Jennie Goutet's Blog: A Lady in France, page 29

Visiting Rouen

Rouen is located in Upper Normandy, and is pronounced Rue-on. Except that you have to spit on the rue and snort on the on, and you may as well pronounce it ruin, since that’s what you’re going to do to the French language, even with your best efforts to get it right.

Rouen is known as the City of a Hundred Spires. Besides its most famous Cathedral de Notre-Dame, built in various stages (of destruction, renovation and additions), dating from 396-1876, there are many other church spires that grace the skyline, such as these:

and this

and this.

I already know my post is going to be way too long, but I want to cover the church of Joan of Arc, the old market, the giant renaissance clock, and the famous cathedral, as well as a tiny bit of the town itself, so let’s dig right in.

Joan of Arc

To quote from Fodor’s guide, where I got much of my information,

“O Rouen, art thou then to be my final abode!” was the agonised cry of Joan of Arc as the English dragged her out to be burned alive on May 30, 1431.

Joan of Arc died in this exact spot.

Just outside of the Eglise Jeanne d’Arc, which was built in the 1970’s in her honour, and has a roof in the shape of flames.

Many don’t like it, but I do for some reason.

Here is the interior of the church

and the 16th century stained-glass windows, which were taken from the St Vincent church that was bombed out in the 2nd World War. You can see the architecture in the form of flames more clearly in the first photo under the Joan of Arc heading, as well as the exterior of the stained glass windows, which give no hint as to their vibrancy.

I don’t know how much you know about Joan, but she was an illiterate farmer’s daughter who had visions, made a vow of chastity and led the French forces against the English during the 100-year war. She successfully had the French prince crowned, but later suffered defeat, was led to trial, burned at the stake as a witch, and died at the age of 19.

Though she was not canonised until 1920, she was long considered a saint, and her influence is everywhere in the town.

Le Vieux Marché

Joan of Arc’s church is located in the old market – the vieux marché. This is the older, more charming part of town with pedestrian cobblestone streets, and many medieval half-timber houses that miraculously survived the heavy bombing of Rouen during the war. Take a look.

Yes, I do believe that house is tilting.

This is where you find La Couronne, the oldest inn in France dating back to 1345, where you can get a pricey menu in a deliciously antiquated setting.

We ate in a more modest pub

but had a delicious cozy lunch as a family.

Juliet is trying to make herself sneeze with pepper. She is growing up, but still very much our girl (thankfully).

And the Ferris Wheel of Rouen Givré (frosty Rouen) is located in the vieux marché every year from November 28 to January 4.

Magic!

From the top, you can catch a glimpse of the famous cathedral.

But before we get there, let’s take a look at the renaissance clock since it’s on the way!

Gros-Horloge

This is it walking towards the old market.

And this is the view walking towards the cathedral.

Or, a closer look …

In 1527 the townspeople had a beautiful arch built to hold it.

And there you can wait to climb up into the belfry and see the inner workings of the clock.

But when you’re with kids on a day trip (Rouen is 1.5 hours from Paris by car, and quite easy to get to by train), you forego such an interesting visit and head towards the cathedral.

Le Cathédrale de Notre-Dame

You probably know that Notre-Dame means “Our Lady” and William cracked us up by asking, “Quelle dame?” What lady?

Rapunzel! the kids shouted when they saw the golden sun.

In addition to Fodor, and various plaques onsite, I got my information from this website. The first cathedral was built in 396, and was destroyed by Normans. It was replaced by a larger cathedral, and was consecrated in 1063 with William the Conqueror in attendance.

I don’t know how that one was destroyed, but it was rebuilt in the Gothic style in 1145. And then, in 1200, a fire destroyed all but the St Romain tower on the left side (and part of the portal). The tower was built in a more mature Gothic style in 1250.

In the 16th century, flamboyant Gothic touches were added, as was the Butter Tower – the right-hand tower that looks a little like a rook from a chess set. This was paid for by people who wanted the privilege of eating butter during lent.

And then in 1876, the Lantern Tower in the middle was completed, making it the tallest building in the world for a whole of four years.

A view from behind the cathedral

The cathedral (decidedly out of luck) was partially destroyed from WWII bombing.

But the bombs did not hit key pillars, so we are able to enjoy its splendour today. Here are some views from the inside:

Peter holding the keys to the Kingdom.

I should say a word here about the Vikings. They arrived in the 9th century and ravaged Rouen in 841. In 911, the king of France gave (what is now) Normandy to the Viking chief Rollo to protect Paris as the next target. It was called the treaty of St Clair sur Epte. Rollo was baptised and buried in the cathedral.

A viking ship has a single mast, a square sail, and usually a statue of a dragon at the prow.

It’s all very fine. Rouen is so beautiful, even apart from its famed cathedral. I really didn’t expect such charm.

They specialise in porcelain (in French it’s Faience).

Here is someone decorating the porcelain onsite.

They also have art galleries.

And of course you should expect delicious patisseries. I was so enchanted by the outside of this tiny café

as much as I was by the wares within.

