The fruits of 22 labours

It's been some time since I've written any kind of a book report here. Let me amend that lapse now. I know that's what you're all have been clamouring for at the backs of your minds, without really even knowing it. 

I won't go through all the historical books I read last summer - for after checking my reading diary I noticed that there is quite a number of them, most dealing with the Austen/Napoleon period, most appropriately. The memory of most of those, however, has now been blocked by Wolf Hall - which I'm reading now, and which is every bit as fantastic as they say it is. The (perhaps only) problem with a book of that stature is that it tends to overshadow everything else I'm reading at the time, diluting the pleasure of other books by reminding just how good prose can get. 

Fortunately Wolf Hall is facing some fierce competition; one of the books I read about a month ago refuses to be blotted out by another. I'm talking about Stella Tillyard's Aristocrats, a real-life story of four Lennox sisters whose lives spanned the latter part of the 18th century. The book has been made into a TV series, and that's how I first became aware of  the lives  of these quite amazing women some years ago. The splendour of the setting is one thing (after all, Caroline, Emily, Louisa and Sarah Lennox were aristocrats born and bred, and wed into well-connected and wealthy families), but what strikes me most is the sheer tenacity of the Lennox women and their strong mutual affection and loyalty, which must have carried them through some hard times.

I mean, if you've given birth to 22 children (like Emily did), you'll be mighty glad of some family support. 

Tudor times were also an era when family connections paid off; this at least was emphasised in Philippa Gregory's The Other Boleyn Girl.  I really liked the novel, especially Gregory's effortless depiction of Renaissance England and the court of Henry VIII, as well as her frank descriptions of the ribaldries that went on there. Placing Mary Boleyn in the centre of the story (instead of her more illustrious sister) is a good choice, as it gives the plot an element of suspense (after all, we all know what happened to Anne Boleyn). Yet I was somewhat disappointed in the rather straightforward solution of making Anne the scheming shrew and Mary the motherly lady-in-waiting who is all heart and loving tenderness. The Career Woman vs. the Mother debate in a nutshell = one gets her head chopped off, another gets to settle down with a good man of her choice.

Another book which gave me some ambivalent feelings is Mrs Caliban and Other Stories by Rachel Ingalls, which I just finished. I liked the slightly twisted starting points of the stories (including people being kidnapped by grannies in Switzerland, cheating their wives with a lifelike doll, or getting caught in a rain of frogs), but their solutions were depressingly rather similar. Most of the men (boyfriends, husbands, bosses) were portrayed as heartless bastards who only use women for their own gratification and start slapping them around when they show some character. That may work well to illustrate an important point in one novel, but after seven or eight of the same, the reader (or at least I) begins to feel the need of some more life-affirming stuff. 

Perhaps that's why I've been listening to a lot of Monty Python lately.

This is just to say...

  I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold 

                          (William Carlos Williams) 


...and that the Austen/Napoleon party went brilliantly.

... that it's still sweltering hot, and I'm still enjoying it.

... and also that I have a new groovy tablecloth. 


That is all.

Another party, another pie

A week from now, another SHS party will (hopefully) be in full swing. So far, the preparations have gone without a hitch: our dresses are coming along nicely (thanks to Juska's unflagging effort), most people who've promised to come are probably going to turn up, and most importantly, the menu is looking good. At least for the most part.

The one thing that has been causing me some brief moments of anxiety is the vegetarian option. As far as I know, all of our guests are meat-eaters, but it's always best to be prepared; also, an extra dish never goes amiss especially as the party's going to be an all-night one. 

Following the tradition established last year, we (Otter and I) decided that some kind of vegetable pie will do this job nicely. The Renaissance version was delicious; in fact, I'm so fond of the cheese-and-onion tart that I make it on a regular basis. Thus I was confident that the Regency era would yield something equally tasty. But I was wrong. Most of the pies I've come across are either very simple (and thus not very festive) carrot-leek-parsnip-cabbage affairs - or else they have bacon in them. The time of Jane Austen doesn't appear to be very  vegetarian-friendly. Another explanation for the dearth of suitable recipes is that there are tons of websites dedicated to Middle Ages/Renaissace cooking, and a lot fewer specialising in the short and apparently rather uninteresting era between the French Revolution and the Victorians.

