The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux

by Samantha Vérant

Many bisous,

  Ta mère

  A deep sadness crept into my heart as I stared at the photos. There was a time when my mother was truly happy, when her eyes sparkled. There was a time when she giggled and laughed. I never knew that person; I only knew a shell of the person she once was. Although I wanted to read more, I closed the journal as my grandmother instructed. She squeezed my hand.

  “She was beautiful, wasn’t she?” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “Such a happy and joyful little girl.”

  Visions of my depressed mother floated in my mind. Cleaning up her vomit. Longing for a hug or a motherly touch. Taking care of her. For most of my life, my escape was the kitchen, trying to do something—anything—to make her smile. When I was fifteen, I turned to making French recipes—all of her favorites, like crêpes, bœuf bourguignon, coq au vin, hoping my mother would come back down to earth, that she’d love me; she never did.

  “She was never happy,” I said, thinking, at least not with me.

  “Non, perhaps not always, but I so love remembering her when she was like this.”

  “Those days for me are really hard to come by,” I said, squeezing my eyes shut.

  “They are hard for me, too. Which is why it’s so hard for me to talk about her.”

  I snapped to attention. Would she talk about herself then? “Grand-mère, you wrote you felt enchained to the château. Was it because of my mother? Grand-père?”

  “Ma chérie, things were simply different back then. Women were expected to trail after their husbands—bear children and not follow their dreams of having a career. Plus, being married to a noble came with a different set of challenges and rules.”

  “You didn’t follow your dreams?”

  Her eyes brightened. “Why, yes. After your grand-père died, I bought the pied-à-terre in Paris and I attended Le Cordon Bleu. Like you, I found my heart in the kitchen. But it’s my desire for you to know much more than that.”

  Of course, I’d found her diploma when I was snooping in her office, but we’d never talked about it. Apparently, we were going to talk about everything now. This was what I’d wanted. Wasn’t it?

  “You said you did everything at the château for me. Is that true?”

  Her gaze flicked to the side. “I’d be lying if I didn’t say I did a lot of it for me, too. But you are my granddaughter, and I have a feeling we share more than a few dreams. I just didn’t get to follow my heart until much later in life.”

  “I don’t even know what my dreams are anymore,” I said. “All I ever wanted to be was a Michelin-starred chef, but that dream was taken from me.”

  “If you want that dream, you’ll have to fight for it. Les Libellules, our flagship resturant, is worthy of stars, and perhaps your stars will come to you,” she said. “Tell me, ma chérie, are you not happy here?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know,” I said, thinking all my dreams could fall right into my lap—dreams I hadn’t worked for. “It’s so easy and simple here but complicated at the same time. What do I know about running a château?”

  “You’ll learn,” she said. “If anybody can do it, it’s you. Just get to know it better, at least while you’re here.” She yawned, her head lolling to the side. “I believe we’ve covered enough for one day, yes?”

  There were so many questions, so many doubts, so much sadness swimming in my mind. The truth of the matter was that if I was truly running the château, it would mean my grand-mère had died. And I didn’t want that to happen, especially when I was getting to know her again.

  “You’ve invited Rémi, Lola, Clothilde, Bernard, and Agnès for the New Year’s Eve celebration?” she asked, and I nodded. “Although I’m looking forward to the meal you’ve planned, after reading about it, I’d simply adore a crème brûlée.”

  “Yes, Grand-mère,” I said.

  “One day, when I’m feeling better, I’m looking forward to joining you in the kitchen. I’m sure you’re a force to be reckoned with.”

  “I’d love that, Grand-mère.” I kissed her on the cheek and made my way downstairs, thinking about my mother, my grandmother, and the château.

  I rubbed my eyes with my fingertips. At Cendrillon, I’d been stuck adhering to rules and regulations and rigid recipes, and my creativity got lost in the process. I’d been telling somebody else’s story when all I’d ever wanted was to tell my own. But what if I didn’t like my story? Would the rest of Grand-mère’s diary provide me with the answers I needed to make my decision?

