So considering that my personal and professional life is in a state of upheaval (all very recent, mind you), I strongly suggest you find one of the other nice women on this site, the sort who have their lives together, have a better grasp on their personal genealogy, and enjoy, I don’t know, softball. Or scrapbooking. Trust me, it’s better for everyone this way.
Sincerely,
BellaGrazie/Whatever/Juliette
I sent the e-mail, clicked the Cancel Account button once again, closed the laptop lid, and went to bed in the hopes that tonight, of all nights, I might be able to find temporary oblivion in sleep.
NICO’S MINI FOCACCIA
These make a wonderful light dinner with a salad or a perfect party appetizer if cut into wedges. Make sure they turn golden when you bake them—the flavor is in the color. They do take a while to make, but they’re worth it!
For the sponge:
½ cup all-purpose flour
½ cup warm water (105–115°F)
1 teaspoon active dry yeast
For the dough:
3¾ to 3¾ cups flour
1 cup warm water
2 teaspoons fine sea salt
1 tablespoon (or so) olive oil
To make the sponge, combine the flour and water in a large bowl with the yeast. Stir until smooth. Seal the bowl with plastic wrap and let stand for 2 to 8 hours at room temperature.
After the sponge has fermented, prepare the dough. Add the cup of warm water and salt. Add flour gradually, stopping when the dough begins to pull away from the sides of the bowl.
Prep a surface to knead on, such as a floured pastry cloth, with the remaining flour. Knead the dough on the pastry cloth, folding it, pressing it down with the heel of your hand, and folding again several times, working in just enough of the flour to produce a soft, stretchy dough—about 3 to 5 minutes. Remember—overworked dough is tough dough. Put the dough in a warm spot in the kitchen, and allow it to rise in a cloth-covered, oiled bowl until the dough doubles in size.
Line two baking sheets with parchment paper. Punch the dough down; ignore it for 10 minutes. With oiled hands, divide the dough into eight equal pieces with four pieces on each baking sheet. Press each piece into a 4-inch circle. Brush the tops with oil, then poke them with your fingers to create the indented surface. Cover with plastic and ignore for 30 minutes while the dough rests.
Heat oven to 400°F. Salt and pepper (freshly ground pepper, per usual) the tops. To parbake: bake 6 to 8 minutes, until the rounds have lost their doughiness but haven’t browned. To fully bake: bake 14 to 17 minutes, until lightly golden. To bake parbaked rounds: bake for 7 to 11 minutes, until lightly golden. The joy of parbaked bread is that the bread can be saved—refrigerated or frozen—and baked fresh for another day. You can also wrap up the remaining dough and keep it to bake later, for up to 5 days.
The focaccia is very good plain—perfect for dipping in oil and vinegar—but if you want to put toppings on it, pull out the rounds at the 7-minute mark and finish the baking with the toppings.
For the toppings—sauté shallots in olive oil, add dried figs, a bit of honey, pine nuts, and thyme. Keep on the heat until the pine nuts toast—this doesn’t have to be an exact science. Remove from heat; add some crumbled gorgonzola. Bake on top of rounds for the remaining time. After removing them from the oven, you can also add some slivers of prosciutto. (Don’t bake with the prosciutto—it will turn tough and chewy under the heat.)
Or go another route and add roasted red peppers, feta, parsley, and pine nuts. Top either version with cracked black pepper.
Makes 8 servings.
Don’t let love interfere with your appetite. It never does with mine.
—ANTHONY TROLLOPE
The next morning I awoke to the alarm on my phone, per usual. I shut off the alarm and tapped to check my morning e-mails as I awoke.
A sale at Anthropologie. I needed to renew my antivirus software. I had an e-mail from Formula1Doc.
I sat up.
That couldn’t be.
I wrapped myself in my terry-cloth robe, shoved my feet into slippers, and marched—albeit sleepily—to my laptop.
