Sunday "Dinner"

Baba au Rhum

In my favorite movie, My Father's Glory, written by the French playwright and author, Marcel Pagnol about his childhood, there is a splendid scene which I have played over and over, so much does it remind me of my youth and of my experiences with my family in Europe.  The schoolmaster and his wife are setting the table for Sunday lunch, where they will soon be joined by her sister and the new husband her sister has recently married. The new husband arrives, bearing two bottles of wine and a baba au rhum cake, which is set proudly as a centerpiece in the center of the table, readied for Sunday lunch. The new husband, a loveable, bear of a man, is now "Uncle Jules" to the two boys of the schoolmaster and his wife, and once he has  the boys off to the side for a moment alone, he opens his suit coat to reveal a cornupcopia of candy delights inside, peering from each of his pockets, to delight the two boys. (I, too, had a French-Swiss uncle who wore a similar coat containing similar treats, offered to the children for the occasion of a family Sunday lunch.)  The movie's scene is set in a very French apartment in Marseille, a perfect marriage of pleasing aesthetics and highly edited austerity: stone floors, beautifully carved wood furniture, and charming accoutrements, but not too many.  Soon the little petty arguments over religion and the relative difficulty of life as a schoolmaster as compared to a city beaurocrat are overtaken by the pleasure of the lunch: the inviting long French table with its sparkling white cloth, splendid china and crystal; the delicious food, which is highly complimented by the guests; the bottles of wine; and the anticipation of the lovely Baba, the scent of which wafts over the table, enticing the diners with its shimmer and luscious appearance.  The baba has a romantic history. It was first brought to Paris, France by King Stanislas Leszczynska, the deposed king of Poland and the father-in-law of King Louis XV (1710–1774) of France when he was exiled to Lorraine. According to legend, he found the customary kouglhopf too dry for his liking and dipped the bread in rum. He was so delighted that he named the cake after one of the heroes of his favorite book, Ali Baba from A Thousand and One Nights. Later, his chef refined the sweet bread by using brioche dough and adding raisins to the recipe. The dish was then simply called “baba.”  I have always loved this story, as it references the wonderful legend of A Thousand and One Nights, another beloved book filled with rich images that cultivate the imagination and act as muse for me in many aspects of my life.


Lusty food, not overwrought artistic creations meant for show, redolent of soul and satisfaction, is the food of family and friends gathered at table for a liesurely Sunday afternoon lunch.  This is not cuisine de spectacle, meant to impress. It is cuisine de famille, which leads to a bonheur d'etre, or a deep sense of wellbeing that catches on from host to guest and back. A kind of liturgy defines a well executed family lunch on Sunday afternoon, and it has a magic all its own. That it is not the stuff of composed plats does not suggest it is not approached with the same discipline and skill, however differently renedered in gorgeous platters of deliciousness on the groaning sideboard, evidence of abundance and generosity.  No food is more wonderful than a lovingly prepared Sunday family meal in the spirit of Cuisine de bonne femme (the good wife), and no magic more compelling than the hospitality extended to family and friends, evident in each delicious morsel; in the sense of langour which belies the preparation such that everyone is relaxed and able to be witty and charming, even the hostess; in the beauty of the family heirloom silver and linens on the table, which in themselves recall generations of similar fetes, artfully kissed with a hint of insouciance that prevents the ethos from becoming pious or stiff!  Sunday lunch is inpsired by tradition, but tradition is not its jailer, simply a point of departure.  In the same way as memory becomes a Muse to the present, and bore the first Muses, tradition is the layering of memories that bind us to our heritage, and to each other. The Sunday family ritual is a sacrament to Love Manifest.
 
My children are very partial to the tradition, and loved it especially when their grandparents would join us, or cousins and friends.  As my wise aunt once advised me, if you begin a tradition with children, they will soon become its keepers. Don't plan on giving it up anytime soon! Children love tradition, and it grounds them and gives them security and belonging. It helps to define them and the rituals and ethos of the clan from which they hail.  My daughter loves to set the table, and choose the china and stemware (of which I have many collections), artfully expressing her sense of joie de vivre and her growing aesthetic sensibilities.  She has no difficulty tossing in a hint of the rascal as a little leavening in the mix. Once she brought her stuffed animal of a languid cat, reclining, and set it in the center of the table, surrounded by Tiffany silver, Limoges china and antique crystal, as if to suggest that the cat would just as soon drink milk from a Haviland saucer but chose instead to recline and Watch to see if anyone spilled any morsels (her words, not mine).  Yes, the cat did haunt the lunch after a fashion, and made for a wonderful ice-breaker, along with a glass of French champagne while dinner was cooking, family strolling about chatting, or reading the Sunday papers in the drawing room, playing petanque (Bocce Ball) in the garden or nibbling on crudites, children learning origami birds at the marble table in the kitchen (if it isn't full of pasta about to be handcut), all set the stage for the feast of senses to come.  The ladies are often dressed in Sunday church clothes, and I having traded in my hat (which I always wear on Sunday) for one of my starched aprons, and the gentlemen bowtied and dapper, bearing wine.  But I am getting ahead of myself.

Sunday "dinner" is a long-standing tradition in my family, and its liturgy differs from that of an evening dinner. I often cook things I would never serve at a candlelit evening dinner table, food with family associations or a romantic connection: tomato aspic, homemade dinner rolls or biscuits, layer cake.  Even while attending graduate school in French Switzerland, I was often invited to share Sunday lunch at the home of my cousin and her husband, who was a pastor. I still remember the fruit tart, sprinkled with pfumli, a plum brandy made by my cousin the pastor's father.  More pfumli was consumed by glass as well, after the coffees were handed round.  These lunches were pure magic, and my children never tire of hearing of them, and ask me over and over to tell them the story of this lunch or that. Sometimes, we would attend a lovely music concert at the church later in the evening, and following the meal, we would often take a promenade to explore some Roman ruins, or walk along a footpath, stopping at some point for a refreshing drink at a little outdoor cafe, or a coffee.  The liesure and pace were part of the charm of the day, and in the conversation, one on one, as we strolled, a connection was established, begun by the charm and langour of the shared meal, and cultivated by the rich conversation as we walked together.  In France, though many shops and businesses are closed on Sunday, it is nearly always possible to find in every town the bakery and florist open for business early Sunday morning, to assist all those travelling to the house of Mama for the Sunday fete.  She who has given her love to her family through the gift of the lovely shared meal, is also the recipient of gifts, such that love is both given and recieved, surely a powerful lesson for the children as well as the adults.

