For the sauce:
¼ cup salted butter
⅓ cup shredded parmesan
Fresh ground pepper
In a medium-sized saucepan, boil the frozen spinach until the spinach is entirely thawed and just cooked, about three to five minutes. Pour spinach into a strainer, pressing several times to remove as much moisture as possible.
Add the spinach and cheeses to a large mixing bowl and stir thoroughly, seasoning with the nutmeg, salt, and pepper. For best results while assembling, chill.
To make the ravioli, line a baking sheet with parchment or waxed paper, and sprinkle with cornmeal.
With your pasta maker, roll out a sheet of pasta to about a 5-level of thickness, making sure to keep the sheet as wide as possible. Place the sheet on your work surface. Starting at the top, place ½ teaspoon-sized scoops of the spinach mixture down half of the length of the sheet, about ¾ inch apart. If you have a 16-inch length of pasta, aim to fit about 8 scoops onto one side, in four rows of two.
Brush the areas around the filling with water, and fold the dough over the filling to close. Form the individual packets with your fingers first, pressing in between the mounds of filling, then use a knife or ravioli cutting wheel to cut them apart. Crimp the edges with a fork, and set the completed ravioli onto the lined baking sheet. If not cooking immediately, cover the baking sheet with plastic wrap and refrigerate until use. Ravioli may also be frozen.
Set a large pot of water to boil with a tablespoon of salt. In a large saucepan, melt the butter over low heat. Add the ravioli to the boiling water, turning the heat down to simmer gently (about medium-high). Keep an eye on the water—a rolling boil can cause the ravioli to burst. Meanwhile, stir the melted butter occasionally. Allow the butter to simmer until it turns a light golden brown, about 6–8 minutes. Remove from heat.
Cook the ravioli for 3–4 minutes; cooked ravioli will float to the top. Drain them gently and return to the pot, tossing gently to cook off any remaining moisture. Pour the butter into the pasta pot (or vice versa, it doesn’t much matter), and lightly toss the ravioli in the browned butter to coat. Spoon the ravioli into bowls, and top with the shredded parmesan and cracked black pepper.
Serves 4.
Once you start cooking, one thing leads to another. A new recipe is as exciting as a blind date. A new ingredient, heaven help me, is an intoxicating affair.
—BARBARA KINGSOLVER
“I have a bad feeling about Alice,” Sandrine confessed to me as we washed dishes. “A part of me wants to read the diary to the end, find out what became of her.”
“Then do,” I said, rinsing off the pasta pot.
She shook her head. “No, I don’t want to walk around knowing secrets. What is it you call them? Spoilers? No, I prefer having us share the story.”
“If you change your mind,” I said, “you know where it is.”
“I have questions for my mother, now. Questions I never knew to ask—and I’m sure you feel that way about your grandmother.”
“I do. Sometimes it makes the missing worse. I feel I miss the person and the opportunities to ask questions about such things.”
“Oui,” Sandrine agreed. “I thought I knew everything. My mother was very open. But she never told me about an adopted sister or secret cousin. And so I fear the worst befell little Alice. Otherwise, it would be a story that we knew a version of.”
I nodded. I knew there was no functional use in worrying over a toddler who hadn’t been a toddler for seventy years, but I knew I’d feel uneasy until we knew something. I knew too that there was no guarantee that the end of the diary would bring the answers we looked for. It wouldn’t have been the first time history had swallowed its secrets whole.
There were many wonderful things about the chateau, and one of them was the sheer number of rooms. Neil and I found a sitting room on the second floor that quickly became our quiet place.
The room faced south, with large paned windows and a long window seat beneath them. A cushion and toss pillows made the seat inviting, but there were also three restored sofas, so you could always sit and face the light.
It was quiet and private, but not so far from the guest rooms and gathering rooms that we were isolating ourselves.
I took a book with me and curled up on the sofa directly facing the windows; a short time later, Neil knocked on the open door. “Do you mind company?”
“You’re funny. Come and sit with me.”
He sat, and I leaned into his chest, sighing as he stroked the top of my head.
“Are you sure about Atlanta?” Neil asked as we looked out the window at the night sky.
“I have a Pinterest board dedicated to places to eat and visit in Atlanta,” I answered. “Don’t worry about me.”
He chuckled. “I can’t argue with a Pinterest board.” He pressed a kiss to my hair. “I just want you to be happy.”
“I do too. That’s why I’m going with you.”
Neil didn’t respond, but I could hear him arguing in his head.
I patted his hand. “You’re just going to have to trust me,” I said. “I’m not going to change my mind.”
Silence.
“And I’ll have Gigi,” I continued.
He wrapped his arms around mine. “I’m glad for that.”
But as we gazed out at the Provençal evening, I couldn’t shake the knowledge that Neil had a point. I’d certainly traveled in my lifetime, but I hadn’t moved. I knew enough about Georgia to know I’d be in for some very real cultural shifts.
I could do it. I was a grownup—I had to leave home sometime. But I’d be kidding myself if I believed it would be an easy transition.
“We’ll be together, and I’ll make new friends, and I’ll teach cooking classes,” I said. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll stay busy.”
