All the things
and a recipe for chicken liver mousse that’s singularly good
You wander from room to room hunting for the diamond necklace that is already around your neck
—Rumi, 13th century poet and Sufi mystic
If you’ve been reading Delicious Bits for a while, you might know I’m a collector. And my interests range far and wide. A collector not just of books of all sorts, but china, fresh flowers, printed photographs, vintage brooches and old Hermes scarves, red lipstick, CDs I can’t part with and most of all ideas that haunt my mind.
This flotsam and jetsam swirls around me, making it hard to stay afloat with a clear mind and a clear purpose. There are so many things to distract and to ponder, to worry about and ruminate, that take me from feeding the cats to making a pot of coffee to texting a friend, watering the terrace plants and back again, all in a minute, that chaotic brain of mine going at warp speed all the while.
With all this busy work, taking the time and effort to just be can be the most challenging task of all.
dis·trac·tion
/diˈstrakSH(ə)n/
noun
plural noun: distractions
a thing that prevents someone from giving full attention to something else; an interruption or disturbance to focus.
"The noise outside was a constant distraction from her reading."extreme agitation of the mind or emotions.
"He was driven to distraction by the delays."
More and more, it seems our human lives are designed to feed our distractions. Not just the obvious guilty parties: our phones, pinging texts, the constant sounds we barrage ourselves with, the endless scroll, the false belief that if we don’t answer every email, somehow the world will crash and burn around us.
Most of all, I’ve come to believe it’s the inner chatter—that pesky voice inside our heads—that can give us the most trouble. But just who is that nonstop chatterer?
Michael Singer, author of The Untethered Soul, offers this clarity: “You are not the voice of the mind — you are the one who hears it.”
His work explores how much of our tension and distraction comes from being tangled in that inner monologue—often without realizing we don’t have to follow it. That shift—from identifying with the voice to simply noticing it—can be quietly transformative.
Learning to be still it may be the work of a lifetime—or at least, my lifetime.
We were on holiday in the south of France, staying at a friend’s house. My friend’s 80-year-old mother, Marion, was there too. The two of us turned out to be the early risers in the house—Marion up to fetch the first freshly baked croissants, me to make the coffee, light the fire, check emails, set the table. One morning, as she watched me buzzing around, she smiled and said quietly, “You only have one speed, don’t you?”
We both laughed at the truth. Even in the stillness of a French morning, I was already a few steps ahead in my mind—already moving. That inner hum, that low-grade drive to do, check, respond—it’s subtle, but constant. And when I think about that internal pedometer, I can’t help but wonder how often I miss the quiet, or the croissant, or the conversation, simply because I’m in motion, even when I appear to be standing still.
Back to that Rumi quote at the top: “You wander from room to room hunting for the diamond necklace that is already around your neck.” It so clearly captures the way we pursue joy, peace, meaning—convinced they’re out there, just beyond the next milestone or solution. But what if the thing we’re searching for, the quiet we long for, is already within us, just waiting to be heard beneath the noise?
Rumi is urging us to look inward, to stop chasing illusions, and to recognize that our deepest needs are already met when we become still and aware. It's a reminder that presence, self-knowledge, and the divine are not distant — they are here, now, and within. The diamond necklace, there all along.
A close friend recently parted ways with her company. It was one of those unexpected but not surprising events, her intuition sounding a quiet bell before any words were spoken or action taken.
When I heard her news, it brought to mind a similar moment in my own life—one that, for a long time, became a focal point for all the wrong reasons. As I reflected on that experience, I was startled to realize that moment had happened nine years ago just this week. A lifetime ago, really.
The time since has been full: old friends, new experiences, travel, meaningful work, the ability to see the world with childlike wonder—different kinds of defining moments altogether.
And in many of those moments, the quiet joy that grounds and feeds me.
At the still point of the turning world… there the dance is
—T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets
Stillness is not the absence of movement—it's the centre from which true motion, the dance of life, begins. It’s a call to return to your inner core, to presence, where the divine or eternal might be found.
Let’s face it. The world is always in motion: time, change, noise, distraction, desire. Our restless restless minds. In this constant change, there is a place of unchanging calm. As Eliot points out, the dance—life’s true rhythm, joy, meaning—happens at the still point, not in frantic motion.
As I ruminate on all of this on a quiet rainy Sunday afternoon, my eye is drawn to the beauty of the fresh flowers around me. And I draw a deep breath, close my eyes, and simply notice that stillness—no voice pulling me elsewhere, no need to be anywhere but here.
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Chicken liver mousse
serves 6
You can imagine how my busy mind and inner voice kicks into high gear when we have a people over for dinner. All the details must be just so, the preparation done in advance, no stone left unturned. And still of course I am frantic in the moment.
Yet this past Friday was one of those magical times when I was fully present. Perhaps it was the familiarity of the dishes we were making, the joy in the added touches we devised for a special milestone birthday, the laughter and special bonds that dear friends make the instant they are together. When everyone rolled out in the wee hours of the morning, sated and happy, I too had a full and happy heart.
For this French-themed dinner, we served an assiette à partager: a platter of small bites for each couple to share. Seasonal rhubarb and goat cheese tartlets; shaved asparagus with a Dijon-lemon vinaigrette in endive leaves, and the crowd favourite: chicken liver mousse served in mini Mason jars with each couple’s photo. The best part? You can make extra and freeze them for an impromptu treat for two.
Putting together a plate to share is a great way to take simple ingredients and elevate them. A little onion jam, some cornichons and pickled cherries, baguette—these platters and the trimmings have infinite possibilities. The beauty is that once the decisions are made, you really can focus on the moment.
NOTE: Both quatre-épices and five spice powder (often called Chinese five spice powder, a nod to its prevalence in Asian cuisine), are spice blends that add a lovely flavour note to the mousse. Be careful to use just a pinch—a little goes a long way. They can be found in specialty shops or online (for my Canadian friends, try the wonderful The Spice Trader).
Ramekins or Mason jars? I’ve made this mousse in both. Ramekins are traditional, but turning the mousse out onto a plate feels fussy. Mason jars are easier and more fun to serve. After chilling, I top the mousse with a thin layer of clarified butter. If using jars larger than 4 oz, bake slightly longer.
Ingredients
½ pound (2 sticks) plus 2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
1 pound chicken livers
1 large egg
2 teaspoons salt
Pinch of quatre-épices or five spice powder (see Note)
Pinch of freshly ground white pepper
2 tablespoons Cognac
1 baguette, sliced and toasted, for serving
Special equipment: six 4 ounce ramekins or mini Mason jars with lids (see Note)
Heat the oven to 300°F.
Using 2 tablespoons of melted butter and a pastry brush, thoroughly coat the inside of six 4-ounce ramekins or Mason jars
Place the chicken livers in a blender. Add the egg, salt, quatre-épices powder, white pepper, and Cognac. Process until smoothly combined, about 20 seconds.
With the blender still running, add the remaining ½ pound of melted butter and continue blending for 15 seconds.
Pour the mousse mixture into the prepared ramekins until three-fourths full. Place the ramekins in a baking dish and fill the dish with hot water to half the height of the ramekins. Carefully transfer to the oven and bake for 30 minutes, or until the mousse is firm to the touch.
Let the ramekins cool, and then refrigerate until needed. If using mini mason jars, place the lids on the jars before refrigerating. Serve chilled with baguette toasts.
My goodness, Elizabeth. So much in here that resonates! Thank you for the beautiful reminder and permission to have more than one speed.
Reading this was a meditation. Namaste!