LAVENDER BLUEBERRY GALETTE.

Just over a month ago, I made a blueberry pie for you. A sage blueberry pie, which was also a pie made on request for my downstairs neighbor Alice. Some of you will remember Alice from that post—remember my (selfish) disappointment as I realized she was coming to the end of her (ninety-five years long) life, that hospice was there with her, that, once again, I was living with death. Many of you rejoiced with me at the gift of my time with Alice, too. Because I did, ultimately, just suck it up and sit with her. Talk to the hospice workers. Look death in the face, and not leave. Again.

Of course, the emotional pull wasn’t anything like what I felt being with my mother when she was dying. This time, I could leave at any moment I wanted, and I barely knew Alice. But in the occasional visits we had in the past month, instead of dread, I actually found a lot of joy. Which is why the symmetry of blueberry pastries struck me deeply when, last night, my landlord emailed me to let me know Alice had died. I suppose it’s only fitting: A lavender blueberry galette to commemorate the sweet things she once wanted, once could taste.

This galette is also very of the place, of this apartment building Alice and I both called home, with its lovely 1920s tile bathrooms, pockmarked wood floors, and tiny kitchens: I made the lavender pastry dough with the very first KitchenAid mixer I could actually fit in said kitchen—their new Mini Stand Mixer. At twenty percent smaller and twenty-five percent lighter than the original, it still holds three and a half quarts—and comes in an elegant Williams-Sonoma exclusive Medallion Silver I adore. It’s the perfect size for any mixing needs I might have, and, miracle of miracles, it actually fits in the very slim counter space I have next to my sink.

Alice wasn’t eating or drinking much this past month as her body prepared for death, but I like to think that, even in spirit, this galette is for her.

Our last visit was just over a week ago, a humid Saturday that blew warm air in through her open front door, skated sunshine across her nearly skeletal body as she rested on the couch. They’d reconfigured her living room so she could simultaneously recline and see out the front door. For some reason, she was alone. Her hospice nurses were between shifts, and her brother was on his way from Riverside.

She was talking to him when I came in, and began talking to me even as she instructed him to bring melons—all kinds. Watermelon and cantaloupe and honeydew, she wanted them all. Did I like melons, she wanted to know? I do, I do like melons, I told her. Satisfied with that, she got off the phone, and we sat. Talked about how difficult it was for her brother to drive into the city, how it used to be a flash to get here. How it used to be.

I noticed she didn’t have water, which angered me—I couldn’t imagine the indignity of being left without water while dying, without the ability to get it for myself. There was a nearly untouched cup of coffee and an open, straw-inserted bottle of Ensure in reaching distance, but no water. I got her water, shook the straw clean of Ensure, placed the straw to her lips. She drank long and full. But my lips are so dry, she said. I found her lip balm, opened it, helped her apply some to her deeply chapped lips.

Every so often, Alice would look right at me and chuckle: Some of the shock of her imminent death had worn off, and, in its place, the absurdity of dying, of leaving behind a body that had carted her around for almost ninety-five years. There were no words for this absurdity, nothing left to say or do or eat or drink—just a look, a light in her eyes, a chuckle.

After some time, I told her I needed to get to the store (to pick up the ingredients for this galette, as a matter of fact). When I stood up to leave, she said, Next time you come, bring all your friends—they can play piano and you can sing. I didn’t understand at first, hadn’t seen a piano. But, turning around, I saw there was an old upright by the front door, draped in mail and old photographs. I play piano! I exclaimed. Could I play? Alice clasped her hands to her heart (it’s hard to believe anyone actually does this until you see it in all its innocent joyfulness) and urged me to sit down immediately and get to playing.

I grew up playing piano, but once I left for college I no longer had lessons to keep me in check. Instead, I had—and still have—the simple improvisation technique my teacher instilled in me before I left, which produces something á la The Piano-soundtrack-meets-Tori Amos. It’s not perfect, but it’s something. I played like this for Alice that day, immersing myself in the wash of sound and the movement within chords, notes, rhythms. I played hoping it would help her forget. Forget the discomfort, the indignities, the loneliness of dying.

When I turned to her after some time, thinking perhaps she’d fallen asleep, she was sitting bolt upright. What do you see when you play? I shrugged, more curious in what she was seeing than what I was. I see horses galloping and people coming out onto the street for a party, she said. Do they have parties like that anymore? For everyone in the neighborhood? I confessed that I didn’t know. They sounded wonderful, though.

I’m giving you this piano, Alice said, suddenly. Little by little, get this thing up into your apartment! I flushed with the sweetness of her order. I knew I wouldn’t tell anyone or act on it—I didn’t want to involve myself with her family, or complicate the voluminous red tape of death. And it didn’t matter: Playing the piano for her that day was its own perfect gift. I can’t believe that’s the last of Alice I got, but how grateful I am for it. For her cackling laughter, her feistiness, her love of blueberry pie.

This lavender blueberry galette (inspired by Amanda Fredericton’s cardamom variation) incorporates dried edible lavender flowers in an easy and fragrant blended sugar, and in the pastry dough, for a calming, summery take on the standard. It’s about as easy as baking gets, with a juicy, flaky pay-off. (It’s also a nice little teaser for all the magic that will be in the Lavender chapter of the Kale & Caramel cookbook.)

For more Mini Stand Mixer recipe ideas, pay your local Williams-Sonoma a visit on Saturday August 20th to get in on some live demo and taste-testing action.