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Hannah Tunnicliffe Biography

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“Life is suffering," I repeat. My voice seems to have shrunk. I stare at her and ask, "Always?" I sound like a child. Merriem shakes her head. She reaches over and takes my hand. "Not always." I swallow. I can barely whisper, "When is it not?" Merriem gives a small sigh. "Oh, darling. Just when it's not. When it's a good day in between the hard ones." She squeezes my fingertips. "When the sun shines and the bees make honey. When you're with people who love you. When you find treasures- like morels and fiddleheads and huckleberries.”

Positive LifeSmall Pleasures
Book:Season of Salt and Honey
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“Carmelina points at the cabin. "What is that?" I follow her finger to the log walls made of matchsticks, the miniature windows. The doorknob has fallen off along the way, but other than that it's intact. A perfect, tiny replica of the cabin in the forest. I can almost hear the Steller's jay, imagine its flash of blue, smell the lemony resin of the cedars. See daisies looped flower to stem upon dark hair. Feel a hand with a broad palm and rough fingers linked with mine. I smile at Carmelina. "That is home.”

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Book:Season of Salt and Honey
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“I don't know how long I spent wandering about the supermarket creating meals in my mind. Hot roast chicken and mayonnaise sandwiches. Pizzas on crispy bases. Big, heaving bowls of spaghetti Bolognese. Crunchy, cheesy nachos with sour cream. I did a full circle and ended back in the fruit and veg section. Next to the peaches were boxes filled with tomatoes still clinging to their vines. The ripe tomato smell was almost sexual. It filled my nostrils as I lifted the box. There were some slightly rotten ones near the bottom of the box, but the rest were just perfect, thick with the perfume of their green vines, fat and red.”

MealsTomatoesTartTomatoSupermarketFood CravingsGrace Raven
Book:The Color of Tea
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“During the afternoons the only thing that seems to hold my interest is baking. I go through my recipe books. Soft-centered biscuits, cakes slathered with icing, cupcakes piled up in pyramids on round plates. Pete doesn't say anything, although every morning he takes out the rubbish bags filled with stale muffins and half-eaten banana loaves. The only thoughts that seem to distract me from babies are those memories of Paris. A gray cold, tall men, black coffee, sweet pastries, Mama laughing, with her hair and scarf streaming behind her. The smell of chocolate and bread.”

MemoriesParisBakingDessertsBaked GoodsGrace Miller
Book:The Color of Tea
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“Merriem carries the enormous saucepan, a cloud of steam rising from it, into the dining room. "Spring risotto," she calls it. It's got snipped garlic scapes, tons of parsley, and just-wilted pea greens piled on top. Summer carries a big glazed terra-cotta saucer full of tiny new potatoes with butter and freshly torn mint, and I bring the asparagus, which Merriem calls "speary-grass," served with simple seasoning.”

SpringVegetablesAppetizersAsparagusRisotto
Book:Season of Salt and Honey
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“Aurora's Sunday brunch buffet is world-class, desserts or no desserts. Your mouth starts to water the moment you enter and spot the seafood bar on your right- lobsters the color of blood oranges reclining on hillocks of shaved ice, oysters split open, their salty innards on show. Around the corner is an area devoted to cheese, huge rounds of fragrant, fresh Parmesan and a soft cheese with a gray-white rind, oozing and pungent. Behind the cheeses is a magnificent honeycomb hung on a metal frame and dripping down a silver gutter into a small bowl. The entire place smells like heaven- copper pots of hot, fresh bread being carried to tables, aged ham sliced from the bone, the chocolatier dipping soft pralines.”

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Book:The Color of Tea
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“This is where I come to eat lunch most days. The café is generally quiet and cool. It's across the road from the beach, which is rocky and met by the pale green, glittering sea. The caféiss't pretty or fancy; the food's simple and traditional. Some days the cook is late and they serve only what the man at the bar can grill or fry- whole fish, the silver scales marked with charred black lines, and home-cut potato fries. On very hot days, I order gelato brioche or granita.”

Italian FoodSicily
Book:Season of Salt and Honey
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“I think of them again now as I warm meatballs in sauce on the camp stove. This is Aunty Connie's recipe, using pork mince and pecorino. The simple tomato sauce is so cluttered with meatballs you could stand the spoon up in the bowl. Aunty Connie's theory is that meat should be included in every meal to help children grow, and whenever we visited her as kids we came home with our stomachs at bursting point. She makes beautiful veal dishes, such huge piles of pasta they threaten to break the serving dishes, prosciutto sliced thin as lace so you can see through it, and polpette. Meatballs, meatballs, meatballs. I flick off the camp stove. The pot sends up curls of steam and the scent of pork and fennel and tomatoes simmered till sweet. I breathe it in, pushing cannoli, cassata, and cookie fantasies to one side.”

