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transparent, slightly blue, baseball-sized pear. The Second Star of Africa, the 317.4-carat Cullinan II, is in the imperial state crown, placed there in 1911 by George V for his coronation. And so on and so forth down through the Cullinan number 102, which I must admit I have no idea where it can be found today. Some lesser royal’s lesser brooch, no doubt.
    Queen Mary had power, vision, and a will of iron. In her official Durbar portrait—where she wears the now-missing Cambridge and Delhi Durbar parure—there is no question that she is empress. Although she was petite, she had the attitude of a giant.
    I love to study portraits and photographs of her—I have never seen such a stern, inflexible countenance. And, in the few images where she appears to be trying to smile, it’s clearly such a distasteful, unnecessary, unfamiliar exercise that it’s agonizing to look at—she always looks as though she’s just taken a bite of a pickle. She was aloof and unreadable. Did a real woman’s tender heart beat behind that battleship of a bosom or had the circumstances of her position, duty, and life force it to become as impenetrable as lead at an early age?
    Her family had been publicly humiliated when she was a young woman, just sixteen. Her father, Francis, duke of Teck, and her mother, Princess Mary Adelaide, had lived way beyond their means and were financially supported primarily by Mary Adelaide’s brother, the wealthy duke of Cambridge. At some point, brought on by I don’t know what monetary crisis, the duke of Cambridge had had enough. With Queen Victoria’s full knowledge and support, he demanded that the Tecks give up their “grace and favor” residence at Kensington Palace, publicly auction their furniture, and move to Florence, which they did, and where they managed to survive for a while on a very tight budget.
    I suspect after that, Queen Mary’s only real pleasure came from her jewels; they were her lovers and comforters. They kept her warm on cold nights and secure from revisiting the mortifying, impoverished circumstances she suffered as an impressionable and possibly sensitive young woman. Her jewels gave her power and independence. They would never let her down.
    Queen Mary and I have a lot in common.

F  O  U  R
     
    I removed the lid from the stew pot and let a billow of fragrant steam envelop me. I stirred and then tested a piece of lamb, cutting it with the edge of my spoon. It was as soft as butter. I put the lid back on and lowered the heat. I turned the oven to 375 degrees and double-checked that every soufflé ingredient was laid out in proper order.
    There are a number of things you need to know about making a chocolate soufflé. Unless you’re a very gifted cook, you can’t just assume it’s like anything else and jump in and get it together. After years and years of experimenting, and experiencing one version of a flop after another, I now follow exclusively Julia Child’s chocolate soufflé recipe. For me it is foolproof. This is a very different creation from other dessert soufflés because chocolate is heavy—you use potato starch instead of flour to make the roux, three rather than four egg yolks; it will need ten to fifteen minutes longer to bake (up to forty-five minutes); and the temperature of each element must be just right. One more thing: no matter how many times you’ve made a soufflé of any kind, do not talk to anyone while you are preparing it. The steps are easy to do and easy to follow, but they are precise and cannot be shortcut, tinkered with, or relaxed about. Just keep your eye on the target, there will be plenty of time to talk later when you’re all sitting around admiring the airy extravaganza and praising what a genius of a cook you are. I’ve always forced myself to adhere to this rule of total concentration, but today it was a struggle to keep my mind on the subject at hand and from sailing off into one scenario after another of how this person, this