Talking to Strangers

and painting Bosc pears

A mountain of Bosc pears stopped me in my tracks this morning at the grocery store. They weren’t local, they weren’t on my list, but I had several tucked in the top of the cart by the time I reached the onions. I couldn’t resist their burnished gold skin and lumpy, bulbous bodies. I would paint them, I decided, then poach them with cinnamon and and perhaps a little orange rind.

I’ve been thinking about poaching pears ever since our trip¹ to St. Pierre a few weeks ago. On the third afternoon we set out for a brisk walk through town with the hope of visiting the local museum. We passed colourful wooden houses running along streets parallel to the harbour. We passed the hotel where Allan Hawco’s character stayed in the new CBC police drama, St. Pierre. We passed an old foundry, a pharmacy, the Cathedral and many quiet businesses boarded up for winter. When we reached the museum housed in a historic home, we found that it too was closed for the season. We cupped our hands around our faces and peered inside the window, trying to get a glimpse of what we were missing. There was old fishing paraphernalia and relics from prohibition days, when Miquelon played a role in smuggling illegal alcohol into the United States. We spotted a heavy, cast iron wood stove. An old barbershop chair. Detailed window trims and wooden shelves supported by ornate iron brackets. Hints of life lived on a French island, just 20km from the southern tip of Newfoundland.

When we pulled away from the window into the empty street, my dad said, emphatically, “I’d love a cup of tea.” And just like that, a little café appeared next door through the cold quiet of the afternoon. We pushed open the door, a bell chimed, and we were seated at one of the four empty tables. As we slipped off our coats the tables quickly, and suddenly, filled with the elderly ladies of St. Pierre. One by one they hung their long down jackets from hooks on the wall, sat down and leaned in for a chat, tête-à-tête. It quickly became clear that it wasn’t just tea time on the island, it was crêpe time. The lone server appeared, again and again, with pots of tea for each table followed by crêpes topped generously with chocolate, crowns of whipped cream and warm caramel. These women were not messing around. When the two women at the table next to us caught me swivelling around to see their order, they suggested, in rapid French, to order a pot of blackcurrant tea and bien sûr, une crêpe au chocolat.

That’s when my dad nudged me. “This would be a good time to ask them,” he whispered, encouragingly. Before we left for St. Pierre, a friend told me about his time spent on the island, learning French and boarding with a lovely lady named Madame Nicole Lerolland. “If you happen to see her, please say hello.”

My dad, I think I can say, is a shy person at heart. He is a great conversationalist; he was a family physician for years and human connection was at the heart of his practice. But approaching strangers is another thing entirely. This is where I came in. When I was little, I could talk to anyone. I loved answering the phone, the door, and chit-chatting with our crossing guard. I organized playdates for my older sister, I made friends with the moms. At five, I called my grandmother every morning to ask her what she was having for breakfast. And best of all, when I was eight I introduced myself to one of the members of the a cappella group, The Nylons. I loved that group, the way those four men could make wild sounds with their voices. The way they stood on stage with an actual thigh-high nylon stocking hanging from their microphones like a diaphanous leg swaying with the music. And how they darkened the theatre when they sang The Lion Sleeps Tonight, so all we could hear were the sounds of the jungle, made by the Nylons themselves. After the show, when the lights went up and the magic was fading, my dad looked at me and said, “this would be a good time to go meet the Nylons.” I remember standing backstage at the tall, wooden theatre door. I remember their bass singer Arnold Robinson popping his head out to say hello, then putting the nylon from his microphone in my hand saying with a wink, “you can keep it.” The white nylon hung from a bulletin board in our basement well into my teenage years, reminding me that good things happen when you talk to strangers.

That girl doesn’t come out as easily these days, especially when speaking French. I need to encourage and push her a little. So after our crêpes, after our cups of blackcurrant tea, just as the women next to us were putting on their coats, I breathed in and out then caught them at the door. “Hello and excuse me,” I said, in my clearest, best French, “I have a quick question for you.”

The women were happy to chat with me. They wondered where I was from, was I having a nice time, did I notice that their French was different from Quebeçois? Unfortunately they did not know Madame Lerolland. But would I like to come back, like my friend has done, and study French here? Why not, the crêpes are so good! And when you come back, try them topped with poached pear. It’s their second favourite thing on the menu.

I would not have known that pear (chopped and softened on the stove, perhaps with a little cinnamon and orange rind?) is très bien served with crêpes, unless I had spoken with those women. I imagine a rosette of cream wouldn’t hurt, or a drizzle of warm chocolate sauce too?

This is why we talk to people - for the local wisdom, the inspiration, the connection, and, for the thigh-high, nylon stockings.

PS I haven’t poached the pears yet or made crêpes, but I can say I’ve painted them in various languorous positions. They have so much personality. Stay tuned.

1. For the full backstory on why I visited St. Pierre et Miquelon, click below -

Indulge me for a moment