Sure enough, when I lifted the lid, I found that my cancellation hadn’t been the done deal I’d assumed, and my computer screen waited patiently with another set of questions to be answered before closing my account.
Who knew that quitting online dating would be more difficult than the process itself?
Curiosity prodded me to open the e-mail from Formula1Doc.
Dear Juliette,
I’m so sorry to hear about your mother’s diagnosis. A cancer diagnosis at any stage can be extremely difficult; a stage III result even more so. In my real, day-to-day life, I’m a physician. My specialty is immunology, not oncology, but if you have any questions, you can feel free to ask. I don’t mind.
From everything you’ve told me, you have every right to feel overwhelmed. The restaurant sounds exciting, though. I have no familiarity in that field, but I think it sounds cool. What kind of restaurant? There’s a place not too far from work that I eat at regularly. They make great macaroni and cheese, and the atmosphere is quirky and homey. When I’m there, it helps me to decompress from work. I admire the people—restaurateurs, I guess, is the right word—who have the insight to create a space and a menu and a place for people to eat and feel better. A different kind of healing than the one I’ve studied, but very effective.
Anyway, you’ve obviously got a lot going on, and I completely understand if you’ve decided not to pursue any romantic relationships for the time being. If you’d like a friend, though, you know how to reach me.
On second thought, if you do cancel your account, that might not be true. My personal e-mail is [email protected].
All the best,
Neil
I read the e-mail three times before I remembered that I hadn’t used the bathroom yet. After a trip to the lavatory and a hot shower, I read the e-mail a fourth time over a breakfast espresso.
He sounded nice. Really nice. And not the least bit intimidated.
Interesting.
I dressed for work, wishing it were a Saturday morning rather than a Monday morning. My eyes still felt gritty, and my spirits were uneven. A second strong cup of espresso nudged my brain cells into action. As a preemptive pick-me-up, I stopped by the corner bakery for a pain au chocolat to have as a midmorning snack.
My phone rang minutes before I stepped inside the threshold of the newspaper. I tensed the moment I saw my mother’s cell number. “Is everything all right?”
“Etta,” she said, her voice gently exasperated, “I have cancer. Everything is not all right, but I still have a life to live and I don’t need everybody thinking I’m at death’s door every time I make a phone call.” She paused. “Je regrette. Your father … and your brothers … and your sisters … everyone’s been a little—”
“I get it, Mom. I’m sorry—you’re right. What’s up?”
“Your aunt and uncle are coming down for the weekend, and they’d like to have brunch with us next Saturday morning. Are you free?”
Henri and Margueritte didn’t often make the trip down from Seattle; I sat up straighter. “I’ll make time.”
“Ten thirty. Your father’s cooking.”
“Want me to bring something?”
“You can ask your father.” A thread of exasperation tinged her voice. “He won’t let me plan anything.”
“He loves you.”
A sigh. “I know.”
“I love you, Mom,” I said, being careful not to let my voice catch.
I loved her. And she was sick, and there was nothing I could do about it.
Linn swung by my desk near noon. “I’m out for lunch. Want to come?”
“No, I’m going to be working through lunch.” I offered a smile. “Thanks, though.”
“Are you okay?” She tilted her head. “You look a little peaked.”
“Thanks.”
&
nbsp; “Sorry. What’s going on?”
“My … my mom is sick.” I looked away and fiddled with some papers on my desk. “We all found out last night.”
Linn’s face turned from teasing to serious. “Oh, Juliette, I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do? Want me to bring something back for you? Soup or something?”
“Sure,” I said, trying to sound more normal than I felt. “Soup would be great.”
“You’ll tell me if you need anything, won’t you?”
“I will,” I promised, with a wan imitation of a smile. “Are you still up for fondue? How does tomorrow look?”
“I am if you are—are you sure?”
I shrugged. “Life goes on,” I said, though at the moment I wasn’t so sure.
