Parsnip and Apple Soup - A Time of Stillness

by Amy

Dinner was served, starting with parsnip and apple soup, with a drizzle of walnut infused oil on top.
“Olivier gave me the recipe,” said Reine-Marie, turning down the light in the kitchen.
[…]
Gamache took a couple of spoonfuls of soup. It was smooth and earthy and just a touch sweet.
“Delicious,” he said to Reine-Marie, but his mind was elsewhere.

A meal that is a bit unusual (at least to me), served twice in one book, enticing enough that Reine-Marie asks Olivier for the recipe, AND gets complimented by a character? I had absolutely no trouble picking which THE NATURE OF THE BEAST recipe to start with!

Reine-Marie eats this soup at the Bistro earlier in the book during a memorable conversation with Gamache. She later serves it to Gamache, Agent Cohen, Chief Inspector Gamache and Jean-Guy Beauvoir during a cozy candlelit dinner.

I think Reine-Marie is a wise woman. In the Supporting Spouses and Peppermint Tisane Post we talked a bit about her relationship with Gamache and how she was aware of who and what he was and was willing to respect that. In THE LONG WAY HOME Gamache was still healing. He was in a place of reflection and reassessment, and he was still reeling from all that had come before. Now he’s begun to ask What next? So has everybody else. Including the readers.

I think that’s the big question for the next book. What’s next?

Sitting in the warm and cheerful bistro, with fresh warm bread and parsnip and apple soup in front of them…
[…]
“I was threatened yesterday by a young agent. […] Fresh out of the academy. He knew I was once a cop and he didn’t care. If he’d treat a former cop like that, how’s he going to treat citizens?”
“You look shaken.”
“I am. I’d hoped by getting rid of the corruption the worst was over, but now…” He shrugged and smiled thinly. “Is he alone, or is there a whole class of thugs entering the Sûreté? Armed with clubs and guns.”

I think Gamache knows the department is in good hands. He’s just told Reine-Marie what a good job Chief Inspector Lacoste has been doing. He might sometimes miss it, but it’s no longer his job and he seems to be okay with that.

“Not just a good job, a remarkable job. She’s completely taken control of the department. Made it her own.”
Reine-Marie watched him for signs of regret hiding beneath the obvious relief. But there was only admiration for his young protégé.

I think he’s wondering if maybe there’s another job that he is supposed to do. Another mission. Not the murders themselves, I don't think. Lacoste and Jean-Guy are perfectly capable of handling those and Lacoste is doing beautifully with the department. But maybe he’s to be involved in the shaping of a new “ideology” for the Sûreté? He’s outrooted corruption, but someone has to help ensure a new mentality is installed in its place. Maybe Gamache is feeling called to do that?

“I’m sorry, Armand.”
She reached across the table and placed her hand on his.
He looked down at her hand, then up into her eyes, and smiled.
“It’s a place I no longer recognize. To everything there is a season. I’m thinking of talking to Professor Rosenblatt about his job at McGill.”

He seems to be shying away from it, though. He’s been invited to take over as Superintendent. It’s a legitimate offer. He doesn’t answer anyone who questions him about it in this book. I don’t think he knows the answer himself. I think he’s still considering his options. Wondering. Trying to figure out what he wants to do. What he’s meant to do.

She knew he wasn’t considering studying science, but now she understood what he was considering.
If the big question facing both of them was, What next? could the answer be, University?
“Would that interest you?” he asked.
“Going back to school?”
She hadn’t really thought about it, but now that she did she realized there was a world of knowledge out there she’d love to dive into. History, archeology, languages, art.
And she could see Armand there. In fact, it was a far more natural fit than the Sûreté ever seemed. She could see him walking through the hallways, a student. Or a professor.
But either way, he belonged in the corridors of academe. And so did she. She wondered if the killing of young Laurent had finally, completely, put paid to any interest he had in the disgrace that was murder.
“You like the professor?” she asked, going back to her soup.
“I do, though there seems a strange disconnect between the man and what he did for a living. His field was trajectory and ballistics. The main people who’d benefit from his research would be weapons designers. And yet he seems so, so, gentle. Scholarly. It just doesn’t seem to fit.”
“Really?” she asked, trying not to smile. It was what she’d just been thinking about him. A scholarly man who pursued murderers. “I guess we’re not all what we seem.”

