Cornflower

Recidivist

She's done it again: Mollie the Labrador, notorious cake-thief, has re-offended.

Moments after arriving at her luxury holiday accommodation, the rural Perthshire home of her 'grandparents', Mr. & Mrs. A., the delinquent dog stole a further supply of baked goods which were destined for afternoon tea.

Speaking shortly after the incident, Mrs. A made it clear that "this was not just Swiss Roll, this was M&S Rhubarb and Custard Swiss Roll", and there were now only three other cakes and sundry date and walnut slices left to offer guests.

Before forensic investigations could be carried out, odd bits of  'crumby' evidence were disposed of by the culprit's sidekick, Bess.

Local residents are warned to be on the lookout for the seasoned criminal who may well be heading in a southerly direction, carrying her possessions wrapped in a red spotted handkerchief  tied to a stick.

Approach her only if you are prepared to be licked!

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Despite her miscreant ways, Mollie does recommend that all visitors to this site enter the book draw on the preceding post - see below in "All booked up".

All booked up

It is Buy a Friend a Book week again, and after all the fun of the last time when I sent Nancy Mitford to Canada (as it were, and that's not as curious as it sounds given that her father had a stake in a Canadian gold field and went out there to prospect - unsuccessfully), I wasn't going to miss the chance of letting loose some more literature, so please  - everyone - take part in the Cornflower book draw!

All you have to do to be in with a chance of winning a book (whose title I shall not reveal just yet)

is leave a comment on this post any time over the next few days.

You don't have to be a regular visitor to the site to take part, anybody who has just dropped in by accident or by design is welcome to say hello and have their name put in the hat.

Distance is no object, either, as I can send the prize anywhere in the world.

The draw will take place when I'm home from holiday, but if I've managed to press the right buttons, some themed posts should be appearing here as if by magic while I am up a Swiss mountain, so keep popping back for a look.

Everyone's in with a chance, so just click 'comment' , and may you have better luck than Nancy's "Farve"!

Unwrapped

The purpose of yesterday's wet walk was to pick up the present that a friend kindly bought for us. It is a piece of stoneware by the ceramicist John Struthers.

To call it a pot is somehow not to do it justice.

Its catalogue description is "Untitled, 17cm.", but according to the maker's website it could come under the heading of "Standing Form".

Smooth to the touch but satisfyingly weighty in the hand, I think this is a beautiful object.

John Struthers lives in Orkney, somewhere I've yet to visit, but which inspires his work. The seascape must have been influential in this piece - in the place where the North Sea and the Atlantic meet, the colours are straight from the ocean, and it's not hard to imagine the maelstrom that can be the Pentland Firth when you look at the interior:-

Thankyou again, generous Prof.

Presently

I had to go out on an errand this morning, but the grey, wet weather didn't deter me.

Having seen Lisa's beautiful photograph (wouldn't that make a stunning textile design?) I was inspired to take the camera and see what caught my eye.

Edinburgh's stone buildings always stand out against the lightless sky; the city may look as though it is wearing a frown, but I'm not so sure!

 

It is possible to have a dour countenance and yet be inwardly happy and bright, is it not?

My destination was

The Scottish Gallery where I'd gone to collect a gift bought for us by our generous friend The Prof.

I was going to say that the colours of the mystery item I was to pick up (all I knew about it in advance was its catalogue reference number) were not those of the city around me today,

but actually, they are not that far off.

All will be revealed later.....

Anemones

Expensive tastes

Following on from yesterday's Colourist/cupcakes post, I see from this morning's "Scotsman" that another of Cadell's black-hatted lady pictures is coming up for sale soon. Sadly, with an estimate of up to £500,000, I shan't be bidding.

In the pink

Restraint was the watchword with these cupcakes which Harriet baked the other day. No vibrant Colourist-style decoration for once, just the palest of shell pink icing topped with crystallised rose petals.

I love the work of the Scottish Colourists, whether in bold and brilliant mode, or more delicate tones, so for no reason other than that I think these pictures are beautiful, here are some along the lines of our "subtle confections". Above is "Roses in a Blue and White Vase, Black Background", S. J. Peploe, c.1904.

Detail from "Portrait of a Lady in Black", F.C.B. Cadell, c.1921:-

"Jonquils and Silver", J.D. Fergusson, 1905:-

"Lady in Black", F.C.B. Cadell, c.1925

It was said of Cadell, "It seems to me more than ever clear that your forte lies in a gift of colour and light - these seen in a joyous mood....I imagine I am right in believing you have something far better and happier to express - far more of sun and colour..."   or even of pink cupcakes.

An extraordinary sort of woman

My acquaintance with Jan Struther's Mrs. Miniver came about - as with many people, I imagine - through the film version of the character, and not the book on which it was based. I was only vaguely aware then that there was a book behind it, but there is and it is utterly delightful and I wonder why it isn't better known.

The character began life when Ian Fleming's brother, Peter, asked Jan Struther to write some pieces for The Times about "an ordinary sort of woman who leads an ordinary sort of life". There is nothing ordinary, however, about either Mrs. Miniver or her creator; both exhibit an extraordinary enthusiasm and zest for life and an ability to notice and be captivated by even the smallest and most insignificant thing.