I took my laptop out that night for a dinner date. I found a quiet nook at Palio and set myself up with a panino, salad, and one of their signature Mexican mochas. While I came with the intention of working, I found myself typing out a letter rather than an article.
Dear Neil,
I have to admit I did not expect to hear back from you. I admire your fortitude in the face of my typographical meltdown. I assure you that in real life I tend to be one of the most stable people I know.
This might be because I know a lot of Italians.
My closest work friend stopped by my desk this morning and asked how I was (I look a bit wretched today), and I could barely tell her. There was something about talking about it that seemed like it would make it more real. This is probably a phenomenon that you, as a doctor, have studied.
Since you seem to know everything about me, it’s only fair for me to ask about you. How did you get into medicine? Do you have any Italians (or Frenchmen) in your family? And—I have to ask—what’s your favorite food?
À bientôt—until later!
Juliette
I arrived at my parents’ home Saturday morning with baguettes and Meyer lemons. The bread I brought for practicality—my oncle Henri was not an easy man to get along with. Younger than my mother by five years, Henri’s temperament ran to the taciturn, his opinions fixed, his demeanor unyielding. A resident of Seattle since his college days, he reveled in pointing out the city’s superiority to Portland.
His wife, Margueritte, chose not to speak very often, and I didn’t blame her.
I figured the best I could do was bring some of the best bread the city offered, hoping that chewing might prevent arguing.
The lemons—they were an impulse purchase. Faced with three straight weeks of Portland’s wind and rain, I was defenseless to their charms.
Everyone sat around my parents’ huge oak table, passing around heaping plates of food. The scents of frittata, pain au chocolat, cut fruit, and carafes of steaming coffee wafted around the threads of conversation.
While everyone ate, I took the opportunity for some genetic reconnaissance. I’d spent an hour that morning looking at photos of my grandfather Gilles at several stages of life, and I could confirm without effort that Henri, at least, looked just like him. They shared the same fair coloring, the same hairline, the same nose, the same stubborn chin.
No paternity questions there. But I knew there were five years between my mother and her brother.
A lot could happen in five years.
While my mother did share Henri’s eyes and cheekbones, they were admittedly the same as my grandmother Mireille’s.
Different fathers? To the naked eye, it was entirely possible.
Nico, sitting at my left, interrupted my thoughts with his elbow. “I’m interviewing a potential sous-chef later. He looks great on paper—Kenny recommended him.”
“Oh good,” I said, though I had secretly hoped that our kitchen might be the only one that could function without a sous. I pushed thoughts of Éric from my head.
“Do you think it’s a good idea,” my uncle asked from across the table, “to open a restaurant in this economy? The market hasn’t been kind to small businesses for quite some time.”
I shrugged, holding on to my calm even as Nico looked ready to throw his forkful of frittata across the table.
Honestly, the last thing we needed at this gathering was an old-fashioned schoolyard food fight.
“A poor business model won’t survive even in a good economy,” I pointed out. “Our job is to come up with a strong concept, requiring a modest budget, and execute it deliciously.” I turned to Nico. “Wouldn’t you agree?” I asked my brother, though I focused on my uncle before Nico could open his mouth and get us both in trouble. “Everything that is beautiful and noble is the product of reason and calculation,” I said, quoting Baudelaire.
Henri shrugged, his usual response to Baudelaire. “Just make sure there is enough reason and calculation,” he said.
“Enough.” Maman’s tone did not invite further argument. “This is a family gathering, not a business meeting.”
Henri opened his mouth to protest, but my mother merely held up her hand. “Not here.”
The table chatter started back up moments later as everyone returned to their food and conversations.
“I can’t believe we’re related to him,” Nico grumbled.
I gave his arm a blithe pat. “I wouldn’t worry about it overmuch.”
Once the guests had gone, the rest of us lingered longer over coffee. Maman carried three more boxes of my grandmother’s papers and photos into the living room, boxes that had migrated from Grand-mère’s apartment to my parents’ home.
