Ham & Brie Sandwich, Houses & Homes

By Amy

Gamache pulled up a chair, grabbed a baguette filled with thick sliced maple cured ham, brie and arugula and took a beer.

I had a really hard time choosing what to make this week. Quite a bit of coffee, tea, and café au lait is drunk in Bury Your Dead and The Nature of the Beast… and I seem to be gravitating towards those lately. I didn’t think it would be fair to go back to making coffee and tea since I’m already moved in and have a functional kitchen. I’m not sure I’d be forgiven for that at this point.

I ended up choosing a sandwich.

I rarely buy ham. Hardly ever, really. I love brie, though. I love arugula… although I ended up using baby spinach instead. It was a delicious sandwich, written after visiting a new friend in her delightful house.

“I’m just over at Augustin Reunaud’s home.” He hesitated. “You wouldn’t want to come, would you? It’s not far from where you are.”
“I’d love to see it.”
“Bring your reading glasses and a sandwich. And a couple of beers.”
[…]… pausing to check the address he’d been given, unconvinced he had it right.But no. there it was. 9 ¾ rue Ste-Ursule. He shook his head. 9 ¾.
It would figure that Augustin Renaud would live there. He lived a marginal life, why not in a fractional home?

That is one of my absolute FAVORITE lines in the books. Marginal life. Fractional home. Isn`t that a brilliant piece of writing?

Houses have personalities.

Some are very authentic and unique and make bold statements. Some are discrete and unassuming, but contain surprising depths and hidden corners. Some are nice to look at, but can be uncomfortable, formal, and intimidating. Some are homey and seem to welcome you like a familiar and warm embrace. Some are conventional and almost interchangeable.

Houses have personalities.

Homes tend to reflect their owners.

I don’t think those statements are the same.  

Houses have personalities. They do; regardless of the people who inhabit them. Their architecture and layout, location, lighting, view, and surroundings contribute to that. Home buyers unconsciously tap into that and sometimes cannot quite explain why they like this and not that house. There is something that is built into the house that goes beyond the structure, materials, and paint scheme. 

There’s something impalpable that speaks to us and says: sturdy, reliable, conformist, quirky, relaxing, safe, comfortable, private, open, trustworthy… and any other traits we look for in homes – and people.

And then there’s the part that we bring with us. When we make a house a home, wherever the home is and regardless of the traits the house brings with it, we make it our own. It slowly starts to reflect us, the owners. Some things are intentional – the things we choose to hang on our walls, the furniture we buy, the colors we choose. They are an attempt to surround ourselves with things that make us comfortable, bring us joy, fulfill our needs, feed our desires, and please us. Others are almost an accident. The best homes are “lived in”, but everyone “lives in” a house differently. Even that reflects us.

This isn’t the first time we’ve talked about homes and how they reflect their owners. We blogged about Hanna’s cookies and the Parra home: HERE. The Parra home was an opportunity to revisit first impressions and contrast expectation with reality and realize that people aren’t “just” what they seem. They are usually more and layered and can contain multitudes within them. They can be, like their homes, a study of contrasts and the conciliation and union of things that perhaps, in another context or to another person, would clash.

And we talked about Jane in our very first post: HERE. Jane was an extreme example. She was a welcoming and warm woman. She knew everyone in town, had taught most of those middle-aged and younger, and was well loved and respected in the community. However, no one, not even her closest friends, were allowed past her kitchen. Her home was revealing. Her art was literally on the walls.

If these walls could speak. Her walls did. They told a story. An incredible story. A story she hadn’t been willing to share.

He’d been in homes of every description in his thirty years of investigating crime. Hovels, glass and marble trophy homes, caves even. He’d seen hideous conditions, and uncovered hideous things and yet he was constantly surprised by how people lived.But Augustin Renaud’s home was exactly as Armand Gamache had imagined it would be. Small, cluttered, papers, journals, books piled everywhere. It was certainly a fire hazard, and yet the Chief had to admit he felt more at home here than in the glass and marble wonders.

I am between homes.

While I feel like I am “at home”, this house isn’t quite our home yet. The house is still revealing itself to us and we’re still figuring out how we get along and whether or not this will be an intimate long term relationship or if we will seek some other structure. While it is a nice house, it’s still bare and not quite “us” yet. It still has unrecognizable smells and mysterious creaks that we’re unfamiliar with.

It's funny that I only really realized that this week when visiting new friends.

The minute we parked in front of their house, my son said, “Is it the triangle house?”

It was.

What a great house! Even better: a wonderful home.

The house was surprising and fun and creative and open and warm and welcoming. It was simple and honest and full of little details that the family probably takes for granted, but were wonderful to us. It was functional and practical – but whimsical and magical. Just being there made me feel like I could potentially be more creative than I actually am. It made me feel like the coolest kid at school had invited me over to their home and whispered that the Narnia Wardrobe was in their spare room.

