Shere Delight

September

Our gift this month has been soft, sunshiny days and warm nights. Autumn is my favorite time of year, the time when I feel nature take a deep breath before plunging into winter's profound sleep, after the explosive growth of spring and summer. The trees still have their leaves, although you can feel the trees sighing, ready to let them  go, and the soft-edged sunshine still warms.

Our vegetable garden is still producing lots of runner beans, chard, and celery, and we're hoping for turnips, leeks, and red cabbage for winter. We'll keep our fingers crossed, as it is all an experiment. The carrots were pretty pitiful, tiny and underdeveloped, the radishes went all leaves and woody red knobs, the green onions variable.

Going out to pick vegetables for dinner has been such a pleasure for both of us that we will try again next year, now we know what works well for us. We are getting tired of runner beans, though; I'll have to find a recipe for green bean chutney.

Painting al fresco

It is the time of year in England when you know where Wordsworth got his material. "Clouds of golden Daffodils" brighten the verges of the roads, sweep across meadows, and pop up in our gardens. I wonder who started planting them in the first place, if an army of ladies in tweed skirts and men in tweed hats crawled over the whole of England sticking bulbs in the ground, or if they started with just a few bulbs which then multiplied like bacteria in a petri dish.  . Whichever it was, there are a startling number of them. The past few days of sunshine o pened them, suddenly it seems, although the slender buds were swelling by the da.

It has been such bright weather that some of us in art class decided to go and paint "al fresco". My friends, long-time residents of Shere, knew of a spot overlooking a hamlet nestled at the edge of a broad field. A stream runs through it, but not a daffodil is  in sight.

I choose my viewpoint, then set about trying to capture the essence of what I see. Well, I had to set up my brilliant portable painting kit first. It's a rectangular wooden box with three legs which fold neatly up and fasten onto the box. It has a drawer with separations in it for your tubes of paint and your brushes, and even a palette which fits on top of the paint drawer, and of course an easel which pulls up to the height you want.  . Folded up, it is tidy and efficient.

I start with the first leg, pulling it down from the hollow in the bottom of the box. The lower part of the leg slips down before I get the screws tightened, so I try the other two legs, both of which resist my efforts to pull them out of the slot they are wedged into. They collapse at different heights, so now I have a box on 3 legs listing precariously. Finally, though, I get the legs at the same level and the screws tightened. Then I have to find the right brass-headed wing-nut so I can pull the easel up, open the drawer, take out the palette, put the paints on it, find a place to put the white spirit. The sun is hot. I am sweating.

Meanwhile, Anne is calmly drawing a tree in preparation for a water-color. I am ready to get out my flask of coffee, wishing it were something stronger, but by then I'm afraid the sun will change its angle and I will have to take the damn thing down again and go home, never having laid brush to canvas. Charlene Chaplin, that's how I feel.

It all turned out well, though. Once I got started slathering on the paint ("roughly the right colors in roughly the right places", says Hoshi), I didn't want to stop. Anne and I chatted, Pat came by to help me with the perspective, and the fresh air swept away winter cobwebs in my brain.

The miracle is that when I got home and looked at the photograph Pat took for me, the feeling stayed with me, the feeling that life and peace are precious, fleeting, and worth it.. That is what I want this painting to be about.

Art Class in Albury

Wednesday mornings I go to a painting class in the nearby village of Albury. Our teacher's name is Hashi Jila and he lives off Rectory Lane just down the road. I'm not feeling much like a painter, today. Well, yes, a painter, but rather of walls than canvas. The thing is, this man is really teaching us to paint, and not just to mess around, and that means re-thinking methods and outlook. Hashi says he can teach us to paint what we see, but he can't turn us into artists. That is up to us. As of now, I not only don't feel like an artist, but a klutz as well.

One of the 8 or so women in the group is an experienced water color artist who is learning oil painting. Whatever she does turns out beautifully, despite this being a new technique to her. Another teaches pottery and ceramics and is expanding to oils, and she is also pretty good. Most of the others are learning water color; another is doing pastels. Rosie, at 83, is taking up water color painting.

Hashi spends time with each of us, with a stroke of his brush turning our efforts into good pictures. It is inspiring, if humbling, to see how little it takes to make it come to life, but how important that little bit is. And it's all about the way you observe, he says.

If we don't become great artists, it is a bonding experience, this common effort, and our gang of four have decided that lunch at Wooten Hatch ought to become a regular feature. So after the class we brave snowy roads to this upscale pub a few miles away to catch up on each other's lives, have a glass of white wine and enjoy very nice food at pub prices.

