forks and knives, or cloth napkins. It was a very different world, foodwise, from what I was experiencing in college.
There was usually celery remoulade to start, along with Linda’s own spicy roasted nut mix. There were always delicate blinis, with perhaps a bit of smoked salmon. The soups were from scratch. She would pour two kinds of soup in the same bowl to make a yin-yang pattern: a yellow pepper and a red pepper soup, garnished with fresh chervil. For the main course: salmon or halibut, served with a lemon wrapped in cheesecloth so you could squeeze it without the seeds falling out. The cheesecloth was always tied with a chive, making a dainty purse.
Her salads were made of tender greens and pomegranate seeds and served with fresh lemony vinaigrette. For dessert, a French apple tart with whipped cream and caramel sauce, cooked to a deep mahogany with a wonderfully smoky, burnt-sugar flavor. By the end of the night, we were eating the sauce by the spoonful out of the bowl.
Linda loved dining in restaurants, too, and took me out on a number of special occasions. She would also take me shopping if I needed anything during the school year, because my mother wasn’t around and, to be frank, hated to shop. I never cared about expensive clothes, but Linda wanted to get me out of my ripped jeans and worn T-shirts. Besides, she had incredible taste and loved spending my mother’s money on me.
“Renée,” she would say to my mother, “I will do these things for you. I will take Gail shopping. I will deal with her messy hair and her corduroys if I can pick out the wedding dress when she gets married. That will be my reward.” My mother was all too happy to agree.
Suffice it to say, Linda’s cooking, fashion, and all-around style had a lasting impact on me. Until Linda, cooking was something my mother did so naturally and organically that I never thought of it as stylish, let alone an art form. I took it for granted. And for all the mediocre food I ate in college, there was Linda, a beacon of light, good manners, and good cooking.
FOUR
Heartache and Hard-Boiled Eggs
WE STEP INTO the cider house, a big ancient barn in the Basque country, and pour ourselves hard cider from one of the floor-to-ceiling barrels that line the room. The cider is delicious, like beer but unfiltered and just slightly sweet. It’s loud and there’s music: a Spanish guitar, the inconsistent rhythm of hands clapping. The floors are dirty and damp. There’s conviviality in the room, and in the food. We are served a salty omelet, with bacalão (salt cod), whole fish with olive oil and fresh herbs. There is also a steak. I haven’t eaten red meat in more than six years, but I know I’ll have no choice but to try it anyway. It’s char-grilled with a thick salt crust and very rare. They slap it down on the table in rough metal platters. I devour every bite.
Taking a semester abroad wasn’t a common thing to do in Canada when I was in college (unlike in the United States, where many more kids seem to go away for their junior year), but I was desperate to travel and decided to go to Spain with two of my girlfriends, Annaliese and Rachel. Both are super-tall, statuesque blondes. Annaliese, a friend since summer camp, was the life of the party, with a wickedly sharp sense of humor. Rachel was an outdoorsy beauty who, after we graduated, spent several years leading adventure tours through Asia and Europe.
Through the University of Wisconsin we found a school in Seville. For us, this was a massive privilege. We were going to learn Spanish, study art, and explore.
I left for Spain in January of my third year at McGill, but with a heavy heart. My boyfriend, Mr. Hershey’s Cookies‘n’Creme, was struggling with anxiety and depression. My brother Alan was sick and still in the hospital, and my family was caring for him without me. It was a situation both completely out of my control and still devouring every ounce of my life, and I needed to
There was usually celery remoulade to start, along with Linda’s own spicy roasted nut mix. There were always delicate blinis, with perhaps a bit of smoked salmon. The soups were from scratch. She would pour two kinds of soup in the same bowl to make a yin-yang pattern: a yellow pepper and a red pepper soup, garnished with fresh chervil. For the main course: salmon or halibut, served with a lemon wrapped in cheesecloth so you could squeeze it without the seeds falling out. The cheesecloth was always tied with a chive, making a dainty purse.
Her salads were made of tender greens and pomegranate seeds and served with fresh lemony vinaigrette. For dessert, a French apple tart with whipped cream and caramel sauce, cooked to a deep mahogany with a wonderfully smoky, burnt-sugar flavor. By the end of the night, we were eating the sauce by the spoonful out of the bowl.
Linda loved dining in restaurants, too, and took me out on a number of special occasions. She would also take me shopping if I needed anything during the school year, because my mother wasn’t around and, to be frank, hated to shop. I never cared about expensive clothes, but Linda wanted to get me out of my ripped jeans and worn T-shirts. Besides, she had incredible taste and loved spending my mother’s money on me.
“Renée,” she would say to my mother, “I will do these things for you. I will take Gail shopping. I will deal with her messy hair and her corduroys if I can pick out the wedding dress when she gets married. That will be my reward.” My mother was all too happy to agree.
Suffice it to say, Linda’s cooking, fashion, and all-around style had a lasting impact on me. Until Linda, cooking was something my mother did so naturally and organically that I never thought of it as stylish, let alone an art form. I took it for granted. And for all the mediocre food I ate in college, there was Linda, a beacon of light, good manners, and good cooking.
FOUR
Heartache and Hard-Boiled Eggs
WE STEP INTO the cider house, a big ancient barn in the Basque country, and pour ourselves hard cider from one of the floor-to-ceiling barrels that line the room. The cider is delicious, like beer but unfiltered and just slightly sweet. It’s loud and there’s music: a Spanish guitar, the inconsistent rhythm of hands clapping. The floors are dirty and damp. There’s conviviality in the room, and in the food. We are served a salty omelet, with bacalão (salt cod), whole fish with olive oil and fresh herbs. There is also a steak. I haven’t eaten red meat in more than six years, but I know I’ll have no choice but to try it anyway. It’s char-grilled with a thick salt crust and very rare. They slap it down on the table in rough metal platters. I devour every bite.
Taking a semester abroad wasn’t a common thing to do in Canada when I was in college (unlike in the United States, where many more kids seem to go away for their junior year), but I was desperate to travel and decided to go to Spain with two of my girlfriends, Annaliese and Rachel. Both are super-tall, statuesque blondes. Annaliese, a friend since summer camp, was the life of the party, with a wickedly sharp sense of humor. Rachel was an outdoorsy beauty who, after we graduated, spent several years leading adventure tours through Asia and Europe.
Through the University of Wisconsin we found a school in Seville. For us, this was a massive privilege. We were going to learn Spanish, study art, and explore.
I left for Spain in January of my third year at McGill, but with a heavy heart. My boyfriend, Mr. Hershey’s Cookies‘n’Creme, was struggling with anxiety and depression. My brother Alan was sick and still in the hospital, and my family was caring for him without me. It was a situation both completely out of my control and still devouring every ounce of my life, and I needed to
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