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Love Among the Recipes
by M. Carol Cram
Paperback : 344 pages
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Introduction
Discover love in all its flavors in this fun, food-infused romp through Paris that is as crisp, sweet, and smooth as the perfect macaron. Paris may be for lovers, but cookbook author Genna McGraw is definitely not looking for love. She's looking for escape and she's looking for a good runny Brie to pair with a smooth Bordeaux. Where better than Paris? Genna goes to the City of Light to get away from her husband and write a "crossover cookbook/guidebook" that matches Parisian sights such as the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre with recipes for bistro-style French dishes.
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Chapter One April 2015 – Paris Basic Macarons?A circular meringue-based confection with a rounded top, smooth filling, and flat base Without looking, Genna stepped off the curb and narrowly escaped being lobbed from the bumper of a speeding Citroën when a man grabbed her elbow and yanked her back. “Gardez-vous, madame.” Genna swung around and collided with the man’s other arm, sending his phone clattering to the pavement. “Merde!” “Désolée!” Genna’s heart twanged like an unbound bungee cord at the near miss. Ignoring her, the man stooped to retrieve his phone and then cradled it between both hands. Chiseled features, a South of France tan, dark hair speckled with gray, pushing fifty. He looked like he belonged on the cover of L’Urbane Parisien: Watch Him Smolder—Mature Edition. Mais oui. Wonder replaced terror. Genna could count on the fingers of one hand how often in recent years she’d been within ten yards of a man who had made her little heart flutter. Actually, she didn’t need any fingers. “Merci beaucoup!” Still ignoring her, Monsieur Hottie looked down at his phone. The screen flickered. Sighing with relief, he bent low over the display, almost planting firm lips on the mirrored surface. “Merci,” she said again. “La circulation . . .” The traffic. “Ah, oui.” The man let loose a stream of French presumably about the dreadful state of the traffic in the nation’s capital. Genna pasted on her trying-to-understand-French smile, but only the odd word penetrated—voiture was car, extraordinaire—obvious, another merde—the one French swear word she knew. The man cocked his head toward the pedestrian light, which was still green. After making a good show of looking both right and left, he started across the road. Genna followed a few paces behind, her heart still hammering, acutely conscious of how ridiculous she must look to him—a woman pushing fifty in sensible running shoes and with a purple daypack slung across one shoulder. When they reached the safety of the other side, the man glanced back. “Merci!” Genna said breathlessly. She smiled, and for a second, the man’s eyes widened, his lips twitching with amusement. “De rien, Madame.” It is nothing. He raised one hand in a wave, then turned left into the narrow Rue de Grenelle. As Genna watched him go, an adrenalin-spiked elation flooded her. She felt like throwing her head back and laughing up at the sharp blue sky. She was in Paris! Everything was going to be fine so long as she watched where she was going. She’d been so right to come. Genna carried on to Rue de Sèvres and from there along Rue Bonaparte to her apartment, steps from the Boulevard Saint-Germain and directly across the street from the fabled Café Les Deux Magots. As soon as she found a way to get online, she’d email Nancy and describe the dishy Frenchman who’d just saved her from Death by Citroën. Nancy was convinced that Genna had gone to Paris to find a new man. Nancy was dead wrong, but no matter how many times Genna explained why she’d chosen Paris, Nancy had refused to believe her. