Cake and Tea - And the Business of Putting People Back Together

by Amy

It wasn’t servile work they did at the Manoir Bellechasse, Pierre knew. It was noble and crucial. They put people back together. Though some, he knew, were more broken than others.

 

I love this paragraph.

I’ve loved it since the first time I read it.

I remember thinking, how very true…

How someone does a job is as important as what job a person has. Every interaction with another human being, especially one who is fragile, vulnerable or hurting, can be decisive and essential. We may unknowingly be the agent of change in someone else’s life.

I recently heard a testimony about a wonderful man. He wanted to be a minister, but he was unable to attend ministry school. He became a janitor. He dedicated his life to serve and help anyone he could. As a janitor. It wasn’t servile work, just as the work at Manoir Bellechasse wasn’t.

It was noble and crucial. They put people back together.

When he died (and his son, a minister, choked back tears as he told the story), there was a seemingly never-ending line of people who came to pay their respects. Each and every one had a story to tell about the janitor who had counseled them, ministered to them, listened to them, guided them, taught them… put them back together.

Not everyone was made for this work.

Not everyone is in the business of putting people back together.

I am. At least I think I am. If I’m not, it’s where I want to be. It’s who I yearn to be remembered as.

Months ago, I posted about my “in between” cocoon phase. Much like Gamache’s “time of stillness”, in which he was interrupted and sucked into the frenzy of Clara’s quest, I too have been living a time of “stillness” and reflection and soul searching amidst a whirlwind of events and craziness and never-ending to do lists. In my post (HERE) I posed a series of questions to myself.

That’s one of my answers: regardless of what my “job” is, regardless of whether it’s apparently menial or servile, I am in the business of putting people back together. And, like Pierre, like the janitor in the minister’s story, it doesn’t very much matter what form it takes, any task can be performed with an overreaching goal that is noble and essential.

Elliot wasn’t. 

"I was just having some fun.”

Elliot said it was though it were reasonable to stand in the middle of the crowded, busy kitchen mocking the guests, and the maître d’ was the unreasonable one. Pierre could feel his rage rising. He looked around.

The large old kitchen was the natural gathering place for the staff. Even the gardeners were there, eating cakes and drinking tea and coffee. And watching his humiliation at the hands of a nineteen-year-old. He’s young, Pierre said to himself. He’s young. But he’d said it so often it had become meaningless.

He knew he should let it go. 

“You were making fun of the guests.”

“Only one. Oh, come on, she’s ridiculous. Excusez-moi, but I think he got more coffee than I did. Excusez-moi, but is this the best seat? I asked for the best seat. Excusez-moi, I don’t mean to be difficult, but I did order before they did. Where’s my celery stick?” 

Titters, quickly stifled, filled the warm kitchen. 

It was a good imitation. Even in his anger the maître d’ recognized Sandra’s smooth, cool whine. Always asking for a little bit more. Elliot might not be a natural waiter, but he had an uncanny ability to see people’s faults. And magnify them. And mock them. It was a gift not everyone would find attractive.

Two things strike me about this scene.

One is that Pierre is much less mature and sure of himself than Gamache. We have seen similar instances where agents ridiculed suspects or witnesses and Gamache summarily stopped them. He didn’t even feel humiliated when young agents intentionally ridiculed him. He was a bigger man than that. He was sure of his ground.

Pierre has the right idea, but he’s more vulnerable and less self-assured than Gamache.

The second is that it’s not enough to see people. Elliot saw. He saw people’s faults. He magnified them. To be in the business of building up you can’t be unaware. It’s not a lack of perception or insight. It’s the ability to see beyond the faults. 

It isn’t enough to see people.

We have to see beyond the faults. We have to decode faults and find reasons. We have to reach understanding or acceptance.

It wasn’t servile work they did at the Manoir Bellechasse, Pierre knew. It was noble and crucial. They put people back together. Though some, he knew, were more broken than others.

Let us all bear in mind that all interaction with others is noble and crucial and can change someone’s day. Little things that add up. Or, as in this post (HERE), it is about faithfulness in little things.

I tried out a new recipe. It’s from (HERE). I’d been meaning to try it for some time. Hints of rosemary, apple and lemon? What could go wrong? Mine wasn’t half as lovely looking as hers is, but it was delicious all the same. I made two. One for my own home and one for a lovely friend who is spectacular at all the little things and makes everyone feel special and loved.

