The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,12

pan. She’d dip a spoon in a pot or slice up an onion in two seconds, making it look oh so easy, and for her it was. But my favorite part was when she’d let me taste whatever delight she was cooking up, sweet or savory. I’d close my eyes, lick my lips, and sigh with happiness.

Sometimes Grand-mère Odette would blindfold me, and it wasn’t long before I could pick out every ingredient by smell. All the other senses came to me, too—sight (the glorious plating), taste (the delight of the unknown), touch (the way a cherry felt in my hand), and hearing (the way garlic sizzled in the pan).

“You are a chef,” she’d say.

“One day, I want to be just like you,” I’d say.

Her pale green eyes, which reminded me of the freshness of spring, would crinkle as she smiled and she’d tousle my hair. “Sophie, quand tu es en France, il faut que tu parles français.” (When you are in France, you must speak French.) Then, she’d mumble something about how that traveling star-chaser of a mother of mine had ruined my education and how, thankfully, I spent the summers with her so she could put the pieces back together, to get me in touch with my roots. After all, I was born in France, so I was French in Grand-mère Odette’s eyes and not an American, and not, heaven forbid, a New Yorker. Much to Grand-mère Odette’s chagrin, the facts were the facts and I was all three.

Those formative years, all the summers spent with Grand-mère Odette in her kitchen in southwestern France, fueled my dreams of becoming a chef, the love of cooking running like the sweetest of cherry juices through my veins. Thanks to the skills I picked up while soaking in Grand-mère Odette’s every word like the greediest of sponge cakes, I graduated at the top of my class from the Culinary Institute of America.

The more I thought about Champvert, the lighter my anger became. Unfortunately, it was three a.m. in France, too late to call Grand-mère Odette, and I wasn’t quite sure if she’d be happy to hear from me. We hadn’t spoken all that much in well over six months because I’d been too busy with work, pushing for a promotion I’d never get. She’d call, but I’d brush her off with “I’ll call you tomorrow. Got lots on my plate.” Unfortunately, her hours didn’t match mine, not with the six-hour time difference. In a failed attempt to drown out my misery, I opened up a bottle of wine, poured, and then stared off into space, trying to think of happier times.

Something overtook me. At first, I thought the ceiling was leaking, my face splattered with a few wet droplets. And then it was like somebody had turned on a faucet. My body rocked, shaking my entire core. I cried for the death of my career. I cried for not being a better granddaughter to Grand-mère Odette, the only person in my world who fueled and supported my dreams. The last time I’d seen Grand-mère in person was when she flew out for my graduation from the CIA five years ago. Although she didn’t like to fly, she’d taken the long journey across the Atlantic. She was so proud of my achievements—the fact that I’d graduated at the top of my class. Yet I’d just set my grandmother to the side, thinking she would always be my pillar of strength. Too obsessed with my culinary career, I kept delaying a trip to Champvert, thinking she’d always be around. But the days were passing by and she wouldn’t always be around.

By the time I polished off the bottle of wine, guilt and plans for diabolical ways to get back at Eric replaced the memories of France, my mind filled with vengeance. Exhausted and angry, I finally made my way to my room and, after tossing and turning, I passed out stone-cold.

5

when bad things happen to good people

It was a little after seven in the morning when I came to. The wine had left a sour taste in my mouth; there were no feelings of euphoria, no buzz, just the pulsing pressure of a severe headache, nausea, and a mouth full of cotton. I desperately needed coffee. I shuffled my way to the kitchen, passing the living room.

An ashtray full of half-smoked cigarettes sat on the coffee table, and next to it, the empty bottle of wine. That, in addition to the champagne—I’d definitely