At Last

We have rain. Last night our part of Southern California received the first real downpour of the fall. Oh, we've had sprinkles, and drizzle, and even one heavy rainfall that lasted all of two minutes, but last night was the first real, heavy, long-lasting rain we've had in months and months. It was beautiful. Shortly after midnight I went out into the backyard in wellies and my mother's long hooded raincoat and stood on the path while the raindrops drummed on my head and plinked off the copper lamp covers. Everything was fresh and clean and wild; we don't get that kind of weather nearly as often as I'd like, but when it does come it's all the more wondrous because of its rarity.

One-Upsmanship

My mum, my sisters and I thought this hotel in Pilsn, Czech Republic was frightening, with its exposed wiring and unisex shower room that not only hadn't any locks, but didn't even have any doors. (Also it looked to be the perfect place for ghosts- one half expected some Habsburg belle of the nineteenth century to sweep around the corner in crinoline and side-curls).
Apparently we were let off lightly, however, as this account by Robert Byron of a hotel stay in Mazar-i-Sherif in 1934 demonstrates:
"Where is the guest-house?" we asked, using the ordinary Persian word.
"It is not a guest-house. It is an 'hotel'. This way."
It is indeed. Every bedroom has bedstead with a spring mattress, and a tiled bathroom
attached, in which we sluice ourselves with water from a pail and dry our feet on a mat
labelled BATH MAT.... The lavatory doors lock on the outside only. I was about to point
this out to the manager, but Christopher said he liked it and wouldn't have them touched.

How to Suceed in Baking Without Really Trying

I love when one of my weekend baking extravaganzas turns up all new recipes with a one hundred percent success rate. Usually when I try several new recipes, at least one is a dud, but this weekend everything turned out fantastic (as evidence I present the fact that it is only Monday evening and the only thing left from all this baking is a single loaf of bread). The brownies above are just the Baker's one-bowl recipe, which is a favorite in our family, but I added 3/4 cup chopped pistachios and 2 Tbs orange zest, drizzled melted semi-sweet chocolate across the top, and sprinkled them with another 1/4 cup of pistachios. They looked lovely and tasted wonderful.
These cookies were also delicious, and they have the added distinction of being historically significant. They're called Orange-Cardamom Walnut Vienna Crescents (from the Williams-Sonoma Baking cookbook), and as all you fans of the Austro-Hungarian Empire know, most of the crescent-shaped baked goods coming from Vienna date back to the Austrians' victory over the Turks in 1683. Since the symbol of the Ottoman Empire was the crescent, eating crescent-shaped things symbolized their defeat. Wunderbar, nein?
The last new recipe from this weekend was this lovely whole-wheat bread. My mum used to make bread all the time, but as our family grew and she (understandably) had other things taking up her time, we got used to eating store-bought bread. I'm attempting to revert to making all or most of our bread at home, and this recipe may make that possible- it was quick and easy, and has that unmistakable yeasty, hearty, slightly-sweet taste that home-made bread should have. Also, it has character- no bread bought at the store looks this good.
As a bonus, here's a picture of a blackberry-tea bag on an antique plate- I love the rich pink color of the tea against the creamy pottery. ei

Painterly Fashion

I've gotten into the habit of painting my clothes lately- most clothing as it comes from the store is too boring, and since I cannot afford the more interesting designers that I love, I make my own basic clothing into the kinds of things I want to wear. These boots, for instance, I bought from Anthropologie on sale. I love them, but after having only worn them a handful of times over the course of a year, I decided they needed something extra, hence the leaves.
This jacket is from Target, and I was inspired by the pattern on a Leifsdotter jacket in the most recent Anthropologie catalog. The jacket has the added bonus of being somewhat smock-shaped, which I think lends itself nicely to the hand-painted decoration (also, like Hobbes, I just like to say 'smock').
This fascination with painting on clothing is long-standing; in junior high I used to paint on the jeans I was wearing when I was supposed to be helping my mother with her after-school art classes. It seems to have become a habit, and at least I no longer draw on walls (much).