We aren’t all what we seem. We rarely are. And there's usually more to us (everyone) than meets the eye.

Some people seem to have been meant to do one thing. Or one type of thing. Or one line of work. Others are more flexible – or more versatile. Some people, by choice or circumstance, spend a lifetime doing the same things. Others seem to live many lives.

I think everyone thinks Armand Gamache still has much to give and much to contribute. No one – probably not even he – knows what that is, but everyone is asking What next?

She’d held his hand tightly. It was covered in his own blood and that of others. And it mingled with the blood on her hands. Her own, and others.
And now catching killers was in their blood.
Chief Inspector Gamache hadn’t died. And he’d continued to lead them for many investigations. Until the time had come to come here.
He’d done enough. It was someone else’s turn.
Hers.
“You and Madame Gamache seem happy here.”
“We are. Happier than I ever thought possible.”
“But are you content?” Isabelle probed.

Gamache smiled again. How different she was from Jean-Guy, who’d come right out and demanded, “Are you going to stay here doing nothing, or what, patron?”

He’d tried to explain to Jean-Guy that stillness wasn’t nothing. But the taut younger man just didn’t understand. And neither would he have, Gamache knew, in his thirties. But in his fifties Armand Gamache knew that sitting still was far more difficult, and frightening, than running around.

No, this wasn’t nothing. But the time was coming when this stillness would allow him to know what to do. Next.
What next?

And he’s right. Being still isn’t nothing. It may be the listening and meditating time necessary for further action.

I can empathize. I am going through a transition time in my own life. Big changes are coming my way. Maybe a move. Maybe a sabbatical. Very likely a career shift. Right now I’m in a whirlwind much like the one Gamache was in during HOW THE LIGHT GETS IN. Lots of plans and preparations being set in place in readiness for a moment when it will all have to come together – fast.

After the whirlwind, I’ll have to deal with the “What next?” period. While it is tempting to already try to make decision, I know answers given now would be impetuous and precipitous.

Although I am not yet in my fifties and can certainly empathize with my contemporary, Jean-Guy, I agree with Gamache. Stillness is not nothing. It is hard. It means self-assessment. It demands answers to hard questions.

I am looking forward to stillness, though. I’m looking forward to a time between times. A time for listening to the silence and the space between the words. A time of reflection and questioning.

A butterfly landed on my foot the other day. It slowly climbed up my pant leg. It looked so pretty there that I took a picture. This was a few days ago. Since then, butterflies have been on my mind. I realized that I'm probably in the caterpillar stage. "A big fat caterpillar", (The Very Hungry Caterpillar).

Maybe I can become a butterfly. To do so, I have to be willing to face the cocoon stage. Stillness. A time between times. While outwardly nothing seems to be happening, metamorphosis is hard work. A caterpillar actually digests itself before sleeping cells are awakened in order to grow into a butterfly. What a metaphor!

I look forward to my time of stillness. To my own "cocoon".

I am preparing myself to reassess and "digest" who I am in order to awaken the person I can become. I'd like to cultivate stillness. Sometimes it is a big obvious moment - like the one I am soon to face. Other times it's a little epiphany. A few minutes or hours of introspection. We all have cocoons in our lives.

I look forward to trying to answer the questions I ask myself. Who am I? What do I enjoy? Why am I the way I am? What do I like to do? Why do I like to do it? What are the things that make me feel like a day was productive? What are the things I miss? What are the things that I could live without? What makes me feel useful? What kind of social interaction nurtures my soul? What makes me want to jump out of bed in the morning? What are some things I keep in the back drawer of dreams and plans, and that I should put on the top of the list?

I look forward to my time of stillness.

It is coming. Soon. It is just around the corner.

I know I need it because I, like Gamache, am not ready to answer when people ask me What next?