And to top off our day trip as a family – we who rarely get off our butts to go somewhere –

we ended with the crowning pleasure of barbe à papa. Papa’s beard.

Cotton candy.

As far as the kids were concerned, that was all that was needed to declare Rouen a resounding success.

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Imperfect Resolutions

I have been longing to start the new year, and with it, what has become a tradition of ours to fast for forty days at its beginning. The fast is a combination of food-free days (usually twice a week), sometimes denying pleasures such as TV or novels, giving up things we love like coffee, cheese, sweets, bread, etc. and “adding” more prayer. Believe me, the fasting has gotten a lot easier over the years and has become for us a joy.

The aim of our fasts is always to get closer to God, but we usually add more specific goals (or pleas), like growing in unity as a church, or helping friends to know God who wish it, or getting out of debt, or overcoming some challenge … I wrote about fasting here.

Some years – and this one in particular – I’m anxious to start because I have indulged in excess over the holidays (or, more accurately, ever since the cold weather started) and, not only do I want to lose some extra weight, but I long to be free of dissipate habits. I want to get back to the cleanliness of putting God first. I have accepted that I will never have a completely pure, godly attitude towards fasting, free from all ulterior motives. I accept it, and I plunge ahead anyway.

This year, for the first time in many years, I have set New Year’s resolutions. When I was younger, I set them every year because I believed that by setting them, they would automatically come to pass. Then, disillusioned, I spent many years as a “sadder, but wiser” girl and set none at all. But this year, I feel that a few goals is not a bad thing.

I think that (for me, anyway), setting goals is a way of striving for perfection. And when you’re young, you still believe perfection is attainable. I may have scoffed at voicing such a thought openly, but I most certainly believed it in my heart of hearts – a perfect Prince Charming awaits, a perfect body is just at the end of the road of a tiny bit of restraint, perfect children will be the result of gentle, loving guidance, etc.

Though I did, indeed, find my Prince Charming, the rest of the perfection is all a wash. My middle-aged body is not at all forgiving, my old house is doomed to dust and peeling paint and mold, and our finances have not allowed us to replace our 1992 Toyota Corolla, or our sagging couches with frayed armrests, or our bed that can envelope us like a pita. Imperfection meets my eyes wherever I look.

It’s not surprising that we hope for perfection – despite all assurance to the contrary of its attainability. It’s because of the tantalising hints we read in the scriptures of what’s to come, and the urging to prepare for it.

Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect. (Mt 5:48)

Aim for perfection (2 Cor 13:11)

Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. (James 1:4)

But as we read such hopeful urgings, it’s easy to forget that we only reach perfection through suffering and grace. This can be a sobering reflection, but it doesn’t have to be. Jesus is the author – the pioneer – of our faith and he suffered to bring us glory.

In bringing many sons and daughters to glory, it was fitting that God, for whom and through whom everything exists, should make the author of their salvation perfect through what he suffered. (Hebrews 2:10)

I don’t think it’s because he suffered that we have to suffer – but rather, quite the reverse! I think he saw our great suffering on earth, and he came to share it with us (enduring far more than we have ever endured) so that he could bring us into glory and end all suffering.

We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption to sonship, the redemption of our bodies. (Romans 8:22-23)

Can you relate to this? We groan inwardly, we wait eagerly for the redemption of our bodies. Our bodies and our lives here on earth will never attain perfection. Jesus knew that, and he came down to bridge the gap.

But just because we cannot achieve perfection by our own efforts, we don’t simply give up. Look here:

Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already arrived at my goal, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me.

or a version (NRSV) of this same scripture that I most particularly adore:

Not that I have already obtained this or have already reached the goal; but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own.

I don’t give up on the goal of striving for heaven and everything perfect until I own the goal. I do this because Jesus didn’t give up until he had taken hold of me – until he had made me his own.

In the end, it is God who brings us to perfection. Obviously. It is his grace, which accomplishes this. That is the core message of the entire Bible, from the Old Testament to the New. But you can see it clearly in a couple of scriptures like this:

In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans words cannot express. (Romans 8:26)

or here:

being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus. (Philippians 1:6)

to name just two. God has our back, even when it comes to praying for the longings we cannot articulate. He will bring us to perfection, and love us in all our dirt until we get there.

I know not everyone struggles with this frustration over imperfection to the degree that I do, but I also know that I’m not the only one. If perfection will truly not exist until heaven, then the scripture in 1 Tim 6:6 is very valuable to us:

But godliness with contentment is great gain.

We must strive always for godliness and all its inherent perfection because that is what Jesus and the prophets urge us to do. So by all means, let us make our resolutions and press on towards the goal.

But we must be content with an inferior result until we are adopted as sons and daughters. That allows us to laugh at the imperfections, the stresses, the silliness, the flaws, the stains on the shirt, the temper tantrums in the grocery store, the extra notch on the belt, the second-hand clothing, the peeling paint, the weeds in the garden. Godliness with contentment.

That is great gain.

So tell me about you. Do you struggle with perfection? Are you making New Year’s Resolutions?

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Gluten-Free Baked Alaska

I know, I know. No one wants a rich sweet dessert recipe the day after Christmas.

