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Luxurious Boredom

February 4, 2018 By Allison

Tea and citrus got me through my week with influenza. When I got sick, I immediately cut myself off from the world and settled in for a week of quiet recuperation. I didn’t have much of an appetite during my bout with the flu, but fluids perked me up. Warm lemon water with honey soothed my throat, sparkling water quenched my thirst, and hot tea gave me warmth and comfort.

Being sick and alone is boring. I hadn’t experienced boredom in years, and so it was odd to get reacquainted with this sensation that I knew so well as a child. I binge-watched The Crown—a welcome distraction. But my mind was too cloudy to read, my voice too shaky to call friends. I spent most of the week wrapped in blankets and scarves, sipping tea.

I’ve long understood that silence is productive, and I now see that boredom is too. Expansive, quiet minutes slid into hours and days. I stumbled upon empty corners of my mind that didn’t house thought. My internal chatter slowed, my anxious mind relaxed, and for a time, I stopped thinking. Spacious boredom replaced my drive to achieve.

The flu drained me, yet my week of isolation revived me. Tea and water were life-giving and clearing, and so too was boredom’s hollow loneliness.

Snowy Day Breakfast Salad

January 27, 2018 By Allison

Here at the hermitage, in deep snow, everything is ordinary and silent.
—Thomas Merton, 1963

Last week, snow slowed me down. After many busy weeks, I welcomed a few quiet, snowy mornings. I moved slowly and intentionally. Minutes and hours seemed to expand. These mornings were ordinary and uneventful. I gave more time to waking up and more time to breakfast.

My “breakfast salad” is so simple that it doesn’t require a recipe. But it does have a few components and is not for busy work mornings.

Here’s how to pull it together:

“Jammy” Eggs

Bring saucepan of water to a gentle boil. As water is coming up to temperature, prepare an ice water bath in a large bowl. Place on counter, next to burner. Once water boils, use a large spoon to ease eggs into the bowl, one by one. Boil gently, for 6.5 minutes. (7 minutes if you want a more solid yolk.) Use spoon to move eggs from saucepan to ice water bath, to stop cooking. When they’re cool enough to handle, remove peels under running water. Set peeled eggs aside.

Bread

Prepare toast and set aside. I made pita toast last week. Use whatever bread you have on hand. No need for butter.

Salad

Chop English cucumber, tomatoes, and radishes in to bite-sized pieces. Place in a small bowl. Toss with a little extra virgin olive oil, lemon juice, salt, and pepper. If you don’t mind onion in the morning, add a little red or green onion. Set aside.

Yogurt Base

For each serving, scoop 3-4 generous tablespoons of whole milk or Greek yogurt into another small bowl. Squeeze juice of ½ lemon into yogurt, more if you’re preparing multiple servings. Add a pinch of salt and stir. Spread onto breakfast plate(s). Set aside.

Assembly

Gently place salad on yogurt. Slice eggs(s) the long way and nestle into the yogurt. Drizzle a little extra virgin olive oil, squeeze a little lemon juice, and sprinkle with salt and pepper (Piment d’Espelette, if you have it.) Serve with toast.

Revel in your slow morning.

Last night I dreamt of Manderley…

January 18, 2018 By Allison

I was lucky to have a grandmother who always made it a priority to read what her grandchildren read, as a way to connect to them. For my cousins, she trudged through Harry Potter, even though she did not enjoy fantasy and magic. Grandma also dutifully read the Left Behind series along with my middle school brother. She worried that he was becoming a religious fanatic, but that’s a story for another day.

As a young girl, I took it for granted that Grandma and I could always talk about books. I was a hungry, speedy reader who was able to read “grown up” books a little early. I was surprised when, one day, Grandma handed me her copy of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca, paraphrasing the first line: “Last night I dreamt of Manderley…” She thought I might enjoy reading it.

In a flash, our relationship expanded. She no longer had to shift to my level and interests. Now I could go toward her beloved texts. She sensed I was ready.