This past Sunday, just yesterday even, I cooked a loin of pork for Sunday dinner, which was without a doubt the best pork I have ever eaten or cooked. This is saying something, as I have long been a student of perfectly cooked meat of every kind and have been quite rigorous in my approach to technique, having also had some superb teachers. This surpassed them all. I dry brined two pork loins overnight with a rub of my own making containing fennel and seasalt and thyme. When the time came to prepare lunch, I seared the two loins, tied together to form an even roast (small end to large end), turning to get the carmelization on all sides, and then added onions and apples to the pan. I put the pan in a very low oven (250 degrees) for about 10 minutes and then turned off the oven, allowing the pork roast to reach 133 degrees, at which point I pulled the meat from the oven, removed it to a platter and tented it with a little foil loosely until it reached 138 degrees. The pork was as succulent and flavorful as could be imagined, and perfectly cooked. This was served with Potatoes Lyonnais, a heavenly mixture of sliced potatoes cooked in duck fat to which I added carmelized onions, and some sauteed spinach lightly wilted in olive oil, chicken stock and lemon juice which had been reduced first. While the pork was resting and coming up to temperature, I deglazed the  roasting pan, after further sauteeing the apples and onions a little, added some French dijon mustard (not that horrid Grey Poupon. I use Maille), some Marsala wine, some chicken stock, and a dash of Calvados, a brandy made from apples. This I reduced for a few minutes and then added some cold butter pats to thicken the sauce and served it in a sauce boat, first removing the onions and apples to put alongside the pork, which I carved on a diagonal bias, the potatoes lyonnais and the just-wilted spinach. With some fresh bisquits and a little salad of lambs lettuce and Frog Hollow peaches to begin, it was a sumptuous Sunday feast. Sunday fare.

There is a well developed theology of hospitality of which I have for some time been a keen student. My spiritual director recently suggested some new theologs to read when I mentioned I was planning to explore this theme in my blog. (If you want to read his blog, it is tagged here on the right and entitled The Elves are Heading West. He is very thoughtful and thought-provoking). So, assuming you will return here to converse with me, I hope we will have more conversation about the signficance of hospitality in our Life Together. It occurs to me, in thinking about these things as I walked this morning, that God who has given us the great feast of the Eucharist, and who bids us come feast at his table, has already spoken extravagently.  Samuel Wells, who has written a beautiful theology entitled God's Companions (also given me from my Director), says that the goal of reconciliation with God and with one another is manifested in the common meal. I know this has been true in my family: that in a sacramental sense, our sharing a meal together has often accomplished what hours of talking never could. He writes: "The anticipation of heaven conveyed in the glory and praise and lifting of hearts is embodied in the banquet of the kingdom..The confession of faith is given its climax in the enactment of the goal of revelation--that God's people might worship him, be his friends, and eat with him."  Try it in your "family", or family of friends, on a Sunday afternoon soon. You won't be disappointed.

Of Menus and Movies, and More



At the Supper Club last night, each woman spoke about how she became interested in food and how she learned to cook. This reminded me of an old story I once read in a beloved cookbook about a woman who grew up in that elegant town in  the South of France, Aix en Provence. I love Aix for its stately grandeur, its many fountains, and its tree lined avenues, which seem to suggest a promenade just by their layout. (For a wonderful characterization and contrast of Aix and of Marseilles, read Two Towns in Provence by M.F.K. Fisher.) More recently, there are some fabulous Rose wines exported to the United States from Aix, and this summer I enjoyed particularly one bearing the town's name: chilled, it's dry and crisp finish did not betray its complexity.  Similar to the discussion which we had at table last evening, the character in the story described the way in which she learned to cook. She spoke appreciatively of her father, who was a wine conoisseur of considerable gift without in any way being a wine snob.  Although at the time of her growing up, it was relatively easy to find servants, her father believed that at his own table a man should never be required to face a meal prepared by anyone other than his wife. This concept of the table as belonging to the Lord and Master of the House is an old-world concept of considerable weight, and one to which I have come to subscribe, but that is a subject for another posting.  There was at the time of her embrace of young womanhood a universal Provencal conviction that no girl had a chance for a man unless she was brilliant both in the kitchen and at table (which is not unlike advice my grandmother used to give me), to which, after the marriage ceremony might be added another accomplishment of a more intimate nature. This was believed true because of the obvious kinship between the pleasures of the table and pleasures of a more intimate sort.  However, back to the story (do I have your attention now?).  The young woman's mother dies, and she is expected, without question, to come home and cook for her father's table, during which time she describes that her gastronomic education began in earnest, despite already having been trained well in both the techniques and nuances of cooking, as well as the art of the perfectly balanced meal.

I want to discuss the approach to technique in a future blog, but I thought today, in light of the discussion at table last night, I might describe a little bit the theory behind the composition of a menu, which done best, combines elements of wit, irreverence, sophistication, sensuality and what the French call “Volupté”, for which there is no adequate English translation, except to live in sympathy and passionately with all one's senses and with the seasons and the terroir (earth).  If you have seen the movie Babette's Feast, you may remember that at the close of the movie the General, a guest at the table, describes how the dinner guests have experienced a kind of redemption through the course of the meal, such that it has become a marriage of righteousness and bliss. There are theological meanings for this, of course, but in terms of a menu and its composition, the General's speech might be understood in culinary terms to suggest that righteousness (tradition, culture, accomplished technique and cooking seasonally and locally) and bliss (sensuality, passion, earthiness) come together in a marriage such that the guests are charmed and most of all seduced.  The ladies are made to feel they are especially alluring and feminine and the gentlemen especially seduissant, and manly, such that the dinner itself, and its guests as the players in the theatre of the table, is a dance of complements. 

Because of this pas de deux, it is nearly unthinkable to host a dinner party in France without the presence of men, for whom the lives of French women are ordered and to whom are accorded a kind of deference born of the feminine “l’aire fragile,” without sacrificing either their intellect or their esprit (Spirit).  Or said another way, a woman might show deference (the highest compliment one can pay to another) to a man, drop her eyes, but in doing so she relinquishes nothing of her essence, her spirit or her mystery. She is Woman, to his Man, and in this dance of complements is unlocked a host of pleasures and amusements such that at table, however much comfort and pleasure is offered, at least some of the pleasure comes from the repartee and wit, one matched to the other, eyes fluttered, senses elevated. One of the amusing things about having trained with French chefs is that the training is often framed in terms of sensuality rather than in terms of food. One learns, above all, to cook with one’s senses, and without the necessity of a plethora of gadgets and recipes, but to taste, smell, touch, breathe, and infuse the food with one’s amour.  In this vein, French chefs often speak about menus in terms of sex. This can be a little daunting to the uninitiated, but soon one loses any sense of discomfort, and it becomes increasingly apparent that sex is the perfect metaphor for dining.  Of this, I hope you will become convinced.

A menu is a script of a dramatic performance; it builds, step by step to a crescendo. Each course must provide a happy contrast to the one preceding it; at the same time, the movement between the courses should be ascending, gradually building from light, delicate and more complex flavors through progressively richer, more full bodied and simpler flavors. (A French chef once told me that there is no art or seduction in being “taken” at the outset, however much this may have its place in some dramas, but it must be recognized, he argued, that to proceed in this manner robs the dinner guest of much of the pleasure in the process).  For a menu to sing it should have both feminine and masculine courses, and ideally one following the other. “Oh, how delightful," a cook whom I knew well, once told me, "for the sandwich to be as it was intended, strong and fragile, and each one  flirting with the last and the next, such that no one becomes bored or their palate tired!" Ahem. After one's senses have been attacked by something strong and intense, one should be soothed by something gentle and soft, in an almost tantric progression. The wines too should be flattered by and should flatter the courses they accompany while relating to one another in a similar kind of progression of building intensity (except that with wine increasing complexity seems to be the most exciting formula). The wine should help to deepen the fullness of the seduction.