  In the journal entry we’d read, the one with the dragonfly, my mother had been happy, and my heart had filled with joy. I wanted—no, needed—to wrap myself in her happiness, if only for a few minutes. I crawled into the corners of my memories, trying to remember something sweet she’d said. The past flooded my core, bringing me back to a day when she’d looked at me and said, “I don’t deserve something as wonderful as you.”

  “You think I’m wonderful?” I’d said with surprise.

  “Of course,” she’d said. “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  Until now, I’d forgotten this conversation. I supposed I’d blocked out any of the good memories, the sweet things my mother had said and done, with bad ones as a self-defense mechanism, trying to protect myself from the pain of when I lost her. But the memories came flooding back. When she wasn’t doped up, life with my mother really wasn’t all bad. I choked back my tears. It was then I realized I really missed her. I never hated her. I may have loved her too much.

  * * *

  After all the stress and surprises, our New Year’s Eve celebration was a nice way to wind down the year—a simple meal among family and friends. Well, a simple meal—the French way, almost an exact repeat of Christmas Eve, but for seven people, and it included the addition of a clementine-infused crème brûlée. After tucking a very tired and stuffed Lola into one of the window seats, we sat by the fire waiting for the clock to strike midnight, chatting and drinking the château’s ancestral-method sparkling wine. Grand-mère was getting stronger every minute. She even made it out of her wheelchair, walking slowly toward me, each step purposeful.

  “Ma chérie,” said my grand-mère. “You are a wonderful chef. When I’m gone, I know the château will be in your capable hands. You’ve made me happier than I’ve been in a long while. Bonne année.”

  “I hope you’ll be around for a while,” I said as we swapped kisses. “Look how great you’re doing. That day isn’t coming anytime soon.”

  “But one day it will come,” she said. She clasped my hands in between hers before making her way over to Clothilde. A knot formed in my throat—so tight it was difficult to swallow.

  Rémi was the last to exchange les bises with me.

  “Thank you for being so kind to Lola and for being such a great friend,” he said. Rémi poured some sparkling wine into our glasses. “Here’s to the New Year. À ta santé.”

  We toasted, and my heart wobbled a little bit.

  22

  there’s heat in this kitchen

  The next few days were spent fulfilling duties at the château, such as polishing silverware, turning over mattresses, and maintaining the grounds, Rémi doing the latter when he wasn’t running into town picking up diapers for Lola. The weather was cold and dreary but there was some heat sparking my body, namely my growing feelings for Rémi. I liked how he fawned over Grand-mère. I liked his dimpled smile, especially when it was directed at me. I liked how he was a doting father to Lola. What I didn’t like was the fact that we’d barely spoken since New Year’s Eve. He was friendly enough, yes, but reserved and always rushing off to take care of something.

  Then something happened between us. The snow fell hard again, covering the grounds of the château in a sugarcoated wonderland. I was coming back from the greenhouse and Rémi was hauling wood in one of the ATVs. He didn’t stop or even wave. So I threw
a snowball at him and it landed, smacking him right on the back of his neck. The ATV stopped and Rémi jumped off it, racing toward me, his face twisting in what looked like anger. I turned to run, but slipped in the snow. His laughter boomed. He ran up, stretched out his hand to help me off the ground, and I was almost up when he released his grip.

  “What’d you do that for?” I asked.

  “You threw a snowball at me,” he said.

  “Because you’ve been ignoring me,” I said and, not knowing what else to do under his gaze, I started making an angel, my legs and arms swooping in the snow.

  “I could never ignore you, Sophie,” he said with a grin, and spread out next to me. “You really are an angel.” He propped himself up on his elbow and leaned over me. I swear our lips were about to touch. I could feel the heat of his breath. I really wanted him to kiss me, ached for his lips on mine. Instead, he jumped up. “Grand-mère needs her firewood. She’s cold.”

