Eau de Vie: chapter ten

Pot-au-feu

Vie was cheerfully tucked into her studio space, looking out at the bright green landscape. The week’s rains had transformed the dry, dead-looking field and hills into a tender nursery of new growth. Light and fluffy tufted hairgrass had woken up. Fresh shoots emerged between the spent stems of the red amaranth and Matilija poppies, as trees and shrubs pumped out new buds, tight and strong, protective of the vital forces needed for their leafing out in the spring. All of this gave Vie hope — the world would continue on. And there was not the burden of her having to be there to make it so.

The cows had done their damage, yes, but there was really no damage. Where once old, weak, and overgrown plants had been, fresh growth had emerged, enjoying the nutrients left by the older plants, which had been integrated into the earth by cow hooves. Their absence opened up the space, allowing light to find its way to young plants, which in turn showed their gratitude by thriving. In the field, dry seed pods, perched on impotent stems, held the power and poetry needed to inspire spring’s renewed life force.

Today’s ceramics project would be a hand-built bowl, wide and shallow, with the outline of two oak leaves, one smallish, the other large, like hands, both hers and Carl’s. The bowl was destined for the kitchen counter — a place for putting colorful vegetables, which would always be on display to remind Carl to eat well and take care of himself. Vie set to work wedging the clay to remove every air bubble. The texture was to be perfectly smooth and unblemished on this, her last piece. Excruciating pain shot through her arthritic hands — working the clay was arduous, a punishment Vie felt, for continuing on when she was more dead than alive. Her body’s unambivalent message: it was time to go.

After three hours, the bowl was done. It was beautiful but would require several days to dry, which meant Vie would not be around to see it finished. She grabbed a scrap of paper and jotted down instructions for its completion and an explanation of its purpose, then tossed the note in the bowl. Next to it, she laid out the glazes and brushes that would be needed.

On a second piece of paper, Vie made a neat shopping list for Carl, not an easy task for her right hand after three hours of working clay. Carl had always loved her handwriting, and she wanted this list to be eye-catching — something he would be drawn to and would want to keep and reuse.

For the pot-au-feu they would make that evening, Vie needed veggies and meat from the farmers market: one medium white onion, three leeks, six large carrots, one bunch of celery, three parsnips and three turnips, a rutabaga, four medium red potatoes, shallots, and a Carl-sized handful of shiitake mushrooms, as well as 2 lbs. of oxtails, and 2 lbs. of beef short ribs from the meat stand. They would be making a large stew — enough for dinner and to put up several additional meals for Carl. He was going to have a difficult week, and feeling uncared for would complicate things. He needed sustenance, food that was comforting and familiar.

List in hand, Vie slowly and cautiously made her way down to the kitchen from the studio, where Carl was scrabbling together sandwiches, his favorite tuna salad with Worcestershire sauce, capers, and mayo on toasted English muffins. Side by side, they sat at the dinner table, looking out onto the verdant hills, a silhouette of the black walnut tree in the foreground, distinguished in its old age by its gnarled branches, some dead, some alive, all equal in beauty during winter months when the tree was devoid of foliage.

They rounded out the meal by feeding each other spoonfuls of their favorite Häagen-Dazs coffee chip ice cream. Then Vie sent Carl off to the farmers market, and she laid down for what would be her last nap.

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In the late afternoon, nearly at sunset, Vie woke from her deep slumber. She had had the dream again, the one where she is hiking alone on the ranch on a night devoid of moonlight. Suddenly, she steps into an empty space, a field flat and clear of trees and shrubs, something she can’t actually see, but that she senses. There is nothing to define the path, nothing to orient her in a particular direction. Each step she takes is guided by instinct.

The air circulating around Vie is shockingly cool and strongly fragranced by crushed bay laurel leaves, which soothe her nasal passages and lungs. The moss-covered ground on which she walks cushions her bare feet.

As Vie traverses this dark landscape, she is without hindrances. Though moving blindly, she has no worry or anxiety, and there is no longer any pain — it has been replaced by a feeling of relaxation and warmth.

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In the real world, Vie could hear Carl returning from the market. As the side door clicked shut behind him, she could hear him plopping heavy canvas bags on the counter. Quietly, he unpacked all the goods and assessed his purchases. The market had had everything needed for the pot-au-feu — fresh and colorful produce and especially meaty short ribs, Vie’s favorite. Carl also thought to pick up some fresh herbs to supplement the herbes de Provence they typically employed, and, in anticipation of their usage, he had procured a cheesecloth bag for the steeping. He was excited to start preparing the feast as it was getting late into the afternoon, and soon he would be famished. He could feel his hunger building.