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Book:Season of Salt and Honey
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“This was the wedding menu. Starters Rounds of Grana Padano Breads Seafood platters Prosciutto with melon Prawn cocktails (The prawn cocktails were at Mrs. Gardner's insistence. She said she'd never heard of prosciutto and was dubious about meat served with fruit.) Entrées Chicken with white sauce and vegetables, or Beefsteak with mushrooms and béarnaise sauce (Alex's requests. We copied them from the menu of his favorite restaurant.) Dessert Platters of cannoli, cassata, biancumanciari, setteveli, and almond cookies The desserts were my wish list. Traditional and Sicilian, just the way I wanted them. Mrs. Gardner said she wasn't "a sweet tooth" (in a way that made it sound like a kind of tribe), and Alex couldn't care less about dessert. I thought of these desserts when I went to aerobics classes, trying to lose weight before the wedding- imagined the smooth filling of the cannoli, the cool velvet of the cassata, and the toothy crunch of the almond cookies.”

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Book:Season of Salt and Honey
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“We'll start with Un Petite Flamme. It's our espresso macaron. Go on, try it." She looks down at her plate. "This one? With the gold?" "Yup, go on." She puts it against her tongue like she's taking communion. "Good?" She nods quickly. Then I place a purple one on her plate. Rilla lifts it up. "This one has the jam inside, right?" "Yes; it's Remede de Deliverance. Black currant filling, in the middle of the cream." She closes her eyes while she eats it slowly. So slowly I worry she will need to come up for air. "What does that mean?" she asks when she has finally swallowed the last tiny mouthful. "Remede de Deliverance? 'Rescue remedy.' It's violet-flavored.”

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Book:The Color of Tea
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“Ahead, a house sits close to the road: a small, single-story place painted mint green. Ivy grows up one corner and onto the roof, the green tendrils swaying like a girl's hair let loose from a braid. In front there's a full and busy vegetable garden, with plants jostling for real estate and bees making a steady, low, collective hum. It reminds me of the aunties' gardens, and my nonna's when I was a kid. Tomato plants twist gently skywards, their lazy stems tied to stakes. Leafy heads of herbs- dark parsley, fine-fuzzed purple sage, bright basil that the caterpillars love to punch holes in. Rows and rows of asparagus. Whoever lives here must work in the garden a lot. It's wild but abundant, and I know it takes a special vigilance to maintain a garden of this size. The light wind lifts the hair from my neck and brings the smell of tomato stalks. The scent, green and full of promise, brings to mind a childhood memory- playing in Aunty Rosa's yard as Papa speaks with a cousin, someone from Italy. I am imagining families of fairies living in the berry bushes: making their clothes from spiderweb silk, flitting with wings that glimmer pink and green like dragonflies'.”

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Book:Season of Salt and Honey
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“Her smile was somehow a little too bright, but I watched as she showed me how she had scored the puff pastry and brushed it with oil. She got me to smell the thyme pressed between her fingers and thumb, and told me how good garlic was for keeping away colds. She preached about food and sang and laughed and baked until the light started to come in the windows. Then we sat and ate hot tart without knives and forks. She kissed my cheeks and smelled like garlic. I remember the hot cheese dropping onto Mama's sweater and drying to a rubbery streak against the wool.”

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Book:The Color of Tea
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“Every time the waiter with the cheese platter comes by I take two or three cracker loads at a time. I give him a polite smile, hoping he can guess I once did his job and I know his feet hurt like pins are being driven through the heels. The expensive cheeses are salty and soft against the crispiness of the crackers, and I realize how hungry I am. How little I have been eating these past weeks. Perhaps the waiter can sense this too; he begins to make a beeline for me each time he comes from the kitchen with a new plate. Goat, blue, Brie. Soothingly thick and creamy in my throat.”

HungryWaiterTastesCheesesGrace Miller
Book:The Color of Tea
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“How do you fancy making some dark cherry ganache with me, and we can fill these little yuzu shells with that instead? They can be a temporary special: a macaron de saison." I scrape the offending basil mixture into the bin. "Whatever you want." Her brightening eyes betray her. "That's the enthusiasm I was looking for," I reply, smiling. "What shall we call them then? It has to be French." We surrender to a thoughtful silence. Outside the cicadas are playing their noisy summer symphony. I imagine them boldly serenading one another from old tires, forgotten woodpiles, discarded plastic noodle bowls. "Something about summer..." she mumbles. After conferring with my worn, flour-dusted French-English dictionary, we agree on 'Brise d'Ete.”