I didn’t really know what parsnips were. That’s not quite true. I knew, but I didn’t know they were called parsnips. To me they were only cenoura baroa or mandioquinha, Brazilian names for the vegetable. I don’t even know if they taste exactly the same (most fruits and vegetables are slightly different in taste in different parts of the world), but I’m sure they’re close enough. I was a bit skeptical of adding apples to the soup… but it was lovely! I’m so glad I made it. Even my son (who absolutely HATES any and all kinds of soup) ate his obligatory two spoons to taste with little complaint and said it was “okay” (very high praise for soup coming from this particular 8-year-old).

I made a version of this recipe: Creamy Parsnip and Apple Soup

Of course there were slight modifications because… well, I cannot seem to make things precisely as the recipe says. I like my soups a bit thicker, so I added less broth. Also, I added a wee bit of parsley to it. I thought it was a good addition. Other than that, I basically followed the recipe. Madame Gamache has great taste.

In fact, I had a soup party this week! It was so much fun! I invited some friends who like to cook – but aren’t snobs about it. The idea was that each person would bring a pan of soup or chowder. We had bread and croutons and grated cheese and cheeses and fresh parsley and nuts and wine… And we had to chance to share our own soup – and the recipe – and to taste other soups. So much fun. We spent hours nibbling and eating and tasting and trying to figure out what spices and tricks each person had up their sleeve. 

We took turns serving our soups, so everyone spent some time in the kitchen reheating and adding final touches. Everything was served in the pan it came in, so it was informal, not at all fancy, and felt like an impromptu improvised family meal. 

Then we split the leftovers between us. Perfect. I had enough for dinner the next day. Although dinner was a whole new version, since I did some mix and matching with my leftovers! 

A Leek Casserole & The Arts of Silence and Conversation

by Amy

“When the first casserole, a fragrant cheese and leek dish with a crunchy crumble top, came by he paused, looking at the modest amounts everyone else had taken. Then he took the biggest scoop he could manage and plopped it onto his plate. Bite me, he thought. And the monks looked like they might.”

I love leeks. I love cheese. I love casseroles. What could go wrong? I actually followed a recipe for this dish. I usually change recipes to adjust to my tastes. This time I followed it, but I decided that if (when) I make it again, I’ll add other vegetables (about three or four times the amount called for in the recipe) and will experiment with different cheeses. Cheddar wouldn’t be my first choice. I think I’d like to use Parmesan – or maybe a blend of cheeses.

On a side note, cheddar is not only hard to find, but also fairly expensive in Brazil. I have an American friend here that has cheddar cheese high on the list of things she most misses from home. I’ve read comments by American expats in Europe complaining that they can’t find cheddar easily.

The mustard in the sauce was a new idea for me. I’d never done that and I absolutely loved it. I love mustard, though, so I’m biased. I’m used to nutmeg in white sauce, but had never considered mustard. What do you put in your white sauce?

“Near the end of the meal, the Chief folded his cloth napkin and rose. Frère Simon, across from him, motioned, at first subtly then with more vigor, for the Chief to sit back down. Gamache met the man’s eyes, and also motioned. That he’d received the message, but was going to do what he needed to do anyway.”

I love this silent exchange.

It reminds me of exchanges between spouses, parents and their children (of all ages), partners, colleagues, and good friends. I’m sure you’ve been there and seen the look, felt the elbow nudge or the kick in the shins and silently answered that you acknowledged the warning, but you chose to go ahead and do things the hard way, the unconventional way, the potentially dangerous way.

A couple of weeks ago, when I posted about the Haida and fresh bread, we talked about how Gamache and the Haida were good at silence. The Chief Inspector knows how to use silence to think, to ponder, to listen, and to understand. Silence is a tool. It can be a strength.

There is an art to silence. It can heighten nonverbal communication, increase awareness of nuances, and give both speaker and listener more time to ponder. Those who master the art know when to speak and when to hold their peace. They know how to use silence in order to listen respectfully and prepare a better response.