Into the bedroom, he went to wake Vie. There she lay, eyes already open, a sweet grin on her face, arms buried under the thick down quilt, which was up to her chin. Carl slipped in next to her and nuzzled her neck with his prickly beard. She closed her eyes, taking in the sensation of his warm hands and cold nose as he plastered her with rough kisses and slipped his right hand into her armpit. Soon, it was enough; both of them were wonderfully touched out.

They exited the warm bed enthusiastically, putting on bedroom slippers and donning wool sweaters, Carl helping Vie with both as she was stiff and feeling unbalanced. Vie suggested they work on dinner together, as she was not up to doing the task alone. Truth be told, she had planned long ago that her last evening would include the two of them cooking together. She wanted to show Carl how to prepare at least one of their favorite dinners. And she needed to show him how to use the washer and dryer.

This was to be an evening Carl would remember with affection. Vie was determined to do all she could to keep the focus on their enjoying each other’s company, not on her pain. It would take a superhuman effort to do so, she knew, but Carl deserved it. She took comfort in knowing the ultimate release was near.

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Carl’s kisses after the nap had given Vie a momentary reprieve from the pain, but soon, the winter chill crept in and grabbed sharply Vie’s now-slight frame, triggering pain in places she had never felt it before. Into the bathroom she headed, closing and locking the door behind her. Under the sink was the bottle of Eau de Vie from Kate. She opened it and took two long draws straight from the bottle, savoring the delicate, perfumy pear brandy. She then left the bottle sitting in the open, on the bathroom counter. No longer did she feel the need to hide her addiction. This was her last day, and she was intent on enjoying this seductive beverage, for once without guilt or concern.

In addition to vanquishing Vie’s chill, the Eau de Vie left her with a gentle buzz, and a bit of Dutch courage as she made her way into the kitchen. She needed to put on a good face for Carl; that would take some fortitude. But all it took, actually, was seeing Carl there, organizing and prepping every last ingredient for their feast.

It was a beautiful sight watching Carl work, his tender, curved shape bent over the sink, cleaning and peeling root vegetables, preparing everything she needed to make her magical stew. She slipped in and positioned herself between him and the sink, taking his face in her hands and kissing him fully on the mouth. She drew in a deep breath and gently moistened his lips with her tongue, savoring the taste and smell she knew so well, filling her mind with tender memories. Carl had given her so much: his love, intelligence, his hard work, and loyalty. He had believed fully in her creative talents and generously expressed gratitude for all she had done as a mother and grandmother, and as his wife. When she was with Carl, Vie felt secure and loved. And often, Carl carried her heavy stone.

As they lingered at the kitchen sink, Carl smelt the liquor on Vie’s breath. At some level, this cheapened her expression of affection. He wondered — were the feelings sincere or fueled by the drinking? Carl said nothing, as the right thing to do that evening, which he had intuited to be her last, was to give himself fully to her, no conditions attached. His beautiful wife was dying, and all that mattered really was this evening be everything she envisioned. Carl’s only desire was to be near Vie, and to witness her performing one of the tasks she had done with so much grace over the years, namely cooking.

For the next hour, Vie and Carl assembled their stew, Vie teaching Carl how to build a flavorful, clear broth with the meats, garlic, and herbs, then how to properly sauté the vegetables and let them simmer slowly in the broth, in the process building the flavor while allowing the vegetables to remain al dente. Together, Carl and Vie blended their three favorite sauces, chopped up fresh parsley for garnishing, and sliced thick chunks of pain de campagne.

By 8:00 p.m., the pot-au-feu was ready to enjoy, and had filled the entire house with its irresistible aroma. Vie, exhausted, retired to the dining room and relaxed on a Windsor chair Carl had set up with soft throw pillows. There, Vie slowly sipped her herbal tea, gathering the strength she would need to properly enjoy this last meal.

In the kitchen, Carl was artistically plating the pot-au-feu components in broad ceramic bowls, the whole assemblage of vegetables and meat nestled in rich broth. The trio of sauces, in petite miso bowls, was set between them on the table, along with the basket of bread, which was warmed and ready for dipping. This was Carl’s first stab at replicating one of Vie’s best dinners and serving it properly. Pot-au-feu was a dish they had enjoyed many times over the course of their marriage.

Carl was excited to know Vie’s reaction — was he up to snuff? More than anything, he hoped she could, one last time, find pleasure in eating a favorite meal and that it would bring back memories of the things that had made their life together extraordinary.

And for the first time in years, Vie refrained from pouring herself a glass of wine.