Luckily, with a lot of googling, I finally came across a recipe that's both authentic and pork-free.  Actually, the version I made is a combination of two different tarts, which have the same basic idea: cheese, eggs, spices + something green. I chose a mixture of nettles and herbs, which works quite well, but I'm not yet completely satisfied with the result. At least straight from the oven the taste is rather bitter (despite the sugar), and now I'm trying to figure out how to sweeten it. Adding raisins would be an option, but as there are currants and sultanas in the desserts, I think there is a possibility of dried grape overload. Perhaps a different type of cheese would solve the problem.

Well, I'm going north for the next few days, which both gives me the opportunity to get away from this mind-paralysing heat, and also to pick my mother's brain regarding the pie dilemma. I'm sure she'll have some constructive ideas.  

In addition to puzzling out the party menu, today I've also tried to figure out how to do my hair. The basic idea has been quite clear to me for several months, and I've tried different approahces, but finally I've hit on the perfect solution. The curly Greek do has the advantage that although it takes almost an hour to get the pin curls done (and a whole night to let them to their job), the bun itself is ridiculously simple to construct, and with the right amount of hair spray (which I'm sure Miss Austen would have heartily approved of) stays in place for hours and hours.

The picture makes the do look duller than it is IRL (I'm rubbish at taking pictures of myself, and my camera certainly doesn't make the job any easier), but at least I've managed to hold a suitably haughty stance. Which will come in useful when I'm dressed in my purple coronation gown. No Lizzie Bennet bonnets for me - when I do costume drama, I go straight for the royalty. ;)

Confessions of a Rosewater Eater

Rosewater is not a staple spice in traditional (or even in the contemporary, more cross-culinary) Finnish cooking; therefore it took me a long while to realise it had such a wide range of uses. In this country, liquids that smell of rose are usually reserved for cosmetic purposes, which is a shame. 

As I happen to have a bottle of rosewater in my fridge, I've been looking for new foods to put it in. Yesterday I came across a mention of medieval rosewater wafers, which were enjoyed at most festive occasions. Because of the wonders of the internet, I was able to find a recipe (here) and with some alterations, came up with the beauties pictured above. The main difference was that I didn't use a wafer iron, but a frying pan  - just like when making contemporary pancakes. 

My love affair with rose water officially began about a year ago, when Otter and I got the wonderful idea of trying out milk jelly according to an authentic Tudor recipe (as documented here).  Although the gentle aroma of the slippery cubes didn't appeal to everyone, at least they were unlike anything we'd ever  tasted before. Thus they were served as "second dessert" at our Renaissance party, along with lovely fruit and some anachronistic coffee, and if not universally adored, at least got sampled by all of our  brave guests.

(The photo above courtesy of this guy who unfortunately isn't a fan of the white wobbly stuff.)

The preparations for next summer's period frock party have already begun, and one manifestation thereof can be seen above. Those are  Rout Drop Cakes, the recipe for which I found in The Jane Austen Cookbook (by Maggie Black and Deirdre le Faye). Otter and I tried them out over the Easter holidays - and they were delicious, simply melting in the mouth. There's plenty of rosewater in them, but also some brandy, orange juice, currants and lots of sugar. 

It says in the book that these little cakes "are pleasant with a glass of wine or a cup of coffee." Having tried them with both, I can assure that they are indeed.

Amused, I'm sure

Recently I've spent a considerable amount of time combing through the intertubes in search of Regency (or Austenian, or empire - whichever you prefer) inspiration. Mainly the pictures and articles I've come across have been quite ordinary - dealing with spencers and pelisses and different hairstyles and chicken Napoleon - but there have been some eye-openers as well. 

Now, most of us associate the era of Jane Austen with genteel manners, dainty ladies and dashing gentlemen. Lots of these about, naturally, as well - but the Regency era, as well as the one preceeding it, could be a pretty boisterous place to be. Unlike the furtive Victorians, these people could and did flaunt their stuff in the broad daylight - and also laugh about it. I've previously mentioned my love of James Gillray's satirical pictures: now I've discovered that he wasn't the only one making delicious caricatures at the turn of the 19th century. I should have known better, really. 

Most of the pictures here come from this meticulously assembled website. Click if you want to see a larger version.

First, a look at the wonderful fashions of the day: 

This one's called "Les Invisibles en Tête-à-Tête". It just struck me that a fashion like that could be really useful today - you could use your mobile inside one of those hats, while on a bus for instance, without disturbing anyone. I bet a really enterprising lady could assemble a whole office into a hat like that.

The next one illustrates the fact that heterosexuality wasn't the only option for well-bred ladies even in the old days: 

 

Notice the two men lurking together in the bushes as well. And, finally, proof that even then, ladies were dying to find the answer to the ages-old question: 

 

 

I bet he wasn't.

