Page 22 of Love In Provence
‘I hope they like it.’ She stirs the spices into the big pot.
‘Why wouldn’t they?’ I ask.
She pauses and drops her head. ‘It’s hard sometimes. Feeling different.’ She’s stirring as she adds onions, garlic and ginger to the pan. ‘This is the paste, after the spice,’ she says.
‘What did you mean about being different?’ I say, going to the fridge and finding the jug of rosé there, cold and inviting. I pull it out and pour two glasses, passing her one. ‘I don’t know about you, but I think we deserve it,’ I say.
She smiles and thanks me. ‘When I was growing up, there was a boy who used to tease me, and say I smelled. Others would join in.’
My stomach twists.
‘It was the smell of my grandmother’s cooking. I loved her cooking. It hurt. I just always felt a bit different. And then when kids heard I was adopted, they could be cruel. But when I’m cooking I feel close to my grandmother. After she died, we moved to Australia and that really mixed things up. I have no idea what or who I am.’ She laughs. ‘But the cooking takes me back to my grandmother and helps me.’
‘People thought I was mad,’ I say, ‘when I refused to leave here and return home with my husband. He sentRhi and my other friend out to see if I’d had some kind of breakdown. But I felt I belonged here.’
We continue chatting, in the kitchen with the French windows open, and the sun begins to dip in the sky. Mostly we talk about food, and I tell her about the bakery business I set up with Stephanie. As we drain our glasses, she holds out the wooden spoon for me to taste.
‘My take on coq au vin, chicken with spice,’ she says shyly, as if waiting for approval.
I taste it, the spicy heat hitting me in the mouth, then warming me from the inside, reviving me. ‘It’s fantastic! Thank you so much for doing this.’
‘It was my pleasure. I don’t get to cook much at the moment, what with us touring around. I’d better be getting back. Marco will wonder where I’ve gone.’ She takes her phone from the charger. ‘Oh, yes, plenty of messages from him!’
‘Maybe I should just buy ingredients, put them in the barn kitchen and let people cook for themselves of an evening. It’s got to be better than the beef I served on the first night,’ I wonder.
‘Well, it would take the pressure off you. And you have a lot on your plate right now, so to speak. Presumably sorting out Henri’s funeral.’
Rhi still hasn’t mentioned a funeral.
‘Things are often clearer after the funeral,’ Maria says.
‘Did you lose someone close?’ I ask.
‘Just my grandmother,’ she says. ‘The one who gave me her tin.’ She holds it to her chest. ‘When I smell these, wherever I am, I feel at home,’ she says, and smiles. ‘My mother didn’t cook. She runs a business, an estate agency, with my father in Australia. Everything changed after my grandmother died, and this tin sort of helps me navigate that.’
‘Well, your food is amazing,’ I tell her.
‘Not everyone is as appreciative as you.’ She laughs, and I’m not sure why but I laugh with her.
At seven o’clock, we take the big pot of spiced chicken out onto the terrace where the other pickers are waiting. Graham is pouring wine and Marco is telling an amusing story, making the rest of the group laugh. I can see why he’d be fun to be with.
Maria waits for him to finish his story, then puts the big pot on the table. Suddenly I think about Fabien and the nights we spent in our early days together eating out on this terrace, when I fell in love. When did we last eat out here, just the two of us, with him looking at me over the candles and a bottle of chilled rosé? I can’t remember.
‘So, this is Maria’s take on coq au vin … with her own twist on things,’ I say, putting down the rice she’s also cooked and the basket of bread I sliced.
‘Has she been taking over in the kitchen again? She can be very bossy!’ Marco chuckles.
I see Maria blush. ‘No, not at all,’ I say firmly.
‘I offered.’
‘And I was very grateful. We thought it would be fun to share someone else’s food,’ I say.
‘Well, it smells delicious,’ says Jen.
‘It really does,’ agree Graham and Keith.
‘Oh, yes, she’s a great cook,’ Marco says, holding out his plate as she poses with the serving spoon.