All quotes are from A RULE AGAINST MURDER by Louise Penny

Lentil Soup & Unfashionable Beliefs, Kindness, and People Who Are Willing to Express Both

by Amy

“Why in the world would you confront Inspector Beauvoir? Especially now?”

“It’s difficult to explain.”

“Try.” 

“Honestly, Thérèse, can it matter at this stage?” 

“Does he know what you’re doing? What we’re doing?” 

“He doesn’t even know what he’s doing,” Gamache said. “He’s no threat.” 

Thérèse Brunel was about to say something, but seeing his face, the bruise and the expression, she decided not to. 

[…] 

They’d already eaten, but saved some for Gamache. He carried a tray with [lentil] soup and a fresh baguette, pâté and cheeses into the living room and set it in front of the fire.

This meal takes place in the quiet of the night, amidst low voices and in the presence of friends. There’s turmoil, though. This is the last meal before the culmination of the “last battle” he’s been planning for months – maybe years. He knows this could be his last meal, his last night, his last chance to make things right.

“Why did you go to Beauvoir?” 

Gamache sighed. 

“I had to try, one more time.” 

She looked at him for a long moment. “You mean one last time. You think you won’t get another chance.” 

They sat for a long moment. Thérèse kneaded Henri’s ears while the shepherd moaned and grinned. 

"You did the right thing,” she said. “No regrets.”

It’s easy for her to say he should have no regrets.

At the risk of being controversial, I think only those who don’t care enough can truly say they have no regrets.

Regret and remorse aren’t the same thing. Regret, unlike remorse, doesn’t necessarily involve guilt. 

Where there is regret, there is disappointment in opportunities missed, frustration with unwelcome outcomes, or sadness due to occurrences that might be beyond the scope of control. I don’t think it’s possible to live life and have no regrets. There are so many regrettable things in life.

Both feelings have to do with the past, but the main difference is in how we would do things if given the chance to change our actions. Where there is remorse, there is guilt, and I think the predominant feeling is that if we could just go back in time and choose another path, all would be well. Regret is less straightforward. It is possible to regret the outcome, but not the action that lead to it. It is possible to regret the pain you cause someone, but realize that there was little else you could do. It is possible to own up to the responsibility, but understand that it is not the same as guilt.

Regret and remorse aren’t the same, but they’re close and both can cause a deep ache.

Gamache undoubtably regrets that Beauvoir is so lost. His protege and friend is so far gone that “he doesn’t even know what he’s doing”. Gamache regrets that he feels abandoned and betrayed and hurt and alone. He regrets that he had to leave him in the factory, that Beauvoir didn’t listen when they tried to reach out, that boundaries had to be set, that Annie set up boundaries and, ultimately, left him.

While regret and remorse aren’t the same, niggling feelings of guilt tickle at Gamache and make him wonder if he could have done any differently. He blames himself even if there isn’t anything to blame. He regrets.

And he’s running out of time.

The scene where he confronts Beauvoir, a few hours before he sits to eat his soup, is one of the most powerful scenes in the books to me. There is so much love and kindness in these books and one of the central love stories is this one. Gamache and Beauvoir. The Chief Inspector and his Right Hand Man. Mentor and Protégé. Teacher and Star Pupil. Father Figure and Adopted Son. Father and Son-in-Law. Friends. Family. This is one of the most beautifully written relationships in fiction. To me, that is. But it's not secret that I have a soft spot for Beauvoir. Not to mention a book crush.

He walked straight toward his goal. Once there, he didn’t knock, but opened the door and closed it firmly behind him. 

“Jean-Guy.” 

Beauvoir looked up from the desk and Gamache felt his heart constrict. Jean-Guy was going down. Setting.“ 

Come with me,” Gamache said. He’d expected his voice to be normal, and was surprised to hear just a whisper, the words barely audible. 

“Get out.” Beauvoir’s voice, too, was low. He turned his back on the Chief.

Can you imagine the pain? 

“Well, take your fucking perfect life, your perfect record and get the fuck out. I’m just a piece of shit to you, something stuck to your shoe. Not good enough for your department, not good enough for your daughter. Not good enough to save.” 

The last words barely made it from Beauvoir’s mouth. His throat had constricted and they just scraped by. Beauvoir stood up, his thin body shaking.“ 

I tried…” Gamache began. 

“You left me. You left me to die in that factory.”

This broke my heart. I cried.

Not good enough to save.