Jan Struther was the pen-name of Joyce Maxtone Graham (nee Anstruther)  whose biography, written by her granddaughter Ysenda Maxtone Graham is to be published in paperback soon and will be a 'must read' for me. Her daughter said of her "she dashed through life at full tilt, with gaiety, energy, and grace. She loved words, and would pause to net and examine them like a butterfly enthusiast." These qualities and interests stand out in this book which is a collection of those Times sketches of family life and domesticity, written with very keen perception and brilliant observation.

Each piece is a jewel in itself, not showy or vulgar, but modest and exquisite. With the later essays reflecting Britain at war, it is easy to see why Mrs. Miniver's optimistic and quietly courageous attitude had the bolstering effect in the country which it clearly had at the time, but it is the simplicity of the scenes of everyday life which is so effective. Jan Struther demonstrates here a very quick, yet thoughtful mind, and writing which seems beautifully effortless.

I am with Mrs. Miniver on her view that "a day without a chunk or two of solitude in it is like a cocktail without ice", and lines such as "the bare trees had a quickened, bloomy look like the expression on the face of somebody who has just had a good idea but has not yet put it into words" are too good not to savour. This is a treat of a book whose charms show no sign of fading.

Showing off

Skiing-induced aching muscles notwithstanding, I was determined to visit a local flower show today. This is much more my kind of activity: the sights and smells are beautiful, and despite the big attendance, there's little risk to life and limb. You wander round at your own pace, the oohs and aahs you hear are those of appreciation rather than pain, and there's no need for arnica tablets and supplies of Deep Heat afterwards.

What is so impressive about an event like the Royal Caledonian Horticultural Society Spring Show (and countless others, big and small, around the country) is that everything exhibited is the work of amateurs, and yet the standard is professionally high.

Think of the hours put in by keen growers to produce glorious displays, the knowledge and expertise they must have, and all for perhaps a certificate and a tiny amount of prize money. Their rewards must lie in being judged the best and in giving pleasure to everyone who sees and enjoys their plants and flowers.

Arranged in the hall this afternoon were the spring flowers you'd expect to see just now (the fragrance was intense) as well as cacti and succulents, orchids, alpines, houseplants.... and then the raffle and tombola, the cake and candy table ("The tablet's on its way", announced one of the volunteers manning that stall, clearly expecting a stampede), the knitted goods for Rumania, and the commercial stands in a drafty marquee adjacent to the main building. And the place was packed.

It was an attractive mixture of the modestly homespun and the ambitiously proficient with a character all of its own. The crowds meant that photo-opportunities were limited, and the shots shown here don't really do it justice, but as a display of quality, this was no poor show.

 

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I'm reminded of the opening lines of The Diary of a Provincial Lady as quoted in Liz Robinson's article in the current Slightly Foxed: "November 7th. Plant the indoor bulbs. Just as I am in the middle of them, Lady Boxe calls. I say, untruthfully, how nice to see her and beg her to sit down while I just finish the bulbs. Lady B. makes determined attempt to sit down in armchair where I have already placed two bulb-bowls and the bag of charcoal, is headed off just in time, and takes the sofa. Do I know, she asks, how very late it is for indoor bulbs?"

Slip-sliding away (and springing back)

There are times when I feel I ought to get out more. Much as I love life at home and the pleasures of domesticity, sometimes this can lead to a narrow focus and a distinct unwillingness to move beyond the comfort zone. While I accept that I may be missing out on things, I don't actually want to be uncomfortable. Who does? I choose pleasure over pain, and the nice over the nasty unless there is a very good reason to do otherwise.

This morning I felt like a shy little primrose uprooted from its mossy woodland setting and plonked in a dangerous, great-big-outdoorsy sort of place, because I had to have a skiing lesson. Now, this may not sound bad, but for me it was A Big Thing. I've never been the slightest bit attracted to sliding down a mountainside, and breaking limbs holds no interest, either.

 

My wardrobe displays a lack of trendy skiwear (my typical outdoor clothing tends to mud-spattered wellies and venerable old jacket with pockets full of dog biscuits); though I love the colour blue, it's not the black-and-blue of bruises which I go for, and I like to be in control, not propelled by forces beyond me down even the gentlest of gradients. 'Hurtling' is not a word I care for.

But needs must, and I went along to the awfully steep dry ski slope carpeted with harsh and unforgiving mats, and I had a go. I'd love to be able to say that I glided (glid?) gracefully down, perfectly balanced, at one with every contour line and dip. Alas, friends, it was not so. I must have been good entertainment for the onlookers -  if you get your laughs from watching others' misfortunes, that is. I fell and I fell again. Righting myself was a performance. My skis crossed too much or not enough, my bottom took a beating, my wrists are beginning to shout  "what did you do to us?" as I can barely type.

It was not a pretty sight. I'm told it's easier on snow, more pleasure, less pressure. I don't quite buy it - in the sense of handing over the hard-earned for goods and services worth having, no. "Was it fun?" asked Alice who is already an accomplished skier and didn't have to go to That Place this morning. I wouldn't quite describe it in those terms.

