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Raspberry Cordial and Redemption in a Bottle of Ipecac Syrup

God is in the salvage business . . . salvaging our lives, making use of every scrap we offer, even turning our wounds and our failings into the tools of his gracious repair.

DEB RIENSTRA, SO MUCH MORE

THERE WAS NO RASPBERRY CORDIAL on offer at Danica and Cole’s wedding that April day in Calgary (or at my wedding either, for that matter), but oh, what a superb beverage! Since I started whipping up my own raspberry cordial, I’ve learned it’s a crucial matter of setting a timer, because as my dear husband has mentioned (carefully), foods that require attending are not my best gifts to the culinary world. (I invoke Anne, who meant to cover the plum pudding sauce but unfortunately got carried away in a daydream, whereupon a wayfaring mouse fell in the pitcher and met his end.[93])

Here’s the recipe, kind of: Dump two bags of frozen raspberries in a pan. (It doesn’t make that much difference whether you thaw them first.) Chase that with a cup and a quarter of sugar, and set the pan on medium heat. Set the timer for fifteen minutes, but don’t go far (and by far, I mean don’t go upstairs to your computer and become snagged on watching cat videos on the Internet). Really, it’s safer to just stay in the kitchen the whole time.

Meanwhile, in a separate pot, boil six cups of water. When the sugar is melted, turn off the heat and mash the berries to smithereens with a potato masher. (Don’t wear your new white sweater.)

Phoebe likes to squeeze the smithereens out of two lemons, which we reserve in a small bowl. The hardest part is straining the berries and sugar into a bowl, but even that isn’t all that hard. Pour the boiling water over the whole thing, and let it chill for a few hours (or not), and voilà! You have made a divinely scrumptious Victorian brew that will help you win friends and influence people—it really will. No one can resist real raspberry cordial, a zingy, fruity masterwork that distills the very soul of the berry. Even the zesty hot pink/red color adds to the overall effect of festivity and cheer. Leave it to Anne to point that out: “I love bright red drinks, don’t you? They taste twice as good as any other color.”[94]

Mix in your favorite sparkling beverage, or leave it as is. Use your best golden lusterware cups from your Grandma’s china cabinet, or break out the Dixie cups. Either way, serve it with joie de vivre in the company of kindred spirits. It’s the way Anne would want it to be.

Just don’t pour tumblers full of this nectar to folks who think it’s merely “juice.” Anne wouldn’t approve. It’s no ordinary pour, this drink that Anne thought she was serving Diana on the fateful day her bosom friend came for tea. Cordial infers that this is a convivial drink, good for the heart—a drink of friendship. Raspberry cordial is extra-ordinary; it has powers to revive, invigorate, and hearten, just like the winds off Four Winds Harbor, just like the power of redemption after a big misunderstanding.

The Raspberry Cordial Episode is one of my best-loved stories in the book, not only for its great charm, sparkle, and fizz at the beginning, but for the way it demonstrates the mighty, unshakable power of redemption. It’s really a story of reclamation in three distinct acts.

The first act is all froth and fun; we readers get to revel in Anne’s exuberance, her ever-more-satisfying friendship with Diana, and their plumb adorable plans for a tea party. We witness Anne Shirley, jumping out of her skin, more “addlepated” than ever, according to Marilla.[95] She was just so excited that she was being allowed to entertain Diana, on her own, as a formal guest to Green Gables! There would be cherry preserves on offer, as well as fruitcake and snaps. The pièce de résistance, the menu item sending Anne through the roof, was the half bottle of raspberry cordial, left over from the church social and sitting on the second shelf of the sitting-room closet. Except of course, things were not what they seemed, which they never are in cases of wild misunderstanding.

Yes, things were positively delightful at their tea—until Anne brought out the raspberry cordial. Then events began to spiral wildly out of control.

Soon Diana had consumed three tumblers full and declared it the nicest raspberry cordial she ever drank! We all know what happens next: Diana accidentally became drunk, boiled as an owl, hooched-up, pie-eyed, sauced, snockered, and spiffed, and then lurched home in this condition to her pinched mother. Anne wondered if Diana was coming down with smallpox, offering to care for her if only she’d stay for tea, but such was not the case.

