The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,52

Seared daurade filets. Saffron. The colors, ingredients, and plating came together in my mind. “Do we have edible flowers?”

“I take it you haven’t ventured into the greenhouse?”

I hadn’t.

Phillipa took my arm, helping me off the stool. “Grab a basket on the way out and let’s head over there for some divine inspiration.” She glanced at my ankle. “Can you walk?”

“You know what? I’ve got one good leg,” I said. Fight or flight.

Although winter was upon us, the grounds remained vibrant and green in some parts, golden in others. A large garden with a sea of waxy oranges, greens, and beiges surrounded the greenhouse. I shuddered as I eyed the round potimarrons, wondering if I’d ever be able to put Cendrillon behind me, and when. I blinked, focusing on the other winter squashes, like butternut, acorn, and spaghetti.

“Jane handles most of the gardening,” said Phillipa.

“I can’t imagine her getting her hands dirty.”

“She may be a pain in the butt, but she’s got a green thumb. She’s even our head beekeeper. Toward the back of the property are the ruches,” said Phillipa, pointing. “See those wooden boxes? They’re a bit quiet now, but in the summer and spring, they buzz with bees, the noise so loud it’s deafening.”

We opened the door and walked from a chilly December afternoon into the almost tropical humidity of the greenhouse. My eyes widened at this jungle of freshness, the earth on the ground. The back wall, around thirty feet high, burst with terra-cotta pots filled with every herb imaginable—basil, thyme, coriander, parsley, oregano, dill, rosemary, and lavender. There were tomatoes of almost every variety beaming with colors of red, dark purple, yellow, and green. Lemon trees. Avocados. Lettuces, like roquette and feuille de chêne. Zucchinis and eggplants. Fennel, celeriac, artichokes, and cucumbers. Leeks, asparagus, cabbages, and shallots, oh my.

I exhaled a happy breath. This explosion of color, this climate-controlled greenhouse, was every chef’s idea of heaven. I ran my hands over the leaves of a cœur de bœuf tomato plant and brought my fingers to my nose, breathing in the grassy and fragrant aroma, an unmistakable scent no other plant shared. All of the smells from my summers in France surrounded me under one roof. As the recipes Grand-mère taught me when I was a child ran through my head, my heart pumped with happiness, a new vitality. I picked a Black Krim, which was actually colored a dark reddish purple with greenish brown shoulders, and bit into it. Sweet with just a hint of tartness. Exactly how I summed up my feelings.

I darted around the greenhouse, climbing up ladders to clip fresh herbs on the best of culinary missions. After picking some endive and arugula, I turned to Phillipa. “This place is absolutely incredible,” I said, and added a handful of edible flowers to my now full basket.

“I know, right?” said Phillipa. “Do you have everything you need?”

I looked to my left, then my right. “I believe I do.”

Clothilde was slicing potatoes with a mandoline when we returned to the kitchen. She dabbed the sweat off her brow with a kitchen towel. “Oh, Sophie, you’re here! Wonderful! I’m preparing your dinner,” she said.

“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I can do it.”

“Ma petite puce, you have enough on your plate,” she said with a no-nonsense stance. “How is your grand-mère?”

“She’s doing better. We’re hoping she’ll be home before Christmas,” I said.

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.” Clothilde wandered over to a corner, returning with my grandmother’s poppy-print apron. “I think she’d want you to wear this.”

As I held the fabric up to my nose, my grand-mère’s scent of cinnamon and nutmeg mixed in with aromas of lavender and Chanel No. 5 washed over me. I almost lost it. Every scent of my happy childhood hit me in waves, nearly pulling me under. But this scent—her scent—offered comfort, as if she were right here in the room wrapping me in one of her hugs.

“Have you planned the menu?” asked Clothilde. “After all, it’s your kitchen.”

“I have a few ideas—there’s so much beautiful produce in season.” I clenched my teeth. I was being thrown into the fire feetfirst. “But this isn’t my kitchen.”

Again, my grandmother’s words rang in my ears. I shut my eyes, trying to keep panic from taking over.

After I die, the château will be yours.

“Look at the apron you’re wearing—it’s the one reserved for the head chef.”

I glanced at the apron, holding out the edges. This kitchen, although changed from what I’d