"I saw her laugh", said Harriet, who joined me in the lesson and did the gliding that I am, clearly, unsuited to do. It was less a sound of mirth and more an expression of ironic vindication - I knew I wouldn't make much of a fist of it, and I Was Right.

So, I'm going to perfect the art of relaxing in a ski resort without injury or humiliation. I shall be reading, and maybe taking an odd photograph, and finishing the sock I started knitting ages ago, and if there's good hot chocolate going I'm willing to sample it purely for the purposes of testing its beneficial effect on the body and soul. In short, I shall be putting myself at the disposal of medical science to demonstrate how good it is for a person to remain soundly within their comfort zone.

Foxes' paws

No faux pas (or foxes ' paws) in our decision to subscribe to the wonderful Slightly Foxed, a literary periodical subtitled "The Real Reader's Quarterly".

We have taken it since its inception and greatly enjoyed reading it and many of the books it has reviewed and recommended. It celebrates good writing, forgotten or overlooked works, a few curiosities, but it is always intelligent, good-humoured and appealing to anyone whose reading matter tends to come from somewhere other than the bestseller lists.

The current issue includes essays on two of my favourites: the food writer M.F.K. Fisher and E.M. Delafield's The Diary of a Provincial Lady, along with a look at a lesser known Daphne du Maurier novel, The Parasites, Elizabeth Taylor's At Mrs. Lippincote's, and several other promising-sounding books. All just the thing for a lazy afternoon -

In balance

A surfeit of richness or fussiness calls for something pared down and simple to compensate, so after yesterday's indulgent chocolate pudding post, today's words and pictures will be a little more contained and collected.

If only there was a means by which scent could be conveyed through the computer, because this rose geranium (more accurately, pelargonium) smells sweet and heady.

This plant began life as a cutting, and it has partially lost its variegations, but when you brush the leaves it releases its perfume which then lingers on the hands.

I often use the essential oil in the bath for its uplifting and balancing qualities.

Now, take a deep breath and relax......

                                    ~~~~~~~~~~

For more on this subject, see Valerie Ann Worwood's The Fragrant Pharmacy, The Fragrant Mind: and The Fragrant Heavens

Melting moment

I don't need an excuse to make a pudding but a slight lean towards the decadent is easier when you have a guest to cater for. Our esteemed science correspondent, The Prof. (a.k.a. "Four Labs" - and that's laboratories, not dogs) has been staying with us, and never a man to turn down something sinfully delicious, I knew I could try out Molten Chocolate Babycakes on him.

You know where you are with Nigella Lawson. Her How to Be a Domestic Goddess: Baking and the Art of Comfort Cookingis full of indulgent recipes, luscious, moreish and generally pretty satisfying, and these little pudding cakes were all I'd hoped for.

With a very hefty chocolate content, the end result is barely contained melting darkness within a slight, almost-sponge shell, and as they must be eaten straight from the oven, there was little time for any artistry in the photography, nor even the niceties of turning out and serving prettily (the clamouring hordes around the supper table wouldn't stand for any faffing, presentation-wise). So, a touch rough and ready, but here they are, intact

and then breached:

They didn't disappoint.

Beany baby

The aesthetics of food: now, there's a topic to occupy an idle hour. I wasn't idle yesterday as I prepared for the arrival of a friend who is staying for a couple of days, but nor was I too busy to notice the colours of these flageolet beans.

In their dry state, their bone and ivory whites and creams and palest jade greens were subtle and similar, but - as with shells and stones - water brings out the true shades

and a short, sharp shower showed them off

and lifted the colour, like wet shingle on a beach.

We ate them dressed with garlic and olive oil to accompany braised lamb shanks, and while they tasted very good, they are decidedly prettier in their raw state.

(Even when out of focus!)

Sparkler

When I was a child, the authors of the books I read were mysterious people. Little in the way of biographical detail was appended to their stories, there were no signings in shops, no question and answer sessions at literary festivals, and no school visits. Today's young readers have access to the writers they enjoy in a much more direct way, and with authors on tour, like pop groups, fame increases and fan clubs proliferate.

Last year Julia Golding visited my younger daughter's school to talk about The Diamond of Drury Lane, her fast-paced historical novel for children of around ten years and upwards. She was an instant hit and was so much enjoyed by Harriet and her classmates that several of them went to see her appear at last summer's Edinburgh International Book Festival where she talked about the two series of books she's working on and involved her audience in games based on her characters.

Set in late 18th. century London, the story centres on the orphan Cat who has been brought up in the colourful surroundings of Sheridan's famous Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. The plucky heroine demonstrates great loyalty and courage in her exciting adventures in and around the theatre, and the reader gets an easily digestible and vivid lesson on the issues of slavery, women's rights, republicanism, and social equality together with much fascinating social history.

Reading this book at Harriet's request, I can quite see why she pounced on the sequel, Cat Among the Pigeons, and is eagerly awaiting the arrival of the third in the series, Den of Thieves. Sparkling stuff!