Business as Usual

It's been quiet here at Sisotowbell Lane lately - mainly because it's been loud and busy elsewhere in my life. After a couple of weeks or so of noise, dust and  other kinds of bother, I finally got my new kitchen (which is very nice indeed). I didn't get much time to enjoy all those new cupboards and contraptions, however, because I (the dutiful daughter that I am) was called to S-city to nurse my mum who'd just undergone a hip replacement operation.

Despite all this outward excitement, after Xmas I felt that something important was missing from my life. One could even speak of a sense of stagnation. Fortunately, I soon discovered the source of this emptiness - and the perfect cure for this. I realised that I was suffering from period costume deficiency, which is almost as serious as not getting enough vitamin D during the darkest months of the year. 

Drastic measures had to be taken. I immediately immersed myself in the mental preparations of next summer's Jane Austen/Napoleon party . As first aid, I headed for YouTube, and landed on an unknown (at least to me) treasure. Emma has always been one of my favourite Austen novels, but so far I hadn't found a TV or film adaptation which matched my reading of it. All the versions I had seen portray Emma Woodhouse as a  comic, annoyingly twinkly kind of character - totally disregarding the fact that the  message of the novel is actually a serious one, one that shows the danger of living in a fantasy world, and not being able to see the real world (and its people) as it is.

The version which finally captures this theme is the 1996 TV adaptation with Kate Beckinsale and Mark Strong as Emma and Mr Knightley respectively. I don't know why  I haven't been on the lookout for this version, because it has been written by Andrew Davies (he of Pride&Prejudice fame). I like the chemistry between the leading couple, although I think Knightley might have been toned down a bit - all that shouting and raving is somewhat disconcerting. (Mark Strong's performance is otherwise excellent. And he's very nice man to look at, indeed. :)) What raises this version above others, however, are the impeccable performances of the "minor" characters, especially Bernard Hepton's hopelessly hypochondriac Mr Woodhouse and Samantha Morton's gullible  but loyal Harriet Smith.

After getting my thoughts thus on the right track, I was in the correct mood to begin thinking about really important things, namely what to wear. In this I have been greatly assisted by Otter and Juska, with whom I spent a delightful afternoon of drooling over muslins and spencers (mainly here) and making actual plans for dresses Juska is going to make for us. Needless to say, they're going to be fabulous. :)

Now I'm feeling much more like myself again; my life has a clear direction once more, and I can already start looking forward to next summer. Which, amid all this snow, is rather optimistic, I know.

(The picture above, in case you're wondering, is by James Gillray, one of the keenest observers of society during the Georgian period. From time to time he also observed fashion.)

...let me in-a your window-who-ho-ho

Over at The Pursuit of Harpyness people are discussing their favourite  19th century novelists (such as the Brontës and Jane Austen) - and especially their favourite male characters in these books.  Most deny that they have ever spent breathless hours reading about  (or even better, making up) the exploits of Heathcliff and Mr. Rochester. Mr. Darcy, on the other hand, is much more warmly regarded; many feminists would be ready to set their cap at good old Fitzwilliam - and rightly so, for he's the only one of the three who hasn't got dark secrets cluttering up his past (or indeed his attic at Pemberley).

I have to make a confession: for me, the Brontë heros (especially Heathcliff, but also Mr. Rochester) were the stuff of teenage fantasy; Mr. Darcy, on the other hand, has always left me cold. However, having developed a somewhat maturer look on life and relationships, I can now wholeheartedly agree with the commentators of PoH: Messrs. H and R are complete gits.

Deep and dark and broodingly sexy as they might be, their world revolves around their own needs and desires - and anything (be it a mentally unstable wife or a completely innocent bystander) that gets in the way of these must be removed, usually by force. They have unhealthy obsessions, and unnaturally strong passions, which are taken out on other people (again). And yet, they attract perfectly sensible, self-possesssed women who seem to think they can bring out the best in these men. Whatever that may be.

Maybe it was the corsets. Anything that restricts your circulation can't be beneficial to your mental processes, either.
 

It's impossible to say what kind of protagonists Emily Brontë would have chosen for her next novel, but her big sister didn't show much improvement in her taste in men -  Villette for one has another bullying despot as its male lead, and another forgiving lady willing to prop up his ego. I don't know if anyone has ever has the hots for M. Paul - at least Mr. Rochester has the good manners not to patronise Jane Eyre so blatantly  (and as a reward only gets blinded and has his arm chopped off, whereas M. Paul - at least according to my reading - doesn't survive the old Brontë treatment).

