Mercy's Quill

From Mercy's book of poems and stories - 1692

The blacksmith’s daughter was known throughout the sleepy village as a maiden who knew not when to keep silent. Her name was Verity and an apt name it was. Verity always spoke whatever words filled her mind, whether they be words anyone should want to hear or not. If a villager mistreated his horse, she would ask him in a loud voice in front of all if he would like his Master to so treat him. If the married women took to gossiping on the steps of the Meeting House, she would caution them not to trip down the stairs since the long white robes of holy judges tend to wrap around the ankles.

The blacksmith and his wife were quiet, docile folk and knew not how to silence Verity’s tongue. And the blacksmith secretly enjoyed Verity’s brash and honest comments because she often said what he only dreamt of saying.

But when the time came for her to be married, few men would consider taking her to wife, even though she was as beautiful as a morning sunrise. Her golden tresses and dove-gray eyes were as comely as her tongue was untamed.

The only match the blacksmith could make was with the miller's son, a young man who never ventured from the grindstone. The man’s name was Jacob and he could neither speak nor hear. A long and terrible illness when he was but a babe had stolen away his voice and ears. Ah! The perfect match, the villagers snickered. No one, especially the gossips, could speak of anything else for days; nay even weeks after the couple were married. Verity had finally met her match.

But, as fate would have it, Verity grew to love the quiet man who let her speak on and on and never once lifted a finger to silence her. And his quiet acquiescence allowed her to speak all the more loudly about that which vexed her spirit, because who could silence her now that she was married, but her good husband, and he cared not that she had an opinion on so many matters.

They lived a happy life, Verity and Jacob, and were blessed with six daughters who were encouraged by their mother to speak whenever words were desperately needed.

And always in front of their cottage, on the dirt and in the mud, were myriads of little pictures drawn by a stick or a stone, etched there by Jacob, and which Verity never swept away. For they were messages from her quiet husband – pictures of his pleasure - because he who had no voice now had seven.

In the Kitchen with Esperanza

Esperanza here. So everyone in America likes to make the Mexican Wedding Cookies for Christmas, but in my house, my mamacita always made them for Easter.

I am making them today for the girls to take home to their families. Lauren has invited Abigail – who is finally well – to come home with her to Santa Barbara for Easter dinner on Sunday. At first she said no when Lauren asked her. Then she suddenly changed her mind. And after she said yes, she went into her library and closed the door and she is there still.

Anyway. Here they are. Don’t eat too many jelly beans this weekend.

Esperanza’s Mexican Wedding Cookies

About 2 cups of flour (you know me, I don’t measure)
¼ tsp salt
2 sticks of soft butter (don’t even say a word)
1 heaping cup of powdered sugar
Vanilla extract – maybe a little more than a teaspoon, dash of almond extract, too
1 cup finely chopped pecans or walnuts

Stir the flour and salt together then in another bowl mix together the butter and half the pwdered sugar until smooth. Stir in the vanilla extract and then the flour mixture until nicely blended. Then stir in the nuts. Cover and refrigerate the dough for about 2 hours or until it is firm enough to work with. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Shape the dough into balls that are about 1 inch in diameter. Place the balls on ungreased baking sheets with about an inch between the cookies. One sheet at a time, bake the cookies for 8 to 10 minutes or until set, but not brown. Put the other half of the of the powdered sugar in a shallow bowl or pie plate. Transfer the baking sheet to a wire rack and cool for 2 to 4 minutes. Carefully remove the cookies and roll each one in the sugar to coat. Cool the cookies completely on a wire rack.
When cool, store the cookies in an airtight container. These cookies freeze very nice. Makes about 40 cookies.

Abigail on the Classics

I am in no mood to discuss anything with anyone.

I've a fever and a headache and Esperanza is hovering over me, suffocating me with worry and tortilla chicken soup.

Lauren knows better than to treat me like a child, Ryan is plain afraid of me and my germs, and Clarissa is simply too elated not to have to discuss As I Lay Dying with me. Oh, the irony in that. As I Lay Dying.

It's obvious to me Clarissa didn't like the book. I never expected her to like it. It isn't a story to be liked. It's the writing that is likeable, for pity's sake. You don't have to like Hannibal Lecter to appreciate the intricacies of his character.

I really don't have the energy or initiative to expound on any of this. I just want a hot cup of tea, Sonnets From the Portuguese, and solitude.

It's not like I wish the girls weren't here in the house with me. I didn't say I wanted silence. I can hear them getting ready for class and dates and work, and I don't mind the sounds that I hear.

I just want to be alone as I listen.

Leave me.

Ask Clarissa

I don’t have but a minute or two. The coffee shop is hopping tonight. The manager has brought in live music and everyone’s loose and lively ‘cause we’re all back from spring break and no one’s going crazy with overload yet.

I finished the book Abigail gave me to read. As I Lay Dying. My first by William Faulkner. It’s a strange book. I am not used to fifteen different people telling me a story. Fifteen dysfunctional people. I really can’t see what Abigail sees in it, unless she likes spending time with people who make her sad life look normal.

Lauren, who’s read the book, thinks Abigail probably relates to it because the characters spend their sorry time in the pages struggling to bury their dead mother. Lauren had to remind me Abigail lost her mother when she was just a kid and then had to live with a grumpy father for the next fifty years. Yeah, well, that sucks, but what did Abigail really expect me to get out of a book like this? My mother isn’t dead. She and I went shopping together for swimsuits a couple weeks ago.

