Pears in Red Wine
From The Joys of Cooking: A Love Story
by Judith Newton
“There is communion of more than our bodies when bread is broke and wine drunk.” M.F.K. Fisher, Gastronomical Me
Berkeley, November 1966: Our best friend Jake presented Dick and me to the new woman in his life, Claire. Claire had a fragile elegance that was very appealing. She wore romantic, sometimes vintage, clothes— a pair of white, forties-style pants, say, and a loose-sleeved blouse softly imprinted with rosy flowers. Her hair, the color of dark honey, hung well below her shoulders, and the thinnest of eyebrows floated about her long, somewhat downturned, hazel eyes. Her voice was whispery as if full of secrets that you’d like to share.
Claire was finishing her B.A. in the Berkeley English Department where she also worked as part-time secretary, but those realities seldom surfaced in our conversations. What Claire did like to talk about were her ever-changing passions. She studied piano, always on a baby grand. “I never rent anything but a baby grand,” she told me, eyes widening, “the music sounds sooo much better.” Claire also took classes from time to time in watercolor, ballet, poetry, and Greek— studies that did not seem entirely practical to career-minded English graduate students like Dick and me (poetry, of course, being an exception!). Only later did I understand how baby grands, ballet, and Greek were at the heart of something magical about Claire. She had a gift for transforming ordinary life into something beyond the ordinary, into something that laid hold of you despite the accompanying eccentricities.
Although Claire laughed easily and had a self-deprecating sense of humor that was endearing, there was something sorrowful about her too. Her mouth turned down at the corners when her face fell into repose. In time I came to know what lay behind that mouth. Claire’s mother died when she was three years old, and her already distant father quickly turned to alcohol and abuse. “I want you dead,” he’d shout at her. The last time he beat her she had been nineteen, and the beating lasted two hours. For three days after Claire was unable to speak.
The pain and loneliness of Claire’s early years never really left her. But by the time we came into each other’s lives Claire had a strategy for dealing with the Dickensian brutalities of her past. She created, and recreated when necessary, an exuberant and enticing self, an exciting alternative existence that were deep parts of her, that existed alongside the sadness and the more mundane realities of attending undergraduate classes and doing part-time clerical work. The glamour of this alternative life was partly expressed in the thoughtfully achieved allure of her appearance and in her cultivation of graceful practices such as dancing ballet and reading classical texts, but it was also embodied in the sumptuous meals she cooked for friends and in the charming, off beat surroundings in which she prepared and served them. When you stood in Claire’s kitchen or sat in her dining room, wonder, glamour, and comfort became part of your life too.
In 1968 the four of us moved east— Jake to take a teaching position in New Jersey, Dick and I to take similar positions in Philadelphia, and Claire to find work in the rare book room of the university at which Jake taught. Jake had been our best friend since 1963, and now Claire was too. But Claire, to me, became something more. Since childhood I had had a recurring dream. I would revisit a familiar house, opening door after door until I found a room— the room that I had been looking for without knowing it— and it would appear so beautiful and so compelling that I would be deeply comforted. Every home that Claire created had a similar effect on me. When Dick and I visited Jake and Claire we stayed in a guest room decorated by Claire with painted white furniture and brown, flowered, calico sheets. I slept so deeply in those rooms that sometimes I didn’t wake until one in the afternoon. Why I felt so comforted and secure was not entirely clear. Perhaps the exuberance of Claire’s hospitality, her scrupulous attention to the beauty of the rooms in which her guests slept, sat, and ate, and her delight in feeding us delicious meals evoked and partially compensated for the motherlessness of both our lives. In Claire’s childhood home the wondrous, feeding mother had disappeared for good, and in mine the mother who did feed, and overfeed, was otherwise absent and rejecting. In creating elegant rooms, in preparing comforting meals, Claire mothered herself, but she mothered her friends as well. I have often thought that it is in becoming the wondrous, nurturing mother that one finds the most reliable path to recovering something of the parent we have lost or to healing the wounds left by parents who couldn’t or wouldn’t love us as we needed to be loved.
Claire’s dwellings were always rented, but she had a gift for finding places with some charming feature and then making them seem alive, enchanted, full of possibilities. There was the farmhouse in the Pennsylvania countryside that looked out onto snowy fields.
“Can I paint?” Claire asked the owner.
“No painting,” the landlady replied. She was a regal woman with a tweed jacket and white hair. Claire couldn’t bear the dark-paneled walls, so she covered them with white burlap and hung dark orange-flowered curtains on the windows. A few weeks later, she painted the kitchen the color of an open cantaloupe. (The kitchen walls were plaster, Claire explained to me, “It’s not like I’m painted over wood paneling.”) Then she enameled squares of peg board in darker orange and neon pink and hung them on the walls to hold her utensils and pots and pans. The effect was dazzling. When you stood in that kitchen, while the dark fragrance of boeuf bourguignon filled the air, you knew you were alive.