Glazing Over

It becomes clear that you have a problem when you realize that you've been watching the steam from your tea chase up the inside of your stainless steel cup for nearly ten minutes. True, the patterns the steam makes against the steel can be lovely (rather like artsy glaze on pottery), but ten minutes? Apparently sitting in an office all day is beginning to affect my mental processes.

More Lost Things

Continuing in the vein of wonderful things from the 1920's and 30's, I just finished re-reading Patrick Leigh Fermor's Between the Woods and the Water, the second volume of his memoir/travel book about walking across Europe in the early 30's. Together with the first volume, Time of Gifts, Leigh Fermor recounts his journey from Tower Bridge in London, across the channel to the Hook of Holland, and across Germany, Austria, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, and Romania. He eventually made it all the way to Constantinople (no, not Istanbul), which was his original goal. The Europe he describes was completely decimated by World War II- it's no longer possible to make a journey of this kind. Leigh Fermor alternated between sleeping in barns, in mayor's homes, outdoors, and in the schlosses and chateaus of a slew of Austro-Hungarian nobles. He struck up friendships with graduates of the Maria-Thereseum in Austria (where there was "only one student who was not noble" in the year of one of his friends), the bright young things of half a dozen Central European towns, woodcutters, innkeepers, rabbinical students, Transylvanian shepherds, and gypsies. On his long walks he kept himself company by singing and reciting poetry to himself, much to the surprise of many he passed along his route, and he read voraciously everywhere he stayed, as well as taking advantage of the knowledge of everyone he met along the way. He writes about everything under the sun: history, art, architecture, politics, nature, parties, and alcohol (there's quite a lot about alcohol). I'm extremely envious of Leigh Fermor, mostly for the fact of his living in such a world. However, since I'm unable to make such a journey myself, I'm glad I can read such a wonderfully wise and amusing account of his. I think everyone should read these books, if for no other reason than that they paint such a poignant portrait of a world that no longer exists, and give one such a powerful sense of how much was lost or destroyed by the second world war.

Afterwards

When the present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay,
And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings,
Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say,
'He was a man who used to notice such things'?

If it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid's soundless blink,
The dewfall-hawk comes crossing the shades to alight
Upon the wind-warped upland thorn, a gazer may think,
'To him this must have been a familiar sight.'

If I pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm,
When the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn,
One may say, 'He strove that such innocent creatures should come to no harm,
But he could do little for them; and now he is gone.'

If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand at the door,
Watching the full-starred heavens that winter sees,
Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more,
'He was one who had an eye for such mysteries'?

And will any way when my bell of quittance is heard in the gloom,
And a crossing breeze cuts a pause in its outrollings,
Till they rise again, as they were a new bell's boom,
'He hears it not now, but used to notice such things'?

Thomas Hardy

Apocalypse: We've All Been There

As I write this, there are fires burning throughout Southern California. In itself, this is not unusual for this time of year; we always get wildfires when the Santa Ana winds blow. This is the first year, however, that we've had them burning right in our town. Friends and family are being evacuated from their homes, and we have evacuee houseguests. The early morning was clear and crisp, but even when the sky was bright blue the air smelled of smoke, and by mid-day the sky was all covered with thick swirls of dirty brown smoke. When the fires restrict themselves to the brush on the other side of the hills, the smoke is white and clean, but when houses begin to burn the smoke turns dull and filthy. What sunlight managed to filter through the smokescreen was red-orange, making the entire scene lurid and eerie, like something out of an apocalyptic cartoon. By mid-afternoon it was dark enough to need the lights on in the house, and the air was littered with falling ash and soot. Now it's night, and the sky to the north is glowing red. From the roof of the house we saw the flames flaring up into the sky, and the rising moon turned orange from their reflection. Although the situation is hardly this bad, it feels a bit like we're in a war zone, with lines of cars along the roads as people flee the fires and fire trucks and ambulances racing to and fro. This experience may be broadening, but it's not at all comfortable.

