Oyster Emergency

Posted October 21, 2014 by Abra Bennett
Categories: French Letters Visits America

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These oysters don’t look distressed, floating as they are in a fragrant bath of butter, lemon juice, and hot sauce. They look downright gobble-able, in fact, which they were. The distressing part is that these are just a paltry handful of the many, way too many, oysters from our garden that are ready to be eaten, and deserve to be eaten before I head back to France and leave them to grow even larger, perhaps taking over Puget Sound in my absence.

Because we had several shellfish harvesting closures during the unusually warm months, oysters that were ready to slurp in summertime now make a pretty huge mouthful, and are better suited to grilling, frying, chowder-ing, and heaven only knows what else-ing. Or perhaps you know. Help me out here – what’s your favorite recipe for larger oysters? It’s a problem I’ve never had before, a plethora of oysters insisting on either growing to gigantesque proportions, or being summarily and deliciously dispatched. Please share your best recipe, in the name of oyster population reduction!

Still Turning Round

Posted October 7, 2014 by Abra Bennett
Categories: French Letters Visits America

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Today it’s six months since Shel spun off the planet into the who-knows-where. He took up less and less space in the world the last few years, but he still occupied my whole heart. He didn’t go willingly, but he wasn’t screaming in pain either, at the very end. The last thing he heard was me saying “I love you, Shel”, and the last thing he said to me was “I’m good now.”

It’s six months since I’ve been alone in the world, 95% of the time. But I haven’t gone for that much-too-long swim in the deep dark water, either, although I wondered if I would. I’m still here. And to paraphrase James Taylor, this old world is still spinning ’round, and I still love him. But he closed his eyes, he had to close his eyes, and it’s all right. And I still sing this song, when he’s gone.


I don’t really understand time. There have been so many long, agonizing moments since he died. And yet, it seems more like three months than six. Six means that the earth has traveled half way around the sun, an earth without Shel on it. Which means, inevitably, that Shel wasn’t the center of the universe, even though to me it often seemed that way.

And so I started my day with a Skype to our dear friend in France (Shel would have been so happy to see her smiling face),  then lunch with a friend here (Shel loved that restaurant over the water), next a facial (Shel would have kissed my bright, shiny face), then a rehab session for my torn hamstring and body worn out by recent cares (Shel would have applauded my efforts to regain my strength), then the removal of our hot tub to give it to a new home (Shel would have been amazed at the strength of the Samoan crew that hauled it up to the street) and finally,  a really big glass of whiskey (Shel would have had a Coke) and leftover pork chile verde out on the deck (Shel would have been too chilly out there and, alas, there was only enough for one). There will be a day when everything isn’t in reference to Shel, but that day is not yet.

So I’ve been holding it more or less together all day, but here and now, I disintegrate into pain. Shel’s well and truly gone, and he’s not coming back. That’s the hardest thing to understand, that someone who was here, so alive, so loving, is absolutely gone. And this old world is still spinning ’round. And I still love him.

Bird On A Wire

Posted September 22, 2014 by Abra Bennett
Categories: French Letters Visits America

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Even though I’ve been frenetically planning my return to France I haven’t been committing to it. An enormous IF has preceded every thought, all plans have been noted in the hypothetical tense, rather than the future.  I’ve made endless lists: confirm reservation before transferring money, book tour before confirming hotel, decide whether and when to rent a car, and all the mundane but necessary decisions that go into making a well-orchestrated trip. But until today I didn’t pay for anything, refused to stop waffling: this flight or that, will there be anywhere to eat near that hotel, can I handle a carry on and a suitcase plus a briefcase all by myself when walking on the ferry and riding the TGV?

Because even though I’ve always been the travel agent in the family, in the end, I’ve always asked Shel to give his seal of approval to the final itinerary, not to mention being the person who carried the passports, held my hand at takeoff and landing, hauled luggage onto trains, opted for comfort whenever possible, walked down dark streets with me, and generally increased my bravery and confidence a thousandfold, since it meant that I wasn’t alone in the world, and that if worse came to worst, we’d be in it together.

But today I pulled the trigger, as it were. I booked everything possible, faxed notes to banks in two countries, and had to actually close my eyes in order to click Submit on the button that will send me to Europe on Business Class, an expense I’ve never before contemplated. But somehow, Shel made me do it. I arrayed before me all the things that would be so much harder about this trip without him, and decided to give myself the one thing I could think of to make it a bit easier. I couldn’t bring myself to do it with my eyes open, but I managed to get it done.

