Cornflower

Anything but commonplace

     I'd never heard of Frank Baker or his novel Miss Hargreaves: A Fantasy until I read the most glowing recommendation on Simon's site. After what Simon said I had to get hold of a copy, and managed to find a Penguin edition for little or nothing on ebay (the currently in print Tartarus one is extremely expensive!); Abebooks are worth a try, too.

     This is a curious novel but an absolutely delightful one. It is part Ealing comedy and Whitehall farce, part E.M. Delafield's The Diary of a Provincial Lady, with overtones of E.F.Benson's Mapp and Lucia, and a Trollopian setting, and it is the only book I've read which includes descriptions of organ-playing exciting enough to make me want to find the nearest loft and learn to play! ("The Doctor, warmly improvising in B major....enriched the firm prose of the Diapasons with the drama of the Full Swell" - and there's more in quite visceral mode, too long to quote here).

     The story turns on a character 'invented' by two friends on the spur of the moment in order to enliven a tedious encounter with the sexton of an Irish church. Little did they appreciate as they wove a plausible and well-plenished history for 'Miss Hargreaves' that "creative thought creates" and they would soon be encountering the redoubtable lady in real life. What happens then is both very funny and very moving, slightly batty and anything but commonplace (which Miss H. "abominates", by the way, along with "fuss"), and with its picture of life in and around Cornford Cathedral Close - "She was a very large woman, Mrs. Auty, whose great ambition in life was to run Cornford....Canon Auty, it was said, had first met his wife on a mountain in Switzerland, where he found her presiding over an impending avalanche" - it explores big ideas on a small, contained stage. I have a feeling it's going to linger in the mind for quite some time.

Spangles

     Not the sort of textiles usually seen on these pages, but then my younger daughter is a lot less conservative than I am. Pictured here is the bold and brilliant sequinned top worn by Harriet to a school disco last night. These events, held with boys from one of the girls' partner schools, are the subject of weeks of excitement and anticipation - that is, on the girls' part; as far as can be judged there is some sort of three line whip on the boys' attendance, and even then, several are to be seen sitting on the sidelines, reading (sensible lads).   

     I am reminded of the letter written home from boarding school by the sister of a friend which informed her parents that "next week we shall be having a dance against [well-known boys' school]" - these things are contests in more ways than one, and I expect the boys last night were quite terrified of their female 'opponents'!

     As I drove Harriet and friends home from school yesterday I overheard their discussions on outfits, a proposed two-to-one hair-straightening session, what tattoos (!!) they'd like to have in due course, parents permitting, and - as we passed a wedding dress shop - how Harriet is planning a winter wedding complete with snow. The identity of the groom is as yet unknown, but if I were her I'd choose one of those young men with his head in a book.   

Precious metals

     To our surprise, one of the most stunning galleries we visited at the V&A the other day was that of the ironwork collection. Stupidly, I didn't take any photographs, but there was everything there from truly massive railings with fierce 'keep off' points, to filigree work, decorative monograms, wrought iron balconies, and on and on, and the stark contrast of the (mainly) black metal shapes against the white walls was striking.

     At Kew Gardens I noticed the ironwork in the Waterlily house and caught something of its reflection in the pool.

When it was built in 1852 it was the widest single span glasshouse in the world, apparently, and its ribbing is beautifully and gracefully done.

      

     More metalwork at Kew in the form of the current exhibition of Henry Moore sculptures. My pictures aren't great, but you can see better ones if you look here and here.

   Lastly, the medium used on a more domestic scale:

               

Plum job

     You would be forgiven for thinking that I am paid to mention Nigel Slater's books on this website - he does seem to crop up quite often, but with very good reason. I love his attitude to food, his lack of pretension, his pared down approach and the way he writes, and I find myself consulting his The Kitchen Diaries: A Year in the Kitchen whenever I need inspiration. My mother arrived the other day with a large bowl of plums picked in my uncle's garden, and as we weren't going to be around to eat them fresh, she kindly prepared them for the freezer with a view to using them in cake or pudding or two.