Hopelessly Lost

After last weekend's uproarious reading of Noel Coward's Hay Fever with my sisters (which you can read about here), I had to go and read Blithe Spirit and Private Lives as well, and now I'm officially in a very Noel Cowardy mood. I want to lie about in slinky 1920's dresses and trade brittle, witty banter with a handsome man in flannel trousers and a sweater like Mr. Coward's on this cover. Quite fetching, aren't they? I've been looking more to the Edwardian period and the late 1940's both in style and literature lately, but these plays have put me firmly back in the inter-war years. I love the lost generation- what they wore, what they drank, the way they spoke and danced and were completely out of control. I think I'm going to re-read Fitzgerald's Tender is the Night now, and perhaps follow it up with Murder Must Advertise (I love Lord Peter's interactions with the Bright Young Things) and Vile Bodies (oh, those B.Y.T.s. So madcap. So carefree. So completely barmy).

On the style side, these are the kinds of clothes I wish I could wear. Flowing, beautiful, and dramatic, with gorgeous hats. These dresses are just made for flouncing and flirting- there are times I think it's a great pity I wasn't born 80 or 90 years ago.
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Ich Bin Ein Munchener

Thanks to the reviews at Bookshelves of Doom, I recently read the Vicky Bliss mysteries by Elizabeth Peters and absolutely loved them (especially the later few). The thing is, although I certainly love Vicky, and Schmidt, and Sir John Smythe, and even creepy Max, I love Munich more, and I'm incredibly jealous of Vicky being able to live there. I want to live in Munich, and drink kafe mit schlag in old cafes, and ride an old bicycle through the park, and read Goethe (in German, of course- I should probably start learning). Then my sister had to go and post pictures of our Central European trip this past summer, and now I have an absolutely overwhelming craving for the metropolises (metropoli?) of old Mitteleuropa. So if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go find some whipped cream for my coffee.

Duct Tape to the Rescue

The other night, while wandering about the back yard with my trusty candle-lantern (yes, I still do that- I keep hoping something or someone out of the ordinary will come speak to me, but so far the only creatures I've attracted have been cats. A common dilemma, I hear.), I decided that I wanted a hook in my room on which to hang said lantern. I knew that I wanted to use a particular apple branch I'd been saving, and I knew where on the bookshelf I wanted to locate this branch, but I wasn't at all sure how I was going to make the branch stay where I wanted it while bearing the lantern's weight. It isn't very heavy, but a burning candle dropping onto the carpet is not my idea of a laugh. I have more refined tastes in humor.

Luckily for me, we have plenty of duct tape in the house. And when I say plenty, I do mean it- I must have used at least a yard to hold that ruddy stick in place, but I wasn't taking any chances, and the end certainly justified the mean. Doesn't it look nice and woodsy?

A Fine Night for Flying

These last few days have been hot. Really hot. I don't like hot days under any circumstances, but a hot, dry, windy day in late October is an abomination, truly it is. Even hot, dry, windy days have their compensations, however, and the atmosphere these last few nights has been unbelievably clear. Since the moon is waning and doesn't rise till quite late, this means that a great many more stars have been visible than usual for our heavily-populated area. Two nights ago I saw Orion for the first time this fall. True, he was practically lying on his back along the eastern horizon, but it was Orion nonetheless, and seeing Orion always makes me feel that it's properly fall regardless of the weather.
It helps that the wind cools down considerably at night. It isn't exactly cool, but neither is it hot, and the fact that this wind blows from the desert always makes it feel a bit wilder in its dryness. Windy autumn nights are, in my opinion, glorious (I completely agree with Mrs Whatsit about wild nights) and meant for flying. I'd like to fly around being towed by a flock of pigeons just like the Little Prince, or ride a broomstick like Kiki. Really I feel like this all the time, but on these windy, starry nights I feel that it might just be possible to do so if only I could develop the knack.

