The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,34

us, but many yesterdays have passed.” Clothilde pinched my cheek. “I remember when we couldn’t keep you out of the kitchen. We’d urge you to go play and then find you hiding in the servant’s staircase, watching us cook and prepare the Sunday lunches. Such a shame you missed the last one of the season,” said Clothilde. “It was two weeks ago.”

“I’m sorry I missed it. I loved them when I was a kid,” I said, suddenly longing for them.

On Sundays, we’d have family lunches, inviting practically everybody from the tiny village of fifty or so people. The day started at ten in the morning, not ending until dusk, when the bats and barn swallows swooped in the sky and the moon and stars began to twinkle. Villagers arrived early in the morning with whatever they had—eggs, fresh fruits and vegetables from their gardens, ducks, chickens, rabbits, and homemade sausages. The men would play pétanque, France’s version of bocce ball, on the field. Grand-mère Odette and the women would cook up a storm—whatever was fresh and in season, whatever was brought to the doors. They’d shoo me away with their aprons, urging me to have fun. Sometimes I hid in the stairwell, watching them laugh, chop, and cook, licking my lips as delicious smells enveloped me, hugging me in a spicy embrace. We ate at picnic tables covered with beautiful French linens. I remembered the laughter and joy from those days like it was yesterday, as Clothilde had said. Too bad I was having problems placing anything else. Save for mentioning the Sunday lunches, my grandmother hadn’t told me anything—that she was a Grand Chef or that she was now part of the famed group La Société des Châteaux et Belles Demeures. Or that she ran two restaurants.

“Can you please tell me what’s been going on at the château? Everything’s changed so much. I feel like I’m on another planet.”

Clothilde’s laugh twittered like a small bird’s. “I’m afraid it’s your grandmother who will have to answer your questions. Je m’occupe de mes oignons.” I mind my own onions—or translated in English, “I mind my own business.”

“I hope she’s around to—” I started to say, but cut myself off when Clothilde’s mouth formed into one of the saddest pouts I’d ever seen.

She fluffed up her curls, ignoring my statement. I wanted to hug her, to apologize, but didn’t know how to do so; it was out of my arsenal of emotions. Apparently, all I knew now was how to take a defense position, and I didn’t do it well.

“We’ve got a full house booked this weekend, plus a wine tasting and the cooking demonstrations, and we’ll need all the help we can get,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll find the kitchen is very well equipped with everything you need.”

I wasn’t so sure about that. My last attempts with cooking for Walter and Robert were complete failures. “Who is in charge of the wine tasting?” I asked, worried it would fall under my responsibility, worried I’d pissed her off. I knew enough about wine, the basic tasting notes, but I knew nothing of the wines of Gaillac, and had absolutely zero knowledge of the varieties created at the château.

“That would be my Bernard,” said Clothilde, and relief washed over me. Her eyes met mine and she pinched my cheeks again—not too hard, but enough to tell me she cared about me and, although I’d offended her, any conversation regarding the state of my grand-mère’s health was over.

“Do you remember I named my bear after him? Bearnard.”

Clothilde twittered her birdlike laugh, her red curls bobbing like coiled springs. “Oh my! Oui! The English word for l’ours is ‘bear.’ Between you and me, my husband is a bit of an animal. You should hear him snore! He shakes the entire house.”

I laughed. And, honestly, it felt good to laugh. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done so.

“And the cooking demonstration?” I asked.

“I’m in charge of those,” she said. “We like the guests to experience everything the château has to offer—wine tastings year-round, picking grapes during the harvest, skeet shooting or hunting—even gardening,” she said. “You’ll get the hang of things around here once you settle in a bit more.”

I swooned at all this information, feeling dizzy. My grand-mère had created an empire. And I felt like a bystander, an intruder.

Clothilde walked over to a corner and bounced lightly on one of the old oak planks, the one with the twisted knot. She dropped