Nonetheless, here it is because I’m not likely to make it again any time soon and I don’t want a perfectly delicious recipe to go to waste.

You can pin it for next Christmas!

I used the Martha Stewart recipe and simplified it so that it’s less of an intimidating dessert to make. She had hers in 6 individual portions, but I don’t have the materials or the space in the freezer for such a venture. So in my version, you’ll need two round cake pans buttered with a piece of wax paper cut to size (and buttered over it) to make it easy to remove the cake from the pan. You also need to pre-heat the oven to 350°F.

Your eggs need to be room temperature, and you’ll need three bowls – one for the egg yolks, one for the egg whites, and one for the dry ingredients.

Beat the 4 egg yolks for a few minutes until it turns lighter in colour, then slowly add 2/3 cup bland vegetable oil (such as canola or sunflower), beating it all the while.

To that, add a cup of sugar slowly, plus a teaspoon of vanilla. My mixture here is grainy because I used raw organic sugar.

Clean your beaters, and start whipping the 4 egg whites and add the remaining 1/3 cup of sugar. Beat until stiff.

First, mix the yolks mixture with the dry ingredients (3/4 cup plus 3T flour, 2/3 c cocoa, 1 1/4 t baking powder, and the same amount of baking soda, 1/2 t salt). I used Dove’s gluten-free flour mixture but if you don’t have access to that, I also like the Bob’s Red Mill brand.

To dry ingredients and yolk mixture, add 1/2 cup of warm water. You’ll see that it is too pasty without it.

When all that is mixed together, you want to stir in the whites. You need to use a spatula to turn the mixture over and over again.

You don’t want to over-beat it, but there should not be any streaks of white left. The mix should just be lighter in colour, like this:

Into the two pans it goes, and each one into the oven for about 30 minutes. I kept checking the cake after the first 20 minutes and turning it so it would cook evenly.

Put a wire rack on top of the pan and flip it over in one go so that the cake falls out of the pan without breaking. Remove the wax paper and let it cool.

These need to go into the freezer for at least an hour. I wrapped them in wax paper to protect them.

For the ice cream layers, I chose vanilla and chocolate and I needed a quarter gallon of each. I took them out of the freezer 20 minutes before I was ready to use them. Then I beat the ice cream to remove the lumps so it would spread easily.

This is only about half of what I used because I didn’t know I would need the entire container.

I placed one layer of cake on a foil-covered quiche pan. That was only to make the pan look prettier since it was pretty beat up, but a nice quiche-sized pan was good. Big enough to hold the meringue, and small enough to fit into the freezer. Mine might be about 13 cm.

On the first cake layer, I spread the vanilla ice cream.

I did the same thing with the chocolate – beat it first, and spread it on top of the second cake layer.

And I made sure that I had used most of the frozen vegetables in my freezer in advance so that I had room to store the entire thing overnight. You can serve it the same day if you make this part in the morning, but I like to be stress-free on the days I have a big dinner planned, so I made mine the day before.

See? Here is mine in the drawer of the freezer.

When I was ready to serve it – (as in, we had finished with dinner and were about to have dessert) – I pre-heated the oven as high as it would go. 500°F. I also removed the middle rack in the oven since the cake wouldn’t fit otherwise.

I then separated 9 egg whites (again –  these are better room temperature), started beating them, and slowly added 2 cups of sugar. This makes a beautifully stiff meringue. I poured this over the frozen cake and ice cream layers.

Then I put that in the very hot oven and set the timer to one minute. My oven heats very fast in the back, so I kept turning it after 1 minute on one side. The total cook time was 5 minutes or so, but you might not need as much. Do keep checking it and turning it each minute until the whole thing is browned like this.

This makes a beautifully caramelised meringue on top on a frozen cake with ice cream layers.

And – because it’s frozen – it does not fall apart, even though it’s gluten-free.

You simply cannot go wrong if you want something delicious and impressive to serve your guests.

Gluten-Free Baked Alaska   Print Prep time 6 hours Cook time 1 hour Total time 7 hours   From: Lady Jennie Recipe type: Dessert Serves: 8-12 Ingredients 1⅓ cups sugar (split in one cup, and ⅓ cup) ¾ cup PLUS 3 tablespoons flour, gluten-free or regular ⅔ cup cocoa, rich, dark Dutch-process if you can get it 1¼ t baking powder 1¼ t baking soda ½ t salt ⅔ c oil ½ c water 1 t vanilla 4 eggs room temperature (separated) ½ gallon ice cream 9 egg whites, room temperature 2 cups sugar Instructions Pre-heat the oven, set the eggs out ahead of time. Grease 2 cake pans and put wax paper in the bottom of both - grease over that. Separate eggs in 2 bowls with the dry ingredients in a third. Beat yolks with oil and 1 c sugar Beat white with ⅓ c sugar Mix yolks with dry ingredients and add the water. Stir in the whites gently. Pour into pans and bake each 30 minutes or so. Freeze for an hour. Let ice cream sit out for 20 minutes. Beat it and spread it between cake layers and on top. Freeze overnight (or at least 5 hours) Preheat oven to 500°F Beat egg whites and 2 C sugar and pour over cake. Cook in hot oven, checking it and turning it each minute to the meringue browns, but does not burn. Serve immediately. 3.2.2885

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A Christmas Service from Around the World

I’m breaking the cardinal rule of blogging and am writing a post composed entirely of bad photos. But how could I resist sharing with you such a cute Christmas service that we had. And we had no camera with us, just an iPhone in low lighting, which was zoomed in.