     The Diaries include a recipe for "A wonderfully moist fresh plum cake", made with walnuts and ground almonds, and I made it last night, adapting the instructions slightly due to an unforeseen egg shortage. The original cake is made in a big square tin and requires three eggs; I had only two, so I used a method I read about on Rebecca's blog, and weighed them in their shells, matching up the quantities of butter and sugar to the weight of egg. You cut back on flour in this cake, adding ground almonds and gravel-sized pieces of walnut to the mixture. I baked it in a loaf tin, sprinkling the plums with dark soft brown sugar to counteract any tartness.      

     I've just had a slice (eaten with a fork as it is very moist and sticky) and I can pronounce it a success. I think the remaining batches of plums will be used in exactly the same way as this lot.

Bowling a googly

     As a compulsive checker of the visitor statistics for this website, it amuses me to discover how people have found it, where they are, and what they may have been looking for which they won't find here. The "World Domination Map" tells me I have readers in places as far apart as Argentina and Korea, Iceland, Hawaii and Kazakhstan, but there may be less to this than meets the eye. The other day I noticed a comment come in from someone who - according to the stats. - was in Sweden; it was actually a friend on a train going through Lincolnshire at the time but connecting to the internet via a Swedish satellite, so perhaps you're not all where I think you are but in fact just down the road!

     Then there are the search engine terms. Visitors have arrived here looking for "the secret to a superior victoria sponge", "recipe for Labrador bears' paws pastry" and (I love this one) "random facts about human life".

     Yesterday, dozens of people found this site because they were googling "Nigella Lawson Eton Mess". Yes, I have mentioned Nigella because I often use her recipes, and yes, I have even mentioned Eton Mess, a pudding reputed (according to one account I read) to have been 'invented' when a Labrador (it would be) sat on some meringues which were on their way to the Eton College Fourth of June jolly, crushing them to bits. The owner then decided they were only fit to be mixed into the strawberries and cream they also had with them, so the pud was created. Mr. C. suggests we should devise a Scottish version of this and call it "Edinburgh Academy Smurach", E.A being a local school of some renown, and 'smurach' being the Scots word for fine dust or powder. So how about mixing raspberries into whipped cream and adding, what? - not oatmeal because that would make Cranachan - maybe coarsely ground, toasted almonds? Now all I need is my own cookery show on primetime tv, a book deal, long glossy hair, a come-hither expression .......

Specially for Vanessa

     As requested by Vanessa, here is the Labrador footstool (with friends) from Fortnum and Mason. Sorry it's not a better picture, and I can't remember the price but I think it's safe to say it isn't cheap!

Pictures, but not at an exhibition

     I am doubtless breaching copyright here by putting up photographs of postcards of paintings, but it's not with a view to reproduction or commercial gain so I'll risk it because I want to show them - they were a new find for me and may be to you, too.

     I knew I would be in London just too late to catch the Royal Academy exhibition of recent works by Mary Fedden; I discovered her a few months ago and hoped to get to see her paintings but the dates didn't work so I've had to make do with postcards! 

     She was born in 1915 and is still painting, I read, "with vigour and delight", both evident in her work if these pictures are anything to go by.

     I like the simplicity of the shapes and the interesting compositions, but it's the colour combinations which are for me particularly striking and appealing - that may not be a very technical appreciation but it's valid enough! They haven't come out particularly well here, but you can see more of her work on the Bridgeman Art Library website.

     There's also a book, Mary Fedden: Enigmas and Variations, which I shall be putting on my Christmas list.

Relaxed, refreshed, revived

     All my fretting before going away was, of course, unnecessary; I had a wonderful weekend! We packed a lot into our two and a half days in London (and on the subject of packing, had I known I was to be attending a dinner party on Friday I'd have taken something smarter than jeans to wear - the other female guests were rather more 'soignee' than I was. However, it's the company that's important, not the clothes, and that was excellent, as was the food!)

