The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,18
the paramedics, I called Grand-mère Odette.
Although we hadn’t spoken since my last trip to Champvert when I was thirteen, my grandmother agreed to fly out and help me with the funeral arrangements. Our conversation was short, clipped. When I met her at the airport, the first words Grand-mère Odette had said to me were, “I’m surprised you called. I didn’t think you wanted me in your life.”
“Who told you that?”
“Céleste did. She said you didn’t want a thing to do with me. I begged and pleaded for you to come to France.”
“She told me you didn’t want to see me,” I said. “And that if I was a good daughter, I’d stay home and take care of her.”
“I see,” said Grand-mère. “Well, she was a sick, sick woman. Évidemment. Now that she’s gone, I want you to come to France for good. To your home. You are the only family I have left. After your mother took off and your grand-père died, I’ve felt quite alone.”
This was the first time she’d mentioned my grandfather. I didn’t have any memories of him. Nothing. Nada. He was an invisible entity to me.
Her lips pursed. “If you are wondering,” she said, “he died of a broken heart. When Céleste took off with you, it crushed him. Does family not mean anything to you?”
My head had dropped with guilt. I had plans. Big plans. Part of me wanted to go back to France, but a bigger part of me wanted to follow my dreams. And we were never the happy, picture-perfect family. Far from it. I was estranged from my mother and barely knew anything about her life in France before I was born. She made sure of that. Aside from visiting my grandmother over those summers, I didn’t really know Grand-mère all that well. She hadn’t made an effort to step in when I’d really needed her. I wondered if I was missing out on something, but I was eighteen and full of piss and vinegar, obstinate and stubborn. “My life is here, in New York,” I said.
“And such a life it is.”
“Grand-mère, I’ve just applied to one of the best cooking schools in the country, in the world—the Culinary Institute of America. I’m hoping to get in. With all my heart, all my soul. I haven’t forgotten one thing you taught me.”
She straighted her posture, her chin lifting high. “France has the best culinary schools. You should attend Le Cordon Bleu.”
“But I want to go to the CIA,” I said.
“I see,” she said. “If that’s what you wish for, I’m sure it will happen.”
As we sorted out my mother’s estate, she never again brought up the subject of me moving to France, although she did drop the occasional hint. “Champvert is so much cleaner than this dirty city of yours.” Or, “Food is healthier in France. Look at those strawberries! They are the size of oranges. It’s not natural. And they aren’t even in season.”
Neither of us cried over the death of my mother. The only time my mother’s name was brought up was when I asked if we should have a funeral. Grand-mère Odette’s face flushed bright red. She gripped her rosary beads. “What Céleste did was a sin. No funeral,” she’d said. And that was that.
Two weeks later, Grand-mère Odette returned to France and I picked up my mother’s ashes at the crematorium. As I held the black plastic box in my hands, the tears still wouldn’t fall. I resented—no, hated—my mother. She’d never wanted to be a mom, this I knew. When I was a child, she’d told me to call her Céleste, not Mom, in public. She thought my calling her Mom would “age” her. I think she told people I was a stray cat she’d found on the streets. And she’d laugh her tinkly laugh. I scattered her ashes in Central Park and threw away the box. In a way, I felt relief. I’d taken care of her for so long I finally had the chance to take care of myself.
My own mother had sabotaged my life. And now Eric had, too.
Sabotage, of course, ran rampant in the food world. A rival chef once booked dozens of fake reservations and ruined the success of a certain chef’s opening night. Angry chefs have turned up ovens to five hundred while cakes were baking. Adding salt or pepper into dishes has been a favorite.
While I might have been mad at Eric and had more than a few unresolved feelings