Grace and hollandaise sauce

As I remember it, it was a Sunday morning. Early summer, easy breezy weather, and the time to enjoy it. Whatever happened was welcome, a total change from the hard school year that had recently ended. I was out of province, staying with friends, in serious holiday mode. Delightful.

That Sunday morning, a bunch of friends came over for breakfast. My hostess and I decided to serve eggs Benedict with homemade hollandaise sauce — not in my repertoire, but a specialty of hers. The friends were pleased to be invited, as my hostess, **Esmé, was well known for the good food and fun times she produced out of her kitchen and around her table. I was looking forward to being part of a large gathering, happy to be together, and enjoying the conviviality of a shared home-cooked meal.

Esmé and I worked well together in the kitchen, she taking the Chef role and I the line cook’s. English muffins sliced, ready for toasting. The butter and egg yolks measured for the hollandaise. More eggs counted out for poaching. It was all coming together nicely. The friends arrived; Esmé and I did the required cooking (stirring, stirring, stirring the hollandaise); her husband, George, saw to the table and the serving. When Esmé and I sat down to enjoy our own meals, we were well pleased with what we tasted. Yum!

George and his buddy left the table to tackle the dishes. Then more friends arrived, unexpected, but welcome nonetheless. This was Esmé’s way: just set another place at the table, which we did.

And that’s when the tides could have turned.

We had made whacks of hollandaise and knew there was plenty left with which to make eggs Benedict for the impromptu arrivals. However, there was none to be found in the pitcher on the kitchen counter. Where had it gone? Oh, said George. Was that yellow stuff important? We flushed it down the sink. Esmé and I exchanged A LOOK.

And that’s when grace appeared.

Esmé simply made more hollandaise, maintaining her composure, never letting on what a colossal error the willing but ignorant dishwashers had made. The unexpected arrivals never knew what culinary storm their appearance might have caused. They enjoyed their breakfast; the conversation around the table continued. (What blast George might have received from Esmé in the privacy of their own room, I do not know.)

I often think of that morning when I am feeling — or being — inelegant and rushed in the kitchen. So much of cooking is about timing, about managing the ingredients and the guests so that, all together, a tasty and memorable experience is created. When the cook is red-faced and anxious, it’s hard for anyone at the table to feel the joy of the meal. Esmé is my role model for a cook totally in charge of not only the ingredients but also herself. In this, I am a work in progress, and I come by my kitchen ways honestly. 

Apparently, my maternal grandfather would show serious displeasure if the food his wife served was not piping hot. My mother inherited this penchant, but exhibited it as the cook not the eater: “Supper’s ready. Where are you all? Come to the table NOW!” And I, too, have this tendency to want (need) everyone sitting and ready RIGHT NOW when I’m ready to serve. But why? Why not channel some of Esmé’s grace? The world won’t stop if the broccoli or potatoes aren’t mouth-burning hot. I have a ways to go to reach Esmé’s zen state as cook and hostess, but, with each meal made (oh so many meals in a day, a week, a month…) and served, I am working on it. For, while hunger makes the best sauce, I think that grace brings out the best of the meal.

** Names have been changed to protect the identity of all involved…

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Land acknowledgement: I respectfully recognize that I live on the original lands of Anishinaabe, Cree, Oji-Cree, Dakota and Dene peoples, and on the homeland of the Métis Nation.