Nothing prepares Marilla for the news that Diana Barry, age eleven, had been set drunk in her parlor—“Drunk fiddlesticks!” she averred.[96] At first Marilla didn’t believe it, until it dawned on her that she had put the bottle of cordial in the cellar instead of in the pantry. Anne had mistakenly nabbed a bottle of her famous red currant wine—famous and illicit. At the time Maud wrote Anne’s story, PEI was a dry island under a prohibition law, and Marilla’s mulled wine would have been illegal. People such as Mrs. Barry would have frowned upon it anyway, although Mrs. Barry frowned upon almost everything. (We don’t know Mrs. Barry’s first name, nor do we ever want to know it.)

Mrs. Barry can be excused for being upset at the sight of her unworldly daughter, sullied with drunkenness at age eleven. What’s sad—well, the first sad thing—was that she believed Anne had gotten Diana drunk out of malice—our kind, openhearted Anne! Again, the distrust for the orphan rises like smog.

Her face hard, and her anger of the surly, stony sort that is always hardest to overcome, a scowling Mrs. Barry banished Anne from Diana’s friendship for life. (And here we all grimace in sympathy and clench our teeth. Onlookers observing our reading: Look away! Whatever expression we have on our faces as we read, it ain’t pretty.)

“I don’t think you are a fit little girl for Diana to associate with,” Mrs. Barry proclaimed.[97] Once again, our hearts break, because Anne heard that she’s not suitable, acceptable, good enough, enough. Mrs. Barry might have exiled Anne from being loved—that’s what this ousting must have felt like. And it was all based on a mix-up, which doesn’t actually surprise me.

The thing is, mix-ups happen. We long to be known and understood as we are—wholly, utterly—but the problem is we live in a damaged world. Misjudging each other will always happen, and hurt and mess will always ensue. Sometimes the tangles can be unpicked with an apology, but not always. Often, as is evidenced in the case of Anne and the cordial/currant wine, these misunderstandings result in our most hidden wound—the one that says we’re not worthy—getting thumped again.

A few years ago, a wheel came off my friendship with another writer. By wheel coming off, I mean we were driving down the highway at seventy miles per hour when that thing flew off, leaving scorched road and curls of burnt rubber for miles. I’ll spare you the gory details, but the short story is that she became much more famous than I about six months after we became friends, and that was the beginning of the end.

I’ve told you about my Guild—the most supportive and encouraging community of writers a girl could ask for. Any one of us would do anything for another, including donating organs and repeating praiseworthy things about each other at top volume in front of random editors and agents.

In my mind, this new writer friend was an extension of them. As it turned out, she wasn’t—not even close.

Here’s what happened: An editor I was working with on a book idea told me that if I was able to secure an endorsement from my friend, it would give my proposal a big boost. I saw no reason at all why I couldn’t ask her for one.

Ugh. Double, triple ugh. As I mentioned, this story is headed down a bad road with charred rubber and bits of smoking metal. When I casually asked her about the blurb one night over dinner, this friend—always so generous and encouraging—went cold. You could see your breath in the freezing air as she began to articulate why an endorsement from her would be a problem. The upshot? I simply was not belletristic or “literary” enough for her. (Belletristic: basically, “literary,” so apparently she deemed me doubly unliterary.) Moreover, her endorsement was, apparently, a “precious gift to be used wisely.” I listened in shock and horror, hardly believing my ears. I barely knew what to say and answered as politely as I could before grabbing the check and making my exit. When I got home, I prayed the best prayer for when you are blindsided and confused: “Help.”

About a month later, my heart made pliable by many prayers, I tried to make amends via e-mail (never a good idea, even for a writer). Despite my humiliation and hurt, I missed her, and I worried about her because I knew she’d been battling some health issues. I apologized for making her feel awkward, for assuming too much, asking too much. Had my motives been mixed as her star rose in the literary world? Maybe a little, I confessed, but I knew for sure that hadn’t been my main motive. The blurb didn’t matter, but her friendship did.

My words were imperfect and probably made things worse. All I know is, things started to get really weird. Her reply scalded me further with accusations of using her from the beginning. She concluded her two-page, belletristic diatribe with the directive that, should we ever run into each other at say, a writer’s conference, we would pass each other by, not speaking, mind you, but with the thought, Ah, there goes a writer with a very different vision than I. I took her words to mean: Don’t even look at me. I don’t think you are a fit person for me to associate with. The earth between us was slashed and burned. She was Lord Kitchener; I was the Boers. She was the Russian army; I was Napoleon. She was Sherman; I was—you get the picture. Years later, it’s hard for me to believe this really happened. But mix-ups happen, alright, much as we wish they wouldn’t. The bigger question is what happens after the crashing and burning? Will there be beauty for ashes?