Tiny Rosie has a starter meal composed of a slice of frittata, smoked salmon, and a little salad, all beautifully presented on a pristine white plate. Pat and Anne choose a chorizo pizza with jalapenos, thin-crusted, brightly red and green. I have ordered seared scallops and black pudding on mashed sweet potatoes, drizzled with black balsamic vinegar. It, too, is beautifully presented on a white plate, delicately flavored with a hint of garlic and butter. But this is a starter dish, and there are only THREE of them, so Pat shares a slice of her pizza and I leave feeling well, and not overly, fed.

But my soul is replete with the companionship and common humanity of friends.l

Snowed In

We awoke yesterday to a snowfall which had been going all night. Roads were invisible beneath 6 to 8 inches of snow, sidewalks indistinguishable from them. I jumped out of bed –a very unusual occurrence for me – eager to discover our transformed world. We also wanted to get down to the corner store to stock up a little, just in case. On the way, we met friends and neighbors out for the same reasons. We stopped to exclaim over this world simplified by the white snow into angles and lines and shades of gray and white. Few cars tackled the hidden roads, even on this, a Monday, so the unsullied streets were ours to roam without fear of traffic.

Supplies at the little shop were sparse, not because of hoarding, but because no delivery vans could get through. No milk, no newspapers, no bread. Not a disaster for us, we could easily get by on what we had on hand, except for Bernard's addiction, the newspaper. Bernard took some beautiful pictures as we wandered around the village and our circuit by the river. We couldn't drive anywhere because the roads were impassable and our car, in any case, would not have negotiated our steep driveway. Children were out with sleds made out of anything they thought would slide, throwing snowballs and starting snowmen. It was like a holiday, only better for being impromptu.

We came home with numbed toes and fingers to a nice hot cup of tea, and a log fire to warm our bones. Couldn't watch tv, though – we couldn't receive good old BBC, not even radio, but hey, it's good to return to the real world now and then.

Pictures are on Facebook, because I had to download on B's computer. Sorry.

Hoar Frost

Sorry to go on and on about the weather. It's just so variable here in England, but just now, invariably cold. I've never lived anyplace with 0C temperatures or less for more than a weekend skiing. We have our two wood fires going, as well as the central heating, which I like, but Bernard likes less as he is the guy who fetches the logs. If it lasted too long, though, we would probably be carried off by emphysema as the smoke does leave the chimney sometimes and pours into the room. The other day I went to the hair dresser, and after my hair was washed by the assistant, the hair dresser said, "I smell wood smoke."

But the most wonderful thing has happened. It has been misty and foggy the last couple of days, as well as freezing or below, and the moisture froze onto every twig and branch and leaf and blade of grass. It is a fairyland. Unlike snow, which piles onto branches and leaves the dark wood showing through, the frost clings to everything and turns it white – like an old man's (or woman's) beard.

Today we decided to combine food shopping with taking photos and lunch. On our way up to our favorite local pub, The Parrot, where you can buy local meat and cheese, Bernard took a few pictures with his new camera. I wish he had taken a picture of the huge pig's head hanging in the butcher's portion of the pub. We bought beef, sausages, and a mutton shank to cook with white beans, but no pig's cheeks. I am a fairly adventurous cook. I have gathered snails, cleaned and cooked them; I have cooked sweet breads, heart, liver, tongue, and kidney, and even had a go at tripe, once, but I draw the line at a whole pig's head.

Socializing and Studios

Parties, parties, parties: on Wednesday, at Anne's, we met two new (to us) Shere couples, a striking woman with gray hair cut in a brush style, and her Danish/British husband whom she met through a newspaper ad.  The wife has lived in Shere for a long time, and knows everything about everybody.  Can't wait to know more.

Joy and Paul are newer to Shere than we are. Joy owns the shop on the corner where the antique shop used to be, and which is now full of tastefully displayed high-end linens, bath robes, Christmas decorations, and other gift-y things. Her partner is a New Zealander,ebullient and talkative; not one you would have picked for the quietly spoken, low key Joy.

The three men could hardly have been more different. The New Zealander is tall and thin, in his late fifties or early sixties, an enthusiastic talker . The Dannish/Brit is a stockier man, more toward his late sixties, who has bought land in the Devon and planted thousands of trees Then there is Bernard, also tall and thin, quietly spoken, gentle soul, who is very good at sussing out other people. He didn't say anything bad about the company.

