Verity Damson

Dear readers,

 

With every passing year I am learning to be more Proustian in my alertness to the look and feel of my surroundings.  It's a skill which requires being present in the instant with niggling worries locked away and a slow, steady heartbeat.   I still haven't mastered the art of standing still for long: my mother has been teaching me the philosophy behind Chi Kung and so far I cannot stand like a tree for longer than five minutes.  I prefer instead to be in motion and find my senses to be more alert to my surroundings when walking.

 

Now that the sweet cherry season has finished I am scouring our beautiful countryside for damson trees.  I know the fruit will be ready to pick mid-August once we have returned from our holiday and I want to make the most of them as soon as they are ripe.  Damsons, the close sibling of the garden plum, are both generous and inviting, weighing down their brittle branches like great purple gems. As long as you have plenty of sugar in store they make glorious crumbles and cobblers and a rich dark-coloured jam.  There is, of course, the famous damson cheese which Monty Don mentions in The Ivington Diaries; an intense and superb conserve to be enjoyed with game, lamb, and a good strong cheese.

 Aside from its rich, deep flavour the damson is a true aesthetic charm.  One of my favourite descriptions of its beauty comes from The Morville Hours by Katherine Swift.

'I have never left the damsons so late on the tree, and their emerald felsh is succulent and sweet beneath their blue-black coats.  When I later turn them out on to the kitchen table, the heap of shining black fruit with their matt powder-blue overlay is flecked with narrow pale gold leaves.  What a colour scheme for a room!  My little study perhaps?  How lovely to paint one's rooms the colours of the fruit in the garden.'

I may not be able, for the time being, to paint our home's walls the same shades as apples, plums and pears (just wait until we buy own house) but I was able to create a doll dressed in rich purple.  Let me introduce you to Miss Verity Damson whose heart belongs to late summer when the damson plums ripen and glisten on the old plum tree in her garden.  She loves to make damson crumble or to top a rich buttery cake with plums and sugar.  She also loves, as you may have noticed, the colour purple. I had so much fun sewing this doll who reminds me of the Kate Greenaway illustrations I relished as a child. She wears pantaloons stitched from 1900s hand-embroidered tulle and trimmed with antique creamy lace and I have embroidered little violets on her Liberty fabric bonnet.

 The damsons may not be ready to pick yet but, believe me, I spent many an hour dreaming of them in the presence of this little lady.  I think, perhaps, I should make some more friends for Verity to bring to fruition more of my dreams.

 

Happy, beautiful summer to you all!

 

A bientôt,

 

Stephanie

 

ps Verity Damson has flown to a new home in England.

 

 

 



Vintage Wolves

Dear readers,

 

Like most children Angélique loves books which is fabulous because the whole family shares her passion.  Reading to Angélique, however, requires concentration for she is, I believe, a child who seeks out detail.  Before each storybook page has been turned Angélique will want to read beyond the words deep into the minds and hearts of each character.  "What is he thinking?" she invariably asks or "how does she feel?" is another favourite question of hers.  Angélique's questions probe deeper than her three years in my experience and make reading an intense and rewarding activity.

If my daughter has a fondness for detail I love variations on a theme and so I have used this passion of hers to fuel one of mine.  When Angélique enjoyed Goldilocks And The Three Bears I enjoyed finding different editions of the same story relishing the styles of each illustrator and picking out the small twists in the tale which made it differ from the other versions.

 The top book, translated from German, is Angélique's favourite.  I, however, simply love Charlotte Gastaut's vibrant artwork seen below. (I have other books from the same illustrator which I hope to show you some time soon.)

Angélique's most cherished storybooks usually feature a big, bad wolf and Little Red Riding Hood is, unsurprisingly, her greatest love.  For weeks now this daughter of mine has risen from bed and asked me to snuggle down beside her to share my version of this fairytale before starting the day.  Every morning!  Back in February when there was snow on the ground I found this old-fashioned Little Red Riding Hood fabric (which also exists in blue) and decided that I would turn it into a dress from this book for summer.  I trimmed it with three 1940's red and white buttons and made two pockets from polka-dot red cotton.  And then began the quest to find a knitted hooded cape pattern on Ravelry.

 

 Alicia Plummer's Spritely fitted my requirements perfectly and I fell for the undeniable charms of this version named Butterflies In The Melon Patch.  I enjoyed the butterfly lacework which I knitted during my travels to England last week.  The pattern, though simple, lacks the clarity of others, and I found myself having to use my head a little when stitch numbers did not add up.  I also reached the conclusion that scarlet is not my favourite colour and that, whilst I love Madelinetosh sock yarns dearly, I cannot help but wonder why 'hand-dyed' is a good excuse for accepting a pricey yarn with a high number of white flecks in it?  Does this strike you as an unreasonable thought?

