by Pat Conroy
9. To make the frosting: Whip the heavy cream and sugar together until the cream is almost firm. (Do not overwhip.) Fold the untoasted coconut into the whipped cream.
10. Frost the bottom layer of cake with one-third of the coconut cream. Place the second layer on top of the coconut cream, and frost top and sides of cake with the remaining cream. Sprinkle the top and sides with toasted coconut.
At Beaufort High I took one course that I had to keep secret from my father at all costs. Gene Norris had talked the only writer in Beaufort County Ann Morse, into teaching a high school class in creative writing. Mrs. Morse wrote under the name of Ann Head and admitted to me once that she never would be a distinguished writer. “But I have a few things I want to say” she said. Her list of novels included Fair with Rain and Always in August, and her first mystery Everybody Adored Cara, was in galleys when we first met in a room off the library at Beaufort High. On first sight, Mrs. Morse projected a steely withholding and icy reserve that would have been off-putting to me except for the thrilling fact that she was the first novelist I’d ever met in the flesh. She looked like a woman who would not tolerate a preposition at the end of a sentence or the anarchy of a dangling participle.
“Mr. Norris has told me nice things about you, Mr. Conroy” Mrs. Morse said. “He thinks you might become a writer someday.”
“How do you do it, ma’am?” I asked.
“Simple. You write. You just write. Beginning, middle, end. That’s it,” she said. “I made some suggestions to improve your poems and writing assignments. Mr. Norris says you got a little drunk on Thomas Wolfe last year.”
“I loved him, Mrs. Morse. I couldn’t help it.”
“Alas and alack,” she said. “If possible, don’t imitate him in everything you write, Pat.”
“I’ll try, Mrs. Morse,” I promised.
“Please do,” she said. “I would like to find out what your voice sounds like, Pat. I had the class come into the library to read the screenplays of Ingmar Bergman. Have you ever heard of him?”
“Mr. Monte, my English teacher at Gonzaga High School, gave us extra credit if we went to see The Virgin Spring,” I said. “I wrote a paper on it.”
“This Mr. Monte must have been a special teacher,” she said. “This is my personal copy. Take it home, but bring it back. I loathe people who don’t return books and their tribe is legion.”
“I’ll bring it back next class,” I offered.
“Thank you. You used the word ‘poignant’ in one of your poems. I dislike that word intensely. It’s been greatly overused by untalented people.”
“Poignant’s gone, Mrs. M,” I said.
“Why did you call me Mrs. M?” she said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I shorten people’s names. It’s a bad habit.”
“Mrs. M,” she said coldly. “I like it. Please call me that.”
Though my affliction with Thomas Wolfe was now an effervescence that lit up my prose, Mrs. M gave me assignments that showed me another way to go. She required that my adjectives actually mean something when I landed them into one of my overloaded paragraphs. She brought all six of her students news of the world of writing, read us letters from both her agent and editor, and took our efforts with high seriousness. I discovered that my lab mate in physics, Allen Ryan, was the best poet in the school by a long shot; that his sister, Terry, might have been the smartest person I’d ever met; and that a shy, unartificial girl named Joan Fewell produced work every week that was surprising, original, and offbeat. I took great delight in the work that our carefully selected class produced, and the six of us ended up filling over half the literary magazine at the end of the year. We took Mrs. M’s class with the solemnity that her massive coolness seemed to require. Never once did she seem comfortable around us, her gravity and reserve forces of nature that deflected the possibility of any caprice or horseplay in her presence. She never gave the slightest sign that she was falling in love with us as we turned in our sketches, poems, and stories for her critical inspection.
Once, during basketball season, Mrs. M stopped me outside the library door and said, “Pat, where are you attending college next year?”
I blushed and said, “I don’t know, Mrs. M.”
“You don’t know? That’s absurd. Allen’s already been accepted to Stanford.”
“I’ve got to win a basketball scholarship,” I said. “Otherwise I don’t know if my parents can afford it.”
“What nonsense. Your father’s an officer in the Marine Corps,” she said. “You don’t come from a family of beggars. What’ll you do if you don’t get a scholarship?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. M.”
“This is preposterous. I wish to speak with your father,” she said.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mrs. M. Dad’s a little different.”
“I’m a graduate of Antioch College in Ohio,” she said. “I think you’d flourish in such an atmosphere. It’s free-spirited and bohemian.”
“I wouldn’t tell my father that.”
“What are your parents thinking?” she said.
After basketball practice that night, I entered the car of my scowling father and he got right to the point. “Who is this Morse broad that’s teaching you?”
“Mrs. M. It’s an English class, Dad,” I said.
“You’re lying. It’s a goddamn creative writing class. Did I ever give you permission to be in an artsy-fartsy class like that? Damn right, I didn’t. The Morse broad started lecturing me about when we’re supposed to apply for you to go to college. Like it’s any of her goddamn business. Do you know what she told me? That she thought she could get you a free ride to Antioch on a creative writing scholarship. Isn’t that some shit? You know what Antioch’s famous for producing?”
“No, sir.”