Our small church is pretty international and everyone took part.

Our artist from Brittany painted a story while his Korean wife read the words. (She is equally talented, and designed and sewed the most beautiful silk dress I’ve ever seen for her wedding).

There were the African singers (and a Haitian who slipped in), who also started the prayer group in our church about ten years ago. The group is usually about twice as big, but some were away.

They meet faithfully every week to pray for the needs of people in the church, their loved ones, and the world. I have often placed my loved ones’ needs into their care, and with miraculous results (I, also, do not neglect to pray).

How I love these women.

And there were singers from Madagascar, singing in Malgash. (With one singer from La Reunion who slipped into the group by way of marriage). Iza moa io Zazakely

There were songs in Portuguese (Hoje è Natal), and songs in Chinese (Aimer pour la vie).

There were songs in Spanish (Los Peces en el rio)

and ones in English.

Ann and I sang “What Child is This” in two-part harmony. See how I’m not ashamed to put a photo of myself that is not flattering? This is because I have decided to be gentler to myself.

We had singers from the islands – in this case, Martinique and Guadeloupe, though there are other islands represented in our church – Haiti and La Réunion, to name two more.

I love these people too – they are our very dear friends.

There were scriptures read in Albanian, Italian, Romanian, Indonesian with the translation for the rest of us.

And the children sang Stille Nacht in German with the purest voices.

Only the poorest quality pictures to show you (sigh)

of this event so rich in love.

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Things I Love About Christmas in France

You know what I love about Christmas in France? A pre-made cheese selection!

I get to try new things without having to do guess-work. Everything necessary is included: blue, goat, sheep, cow, soft and cooked cheese.

I love Christmas decorations bought at half-price

so we can build and make memories that my (one-day) grown children will be happy to return to.

“Hi!”

I love the traditional crèche Santons

and the more rustic homemade lamp-shades

with spray-painted pine cones made in school.

I love tree decorating when we finally get a tree.

And I love putting up decorations that we’ve had for many, many years.

I love cookie recipes brought over from America

These are gluten-free (and more fragile)

to introduce to my French children who tend to eat more of this -

I love window decorations on French windows

and Christmas concerts

That’s Gabriel on the trumpet there.

even when it sounds like the band from the Music Man.

(shhh – you didn’t hear that from me)

And I love that my selection for “festive” meat at the grocery store was kangaroo, ostrich, boar, or reindeer. I chose reindeer.

It says in fine print that you encounter a risk of finding bits of shot in your  roast.

What do you even serve with reindeer?

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The Viscount – Chapter Eighteen

I think I will take the next two weeks to re-read what I’ve written so far and tighten the plot before continuing (which, I will readily admit, needs it). Therefore, this is the last chapter until the new year. Thank you for your patience with me, and for following along as I write.

THE VISCOUNT OF MAISONS LAFFITTE

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Viscount’s eyes rested steadily on Chastity at the door. “Come,” he said quietly. And then, turning to look down at the slim figure lying on the bed, “Thomas, your mom is here. Can you squeeze again for her?”

Chastity darted to his side and took his hand in hers. “Hi sweetie, I’m here. Can you squeeze my hand too?” But there was no responsive pressure. The machines continued their calm and steady beeps.

“He’s out again,” the Viscount said, still looking at her. “I think that effort exhausted him. But really it was a significant leap. He was able to comprehend what I was saying and command a physical response in answer.”

Chastity’s cheeks were flushed, and her quick breaths betrayed her agitation, but she kept her body perfectly still. She looked down at her son, and said softly, “I wish I could have felt him squeeze my hand. I wish he would wake up.”

The Viscount just nodded. He didn’t speak right away, and then after a moment, said, “I’m pretty confident he will wake up, and possibly in the next few days. But with brain injuries it is impossible to predict because we don’t know if the neurons have been damaged or just bruised. You have to be prepared that even if he does wake up, his will probably not be a fast recovery, and we’re unlikely to know straight away the extent of his injuries.”

His voice grew even gentler. “But I encourage you to hope for the best outcome, and let Thomas sense your hope.”

She met the Viscount’s gaze squarely, but with a tremulous smile. “I cannot thank you enough.”

The Viscount returned the smile, but shook his head. “I was just in the right place at the right time.”

“I know – you were … it was a coincidence for you to be here when Thomas regained some awareness.” There was a crease between her brows. “But I want to thank you for … what I can only describe as your friendship these past two weeks.” She chewed her lip. “I don’t want to presume too much.”

