Pop-Pop

When I was growing up, I used to have regular dreams–not exactly nightmares, but something odd and strange that left me feeling uneasy when I woke up–about my grandfather coming into my room, sitting at the foot of my twin bed, and having frank and simple conversations about nothing at all. Not so strange, you may say, unless you know that my grandfather died a few months before I was born, and I never knew my father’s father.

My mother’s father, the only grandfather I ever knew, was anything but frightening. Of German blood and American birth, my grandfather was known for his hour-long “ablutions” in the morning: he was always showered, pressed and dressed, his hair perfectly combed, his white stubble shaved, before he even considered coming down for his regular breakfast of eggs and coffee and the morning paper. Everything he did was to the letter: he had his chair, his pipe, his tobacco, his barber, who came to cut his hair even once cancer put this man–a man who was retired for all of three seconds before he realized how bored he was and went back to work as a patent lawyer well past the age he could have been sitting in front of the television all day–on the sofa, to absorb the Weather Channel and football games

My grandfather, a man we all knew as Pop-Pop, was the person to call if you ever needed to know the driving conditions or chance of precipitation in any of the fifty states. He lived for atlases, looking up the places I jet-setted to and calling when he knew I would be driving through snow to make it home for Christmas, telling me which route to take from Canada through upstate New York, where he was raised and went to university–first to be an engineer, then to be a lawyer.

I feel lucky to have had the last few months I had with him, the months that were “supposed” to be in Argentina, the months where I felt “stuck” in New York. It’s funny, sometimes, how the universe can give you a gift you didn’t even know you were getting. Every Tuesday afternoon, Pop-Pop’s face would light up when I came upstairs from work. He would ask about my job(s) and exclaim over how many I seemed to take on. I tried to explain the concept of freelancing to him, but he was always worried about me. He didn’t want me to work too hard or take on too much, and he would frown as he contemplated and speak slowly and deliberately, “Well… just don’t overexert yourself, sweetheart.”

It was strange to see the man we knew as the “weasel,” who used to dress up in plaid and flannel and overalls with a cap and pipe in place, to trundle out to the woods with his wheelbarrow and rake, to organize the forest, in all his Germanness. We used to make fun of him–he took it in stride–but when I saw him lying under a blanket this winter and spring, thin and pale, I would have given anything to see him back in the woods again, a trail of the smoky smell I know so well following behind him as he collected piles of leaves to burn.

Pop-Pop was never sick a day in his life until three years ago, when we heard the big C. From then on, he battled it strongly–as any family who’s dealt with cancer knows, there are good days and bad days. Through phone calls from my brother and my mother, I know that in that last bit of time we shared, the long conversations and, sometimes, just quiet hours of watching the news together, I got the good days before I left in May, leaving with a “see you later…” not a “goodbye.”

I know, though, that last few weeks have been hard for everyone back home, and so when my mother called me this morning at nine, it took my foggy brain only the few moments to switch from French to English before I realized he was gone. I cried–when the world loses someone like him, there’s no other way to react–but in the end, I know that it’s for the best. I was so angry to not have been able to say a proper goodbye–it’s part of living somewhere else, to be far away when something like this happens. I remember when my grandmother passed three years ago, how far away I felt, how distant from the mourning I should have been a part of, and it’s flashback to hearing about Nana’s funeral from afar as I sit here in Paziols, so far away from where I’m supposed to be.

My aunt asked me this morning if I had someone here to take care of me–a strange concept to me, who has been taking care of myself for so long. I didn’t want to be taken care of: I don’t like people to see me cry. All I wanted was to be able to kiss him one last time, but I know that what we shared–our regular visits that he looked forward to and expected: five o’clock, on the dot–was better than saying goodbye to someone who was nearly already gone, so much that when I asked my mother a few days ago if I could call, she said that he wouldn’t know it was me.