“Communists, that’s what. They turn ‘em out like sausages up there. It’s a whole college full of fruitcakes and weirdos and pinkos. What a pushy broad. She talked to me like I was a fucking shoeshine boy and she was the Queen of fucking Sheba. Drop that course, pal. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Antioch fucking communist Ohio,” he said. “You can bet your sweet ass you ain’t going there.”
When Mrs. M drove up to the high school parking lot for the next class, I opened the door of her car and explained that my father had demanded that I drop her course. Mrs. M handed me a briefcase filled with her books and papers and we walked together toward the library.
“I must be honest, Pat,” she said. “I found your father to be a dreadful man. Our conversation was not fruitful.”
“You’ve got to catch Dad on the right day,” I said defensively. “He takes some getting used to.”
“He was a perfect ass,” she said, and I laughed because I had never heard anyone called that in my life. “Your mother must be a saint.”
“You’d like Mom a lot, Mrs. M.”
“Are you going to quit my course?”
“I have to. Dad’d kill me if he knew I disobeyed him,” I said.
“He told me that he was going to make you quit,” Mrs. M said. “But I have come up with a plan.”
“What is your plan?”
“Simplicity itself. Guerrilla warfare. I scratch you off my class roll. Yet you continue to come to class. You do all the work. If anyone asks, I will claim that you dropped the class. You do the same. We will protect each other’s flanks. Our work is literature, Pat. A philistine like your father will not make us deviate from our chosen course.”
“If he finds out, I’m a dead man.”
“I’ll call his office today to say you dropped out,” she said. “I’ll try to get him to reconsider. Because your father is obstinacy itself, he will refuse. It’s foolproof.”
“I’ll do it, Mrs. M.”
“One day, Pat—not now—but someday down the road when you have some distance from all this,” she said, thinking, “you need to write about that guy.”
Aft
er that year, Mrs. M never let me drop out of her life and wrote me carefully considered decorous letters that brought me both news of Beaufort and her career and thoughtful commentary on the poems and short stories I had published in The Citadel’s literary magazine, The Shako, which I sent for her review. She kept her criticism upbeat and engaged and it was through her letters that I came to know the more passionate artist who simmered beneath that ice palace of a woman whose capacity for reserve seemed like a vocation. In her letters, I could translate her great fondness for me, and she let me know that she took my work with utter seriousness. She sent me a copy of Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast when it first came out and told me that one day she and I would travel to Paris together and visit all of Hemingway’s cafés and haunts. In 1979, I took that journey, but Mrs. M did not come with me.
In 1968, the first year I was teaching at Beaufort High School, Gene Norris called me at home to tell me that Ann Head Morse had died of a massive stroke at her home. Dumbstruck, I attended her funeral. I was twenty-two; it was long before I would publish a single word or reward her for the generous faith she had shown in me as a young writer. At the time of her death, Mrs. M was the only writer I actually knew by sight, and her untimely and unforeseen death robbed me of the mentor I thought would help me navigate the fearful world of American publishing. My amateurish entrance into that world was directly related to her disappearance from my life. Her remoteness now seems one of the ways that shyness can manifest itself in people who prize silence. Though I was not her type, she worked to make me her type and succeeded. I was lucky that she found me as a boy, and whenever I publish a new book, I take a rose to her headstone at St. Helena Cemetery in Beaufort and place it before her without a word, respecting her detachment as part of the bond between us. Mrs. M had a hard eye, always on the lookout for the sentimental or the maudlin, and she would disapprove of my visit. She would absolutely shudder at the rose.
ROASTED BEETS WITH BLUE CHEESE AND SHERRY VINAIGRETTE I have a thing for sugar beets, and I make them in a variety of ways. The recipe presented here is for those excitable moments when I wish to put on the dog. I like to roast or boil beets, chop them up with vigor until they are bite-size, then dress them with Dijon mustard, a knuckle of freshly minced garlic, and the juice of half a lemon. I’ve done the same using sour cream, horseradish, and lemon juice. The only flaw I find with beets is the deep magenta coloring they impart so generously to clothes and hands. Cautious cooks use rubber gloves when handling beets, but I go for several days caught red-handed by friend and foe alike. • SERVES 4
FOR THE VINAIGRETTE
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
2 tablespoons Spanish sherry vinegar
2 tablespoons olive oil
4 tablespoons grapeseed oil
6 medium beets (about 2 pounds)
Olive oil
½ cup chopped walnuts
8 ounces blue cheese, cut into small pieces
1. To make the vinaigrette: In a small bowl, whisk together the mustard and vinegar until smooth. Drizzle the oils in, drop by drop, and whisk until smooth. Reserve. Preheat the oven to 400°F.
2. Trim, scrub, and dry the beets. Place each beet in the middle of a square of aluminum foil, drizzle with olive oil, and seal the foil into an airtight packet. Place the packets on a sturdy cookie sheet and roast until tender (the tip of a paring knife will easily pierce the beet), 55 to 60 minutes. Cool on a rack until easy to handle.
3. Lower oven heat to 325°F.
4. Spread the walnuts out in a small roasting pan and toast until slightly crisp and lightly browned, about 6 minutes. (Do not over-toast.)