If you have seen the movie Babette's Feast, in which twelve guests are seated at a sumptuous table, you have witnessed the impact of this kind of seduction.  The great chef Vatel, who orchestrated dinners and entertainments for Kings and Princes during the reign of Louis XIV, understood this completely, and if you wish for a visual of this, watch the movie of the same name, which is a feast for the eyes and the senses. The French concept of dining is first and foremost about sensual pleasure.  The goal is not to impress or to astonish, but to seduce and please. Think of it like a man being seduced by a woman. The most successful seductions are those in which much is left to the imagination to hint at the pleasures to come. Too much revealed too quickly or in too rapid a succession reduces the sense that one is putting one’s pleasure for the evening in capable and expert hands and will be charmed in the process.  To dine is to be gradually seduced, to become increasingly aware of pleasures to come, both anticipated (this is part of the fun, not unlike its metaphor) and unanticipated.  One must always retain an element of surprise; something unexpected is essential to keep it interesting. The element of surprise, however, should not cause the diner to be jolted out of his or her state of elevated and growing excitement. The guest should leave sated, but wanting more (yes, just like the other thing!). The palate should be kept fresh, teased, surprised and excited throughout the meal.  The juxtaposition of hot and cold, rough and smooth, crisp and creamy, sauced and dry should be considered. Too much repetition should be avoided (for example, if one is serving a gratin with gruyere cheese, this cheese should not be used in the cheese course, with few exceptions).

In organizing a menu, consider its presentation—the eye must be flattered as well as the palate. Cold food in particular lends itself to fanciful (tantalizing) dress.  All elements of the experience must work together in harmony to open up the senses of the diner: the flowers, beautiful linens, beautiful stemware and china can greatly enhance the experience and aid in bringing about the metamorphosis of the diner submerged in the very pleasurable act of becoming seduced.  The lush greenness and scent of a freshly mowed lawn just outside the dining room window can contribute to heightened sensual awareness; the paintings on the walls, the color of the dining table wood, the comfort of the chairs all play a role in cosseting guests.  The flowers should perfume the room in a manner harmonious to the food and wines. It is not necessary to adopt the American manner of presenting meat, starch, veg on the same plate. The plat course might simply be some lovely rare slices of venison accompanied by a beautifully cut vegetable. One food should never be allowed to overpower a meal of which it is merely a part, however important. Each has a role to play, but none is dominant. Heaped up plates are truly offensive; a heavily laden plate allows one course to dominate and the risk is that it will overwhelm the entire framework of the meal.  A very rich dessert should only be offered after the simplest of meals, unless one is fond of orgies. 

Of course, there is a bit of fun in all of this, both in the humour and in the thousands of years of Gallic sensibilities that stand behind it.  By now you will have reached the inevitable conclusion that I am possessed of strong views on the subject of dining, if not more.  As we become better acquainted, I hope you will begin to engage these views and offer some of your own.  In the meantime, happy dining, mes amis.

Supper Club



Tonight, I am attending the monthly dinner of a supper club.  The members of this club are a wonderful group of women, each beautiful and full of grace, each completely unique. The group was assembled because of passion: passion of each of its members for spectacular food, and because of the passion of one of its members for the idea of enchanted evenings sharing food, and our lives, around a rotating table.  She herself hosted the first of the dinners, having arranged and orchestrated the club, and I the second.  From there the hosting has rotated around the group, and each dinner has been a splendid marriage of food and fellowship, beginning with the aperitifs, and closing with coffee, dessert and libations.  The hostess need not be overly taxed, beyond the setting of a welcoming table and cooking the main dish, as each guest brings one of the courses, rotating as the hosting rotates.  The hostess chooses the menu and the recipes, and sets the tone for the evening.

At first, I was not certain whether this approach would lend itself to the achievement of the lofty goals established by the members. Trained as I am in all things French, I was skeptical about the investment of so much energy in an all-women dinner.  Though I treasure my women friends, this is, after all, Dinner. At this confession perhaps you have suppressed a wry smile? But it will come as no great shock that I enjoy greatly the company of men, and there is no more suitable venue for the innocent and subtle art of flirting with handsome and witty and intelligent men than at table. I don't mean the sort of flirting that often passes for same in most of America: overt, over the top, sorority or frat style teasing, on display and ill mannered. I mean the French style, which is practically a national pastime, the intent of which is mostly affirming, and inquiring, and subtle: the drop of the eyes, the interested posture, the gentle affirmation of manliness or femininity, and most of all the conversation.  It does not mean that you are extending an invitation to enjoy more intimate pleasures with the object of your flirtation, though the frisson of animated conversation and listening might suggest an elevated sensuality. But rather, to show genuine interest in another human being, particularly one of the opposite sex, if not to everyone, is to discover great wealth and pleasure in life, from which both the subject and the object of the exchange come away enriched and feeling alive.  The French make an effort at these sort of gatherings to be both witty and seduissant, and if you have never been invited to a French table for dinner, the conversation might seem daunting if not downright formidable, so effortlessly does it navigate the waters of culture and literature and art and theatre and politics and religion and sex.  Of course this is an exaggeration to make a point; not all French tables are so kissed by the Muses.  However, it is true that at such a gathering, one's intent is to make one's dinner partners feel seduissant, as if they are the most clever, fascinating and mysterious persons you have met in a long while.  The lovely thing about this is that when someone is made to feel this way, they often become just as they were made to feel, and the evening for both subject and object has been immeasurably enriched. Also, I think the point counterpoint between men and women, expertly matched, is an engaging dance, and to learn the steps, the pas de deux, of this dance, is an art all its own and equal to and complementary of the culinary triumphs to which it is married at table.

This is my tradition. Yet, my darling friend, who orchestrated this club, said absolutely at the outset that this evening was to be for women only. As she is as lovely a woman as I have ever known, I agreed to be one of its members, and the others were chosen by my friend for their ability to be what the French refer to as 'sympa', and for their culinary passion and skill.  And so we began.  And with each evening, hosted once a month, and skipping over the summer months, the kinship between us has grown and blossomed such that it is now nearly impossible to imagine not having been a part of this wonderful group of women, and been the fortunate recipient of so much wisdom and artisty. Each time I sit at table I am overtaken by the wonderful sense that my pleasure for the evening is in tremendously capable hands.  The candles flicker, the crystal carries their light, and as the faces of my friends are illumined and I hear once again the soft melodies of their voices, I see clearly how each one of these women is the artist for her family.  Each one has a unique style and beauty, and each is a talented cook. But even more, it is the hearts of these women that have captured me.  I think the Muses were indeed whispering in the ear of my friend as she assembled the group, for I have never known such a kindred group of women, each with nothing to take, and everything to give.

