1½ ripe pears, peeled, cored, and sliced
⅔ cup Nutella or other hazelnut spread
½ cup hazelnuts, very finely chopped
Whipped cream for serving (optional)
Lower the oven rack to the bottom third of the oven before heating it to 350°F. Butter and flour a 9-inch springform pan.
Stir the breadcrumbs, chocolate, brown sugar, and baking powder together in a medium-sized bowl. In a larger bowl, stir the eggs, butter, cream, and milk together. Add the dry ingredients to the wet, and stir—batter will be very thick.
Spread half the batter in the springform pan, and arrange the pears in a circle. Add the second half, smoothing the top. Bake 50–60 minutes, or until browned and the sides have pulled away.
Allow the cake to set, at least 20 minutes. Once the cake is cooled and removed from the pan, spoon the Nutella into a resealable bag and snip off one corner. Drizzle Nutella over the top, then sprinkle with hazelnuts. Serve warm with whipped cream.
Serves 8
First we eat, then we do everything else.
—M. F. K. FISHER
Tarissa waved at me when she spotted my entrance to Mindy’s Hot Chocolate. I waved back and weaved my way to the table she’d snagged along the wall.
“So good to see you!” she said, wrapping me in a hug. “I can’t believe Callan and I moved to the same neighborhood as your sister!”
“Me either,” I said, taking in the sight of her. She wore a tailored ivory wool coat and pale-gray trousers that contrasted beautifully with her umber complexion. “You look fabulous, as always.”
“So do you! I love that scarf.”
I untwirled the soft knit garment from my neck. “Thanks—it’s such a relief to get to wear color. I’m in black every day for work, and after a while, it gets to me.” I looked around the restaurant, with its painted brick walls and wood beams. “This place feels like home—what do you like here?”
“Well, the hot chocolate is what they’re famous for, obviously. I thought it’s something a foodie like you would enjoy. The cups are huge, and they put their homemade marshmallows on top. And the brunch is good too—Callan likes the breakfast biscuit, and I go for the french toast. I’ve had the quiche too.”
The waiter came and took our orders, and I asked Tarissa about their move to Chicago.
“I miss being close to my family, of course, but Callan is very happy with his new job. I’m in the process of getting my small-business license so I can start building a new interior-décor clientele.”
“Is that hard? Starting from scratch?”
“It is,” she said without prevarication. “But it was the right move.”
“Did your Germantown house sell easily?”
“It did.” She allowed herself a smirk. “Side benefit of being a decorator. We listed the house and had our pick of offers within twenty-four hours.”
“I’m sure it showed beautifully.”
“We’re still settling into our new place, which is good for the blog. You know how it is. Lots of pictures, lots of social media. I’ve got a few people waiting for consults—it’s positive.” She took a sip of her water. “Enough about me. How are you? Neil mentioned that your mother passed away recently. Callan and I were very sad to hear that.”
My throat closed up, the way it so often did when my mother came up. “Yes. September second.”
“Bless your heart.” She shook her head. “But the restaurant is good?”
“It is,” I said, regaining my composure. “Strong opening, reviews have been good, and we’ve been able to hire some more staff. That’s what allowed me to come out.”
“Did you come out for Thanksgiving?”
“No, Caterina came to Portland for Thanksgiving and I followed her back.”
“Just some sister time, or…”
I recognized fishing when I heard it. “It just seemed like a good time for a break.”
Tarissa gave me a level glance. “During the busiest time of year for restaurants?”
She was good. I had to give that to her.
The waiter arrived with our hot chocolates at that moment, but I knew that no amount of stirring and marshmallow dunking would put her off.
“After Neil and I broke up,” I began, “I started dating Adrian, who’s also the sous-chef at the restaurant.”
Tarissa nodded, waiting.