Redemption is not always obvious. Not at all. We are often blinded to the ways in which our adoptive Father swaps our wrecking balls for His renovation projects. If only we opened our eyes to see. If only we remembered that even in the dark, in the silence, He is working, salvaging our junkyard scraps, saving us forever.

As for Anne, the first redemptive hint readers see in the raspberry cordial debacle was between acts, so to speak. It came from Marilla, who was surely awakening under the influence of her orphan surprise. In the aftermath of Anne’s latest scrape, the spinster’s mama heart was stirred by the sight of her girl’s tearstained, sleeping face, causing her own hard face to soften.

“Poor little soul,” she murmured, lifting a loose curl of hair from the child’s tearstained face. Then she bent down and kissed the flushed cheek on the pillow.[98]

A buried part of Marilla Cuthbert’s humanity emerged like an olive sprout out of scorched earth—a sign that all things were being made new.

“All things great are wound up with all things little,” Maud begins chapter 18,[99] and indeed no less than Sir John A. Macdonald, Canada’s first prime minister, looms large in act 2 and her plot to initiate Anne’s deliverance.

On the night of rescue and redemption, Marilla was off gadding with Rachel Lynde at a political meeting in Charlottetown, where the premier (thought to represent Sir John A.) was holding forth. So Anne and Matthew had the place all to themselves on this cozy, sleepy January evening. They were having the sweetest conversation about geometry, politics, and what makes PEI roads red when the last person they were expecting burst through the door in desperate need of help.

Diana begged Anne to come with her to help save her three-year-old sister, Minnie Mae, who had suddenly experienced a terrifying acceleration in croup and was nearly choking to death. Anne and Diana raced across the snow to the Barry house as Matthew set off to alert the doctor. Diana and Anne found Minnie Mae badly off, choking and gasping. Things looked grim. But Anne hadn’t brought up three sets of twins in Mrs. Hammond’s household for nothing. As the night ticked by in agony, Anne brought crucial knowledge and focus (for once) to the situation. She administered doses of ipecac syrup until the danger had passed. (Ipecac: This expectorant [mucous expeller] and emetic [vomit inducer] was once used as a heavy duty cough syrup and antidote to poisoning.)

We know what happens next: Anne saved Minnie Mae! Mrs. Barry could do nothing but throw herself at Anne’s feet in remorse and gratitude, restoring Anne to her good graces and to her daughter’s friendship.

This drives me crazy.

While I’m glad poor little Minnie Mae was spared and that Anne’s true colors were revealed and her kindred spirit restored, this scene has always bugged me. Why did it have to take Anne saving a life for Mrs. Barry to see the light? Wasn’t there a less drastic way for Anne to earn her mercy? Mrs. Barry’s forgiveness doesn’t feel like grace; it was so grudgingly given.

Unfortunately, in Mrs. Barry’s stiff-necked posture, I see my frequent inability to give an inch when I feel wronged. I see those who have hurt me. I see my own mulish soul.

From our human vantage point, there isn’t always an antidote to the poison. There may not be a way to save relationships choking to death. Too often, love wastes away on the vine of unforgiveness.

But from the Redeemer’s position, mercy and favor are stronger forces than all our wreckage and rubble. There are grace notes everywhere, if you have ears to hear them.

In Avonlea’s parlance, the new minister’s wife was a perfect duck, and for Maud’s literary purposes, she was an agent of grace and a vehicle of redemption. For me, act 3 of the raspberry cordial saga is one of the book’s treasures and a reason why Anne of Green Gables is so beloved.

We are not told Mrs. Allan’s first name, but in this case, we wish we knew it. Like Anne, we fall completely in love with the new Sunday school teacher, a smiling, laughing creature open to the endless questions of the red-haired magpie in her class.

We can almost sense through the pages the bustle of nervous preparation when Reverend and Mrs. Allan were invited to Green Gables for tea. Apparently, it was not any old day that the minister and wife were had to tea; this was a serious responsibility and undertaking. The stakes were high—do we really feel nervous on Anne’s behalf? Yes!—and we empathize with Anne as she strove to please her new kindred spirit with gorgeous food and table decor.

Go back and read the menu if you haven’t in a while. It makes me feel full just by reading it: jellied chicken and cold tongue (because every minister should be treated to cold tongue); red and yellow jelly; whipped cream and lemon pie and cherry pie; three kinds of cookies; fruit cake; Marilla’s famous yellow plum preserves, kept especially for ministers; pound cake; baking powder biscuits; and new bread and old[100] in case the minister is dyspeptic (because new bread might have too much yeast in it, as if eating for twelve wouldn’t cause dyspepsia). Laws! Were they planning to remove the Allans by rolling them out the door?