My Ravelry notes may be found here.

The past weeks have required a lot of family teamwork and detailed scribblings in various diaries to get through successfully.  With one more exam for Héloïse to go we are reaching the end of the French school year with weary heads but smiling faces.  It has been a beautiful year full of accomplishments and I am, like most parents, so very proud of my children.  I have also been suffering from migraines again and backache so I am looking forward to an appointment with my osteopath this Monday.

Thank you so much for your continued interest (and orders) on Facebook!  I am currently working on a doll which, hopefully, should be ready this week.

Finally, as may know, Google Reader will be closing on July 1st... hence the reason why so many are popping over to Bloglovin.  If you would like to follow Millefeuilles over there please just click here.

With the school holidays fast approaching I am hoping to write more frequently than my current fortnightly posts.  Fingers crossed!

A bientôt,

Stephanie (and Little Red Riding Hood)

 

 

 

 



Flamboyant

Dear readers,

Summer is waiting in the wings with costume changes, stage whispers, and bouquets.  There is a spectacular, spine-tingling show of colour everywhere with, after the rainiest spring on record, a backdrop made up of a million green leaves unfurled.  I would gladly call this paradise but there is something almost brazen or burlesque about this show the flowers are staging.  If they could move they would probably strut and who could blame them?  I am quite distracted by their beauty and as I stop and stare (and talk) at them I am reminded of the flowers of my childhood garden: snapdragons, columbines, phlox, marigolds, candytuft, canterbury bells, wallflowers, roses.  The list of flowers my mother grew - and still grows - is gloriously long and I'm pretty sure that each one of those blooms had a face and a personality too.  Snapdragons really do snap ferociously when you pinch their lower jaws and whilst some admire the lantern-shaped petals of the exotic two-toned fuchsia I see a graceful ballerina dancing.

One early morning this week, made bold by the perky call of the cuckoo,  Mickaël, Héloïse and I took the well-worn path, flanked with fluttering tall grasses, into the vineyards.  It was a grey day and the sulky sky even managed to rob Héloïse's hair of its usual coppery glint.  My mind has been filled with flamboyant colour, and flowers, these past days and I have found myself knitting in shades I would not usually favour; the violet and bright pink of a fuchsia.  It turns out, I feel, that the clouds offered the perfect backdrop to this glorious riot of colour.

 

 

 



Vintage Bouquet, by Dani Sunshine, is a beautiful pattern.  I first fell for its charms when it was first published in May on one of my favourite knitting blogs, here and, having already enjoyed two of Dani's previous knits (you can see them here and here), I knew I was in for a good time knitting-wise!  It's a flawless and simple pattern which offers the perfect dose of excitment with its flower petal-shaped lace and helpful notes on blocking too.

 

Should you be interested my notes, as always, are on Ravelry.

 

If you had been with us that morning in the vines you would have caught sight of Héloïse, bleary with sleep but brightly dressed in her last dance performance costume.  And look at the pictures we took of her a year ago to the day!

Please wish HéloIse luck for the 18th and 19th June when she will be sitting the first part of her Baccalauréat exams in French and History.

 

I have so many things to share with you over the next few weeks but in the meantime I have just completed a summery mouse who is wearing very different colours to my daughter and who should be making an appearance over at Madame Millefeuilles this weekend!

 

Edit:  Mademoiselle Linden Flower has just been whisked away from her Linden tree lined Parisian gardens.  Here is picture of her in her 1950s silk dress with 1900 vintage lace-trimmed tulle pantaloons and silky wrap:

Once again I feel compelled to thank you all from the bottom of my heart for your generous, kind comments left on my previous post.  You give me so much joy!

 

A bientôt,

 

Stéphanie

 

ps I know Héloïse is a slender young lady but, my goodness, you should see how much she eats!