“We dated—casually—through the fall. He was very kind; it was a difficult time.” I took a sip of cocoa. “This really is very good. The chai spices are coming through nicely.” I stirred the cocoa before continuing. “Adrian and I had a…miscommunication about the nature of our relationship. And when Neil showed up in town, it set off some insecurities. So on my birthday, he proposed.”
Tarissa’s eyes opened wide. “He pulled out a ring? After three months?”
“Three months and a few weeks, yes.”
“You’re not engaged, obviously,” she said, eying my unadorned left hand. “So what happened?”
“I said I wasn’t ready—which I wasn’t. And then he came to Thanksgiving dinner with my family, and one thing led to another, and we started arguing while washing the dishes. He wouldn’t believe that Neil and I were done.” I shrugged. “I couldn’t change his mind. So…we broke up. And I’d already booked the ticket to come here, to get away. So that worked out, at least.”
“This is going to sound cliché coming from a black woman,” Tarissa said, patting my hand, “but, girl, that is a lot of drama.”
“Yes. Yes it is.” I released an awkward laugh. “You are not wrong.”
“Does Neil know about any of this?”
“I told him that we broke up at Thanksgiving,” I said. “I left out the rest.”
“He doesn’t know that fool proposed to you?”
I pulled out my phone and started scrolling through pictures. “Okay, before you think very badly of me, you have to see him.” I flipped until I found the photo of Adrian in my kitchen, grinning as he fed Gigi a bit of apple. “And he’s very sweet.”
Tarissa took the phone in hand. “Look at those curls! You’re right. I’m not judging. I can see how he would be very comforting in a time of need.”
“But…also insecure in a way that I didn’t see coming and couldn’t dissuade him from.”
She shook her head. “Nothing you can do with a jealous man.”
“This is between us,” I told her. “Neil and I are…well, we’re talking. As friends. But we’ve both moved on. He doesn’t need to be in the middle of my drama any more than he has been.”
“He hasn’t moved on,” she stated, point blank.
“He has,” I said. “He told me about the woman he’s been seeing at the hospital. It’s fine. I’m fine. And really—I hope we can continue being friends. But as far as a relationship goes…at the first real tests, we pulled away from each other, rather than toward. That’s not sustainable in life, not in a partnership. No.” I looked down at the table. “We’re better as friends.”
“Those are good observations,” Tarissa said. “The two of you encountered more challenges than most people do in relationships. Now, I’m not going to meddle too much—Callan would have my head—but you should know two things. When you two broke up in July, it caused him to do some thinking. Oh sure, he was angry and hurt at first. But I’m not sure he’s the same man he was before. And I’m sure you’re not the woman you were before your mother passed.”
“No,” I said. “That’s certainly true.”
“And secondly, Neil’s not seeing anyone.”
I frowned. “He said he was, when he came to the restaurant last month.”
“I think he mentioned someone to Callan, Ginny or Jenny or something like that. But it wasn’t serious, and I don’t think he’s mentioned her for a while.”
“I see,” I said.
Tarissa raised her eyebrow.
“I’m not in the market for a relationship,” I insisted. “Like I said, Neil and I are better as frie
nds.”
“Does he know that? I was serious before. Neil hasn’t moved on.”
My heart clenched in my chest; I made myself breathe through it.
I thought back to the fight we’d had in Memphis, the breakup over the phone before the restaurant opening. I’d been in the hospital with my mother all night; he’d been planning to fly out before work intervened. Our argument had been fueled by grief, exhaustion, frustration, and disappointment, a potent combination of emotions that burned our relationship to the ground within minutes. My breath caught just remembering the way my heart had shattered.
Tarissa put a friendly hand on my arm. “Look, maybe you’re right and you’re better as friends. But every relationship has its heartbreak, and you learn how to fix it and move on. Callan and I have spent our time with a marriage therapist, but I don’t see that as failure or a sign that we’re a bad match. I see it as being two people who love each other enough to be flawed and fight for each other at the same time. But,” she continued, “only you and Neil can decide if you have enough love between you to fight. I’m done meddling.”