My sister found this at The Curious Musings of an Ordinary Life:

* Grab the nearest book.
* Open it to page 56.
* Find the fifth sentence.
* Post the text of the next few sentences.
* Don't dig for your favorite book, the cool book, or the intellectual one: pick the CLOSEST.

For instance, a man turned a handle on a box, and music came out, while a small being, half-animal and half-man, danced about on the street and collected things in his hat. Peter Lake tried to talk to him. The man turning the handle said it would be wise to give the creature money.
"What's money?" asked Peter Lake.

From Winter's Tale by Mark Helprin (this was the fifth book I tried- the first four only had one or two sentences on page 56. How's that for odds?)

Good Behaviour

I've been on a bit of a kick about courtesy lately, most likely due to the fact that I've been reading Angela Thirkell's Barsetshire books and re-reading the Anne of Green Gables series (for the millionth or so time- my new goal in life is to be just like Miss Lavender Lewis). I feel very nostalgic for the days of good manners and proper behaviour. Even when I was a child the standards of behaviour were much stricter- which is a very spinster-like thing to say, I know. A few years ago there was a spate of new etiquette books on the market, all purporting to teach their readers how to use proper etiquette in the modern world. I'm sure many of those books were quite useful, but I think there is a very great distinction between etiquette and courtesy. Etiquette is a set of rules or guidelines that teaches one how to behave, while courtesy is a way of living that springs (or ought to spring) from a conviction of the essential importance and worth of every human being. I'm not denying that etiquette is very useful; like every old-fashioned girl and spinster-in-training, I asked for and received my Emily Post Guide to Etiquette for Christmas many years ago. Even the most stringent following of those rules, however, seems hollow without that underlying charity. My autumnal resolution is to practice this sort of courtesy always, even to impertinent teenagers and the very trying people who talk too loudly in bookstores.

The Many Uses of a Book

Everyone needs to go to the Stainless Steel Droppings blog and see this old post about book art featuring the artist Su Blackwell. Ms. Blackwell creates fairytale scenes out of old books- they're amazingly beautiful and clever. This scene from The Secret Garden may be my favorite.

The Gloriousness of Knobbly Things

I think my favorite things in the natural world are those which are twisty and bumpy and seemingly misshapen (hence my love of parsnips). Driftwood, for instance, is fascinating to look at because of its oddity of form. Pinecones and branches are also wonderfully knobbly, like these that I've brought indoors:
This lovely bit of branch actually traveled all the way from Virginia with me- I love it so that I couldn't bring myself to leave it behind.
In light of how much I love all things strangely and wonderfully shaped, imagine my delight when I discovered that the high winds we had this past weekend had precipitated the fall of all the spiky seedpods from our sweetgum trees. In the usual way of things they don't fall until they're quite brown and dry, but the wind knocked them to the ground while they still were that incredible vibrant green. I gathered up all the pods and decided that I wanted to hang some on my apple branch, so I glued the stems into a loop and attached ribbon loops to them. Now they're hanging in the tree next to the paper sparrow and wooden owl, and they look very nice- like outer space christmas ornaments or miniature green fireworks.

Life in the Garden

Like all proper spinsters, I have a cat. His name is Lord Peter Wimsey, and he is vain, neurotic, needy, and still manages to be completely adorable. He is quite fond of insinuating himself into spaces much too small for him, like the way he managed to finagle himself (and his mouse) onto the lowest shelf of this bookcase.
Peter shares my room with me, although he seems to think it's the other way around. I've recently moved back into the room I had in my early teen years, which is both odd and oddly comforting. Fortunately the decor is almost completely different.
As you can see, much of the space is taken up with books, books, and more books. I still have about four and a half boxes of books in storage, but I ran out of both shelves and wall space, so they'll have to remain there for now.
I wanted this room to feel as if it were part of the outdoors, an extension of the view from my lovely large windows which look out onto a sunken lawn surrounded by pines, river birches, and a California oak. The botanical prints on the walls and the various natural ephemerae that collects on my bookshelves helps, as does the windblown-leaf mural I created above the windows, but the best part of all is the lovely branch I stole when my father cut down one of our dying apple trees. It has an exceedingly odd shape, reaches all the way to the ceiling, and is the next best thing to living in a treehouse or conservatory (it's long been a dream of mine to live in one of the Victorian wrought-iron conservatories at Kew Gardens in London).