I’ve decided to start my trip in England, and that too is fraught. Shel loved England, and spent quite a bit of time there. But I’ve barely been, and I want to be away longer that the 90 days I’m allowed by a tourist visa in France. So to England I will go, where it will probably be grey and rainy, just like it will be at home.

From there I’ll go spend a month of French immersion at a language institute on the Riviera, perfecting my language skills and being in a place where Shel and I never were together.

And then I’ll go back to our home town of Uzès, where I’ll hold a memorial for Shel, weep with all of our dear friends,  and see what of our old life still holds its arms out to me. I’ve timed it so that I’ll be away for Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, Shel’s birthday, and Valentine’s Day. It’s been quite a day, getting to the point where I can tell you that. Soon it will be six months since Shel died.

Night Flowers

Posted September 19, 2014 by Abra Bennett
Categories: French Letters Visits America

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Two minutes into sleeping, not more than three, Toby woke me up by flying through the cat door noisily and alarmingly. It’s a quirk of mine: if awakened just after falling asleep, I’m up. It takes me what would have been a full REM cycle, about 90 minutes, before I can hope to recapture slumber.

“Drat that cat” I think, and then, suddenly and without warning, I’m in tears. Just a year ago I had Shel, and Beppo, and Zazou. I never dratted them. My little family, we’d been together through a lot. We took Beppo to France with us, one of the best cats ever. In France we got Zazou to keep him company, one of the prettiest cats ever. Together they lived a bi-national life with us and were part of our everything. And there was Shel, one of the best husbands ever, who really was my everything.

I had all that I wanted, except Shel’s health. Then a fast and careless driver killed Beppo, and Shel and I mourned as if he’d been our child. Next a slow and lethal cancer took Shel, and some days I mourn like there’s no tomorrow. And then Zazou walked out into the evening and never came back. My everything has disappeared, my life as I knew it is shattered.

Thus it is that half an hour ago I was peacefully asleep, and now, I’m here. I’m here to say that I’m going back to France in November, and in some ways I’m so sad about it. In our little town in France are some of the people I love most in the world, and they loved Shel too, and we haven’t yet had a chance to grieve his loss together. So what might sound like a glamorous “going to spend the winter in the south of France” is in reality going to mourn it all again, in the company of dear friends.


Less than a year ago we were there together. Now I’ll be alone.

I’ve got Leonard Cohen’s beautiful song Dance Me to the End of Love running through my head, and I’m thinking that yes, that’s what I did for Shel, danced our dance with him to the very end, the end of our love. And I wonder who, if anyone, will do that for me. It’s hard not to feel stranded on the face of an indifferent planet, especially in the middle of the night, when even the flowers have closed their eyes.

And if you don’t know that gorgeous Leonard Cohen song, listen here.


Food For Thought

Posted September 14, 2014 by Abra Bennett
Categories: French Letters Visits America, Posts Containing Recipes

Tags: ,

DSC_9056Today I haven’t seen, nor spoken to, another person. Toby and I have had a couple of heartfelt conversations, but although talking to a cat can be sweet and comforting, it’s not a very intellectual experience. So I’ve had a lot of time to think.

The day was hot and sunny, with just the slightest dash of autumn in the air. The water has been shushing and lapping all day, as it does, but with a poignant little song that says “you won’t be sitting out on that deck too much longer, missy, so you’d better drink it all in now.”


There are still bees in the garden, stocking up for the coming winter, and the dahlias are out in full glory. It was a perfect day for a summer-preserving project, and here’s one of my favorite things to put up as the sun begins to go down earlier and earlier. I can’t eat them, of course, but I still love to make them, and they’ll make lovely holiday gifts. Make them right now, while the Italian prune plums are still in the market. Make them, but don’t eat them, yet. The longer these plums soak in their sweet brandy syrup the headier and more fragrant they’ll become.

This is a recipe that someone gave me many years ago, and they’ve sustained me many a time through the fading of the summer, the contemplation of the dark days to come. Because no matter how cold, wet, light-starved, or miserable you might be in the coming months, these plums will always bring you back to the warm, juice-dripping days of summer, whether or not you have someone with whom to share them.