  So was I, especially after the heat sparking my body. He winked. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Later,” I said with frustration.

  The fantasies infiltrating my brain when I watched him walk away—his broad shoulders, his tight rear—were so wrong, especially at a time I shouldn’t be thinking about him. I reminded myself: I was here for my grand-mère—not for me, and not for him. I headed into the kitchen to prepare my grand-mère and Agnès a meal—a simple leek quiche. A few hours later, after ushering Agnès to another room, we read more of Grand-mère’s diary and I found myself coming closer to my mother and to my grandmother with each passage I read.

  “Ah, yes,” said my grand-mère with a laugh, pointing to a photo accompanying an entry. “I remember that day. One day, Céleste brought baby goats into her bedroom and jumped around with them on the bed until I burst into her room and said, ‘No goats in the house. And no jumping on the bed.’”

  Her laughter came strong, as did mine.

  I traced my mother’s image with my finger, wanting to see her in person again, even for a few seconds. She was so beautiful in these photos, so full of life, so full of laughter, which made me realize I never truly knew her when she was alive.

  “Could we read one more?” I asked, even though we’d already gone through dozens.

  Grand-mère nodded. “Just one more,” she said, and I read.

  19 December, 1988

  My darling Céleste—

  You’re now thirteen years old and quite the beauty. Your figure is blossoming and it makes me so very uncomfortable to see the way men—older men—look at you. Your father isn’t too keen on letting you hang around boys—even ones your age. I don’t blame him.

  Many bisous,

  Ta mère

  How many men had fallen in love with my mother? I knew the answer: too many. It was hard to keep track of them all, one swinging through the front door while another one left through the back. When I was sixteen, I just called them all Bob under my breath. How many men had she loved? Zero. She used her lovers like toilet paper on her rise and fall to an unclaimed stardom, and they probably used her, too—sucked the life right out of her.

  Although she did land a few bit parts in a few films, always playing roles like the unnamed French maid or waitress, her career never took off, no matter how hard she tried. I could say one thing: she was driven, maybe too driven. Perhaps I was more like her than I realized.

  “Grand-mère,” I asked. “Did she ever talk to you? Tell you about her first loves? Tell you anything? She was always so distant with me.”

  “Non, ma chérie,” she said. “Look at this picture, the one when she was fifteen. Look at her eyes.”

  My mother was sitting on a swing, head down, her jaw clamped into her famous closed-lip smile. This photo was different than the others. It was as if she was no longer present. This was the mother I remembered.

  “What happened to her?”

  “We’re getting to that part soon,” she said, closing the notebook, her eyes glistening with tears. “Please, I’m doing what I can for now.”

  One of the machines buzzed and beeped, the noise deafening. Agnès rushed into the room. She huddled over my grand-mère and attached a blood pressure monitor to her arm. “Did something cause her stress?”

  “Yes, yes, yes, I’m sure of it,” I said, bracing my hands on my knees. “We were . . . we were . . . talking about my mother. She—she doesn’t like to—”

  “I’d avoid the subject,” said Agnès, worry creasing her brows. “Her blood pressure is through the roof.”

  “I will talk to my granddaughter regarding topics I want to discuss,” said my grand-mère with a wheeze. “It’s my dying wish for her to know the truth. You, Agnès, won’t take that away from me.”

  I latched onto Grand-mère’s trembling hand. “Maybe it’s too hard on you. I can live with not knowing. Your health is more important to me. You’re here. And she’s gone.”

  “Hors de question” (Out of the question), said Grand-mère, her voice strong and unwavering. “Our good lord won’t let me into his kingdom unless I confess all of my sins. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Confess? Confess what? I knew my grand-mère was religious, went to church every Sunday, but I didn’t think she believed in the wrath of God. What would have rattled my grand-mère so badly that she would say such terrible things? My heart raced so fiercely I thought it would explode from my rib cage.