It didn’t feel like my home. But I felt “at home”.

Have you ever felt that? Have you ever walked into a place and felt like it was a place where you could safely be yourself? Have you ever felt like you belonged?

My son and I weren’t the only ones. When I mentioned how much I loved the house, the family told me about how they’d bought it. It was fascinating to hear their story and confirm that they too understood the house’s personality and realized it was a good fit.

When I went home, I reassessed. I feel at home in my current abode. The house and I haven’t quite forged a deep relationship, though.

The home we visited this week was inspiring. It has awakened dreams of a new home. A place where we not only feel at home, but where the walls speak – and when they do, it resonates with our own view of the world and of ourselves. Their home reminded me that houses have personalities. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll find a house that reflects ours.

I’m hopeful.

And grateful.

Ham and Brie Sandwich

As usual I used what I had and adapted the recipe. All I bought was some ham. Since I’m not a huge fan, I used a thin sliced ham, not a thick slice as the scene described. The brie was herb brie with a hint of garlic and I toasted the sourdough with some olive oil in a skillet. I added some mustard. That works, right? Because… it seemed to need a little extra taste and color.

What’s your favorite sandwich? Do you even have one?

All quotes are from Bury Your Dead.

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?

Chicken Pesto Sandwich and Letting Go

by Amy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think we all can empathize.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Goodness exists.”

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

Chicken and Baked Veggies on Baguette

by Amy

“He strongly believed in collaboration, not competition, within his team. He realized he was in a minority within the leadership of the Sûreté. He believed a good leader was also a good follower. And he invited his team to treat each other with respect, listen to ideas, support each other. Not everyone got it.”

The setting for this meal is a private back room at Olivier’s where we listen in on the first Sûreté team meeting in the books. It is where we are introduced to the Chief Inspector’s kind (and successful) mode of leadership: collaboration and respect.

I like how the food they eat gives us a feel for the characters, who they are and, as we read through the series, how they change. I found it interesting to see how their meal choices varied with their moods and the phase they're living in their own lives (Beauvoir's lack of appetite in A Trick of the Light comes to mind). In this scene, we aren’t told what the other agents ate. We "see" Beauvoir’s ham sandwich (with honey-mustard sauce and aged cheddar on a fresh croissant), but I ended up choosing to make Gamache’s lunch for this post.

There is room for individuality and difference in opinions – and taste. Gamache, through Louise Penny’s writing, fosters tolerance and acceptance with rare kindness. Each individual is allowed to have – and share – even wild, unexpected, and apparently insane ideas. He embraces respectful divergence of opinion and frequently encourages it in an attempt to reach a fuller understanding and have a better grasp of the whole. That does not mean he is weak or doesn’t have his own ideas and beliefs. The ability to listen and cultivate empathy does not presuppose lack of firmness or decisiveness. And opinion isn't equal to fact.

Actually, that last sentence may be the key issue in respect. Opinion and fact are not the same thing. Gamache understands (more than most) that perception, affinity, beliefs, and personal taste are not absolutes. They cannot be proven right or wrong. Unlike facts. He fosters respect for opinions and perceptions while seeking factual truths.

It’s easy to support those who share your views, your ideas, and your tastes. It’s harder to listen and respect when you disagree. Respect doesn't require agreement. You don’t need to condone to empathize. You don’t need to share a belief to try to understand why and how someone might hold that belief.

Gamache put together a team of underestimated and misunderstood individuals. He has a rare gift: he sees people. He knows how to make use of and value what each member of his team is able – and willing – to contribute. He helps them optimize their strengths, understand their weaknesses, and grow where they need improvement. The quote above uses the word “invite”: “he invited his team to treat each other with respect“. He doesn’t even force the process of teamwork – he gives them time to adjust and room to grow into a better version of themselves. He’s one of those people (I’m sure we all have at least one of those in our lives) who inspire us to be better just by knowing them.

I’m not sure if the grilled chicken and roasted vegetable baguette (as worded  in the book) corresponds to my interpretation of it, but maybe all of my rationalization on respecting variety in taste was an excuse change the recipe... I allowed myself to experiment and also to use some leftover grilled chicken that was in the fridge. I’d run across a recipe for baked vegetables that I wanted to try and dragged my son (who wasn’t happy about leaving his Legos on a Saturday) out of the house to go buy a petit pain (which isn’t quite the same, but very similar to a baguette). So I guess it isn’t at all the same meal… I’m sure Gamache would excuse my poetic license, I hope everyone else will, too.

Here is the recipe I used as inspiration (of course I tweaked it) for the baked vegetables: http://www.thewednesdaychef.com/the_wednesday_chef/2013/07/the-best-roasted-vegetables-ever.html

This scene is on page 65 of the paperback copy of Still Life.