“I’m working on a story about Grand-mère for the paper,” I told her. “How she was trained in pastry during the late thirties, giving up her career to raise a family but teaching her daughter pastry technique—it’s a good human-interest story.”
“She did not speak much of those days in France,” my mother told me. “The days before the war, you know. And her life with my father …” A shrug.
I leaned forward. “Were they happy?”
“Happiness is transient,” my mother replied.
“How so?” I asked, hugging my arms to myself.
“My father … well, Henri is not so different from him. He was a good man, but stubborn. They disagreed about things, the way married couples do. Maybe more so. My mother loved pastry and wanted to open a patisserie in the village. My father felt it would be shameful. Your grand-mère, she contented herself with baking for us and throwing parties with the very best food.” She smiled. “That made him happy, and it made her the toast of the village.”
“So that’s why she opened the patisserie here after he died. I never put that together.” I smiled. “Thanks for pulling these out for me.”
Back home, I took a closer look at the boxes’ contents. There were very few photos of my grandmother as a young woman, but cameras weren’t household items at the time, especially in the South of France.
One photo showed her on her wedding day to my grandfather Gilles. Marked 1943, the portrait showed a very serious bride and groom. Grand-mère’s dress was lovely, of course, but I searched her expression for any signs of joy and found none.
The more I looked at the photos, the less I thought of my grandmother as Grand-mère. When I looked at her, I saw Mireille Bessette, a woman near my age who happened to be living her life seventy years ago.
I knew wedded bliss to be a very modern concept, but Mireille looked awfully grim for a woman who just married of her own free will, with no goats used as inducement.
The photos I had were usually labeled with dates on the back, but the wedding photo had no such notation. At my desk, I took the photos of Mireille and lined them up in chronological order as best I could.
There was another man—I was sure of it. I didn’t have any concrete evidence, but the more I looked at Mireille and Gilles, the more I believed that the man in the photo I found was my true grandfather.
My cell phone buzzed while I was still midthought; I picked it up absently.
“Jules! Guess who got tickets to hear Feist tonight at the Bing Lounge?” Linn pr
actically yelled the question into my ear.
I sat up straighter. “Really?”
“Are you free?”
“Absolutely! What about your husband?”
“He’s strictly a Decemberists kind of guy. Feist isn’t his jam.”
“Then I’ll start getting ready now.”
“That’s all I could ever want.”
We made plans to meet and drive over together, and for the first time in a week, I felt a little lighter in spirit.
Sharing food with another human being is an intimate act that should not be indulged in lightly.
—M. F. K. FISHER
In preparation for the concert, I changed into a black jersey wrap dress with long sleeves, black patterned tights, and black boots. I added a vintage-looking silver collar necklace and a coat of soft pink lipstick to keep the look from being too severe. When Linn arrived, I threw on my red trench and Burberry-esque scarf.
Feist had just finished her first set when I felt my phone vibrate in my boot. Fearing a family emergency, I glanced at the phone. A text message from Nico. “Where are you?”
“Bing Lounge with Linn,” I texted back.
My phone vibrated again a moment later. “Cool. See you soon.”
I had no idea what that meant. Later in the evening? Later that week? month? Who knew? While Feist and her band sang “My Moon, My Man,” I double-checked to see if I’d had an e-mail from Neil.
Still nothing.
Two songs later, I felt a tapping on my shoulder. I turned, curious, to find my brother and a stranger standing just behind me.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, trying to walk that fine line between being heard over the band and disturbing other people’s experience.
Nico grinned; I knew he’d have a long story on the subject once the concert was over. Since he didn’t seem to need anything but an acknowledgment of his existence, I turned back to face the front and enjoyed the rest of the band’s set.
A Table by the Window: A Novel of Family Secrets and Heirloom Recipes (Two Blue Doors) Page 8