Anne's chicken and mushroom dish, garlic green beans, and beautiful apple tart and lemon roulade were beautiful to look at and delicious to eat.

Now, our party -

Some time ago, we invited two couples for dinner at our house on Friday night. On Wednesday, the builders called to say they could come on Thursday and Friday to put the studio together. Eagerly awaited as this project is, I was not about to say no. 

They were incredibly efficient. By the end of Thursday night, the walls were up and the roof begun. Friday morning, after a nearly sleepless night, for reasons I won't go into now, I was feeling every wakeful hour. Then my adrenaline kicked in and I felt in control, fatigue at bay, planning the meal like a general plans a battle. I was making two desserts, a lemon custardy cake and a chocolate tart, braised beef accompanied by roast potatoes ,"carrotes etuvees", and butternut soup. (Yes, the order is backwards, which tells you my favorite part of a meal, but I digress). None are really complicated dishes, only somewhat logistically challenging. I start on the desserts, rolling out crust, squeezing lemons, melting chocolate.

Bernard is off to Guildford for banking errands and to get the bread from Le Maison Blanc; the baker's name is M. Blanc, in case you are wondering why the article is le instead of la. The plumber knocks. Where do I want the sink, he asks. Out we go to the studio, and there is really only one place for the sink, so I'm wondering why he asks, but okay, it's nice of him. Then the electrician knocks. I have the pie dough poised over the pan, so I gently drape it and run out to the studio. Fine, got it sorted, sockets placed. Back to the pie dough, pinch the edges, prick the bottom, put it into the oven. I chop carrots, celery, onion, and garlic to sauté in butter before browning and adding the meat.

The plumber is back. Disaster. The basket for the drain hole doesn't fit. We bought the whole unit at B&Q, the UK do-it-yourself store, and got the wrong pack of accessories. We consider the options. Call Bernard to tell him. He wants to talk to the plumber, and says he will return to B&Q. Back to the kitchen, I am whipping together eggs, lemon juice and zest, flour, and milk, to prepare a dessert I've never made before.

Phone rings. Bernard is wondering if I could look at the packing box to see if it has a number for the right basket on it. Get the plumber down to talk to Bernard again. Correct pack is identified. Back in the kitchen, I beat the egg whites and try to determine what "stiff but still moist" looks like. The phone rings, again. It is our vet, calling to see how Tasha is doing on the new heart medication.

Our handyman knocks, wondering if he could "have a word". It's about something he has too much of, wondering if I'd like them for Christmas gifts for a bargain price. Yes, fine. Back to folding in the egg whites, then pop the custard into the oven in an improvised "bain Marie". He knocks again. Actually, he says, I have a couple more. Okay, fine, fine, fine. Back to sear the meat, drench it in wine, and put it into the oven. Stupidly, I forgot to pick some thyme on one of my many trips to the garden, so I grab the scissors, slip on my clogs, grab a scarf, and brave the rain and the cold (it is only about 45F) to pick the thyme for my bouquet garni.

Bernard arrives with the right basket drain, and I wonder if I should offer these poor guys working in the cold, drizzly day cups of hot tea or coffee. All but two have gone to the "burger van" for lunch. The remaining two are the youngsters of the crew, one of them, predictably, a Pole. They are grateful for a hot coffee to go with their lunch, which they are eating in the garage, and we have a 15 minute chat about their future ambitions.

By the time it is dark, the studio has a skylight, electricity, a little hot water heater, a room heater, running water, and paint on the walls. I am thrilled. 

And miraculously, the meal is organized and finished on time, including the chocolate fondant tart. The lemon custard didn't rise at all. I assume the "stiff but not moist" means more beating than I gave them. I'll make a raspberry coulis to pour over it, and send Bernard for some vanilla ice cream to disguise my failure. The table is laid, the wine glasses, sparkling.

At 7:15, clean, made-up and dressed, I sit on the sofa and sigh to Bernard that I've never felt less like having a dinner party in my whole life. I'd rather go play in my new studio. Or go to bed. He agrees. There is a knock on the door. Our very charming and bubbly neighbor arrives. Her husband, a solicitor (lawyer) in London, will be late because his train was cancelled. The first glass of champagne is started, the fire is roaring, and we begin to relax. The second couple arrive. They have a huge house with several smaller units around. They've rented the big house to an American couple and moved into one of the smaller ones themselves, and say we must meet them. Sounds like their politics are of the Orange Curtain type, so I am not sure this is a good idea.