We leave each dinner greatly enriched and it is as if we have been ministered to over the course of the hours at table. The food, and the wines, and the ambiance to be sure, is soul food. But even more than this, the joyous voices around the table, elevates the beauty of the dinner into a kind of art that has its own redemptive quality.  At the last such dinner, we turned to one another about half way through the evening, and acknowledged that there was indeed a kind of deep magic afoot, and it had been growing on us since we arrived.  I don't think that magic has waned any over the course of the summer hiatus.  My friend had been correct. It was an inspired idea. And, we are planning to invite our men at the holiday dinner.

I am off to see to my contribution for tonight, which is a recipe from Tom Douglas our hostess for the evening has selected for one of the starter courses: Crab potato pancakes with lemon dill cream. 

En Plein Aire

The dining room at Crillon le Brave

Walking outside this morning, I noticed the car windows had a dew cover, and the wind was slightly chilly, almost as if its source was a glacier high up in the Cascades.  I was put in mind immediately of the south of France, where there is a wind called Le Mistral, which blows from the north down the Rhine, sometimes originating in Siberia.  The wind is believed to possess almost magical qualities, and has inspired as many writers of the region as it has surprised guests! It is a north wind, full of the ancient lore of that harbinger of change, no sweet feminine zephyr of the west. It is a funny thing: there is an eerie stillness before such a wind, at least on the few occasions I have experienced its passion. In the beautiful Norwegian fable East of the Sun and West of the Moon, the north wind was the only wind capable of flying a woman to its head in order that she might find her husband. In the Song of Solomon, the bride is calling for the North Wind to blow on her garden (an interesting suggestion!).  More recently, I remember the movie Chocolat, in which the main character, a woman, is sensitive to the call of the north wind, and roams at its beckoning, similarly as in the Norwegian fable, until she finds her home.

By far, however, my favorite association originates from the name Mistral itself: in the Langue d'oc, or ancient dialect of Provence, the native language, the word Mistral means "masterly." I have to admit to a long-standing affinity for that interpretation, as it seems fitting to me for a such a land rich in the heritage of poetry and love (a feminine grace), that the masterly (or masculine) wind which comes from the north should have the reputation of bringing good health, since the dry air dries stagnant water and the mud, giving the mistral the local name mange-fange (Eng. "mud-eater"). It also blows away pollution from the skies over the large cities and industrial areas and clears both the sky and air, giving it a fresh and renewed quality long admired by painters and artists, particularly the French impressionist and post impressionist painters. When other parts of France have clouds and storms, Provence is rarely affected for long, since the mistral quickly clears the sky. In less than two hours, the sky can change from completely covered to completely clear. The mistral also blows away the dust, and makes the air particularly clear, so that during the mistral it is possible to see mountains 150 kilometers and farther away.

The word often employed to refer to the Provencal soul is "felibre", by which the great poet Frederick Mistral proposed to refer to the poets of that region, true descendants of the ancient troubadours who presided over their birthright of spirit in the Courts of Love in the middle ages, led by the illustrious Eleanor of Acquitaine, whom I have long admired.  This organization of  Felibrige sought to preserve both this ancient tongue as well as provided "a rendezvous for high poetry and high sentiment," in the words of Lawrence Durell, in his wonderful book Aspects of Provence: Caesar's Vast Ghost. Thinking about this on my walk this morning, I remembered once, in the autumn, when I was staying in a splendid village in Provence called "Crillon le Brave", at the foot of Mount Ventoux, a mistral blew in to that "Village Perche", or village perched on a hill. I had come once again to this beloved place in late September to enjoy the "Vendange", the grape harvest, from which all of my favorite Rhone Wines are fashioned: Sablet, Seguret, Gigondas, Vacqueras, Chateauneuf des Papes.  (The cellar at Unnamed House is unusually partial to these wines, and when I drink them at home, the merest sip can transport me, so redolent are they of that terroir, where the land and sky and air all seem to conspire to seduce the heart, or at least mine.)   In almost an instant, the late summer afternoon, full of warmth and welcome, became the chill and wind of late autumn. I remember thinking distinctly at the time that I had traded my lovely terrace bistro table near the fountain (after which one of my terraces is designed), where I sat with my watercolors and journal,  for the Salon, where I quickly repaired to enjoy my aperitif.  That night, too, dinner, which had been planned for a terrace overlooking the vallee, was instead enjoyed by the roaring hearth.  Even the menu and my choices changed rather dramatically, but not necessarily for the worse.

 For several weeks now I have been noticing the change in the quality of light, as I do each year in late August and early September: the shadows are harsher, the light more pungeant, without its mid-summer softness. It is a more masculine air which begins to blow in the autumn, and I often find myself musing as to whether this air will bring with it fresh perspectives and clarity of vision to balance the soft impressions and sensual delights of the summer loveliness.  Though I mourn the loss of summer, which is easily my favorite season, I do look with relish to the season of braises, and Sunday roasts, and bubbling gratins taken from the oven and served with crusty bread and salad. I wonder that these comforts and pleasures are not the attempt of women, or woman, for that matter, to bring some feminine quality to the blowing in of this stark clarity and the health born of cooler air, however beneficial. It is as if she knows, in her heart, that with the mistral comes the need for an almost critical evaluation, and the mistral, while short lived in the scheme of the seasons, can be difficult to weather. Like the great ladies of those Courts of Love, playing their Courtly games and singing the love poems of the troubadours, perhaps we, as women, are busy trying to insist on an approach, within which love, the finest of sentiments, could find its own way in the midst of the clarifying storm.  Love and War, the great musician Monteverdi argued, were two sides of the same coin.

Nor is the word love used frivolously. Eleanor of Acquitaine and her companions in these courts of love were walking in pathways traced by Plato, in which Love was a form of metaphysical inquiry. But this heritage was also the heritage of the Athenian mind, which Plato reflected, and which had a splendid interplay of masculine objectivity and feminine delight in the beautiful: the ability to look clear-eyed at reality, without the cloud of sentiment, a key to health, and yet, the capacity to find the world lovely, full of wonder and delight, and at the same time lovely to live in: mind and spirit. The little pleasures, too, the everyday keepings, were also felt with keen enjoyment: "Dear to us as ever," says Homer, "is the banquet and the harp and the dance and changes of raiment and the warm bath and love and sleep." Never since has eating and drinking seemed so delightful as in the early Greek lyrics, argues Edith Hamilton, in her book The Greek Way, "nor a meeting with friends, nor a warm fire on a winter's night--'the stormy season of winter, the soft couch after dinner by the fire, honey-sweet wine in your glass and nuts and beans at your elbow.'"  Yes, Love was a form of metaphysical inquiry to these Courts of Love, and through their poetical thinking, the future, as their children would experience it, was greatly enriched, beginning with Petrarch, the great poet and student, and the opening of lines of inquiry that hearkened these early Greeks and led to a renaissance of learning.  And the poets and troubadours and gallants also shared in this influence, such that the notion of femininity and womanhood was rendered rich and multi-faceted, even as the north wind blew in a new clarity of vision.