“Callan would be proud,” I teased.
Our plates arrived then, and we welcomed the subject change.
A long while later, we parted ways with hugs and clasped hands. “I’ll have Caterina give you a call,” I told her as the chill wind whipped around us. “And I’ll try not to be too jealous of how close the two of you are.”
“I’d enjoy that. And you stay in touch, Juliette—I mean that. No matter what happens with you and Neil, we’re friends, you understand?”
“I do,” I said with a wide smile. “And I’m glad to hear it.”
We waved good-bye, and I left with a heart that felt full—but also a little conflicted.
Was she right? Was Neil even remotely interested in starting again? I couldn’t comprehend such a thing, but neither could I forget the way we’d looked at each other when we’d met by accident at Powell’s.
I shook my head as I walked down the street toward David’s Tea.
We’d broken up twice; trying to make a third go would be ludicrous. It’d be Jim Carrey’s and Kate Winslet’s characters in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, without the erased memories.
Why had we broken up, anyway?
The thing about this time away was that I had an uncharacteristic amount of time to think.
The first time we’d broken up, I’d said that I couldn’t handle a long-distance relationship. The stress of being apart with no real end in sight had been too much. Shortly after, we’d talked it over and decided to try again, and Neil had flown out to France to join me in my Continental adventure.
The second time ended in an awful argument but in truth began with a thousand tiny fractures. His parents in Memphis, my mother’s worsening health—these were factors.
But always, it was the distance that made the difficult things insurmountable.
For a moment, I allowed my mind to wonder about the possibilities, if he and I tried just one more time. I remembered the ease of his company, the way his touch warmed me clear through. There was so much that was so good—and so much to fall apart when our worlds shook and we couldn’t be in the same room.
Tarissa did have a point. I wasn’t the person I’d been before my mom passed. But rather than make me somehow wiser, softer, or better, I felt more like a table missing a leg.
No.
Neil and I could be friends. But anything more than that?
He deserved better.
I picked up five ounces of the Cold 911 tea for Caterina, who was on the mend, though not as quickly as she would have chosen, and a bag of the cinnamon rooibos chai for myself.
Back at Caterina’s townhouse, I made dinner for Cat and the boys, while Damian worked late. We took bowls of popcorn—plain for the boys, tossed with coconut oil and sea salt for the grownups—to the living room and watched Arthur Christmas by the light of the Christmas tree, so comfortably curled on the couch that both boys fell asleep.
Cat watched them for a while, giving them fifteen minutes to drift all the way off, then hit the Pause button. “So are you going to tell me about brunch with Tarissa?”
“Feeling the cabin fever? Have to pump me for tales from the outside world?”
“You have no idea.”
I chuckled and reached for the popcorn before sharing the highlights of the conversation.
“Well, of course she wants the two of you back together. You’re a catch.”
“I’m a disaster,” I said dryly. “But thanks.”
“You’re not a disaster.”
“I’ve been thrown a lot of curve balls that I’ve promptly fumbled. And I think I’m mixing my sports metaphors. But how many romances for the ages have started with two breakups and managed to overcome the odds? I’m too jumpy.”
“Who did the breaking up with Adrian, again?”
“He did, I suppose. So maybe less jumpy there.”
“But you didn’t care about him the way you did Neil. And maybe the way you did about Éric.”
“Are you suggesting that I panic and bail because of how Éric and I broke up?”
“Maybe, maybe not. You can tell me if I’m full of squash.”
I chuckled. “Squash?”
“I have young children. I have to get creative.”
My gaze shifted to the Christmas tree’s multicolored lights while I considered her words. “I was really into Éric. And I was very young.”
“Éric was a very good-looking man. I remember that much. Like Alexander Siddig, with longer hair and a beard.”
“It’s still good hair. Or it was when I saw him in Seattle.” I watched the lights for another moment. “He’d already been married and divorced when I saw him. There was still—there was chemistry between us, even though we hadn’t seen each other for years.”