“You’re not,” he replied. “I am your friend, and I hope you will come to me if you need anything.” He left the bedside and went over to the door to pick up the pieces of porcelain that lay shattered there and threw them in the garbage.

“I’ll ask the cleaning staff to come mop up the coffee,” he said. She watched him as he wrapped his scarf around his neck, and it dawned on her that he wasn’t here as a doctor, but in casual clothes, and that he had come in to the hospital especially to see Thomas.

“Here’s my card, which has my cell phone on it. My friends call me Charles.”

“Chastity.” She took the card with another shy smile.

“Okay then.” He snapped his leather gloves against his hand. “I’ll check in on Thomas tomorrow.”

When the Viscount left, all the emotions she held in check seemed to crash at once, leaving her exhausted. Chastity was grateful for the steady beeps, and the silence behind them that blanketed the room and the ward. She had too much to think about, and desperately hoped that Marc would not choose this moment to make an appearance. She wiped her palms on her jeans, and then rested her forearms on the bed, her two hands touching her son, and her head resting on her arms.

Her son – Tommy. Tommy. Her eyes welled with tears when she thought about him regaining consciousness. She took his hand and squeezed it, but felt nothing in return. But if he was on his way to getting better … she would give anything for that to be so.

And then, the Viscount. Who was this person? Her thoughts were a confused jumble. He had seemed so indifferent and cold as a father, and he acted out of sheer disregard for anyone else in his role at the school and in the town. But he was so clearly warm and caring as a doctor, going beyond the duties required of him – even continuing to watch over her son when his week was over. Why would he do this?

She lifted her head up and breathed out in a sigh. It was like he had a split personality when she compared the two versions of him, but his behavior towards her since Tommy was injured was unmistakably sincere. Perhaps she had misjudged him initially. Did she dare ask him about his son? Ask if he had taken the time to seek help for him? She found that she wanted to reconcile the two personalities into one, and hoped that the result would be the one she liked.

Chastity stood up suddenly, restless, and started walking across the small room. She yanked some paper towels out of the dispenser and started wiping the coffee off the floor tiles and door absent-mindedly. No, she couldn’t ask him about Camille – couldn’t think about work just yet. She would have to return to it eventually, and indeed even wanted to. She cared about her students, and they seemed to be attached to her too. A few of them had sent her cards at the hospital on their own initiative, which brought tears to her eyes. But there was not enough room in her mind and her heart to think about that now. And as much as the Viscount declared himself her friend, she felt she could not ask him such a question just yet. The two worlds had to remain separated for the time being. And as such, the Viscount would remain a mystery.

Having settled that, however unsatisfactorily, she resumed her seat by Thomas’ side. Her mother’s visit could not happen quickly enough for her comfort. The silence, although sometimes welcome, often threatened to do her in when she connected it with the absence of Thomas’ chatter. And she was discovering that Marc’s presence was not the remedy.

If the Viscount, returning home, had been privy to Chastity’s reflections and questions regarding his inconsistency, he would have been surprised. Already the image of his son’s slightly annoying teacher of a few months ago was replaced by the one he had spent time with every day for the past couple of weeks. This woman was quietly dignified, but vulnerable in a way that made him want to come to her aid. And if he thought at all about her role in his son’s life, it was to admire her tenacity. In this, he was reminded of someone. A young bride …

He was not in the habit of questioning his own motivations or actions, except, perhaps, when it pertained his own son. He had inherited enough of his father’s character to be sure of his actions, and enough of his mother’s to think that no one had a right to question them. And in all areas this served – except for Camille.

He thought about the last time he saw his son. It was around noon a couple of days prior, and Camille had only just rolled out of bed. He was in the kitchen having a piece of baguette, smothered with butter and raspberry jam, and a cup of black coffee. He had showered, and was wearing clean clothes, but it was weary eyes that he turned to his father.

The Viscount, who had only gone into the kitchen to discuss with his chef which catering companies they would use for the spring ball, was taken aback to see him there.

“Camille, it’s noon. Is that your breakfast? Why aren’t you … out?” He was abashed to discover that he didn’t know what his son generally did on Saturdays ever since he had declared himself finished with riding lessons. In fact, he didn’t even know who his friends were. Camille looked back down again at his plate. He shrugged his shoulders, but didn’t say anything.

“Where were you last night?” the Viscount frowned, and then realizing that the chef, who was new, was watching the conversation with undue interest, dropped the subject. “Never mind. We’ll talk about it later. Don’t forget to call Grandmère. You missed last week and she was vexed.”

“I won’t,” muttered his obedient offspring.

And that was it. His father had not spoken to him, or even seen him since. It had been some time now that they had fallen into the habit of living completely separate lives, brought on, perhaps, by the troubles in the management of the estate, which suddenly occupied all of the Viscount’s time. Before he could notice the shift soon enough to remedy it, his son stopped asking to see him and kept his own counsel. And now, it didn’t help that Manon had only just left to return to England the day before, and since she showed no interest in getting to know Camille he didn’t try to throw them together. Usually he was better able to balance the two, but in her grief, she was more needy than was her habit.