“Let’s take our coffee into the parlor,” Caterina suggested Thursday morning. “And I’ll take the reading shift.”
“I’ll take notes,” Sophie offered. “So if someone needs or wants to be elsewhere, it’ll be easy to loop back to the salient points.”
“Bonne idée,” Sandrine agreed.
Letizia offered to bring the platter of cornetti, just in case the edge of hunger returned so far from the kitchen.
We settled together in the parlor, making the most of the winter morning’s light, and reentered Mireille’s world.
Dearest Gabriel,
The house feels easier, of late. Cécile and I spend a good deal of our days together. The girls play together, running naked in the garden when Maman isn’t around.
In my mind, Alice isn’t my Alice anymore. She is called a different name, has grown taller, lost some of her infant roundness. Do not misunderstand me—she is and always will be our daughter, especially since she is the very image of you. But when I look at her, I see her—she’s made your features her own, in her sweet girlish way. She is called a different name, looks different, sounds different. She reaches for Cécile, and Cécile holds her close, her eyes glowing with love.
My Alice—she is tucked away in my heart, and we cannot be parted. This child—I love her, but it is different, non? She is not mine to love, and she does not suffer for it.
Gabrielle is likewise growing, and that one I rarely allow to stray from my side. She does not much mind. We spend a good time outside, walking through the forest, letting Anouk sniff about the ferns.
I’ve been gardening more. Françoise keeps a lovely kitchen garden, and I do what I can. Namely, I dig and water and pull weeds, and while I’m usually filthy at the end—Gabrielle too, for that matter—it’s satisfying work. At the end, I can see that I’ve done something productive. I do have to be quick, though—twice, Gabrielle found the slugs before I did, and it took me hours to stop cringing (almost as long to clean her up—I can’t even think about it now).
Gilles joins me in the garden as he is able. If it were not for the aspirations of Mme. Bessette, I believe he would have been the happiest gentleman far
mer, for he dearly loves a chance to roll his sleeves past his elbows and work his fingers into the earth. He knows the amounts of water that various plants should receive, which ones do better with more acidic soil.
He has told me he will have to return to Toulouse day after next. The poor man: we have disrupted his life ever since he found us by the side of the road on our way to the chateau, that sad and fateful night.
I asked what he planned; for all I knew, he would simply decide to return to Toulouse, where he keeps a quiet pied-à-terre and a manservant. No messy widows or children there, and I could not blame him if he decided to spend the rest of the war there.
Instead he answered that he would be back in a week, sooner if he was able. He had to look in at the factories that he’d invested in two years prior, but that his presence wasn’t needed on a daily basis.
He looked out onto the lavender field and then back at me, and said again that he’d be back as soon as he was able.
I’m not quite certain how I feel on the subject. If I felt about Gilles the way that I used to feel about him, I would feel relief at the distance.
But the feeling in my chest—it does not feel very much like relief.
Dearest Gabriel,
Gilles left two days ago, in his roadster, the same one that brought us to the chateau after the truck broke down.
After all this time, it feels strange to be at the chateau without him. Gabrielle has gone looking for him, particularly in the garden when she’s found a handful of dirt she’s particularly proud of.
Anouk is grateful for the extra space on the bed, but after growing accustomed to a person beside me, his absence is that much more noticeable.
It has only been two days. I will go to the garden and be useful. There are some lovely aubergines, and I think they will make a very nice vegetable tart.
On another subject altogether, I believe Cécile to be enceinte. She’s very sensitive to kitchen smells, and weeps along with Alice when Alice bumps or bruises along the course of the day. She hasn’t mentioned anything to me, and neither has Maman or Tante Joséphine, though Tante Joséphine shot me a significant look the other day when Cécile teared up about spilling her tea on her skirt.
A baby for Cécile and Richard—I am delighted for them. But a part of me also twinges in my heart.
My pregnancy with Gabrielle and Alice—it certainly wasn’t easy. Only now does my body seem to begin to return to its former self. But I would have loved another child with you, in time. A son. Or perhaps more girls—we would have loved any combination of children, I am sure.
So at times, watching Cécile’s life carry forward reminds me of the ways that ours won’t. Our little family is done, and not only done, but divided.
And life carries on.
I really must go to the vegetable garden. If I sit and write any longer, I’m simply going to stay at my desk and cry.
Dearest Gabriel,
Gilles left five days ago. No word, as yet. I had wondered if he might call, but I imagine he’s been quite busy. We’ve listened to the radio, and there have been no reports of military action in that area.
I’m sure he’s fine. I wish I could sleep at night, but Anouk does her best to be a fine companion.
Cécile came and told me that she suspected she was expecting, and I told her I had suspected as much also. She blushed prettily, saying she had missed her last two flows. I told her that she should see the physician in town, or have Maman insist he come to the chateau, but that in all likelihood she and Richard would have a child by late spring.
Cécile and I have not spoken about what is to come at the end of the war. It is too uncertain to know. Can one trade a child back and forth like a pair of gloves? I know the Londoners have sent all of their children to the countryside, where they are out of the path of the shellings.