“I think you left that out of the sister retelling.”
“He flirted some, made noises about me moving up there. We both knew he wouldn’t leave the restaurant, even to open another in a new city.”
“One of these days,” Caterina said slowly, carefully, “a man is going to love you so much that you’ll know he’s all in. No need to feel jumpy.”
I wiped the beginnings of a tear from the corner of my eye. “Is that going to be enough? Would I even be able to trust it, recognize it if it were in front of me?”
“I think so. I really do.”
“I spent so much time trying to keep Mom out of certain aspects of my life.” My eyes filled with tears. “And now that she’s gone, all I want is to ask for her opinion, hear her thoughts, hear her tell me everything is going to be okay.”
Caterina grasped my hand with her own. “Now, don’t cry,” she said, her voice shaky. “Because you’ll make me cry, and if I cry I won’t be able to breathe.”
I snorted. “Emotional blackmail?”
“Is it working?”
“Enough,” I said with a soft laugh. “I’m going to miss you when I go home.”
“I’m going to miss you too. But I’ll see you soon, and we’ll watch White Christmas to our hearts’ content.”
We grinned at each other, and Caterina turned the movie back on. We laughed as the elf managed to wrap a bicycle using three pieces of sticky tape, fulfilling the wish of a little girl’s Christmas letter.
“Do you think there are more letters at the chateau?” I asked Caterina as the screen filled with the image of Santa’s mailroom.
“Could be,” Caterina answered. “But who would she be writing? Weren’t the letters mostly between her and her sister and her sweetheart?”
“And her aunt,” I added. “But if Tante Joséphine remained in Paris, mail between the Vichy side and the south would have been heavily scrutinized.” I took handful of popcorn. “And it’s not like she’d be writing her sister if they lived together.”
“Did she write to Gilles, do you think?”
“They were practically neighbors.” I shook m
y head. “I suppose there’s only one way to find out.”
“You’ll have to make the trip,” Caterina agreed. “Pass the popcorn.”
~ STOVETOP POPCORN WITH COCONUT OIL AND SEA SALT ~
3 tablespoons plus 1½ tablespoons unrefined coconut oil, divided
⅓ cup popcorn kernels
Sea salt, to taste
In a 4-quart saucepan with a well-fitting lid, heat 3 tablespoons of coconut oil over medium-high heat.
Place 3 of the popcorn kernels in the pot, and cover. Wait for those kernels to pop, then add the remaining kernels. Cover, and remove the pan from the heat for 30 seconds. Do not turn off burner.
Return the covered pot to the burner. Once the kernels begin to pop again, shake the pot a little bit over the burner to keep them moving. You can tilt the lid a bit to release some of the steam.
Once the popping slows to 4 or 5 seconds between pops, quickly transfer popped corn into a separate bowl.
Add the remaining 1½ tablespoons of coconut oil to the hot pan, and pour it over the popcorn. Add salt to taste, and toss well. Enjoy while warm.
Serves 2–3.
Well, never mind. This day’s done and there’s a new one coming tomorrow, with no mistakes in it yet, as you used to say yourself. Just come downstairs and have your supper. You’ll see if a good cup of tea and those plum puffs I made today won’t hearten you up.
—L. M. MONTGOMERY
I read Neil’s text seconds after my plane touched down on Oregonian soil; I had turned my phone’s connectivity back on to find a smattering of e-mails, texts, and other notifications.
Neil’s I read first. “You coming back from Chicago anytime soon?”
I read through the rest of my e-mails—mainly confirmations from suppliers, and a stray missive extolling the virtues of celery root from Nico—before answering Neil.
“Just landed at PDX. Will somehow manage to forgo the pleasure of photographing my feet on the carpet.”
“I noticed that’s a thing,” he texted back. “Did you leave your car there?”
“Alex is picking me up,” I wrote. “At least that’s the plan. It’s been known to change.”
Together at the Table Page 14