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

 

Celestine In The Palais Royal Gardens

 Dear readers,

It's funny how it goes. Spring has hit with a visual thunderclap, the sun has played central stage for a few heady days and perky male birds are intent on luring a harem of quietly coloured females with their exquisite serenades. Despite this delightful spectacle assailing my senses I have been feeling quite melancholic. Nature always has the final word, you will agree, and so I have tried to accept this temporary state of mind as gracefully as possible. 

Wandering the countryside has raised my spirits, of course.  The fruit trees are proudly displaying their finest garnments and as my eyes travel upwards in wonder I tell myself that never before have I seen such an opulent display of blossom.  I also thank my lucky stars that, unlike my eldest daughter Héloïse, I am not allergic to pollen: it's going to be a potent time for hayfever sufferers this spring.

My sadness is no more than a good dose of nostalgia, I beIieve, following a full day in Paris after dropping Héloïse and Tristan off at the Gare du Nord.  An afternoon spent soaking in the beauty of the Palais Royal arcades and gardens on a glorious spring day whilst recalling years of happy memories in this city left me feeling foolishly wistful.

 Have you ever been to the Palais Royal?  The peaceful gardens, nestled amongst seventeenth-century architecture and a stone's throw away from the Louvre Museum, are quite enchanting.  Prior to the French Revolution, Louis-Philippe Joseph II Duc d’Orleans, King Louis XVI's cousin, had turned the Palais Royal into the place to be in Paris. The gardens were crowded both day and night. Café tables and chairs spilled out into the gardens at all hours. Circus acts and street performers entertained the crowds. Parisians as well as visitors from the provinces and abroad came to the Palais Royal to shop, gamble, drink, mingle, and discuss the ideas of Enlightenment philosophy without threat of censorship or imprisonment.

 

Perched on a straight-backed iron bench that afternoon last week I observed the present day gardens. The linden trees with timid leaves unfurling - as seen in the first picture above - hopping sparrows, and lusty magnolias sporting the most stunning pink blooms I have ever seen.  Within the cloistered lawns crowds of delicate narcissi jostled for attention alongside bonbon pink tulips and blue hyacinths.  There was birdsong everywhere and around the exuberant central fountain people sat, their faces uplifted to catch the sun with bare feet and blissful smiles.  Gaggles of children whispered and giggled behind clipped round boxtrees enclosed in celadon painted wooden containers whilst their parents gossiped and chastised.   There were sweet girls with cropped haircuts and petal pink dresses and knits scuffing their shoes in the dust.  These little girls were the inspiration behind Celestine Mouse, my latest creation.

She reminds me of the old-fashioned toy shops hidden in the arcades surrounding the gardens.  Her dress is so very French as are her pantaloons stitched from 1900 hand-embroidered tulle and trimmed with handmade lace.  I made her in rememberance of bygone times still present in such places as these gardens which are suffused with social history.  Content though Celestine might be playing in central Paris she is even happier lying in the grass in our garden and looking up through the branches of our cherry trees.

And because sewing makes me happy and soothes my nostalgic heart I decided to make this little mouse another dress from Liberty fabric trimmed with 1940's lace.

 If you would care to take a closer look at Celestine - and her two dresses - she may be found here, patiently twiddling her thumbs and dreaming of bygone days in Paris.

Thank you so much for taking the time to read my (self-indulgent) words, wonderful readers.  I am a little curious to know whether you too suffer from bouts of nostalgia?

A bientôt,

Stephanie



Violets: Elusive And Enduring

Dear readers,

Sweet violet season is drawing to a close in our neck of the woods.  Their first blooms in February demurely gracing our hedgerows and the shady outskirts of our neighbouring vineyards fill me with a quiet joy which whispers 'spring'.  How do I know they are sweet violets (Viola odorata) and not the tinier dog violets (Viola riviniana)?  Unlike their small cousins, the dog violet, which has no smell, these little beauties have that unmistakable perfume; the most elusive of all fragrances.  There have been abundant clumps of purple this spring - perhaps due to the equally abundant rainfall - and, soggy ground permitting, I have got down on my hands and knees to sniff.  Did you know that violets get their ephemeral scent from ionone?  After stimulating scent receptors, ionone binds to them and temporarily shuts them off completely. This substance cannot be smelled for more than a few moments at a time. Then, after a few breaths, the scent pops up again. Because the brain hasn't registered it in the preceding few moments, it registers as a new stimulus.  As magical as an illusionist's trick.  This year violets have been popping up, as if by magic, everywhere in our back garden.  I simply felt I had to do something with this unexpected crop and turn the elusive violet into something more enduring.



One of my most treasured French cookery books, L'Appel gourmand de la forêt, offers a handful of delicious recipes starring the modest wild violet.  Have you ever eaten toasted sandwiches with goat's cheese and violet leaves?  I haven't but I'm willing to give it a go!  Apparently the leaves taste like spinach.  Linda Louis, the author, explains how the elusive scent disappears completely once cooked.  The best manner of preserving the delicate taste therefore is by mixing the flowers, stalks and leaves removed, with alcohol, butter, vinegar, or sugar, of course.

I gently ground, as suggested, 40g of violets with 200g of sugar with a pestle and mortar, spread the purple sugar onto a paper-lined baking tray and let it dry overnight.  Sprinkled over fromage blanc, pancakes, waffles, meringues, and my favourite rice pudding, this sugar suffuses us for a few moments with nostalgia.