 



This World Is But A Cherry Fair

Dear readers,

 

One of the fascinating paradoxes of being human is that we are inescapably physical beings who yearn for transcendence.  In other words, a well-balanced life should include both reason and a rapturous sense of wonder.  Unfortunately, language really stumbles when emotions surge.  We do not seem to have a precise vocabulary for complex feelings.  How often have I found myself writing, 'words cannot express my gratitude', or, 'I cannot tell you how deeply touched I am'.  It's frustrating.  It's also, perhaps, the reason why many of us choose to create with a paintbrush or needle and thread.  We use our hands to express the raw joy, love, and awe we experience when words fail us.  Yesterday my nine-year old son Tristan performed in a room full of quiet people.  He was playing a contemporary piece by a Breton composer for his guitar exam.  He was serious and calm and his performance was moving.  It is clear to me that Tristan plays music to express his gratitude for the beauty which surrounds him.

 

Lucky child.

 

Tristan and I cherish our regular bicycle rides uphill in the vineyards and along the gentle banks of the Loire.  It's not just about getting out in the sunlight, feeling the breeze, and relishing the challenge of flying downhill and climbing up steep roads (he's much better at that than I am).  It's about abandonning ourselves to individual sensations, savouring them until they vanish.  A fortnight ago I took my mother out for an early morning walk during one of her precious visits.  As she buried her nose in a hefty sprig of lilac she told me how much she needed to hold on to such moments: smelling until the nose quits from the abundance of scent.  I understood her, of course.  The ephemeral lilac has turned to rust now but it was beautiful while it lasted.

 

Suddenly everything seems to be racing away too fast.  We have sprung from spring to summer.  I knew this was coming: this is our fourth year in Touraine.  Abundant displays of wisteria are fading, the wild blue irises with smudges of violet stand tall for the time being, and poppies are everywhere.  The familiar chirp of crickets will soon drown out the fading cuckoo.  It's fast forward from now on and I am determined to go out on my bike and cultivate joy.  Flowers deserve to be mulled over.  Look to them for deeper truths.  Their beauty may be brief but they can offer us a garden of memories.

'Stop Tristan', I shout as I see another elder tree in bloom.  Most times, when he's too far ahead, I just screech to a halt, carefully cut a few luscious heads, and set off again.  I'm on an elderflower mission these days.  They are spilling over the banks of the river and I cannot leave them be.  Our house is filled with their sweet, heady scent and I have dreamed of making elderflower fritters and trifle (both recipes are in Sara Paston-Williams' book Good Old-Fashioned Puddings). 

 

I'm distracted by scents these days.  All of nature is lush with romance and I simply want to join the party.  The power of scents to evoke vivid memories has long been a favourite device of novelists and poets. Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past opens with the most famous ‘olfactory flashback’ in literature, when the sweet aroma of a simple little cake releases several hundred pages of childhood memories – or what Proust calls ‘the vast structure of recollection’. Vanilla is all about childhood memories, I believe, and they are almost invariably positive – sweet treats and rewards, ice-cream holidays, innocent pleasures. For me vanilla conjures up the exotic locations where its beautiful flower is cultivated under the warm sun. I often split a vanilla pod and add its precious dark seeds to a simple buttery cake. My children love it too.

 

And so Mademoiselle Vanille came to be:

I simply had to include a saucy picture of her bloomers mainly because I am quite smitten by the lace which trims them: it dates back to 1890!  I was a little sad to see Mademoiselle Vanille go but, lucky girl, she is on her way to Ireland.  I had such fun embroidering those exotic flowers and I had a vanilla pod beside me as I worked which I would occasionally sniff. The pod in question ended up in a pot filled with pudding rice, creamy milk and light brown sugar which lightly simmered for an hour.  I broke three eggs, gently beat them in and then baked the rice pudding in a cake tin for half an hour.  I made a caramel sauce with Breton salted butter.  It's a very simple French recipe which comes from a stunning book of an author's favourite dishes: more on that at a later date!

As Chaucer said, 'This world is but a cherry fair'.  To quote Katherine Swift in The Morville Year:  "Cherry trees have always been synonymous with the brevity of life, not only because of the fleeting nature of their blossom, but because of the short season for their fruit.  The sight of them, like the taste of the wild fruit, can be bitter-sweet."

 

Tristan has grown to love the wild orchard which is off the well-worn track we favour through the vineyards.  Sometimes we stop to rest there, kicking off our shoes, and even singing occasionally.  Now the green cherries, hanging in abundance, have a rosy tint. In a couple of weeks it will be time to pick them.    I know that when these fruit are ripe I will be off with my basket and children to pick them and savour them. Happy days!

 

Mademoiselle Cerise

Freshly created to bring in the month of June.  I'm dreaming of making cherry jam and clafoutis dusted with icing sugar.  Mademoiselle Cerise has a handstitched and embroidered bag which she will fill with cherries when the time comes.  And look!  She's wearing bloomers too!  If you would like to take a closer look at her, you may find her here. 