Madison Valley Brandied Plums

3 lbs Italian prune plums
1 2″ long cinnamon stick
2 cups sugar
1/4 tsp salt
2 cups brandy

Boil a pot of water as deep as the shoulder of your canning jar. This amount will make about a 2 quart jar full, and it’s easier to make it all in one large jar, although I sometimes, like today, make some in smaller jars (just beware of burning yourself with smaller jars!).

Wash the plums, remove their stems, and with a needle, pierce each one 6-7 times around the stem end. Pack them in to the jar, adding some plums cut in half to fill in the empty spaces. Tuck the cinnamon stick in there somewhere as you fill the jar.

In a medium pan bring the sugar, salt, and 1 cup water to a boil, then reduce the heat and simmer for 10 minutes. Let this syrup cool for 10 minutes, then add the brandy. (And don’t go using expensive cognac here, just a reasonably-priced brandy will do just fine). Immediately pour this syrup into the jar, covering the plums.

Partially cover the jar and place it in the boiling water. Let it cook for 6-7 minutes, until you see the syrup at the top of the jar bubbling. Very carefully remove the jar from the water (here’s where burning yourself with those small jars comes in), tighten the lid, and set it to cool. When cool, store in the refrigerator for at least 2 weeks and up to several months before serving. In addition to the delight of eating these plums all by themselves, the syrup is delicious over ice cream, yogurt, or pound cake, and you could probably make a dynamite cocktail with it too.

What He’ll Never Know

Posted August 25, 2014 by Abra Bennett
Categories: French Letters Visits America

Tags: , ,


Shel’s been gone from this world for four and three-quarters months now, and I’m having a hard time of it. I’ll think I’m doing better, and then suddenly, the no-Shel reality slaps me in the face once again.

I woke up in the middle of one night so sick I almost called 911. What stopped me was the realization that I couldn’t even get upstairs to open the door for them and I’d hate to see it broken into. Shel wasn’t here. I’ve been CT-scanned, ultra-sounded, and now antibiotic-ed, physical therapy-ed, and am feeling somewhat better. Shel never knew about any of it, and he wasn’t here to help me get through it.


He also doesn’t know that Zazou has been gone for the same three weeks that I’ve been sick. I’m so glad that he doesn’t know, because she loved him the most, and he’d have been so sad to lose her.


He doesn’t know that I had an 80th birthday party for our friend Sheila, and that I baked her this gorgeous cake. The last time I made this treat was for Shel’s own birthday, his very last birthday cake. I don’t even want to think about what jokes he told at his very last Thanksgiving, what I gave him for his very last Christmas. I still haven’t emptied his closet – those things he wore are so dear to me now, they touched him, still look like him.

I’ve written three articles for publication this month, so it hasn’t been all fainting couches and Kleenex, but I’m feeling it so deeply these days. He’s gone, he’s not coming back, just like Beppo and Zazou. It’s the end of an era, an era I loved above all my other time on Earth.  He’ll never know what I do next, how I feel, what I’ll become. He’ll never know how I die, and I guess that’s a good thing. He’ll never see how our sons turn out, won’t see Eric marry, won’t see my hair go grey, if it ever does.


His life is actually over. That’s so hard to fathom. I’m not a wife. That’s even harder to grasp. Alone on the day-to-day sea, trying to stay afloat.

Save The Bees Knees

Posted August 1, 2014 by Abra Bennett
Categories: French Letters Visits America

Tags: ,


Bees are in the news almost every day, all up in your face when it’s a slow news day in the Middle East or Ukraine, and today I even saw Toby get stung right in the kisser. There’s colony collapse disorder, arguments about whether or not neonicotinoid insecticides are involved, talk of mass starvation when pollinators disappear into the beepocalypse, and worse.

Yet my garden has hundreds of bees in it at any given moment. They love lavender, and salvia, and my garden is overflowing with both of them. I sometimes sit for an hour, watching the bees, who pay absolutely no attention to me, and thinking about how they might disappear from the Earth, and how we all do disappear, and similarly non-summery thoughts.

But one good thing I realize is that the bees love my garden, and they’re not dying here. And it’s something we all can do, plant a garden full of flowers that bees love, and do everything possible to provide their favorite habitat. It’s not the long-term solution, but for once in the scheme of impending world disasters there’s actually something we can do to help.

Plus, watching bees and smelling the lavender gives you something to do when you forgot to charge your phone.


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