     Here's a quick whirl through the schedule. First to the National Gallery where, standing in front of Cezanne's "The Avenue at the Jas de Bouffan"(much more vibrant in the original than in the postcard above), I felt the cares fall from my shoulders as I realised I was 'off the lead' for once. Then to the Royal Academy, of which more later. Across the road to Fortnum and Mason where I bought some tea:

and admired leather covered notebooks and a footstool in the shape of a labrador (yes, I know), before going on to the biggest Waterstone's in Europe where photographers were out in force for an appearance by Cornflower Helen Mirren.

     Saturday was warm and sunny so we strolled through the grounds of Chiswick House and walked by the Thames, then went on to Kew Gardens (possibly Moore later).

     Yesterday was spent at the V & A. Time pressure meant we didn't see 'couture' or - elsewhere - 'canards' (sorry, dear friend!) but there was much of great interest to make up for those omissions. Then it was time to fly home, but as there are so many things I didn't do or want to do again, I've resolved to return as soon as I can.

Positively serene

     Mad dash yesterday culminating in a fully laden Waitrose trolley, reaching the checkout ten minutes before they closed. M & S were found to be devoid of socks so I may get cold feet in more ways than one. Got the brain into gear long enough to do tiny little bit of legal work, so have done duty by all and sundry except self as I haven't packed yet and I leave in an hour - typical!

All is calm?

     I'm going away for the weekend - a rare occurrence these days, and one for which I am ill-prepared. I have a 'to do' list of some length to get through before I leave; it includes things like 'order dog food', 'sew button on school blouse', 'advise on wording of disclaimer' [legal knowledge required there - oh dear] and 'buy socks' - that one's more within my field of competence these days. Then there are meals to be planned, the supermarket shop to be done, the guest room to be got ready, instructions left for all eventualities, and I feel as though it would be a lot easier just to stay at home. As to what clothes to pack, I can scruff around in jeans, but even then there are decisions to be made: will it be warm or cool, will it rain, will I be walking far, could I possibly wear a skirt for once, can I fit in an emergency dash to M&S? You can tell I'm not good at this.

     Then there's the question of which book to take with me? It has to be portable (that leaves out my hardback copy of Decca which would have been perfect for amusement and distraction), sufficiently interesting to override airport waits, etc., comforting enough for when I'm in 'foreign parts' (yes, I know I'm hopeless and shouldn't even think of going anywhere), involving enough to get me through the plane's ascent (no, there's no book on earth which could make that ordeal any easier, though I can read when it's at cruising height).

     Here's a selection from the TBR pile; maybe one will present itself as my perfect companion for the weekend: The Acceptance World, The Right Attitude to Rain, Miss Hargreaves: A fantasy, The Ladies' Paradise, The Needle in the Blood, The Architecture of Happiness, - advice, anyone? - and no, I can't take half a dozen.

     So, while a ray of sunshine plays on the soothing aqua wall in front of me (illuminating the bits of paintwork we missed), all is far from calm chez Cornflower, in fact Mr. C. has just pointed out that I am categorically the world's worst traveller and it's a wonder I even manage the school run or taking the dogs to 'the other side of the park' - a tad too far from home!

Death in Venice

     The Lying Tongue is the first novel by Patricia Highsmith's biographer Andrew Wilson. I've never read Highsmith (whose influence is apparently evident here), and dark psychological thrillers are not my usual fare, but it came highly praised by reviewers whose opinion I trust so I was keen to try it.

     Art history graduate Adam Woods leaves London and a broken relationship to go to Venice to teach English. When his job falls through he becomes factotum to the reclusive writer Gordon Crace, living in Crace's decaying palazzo and subject to his eccentric and demanding will. Intrigued by his mysterious employer, Adam sets out to discover why, when Crace's novel "The Debating Society" was a major bestseller and made his name, the old man has produced nothing else in forty years.

     The book's opening sentence reflects its nature: "Wherever I went I saw a question mark at the heart of the city....the Grand Canal snaking its way through the saturated land, a constant interrogator", and one quickly hears the first of many 'false' notes and knows to question every fact and every impression given. Saying any more about the plot without giving it away is difficult, but "The Lying Tongue" is a descriptive title as one or another main character is shown to be manipulative, devious, amoral and totally unscrupulous.