For now, for a few delicious weeks, it seems, we sit on this precipice, perched, like my village perche, on the crest of the feminine and the masculine, on heart and head, mind and spirit, on the axis of poetic and masterful.  Summer to Autumn. Is there an eerie stillness in the face of the masterful? It puts me in mind of some "mistrals" of the spirit I have weathered of late, and how in their aftermath, they have brought to me a clarity of mind and a heart more open to the Spirit of God, who is the true Source, the head of all winds. I think this is what Love is, the love that died on the Cross and gave his life for us. The Love that redeems our hearts with each new mistral given to bring us clarity: it has both aspects. It is clarity and grace. It is clear-eyed and full of mercy. But for now, I plan to enjoy the transition of the seasons, and will add these two seasons from Vivald's Four Seasons to my dinner concert this night. However, I'm not quite ready for a braise: I think, instead, I will eat en plein aire, and marinate and grill some chicken, threaded on rosemary stalks cut for me last evening from my parterre garden by my son and his friend Peter, and brought to me in a beautiful, autumnal bouquet. I might even dance.

Slow Food

Table in the garden of the Muses at Unnamed House

In the introduction to her first book, Chez Panisse Menu Cooking, Alice Waters, the founder of the restaurant by the same name, and a woman with a superb palate and appreciation for the impact of ritual on life, writes about a scene in a film by Les Blank of the morning coffee ritual of an old Southern lady.  She writes: "We watch her reach into her store of coffee beans for a handful, which she puts into a pan on the stove to roast. When she is satisfied with the degree and depth of roast, she shakes the fragrant beans into a handcranked coffee grinder and proceeds to pulverize them into a cloth napkin filter.  Then she boils the water and pours it through a coffee-filled filter to produce a cup of coffee for herself--one you know must be wonderful. She sits and drinks her coffee in a totally intimate and relaxed manner, and eventually rises to wash out the napkin and hang it out to dry.  The ritual is important because she is making a celebration out of the act of making coffee for herself."  Hidden in this little vignette is a jewel: that secreted in life's keepings are much of its magic, and that the ritual with which we approach our everyday life, causing us to slow down and savor its making, unlocks graces of varying degrees.

The line from the Stevie Nicks' song, Landslide, "Time makes you bolder, and children, get older, and I'm gettin' older too..." played in my head this year, as I approached my 50th birthday.  In the past, I have often felt driven for a larger life, a larger venue on which to make an impact on the world.  Maybe it's the frustrated rock star in me, the girl who played and sang in a band and dreamed of life on stage. But in the past couple of years, I have begun to go back to my roots, and have found more and more that my true theatre is really in living deeply, and meaningfully, rather than largely, and maybe even the larger the life, the fewer chances to do that.  I think back on long summer holidays in the south of France and how the memories of these langorous days and nights, the long dinners on the lavender-filled terrace, listening to the cicadas and drinking wine with close friends, the talks I had with my children, the savoured walks through the vineyard paths, each have brought great riches to the months and years that follow, like a continuing gift.  Realizing that my children are growing up, and leaving behind the pure innocence of childhood, I have searched for a way to hang on to a last few idyllic summers with them.  And so this summer, we began to reconcile our summer lives with those of our remembered holidays. The holidays became the muse for our summer.

Instead of running errands continuously and driving all over town, we chose to use our car only one day a week, during which we did our large grocery shopping and ran any necessary errands. The rest of the time we walked or cycled as we would have in Europe, and my son became a consummate shopper on his bike: choosing the ripest organic nectarines and grapes, purchasing organic milk and eggs (which suffered a little for the handlebar delivery).  We discovered all sorts of treasures on our footsore adventures: setting up our French easels on the newly rennovated Spanish steps to sketch and paint the Port from a perfect outlook; a little Pho noodle shop; some enchanted forest paths filled with wild berries and birdsong.  My daughter has mastered the climbing of the Dawn Redwood in our backyard, and I have marvelled at her grace in scaling its heights. Even her attempts at cartwheels have improved dramatically, and she has revelled in her prowess for acrobatic feats on the lawns. I found I had time to walk each morning, something I have loved all my life but was too often crowded out by the haste. One of the things  I have particularly enjoyed about my walks in the mornings this summer has been the opportunity to see up close the number of people engaged in growing their own food.  There are victory gardens all over my hometown, and not only in a backyard plot, but in the full view of the front of the house space is cultivated for a "secret garden, hidden in plain sight" to quote the journalist Katrina Heron, describing the Victory Garden at the Civic Center Plaza in San Francisco.  Even the schools past which I roam have raised beds, lush with crops ready for harvest. Had we not slowed down our summer, we would have missed most of the pleasures we discovered. And some of these pleasures came from others who have slowed down to grow and harvest, and so to reap. 

So, too, in the keeping of the house has this 'slow' approach manifest an abundance of pleasure. Rather than a frenzied dash here or there, the slower pace has allowed for the pleasures of a clothes line in the service garden, where sheets which are laundered with lavender water are then hung on the line to gather the scent of the breezes before being ironed and tied with a French blue ribbon, linen closet bound. Some days, I have simply put them back on the beds after ironing them, so we might all savor the fresh scent of summer as we drifted off to sleep. My summer whites and linens have enjoyed the same treatment, as have my kimonos, and the pleasure of wearing one of those crisply ironed white blouses or a breeze-scented kimono before bed has graced my summer. Even those French unmentionables have benefitted from their hours of sunlight. The house is filled with beautiful music: pieces composed for a garden fete at Versailles by Lully, collections of ballads, the Bach Brandenberg concerti; La Mer by Debussy, Ella singing Cole Porter, Neil Young. The dinner concert has been the subject of much discussion, and my son is now putting his own play lists together in hopes the dinner hour will welcome his Owl City or Jack Johnson favorites.   My daughter has become quite skilled at various kinds of flower arrangements, cut from garden shrubs, which grace the rooms of our house. And the rooms have been picked up, mopped and dusted nearly every day, to make up for the lovely luxury of open windows and cool rooms, and this itself is a luxury of cleanliness and serenity.  The serenity allows room to listen, and makes a haven away from the chaos of life.