I’m not saying the guy isn’t a great writer. He writes really good depressing stuff. Abigail will want to chat about it this weekend. She’ll end up thinking I have no patience for anything more complex than once-upon-a-time crap. I so can appreciate something a little deeper than Dr. Seuss. But she’s right. I don’t have the patience for slow motion. If I am going to go deep I want to jump off the cliff at full speed, not hack my way down a mine shaft with a Barbie-size pick ax.

Oh, and hey, btw, I had a pretty good time hanging out with Lauren and Raul and Cole last week in Palo Alto. Get this. I think Cole is falling for me. Well, not really. But kind of. We'll just have to see. He kept looking at me.

Lauren has been instructed by her father to take the relationship slow with Raul. Like, don’t rush into anything, baby girl. I can read that man like a book. He’s desperately afraid of losing her to another man.

And here Lauren’s spent the better part of her life thinking her dad wishes she was a boy. . .

Love, Lauren

I was still feeling a little bummed you had to stay in Palo Alto for spring break but then Meghan (she’s the literary agent my dad found) decided we need to go to New York and meet with the two publishers who are most interested in Mercy’s diary. Dad wants to come with us and I am actually glad he does. As much as I want to see Mercy’s diary in print – and most days I still do – I am not enjoying the process very much. It’s very . . . impersonal. I don’t know how else to describe it. The diary is suddenly all about the money. How much it is worth. How much we should accept as an advance for it. How much it will bring in to the publishing house that takes it.

Meghan says I don’t need to worry about any of that, that’s why I have her. But it’s not that I am worried about the money. I’m not. I am worried about what the money does to the diary. To me. To Mercy’s memory. Abigail told me the money and the diary are two separate things. The diary is what it is and it won’t change. The money is about the paper and the ink and the bookstores and the trucks that will carry the crates of books. Mercy’s memory won’t be in the truck, she says. I told her I didn’t quite agree. Abigail said the transcription I have made is impeccable. But it is not in Mercy’s ink, contains none of the smudges of tears or travail or time, none of the human touch that a handwritten diary offers. And because I have rewritten the diary in the language of today, the transcription is more my interpretation of Mercy’s memory, than her actual legacy.

Perhaps she is right. What do you think?

I still plan to come see you this weekend. The life of medical student is not truly his or her own but you can’t spend every minute studying. Clarissa and I will drive up on Friday after her shift. She’s only working until noon so we should be there well before dark. Until then, enjoy the intricacies of pharmacokinetics.

Love,
Lauren

In the Kitchen with Esperanza

So Abigail tells me she's been dreaming of Crepes Suzette. She used to make them with her mother and the memory is no doubt as as sweet as the crepes.

I will be honest with you. I am partial to tortillas. How could I not be? Tortillas will always win out over crepes of any kind. But Abigail doesn't ask for very many things from the kitchen. If she wants Crepes Suzette, I can oblige. But I am making them with tortillas.

Here's my version. You can call them Crepes Esperanza:

• 3/4 stick of softened butter
• 1/4 cup sugarorange zest
• Juice of 1 orange
• Melted butter for brushing
• 2 tablespoons sugar for sprinkling
• Thin, orange half-circles for garnish
• 6 soft and warm flour tortillas

Cream together the butter, sugar, and orange peel until uniform. Spread over the surface of the tortilla and fold into fourths – the tortilla should look like a triangle. Lay on an oven-proof pan and brush tops with melted butter. They can overlap a little. Sprinkle with the 2 tablespoons of sugar and place under your broiler for about two to three minutes. The sugar will crystallize. Remove from oven and lay the thin orange slices across the tops to complete the look. If you are brave, sprinkle the hot tortilla wedges with some Grand Marnier mixed with brandy, maybe ½ cup altogether, and light with a long handled lighter. Mind your hair and sleeves.

Abigail on the Classics

When I was a young girl, before cancer stole my mother away from me, she’d send Marcella home early on nights when my father was out of town and we’d make dinner for just the two of us. Marcella was Esperanza’s mother and an exceptional cook, but this was when I was quite young - many years before Esperanza was born, and before Marcella was even married.

My mother wasn’t terribly adept in the kitchen. I didn’t know it then, but she was a much better hostess and philanthropist than chef. She wasn’t a chef at all, actually. I didn’t realize until much later she could barely make toast without burning it.

Once we made Crepes Suzette, only because I had heard them mentioned in a book and I liked the name. We picked the oranges for the sauce from our own tree in our backyard.

Did you know the first Crepes Suzette were the result of a mistake made by a fourteen year-old assistant waiter 1895 at the Maitre at the Monte Carlo's Café de Paris? He was making a dessert for the Prince of Wales when the cordial on the crepes caught fire. The flames crisped the sauce but the Prince was waiting, so the waiter, whose name was Henri Carpentier, served them anyway. It is said the Prince like the crepes so much when he was done eating them with his fork, he used his spoon to get to the last of the sauce.

They were named at that moment after one of the ladies sitting at the Prince’s table, Suzette. Henri is quoted as saying that the dish could turn a cannibal into a civilized gentleman, it is that exquisite.

And all from a little mistake caused by a novice in a kitchen.

My mother thought that was such a fun story. Our Crepes Suzette were dreadful, gargoyle-looking things. Crepes are difficult to make beautiful, especially for someone as unskilled and unlucky in the kitchen as my mother was. But I didn’t care. They tasted like a mistake somehow made beautiful.

To this day, I can’t eat them without thinking of my mother. And the mess we made in the kitchen that night. And how dilapidated they looked.

And how enchanting they tasted.

I shall have to tell Esperanza it’s time to have them again. I think my girls would like them . . .