I think none of us are good enough to save. And yet, while we are all unworthy, we are all redeemable. By Grace. By Love. And made whole and lovable and “good enough”.

Not good enough to save.

There are echoes of Beauvoir's own words, years earlier, when they went into a burning building to save Agent Nichole. Beauvoir questioned their heroics then, even as he followed Gamache into the flames. She isn’t worth it. Gamache challenged him to think of someone he loved, imagined it was them in that burning building, and then face the flames.

Not good enough to save.

He’d clung to Gamache’s hands, and to this day Gamache could feel them, sticky and warm. Jean-Guy had said nothing, but his eyes had shrieked. 

Armand had kissed Jean-Guy on the forehead, and smoothed his bedraggled hair. And whispered in his ear. And left. To help the others. He was their leader. Had led them into what proved to be an ambush. He couldn’t stay behind with one fallen agent, no matter how beloved.

There is regret. Painful, unsettling, heart wrenching regret.

But Armand Gamache knows he did what he had to do. He couldn’t have done any differently.

He’d known the unspeakable comfort of not being alone in the final moments. And he’d known then the unspeakable loneliness Beauvoir must have felt. 

Armand Gamache knew he’d changed. A different man was lifted from the concrete floor than had hit it. But he also knew that Jean-Guy Beauvoir had never really gotten up. He was tethered to that bloody factory floor, by pain and painkillers, by addiction and cruelty and the bondage of despair. 

Gamache looked into those eyes again.They were empty now. Even the anger seemed just an exercise, an echo. Not really felt anymore. Twilight eyes.

Jean-Guy had been so full of life, of potential, of intelligence. Look at him now! He’s in the pit of despair.

“You left me to die, then made me a joke.” 

Gamache felt the muzzle of the Glock in his abdomen and took a sharp breath as it pressed deeper. 

[…] 

“You have to get help.” 

“You left me to die,” Beauvoir said, gasping for breath. “On the floor. On the fucking dirty floor.” 

He was crying now, leaning into Gamache, their bodies pressed together. Beauvoir felt the fabric of Gamache’s jacket against his unshaven face and smelled sandalwood. And a hit of roses. 

“I’ve come back for you now, Jean-Guy.” Gamache’s mouth was against Beauvoir’s ear, his words barely audible. “Come with me.” 

He felt Beauvoir’s hand shift and the finger on the trigger tighten. But still he didn’t fight back. Didn’t struggle. 

Then shall forgiven and forgiving meet again. 

“I’m sorry,”said Gamache. “I’d give my life to save you.” 

Or will it be, as always was, /too late? 

“Too late,” Beauvoir’s words were muffled, spoken into Gamache’s shoulder. 

“I love you, Armand whispered. 

Jean-Guy Beauvoir leapt back and swung the gun, catching Gamache on the side of the face.

[…] 

“I could kill you,” said Beauvoir. 

“Oui. And maybe I deserve it.” 

“No one would blame me. No one would arrest me.” 

And Gamache knew that was true. He’d thought if he was ever gunned down, it wouldn’t be in Sûreté headquarters, or at the hands of Jean-Guy Beauvoir. 

“I know,” the Chief said, his voice low and soft. He took a step closer to Beauvoir, who didn’t retreat. “How lonely you must be.” 

He held Jean-Guy’s eyes and his heart broke for the boy he’d left behind. 

“I could kill you,” Beauvoir repeated, his voice weaker. 

“Yes.” 

[…] 

“Leave me,” Beauvoir said, all fight and most of the life gone from him. 

“Come with me.” 

“No.”

I can only imagine how painful that was. For both of them.

I stole one of my husband's sunset pictures - he's obviously a better photographer than I am.

I know. I speak of them as though they were real.

They are.

There are Gamaches and Beauvoirs everywhere. Annies and Beauvoirs. Sometimes, regardless of how much love is involved, boundaries must be set. Neither Gamache, nor Annie, despite their deep love for Jean-Guy, could follow him to the bottom. Sometimes, although your heart breaks, you have to confront the spiraling self-destructive behavior.

My heart breaks for Beauvoir. I can empathize with Gamache.

I confess, though, that in this scene I’m not sure who I feel for most. Beauvoir, at this point, is almost numb. Empty. Only half alive. Gamache is intensely alive, overflowing with love and sorrow for this child of his heart. Beauvoir is closer to him, in so many ways, than the children that share his blood. 