Perhaps the truest theatre of my everyday life, however, is that of dinner, the actors of which are my family, and too rarely my close friends, and the Script the sharing of our day together as the dusk cloaks the sun and we are wrapped in that delicious fairy light of shadow and alpenglow. In our family, dinner is a 'thing,' as my son references it. It is the focal point of our day, when we all come together at table, candles blazing.  It is the consummate daily ritual, for which a lot of thought is given and effort invested. The daily menus are a source of much family discussion, and though I am chef, I am chef for a family table for which everyone contributes suggestions and ideas, and offers critiques of the menus lovingly prepared by the resident cook. Carlo Pettrini, the Italian leader of the global movement "Slow Food", to promote the unhurried pleasures of the table, argues that "Chefs... should cook for a village, teach children, feed old people in [care] homes, prepare food in hospitals. The cook is a social being. Now we have an overdose of recipes, recipes, recipes - this television bombardment is pornographic. Traditionally making food is an act of love, and there is a difference between pornography and making love."  He goes on to argue: "Eating is no longer about love, but about consuming fuel. A woman cooks some food, and no one smiles at her or says thank you. Neither is there any fascination with food. In Mediterranean Europe, there is still that fascination, still the conviviality, the ritual. The most important thing about eating is to enjoy the moment of affection between family members, or friends or work colleagues. A civilisation that loses this ritual becomes very poor. It's especially important for children to learn again how to experience communal eating."  Bravo, Mr. Petrini, a man, who, incidentally, I would like very much to meet.  One summer night, when a close friend was staying with me visiting, along with her daughters, we decided to have an impromptu dinner under the stars to celebrate her visit. Her daughter and my son set a long table of their own design under some twinkling lights, which they hung like stars above the table, and added a white cloth and green French bistro chairs.  The menu was composed of things purchased from the farmers' market earlier, and the feast had many hands lovingly preparing the courses in my kitchen, and we invited close friends and their children.  The rustic food, flowing wine and fading light, made for rich conversation, the likes of which I hadn't had in a long time, and reminded me of nights in French Switzerland with my grandparents and cousins, drinking cognac and discussing philosophy until all hours. The ritual of slow food helps us listen to each other, I think. And this is the beginning of Love.

The food need not be complicated or precious. Though I am trained in more formal cooking, it is often the slow, rustic dinners that capture my heart. This summer, my son has become a superb pasta maker, and can turn out a plate of fresh pasta in 15 minutes, having allowed the dough to rest first.  But it is much nicer when we sit together at the marble breakfast table and roll it out together, liesurely talking of his latest design for a Rokenbok bridge or the fort he is planning to construct on our next trip to Big Sur, or even his impressions of Robinhood, which he has just finished reading during our hour long reading sieste, on the chaise lounges in the Muse garden each day after lunch.  Sometimes he even asks me what I think of the book I'm reading, and this has led to some wonderful conversations about theology, poetry, history and mystery. A couple of times each week, we make pizza dough together, letting it rise slowly all the day long, covered with a clean dish towel, which is the secret to its flavor. Bread dough is a magic all its own, and in good bread is all the wonder and mystery of redemption, of Life and Health. It is so simple to make, and there are endless variations: you can substitue a little whole wheat flour to make it slightly chewier or heartier, but I like it simple best.  Take 3/4 cup of warm water and add to it a package of yeast, sprinkling it on top, and a little milk or a little sugar--just a couple of teaspoons of milk or a slight teaspoon of sugar to give the yeast a little food. Let it stand a minute, and then add a couple of tablespoons of olive oil, and a couple of cups of 00 flour. If you dont' have any 00 flour, just use bread flour, or even all purpose flour.  Bring it together and kneed it for 8-10 minutes, and then put it in a ceramic bowl brushed with a little olive oil, covered with a clean dish towel, and let it rise, in moderately warm place all the day long.  When it is time for dinner, roll it out with a little more flour so that it is not sticky, first into a smooth ball, then pressed with your fingers to make a round disk, then rolled out with a pin or stretched if you know how to do this. Put it on a pizza pan, and brush it with olive oil and sprinkle it with sea salt. From here on out, you can add whatever toppings you like best, but keep it simple. Sometimes I just add a little garlic to the olive oil to perfume it, and sprinkle on chopped rosemary with the seasalt, and serve with the aperitifs.  Simple pies are best.  Bake in a 500 degree oven, well heated, on a stone if you like, or just on the pizza pan.  Or make little pies and top them, hot from the oven with a cold salad vinaigrette for a delicious piadini you can fold and eat like a sandwich.  This is food fit for a king, or for any and every man, or woman, or child. Slow Food. Lovingly prepared.

As I was reflecting on all of this over the long holiday weekend, I was reminded of the counsel given me by my Spiritual Director, not long after making his acquaintance.  He is a wise man, and an Anglican priest, and he has helped me significantly in the time I have known him, more from his own approach to embracing Life with a capital L than from his lessons, though they, too, have brought a great wealth to my own Life.  I wrote him a letter, intending to tell him all the reasons I really did not need his help after he had graciously offered it, which speaks volumes about my own pride.  Yet, in the writing of this letter, something happened to my heart. Looking back, I can only say it was Grace, breaking in, that opened the door.  I heard something which stopped me long enough to listen to my heart. In his first instructions to me (he is rather directive, which has itself been a lesson for independent, self-reliant annie!), he said only three words: "annie, Slow Down!"  He has been teaching me to Listen, and while it is still not and never has been my strong suit, I have learned that the real jewel of our everyday rituals, whether in making our morning coffee or walking or preparing dinner together, is the opportunity to Listen with my heart, yes, to my family and my friends, but also to Him, who has called us his Friends.  There is a kind of meditation which comes from Listening, if only we can slow down long enough to practice it.  Written on each of our hearts is the theme which runs through all of Creation, and which points to the Reality behind the everyday reality of what we see and do and feel.  In the melodies of this meditation is written the music of Heaven.  Another wise man recently suggested to me that to meditate each day is a kind of self-emptying, the practice of which is a lesson in surrender (to lose our lives to find them, as Jesus said), useful as a reminder for the remainder of the day.  I think he is correct in this. But I know for myself, that slowing down the pace of my life has opened my heart. And that is the beginning of Love breaking in.  Slow Food.

Mirrors of Infinity

The garden at Vaux le Vicomte

It is not often recognized that every garden embodies a philosophy, and indeed, tells a story. One of the delicious aspects of touring gardens, for me, is the opportunity to play the detective and attempt to decipher what this story may have been, or may be. When in the course of teaching history as a volunteer in my children's classes, I am often amazed at the fascination which even relatively young students have for the approach to beauty, philosophy and theology, not to mention historical intruigue, which lies in the well worn pathways and structure of a historic landscape garden.   Humanity is and has been fascinated by gardens, since the beginning of time, and it is children, in my experience, that understand this best of all. Gardens are magical; they enfold us in a cloister of imagination and sensory impression that seems to transport us to a lost world which we know, somewhere deep inside of us, embodies all the hidden Meaning for which we spend our lifetimes searching. It is the secret gardens of our childhood, hidden doors and pathways to uncover and reclaim, follies to erect and inhabit, that still, as adults, capture our heartsongs in the quiet hours.  At our summer property in Big Sur, California (the wild and lovely place), a wild and lovely garden of God's own design, my own urchins love nothing better than to roam free and enjoy its many pleasures just as their Father once did: crawdads in the river; a wild turkey crossing the road; the scent of wild lavender and rosemary and thyme and santolina in the hills and gathered for Mommy in big bouquets to set on the little table;  the grand cathedral of awe inspiring Redwood trees.