We worry less about shells, here. We worry about the whispers of neighbors and those we would call friends. So often I feel worry is a heavy, wet, wool blanket we wear about our shoulders.
If only it was not already raining.
Dearest Gabriel,
Gilles left one week ago. No word, but I do expect him today. In preparation, I have harvested some lovely squash and roasted it, then folded it into croissant dough. I made two options: one sweet with sugar and cinnamon, the other savory with sage. We shall see which one the family prefers.
Both girls are cutting teeth—we may be pretending they are cousins, one adopted at that, but they do like to do things at the same time. Despite the despair created by sore gums, the household hums in anticipation of Gilles’s return.
Remember when you traveled to Lyons for a week? When you returned, I’d made you almond croissants and chocolate mousse, and then you built a fire, and we, ah, reacquainted ourselves with each other? Your kisses tasted of chocolate mousse with a hint of almond. Writing this, years later, my heart flutters in remembrance.
I do not believe that will be the homecoming Gilles will receive, but I confess that the news has me wondering what the future might hold.
When we married, we believed it to be for the rest of our lives, even though my parents would have liked very much if I’d decided to annul the union and come home. But we chose each other. Marriage, as an institution, meant a great deal to me.
And now that I am married to Gilles—granted, under wholly different circumstances—how does that change my stance on the state?
We have not, of course, consummated our vows, so ending our attachment would simply be a matter of paperwork, and the church would have no cause to consider raising its hackles. But even though we haven’t shared that particular intimacy, I do feel Gilles and I have shared others.
We both know that there are many kinds of intimacy in a marriage. All that to say—I don’t know what he wants from me. Are we to part ways after the war, and I will live out my life as a rather scandalous widow? Or have Gilles and I collected enough intimacies, built enough trust, to grow a real marriage? And if so, is that something that I want?
It does seem strange sharing this here, dearest, but I feel you’d want to know, and that you’d have an interest. If the situation were reversed, I’d want you to have a companion, if only to reassure me that you’d eat at least two meals per day and wear the occasional clean garment.
(Please do not feel insulted, dearest. But it’s true that you got tied up at work quite often and forgot about social niceties.)
I wish you could answer me. Tante Joséphine believes Gilles and I ought to have a real marriage. I cannot decide if that’s wisdom or wishful thinking.
He’s good to Gabrielle, though. No matter what else one might say, he’s very kind to her.
She’s waking from her nap, speaking of our daughter. And it’s for the best, or I’d sit here all day writing myself in circles.
Dearest Gabriel,
Gilles has been away for nine days. I am not certain what to do. He has not called. There have been no telegrams.
I feel on edge and I am not hiding it well; Tante Joséphine patted me on the hand and told me that he would return soon.
I tried to call his flat, but the operator could not find his listing. I would have asked his mother—but I would have had to ask his whereabouts of Mme. Bessette. I don’t want to ask my mother-in-law where my husband is, even if we’re just barely husband and wife.
If Gilles and I were truly husband and wife, I would know his whereabouts.
And yet I can’t decide if I’m angry, hurt, or very, very frightened.
Dearest Gabriel,
Telegram from Gilles. He has been held up at the factory, and apologizes for his delay, as well as the lack of word. Expects to return next week.
Dearest Gabriel,
Gilles returned very late last night, having worked, eaten a bite, and then begun the journey.
I had retired about an hour earlier, and didn’t know he’d returned until he knocked softly on the door of our suite.
He entered the bedroom, apologiz
ing for the late hour and telling me not to get up. But I sat up anyway, and asked about his journey.
He sat down next to me and said that the factory had required much more of his time than he’d expected, and he apologized for not sending the telegram sooner.
And then he put his hand on my knee and said he’d missed me, but that he knew it was very late and that he wanted to take a bath before going to bed.
I lay there, trying to sleep, listening to the sound of the water rushing through the pipes, of Gilles lowering himself into the bath.
After a fashion, I heard a different noise—snoring.
He’d gone and fallen asleep in the tub.
I stifled a laugh. He’d likely wake up at some point, but the idea of him asleep—well, I worried it could end badly, and the last thing I needed was a husband who’d accidentally drowned in the bath.
So I rose, slipped into my bathrobe, and knocked softly on the washroom door.
The adage that children are peaceful when they’re sleeping? It’s also true about grown men. The worry and concern in Gilles’s face had eased in sleep, his head resting against a folded towel at the apex of the tub.
I studied his face because I dared not look elsewhere. Another stack of towels rested on the stool near the tub, and I reached for one before touching his shoulder.
“Gilles,” I said, and I touched his shoulder again.
His eyes flew open, and he looked at me in confused alarm.
“You fell asleep. Come, dry off and come to bed.”
“I’m naked,” he said.
Again, I dared not look away from his face. “Yes, it’s better to bathe that way. I have a towel for you. Let’s get you dried off before you dissolve.”
I held out the towel, looking away, my arms outstretched.
“I didn’t know I was so weary,” he said, standing slowly from behind the towel. He turned and took the towel; I could see the blush on his face before I turned around altogether.
Together at the Table Page 25