Pop-Pop, for me, will always be the man who, when the crowded house of cousins and aunts and uncles got to be too much, would fold up his paper and grab his pipe to sit in the car that only he was allowed to drive, parked in the driveway, to read. When we went outside to play in the snow, we would see the thin trail of smoke escaping from the window, and we knew that Pop-Pop was taking his time and catching up on the news.

When he got sick and started losing weight, my aunt and I tried to help him bounce back by bringing him treats: German cookies, Wienershnitzel. When my brother flew back to America, I sent him with Pop-Pop’s favorite French candy, calissons d’Aix: he’s always loved almonds and marzipan, which is why, a few months ago, I carried a warm pie plate the five blocks from my parents’ house to his, a pie plate that, when opened, revealed a Bakewell Tart: cherry jam and almond paste in a crumbly, buttery crust that had him smiling for days. I’ll never forget his laugh or the way he pressed his lips to my cheek for nearly a minute every time he said goodbye, as though he didn’t know when he would see me again.

Bakewell Tart (Daring Bakers recipe)

Makes one 23cm (9” tart)

One quantity sweet shortcrust pastry (recipe follows)
Bench flour
250ml (1cup) jam or curd, warmed for spreadability
One quantity frangipane (recipe follows)
One handful blanched, flaked almonds

Sweet Shortcrust Pastry

225g all purpose flour
30g sugar
½ tsp salt
110g unsalted butter, cold (frozen is better)
2 egg yolks
½ tsp almond extract (optional)
1-2 Tbl cold water

Sift together flour, sugar and salt. Grate butter into the flour mixture, using the large hole-side of a box grater.

Using your finger tips only, and working very quickly, rub the fat into the flour until the mixture resembles bread crumbs. Set aside.

Lightly beat the egg yolks with the almond extract (if using) and quickly mix into the flour mixture.

Keep mixing while dribbling in the water, only adding enough to form a cohesive and slightly sticky dough.

Form the dough into a disc, wrap in cling and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes

Notes:

• If you wish, you can substitute the seeds of one vanilla bean, one teaspoon of vanilla paste or one teaspoon of vanilla extract for the almond extract

Almond Frangipane

Frangipane

125g unsalted butter, softened
125g icing sugar
3 eggs
½ tsp almond extract
125g ground almonds
30g all purpose flour

Cream butter and sugar together for about a minute or until the mixture is primrose in colour and very fluffy.

Scrape down the side of the bowl and add the eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. The batter may appear to curdle but don’t be concerned with it.

After all three eggs are in, pour in the almond extract and mix for about another 30 seconds and scrape down the sides again.

With the beaters on, spoon in the ground nuts and the flour. Mix well. The mixture will be soft, keep its slightly curdled look (mostly from the almonds) and retain its pallid yellow colour.

Assembling the tart

Place the chilled dough disc on a lightly floured surface. If it’s overly cold, you will need to let it become acclimatised for about 15 minutes before you roll it out.

Flour the rolling pin and roll the pastry to 5mm (1/4”) thickness, by rolling in one direction only (start from the centre and roll away from you), and turning the disc a quarter turn after each roll.

When the pastry is to the desired size and thickness, transfer it to the tart pan, press in and trim the excess dough. Patch any holes, fissures or tears with trimmed bits. Chill in the freezer for 15 minutes.

Preheat oven to 200°C / 400°F.

Remove shell from freezer, spread as even a layer as you can of jam onto the pastry base. Top with frangipane, spreading to cover the entire surface of the tart. Smooth the top and pop into the oven for 30 minutes. Five minutes before the tart is done, the top will be poofy and brownish. Remove from oven and strew flaked almonds on top and return to the heat for the last five minutes of baking.

The finished tart will have a golden crust and the frangipane will be tanned, poofy and a bit spongy-looking. Remove from the oven and cool on the counter. Serve warm, with crème fraîche, whipped cream or custard sauce if you wish.

When you slice into the tart, the almond paste will be firm, but slightly squidgy and the crust should be crisp but not tough.