I remember reading the book feverishly—there was romance, evil, and even a ghost, if memory serves. I must have been in 6^th grade. Today, flipping through Grandma’s 1967 Pocket Cardinal Edition, I realize that 419 pages would have been a formidable, appropriate challenge for me. She would not abide vulgar language or sex in novels read by her grandchildren, so my innocence was surely preserved in reading Rebecca.

Now that Grandma is gone and I am grown, I smile to think that my traditional yet fiery grandmother carried Rebecca with her for so many years. From time to time, we’d talk about the novel, and she never failed, hand to chest, to evoke that memorable first line. “Last night I dreamt of Manderley…”

I admit that I have allowed the details of Rebecca to become fuzzy. There was a first wife, a second wife, and a fire. I don’t remember much more. I’m not ready to reread the novel right now. For me, Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca isn’t about plot or strong female characters. It’s about a shared text, a passion for reading, and an enduring intergenerational friendship.

Inspirations

Parul Sehgal’s In Praise of Daphne du Maurier

Light and Sky

January 8, 2018 By Allison

“Space is the breath of art.”
–Frank Lloyd Wright

Sometimes big cities suffocate me. It seems that every inch of space is occupied by buildings, kiosks, and concrete. I often find myself needing more green and more sky.

My recent trip to New York was bitterly cold, and the wind was brutal. Venturing out was a process and a challenge, but my walks were freeing—the icy wind invigorating, the snowflakes dreamy. Ice and snow dotted grey-green Central Park. I easily weaved my way through the crowds on 5^th avenue, stumbled into a toasty bookstore when my toes were too cold, and late one afternoon, found a French bistro serving soupe au pistou.

The constant chill of those days froze my senseless, minor worries, and the wind then blew them away. Amongst and between the traffic and skyscrapers, I reclaimed my inner spaciousness. New York gave breath to an elegant artfulness that refreshed and reset my own desire to create. I bring home color, texture, light, and sky.

Inspirations

Afternoon Tea in Astor Court

Pablo Picasso’s Bird on a Tree at the Guggenheim

Odilon Redon’s Pandora at the Met

Mozart and Tchaikovsky at Lincoln Center

Hygge for One

December 15, 2017 By Allison

Although there is much to be done in the coming days, I am taking a hygge day—choral Christmas music, ginger spice candle, fuzzy clothes, baking,and tea…

I realize that community is central to the Danish practice of hygge—coziness, togetherness, sharing, and reciprocity… board games, comfort food, and mulled wine…

Seeing that my near future holds an abundance of family time, I am content to build a solo hygge experience right now. Let’s hope that this cozy “me time” helps me to refrain from snapping at my family next week. (Who are we kidding? I will be short with them!)

Later today, I will prepare a savory pork roast. I will roast vegetables. I will sip lush red wine. I will listen to podcasts, and I will write in my journal. Maybe I will Netflix and chill.

But for now, I am indulging in freshly baked cookies: David Lebovitz’s Buckwheat Chocolate Chip Cookies. They’re earthy, sweet and robust. I pair them with an appropriately cold-weather tea—Nilgiri Frost Oolong. This rare tea—from India—develops its intense fruitiness during chilly winter months. Its assertiveness stands up to the chocolate, buckwheat and walnut. This cookie-tea pair is quintessential winter fare.

My solitary hygge day is not lonely—I deliver Buckwheat Chocolate Chip Cookies to a baker friend, I chat with my stylist about her holiday plans, and I text a sleepy friend in Europe. My hygge mindset weaves a web of meaningful togetherness that will gently carry me into the chaos of the coming weeks.

Inspirations

The New York Times on Hygge

The New Yorker on Hygge

…

Holiday Minimalism

November 30, 2017 By Allison

I have some minor hoarding tendencies, mostly involving excessive amounts of books and clothes. But when it comes to decorating for the holidays, I prefer a clean, streamlined, and muted look. A few strands of twinkling white lights, some live greenery, and a dozen or so ornaments compose my Christmas décor most years.