The layer cake was the sixteenth item on the menu, baked by Anne herself as the crowning glory of this feast. It was passed around the table last, and kindly Mrs. Allan, though she had been stuffed within an inch of her life, sampled it because she knew it was made with great tender care.

For what comes next, I honor this lady. With one bite of Anne’s cake, Mrs. Allan knew something was drastically amiss. Anne had accidentally flavored the cake with liniment, Avonlea’s version of Vicks VapoRub. It was another pantry mix-up, another opportunity for the offended one to choose resentment or compassion. Depending on the offended one’s choice, each person around the table would be taken down the road to perdition or on the road to grace. Thankfully for Anne, the minister’s wife was a frequent traveler down the latter.

Mrs. Allan, you are a perfect duck! Everyone should have a Mrs. Allan in their lives, someone who accepts our tainted offerings and believes in us anyway. She still said yes to Anne, though it cost her. She was still for Anne. Like our Father, Mrs. Allan pursued Anne when she ran away in shame and disgrace. She followed her, listened with a heart full of mercy, and regarded Anne’s tragic face with deep concern. Her compassion bore the image of God.

Mrs. Allan saw Anne’s brokenness, not as something to be shamed, but as a wound to carefully anoint and bind up. In those forgiving eyes, the orphan girl was more than her messes—Anne was a whole person with a marvelous gift of bringing star-shine to a cloud-covered world. We learn volumes from this loving character about how we can also be agents of grace and vehicles of redemption.

We lean forward as Mrs. Allan guided Anne in repair: “I assure you I appreciate your kindness and thoughtfulness just as much as if it had turned out all right. Now, you mustn’t cry any more, but come down with me and show me your flower garden.”[101] (“Do not call to mind the former things, or ponder things of the past” [Isaiah 43:18].) She helped Anne move on, which can be the greatest medicine—liniment for a sore spirit. We wonder how we can repair damage in our world, how we can guide our daughters and sons.

Mulled wine for cordial, liniment for vanilla, mistakes for good intentions—these all speak to our cracked condition. Thank heaven for act 3, for redemption. It renovates and innovates, creating treasure from our trashy offerings.

No doubt at all, there will always be damage and damage doers. I will do damage today, probably. So I’m obliged for the possibility of repair. As Doyle and I have read about adoption and parenting an adopted child, we’ve grabbed hold of the idea of discipline being different from punishment. Instead of sending our girl to her room (banishing her again!) for some damage she’s created, we try to think of ways in which we can guide her in repairing the situation. This is not the easy path, but involving her in her own mending, her own restoration, is a powerful thing.

On this side of life, we live at least partially in the ruins, but as Mrs. Barry and Mrs. Allan show us, we also have a choice: to make things messier, more ruinous, or to roll up our sleeves and join in the reclamation.

And those grace notes I mentioned earlier? They aren’t that hard to discern, even here, even in the ruins: I see salvage in a growing number of Korean pastors who are challenging ancient culture and advocating for orphans in their distress. I see restoration in Lee Jong-rak, who made a Baby Box, a heated drop box lined in soft towels to receive otherwise abandoned babies on the streets of Seoul. Eighteen babies per month are surrendered to the box, which has a bell in it that alerts Lee, his wife, and volunteers to go scoop up the priceless bundle and bring him or her inside.[102] As Lee collects babies, this restorer is bearing the image of the One who trades desperation for hope.

Sometimes the repair work is invisible, with no noticeable clues. In the case of my former writer friend, I may never lay eyes on her again, but I came to a place a long time ago of peace and wishing her well. Knowing her as I did, I would like to believe she abides in the same restful spot. Someday, we will get a chance to compare notes, although that day might come on the other side. And that’s okay.

I’d like to propose a toast, then, to friendship and compassion—and when failing at those things, to redemption. Our Father’s specialty is taking our tuneless offerings and transposing them into new songs.

Let’s raise our glasses of raspberry cordial to the kindred spirits of this world, to the Mrs. Allans and Lee Jong-raks, to restorers who receive our cracked places with mercy. They help us belong to each other. And while we’re at it, let’s keep our glasses raised for one more toast, to those who snub us, hurt us, and abandon us in our time of need.

May this drink of friendship revive us, oh Lord. May it be as a cup of cold water in Your name.