Anne Brontë was perhaps the most sensible of the three - at least when it comes to the representation of men in her work. Hark! A Vagrant illustrates this beautifully: Dude Watchin' with the Brontës, ladies and gentlemen.

As to Jane Austen men, I can't say that I've been much moved by any of them (unless we're talking about the film versions. If so,  Colonel Brandon is my man). Perhaps it's got something to do with the stiff manners and the stilted sentences of the period, or the slightly stock-like nature of Austen's heroes (the protagonists have to get married in the end, after all); thus, while reading Sense and Sensibility, Emma, or Northanger Abbey, my attention mainly remains with the thoughts and feelings of the female characters.

Persuasion is the exception here: Captain Wentworth is a very intriguing character (with his Past and all), and a worthy equal of the poised Anne Elliot; he's made his mistakes in the past, and is not willing to be swayed by anyone's opinions (at least when it comes to choosing a wife). He's a bit gruff, but at least I get the feeling that he can also laugh at himself (a trait Mr Sourpuss Darcy certainly doesn't possess). And he's got a big ship.

Although P&P is undoubtledly the most sparkling of Austen's novels, Persuasion has got a quiet dignity that I like, and also some  brilliant insights into human nature. The final conversation between Anne Elliot and Captain Harville is a gem:

"Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in books. Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything." 

"But how shall we prove anything?"

"We never shall. - - It is a difference of opinion which does not admit proof. We each begin, probably, with a little bias towards our own sex; and upon that bias build every circumstance in favour of it which has occurred within our own circle - -." 

And in case you've no idea what the title of this post refers to, I can only say that you've missed one of the finest pieces of popular music ever written: 

Things fall apart...or, everything comes back to Jane Austen

Why is it that when electric appliances decide to expire, they have to do it all at once? This morning I found out my battery charger had stopped working. Then, on my way to S-Market, the headphones of my mp3-player started acting funny. These are minor things, and easily (and quite cheaply) repleacable, but I'm waiting for the inevitable third casualty - I'm guessing it'll be either my computer or my freezer (just my luck it'd stop working while I'm on holiday).

Nothing much has been happening here. I've spent most of today reading Sicily-related web pages and blogs, trying to find out what to see, eat and drink while I'm there. I've also been listening to some more of Dowland's lute songs - and to my surprise discovered that 'Weep You No More, Sad Fountains' was originally written by him. Although I knew it was an old song, I had always associated with the famous pianoforte scene (below) from Sense and Sensibility.

For me, this is the definitive version of the song (with the melody composed by Patrick Doyle). I play it on the piano quite often, and each time I perform it, I imagine Alan Rickman walking through the door and stopping to listen, mesmerised.

If only...

Turned out nice again

After a week or so of glorious autumn weather, even I am finding it hard to constantly complain about things. So before the darkness and general grumpiness set in, I thought I'd better do a post about things I've been enjoying lately.

To start off, some music: Nellie McKay is an amazing artist who does Broadway-style songs with a twist (most of the times a political one), and liberally mixes all kinds of musical influecces ranging from jazz to rap. It's nice to hear some fresh protest songs in this cynical, passivist time.

Along with Joni Mitchell, I've been listening to a lot of English folk lately - June Tabor and Norma Waterson in particular. Great voices. Oh, and Martha Wainwright's 'Bloody Motherfucking Asshole' has been going around something silly in my mp3 player.

Thanks to my friend Fidia, I rediscovered Smack the Pony, which in my view is the most brilliant tv comedy series since Monty Python.





I never knew a bull could look so melancholy...

Finally, I must confess (and this shouldn't come as a surprise to those who know me) that I'm in awe of the British skill for making costume drama. I don't know which appeals to me most: the great actors (whose greatest quality is that they can get through a page-long sentence from Jane Austen without appearing at all constipated - and not the fact that they look great in corsets - although many of them do), the amazing locations, or the respect and sense of humour with which the 'classics' are treated. These people actually look like they've lived in that set, in those clothes, in that society.

The 1995 adaptations of Pride and Prejudice (the BBC series) and Sense and Sensibility (with Emma Thompson and Alan Rickman) are my favourites, but there's a marvellous one of Persuasion also from the same year. Amanda Root plays the sad-eyed Anne Elliot to perfection, but I particularly like Sophie Thompson's portrayal of her constantly ailing sister Mary.



I can also fully symphatise with Anne's dislike of Bath.