Child and David

I really want to be a cook. There, I have said it. I have a pretty successful career in government and politics, and time was when I would hoover up the current affairs analysis in the Guardian, and the Times and the FT and the Economist. Now I find myself turning to the food articles, and surfing cookery blogs. It was Julia Child's 100th birthday this week, prompting a tsunami of writing in this post Olympics, pre-politics summer lull.

It is often said that she brought to the States what Elizabeth David bought to the UK; a reminder of good food, well cooked with love and enthusiasm, instead as seen as the drudge of a housewife, who would rather blitz ready meals and use labour saving devices. It is interesting that they should both have coincided with the rise of the women's movements on both sides of the Atlantic. Was it a reaction? Or part of the same thing? I would like to think the latter. That women given more time and more choice rediscovered the joy of producing beautiful, sumptuous food. But perhaps it is only like Marie Antoinette and her washed and beribboned sheep. It is only when removed from the real grind of peasant life,  housework and toil that middle-class urban women rediscovered a version that they could enjoy.

An eighteenth century dinner party

Far from the Parlor have your Kitchin place'd
Dainties may in their working be disgrac'd
In private draw your poultry, clean your Tripe
And from your Eels their filmy substance wipe
Let cruel offices be done by Night
For they who like the Thing abhor the Sight

...
Crowd not your table, let your number be
Not more than sev'n, and never less than three

.....
Make your transparent sweetmeats truly nice
With Indian Sugar and Arabian Spice
And let your various Creams incircled be
With swelling Fruit just ravish'd from the Tree
Let Plates and Dishes be from China brought
With lively Paint and Earth transparent wrought
The Feast now done Discources are renew'd
and witty Arguments with Mirth pursu'd
The cheerful Master midst his jovial Friends
His glass to their best wishes recommends.

William King; The Art of Cookery 1702

Mr London St: Great writing, and Reading to boot

"Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope
While the first drizzling show'r is born aslope"

Jonathon Swift; Description of a city shower; 1710

The principles of style; Part 2, Simplicity

Perhaps this is a new one, but I don't think so. Is it a new idea to want to have things as simple as possible? Is is a twentieth century idea? The Victorians seemed to want to have everything as fussy and over-decorated as possible.

But the truth is this was only ever a bastardisation of the best of Victorian taste. Even Victorian commentators railed against it. I worked for some years in the Palace of Westminster, arguably the pinnacle of high-Victorian, over the top, over-decorated rooms. And there was no doubt that some of it was.

But where it worked best was where it was most in sympathy with the medieval aesthetic it was trying to imitate. In the large spaces. The huge vaulted central lobby does not feel fussy, just glorious as the space is largely free from any other distractions; or was certainly designed to be so that the statuary and the mosaics on the walls speak for themselves. But to allow that sort of high decoration to work you need vast soaring spaces, leave it to palaces and cathedrals.

"Ever do we build our households
Ever do we make our nests"

The Epic of Gilgamesh; Tablet x 320

Principles of style; Part 1; Comfort

As with clothes; so with interior design. Nothing can be stylish that looks uncomfortable to wear, to sit on, to hold, to walk on. Style is about getting priorities right. Style speaks about the wearer, the designer. A person who has forgotten that they need to wear the clothes, to sit on the sofa are signalling desperate insecurity. Think about the people whose style has been admired, they are strong and confident and please themselves first. Buy nothing for long term use that will be uncomfortable to use. Clothes that feel comfortable, look comfortable.

Blackberry Jam

There were autumn hedgerows in my mouth
That day we went, you and I
In quiet content
against the deep blue
late summer sky
Strung out apart
Sometimes barely speaking
absorbed in the picking
The heavy purple fruit from
amongst the brambles
Too much to pick, and leaving some
and eating some
Our bags grown heavy
and, oh the taste.

Spirit

Each has had his supping mess
The cheese is put into the press
The pans and bowls, clean scalded all
Rear'd up against the milk-house wall
and now on benches all are sat
in the cool air to sit and chat
Til Phoebus dipping in the west
Shall lead the world to weary rest