Ah. That was complicated. The more he thought about it, the more he was certain things could not continue with Manon. But she was in too fragile a state for him to end things with her now. He put that out of his mind and turned his phone on, punching one of his saved numbers and putting it on speaker. After a few rings, he heard the laughter in the deep voice.

“Charles. So soon?”

The Viscount rallied back. “It’s been a few months already, Jef. When are we going to have our apéro?”

“At your place, as soon as you wish it, as long as your sister will be there,” he shot back.

“What, still have a crush on her after all these years? She’ll never have you, you know. She said you’re too much of a babe.”

“Why thank you for the compliment,” Jef chuckled. “In these downhill years, that’s very refreshing.”

“But listen, we need to meet. Why not join me for the art gallery opening in two-weeks’ time. I want to talk to you about the spring ball.”

“No, Charles,” Jef said disapprovingly. “You’ll never open up your home again to the public after what happened the last time.”

“Let’s just say I was persuaded too,” the Viscount said ironically. “There is very little risk that a second theft could occur, and even so – there will be heavy security. But I still want to run a few ideas by you.”

“Okay.” His friend was thoughtful. “I see why you want my help. You want to have someone you can trust.”

“Exactly, the Viscount answered. “My own security, if you will. So. Can I count on you for the opening?”

“Send me the details.” And then just before hanging up, his friend quizzed, “And see that Adelaide is there too so I can ask her to be my date for the ball.”

* * *

Jean Martin stretched on the makeshift bed that protected his body from the cold stone floor. It was five o’clock AM, and he didn’t have the luxury of staying here much longer before the old man was going to be awake and bustling about. In the year that Martin had been employed at the château, he never knew a day that he didn’t run into Paltier by six o’clock at the latest.

It was the nearing the end of January and was unseasonably cold outside, and he wasn’t looking forward to going out there. But he knew of a café a few streets over that opened early enough to receive him for breakfast, and by now they knew his face. He could stake out a table there until it was time to report to work.

Hiding out in the basement with its cavernous rooms was the only solution that presented itself to Martin when he lost everything he had in some disastrous gambling. He could no longer afford to pay his rent and so he had to give up his apartment. With no family in the vicinity, and none that he could confide his troubles to, and a girlfriend who had recently discovered a preference for a trainer at the gym where she worked, there was really no option left to him. He crept in close to midnight each night, washed himself in the kitchen basin that was downstairs, and huddled in one of the dark passages close to the wine cellar. And each morning, he crept out the same way, only to return for work.

Martin stretched. The sounds had stopped some hours since – noises that had started a week prior, and which had begun to have a familiar rhythm to them. The first time he heard them was at two in the morning, and there was a scraping coming from inside the wall on the far room in the basement. It wasn’t the scraping that brought him noiselessly towards the far wall, but a soft banging, as if someone were hitting the stone with a chisel from the inside. He located the spot, and found a smooth, limestone wall that bordered an old stone bathtub. When he was assured that no one was around to see him, he put his ear close to the wall to listen to the banging and the scraping. He was, by no means, certain of what he was hearing, but he understood enough to nod once in satisfaction and move off quietly to where he was sleeping.

That was a week ago, and he had heard the soft noises every night since then, which ceased long before dawn. He got up decisively, and rolled his bedding into a bundle, which he stowed, along with a few of his essential belongings, in a long-unused cupboard that he was confident would not be opened. He stretched, and tied his boots, before putting on his coat and beret.

He went to the door, which led to the lower grounds, and slipped out, silently locking the door behind him. He walked off to the side of the property where there was a copse of trees that would lead him to the gate and the warmth of the café. As soon as the trees obscured his profile, he lit a cigarette and crunched on the snow in meditative rhythm. Jean Martin had an idea about these noises, and he considered how he might turn the situation to his advantage.

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Lemon-Shrimp Risotto with Mushrooms

You know when you have a day that looks like this …

and you just want to have happy smells of cooking, warmth, and goodness inside? (Yes, that’s wind fiercely blowing those few leaves off the tree).

Well, this risotto recipe should do the trick. You need special rice for risotto. It’s fatter – rounder than usual rice, and it should be white, and not the yellowish parboiled stuff. I wanted to make it earlier in the day so the pictures were not so dim, but I didn’t have time.

Start by sautéing a pound of shrimp in a small amount of olive oil (a Tablespoon or two). Salt it and set it aside.

Then add another two tablespoons of olive oil to fry the onion (1 large), garlic (2 cloves),  and thyme (1 teaspoon). I puréed the onion and garlic first because I think the risotto tastes better when the onions are mixed well throughout.

Add a pound of mixed mushrooms, a half-teaspoon of white pepper, a teaspoon of sea salt, and stir that in, allowing the mushrooms to cook. I used a frozen blend of different mushrooms and that was perfect.

Pour two cups of risotto into this sautéed mix

and stir it to absorb the remaining juice.

Then add a cup of white wine, and alcohol-free works just fine, if – like us – you don’t keep alcohol in the house.