And he lost him. He’s grieving for the man he used to know and for the man Beauvoir might never become.

Armand Gamache had always held unfashionable beliefs. He believed that light would banish the shadows. That kindness was more powerful than cruelty, and that goodness existed, even in the most desperate places. He believed that evil had its limits. But looking at the young men and women staring at him now, who’d seen something terrible about to happen and had done nothing, Chief Inspector Gamache wondered if he could have been wrong all this time. 

Maybe darkness sometimes won. Maybe evil had no limits. 

He walked alone back down the corridor, pressed the down button, and in the privacy of the elevator he covered his face with his hands.

We rarely see Gamache give in to hopelessness. I think it is a measure of how heavy his heart is that he is on the brink of hopelessness here.

Just sharing the autumn mood - only decorated corner of the house - on this chilly day perfect for a bowl of soup!

I am so glad for Grace. For Redemption. Second Chances. Faith. Hope. Love.

I am so glad Jean-Guy is restored to himself. No, better than his former self. He is redeemed and is surprised by joy and becomes stronger where he had been broken. He is told, by his mentor, friend, and father-in-law, that he is a brave man in a brave country. He marries Gamache’s daughter and becomes the father to his grandson. He resumes his role as an Inspector, and continues to be Gamache’s loyal supporter, following him even as he makes difficult career choices.

He is redeemed. The boy Gamache thought was lost, is found. Darkness did not win.

As a reader. I was content already.

Then this scene came along, in A GREAT RECKONING.

** The scene that follows is not a spoiler, but if you'd rather not read anything from the latest book, skip and go to the recipe!

Oh Jean-Guy… You have outdone yourself. Bliss.

Louise Penny has openly spoken of her own battle with addiction and how she was surprised by joy and grace and forgiveness. She has touched so many of us with her stories, her insight into human character and interaction, and the grace and hope she writes in her books.

Jean-Guy, like Penny, has managed to turn his pain into strength.

There is a crack in everything. That is how the light gets in.

And he shines in this latest book.

“I thought I had the world figured out. Then everything I knew to be true, I started to question. And I hated him for it. […] But then the hate shifted,” said Beauvoir, speaking as though telling him a fable, a bedtime story. “I began to hate the very people I’d trusted. The ones who told me the world was filled with terrible people and that brutality was the same as strength. I’d learned to hit first and hard, and fast. 

[…] 

The world turned upside down,” Beauvoir continued. “It was at once more beautiful and more frightening than you’d been led to believe. And suddenly you didn’t know what to do. Who to trust. Where to turn. It’s terrifying. Being lost is so much worse than being on the wrong road. That’s why people stay on it so long. We’re too far gone, or so we think. We’re tired and we’re confused and we’re scared. And we think there’s no way back. I know.”

“When someone shoots at us, we return fire,” said Jean-Guy. 

Now Jacques did nod. 

“But it’s equally important that when someone is kind to us, we return that as well,” he said quietly. Careful. Careful not to scare the young man off. 

“It took me a very long time to come to that. The hatred I felt for Monsieur Gamache, and then the others, shifted again, and I began to loathe myself.” 

“Do you still?” Jacques asked, finally turning from the window, from the wasteland. “Hate yourself?” 

“Non. It took a long time, and a lot of help. Jacques, the world is a cruel place, but it’s also filled with more goodness than we ever realized. And you know what? Kindness beats cruelty. In the long run. It really does. Believe me.” 

He held out his hand to the young man. Jacques stared at it.

“Believe me,” Jean-Guy whispered. 

And Jacques did.

LENTIL SOUP

I considered making a recipe that included bacon, but then I realized I was probably the one who would be doing most (all) of the eating, so I made a vegetarian version that appealed to me more.

Ingredients:

-          1 tablespoon olive oil

-          1 onion

-          3 small carrots

-          1 leek (only the white part)

-          1 green onion

-          2 cloves of garlic

-          1 bay leaf

-         Dried oregano (about 1 teaspoon) (also some pepper flakes, maybe an extra bay leaf and some thyme)

-          Salt & pepper (to taste)

-          Broth (I used chicken because it’s what I had, but a true vegetarian might use vegetable)

-    Water (I started out with about a liter of broth, but added both more broth and more water in unquantifiable amounts because I added as needed)

-          1 can of tomatoes and their liquid

-          1 package (about 2 ½ cups) of lentils

-          1 teaspoon red vinegar

-          2 or 3 cups of chopped spinach leaves

Instructions

Heat the oil and add onion, carrots, green onion, leeks and garlic until softened. Season with salt and pepper (if you’re like me you’ll add too much of something and slap yourself in the forehead and try to fix it later – it’s usually redeemable).