In my own garden at the House Which Shall be Unnamed, though it is modest, there are many statues, fountains and French-style stone urns, and if you, dear reader, were to follow their progression through the garden, beginning with Venus springing from her foamy shell, through the passageways into the garden of the Muses (our pleasure garden), and up the hidden steps to the secret gate, you would eventually come to Apollo, guardian of the Muses and god of sun and wisdom, and the parterre garden and potager (French for vegetable garden).  Apollo rests between two trees, which, alas, though they are not Laurel (though the hedge nearby is), hearken to his desire to be near his beloved Daphne, however unrequited his ardor. The garden at Unnamed House tells a story, a very private story and a very public one at the same time, and in some post to follow I will write a little of both, if you find it of interest.  However, because of the great gold mining caper which my son and his friends undertook in my garden in the early Spring in order to reclaim their budding manhood from the chains of city life (more on this, too, in another posting), and our early, several week summer trip to the wild and lovely place, our potager did not materialize this year as it usually does, and the walk up the secret steps into the sunlight and bounty is not what it has been in previous years.  We have all felt cut off from a part of Life, as if the cultivation of our own food were so central to our summer liturgy that we are somewhat lost without the ritual of ambling up the steps in the misty mornings, coffee in gloved hand, to weed, or water, or harvest. We are poorer still,  for the after dinner promenade, initiated by my husband, which was a kind of benediction (blessing) on our day, to see the soft evening sun fade into velvet shadows and leave its last kisses on the ripening tomatoes, our wine glasses in hand, dreaming of tomorrow's harvest.  The urchins have especially mourned the loss of it, and my son forgets the heavy digging and my daughter the weeding, and they remember only the pleasures.  My cooking, too, has suffered its absence, for the little Sussex trug that holds the garden bounty and which the urchins bring triumphantly to the marble table in the kitchen for admiration each day, looks empty and forlorn this year.  I miss the menus, devised from the garden bounty: the Salade Nicoise from just dug fingerling potatoes, the selenderest haricots verts harvested minutes before being immersed in gallons of salted water, and the ripest heirloom tomatoes, which, together with Nicoise olives, grilled salmon and a sherry vinaigrette, are a  feast fit for a King. Though I try to cook this way from the market, it is never the same experience. To harvest magnificent food, prepare it lovingly and eat it en famille is a love song, a hymn of praise, a fellowship wrought from the garden which recalls our fellowship with God, walking in the cool of the evening, in Eden. Next year.

To grow our own food is a revelation, and in my family there is long history of eating from the garden. Both my grandmothers, excellent cooks each in her own right, cooked from their own gardens, and my European grandmother ate little else, harvesting and eating mostly the fruits from her own trees, and that which didn't make it into one of her delicious apricot tarts, for example, the consumption of which is practically a sacramental experience for my family, was preserved for the winter (to be used in more apricot tarts!).  She was a phenomenal French cook and her vegetable garden, vast and abundant, is a continuing inspiration to mine. As a very small child, I remember going with my American father, to his mother's house, my other grandmother, and sitting perched on a high chair while he cultivated and hoed and did the heavy work in her garden. Sometimes she would cook us lunch for "our" efforts, too, or we would devour raw oysters on the half shell with her mignonette sauce, seated around the counter in the kitchen. It was she who taught me to love the briny sensuality of an impeccably fresh oyster, and how to make mignonette sauce, and I adore them today beyond all reason, especially with a glass of Cremant.  These are the ties that bind, the memories that become the Muses in our own gardens and help to cultivate the story of our own life. Even today, though my grandmother has been gone these many years, when I let a Hamma Hamma oyster from the great waterway at the foot of the Olympic mountains slide down my throat, I am with her again, listening to her read Endymion to me, oyster in one hand, Keats in the other.

In France, a woman, is the artist of life. From an early age, she is taught to cultivate her own private garden from whose harvest she may draw inspiration for this art which she brings to her family. The garden is not to be shared with the Man in her life, except in the way that the harvest is shared.  It is a secret garden, cultivated lovingly and deliberately, enriched with the soil of beautiful fables, and delicious morsels.  She visits her garden alone, and takes from it the treasure of its yield. The garden is a metaphor for her mind and her heart, I believe, and the riches grown there are her source of strength and beauty, for all of life. Each aspect of her cultivation should be chosen with care: books that help reveal all that is Good and True and Beautiful; memorized poems that comfort the alone times; great stories that encourage her imagination and delight; great art that inspires and challenges; theology and poetry and music and art and culture for certain. But even more so, if she is like I am, and has a faith, her personal relationship with the Living God, the Creator of gardens, the Gardener himself. This garden is her collection of jewels, the reflection of which brings her mystery and which provides her much inspiration for her ability to make art of life, from a garden.  I wonder that this isn't what God had in mind when he first placed us in a garden, that in its cultivation, walking with him, we might live as artists, in step with Creation, surely the greatest art known to us yet. Perhaps this is why Christ, as the new Adam, comes to us as the Gardener, the High Priest whose role it is to prune and cultivate our hearts such that we might see this art and know its LIFE as He does.

Statues are as much a part of the life of a French garden as is water, and are believed to give it life and meaning.  Perhaps they remind us that life is most about Meaning and less about Most. It is said that Louis XIV once learned the old Greek and Roman stories, which were called Fables, from a pack of cards, and used these to inspire his commissions for the gardens at Versailles (those he did not steal from Vaux le Vicomte, but that is a story for another post).  My son has not needed these cards to learn the fables, as the ingenious series of books based upon Greek mythology written by Rick Riordan, and which he devoured last year, has done it for him, and he loves to recount for me the stories hidden in our garden statues.  (My daughter, alternately, likes best to play the Muse rather than speak of the Muses. She, too, is hearkening to her French-Swiss heritage?) In the days of Louis, the Jesuits assiduously taught these stories to their pupils, especially the Metamorphosis by Ovid, which I love, and the stories herein were the prime reference for artists, the kind of artists who worked at the gardens at Vaux and at Versailles: Le Brun, Mansart, Le Notre, Lully, Moliere.  La Fontaine, the great French poet of this era, whose own fables are enchanting, wrote about the demise of the beautiful garden at Vaux, partially dismantled by Louis, in fabled terms, and I have never forgotten these words, which haunt my quiet hours in the same way as the loss of my own potager, both of which hearken the loss of Eden, such a tragedy it is that a garden, and our communion there, should fall into demise:
In your deep, echoing grottos, fill the air with cries,
Weep, O you nymphs of Vaux, and make your waters rise,
And may the swollen stream wreak havoc on the treasure
Strewn by Flora on its banks where her bounty beyond measure...
The fates are satisfied, Orontes is unhappy.
La Fontaine's readers did not need to be reminded that the poem referenced the plight of Fouquet, owner of Vaux le Vicomte, and to join with the anger of the gods, whose statues were familiar from the gardens at Vaux.