This hand-painted ornament is always a sentimental and aesthetic favorite. Quimper faïence (hand-painted pottery) comes from Brittany in Western France. The art dates to the early 18^th century, and it is emblematic of Brittany. Each piece is signed. Motifs include traditional dress and florals, like the one I feature in this post.

My thoughtful aunt Susie gifted this treasure to me years ago, and each time I slip it from its velvety pouch, my mind returns to our visits in France, Italy, and the Midwest. Cool and heavy in my hand, this art piece also connects me to the artist who carries on this Breton tradition, as well as to friends from Brittany who have passed through my life over the years.

I admire minimalists for their empty closets and the clean looks they create in their homes. I am not ready to significantly shorten my book stacks, nor am I prepared to thin out my extensive scarf collection. Yet I emulate their restraint through my commitment to holiday minimalism. My light touch keeps me from feeling bogged down by Christmas “stuff.” Each of my ornaments holds a story, which allows me to enjoy the season all the more.

Rooibos Season

November 17, 2017 By Allison

My former student and friend Maggie Heine of Louisville, Kentucky kindly agreed to contribute to Creative Sanctuary this month. Her thoughtful piece celebrates autumn, rooibos, and wanderlust. Thank you, sweet Maggie!

If you ever find yourself in southernmost South Africa, pay attention to its strange, shrubby fields. You may happen to see an odd little plant with needle-like leaves, covered with tiny golden flowers. Aspalathus linearis. You won’t find this bush, somewhat unremarkable at first glance, growing anywhere else in the world—farmers ranging from China to the U.S. have tried to harvest it in their home countries and failed. That’s because of the wonderfully strange ecology of South Africa’s Cape region: our planet is composed of six floristic kingdoms, or geographic areas with relatively similar plant species. If you’re reading this, chances are that you’re in the gigantic Holarctic kingdom, which comprises the vast majority of North America, Europe, and Asia. The Cape kingdom, on the other hand, is miniscule, containing only the very southernmost tip of the African continent. Despite its small size, it’s extraordinarily rich, and the majority of plants that call this kingdom home can only be found in that dot on the tip of South Africa.

The entire area is beautiful beyond comprehension, nearly extraterrestrial with its mountains that jut up against the sea, its preponderance of baboons and ostriches, its wide blue skies that become enveloped in clouds in an instant. Now that fall has finally arrived, I find myself thinking about that remote speck and all of its ecological strangeness regularly. I’ve been to South Africa twice, once in the southern hemisphere’s winter, and once in its early spring. During these trips, about six weeks in total, I was rarely without a cup of tea clasped between my hands. This brings us back to Aspalathus linearis, or as it’s commonly known, rooibos. When its leaves are plucked, dried, and steeped, they create an infusion that’s smooth, nutty, and the slightest bit sweet. It’s sold en masse in South Africa like we sell our Lipton green tea—clearly, it’s nothing fancy, but it’s my constant companion when the weather turns chilly. I love the drink for its flavor, but it’s also more than that. For me, rooibos is the feeling of bundling up at daybreak to search for zebras and lions from an open-sided Jeep; it’s looking out over the expanse of the ocean from 4,000 feet up a mountainside; it’s falling asleep to the sound of rain on an old tin roof. It’s South Africa, in all its botanically bizarre wonder.

Shape

November 11, 2017 By Allison

Without darkness, nothing comes to birth.
As with light, nothing flowers.
-May Sarton

Early morning stillness… the Earth rests. I flutter in and out of a last dream. What time is it? Still dark.
I roll on my side. Push myself up. Feet dangle over the carpet. Gentle movements. Deep breath. My feet touch the floor. Warm socks, cozy wrap.

Time to shuffle downstairs. What shall I drink?

Cool water in the kettle. Tea tins in the cupboard.

Black tea? Yes.

How about a Ceylon? Smooth, elegant. Just right.