More champagne and nibbles. The conversation flows easily, everyone is enjoying themselves. Tony arrives, and our little party is complete, fun, interesting. We sit down to butternut squash and ginger soup with fresh coriander and chunks of French bread; everyone raves. The braised beef looks unusually flaky, but I remind myself that pot roast looks like that. The vegetables are done at the right time, potatoes crunchy on the outside and soft on the inside, the carrots buttery and fresh tasting. I even manage a yummy sauce to pour over the meat.

After cheese, selected and served by Bernard, I whip some cream with a little sugar and vanilla and pass it around to put on the chocolate tart. The lemon whatever-it-is with fresh raspberry coulis is actually delicious, despite being pitifully flat.

Everyone wants to see the new studio. It is really cold by now, but we bundle up to go admire the little house. The women are jealous (everyone I know here paints). The men admire the speed of its completion. We scurry back to the house for hot coffee and tea.

No one leaves until nearly 1:00 Am, an unusually late hour for us. Surprisingly, this has turned out to be one of the best dinner parties we've ever had.

Goes to show something, but I'm not sure what. Always plan a building project on the day you are planning a party?

(Today, Sunday, we were invited to a drinks party at Tina's house. I have crashed, and choose, regretfully, not to go. All the people we know and like were there. Bernard went alone with strict instructions to remember everything. See The Other Side of the Coin.)

Sunday morning snow

We woke up this morning to a light dusting of snow on rooftops and cars. The temperature was already up to 33F, though, so I bundled up in tights, corduroys, undershirt, t-shirt, sweater, quilted jacket, white wool scarf, ski hat, thick socks, and mittens, to take Tasha for her morning walk. She is still coughing occasionally, but still loves her walks and prances around waiting for me to put all these clothes on, and then, after all that, my wellies.

It is misty and damp, and the snow is melting fast. What is it about snow that is so exciting, at least for me? Maybe it is my California upbringing, where snow was a rare treat to be found only in the mountains, or does everyone feel that way? It is a stunning, overnight transformation of leafless branches and barren fields into Christmas trees and sugar-frosted vistas, the change from the mundane to the magical.

Sunshine

That is actually the name of a book.  Written by an Englishman, of course, who is obviously so obsessed with the sun that he has written a whole book about.  The complete title is, SUNSHINE:  ONE MAN'S SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS.  His name is Robert Mighall, and you can read the review, if you want to, at www.sunday-times.co.uk/ and type Robert Mighall in the search window.  I haven't read the book, and I probably won't, even though it sounds fun and interesting.  I won't because there is so much out there to read, write, and do that I sometimes  content myself with the reviews.   But the review  itself was amusing to read, full of little tidbits which appear in the book, one of which is about the words used in different languages to talk about climate.   He points out that in French, Italian, and Spanish, the words for time and weather are the same:  temps, tempo, and tiempo "a sure sign of the reassuring regularity of the seasons and the sun" , writes the reviewer.  Further, in most Romance languages the words for heaven and the sky are also the same:  ciel or cielo.  "In the south, they can see or imagine heaven when they look up and see infinite celestial blue.", says Mighall.  To which the book reviewer adds, "And what do the British see?  The clue is in the derivation of the word sky.  Its root is Old Norse for cloud." 

But I can tell you from my own experience this year that when the clouds finally clear and the sun comes out, it is heavenly.   

 

SPRING

At last.  The white drops drifting through the air are petals from flowering fruit trees, not snow ; the breeze wafting through the leaves is warm, not cold, and the sun glints off shiny new foliage instead of  rain-drenched tree trunks and side walks.  Excuse me.  In England, we say pavement, confusing to a Yank like me, because in the US we call the hard stuff you put on roads pavement.  Oh well, as George Bernard Shaw famously said, England and America are two countries separated by the same language.   This is a quote I admit I find slightly irritating, the implication  being that one of us (guess which) doesn't speak properly.  Anyway, that's how I take it. But if numbers count, surely  It has to be England, now,  because fewer people speak the language with an English accent, these days, than with an American one.  At least I think so.  But I would, wouldn't I.  So which one is "correct" ? What is correct, anyway, when it comes to language? 

I have to admit, though,  that I love the way some English people use the language.  They use more Anglo-Saxon words, for one thing. 