Ode to a Parsnip

The parsnip is, I am convinced, one of nature's perfect vegetables. As this picture (from Wikipedia, no less) illustrates, it is a pleasingly pale yellow in color, much knobblier than a carrot, with a distinctive taste that yet goes well with a great many other vegetables and meats. Parsnips taste of fall, just as peaches taste of summer and asparagus tastes of spring. They seem to go perfectly with crisp days and smoky evenings- cool, but not too cold. Our southern California October has been on the warm side, but this past weekend was a set of three very blustery days, with enough bite in the wind to warrent a sweater and stockings. In honor of our first hint of fall I made herbed chicken and an enormous dish of roasted root vegetables for Sunday lunch, along with three kinds of homemade bread. Sunday lunch for our family means everyone invites friends, especially my younger siblings still in college who bring home their friends whose families live too far away for regular visits. This past Sunday felt almost like Thanksgiving, with so many people and the counter piled with food (there were even enough leftovers to make soup). I think that may be why fall is my favourite season- there are so many occasions for celebrating over a meal with family and friends. Now if the weather gods could just send us a bit of real fall weather, I'd have nothing more to ask for.

Two nights ago I had the very great privilege of hearing Neil Gaiman read a portion of his new book, The Graveyard Book. Since he read the first half of Chapter 7 and ended with an enormous cliffhanger, I naturally had to rush out the next day and buy the book so that I could find out what happened next.

I loved this book. It's the story of a young boy who is adopted by the dead in a graveyard after his family are murdered. He is given the name Nobody (because he looks like nobody) and called Bod for short. The story is a reworking of Kipling's Jungle Books, and Gaiman does a wonderful job taking the classic elements of those stories and changing them to fit the graveyard setting. There are a great many nods to the original hidden in the descriptive language, and the way in which so many elements of the story are both strange and familiar makes it a pleasure to read.

Perhaps the best thing about this book is that it is so unlike anything else typically offered to readers in its target age range, which is roughly late elementary school through junior high. It is clever and exciting, full of action and adventure, yet it is at heart about all the important things- life and death, truth and friendship and love, good and evil- without ever becoming pedantic or dogmatic. This book confirms me in my opinion that Gaiman is one of the best writers writing today. If you've never read anything by him, go and do so immediately.

Dark Times

There are a great many things to appreciate about living in Southern California. After having lived on the East Coast for two years, I can acknowledge that even Orange County has its upside. It has become apparent, however, that there are some things I will forever miss about living in Virginia. One of the foremost is autumn. Yes, autumn, that season that comes between summer and winter. That season which, in Orange County, translates as 93 degrees at 2:00 in the afternoon. I miss my sweaters. I want to drink hot tea in the middle of the day. I haven't seen so much as a single raindrop in nearly three months. I think I'm experiencing actual-differentiated-seasons withdrawal.

On Beginnings

It may be due to the fact that I'm rarely awake early enough to truly enjoy it, but I have decided that breakfast as a meal is both glorious and highly underrated. Take, for example, cereal commercials. These bits of advertisement would have one believe that a good breakfast is defined by speed and fiber. Now I'm not opposed to fiber on principal, and I've consumed more than my fair share of hastily snagged bagels in the car, but really breakfast has the potential to be so much more. To illustrate:

Imagine how lovely your day would be if it began with this tasty and beautiful spread. Note the pleasing color of the coffee cup (a new find- nice, no?) and the delectable pink of the berries in the crepe. As a self-respecting spinster, I consider it my duty to wring every ounce of enjoyment out of this wonderful and often solitary meal, and what better way than to appeal to all the senses? Now all I need is for mornings to actually get cold so I can really enjoy those hot drinks and warm pastries.