 

If the scent of violets is ethereal it can be equally difficult to capture the colour violet on camera.  My passion for violets compelled me to purchase some delectable yarn from The Uncommon Thread in the Viola colourway and knit something simple and a little old-fashioned for our sweet Angélique.  Do you see those adorable mother-of-pearl buttons, found at La Droguerie in Paris during a wonderful day last week?  They have tiny violets engraved on them.





 



The pattern is Granny's Favourite.  This is my first Georgie Hallam pattern. I was slightly taken aback when I saw sixteen pages printing off but I hasten to add that it is a perfectly wonderful pattern to follow; a delight to read with its colour-coded size instructions. Granny’s Favourite - we are talking Little Red Riding Hood’s Grand-mother of course - can be knitted with short, middle-sized, or long sleeves which makes it sound a little like Goldilocks And The Three Bears!  My Ravelry notes are here.

 

I am delighted to announce that the winner of my French harp music giveaway is An Cailin  Please email me your postal address so that I may send it off to you  I just know that it will make your heart sing.

 

A bientôt,

 

Stephanie

 



How Do Parisian Mice Squeak? (And A Musical Gift)

"Denise stood transfixed ... this shop which had suddenly appeared before her, this building which seemed so enormous, brought a lump to her throat and held her rooted to the spot, excited, fascinated, oblivious to everything else.  The high-plate glass door, facing the Place Gaillon, reached the mezzanine floor and was surrounded by elaborate decorations covered with gilding.  Two allegorical figures, two laughing women with bare breasts thrust forward, were unrolling a scroll bearing the inscription "The Ladies' Paradise"."

Emile Zola, The Ladies Paradise, translated by Brian Nelson (Oxford World's Classics), p.3.

This is an extract from one of my favourite books, Au Bonheur des Dames, first published in 1883 which is also, incidentally, the year of Coco Chanel's birth.  For those who are not familiar with this novel it traces the creation and rise of the department store and the love story of provincial Denise Baudu with the hugely wealthy shop owner, Octave Mouret.  It is, as far as I know, one of the few Zola novels to end happily.  It is also a fascinating read which delves into the social history of mid-nineteenth century Paris and is teeming with fascinating descriptions of innovative retail techniques and fashion.  I love it and have until now hesitated to watch last year's BBC adapted series The Paradise.  Have any of you seen it?  If so, did you enjoy it?

Denise Baudu, fresh off the train, has just arrived in Paris when she sets eyes f
or the first time on the "endless spectacle" of The Ladies' Paradise shop window.  This may simply be a department store but the marvel she feels matches my own about Paris in general.  Like humble Denise I often feel "a lump in my throat" as I wander the city's streets.  I may have lived there for a few years, chased metros, blundered past pedestrians on dirty pavements on my way to work and experienced week upon week of public transport strikes, nothing can diminish my love for this city.  Every street corner offers the possiblity of a chance encounter and a flash of beauty.

Please don't laugh at me for I have decided to create a series of mice - and dolls too - named Les Parisiennes.

Please meet the two sisters ; Hortense and Angelina.

For more than a century, the tea room, Angelina, has been a celebrated Parisian address for gourmet pleasures in the heart of Paris on the rue Rivoli a couple of minutes stroll from the Louvre museum and across the road from the Tuileries gardens. The decor, by the famous belle époque architect Edouard-Jean Niermans, mixes elegance and charm. Angelina is still famous for its hot chocolate and Mont Blanc whose centuries-old secrets remain well-kept.  It also happens to be a favourite haunt for these two mice!

Angelina Mouse adores to dress in her finest clothes, eat chocolate cake and sip tea at Angelina's.  She usually invites her sister Hortense to come with her.

Hortense culitvates violets in her small Parisian garden and always carries the elusive scent of violets with her. After tea she encourages Angelina to accompany her across the rue Rivoli to walk in the beautiful Tuileries gardens to admire the parterres of flowers and watch the children chasing hoops and laughing on the colourful merry-go-round.

I have had so much fun making these little ladies over Easter.  Handmade lace, 1900's hand-embroidered tulle, vintage fabric and buttons made this a wonderful week for me.  There were a few French chocolate eggs to hand too although I kept my fingers clean, mostly!  These creatures are longer limbed than my hares and measure almost 18" tall.  The idea behind them is that I will have that much more freedom to make them more clothes: consider them models of some sort :-)  I am hoping to be more adventurous with my themes.  These two are fairly tame!

As I type these words in the early hours of the morning I notice that Angelina has been whisked away - perhaps by a galant Pariisan gentleman mouse?  If you would like to take a peek at Hortense you may find her here.

Please don't skip off just yet!  I would like to share a little gift with you in order to celebrate my first Parisian mice.  A few weeks ago I purchased a CD for Tristan and we have had so much pleasure listening to it that I decided to order an extra copy for one of you.

French nineteenth- and twentieth-century composers.  What could be more apt?  It is the most exquisite harp music.  Le Jardin Féerique or The Fairy Garden.  If you interested in this recording please just leave me a comment below and, if you are new here, it would be marvellous if you could become a follower of my blog.  If you feel compelled to spread the word about this little giveaway just come back and let me know so that you may have two chances to win.  I will announce the winner on my next post.

A bientôt,

Stephanie