    This is page-turning stuff, well-executed, clever, keeping the reader guessing right to the end. I was gripped but not, I must say, emotionally engaged - curious to know the outcome but not caring one way or another. For that reason I'd give it four out of five, but then maybe this sort of book doesn't admit of or require any deeper involvement than that? Perhaps those who read more in this area can tell me.

Quick-knit

     At last, a finished object! Cast on on Saturday, cast off on Monday (and it would have been Sunday evening if I hadn't stopped to watch Michael Palin). I used only one skein of Noro Silk Garden (shade 8 and 4mm needles), so it's a shortish Argosy Scarf,

 

but at around 36" by 6" it's fine - it can be knotted or secured with a pin.

    Now, what shall I make next? (Or should that be 'finish'? - but then I have only three w-i-ps, which isn't bad, is it?)

Herbidaceous

     A belated birthday cake for me (there was just no time on the day so we decided to postpone it to the weekend) made by husband and younger daughter - both dab hands in the kitchen. I asked for Nigella's Rosemary Loaf Cake from the much-consulted How to Be a Domestic Goddess, and as I write this I'm consumer-testing a day-old slice, just to check it's as good as it was yesterday.

     It's in the style of a Madeira cake but flavoured with a teaspoon of vanilla essence and the chopped needles from a 10cm stalk of rosemary. The variety we used is Miss Jessop's Upright, which is less thickly 'needled' than others, so perhaps a little more would have done without being overpowering.

     The flavour is subtle but recognisable and has definitely developed overnight, making an excellent partner for a cup of coffee. Yesterday we had it with blueberries and mascarpone!

The sound of silence

      

     I recently read about the film Into Great Silence on Susan Hill's blog, and so compelling did it sound that I asked my family if I might have the DVD for my birthday - I got it, and we've spent the last two evenings watching it. 

     It is a remarkable portrait of life inside the Grande Chartreuse, the mother house of the Carthusian order in the French Alps. There is no commentary, no music - besides the monks' plainsong - no interviews, nothing other than the sounds of the monastery, from birdsong and rain falling, to the toll of the bell or the sweep of a broom on the floor, to the creak of a door. It is contemplative, meditative, absorbing and induces in the viewer a stillness which is usually absent in our noisy, busy, distracted world.

     Whether you have a strong religious faith or none, there is much to be gained and understood from observing the monks in their life of dedication, focus and purpose, whether at work or at prayer. The pace of the film allows images to register and 'develop', so for example, patterns of sunlight across a cloister are there to be seen and studied, a brother's face in profile and semi-shadow as he simply sits reveals - or not - his thoughts; we are shown the tailor, measuring and cutting cloth to make a habit, or a brother sawing wood to exact lengths and stacking it with method and precision. Everything just 'is' and we are shown it for what it really 'is'.

     But lest it be thought that the film is all about seriousness, there are lovely scenes of the monks out in thick snow, sledging down a steep hill to their obvious  - and clearly expressed - great delight!

A lesson learned

     There's been a distinct lack of knitting in these parts lately, and this morning I was possessed with an urge to remedy that. Did I pick up one of my (modest) collection of works-in-progress? No, I cast on for something new. The Noro Silk Garden which Kelly sent me was too pretty to overlook, so I decided to try the Argosy Scarf.

     I'd printed the pattern off the website a while ago, so I made some speed with the first section, and then began on the second. Row 1 of section 2 saw me with quite a few stitches left to knit when according to the pattern I should have finished the row. I checked the instructions and saw I'd done what they said, and then I checked back to the website and found that my printed copy had left off a crucial "k3, ssk" - which should have been done four times in the middle of a row, so back I had to go. In future I'll compare the print to the original before starting!

     All is well again and I'm getting the hang of the bias nature of the piece while enjoying the gradual colour changes.