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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