The water trembles. Shy light filters through the blinds. A couple of teaspoons of dry leaves slipped into the teapot. The water begins to bubble… Just a little longer.

Ritual gives shape to our days. I await the first sip, and the events of today take root in my mind’s eye. As the day unfolds, they will push through the surface. Now, though, I focus on the breath running through me.

Sparkling Apple Spice Tea Cocktail

November 2, 2017 By Allison

In 2010, while living in France, I hosted Thanksgiving for 24 American college students. Our “Franksgiving” celebration was boisterous and joyful. My students decorated my apartment with handmade construction paper leaves and turkeys. I cooked for days in the rickety Strasbourg kitchen—green beans, apple and cabbage slaw, winter squash. Students contributed favorite family casseroles, approximated with French market ingredients. I had rotisserie chickens delivered to the apartment on Garlic Street. It required a lot of planning, coordination, and energy to pull off “Franksgiving.” That fall, I gained a deep appreciation for the beautiful and large family meals my grandmothers, mother, and aunts have hosted over the years.

Back in the States, the scope of my responsibilities is narrower. I host intimate, occasional dinner parties, and I leave Thanksgiving to the pros. I am a daring cook and contribute generously to the meal, but being a guest rather than a hostess is blissful.

This fall, I have developed and perfected a tea cocktail that will shine at your Thanksgiving cocktail hour. Prosecco serves as the bubbly backdrop of my Sparkling Apple Spice Tea Cocktail. The star of the libation is Apple Spice Black Tea syrup, which infuses the drink with a bright apple flavor. Subtle undertones of rosemary and cinnamon make the drink especially fitting for the season. A splash of sparkling water cuts the sweetness, and a snip of rosemary makes it deliciously instagrammable.

This is not a persnickety cocktail. The tea simple syrup can be made weeks in advance and stored in the refrigerator. It comes together quickly in a pitcher. I serve this aperitif in my Grandma Mary Ellen’s crystal champagne coupes. Use whatever glassware you can get your hands on, and feel free to mix and match. Cheers!

Inspiration

Elmwood Inn Apple Spice Black Tea

…

Beauty in Grief

October 24, 2017 By Allison

“Beauty, in a way, justifies our existence.”
–François Cheng, Oeil ouvert et coeur battant

My cousin Robb and I grew up amongst lawyers. Drawn to the arts, we both forged paths that were atypical in our family. Robb became a painter, and I studied literature. We were both teachers.

Last week, Robb died unexpectedly. I feel the pain of this loss in my bones. And memories arise. When we were little, large family gatherings at Grandma and Grandpa’s farm were a wall of noise—wild children waiting for the Easter egg hunt to begin, or, in December, demanding to know when Santa Claus would arrive. We existed in a joyful, buzzing mass of cousins.

Happily, Robb and I got to know one another as adults. Once we met at Caribou Coffee and spent a few hours talking about our favorite museums and gossiping about our siblings. A few years back, I attended one of his shows—in a parking ramp! It was brilliant! The curvy, cavernous, concrete space allowed me to see the genius of his bright and bold paintings. To no one’s surprise, our cool cousin Robb put on a cool show. It is the most cosmopolitan Des Moines, Iowa has ever felt to me.

That evening, my brother and his wife purchased their first Robert Spellman piece, detail of which I share in this post. It hangs in their front hallway, and my eyes fall on it each time I enter their home. Robb left the painting untitled, explaining to my sister-in-law, “this started as a woman and morphed into so much more.” I see echoes of the organized chaos that defined the Spellman get-togethers of our childhood. In Robb’s energetic swirls, I see us charging through Grandma’s house, fueled by sugar and time with cousins. I sense the members of a family gathering around tables. In the center, I see Oneness.

My cousin experienced beauty and created beauty. There is also beauty in our grief. We loved Robb. He graced us with his attention, his presence, and his art. His life was beautiful, and he leaves beauty in his wake.

Inspiration

Robert Spellman Studio

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