everything. She drops a light kiss on his cheek, then tiptoes softly out of the bedroom and down the stairs.
Downstairs, by the back door, is a large box filled with wax, next to it a box of essential oils. She may as well see whether she’s any good at making these candles after all.
* * *
After pouring herself freshly brewed coffee from the cafetière —her mother insisted fresh coffee must only be brewed in a cafetière, refusing even to call it a “French press”—Sylvie perches on a stool for a few minutes, inhaling the steam from the large cup before taking a tiny, tentative sip.
The kitchen, so ugly when they first saw it, is now charming. Eschewing the cold white-on-white that seemed to be the current trend, Sylvie had replaced the old melamine cabinets with open shelving, resting on pretty carved brackets, all painted a soft dove gray, stacked high with white plates and dishes.
The countertops are a honed marble, etched, marked, and all the lovelier for it. The patina they so quickly acquired remind Sylvie of the old patisseries in Paris, the more aged and stained the marble, the more warmth and charm the patisserie had.
Sylvie laid a soft limestone slab on the kitchen floor, color-washing the beams above with a pale soft gray.
Cookbooks fill a floor-to-ceiling hutch on the other side, piled haphazardly in varying directions, interspersed with marble pestles and mortars, collected by Sylvie over the years.
The oval dining table is in front of the French doors, a painted Swedish bench with faded blue-and-cream-check cushion pulled up on the window side, four curved French chairs curving around the rest of the table.
It is now a kitchen that is the envy of all her friends. Not because it is perfect or pristine or nearly as big as many of their own kitchens, but because it feels like home.
Nothing is perfectly matched, yet everything matches perfectly. Sylvie, born and bred in America, has the sensibilities of her mother, preferring old and interesting over new and perfect, knowing without even thinking about it how to mix different styles to come up with something uniquely beautiful.
Picking up the coffee cup, she moves to the table, to a cluster of small ramekins, each filled with essential oils. She dips her head to inhale deeply, a small smile playing on her lips as she closes her eyes and smells again.
She has written down exactly how many drops of each oil she mixed, and in which order. She sniffs the pure Mediterranean fig again. It is sweet and spicy but, compared to her newly mixed fig, has no depth, no warmth.
What else does her scent need? She smells again, knowing she is close, but there is something missing. She goes through the bottles she hasn’t yet used, pausing at cassis. It is rich and fruity; it might be just what she needs.
She pours half her perfume into another bowl, noting the quantity down in her notebook, before adding three drops of cassis.
Nearly there. Nearly there. Another three drops, and it is perfect. She smells the sweetness of fig, and orange, the richness of amber, the warmth of sandalwood, the heady scent of tuberose and gardenia, with the cassis bringing them all together.
4.15 A.M. Still plenty of time to get the candles made. After pouring the chips of wax into the metal pot, she waits for them to melt before checking the temperature, pouring in the oils, letting the temperature drop to 160 before pouring it slowly into the waiting glass jars.
Frowning at the wicks bending all the way to the side, Sylvie grabs a handful of knives from the kitchen drawer and then carefully balances them on the top of each jar, holding the wick perfectly in place in the center of the candle, and she smiles. It may not be the way the professionals do it, but it’s doing the job.
She lifts the cookie sheet the containers are balancing on, and then walks slowly and smoothly to the back door, trying not to disturb the wax, setting the tray on the steps.
Back inside,
Downstairs, by the back door, is a large box filled with wax, next to it a box of essential oils. She may as well see whether she’s any good at making these candles after all.
* * *
After pouring herself freshly brewed coffee from the cafetière —her mother insisted fresh coffee must only be brewed in a cafetière, refusing even to call it a “French press”—Sylvie perches on a stool for a few minutes, inhaling the steam from the large cup before taking a tiny, tentative sip.
The kitchen, so ugly when they first saw it, is now charming. Eschewing the cold white-on-white that seemed to be the current trend, Sylvie had replaced the old melamine cabinets with open shelving, resting on pretty carved brackets, all painted a soft dove gray, stacked high with white plates and dishes.
The countertops are a honed marble, etched, marked, and all the lovelier for it. The patina they so quickly acquired remind Sylvie of the old patisseries in Paris, the more aged and stained the marble, the more warmth and charm the patisserie had.
Sylvie laid a soft limestone slab on the kitchen floor, color-washing the beams above with a pale soft gray.
Cookbooks fill a floor-to-ceiling hutch on the other side, piled haphazardly in varying directions, interspersed with marble pestles and mortars, collected by Sylvie over the years.
The oval dining table is in front of the French doors, a painted Swedish bench with faded blue-and-cream-check cushion pulled up on the window side, four curved French chairs curving around the rest of the table.
It is now a kitchen that is the envy of all her friends. Not because it is perfect or pristine or nearly as big as many of their own kitchens, but because it feels like home.
Nothing is perfectly matched, yet everything matches perfectly. Sylvie, born and bred in America, has the sensibilities of her mother, preferring old and interesting over new and perfect, knowing without even thinking about it how to mix different styles to come up with something uniquely beautiful.
Picking up the coffee cup, she moves to the table, to a cluster of small ramekins, each filled with essential oils. She dips her head to inhale deeply, a small smile playing on her lips as she closes her eyes and smells again.
She has written down exactly how many drops of each oil she mixed, and in which order. She sniffs the pure Mediterranean fig again. It is sweet and spicy but, compared to her newly mixed fig, has no depth, no warmth.
What else does her scent need? She smells again, knowing she is close, but there is something missing. She goes through the bottles she hasn’t yet used, pausing at cassis. It is rich and fruity; it might be just what she needs.
She pours half her perfume into another bowl, noting the quantity down in her notebook, before adding three drops of cassis.
Nearly there. Nearly there. Another three drops, and it is perfect. She smells the sweetness of fig, and orange, the richness of amber, the warmth of sandalwood, the heady scent of tuberose and gardenia, with the cassis bringing them all together.
4.15 A.M. Still plenty of time to get the candles made. After pouring the chips of wax into the metal pot, she waits for them to melt before checking the temperature, pouring in the oils, letting the temperature drop to 160 before pouring it slowly into the waiting glass jars.
Frowning at the wicks bending all the way to the side, Sylvie grabs a handful of knives from the kitchen drawer and then carefully balances them on the top of each jar, holding the wick perfectly in place in the center of the candle, and she smiles. It may not be the way the professionals do it, but it’s doing the job.
She lifts the cookie sheet the containers are balancing on, and then walks slowly and smoothly to the back door, trying not to disturb the wax, setting the tray on the steps.
Back inside,
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