Add the broth and the tomatoes. Since I don’t like watery soups, at this stage, I put most of the veggies and tomatoes in a food processor and blended them, then poured the thicker mixture back into the pan before adding the lentils. This is optional.

Add lentils and the bay leaf. Allow to simmer for about 30 minutes. Add more liquid (broth/water) if necessary. Add the red vinegar and the spinach leaves and simmer for another 3 to 5 minutes before serving. I added a dollop of sour cream and, bemoaning the fact that I didn’t have a yummy baguette to accompany the soup, I sliced up some smoked cheddar to accompany the meal. Meals, actually. I enjoyed it so much it was both lunch and dinner.

This was the perfect soup for reflecting and enjoying the rainy cloudy autumn day.

** All quotes, unless otherwise stated, are from Louise Penny’s HOW THE LIGHT GETS IN or THE GREAT RECKONING

Cafe au Lait and Greatness

by Amy

"Greatness? You'd consider Augustin Renaud that? I was under the impression you and the other members of the Camplain Society considered him a kook."

" Aren't most great people? In fact, I think most of them are both brilliant and demented and almost certainly unfit for polite society. Unlike us."

I think Émile is a great character. Don't you?

I love how he words things. I think it's fascinating (from a writing craft point of view) how a writer manages to give each character their own speech patterns and style. Their own voice. It's hard to find our own voice, let alone that of a myriad of characters. Fascinating.

I think Émile is right. To an extent.

A friend once told me about Isaiah Berlin's essay: The Hedgehog and the Fox.

The fox knows many things, but the hedgehog knows one big thing..

 Émile concurs with this theory. In his opinion, as in that of my friend, part of greatness is being dedicated to a subject or area to the point where you become an expert. That takes time and focus and is laudable, in its way.

The fox, on the other hand, may be competent at quite a few things, but isn't as singularly focused at anything. Therefore, its competence is "spread out" and has less depth.

I went on to read the essay and discovered that this theory is just the tip of the iceberg. It's really an essay on literature and Tolstoy, but the hedgehog versus fox dilema is food for thought. Are you born a hedgehog? Is it a personality trait? Are Aspies prone to hedgehogness? Can a fox train itself to become a hedgehog? Is hedghogginess worth it? What about the things the hedgehogs give up? These were questions we discussed and theorized about time and again.

I appreciate "hedgehog-like-personalitites". They are fascinating. The kind of single-mindedness that makes some people able to accomplish great feats is mind blowing. Some things wouldn't be possible if taken on by multitaskers or people with short attention spans. Some things require a tenacity and perseverance that are beyond most people's ability.

Gamache stirred his coffee and watched his mentor.

He considered him a great man, one of the few he'd met. Great not in his singularity of purpose, but in his multiplicity.

Ah... isn't Gamache wise?

While I appreciate those who do great things and are capable of great dedication to their cause of choice, I must agree with Gamache. There is greatness to be found in multiplicity. There is greatness to be found in flexibility, adaptability, and integrity.

Émile was a great man because he was a good man, no matter what was happening around him. Gamache had seen cases explode around his Chief, he'd seen accusations thrown, he'd seen internecine politics that would stagger Machiavelli. He'd seen his Chief bury his own beloved wife, five years earlier.

Strong enough to grieve.

And when, a few weeks ago, Gamache had marched in the achingly slow cortege behind the flag-draped coffins he had with each halting step remembered his agents and with each step remembered his first Chief. His superior then, his superior now and always.

I've spent this week feeling incompetent. Moving and adjusting means you aren't great at anything.

"I'm sorry. I was wrong. I need help. I don't know."

Every day. Every single day. Many times.

I've been sorry. I've been tired, short tempered, and less kind than I would like to be.

I've been wrong - about so many things - all the time!

I need help. More help than I'm comfortable with. We all like being independent.

And there is so so much I don't know. There are even things I don't know that I don't know.

It's a humbling experience.

I have no desire to be an Augustin Renaud. None. I am not hedgehog material. My interests are too varied and scattered for that. And right now, I'm not even showing fox-like competence. If I am to aspire to greatness in multiplicity, then, it must be in showing integrity, kindness, dedication, and goodness in whatever I endeavor to do. Easier said than done.