5. Slice the beets and arrange on four serving dishes. Evenly distribute cheese and walnuts over the portions, drizzle with vinaigrette, and serve.
OMELET FINES HERBES The well-folded omelet is the mark of a good cook. My omelets are temperamental, hit-or-miss, or suffer from slight deformities. Nathalie Dupree insisted on the eggs being stovetop for the entire journey, but I have enjoyed greater success with the broiler method. When my father was dying, I made him an elaborate omelet that took a half hour of prep work. I served it to him and he ate it with pleasure, then said, “Best scrambled eggs I ever had, pal.” • SERVES 1
3 large eggs
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
About 1 tablespoon mixed chopped fresh herbs, such as parsley, chervil, tarragon, and chives
1. Preheat the broiler.
2. Whisk together the eggs. Set aside. Melt the butter in a pristine 8-inch nonstick pan over medium heat, swirling to distribute evenly, then pouring out any excess.
3. Place the pan over medium heat again. Pour in the whisked eggs and use a heat-resistant rubber spatula to stir the eggs as they cook. When the eggs look like they are setting (no longer wet), push down any eggs on the edges of the pan with the spatula to make sure they are even with the bottom of the pan.
4. Remove the pan from the heat and immediately place under the broiler for about 2 minutes, or until the eggs are evenly set. Sprinkle the eggs with the herbs.
5. Using a pot holder and grasping the pan with your left hand, tilt it over a serving plate, using the rubber spatula to help fold the omelet, and serve.
ASPARAGUS AND POACHED EGG SALAD WITH BACON
Asparagus with poached egg salad is notable because it is easy to make and tastes as good as anything on earth. It makes me want to sprint to the kitchen. • SERVES 1
2 thick slices smoky bacon
1 teaspoon plus 1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1 teaspoon olive oil
1 shallot, chopped
¼ pound medium-thin asparagus
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 large eggs
1. Cook the bacon until crisp; drain and crumble. Reserve.
2. In a medium skillet with a tight-fitting lid, heat 1 teaspoon of butter and the olive oil.
3. Add the shallot and cook until golden brown, about 3 minutes.
4. Trim and rinse the asparagus, but don’t dry it (there should still be water clinging to the stalks). Add it to the skillet. Using long tongs, quickly rotate the asparagus to coat. Cover tightly and cook, turning once or twice, until the asparagus is lightly browned.
5. Season with salt and pepper and transfer to a warm serving dish (making sure to include the browned shallot).
6. Place the 1 tablespoon butter in a pristine nonstick pan over moderate heat and melt until foamy. Crack eggs into the skillet, gently swirling the whites so they spread out and fill the pan. As soon as the egg whites become cloudy—about 1 minute—lower the heat, cover, and cook until the egg whites are firm but not hard, about 2 minutes.
7. Immediately top the asparagus with the eggs, sprinkle with bacon, and serve.
LEG OF LAMB WITH ROASTED FENNEL In 1968, I took my first trip abroad and found myself at a restaurant on the outskirts of Beirut. In front of me, I found a bowlful of sheep’s eyeballs, which I eyed with curiosity. Then I ate them with frightful relish. Below me was a rushing river with a pebbly bottom and a slight waterfall ahead. The owner of the restaurant pointed to a scene behind me, and I turned to watch a group of bedouins riding their camels across an aqueduct built by the Romans and a shepherd leading his sheep across the river where mythology tells us that Hercules was born. I remember thinking, I was born to see things as wonderful as this. When I turned around a leg of lamb had been put before me and my companions from a Greek cruise ship. The owner carved it into pale, juicy slices the size of playing cards. Small nuggets of garlic covered the plate, and the aroma of lamb and lemon and garlic made you believe that Hercules deserved to be born in this river. It was the finest meal I had ever eaten to that point of my life.
• SERVES 6 TO 8 WITH LEFTOVERS
1 leg of lamb (about 7 pounds), trimmed but still on the bone
3 sprigs fresh rosemary, coarsely chopped
Coarse or kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
Olive oil
3 fe
nnel bulbs, thinly sliced (6 cups)
1 red onion, thinly sliced (1 cup)
1. Bring the lamb to room temperature. Make a paste of the chopped rosemary and salt and pepper, binding it with olive oil. Rub the paste on all sides of the lamb and let it sit for 30 minutes.
2. Preheat the oven to 425°F.
3. Mix the fennel and red onion, toss lightly with olive oil (until coated but not drenched), and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Transfer to a baking pan and roast until golden brown, stirring once or twice, 20 to 25 minutes. Cool on a rack and reserve in the pan.
4. Increase the oven heat to 450°F. Adjust an oven rack to the lower portion.
5. Place the lamb in a shallow roasting dish and sear in the oven for 15 minutes.
6. Lower the heat to 350°F and roast until the internal temperature reads 130°F on an instant-read meat thermometer inserted in the thickest part of the lamb, about 1 hour.
7. Transfer the lamb to a carving board and cover with a loose tent of aluminum foil. Let rest for 10 minutes before carving. Meanwhile, return fennel and red onion to the oven to heat through. Serve the lamb garnished with warm fennel and red onion.