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she’d said the day before Genna left. “After what you’ve been through? Besides, you can’t spend every minute of your day cooking.” Oh yes, she could! Genna wrestled open the heavy wooden door to her building, crossed the quiet courtyard, and started up the circular staircase. Five flights later, her chest heaving, she rounded the last twist to come forehead to toe with two scuffed shoes. “Bonjour, madame.” She looked up to see a man who had long since bid au revoir to the back end of eighty. “Ah, bonjour. Um . . .” “Gustav Leblanc,” he said, raising one hoary eyebrow. “Yes? Oh! I’m sorry. I mean, désolée. Please, come in.” Genna squeezed past him, her shopping bags clanking. Monsieur narrowed his eyes. She unlocked the door and ushered him into the dingy apartment, feeling embarrassed about the hideous art, stained walls, and shabby furniture until she remembered that as the owner of the apartment, Monsieur Leblanc could hardly object to its decor. He planted himself in the middle of the living room and stared as she deposited the bags on the couch. He exuded a feral, gnome-like quality wrapped in body odor laced with the stench of stale Gauloises. “You are comfortable.” It was not a question. “The apartment is fine. Thank you.” The attendant at the rental agency where Genna had picked up the key had told her that the owner was a recluse whom she’d likely never meet. And yet, here he was. Monsieur shuffled to a heavy sideboard next to the table, pried open a drawer, and extracted several sheets of paper. “You see?” “Ah, no.” Genna walked toward him. “Rules!” Monsieur Leblanc barked. “Les règles. Four languages! Anglais, allemand, italien, et, bien sûr, le français. Please to read them. This place, this appartement, belonged to my grand-mère.” Genna wondered if old Grandma Leblanc had been responsible for the five-foot-wide needlepoint reproduction of La Grande Odalisque by Ingres fastened with steel pegs to the wall above the couch. The figure of the nude courtesan resembled Ingres’s painting in size, shape, and subject, but the resemblance stopped there. Checkered patches in three shades of pinky-orange wool made the courtesan’s skin look like a sunset on acid. She started to read the faded, uneven type of Monsieur’s rules. The subject of water, or, more accurately, its lack, occupied the entire first page. Long hot showers were not something Monsieur countenanced for tenants, nor for himself, evidently. “Thank you. Merci.” He grunted. “Bon. Now, you see books?” He gestured to a dust-choked bookshelf under the window. Most of the books were English paperbacks and Parisian guidebooks, with spines showing dates in the eighties, almost three decades earlier. There was even one from the year she was born. The Beatles might still have been together. “Books are for you, but please . . .” He wagged his finger under Genna’s nose. “Do not take them from the appartement. I have a list!” “No, of course not.” “And cooking.” “What about it?” Genna edged in front of the shopping bags, hoping Monsieur wouldn’t notice the stainless-steel whisk slithering out of its bag and threatening to bounce across the threadbare carpet. “Le gaz. You know how to use?” “I have gas at home.” “Do not use too much.” She wondered what constituted too much. Now was probably not the best time to tell him she planned to cook a great deal during her stay in the apartment and that her shopping bags bulged with cooking utensils. Genna needed a well-equipped kitchen for the work she planned to do in Paris. The only cooking equipment in the dusty kitchen was a frying pan caked with the muck of a thousand dinners, a battered saucepan with its coating long stripped, and one knife warped into a corkscrew. “Eh bien.” Monsieur grinned, showing brown teeth that tightened her stomach and made her glad she hadn’t eaten for several hours. He handed her a creased card. “I run the tabac on Rue de Grenelle. Come see me if you need anything. My son also. He is un avocat, a lawyer. He helps me when he can.” “How lucky for you.” He closed his mouth and shrugged, as Gallic a movement as any Genna had yet seen in Paris. “The rent . . .” “Yes? I paid the first two months as agreed in the contract, and then the terms are week to week.” He looked at her blankly and then flapped one gnarled hand. “Oui, oui, mais, but—the rate, vous savez, you know, it is reduced because you stay so long.” “I realize that. It seems reasonable.” Truthfully, it was exorbitant compared to what she’d pay back home, but compared to other apartments in the neighborhood, it was a deal for someone with plenty of money. Unfortunately, she wasn’t someone with plenty of money. “Eh bien.