“Our order has been tested over the centuries. And this is another test. Do we really believe in God? Do we believe all the things we say and sing? Or has it become a faith of convenience? Has it, in splendid isolation, grown weak? When challenged we simply do whatever is easiest. Do we sin by silence? If we have real faith then we must have the courage to speak up. We must not protect the killer.”

Silence can be a strong tool. It can be a useful strategy. I can also be complacence. It can be laziness. It can be cowardice. It can be a mark of oppression.

I recently spent some time with a person who tends to choose silence. This is a person with incredible knowledge and experience and so much to offer. She sometimes comes across as blunt, unfeeling, and uninterested. She is, in fact, none of these things. She fails to engage. I sometimes get the impression that the effort of contributing thoughts and risking controversy or even slight discord seems to be too much. She is not only silent, she also not very responsive, even non-verbally. Once you draw her out, she is a wealth of knowledge and her ideas are interesting and, yes, frequently controversial. She`s sometimes telegraphic in her communication, though. You have to get to know her well in order to have an inkling of her thoughts. Absolutely worth it. Such an interesting mind.

Silence, here, may have been misused. While it is safe for her, keeping up a dialogue in her own mind, she (intentionally or not) deprives many of the depth of her thoughts. It’s easy, in this scenario, to become or be perceived as judgmental and distant. This is uncomfortable and disengaged silence.

“The monks looked anxious. And angry. At him. Gamache was used to this transference. They couldn’t yet blame the killer, so they blamed the police for turning their lives upside down. He felt a rush of sympathy.If only they knew how bad it would get.”

The monks in this book had taken a vow of silence. They weren’t uncommunicative, though. A wealth of information and interaction was exchanged without the use of words.

I have a good friend who, like me, was told she talked too much as a child. We both spent many years of our lives biting our tongues (or trying to, in my case). I frequently end my day replaying conversations, wondering if I said too much and listened too little. I judge my words. This friend and I both learned (the hard way) the art of silence and listening. She’s much, much better at it than I am. She’s one of my favorite people to talk to.

She, too, frequently chooses silence. I can sometimes look at her and see, in her eyes, that there’s a cascade of words tumbling in her mind. Many of them do not make it out. She’s learned concision and editing. She, like Gamache, uses silence. She isn’t silenced. There’s a difference.

I think we all have a story to tell. Having a voice is a powerful thing. While learning to rein in our words and master silence is a challenge, the next step is finding our voice and learning how to use it well.

The monks have mastered the art of science. They have reached a level I’m pretty sure I’ll never attain (especially since I am not called to live in a monastery and I tend to be the kind of person who uses words to engage with the world). They have now been challenged to go beyond silence. To find their voice. To tell their version of events.

I’ve been planning to try this recipe for some time. For one reason or another I postponed it. I thought I was going to write about something else when I first planned to cook this dish. It’s funny that I ended up making it today. I’d been thinking about the art of silence and conversation – and balance. 

When I reread the scene, I realized that was what I was supposed to write about.

I spent most of the week reassessing. I was talking to 12 year old me and remembering how painful it was to feel silenced. I tried to evaluate how far I’ve come and whether or not I have learned to listen. I had been aiming towards mastering silence. I spent most of the week discovering that while silence is a part of it, it is only half of the art. In order to truly be a master of silence, you have to have a voice that is willing to make itself heard when needed.

“When challenged we simply do whatever is easiest. Do we sin by silence? If we have real faith then we must have the courage to speak up.”

Therein lays the challenge. My first impulse is to speak. Not necessarily to “speak up”. I sometimes use words to pacify and smooth over. It’s an important tool. With so much polarization in the world, people who easily see both sides of an issue and try to find common ground are needed. That’s not hard for me to do. A friend recently told me, though, that not everything is relative and sometimes you have to make a choice. Sometimes the choice isn’t ideal.

I am reminded of a song by Emeli Sande (listen here).

I spent some time alone, in silence, the past week and have discovered that a greater challenge awaits me. If I wish to master the art of conversation, I have to learn to hold my tongue and master silence, to acquire the wisdom to ponder and choose my words, and also to have the courage to speak up.

Quotes are from The Beautiful Mystery – page 95 in the paperback edition.