bits from a lemon meringue pie recipe. The pie was a dark chocolate coffee mousse pie which was so incredibly good I made it twice in as many weeks.

Chocolate Coffee Mousse Pie

Ingredients:

Crust

-          1 package of 200g of graham cookies (or similar)

-          100g grams of softened or room temperature butter

Filling

-          4 egg yolks

-          6 TBS of sugar

-          1 cup of heavy cream

-          200g of dark chocolate – chopped in big bits

-          1 TBS instant coffee

-          4 egg whites

Instructions:

Crumble the cookies and use a blender or a food processor to turn them into a flaky powder. Add butter and smash with your fingers until it’s the consistence of crust. Spread it on a pie pan and bake for about 10 minutes. Let it cool. You can always buy the ready-made kind (which we don’t have here), but this is so easy to make I think it’s worth it.

For the filling, beat the egg yolks with 4 spoons of sugar (I used 2) in a mixer until it doubles in volume and becomes a bit lighter in color. Set aside.

Heat the cream in bain-marie (I just put a glass bowl in a pan with 2 inches of water in it over the stove top. I improvised a bain-marie since I didn’t have the “proper” pan). Add the pieces of dark chocolate and the instant coffee powder and mix until you have a smooth cream. Add the egg yolk mix and mix well. Set aside.

Mix the egg whites and then add 2 TBS of sugar. Add this to the cream, but only fold it in gently without mixing much. The beaten egg whites are what will give it the airy mousse consistency. Pour this cream over your crust and place it in the refrigerator. Once it is firm (4 to 5 hours later), enjoy!

Apple Tarts

I used left-over pie crust dough and placed it in muffin tins. I baked that for about 10 minutes.

I mixed the juice of two lemons with 1 can of condensed milk to make the tart filling. It’s the same idea for the filling I usually use for lime meringue pie. That’s all you have to do. Mix them and place it in the fridge and it's the perfect consistency. I frequently use this also as a form of custard to serve with fresh fruit. It’s always a hit.

Then I sliced apples – thin slices covered in lemon juice so they wouldn’t brown – and placed them on the filling. I added a sprinkle of brown sugar.  I then placed them in the oven just long enough so the sugar would melt a bit and the apple slices would bake. These were sooooo good. Well, tastes vary. My husband thought it was too tart and not sweet enough. I thought it was just right. 

Except for the quote from Marilynne Robinson's WHEN I WAS A CHILD I READ BOOKS, the other quotes are from Still Life - pages 104 to 106 in the paperback version.

The Uneaten Danish

by Amy

“He’d watched her during the meeting, again choosing a seat one removed from the next person, not grabbing a coffee and Danish with the others. In fact, not doing anything anyone else did. It was almost willful, this desire to separate herself from the team.”

This post is about an uneaten meal. It’s an offering not accepted. It’s a refusal to engage or join in. It’s a form of self-denial in which Agent Yvette Nichol chooses, through a series of small gestures, not to be a part of the team. The sad part is that she yearns to fit in, to belong, to be accepted. She’s ill-equipped to do so, though. She hides behind a façade of aloofness while, inside, she’s crying out to be seen and understood.

I think we all have some of Agent Nichol’s fear of rejection in us. That fear influences our attitudes and our actions. We also all have at least a hint of Beauvoir in us – he can barely stand her (and maybe wouldn’t, if not for his respect for Gamache). Chief Inspector Gamache frequently sees beyond actions and at least tries to understand the reasons behind them. He was willing to give this inept agent a chance. Those who have read the books know it wasn’t just one chance, nor did Agent Nichol graciously step up and do well. She blundered and fumbled awkwardly and was usually more trouble than she was worth… but who’s to judge worthiness anyway?

It’s a fine line, isn’t it? The line between fitting in and staying true to yourself? Knowing when it’s important to stand up for your beliefs and when to go with the flow?

Just yesterday I was talking to a friend about how easy it is, as a parent, to teach children the bare basics. By that, I mean teaching them not to stick things into electrical outlets, touch fire, or pull plastic bags over their heads. Those are easy. They require attention (on our part) and much repetition of the rules, but we are in no doubt about what we are teaching and why.

Then there are the lessons we have a very hard time teaching because we have not mastered them ourselves. Sometimes I feel like the blind leading the blind when I am confronted with my child’s questions. They are frequently the same questions that bounce around in my own mind and to which I have incomplete and sometimes ambivalent and contradictory answers to. Some of the issues he’s struggling with are the ones I struggle with myself. I’m confronted with the realization that what I do, think and feel are very far from the high standards I would like to think I will set for myself.

One perk in interacting with children is in seeing the world through their eyes. It is fascinating to discover that we spend a lifetime reliving our childhood (to an extent). As preschoolers we start to deal with issues of conformity, individuality, egoism, altruism, manipulation, values, authenticity and friendship. And we’re never quite “done”, are we?