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “It is lower.” “Yes, I understand.” How grateful did he need her to be? “So, l’électricité, les lumières, vous savez, the lights.” “Yes?” “Not too much.” “You want me to use less electricity because the rent is lower?” Monsieur peered up at her through sharp black eyes. “Oui.” “Oh.” Monsieur cocked his head toward the door to the bedroom. Without a word, Genna went into the bedroom, snapped off the bedside light, and returned to the living room. “Bon.” He moved toward the door. “Ah, monsieur?” He paused, a scowl on his face. “Oui?” “I need to use the internet, but I can’t figure out how to get online. Do you have the Wi-Fi password?” She pronounced it wee fee in the European way. Monsieur Leblanc could not have looked more shocked if she’d stripped and jiggled her breasts in front of his red-veined nose. “The internet?” He shook his head as if trying to rid himself of appalling thoughts. “I want to be able to check my email and do some research.” “Email?” Genna was beginning to wonder if a lifetime of penny-pinching had unbalanced him. “You know about the internet,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound patronizing. “Pour l’ordinateur. For the computer.” “Oui, oui, je le connais, je le connais. L’internet. L’ordinateur.” He sucked in sallow cheeks and then let out a long sigh. “No internet.” “But . . .” “Non.” She decided that asking him to fix the television, which so far had emitted only static, was tantamount to throwing herself off the top of the Eiffel Tower. “Au revoir, Madame.” After the door shut behind Monsieur, Genna sank onto the hard couch. The complete isolation of no internet and no television for six months generated a rush of panic. What was she thinking coming to this city of two million souls—ten, if you counted the suburbs? Not one person knew her or cared whether she lived or died. “Get a grip, Genna,” she said out loud. The sound of her voice brought her back to reality. Her phone had the cheapest data plan available, but that didn’t need to be the end of the world. If she wanted to go online, she could find a café with Wi-Fi or, better still, a place with computers and internet access. Big deal. It also occurred to her that no Wi-Fi meant she could get Drew’s emails at one sitting every few days, and then delete them all at once. Smiling again, Genna kicked off her runners and lay back on the couch. The weeks stretched ahead with delicious unpredictability. Paris was waiting for her to explore, and she couldn’t wait for the adventures to begin. view abbreviated excerpt only...Discussion Questions
1. Love Among the Recipes is billed as a light, optimistic read—funny, quirky, engaging. Do you agree? How would you describe it?2. Although the novel’s tone is upbeat, several serious themes are presented—surviving divorce, taking second chances, dealing with grown children, finding self-fulfillment. Several readers have recognized the poignancy of Genna’s dilemma. What theme(s) intrigued you the most?
3. There are many food references throughout the novel and links to recipes at www.carolcram.com. Which recipes appealed to you the most? Which dishes have you tried?
4. Have you or anyone in your group traveled to Paris? If so, how does Genna’s experience of the City of Light compare to yours? What enchanted you about Paris? What disappointed you? And, of course, did you enjoy any memorable meals while in Paris? Why were they memorable?
5. While much of the book centers around Genna’s experiences as a newly single woman, there is a strong thread about motherhood. Her two grown children, Michael and Betsy, show up in Paris and in their various ways help and hinder Genna’s quest to make a new life for herself. What did you think of Genna’s parenting? Do you have a “difficult” child such as Betsy in your life?
6. Love Among the Recipes is a novel about a “woman of a certain age.” She has grown children and a thirty-year marriage on the rocks. How do her experiences compare to your own or to women in her age group that you know?
7. Think about Genna’s decision to escape to Paris after her husband Drew cheats on her. She sometimes agonizes about whether she should give Drew another chance. Should she have stuck around and tried to make the marriage work? Why or why not?
8. Does Genna find what she needs by the end of the novel? Would you have preferred a more conventional, romantic ending? Why or why not? If you were to write the ending for Love Among the Recipes, what would happen?
9. Which of Genna’s two romantic interests interested you? Classy, good-looking, and cultured Pierre Leblanc or big, bluff Bill Turner who seems like a bumpkin, but with impeccable taste in wine?
10. Humor plays a central role in the novel. What are some moments in the novel that struck you as funny?
11. If, like Genna, you could leave your current life and go anywhere in the world to do whatever you wanted for six months, where would you go and what would you do?
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