Claire and Jake moved to New York a year later where Claire found an apartment with an arched window in the dining room. She painted the room golden yellow and hung small, colored drawings of fruit on the walls. She had acquired a round butcher block table by then (it was enormous and seated eight), and she painted the base of the table with the white, Swedish enamel she had come to swear by. She coated her old, spindle-backed chairs with the same shiny white so the furniture seemed to float in a world of gold. White iris in a white pitcher balanced on the table surface, and that evening the four of us floated there with the furniture eating tacos de crema. The tortillas were fried and dipped in light cream sauce, then folded to hold sour cream and chilies and molten Monterey jack cheese. For dessert: pears poached in a bottle of red wine that had been reduced to a thick syrup. The pears, in their ruby sauce, looked so much like a still life that I took their picture.
After dinner, while Dick and Jake lolled in the living room with its floor-to-ceiling white bookcases and white couches, sipping Drambuie and talking of Renaissance poetry, Claire and I slipped away to contemplate the rest of the apartment. We moved slowly as if tasting the rooms.
“Should I repaint the dining room?” Claire asked.
“Why? I think it’s beautiful just the way it is.”
Claire’s mouth grew firm. “I want it to be more… intense,” she said. “I’m thinking aubergine.” She would repaint that dining room seven times. “My favorite was the aubergine,” Claire would say to me long after she no longer lived in New York.
In 1976 Jake took a position in Rhode Island, and he and Claire rented a cottage in Narragansett that stood just above the Atlantic shore. Claire’s dining room in the cottage was entirely enclosed; though little nooks led off from it, ending in gabled windows that opened over the water. Claire had placed chairs and small tables in each nook as if someone in the house were inclined to watch for ships or whales or something new on the horizon.
“Judy,” Claire called to me as soon as I was in the door. “Come, look. You can see the ocean when you stand at the sink.” For Claire there was always something beyond, something she longed to reach.
The dining room that night felt like a captain’s quarters— rounded, snug, with white bookcases and soft lamps. Claire had placed yellow and rust chrysanthemums in the white pitcher and we sat at the butcher block table on our white chairs, as if suspended over the sea itself. We ate chicken breast volaille with morels and Madeira in a sauce of egg yolk, cream, and cheese. “I only use the dried morels,” Claire told me. They have more flavor. And again we ate the pears in pools of thickened wine. When I think of that evening now, I feel a fullness in my throat and chest. It is the surge of my desire to return, just for a moment, to savor the comfort and content I felt that night, the sense of possibilities in that dining room, that dinner, the ocean, our friendship, in Claire herself.
The next year Jake took a job in Chicago and Claire, who was working for a sports publicist, remained in New York. They flew to see each other on weekends— Claire’s employer paid the airfare as a strategy for keeping her, but the effort was hard to sustain. The year after, Claire fell in love with a man in her ballet class, and eventually she called Jake to ask for a divorce. Jake agreed, and a few months later, the man from ballet returned to his previous girlfriend. Claire moved on, finding work in a music store where well-known musicians and composers were taken by her charm. Claire and I wrote. We called, but our lives were changing. Without our four-way friendship, our lovely dinners in her many dining rooms came to an end, taking on the fragile, shimmering quality of memory and myth.
Eventually I would buy my own butcher block table, painting the base with a wash of turquoise instead of white. I would dress my guest bed in the calico sheets that Claire favored, but mine would be green not brown, and I would paint my dining room the color of celery and then lemon yellow. (I wouldn’t be satisfied with the yellow, but two repaintings would be enough for me.) I would serve my guests boeuf bourguignon, tacos de crema, chicken volaille, and pears in red wine. I would never come close to achieving Claire’s elegance, but her strategies for self-renewal and for sharing with others the life and comforts she created stayed with me.
Sometimes it seems to me that the very deprivations of Claire’s life had given her an unusual capacity for new, often fanciful, kinds of growth. No matter what life brought — a mother dead too soon, an abusive childhood, a faithless lover, divorce from the princely Jake — for Claire there was always the possibility of going on, of reinventing glamour, wonder, and comfort for herself and others. Claire’s inventiveness, the enchanted spaces she created, the delicious dinners she cooked for friends, were like what Raymond Williams calls those inexplicable flowerings of love and energy that brighten a Dickens novel. I would turn to these resources time and time again as a respite from my own anxieties and despair.
Pears in Red Wine
(Adapted from racheleats)
6 firm medium-sized pears (Bartlett or Williams)
A large bowl of water with juice from half a lemon in it
A bottle of young red wine such as a good Pinot Noir (don’t stint on the quality of the wine!)
6 oz. water
2 ½ c. sugar
One stick cinnamon
A strip of lemon peel
1. Peel pears leaving the stem intact. Drop each pear into lemon water after peeling.
2. Combine wine, water, sugar, cinnamon, cloves and lemon peel in a large heavy pan and bring to a gentle boil over a medium flame. Keep stirring until the sugar is dissolved
3. Lower pears into simmering liquid.
4. Cover pan and allow pears to simmer for 25-40 minutes until they are tender and translucent but not soggy when pierced with the point of a knife.
5. Remove pan from heat, leave covered and let pears cool in the cooking liquid.
6. Once pears are cool, lift from the liquid and set aside while you reduce liquid to less than half the original and into a thick, dense syrup.
7. Place pears back into syrup and allow them to sit for at least a day or two, turning them every now and then. (I refrigerated the pears.)
8. Serve the pears cold in their remaining syrup. Add cream if you like.
For more on Dickens see Raymond Williams, The English Novel From Dickens to Lawrence.