The history of how great waterways were introduced and engineered into European gardens, echoing the Roman gardens, is a fascinating one all its own, which in some future post I hope to explore with you.  Initially, water was a source of surprise and delight, with an edge of malice laced between to provide danger and mystery. La Fontaine captured this well, in his quip: A thousand rain like jets come by surprise, to soak the imprudent and to soak the wise."  But by the end of the 16th century, such devices began to be viewed as childish.  Instead, water began to be utilized in grand canals that defined and gave structure to the garden, such that they provided a central axis that acted as a grand mirror. The mirror was intended to reflect Infinity, to remind the garden guest that the garden was merely a reflection of something much greater at work. Water began to be used in cascades and waterfalls, water chains or "rivieres" such that the sound of water almost seemed to bring to life the statues of the gods and heroes that lined their banks.  The water brought the garden Life, and mirrored the infinite Source of Life. It baptised the garden with Life's music, without which the structure and pleasure that existed there was but a poor shadow of what it might be. There were two competing ethos guiding the world of the Italian Renaissance garden on which all of  what followed in the reign of Louis XIV was based: Pagan and Christian.  Sumptuous gardens were sites created for sensual pleasure and sheer divertissement, but they might also be for sacred aesthetic contemplation or meditation. I think perhaps that the first is merely a distant echo of the second.  The garden is a powerful metaphor, for what we cultivate and what is cultivated within us. It is not by accident that we are drawn to gardens.  It is the Gardener who has made it so. We are created in His image, made for life in the Garden and this incomprehensible, yet knowable, Artist of Creation, has written it on our hearts.

A Sensual Feast

Paris Perfect Apartment in the 7th Arrondisement



When I am fortunate enough to go to Paris, indulged by my family, one of my favorite things to do in the afternoons, weary from a long day of walking in shoes for a lady rather than an athlete (more on the pleasures and theology of walking to come), is to sit outside in a cafe, winter or no, and sketch.  Yes, in Paris, a woman is first, and gloriously, a woman, shoes and all. A glass of wine in hand, I take out my sketching pencils and take aim at whatever door or window, plate of food or poster for a Moliere play has caught my fancy. I tell myself it is the light, which is somehow different in France, though less so than in Provence, where it is truly magical. Or, perhaps, I imagine, it is the rich material from which to draw inspiration. Or maybe it is the case that my active mind and body have become more accepting of impressions, more open, away as I am from the press of my life.  But I know, in part, it is the ritual of these long-honored traditions I have kept, almost vigil-like, that connects me to Life where I sit.  As I draw open the lovely tin of pencils, which was a birthday gift, and retrieve my sketch pad from my basket, this ritual of connecting to the feel and touch of Paris out of doors, mapping the sinuous, sensual Metro signs with my drawing eye, causes me to See in a new way. I see Paris with my heart.

Later, returned to the apartment, I love to paint with my watercolors what it is I have attempted, however badly, to sketch. Seated at the little marble table which has a view to the Eiffel Tower from the picture postcard balcony (if I can afford to successfully rent the apartment I particularly love), and situated in the leafy 7th arrondisement, I can almost pretend I live there. And while I am in residence, I do, however sanitized the experience may be (no bureaucratic red tape to negotiate or maddening repairs to navigate).  I shop at the local markets for food, spend magical mornings chatting with the farmers at the marche biologique; take in an ancient music concert at the Cluny museum, seated in the old Roman ruin of an amphitheatre; eat a languorous many-course lunch in one of my favorite little bistros, tucked away happily; and spend happy hours at the little postage stamp size shop called Sennelier, where I imagine just what it must have been like to be one of the California Impressionist painters whose paintings I love, studying in Paris, and purchasing paint here.  The shop hasn't changed much in all that time, and there are still the worn banks of wooden drawers loaded with pigments over which I love to run my fingers, shiny with the patina of years; little shelves of travel watercolors I adore for their pragmatic and aesthetically pleasing simplicity; and the delightful, musty scent of the past.  These scents call Paris to life. The intoxicating scent of the little fraises des bois in the markets: wild strawberries, gorgeous enough to paint and begging to be savored, slowly, sensually, one at a time, redolent as they are of everything sweet, without being cloying.  The bubbling aroma of a gratin dauphinois, one of the great culinary indulgences, as it arrives at my table over lunch.  The scent of the fromagerie, where I buy cheese, that reminds me of the corridor in Tante Gaby's house in French Switzerland, always full of edible treasures, resting in the cool below the reception rooms above the stairs.  These scents are a bond, indelibly imprinted on my memory.  It is Memory, which first gave Life to the Muses, and this sensual memory forges a bond beyond my conscious recognition that lends Inspiration to many months to come when I am away from this place I love.

But at night, armed with my basket of edible treasures, spread out on the table to admire, I cook. It might be as simple as a little composed salad, Frisee aux Lardons (See Patricia Wells' Bistro Cooking for a wonderful recipe; it would make a perfect beginning of September supper), gathered from the market earlier in the day, and some grilled levain toast, rubbed with olive oil and garlic and the open face of a tomato, and sprinkled with sea salt.  It too is a ritual of sensual pleasure. The glass vial of olive oil, gleaming its Chartreuse-like hues, reminds me of the annointings for which it has been used for centuries, and I wonder that it brings to this bread which I eat, a kind of sacred form, though of a paler sort, the sort that gives thanks for bounty and for the pure magic of wonderful bread. Touching the just gathered eggs, and the baby lettuces full of autumn colors, admiring the voluptuous tomatoes, and the tiny shallots, I remember: long ago, foraging for wild mushrooms and wild greens with my grandmother in French Switzerland, setting our treasures on the table to admire, and she comes back to me, almost Present.  The touch of that beautiful food brings her near, almost sacramentally. And so cooking becomes a kind of liturgy, wrought of memory and beautiful elements, of sensual impression, of learned repetitions, almost instinctive now, the rhythm and ritual of which is a meditation.  Cooking in Paris this way is a love poem, set to music by the taste, and touch, and feel and scent of Living.

In that same museum in Paris, the Cluny, is a series of six spectacular medieval tapestries, one for each of the five senses, and one last one, which is called "A mon seul desir" (To my only desire).  The tapestries are called La Dame et le Licorne, the Lady and the Unicorn, and depict a noble woman, pure, and a unicorn, a medieval symbol representing Christ.   I have loved these tapestries for nearly thirty years, as has my sister, and together, we have made a little pilgrimage to Paris to see them. I visit them each time I am in Paris.  While their meaning is obscure, and has been debated for centuries, it is clear enough for me.  They are believed to depict Love and Understanding (Wisdom). However mysterious and fascinating are many of their hidden messages and meanings, they are a picture of Meaning as understood sacramentally.  We are created in the world of matter and form, and God has given us the ritual of the sacraments because he knows we need them.  He knows how we learn and how we remember, and how the senses, engaged by our hearts through memory, act as as kind of Muse.  Through these rituals and signs is a window, through which we begin to understand Love in all its dimensions, if only our hearts are open and teachable, and our senses Alive.

Scott Hahn, the well known Catholic theologian, writes in his book on the Sacraments that "the One who made matter and spirit redeems matter and spirit; and He uses matter and spirit to redeem us as well. In his earthly life and in his sacramental mysteries, Jesus Christ, the Creator and Redeemer of the world, uses matter, physical reality, to accomplish our redemption."  The sacraments, the signs of the taste and touch and feel and sound of heaven, if you will, are not permanent institutions.  They help us to See with our hearts.  They are our participation now in the the life we hope to know more fully. Now we know him though signs which bring his Presence near to us, as through a glass darkly.   Then, we will see Him as He is and we will have no need of signs.