FrenchFlavorsCicadasSummer BreezeMacaronsDark CherryYuzu
Book:The Color of Tea
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“Un Petit Phenix is born as Lillian's is resurrected, even more beautiful than before, with new wallpaper, new windows, and repaired chairs. It is a cinnamon macaron, pressed together with dark chili chocolate ganache. The result is surprisingly delicious- spicy, sweet, lingering long in your mouth, like a bowl of Aztec hot chocolate. It tastes best with a shot of the blackest coffee.”

ChocolateFrenchPhoenixFlavorsSpicyRestaurantCinnamonMacarons
Book:The Color of Tea
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“Voila. Macarons. These ones I made yesterday for a party tonight, so they should be delicious." He is right, of course; they are perfect. The first one I taste is dark chocolate with a center that is firmer than I had expected but that melts on my tongue in seconds. The second one is raspberry, the ganache retaining the roughness and texture of the fruit. The almond paste is stronger in this one, nuttier; blended together with the raspberry, it tastes of autumn. The last macaron is passion fruit. I know the shells are unflavored, but it tastes as though the entire sweet- the shells, the ganache, the scent- is alive with the zest of passion fruit before it even enters my mouth. Then, acidic on the tongue and rounding off a heavy sweetness. The perfume of the passion fruit macaron is like a bunch of lilies, assaulting and exotic. I close my eyes for a second, savoring each one.”

FlavorsFruitsTastesMacaronsGrace And Leon
Book:The Color of Tea
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“I like caramel flavors; some people prefer a lighter taste, like rose, at least to start with. The chocolate-flavored ones are lovely, of course..." I am rambling; it is like choosing a favorite child, practically impossible. "What's in this one then?" She points at my newest creation, a pale, creamy white with soft flecks of yellow, like glints of gold in white marble. "Reve d'un Ange. It means 'dream of an angel.'" She tilts her head, interested, and I shrug. "Hopelessly romantic name, I know. Couldn't help myself." "What's in it?" she asked, lowering her voice. "It's my white chocolate macaron. Ganache, that's a kind of chocolate cream, sandwiched in the middle. I've added a little lemon rind and cinnamon.”

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Book:The Color of Tea
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“Orange pekoe flavor, with that gold confection dust on the top." She holds one up to demonstrate. "Mascarpone filling." She bites it clean in half and shows me the middle. "Rose jelly in the center." "Sounds good to me. What shall we call it?" "I don't know." I reach over and pick up a macaron, the texture, weight, and balance all perfect. Symmetry, lightness, both shells with excellent feet, wedded together with a smooth filling. Nodding with approval, I place it on my tongue. She is right; the orange and rose flavors melt lustily in your mouth. It's just like Mama- all bright and full of surprises.”

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Book:The Color of Tea
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“Once the food is cool enough, I eat as though I'm starving. The potatoes' skins squeak when I bite into them; the risotto tastes of soft, pungent scapes; the freshly cut asparagus is so crisp and sweet you could almost mistake it for fruit. Merriem smiles at me. We are all holding our stomachs by the time Merriem clears the table and brings out dessert, a bright pink and sticky rhubarb tart dotted with edible flowers. She doles out big scoops of homemade vanilla ice cream with a silver spoon she affectionately refers to as "the shovel," then adds a chunk of honeycomb each of our bowls alongside wedges of the tart.”

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Book:Season of Salt and Honey
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“I pass the bakery on the corner, the smells hitting me before I reach the shop itself. They are thick and sweet. Cars are double-parked down our street, locals dashing from the passenger doors to pick up their breakfast. A long queue snakes from the entrance. Inside there are piles of pork buns, slices of dark honey cake, rolls topped with pork floss, bread with ham laid on top and stuck fast with melted cheese. It is a different smell from bakeries back home. I tried a loaf of bread once, but the slices are thin and sugary.”

ChineseSmellsBaked GoodsBakeryGrace MillerCantonese
Book:The Color of Tea
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“The pastry kitchen is colder than I had imagined but smells delicious, as sweet and crisp as the bite of an apple. The walls are covered in white tiles, and almost everything is made of stainless steel. There are quite a few Chinese chefs in the kitchen, busy at work. They don't look rushed at all, carefully executing their tasks. One chef is releasing praline balls from their molds and then dipping them in a bowl of melted chocolate. It looks like a silken soup, and my mouth waters. He drops each ball in with a large fork and slowly stirs it around. When it comes up again, it has the satin sheen of the warm chocolate. He rolls it, the fork providing a cradle against a marble bench top until it is cool. The fork leaves no crease or mark on the finished product, a perfect sphere. There is such slow art to it; I feel hypnotized.”

KitchenChocolateSmellsGrace Miller
Book:The Color of Tea
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