There is heartache in Kindergarten. There are battles for recognition, attention, and prestige. There are bitter feuds (that are sometimes resolved in a matter of minutes, but are no less angst-filled because of their short timespan) and marrow deep friendships. There are broken hearts and disappointments. There is profound joy…  And there is pain (beyond that of scraped knees).

 “We choose our thoughts. We choose our perceptions. We choose our attitudes. We may not think so. We may not believe it, but we do. I absolutely know we do. I’ve seen enough evidence, time after time, tragedy after tragedy. Triumph over triumph. It’s about choice.”

When he is confronted with the choice between fitting in and staying true to himself, my son is constantly questioning the importance of being authentic and firm in his beliefs and the need to be open to change. He is questioning what his “non-negotiables” are and learning when and where he can be flexible. He is sorting through acquaintances and identifying who his friends are: those who like him the way he is, who understand his strengths and weaknesses and the little irksome – and delightful – traits that make him himself. He is learning how to forgive and how the same things that attract us in another can sometimes annoy us, too. He laughs… and sometimes he cries.

And he teaches me. He teaches me because he is mostly unarmed. He forgives more readily. The pain is bewildering and usually unexpected and may hurt more... but he still expects to be loved. Unconditionally. As I watch him gradually lose his naiveté in social interactions and begin to create strategies to protect himself, I find myself seeing the parallels in my own life and rethinking old lessons.

When he tells me that he needs to cry sometimes because only he knows how much it hurts, I am reminded that it takes real strength of character and self-awareness to acknowledge our pain. It takes courage to stand up for your beliefs and to swim against the tide. It takes wisdom to discern when to be firm and when to bend.

Some wounds are deeper and harder to heal. Sometimes the sum of hurts becomes unbearable and walls are erected, true fortresses, in order to protect the heart. This form of safety comes at the cost of loneliness and, sometimes, bitterness. Agent Yvette Nichol was so full of self-condemnation and fear of rejection that even a simple snack of Danish and coffee and the pleasure of being part of the team seemed to be too much to hope for. So, to avoid disappointment she sat apart and didn’t eat. What she may not have realized is that she also deprived the team of herself. In trying to be what she was not and making sure no one discovered her weaknesses, she removed herself.

The lessons my son has begun to learn are the same ones we all are confronted with throughout our lives. Love brings us both joy and pain, and much of that latter is, I think, a kind of “growing pain”. These are the pains of compromise, of being uprooted from our point of view, of being confronted with the reality that we are not the center of the universe and while we are far from perfect, we are worthy of love and acceptance. And there are the bitter hurts of realizing that not everyone wants the best for us, not everyone loves us, and not everyone will live up to our expectations…

Children might actually be better equipped than calloused adults because they trust more readily than we do. Some might view such vulnerability as a weakness, but I think it is, frequently, their strength. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could all venture beyond our hurts and scars and be brave enough to put down our weapons and defenses? If we were less self-conscious of the traits we perceive as defects and more self-aware of both our weaknesses and strengths as integral parts of ourselves and no less worthy of respect?

Scars are usually not as painful as the wounds that preceded them. Not all past hurts need cripple us. We can learn to forgive and, if not forget, be willing to trust again despite the hurt. Maybe we can even grow stronger in learning from the blows that we have been dealt.

Frequently, throughout the books, Beauvoir feels the need to protect Gamache from his apparent naiveté. At times Peter (and others) question Clara’s willingness to forgive. Olivier is humbled by Gabri’s loyalty and kindness. Yvette Nichol is also frequently baffled by Gamache’s actions. What many of these hardened (hurt and scared) characters have yet to realize (and some of them gain understanding as the series goes on) is the incredible power of faith. The shields we erect can sometimes distance and harden us.

As I watch my seven year old son, I pray that, (although he will inevitably be hurt sometimes), he manages to retain faith and hope and the courage to engage. I pray that he never loses himself or compromises his integrity and beliefs, but that he learns to bend. I pray that he continues to understand that forgiving and learning from our differences is one of the great joys of relationships. I hope he discovers that loving someone in spite of or because of their imperfections is more powerful than loving an idealized version that is easily shattered. I pray that he becomes a man who is strong enough to understand his assets and who doesn’t underestimate his weaknesses. And I pray that I learn, with him, to be all of that too.

My own Danish snacks were (appropriately, I suppose) ignored the first time they were set on the table. Once we started eating them it took no effort at all to finish off the entire batch. The star shape was fun to make, but they didn’t turn out as contained (the filling spread a bit) as the ones I saw pictured online. They’re basically fancily-cut croissants with jam or custard on them. I used the same recipe as the one for croissants (in earlier post) and just added the jam filling.

Quotes are from Still Life page 79 (Paperback Edition).