I have at least managed to drink the perfect mug of cafe-au-lait.

Whoever Anonymous (comment in last post) is, thank you. Your words were prophetic. I'm still not settled in. There are still suitcases and boxes and too many things to do (aside from the normal to do list) to feel like we're home. But last night? I sat down with my nice mug of tea. New mug. Plain white no chips mug. A mug I still have no history with. But I sat, drank my tea, wrote the next day's "to do list", and felt a little bit more at home.

I beg everyone's forgiveness because I have barely managed to buy enough supplies to make even the most basic of meals. I have not had easy access to the internet or my books, so I posted (once again) about a staple drink. I promise I will soon go back to writing about actual recipes!

Thank you all for reading!

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!

Salad and Little Lies

by Amy

“You didn’t recognize him?” asked Clara as she sliced some fresh bread from Sarah’s Boulangerie.

There was only one “him” Myrna’s friend could be talking about. Myrna shook her head and sliced tomatoes into the salad, then turned to the shallots, all freshly picked from Peter and Clara’s vegetable garden.”

When we talked about comfort food I mentioned how much I love bread. I make my own bread, but I buy bread, too. Bakeries are dangerous places.  I’ve stood at the counter eating fresh warm bread while preparing a meal…  I’ve stood at the kitchen counter eating warm bread way before mealtime just because the bread was there, it was warm… 

“She picked up a slice of baguette and chewed on it. The bread was warm, soft and fragrant. The outer crust was crispy.“For God’s sake,” said Clara, waving the knife at the half eaten bread in Myrna’s hand.”“Want some?” Myrna offered her a piece.The two women stood at the counter eating fresh warm bread…”

I didn’t make these baguettes. Unlike Libby, my culinary expertise should be rated as beginner level. Until I started to write this post it hadn’t even occurred to me to make the baguettes. I might try to eventually. I like baking bread. No one (not even Gabri & Olivier) make their own baguettes in the series. So I bought mine from the local bakery like everyone else does!

The Brutal Telling might be my favorite book of the series. Not because of the murder. Nor is it because of the mystery. I was squirming most of the way through the book because I spent most of the story imagining how Olivier felt.

“If the first victim of war was the truth, some of the first victims of a murder investigation were people’s lies. The lies they told themselves, the lies they told each other. The little lies that allowed them to get out of bed on cold, dark mornings.”

I winced when I read that. It’s not that I’m guilty of murder. It’s that I’m guilty of lying to myself. I suppose we all are.

“The police were at the door. Soon they’d be in their homes, in their kitchens and bedrooms. In their heads.”

I think it was when reading this book that I was truly struck by Louise Penny’s writing. I think her genius is that she’s actually a philosopher disguised as a mystery writer.

“Stories have a strange power of attraction. When we tell stories, we touch hearts. If we talk about theories or speak about ideas, the mind may assimilate them but the heart remains untouched.” (Jean Vanier - BECOMING HUMAN)

Olivier’s story is particularly touching. We all have “versions” of our lives, little lies we tell ourselves. This is a recurring theme in these books. “Lies are the first victims of murder investigations”. This is said more than once. They’re usually innocent lies. They can be coping strategies - more like self delusion than a lie. They can be very useful tools for surviving in the world.

Your mother’s kisses healed your scraped knees. It didn’t hurt when they called you names. If you press the snooze button just one more time you won’t be late. You didn’t even want the “whatever it was” you couldn’t afford. That extra piece of chocolate won’t make a difference. You don’t mind that your birthday was forgotten. You’re not jealous of the friend who effortlessly managed what you’ve been striving for years to do. You’re not afraid of heights. The airplane won’t crash today. Nothing bad will ever happen to anyone in your family. You’re not really sick, you can manage to go to work today. That can never happen to you. It's not your fault. It's not that late. You're not upset. It didn't hurt. You're fine. 

Then there are lies that go beyond coping. The little boy Olivier grew adept at keeping secrets and hiding his true self because he was convinced he wouldn’t be accepted or loved otherwise. Not that he knew unconditional love as a child. He created a character. He acted out this carefully crafted persona all through his life. He became convinced that there was a huge gap between the person inside and the one other people saw.