(Those little specks in there are pieces of rice)

Let the wine get completely absorbed, and then stir in 8 cups of chicken broth, a cup at a time. The last time I made risotto, I had homemade broth from a leftover chicken, but this time I had to make it from bouillon cubes. If you do that, be careful about how much salt you put into the rice. It may not need as much (or it may need more). I thought it tasted good with a teaspoon of salt, plus the salted bouillon cubes. And I used 3 large ones for 8 cups of water, heating the entire thing so that the cubes would melt.

You want the heat to be low, but if you feel like it’s taking forever for the liquid to absorb, you can turn the heat up a little. Keep scraping the bottom of the pan. You have to stir the rice often so that the liquid absorbs evenly.

Some time in the beginning of adding your broth, put the zest of one or two lemons in your risotto.

I’m showing this picture because not everyone knows the zest just means the skin. I once had someone (who offered to help) try to zest the entire lemon into a dish using a cheese grater. It was good, but lemony!

The zest of one lemon will give it just a hint of lemon, and the zest of two will bring the lemon flavour out much more. It’s really a matter of personal taste.

And when the last of the broth has been added, the grains of rice should still be firm, but very creamy.

When the rice is done, turn the heat off, and add 30 grams of butter and a cup and a third of parmesan.

Stir that in, and add the shrimp.

And serve immediately. (Hot!)

(This photo is taken in the waning light outdoors)

With dinner accompli (!) you can enjoy a warm meal and happy activities!

Lemon-Shrimp Risotto with Mushrooms   Print Prep time 15 mins Cook time 30 mins Total time 45 mins   From: Lady Jennie Recipe type: Main or Side Serves: 6 Ingredients 1 lb shrimp 4 T olive oil 1 large onion 2 large garlic cloves 1 t thyme 1 t sea salt ½ t white pepper 1 lb wild mushrooms 2 cups special risotto rice 1 cup white wine 8 cups chicken broth 30 g butter (2-3 T) 1⅓ c parmesan Instructions Sauté shrimp in 1 T olive oil and set aside. Purée, then sauté onion, garlic and seasonings. When the onion is cooked, add the mushrooms and cook those. Add the rice and stir 'til liquid is absorbed. Add the wine, cook til absorbed. Then add the broth, one cup at a time, cooking and stirring until absorbed. Turn off heat, and stir in butter, parmesan and shrimp. Serve hot. 3.2.2885

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Elves and a Pair

My husband’s company holds a Christmas party every year, specifically for the children of the employees.

It’s brilliant.

And they walk away with all sorts of goodies.

The little elves continue the celebration at home.

And on to the next day as they head off to school.

I finally gave up on the idea of writing another chapter this week in favour of cleaning my house. I’ve just been too busy with teaching and holiday stuff. Tomorrow I need to make 3 batches of cutout Christmas cookies for the annual party that my English classes have come to expect. (We decorate the cookies together and they take them home).

I also need to make shrimp-mushroom risotto – which I am going to blog about – for the tree-decorating party we will be have with our Bible Talk group tomorrow night. It’ll be a festive holiday potluck, and I promised risotto.

Anyway, once I gave up on trying to fit the chapter in too, I relaxed a little. And now my floors and toilets are clean, so I feel civilised.

Alison from Writing, Wishing, and Greta from GFunkified are nearing the end of their year-long photo series. This week’s prompt is pair which is sort of a no-brainer for Alison since she just had twins.

Well, I’ve been wanting to show you (for a long time now) this set of silverware that we got from my husband’s aunt, which is, I don’t know how many generations old. It must be date back to when the people were smaller, but their cutlery mammoth.

We have 6 sets in all, I think, and they are real silver so they are quite heavy. This photo does not do it justice, but I wanted to show you the enormity of the silverware. Here is a pair of forks, the lefthand is the unpolished silver one, and the right is the largest dinner fork we have in the house.

Here they all are together. They look larger in real life. I swear I thought I was in Gulliver’s Travels when I first took them out of the linen bag. This is them next to the largest fork, spoon and knife we have in our silverware drawer.

For the next step, I’ll have to polish them and actually use them!

Provided we can fit them in our mouths.

How are you this holiday season? Tell me in the comments, if you wish!

 

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Memorizing Scripture

Once, when I was going through a very difficult period as a young Christian, I lay awake at night, unable to fall asleep. I was distressed and hopeless (and, in retrospect, in need of anti-depressants). I picked up my Bible, which was becoming a newly regular habit for me, and I turned to Ephesians 4 – randomly. And I started to memorise it.

I walked around my bedroom, reading verse after verse and committing it to memory – chanting the words under my breath in a way that strengthened me and slowly eased my pain until I was able to lie down and go to sleep.

December 11 is the anniversary of my baptism. It has been nineteen years since I have repented of my sins, confessed Jesus as Lord, and allowed myself to be baptised for the gift of the Holy Spirit and the forgiveness of my sins. And in all those years, I have not forgotten one of the first scriptures I memorised.

I don’t remember it perfectly – it comes and goes in patches -

They are darkened in their understanding and separated from the life of God because of the ignorance that is in them due to the hardening of their hearts.

YOU, however, did not come to know Christ that way.