 

I am left wondering how long I will continue making these little creatures which offer me so much joy?

 

I am so grateful for all your generous comments on my last post.  Each and every one of you has given me pleasure.  Thank you!

 

A bientôt,

 

Stephanie



La Belle Epoque

Dear readers,

I am kicking up my feet this week and basking in the glow of being invited, for the second year running, to Anita's glorious French party at Castles, Crowns & Cottages!

This nineteenth-century bonbonnière is a treasure of mine.  It came into my possession after my French grandmother passed away in September 1996.  My grandmother was born in 1906 which made her a child of La Belle Epoque.  Having spent a large part of her adult life in a suburb of Paris, a stone's throw away from Versailles, she returned as an elderly lady to her original corner of rural France where her father many decades before, the local doctor, had been loved by one and all.  As a young girl I would spend every summer in her home surrounded by a hoard of relatives.  One of my fondest memories was of sitting by her side perched on an antique armchair and poring over sepia photographs of her family.  How I would stare into the serious eyes of every man and woman she revealed to me.  I would scrutinize their posture and garnments searching for a way in to learn more about their lives and, no doubt, firing a multitude of questions at my mostly patient grandmother. 

 

Thirty years on I have the same insatiable curiosity. 

 

On my last visit to Paris in April I visited the Delamain bookshop, situated opposite the Palais Royal and the Comédie Française theatre, a favourite haunt during my early married life in Paris.  By some beautiful coincidence I discovered it had opened for business in 1906: the year of my grandmother's birth.  As my greedy eye flitted across the ceiling-high oak shelves looking for the book to take home with me I found this.



It was love at first sight.

 

Those who know me are more than aware of my fascination with gardens.  Parisian parks and gardens offer the ideal real-life theatre setting to play a part of be a spectator. The three Séeberger brothers - born in 1872, 1874, and 1876 respectively - shared a common obssession; to photograph every corner of Paris in particularly its gardens.  They understood that these gardens were masquerading too: a polluted city dressed up in green, gold, or even death, depending on the season. Their quest, aside from turning their pictures into fashionable postcards, was to reveal the theatrical side of life; not the reality.  To our present-day eye it is clear that they captured the aesthetics of early twentieth-century bourgeoisie to perfection.

 

I have learned from this beautiful book that the noun 'photograph' dates back to 1839 and the verb 'to photograph' from 1860. I have also understood that Jules, Louis, and Henri Séeberger, all three trained artists, turned photography into an art form rivalled by some of the greatest painters - Jean-Baptiste Corot springs to mind - of their time.  They understood, also, that fashionable Parisians loved to be seen in both parks and gardens.  During the first decade of the twentieth century the Séebergers made a name for themselves in the world of fashion at a time when the most reputable magazines turned their noses up at photographs chosing engravings instead.  Madame Broutelles, the director of La Mode pratique, commissioned pictures of Parisian elite gatherings in gardens such as the two photographs below depicting La Fête des Fleurs in the Bois de Boulogne in 1907.



Despite their interest in fashion, nannies and provincial maids populate these photographs too alongside gaggles of well-dressed children as seen in the pictures below taken in the Luxembourg gardens.

This book is simply beautiful.  One hundred and sixty pages of sensational, touching photographs which reveal so many details of Parisian life a century ago.  If you are interested you may find it here, I believe.



From this grandiose book was born this modest creature; Rose. 

A shawl and an apron, inspired by the photographs above, married with embroidered roses, 1900 lace (on the apron) and 1890 polka-dot tulle pantaloons trimmed with handmade ivory lace. All of Rose's clothes are made with French fabrics.  I am so grateful to my friend, Isabelle, whose little shop in our village is a cornucopia of vintage lace, ribbons, and fabrics.  She always manages to pull out another handdecorated box of treasures to show me.  One day she may well run out of 1890 silk ribbons and embroidered tulle but in the meantime it is a privilege to work with her and learn precious tidbits of information about the textiles she hoards.

 Should you wish to take a closer look at Rose (At The Parisian Flower Festival) you will find her here.  She may be the last of my four Parisian mice for a while.

I have been working and thinking hard these past days so I will be returning soon to share some ideas with you.  May is a disconcerting month in France: very busy and peppered with numerous holidays which sometimes stretch out to five days weekends.  Our normal routine flies out of the window and leaves us wondering whether we are coming or going. 

Thank you so much Anita for hosting this wonderful French party!

A très bientôt,

Stephanie