What he didn’t realize what that his friends knew him. They loved him. They saw the real him. Not that they knew what he had done to the hermit or the extent of his avarice. But they knew the potential for it. Ruth makes that clear. They knew he was greedy. They loved him in spite of it.

Another thing that he didn’t realize is that, in some ways, while the little lies we tell ourselves do not change the truth, they slowly change us. The change can be for the worse. At times it is those little lies that allow us to justify small wrongs and deny our own guilt. That’s when they can become a kind of rot that kills us slowly from the inside out. They change us in awful ways. Beauvoir and his addiction were a fascinating study down a terrible road. I digress… I’ll leave the subject of Beauvoir’s addiction for another post. The change can also mean improvement. Doesn't the saying go fake it till you make it? 

Olivier’s case was a bit more complex, though. The lies he told and the secrets he felt compelled to keep weren’t as bad as he thought. He was so afraid of being eschewed by his friends and community that he continued to hide the person he believed they could never love. He had no idea. They loved him – although they were all hurt and a bit shocked – even when they believed him to be a murderer. A greedy secretive hoarder of treasures seems so much easier to accept than a murderer.

Although he had that “other side”, the horrible side, the hidden side of himself, the hidden Olivier wasn't the "true" one. It was just one part of the whole. He spent so much time hiding behind a carefully groomed image (a sort of lie he told himself) he didn’t realize that the little (big) lie had slowly become as much a part of him as the needy void he was so keen on hiding from his friends.

I think most of us will agree that while he was greedy, he wasn’t selfish. He was stingy with money and with treasures, but he was generous in his time and kindness. He was frequently the first to see someone’s need and to find a way to help. Many times he does so with ulterior motives, but still… 

Remember the whole storyline with the elderly lady who sold her antiques at a bargain and got Ikea in exchange? She was happy. He might have cheated her, in a way, but they both felt it had been a fair exchange.

It puts me in mind of one of Neil Gaiman’s tumbler posts. Someone asked how he could become a better person. Neil answered that he should fake it. Everyone is horrible at times. None of us are truly altruistic all the time (and probably not even most of the time). Gaiman’s suggestion is to fake it and, eventually, it will become habit. (Here’s the link: http://neil-gaiman.tumblr.com/post/116751720466/dear-neil-i-am-a-horrible-person-how-to-be)

I think Olivier created a lie. He created a character that he could live with and he faked it. He was loved and he loved in return, but he wasn’t free. It took a murder and painful deconstruction of his lie to expose the vulnerable, scarred, frightened man that lived within the groomed exterior. It wasn’t his murder. The investigation, in truth, wasn’t about him. Nor would such full disclosure have become necessary had he been confident enough to tell the truth from the start. But then it was the greed that started the secrecy regarding the hermit, not lack of confidence.

“Myrna and Clara joined Peter at the table and as the women talked Peter thought of the man in charge of the investigation. He was dangerous, Peter knew. Dangerous to whoever had killed that man next door. He wondered whether the murderer knew what sort of man was after him. But Peter was afraid the murderer knew all too well.”

I think Peter’s discomfort in this scene, eating salad and bread, is telling. The characters who most lie to themselves and who are most afraid of being vulnerable and of exposing their souls are the ones who most fear Gamache, even when they are not murderers. Peter, Olivier, Ruth… and it is the unmaskings that have us turning the pages of the Inspector Gamache books.

I find myself reflecting on this idea again and again. In a way, ever since I first read it, this book has never left me. I find myself questioning what lies I tell myself and how harmless, damaging, or maybe even worthy they are. Some of them are useful to help me cope (I absolutely DO need a snooze button and 10 extra minutes before I get up). Some of them help me fake it into becoming the person I would like to be – even when I don’t feel like it (I love running early in the morning! Of course I want to talk about Pokemon and play with LEGOs for the thousandth time!) Others aren’t harmless – to me or others. Those are the ones I want to be brave enough to confront. Olivier’s story tells me that the people who love me don’t need those lies – they can handle the imperfect, vulnerable, and scared parts of me, too.

Salad

I had my gardening assistant (8 year old son) help me pick tomatoes from the garden. We also picked lettuce, arugula, mint leaves, and basil. I added chicken cubes which I’d grilled on an open pan earlier the same day. I cubed a Fuji apple and drenched it in the juice of one lime (it keeps it from becoming brown and adds flavor to the salad). 

All quotes, unless otherwise specified, are from THE BRUTAL TELLING, the scene that begins on page 28 of the paperback edition.

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.