  A loud sound came from another one of the machines. Agnès scrambled over to a tray, returning with a vial. “I’m giving your grand-mère a sedative,” she said as she injected a liquid into the IV. “She really needs to stay calm, and I need to make sure her blood pressure stays stable or she could have another aneurysm rupture.”

  This setback was my fault. I’d instigated a painful conversation when I should have just left it all alone. Could I live without my answers, especially since Grand-mère could die giving them to me?

  In seconds, Grand-mère’s eyelids quivered to a close and her chest rose and fell softly. I stood panicked, my breathing rapid. “Will she be okay?”

  “If I get her stabilized,” said Agnès.

  My eyes shot to the diary splayed out on my grand-mère’s lap. I didn’t want to be the cause of her death, but after what she said about confessing, I wanted to know why. What had she done to my mother that was so terrible? Instead of putting Grand-mère through emotional turmoil, I could get my answers on my own. Before I could reach for the journal, Agnès picked it up, closed it, and tucked it on Grand-mère’s nightstand, out of my reach.

  “Sophie,” said Agnès. “We need to keep your grand-mère strong. Can somebody bring us dinner in a few hours? I’d make something myself, but I can’t leave her. Not for a second. Something light and healthy, chock-full of nutrients—like a soup?”

  “I will,” I said, fighting back my tears.

  * * *

  For the most part, the château was quiet and empty. I rarely saw the housekeepers. If I did, the ladies would say a quick bonjour and scurry off. All I could think about were loneliness and guilt—mine and hers. I don’t know how my grand-mère survived the winter months without anybody around in the past—including me. Instead of her diary and the confession it contained, I thought of her kitchen notebooks. I pulled them out from their hiding place in the floor, searching for one recipe in particular. If my grand-mère was on the cusp of death and needed to face her ghosts to move on, I could, too. We were already talking about my mother, which eased my pain; I needed, for my sanity, to do something else.

  After finding the recipe, I dashed over to the greenhouse with a basket, and I eyed my nemesis growing in the garden to its side: the potimarron. The wind picked up and the orange squashes bobbed on their leaves, taunting me. Still, I needed to be strong for my grandmother. She needed to see I could do more than bring up croissants and baguettes. She needed to feel she’d d
one something important by teaching me what she knew. She needed to know she was always by my side even when we were oceans apart. She had to let go of her guilt. I needed to let go of my guilt. I ambled into the field of winter squashes and picked eight waxed beauties, releasing them from their leafy green vines, and placed them in my basket. Then I opened up the door to the greenhouse, feeling alive and inspired. I grabbed stalks of leeks, carrots, and fresh herbs, including lavender. Lavender—healing and calming, just what she needed. After picking the purple stems and placing them in my basket, I brought my fingers to my nose. Healing and calming—just what I needed, too.

  Back in the kitchen, I set to work, laying out the ingredients before me in a perfect line. I grabbed a cutting board and, not even thinking, I slammed my knife into one of the potimarrons. And it felt good, like I was taking out my frustrations and hate on Eric, the guilt I felt for leaving Grand-mère. By the time I was finished, the squash was butchered, but still usable.

  “Remind me to never get you angry,” came a voice, and Rémi sauntered into the kitchen.

  Embarrassed, I dropped my knife. It clattered onto the prep table. “How long have you been standing there?”

  He held up his hands in mock fear. “Long enough.”

  I couldn’t meet his eyes. “Did you need something?”

  “I wanted to know if you were free tomorrow.”

  “I’m always free. I’m American,” I said, instantly regretting my sarcastic response.

  “Don’t forget you were born French. I thought you might like to get away from the château, see a bit more of the area. Laetitia will be watching Lola,” he said. “I kind of need to get away, too. I thought we could catch up.”

  I had to keep my distance. But I couldn’t. Not with Remi’s long eyelashes blinking away. “As friends, right?”

  “No, as mortal enemies,” he said with a smirk. “Is there a problem? You’re acting really bizarre, Sophie.”