Madame hesitated. I could see her natural suspicion at war with the scent that came from the box: the smoky, espresso scent of cacao; the hint of clove; of cardamom; of vanilla; the fleeting aroma of Armagnac- a fragrance like lost time; a bittersweetness like childhood’s end.
Don’t worry so much about ‘not supposed to’.
Now for the base note of the bean: a wild and bitter blackberry, like fruit picked after the turn of the year. It smells of woodland, and falling leaves, and the dark scent of winter spices.
This morning it was sunny and bright, and Maman was making Easter things. There were eggs, and hens, and rabbits, and ducks, all in different sizes and varieties of chocolate, and Maman was decorating them with gold leaf, and hundreds and thousands, and sugar roses and candied fruit. Later she’ll wrap them in cellophane, like fabulous bunches of flowers, each tied with a long curly ribbon of a different color, and put them all on shelves at the back, as part of her annual Easter display.
I took out my last batch of chocolates; a handful of dark and light truffles rolled in spiced cocoa powder. There’s cardamom, for comfort; vanilla seeds for sweetness; green tea, rose and tamarind for harmony and goodwill. Sprinkled with gold leaf, they look like tiny Christmas baubles; prettily scented; perfectly round- how could she resist these?
Roux seemed different here, more relaxed, outlined in fire as he supervised his cooking. I remember river crayfish, split and grilled over the embers, sardines, early corn, sweet potatoes, caramelized apples rolled in sugar and flash-fried in butter, thick pancakes, honey. We ate with our fingers from tin plates and drank cider and more of the spiced wine.
And it is partly the transience of it that delights me; so much loving preparation, so much art and experience, put into a pleasure that can last only a moment, and which only a few will ever fully appreciate.
I made the coffee myself in Armande’s curious small kitchen with its cast-iron range and low ceiling. Everything is clean there, but the one tiny window looks onto the river, giving the light a greenish underwater look. Hanging from the dark, unpainted beams are bunches of dry herbs in their muslin sachets. On the whitewashed walls, copper pans hang from hooks. The door- like all the doors in the house- has a hole cut into the base to allow free passage to her cats.
Now we add the cinnamon,” I said. “Sticks, not powder; broken in half. Three or four should do the trick-” The summery scent had turned autumnal; bonfires and Halloween. Cinnamon pancakes cooked outside. Mulled wine and burnt sugar.
Divinition is a means of telling ourselves what we already know. What we fear. There are no demons but a collection of archetypes every civilization has in common. The fear of loss – Death. The fear of displacement – the Tower. The fear of transience – the Chariot.
Clever folk aren’t popular, by and large. They arouse suspicion. They don’t fit in. They can be useful, as I proved on a number of occasions, but among the general population there’s always a sense of vague mistrust, as if the very qualities that make them indispensable also make them dangerous.
I’ve always recognized that look – that look of sanctified contempt adopted by the righteous.
Roux flung a handful of dried shavings on to the embers of his fire; the scent was sharp and immediate, lemon grass and lavender, sage and applewood and pine, like the campfires of my childhood.
Love is the thing that only God sees.
But I have always been different. Perhaps that’s why I find it easier to cross the narrow boundaries between one tribe and the next. To belong so often means to exclude; to think in terms of us and them – two little words that, juxtaposed, so often lead to conflict.
Oh, she understood wine, my mother. She understood the sweetening process, the fermentation, the seething and mellowing of life in the bottle, the darkening, the slow transformations, the birth of a new vintage in a bouquet of aromas like a magician’s bunch of paper flowers. If only she had had time and patience enough for us. A child is not a fruit tree. She understood that too late. There is no recipe to take a child into sweet, safe adulthood. She should have known that.
The road to adulthood is filled with contradictions, and I was still young enough to half believe the lies with which that road is paved.
Clever folk aren’t popular, by and large. They arouse suspicion. They don’t fit in.
Well, that’s history for you, folks. Unfair, untrue, and for the most part written by folk who weren’t even there.
All words have power, of course, but names are the most potent of all, which is why the gods had so many.