The jargon used by the military, the police, and those who would like to sound like one of those is particularly ridiculous.  It's as if the words "killed", "died", "gun" , "knife", bomb,  do not exist.  You would never hear an English cop saying, for example, "The member of the family who was attacked by the suspect with a sharp weapon was found to be deceased."  The Brit cop would say, "The nephew attacked his uncle with a knife and killed him."  Collateral damage is another euphemism hiding the unacceptable reality that innocent people are killed.

At the moment (Brits would say, "at the minute"), I am particularly aware of differences in language used for anything to do with cars and driving.  In the UK you have one year to  turn in the driver's license you were issued by your home country you can still drive. If you miss this deadline, however, you not only have to drive with a licenced driver,  but you have to put a big red 'L' on the front and back of the car.  The Scarlet Letter.  While not as onerous as wearing a letter 'A' on your blouse, it is still  humiliating for a person who has been driving for 55 years because,  of course, I missed the deadline, having spent most of my life trying to ignore silly regulations. 

So right now I'm very aware of the difference in usage between English and American.  In fact, what I'm aiming for is my driving license, not my driver's licence.   We drive on single and double carriageways, not two lane roads and divided highways; and on Motorways, not freeways.  I mean, it isn't like learning a new language, although non-English speaking Europeans who speak English like to act superior to Americans and scoff that we  don't speak English.  It's just that you have to learn a different usage, and when the same words mean different things, like pavement, it  can be confusing.  . 

Anyway, I passed my written test.  Only missed one question out of 50.  The examiner congratulated me on doing so well, but I did study "The Highway Code" before I took the test.  I probably wouldn't have studied for the US test, and have failed it.  Now I have to take the practical driving test.  I'm taking lessons for that, too. Just in case.

Clotheslines

 

I received an email from an old (I use the term advisedly – we are now in our 7^th decade) friend, talking about clotheslines.  It hadn't occurred to me that Americans no longer use them much.  I have lived in France and England for the last 15 years, where most people hang laundry outside whenever possible.  Not because they have to, but because they prefer to dry their things in the sunshine and wind.  They don't even do it to save energy and help the environment, but it is a very green thing to do.   

I Had an email from an old friend (I use the word in its true sense, as we are all in our 7^th decade) about clotheslines.  It hadn't occurred to me that very few Americans use them anymore.   I have  lived in England and France for 15 years now, and  nearly all of my friends in both countries hang out their clothes, weather permitting.  They own both washers and dryers, yet prefer using sunshine to dry their clothes and linens.  They don't do it to conserve energy and thus benefit the environment,  but it is a very green thing to do. 

And as outmoded as it is, I prefer line-dried linens and clothes, too, especially bed-sheets.   Nothing smells cleaner than sunshine on sheets and pillowcases dried outdoors.    No chemical substitute comes close to the authentic odor of freshly laundered cotton, especially if it is ironed, too, and stretching out on fresh sheets in a clean nightgown, plumping a soft pillow under my head, I feel safe and cared for, centered in the energy of the sun.  I sleep better. 

Not that I am always able to line- dry my laundry.    Here in England, good weather for drying clothes can be scarce, so when my British  husband thought maybe we could do without one, I put my big American foot down.  As much as I love line-dried laundry, I hate clothes drying on racks in the house. It's depressing.  It  brings back boring rainy days in California with nothing to do, looking out of rain spattered windows at gray skies.  In my memory, it is always 4:00 PM, already dusk-like without the sun, with no lights on in the house because it's  too early. Rain in California, and in southern France, is especially depressing because it isn't supposed to rain there.  It's supposed to be sunny all the time.

Therefore, we have a dryer. Which I use.  In fact, we don't at the moment have a clothesline, last summer having passed with no sunshine to  speak of, so  it wasn't an issue.  But we will put one up.  Just as soon as it stops raining. 

I know my attitudes are stuck in the past.  When I was in North Carolina visiting my family, I searched out the ironing board to freshen up some clothes.  My 4 year old grand-daughter asked, "What's that, Grandma?"  And I don't iron my own sheets.  In France we had a wonderful woman in the village who ironed.  She ironed everything, and did a wonderful job.  She was a professional who took pride in her work, and wouldn't allow a wrinkle to defeat her.  She was also reliable and finished the job on time almost always, and if she couldn't, she called you and told you.    Then she moved away.  Now, want to know who irons the sheets? 

Women, prepare to be envious.  Men, prepare to feel betrayed.  It is the other person who lives in this house with me.