You were taught , with regard to your former way of life, to put off your old self

Do not let the sun go down while you are angry, and do not give the devil a foothold.

And the one that comes unbidden, with crystal clarity, and guides my behaviour at all time (except when I ignore the nudging):

Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen.

It gives me pause before I speak. Is my talk unwholesome? (Since I have a lively sense of humour, I am often tempted to fall into coarse joking). Do I build people up when I speak? Do I speak in a way that meets their needs, and not try to attain my own ends? Does it benefit them?

All this guidance from a scripture I memorised 19 years ago.

When the Israelites were led out of Egypt, and wandered in the desert for 40 years before being led into the Promised Land, they were given manna to eat. It collected on the ground each day and looked like frost, it tasted sweetish, and they were to gather what the needed for that day only. If they gathered too much it spoiled, and if they did not gather a double portion on the 6th day, they had nothing to eat for the Sabbath. This experience was a physical manifestation of the need for us to have a daily dependence on God’s Word.

“Your ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness, yet they died. But here is the bread that comes down from heaven,which anyone may eat and not die. I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats this bread will live forever. This bread is my flesh, which I will give for the life of the world.” (John 6:49-51)

Memorizing scripture is a way for us to eat … well how can I put this … it’s a way for us to eat Jesus’ flesh the way he says we should. It says in John 1 that the Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. The Word became alive in the form of Jesus – the same way characters in our favourite novels can spring to life for us. Except, in this case, of course – it’s the reality because God is the author. And as we digest this living Word, it becomes a part of us, and it changes us.

“I have hidden your word in my heart that I might not sin against you.” (Psalm 119:11) It sculpts our heart so that we are softer, more like Jesus – stronger.

I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. Ezekial 36:26

Recently, I have started memorising scriptures again. I think I was feeling dull in my spiritual life, but I also decided it was time to tackle some of the harder, stonier parts of my heart, which have to do with shame and feeling like I’m not good enough. I want to let God replace those hard parts in my heart with flesh. So I set about to memorise the fruits of the spirit in Galatians 5:22-23, and fixing my eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, in Hebrews 12:2-3. I think memorising scripture is most effective when you’re using the particular verses you need at that particular moment.

I also re-discovered the scriptures I have had posted above my doorframe for some time since.

Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength. These commandments that I give you today are to be on your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up. Tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads. Write them on the doorframes of your houses and on your gates. (Deuteronomy 6:5-9)

I wrote the Word on the doorframe of my house.

Last night I had a chance to speak with some of the women in my church who have been faithful for years, and whose children are all faithful. I asked them whether memory scriptures played a bit part in their lives. The (perhaps obvious) answer was yes, and they began quoting them on the spot!

And then Emma – a dear friend who is English and married to a Breton, and is the family who hosts our French Thanksgiving dinner each year – showed me the chalkboard she had in her kitchen (which is where we were gathered). I saw that she had put a guiding scripture for that week, which is there for her children to see as well. When I exclaimed at the brilliance of such an idea, she confessed that she had an extra chalkboard and had been planning to give it to me to do the same.

The women’s ministry leader is currently studying with a young woman, and every time she learns a new scripture, she says, “Oh that’s a good one! I need to remember that.” Carol – the women’s ministry leader – said, “well, why not take some index cards and write them down to memorise and carry them with you?” So that’s what she did.

I think … new Christian or old, we need to be renewed day by day through the power of the Word, and through exercising that power by writing it on our hearts.

Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,

    for his compassions never fail.

They are new every morning;

    great is your faithfulness.

(Lamentations 3:22-23)

And you? Has memorising scripture been your practice? What are some of your guiding ones?

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Vlog #5 French Conversation Fillers

It’s been awhile, I know, since I’ve done a vlog. The truth is, I like blogging much better than vlogging, and I don’t always have ready ideas. But here is a helpful video if you want to contribute your part to a conversation in French.

And even if you don’t, you can always learn how to snub somebody in French.

Here are the phrases I used in the video:

Inquiring what happened:

Qu’est ce qu’il y a? – What happened?

Or, for a child or close friend, Beh, alors? – And so …?

Encouraging your friend to talk:

If it’s good news: c’est chouette! That’s great!

If it’s bad news: Oh, Mince! What a bummer!

Or you can say, C’est pas vrai (no, it’s not true) or c’est pas possible (it’s not possible).

Confirming plans:

Ca marche – that works for me.

You can also say cela m’est egal (it’s all the same to me) or peu import (it’s of no consequence).

Thanking someone:

Merci, obviously. But if you want to go a step further: Merci, c’est gentil. That’s nice of you.

Or, if it’s a really good friend, t’es chou, which literally means you’re a cabbage, but more accurately – you’re sweet.

Give someone a set-down:

Je m’en fiche (I don’t care). You can also say this with friends, if you want to say it doesn’t matter, but it depends on the tone you use for whether it’s friendly or not.

Eh beh – it means – and so?

And if you want to depress someone entirely, tu m’etonnes. You astonish me, said in your most bored voice, of course.

I’m a bit of a dork, but hope you have fun with this one.

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