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Tea Canvas

June 8, 2018 By Allison

Sometimes I fantasize about being a cocktail maven. A dainty antique cabinet would hold my liqueurs and artisanal bitters. I would shake and stir highballs, sours, and eye-pleasing botanical libations. If you were a guest in my home, I’d serve you the perfect cocktail in the perfect cocktail glass.

Sadly, I am not that hostess. As much as I like the idea of cocktails, I usually find them to be too sweet, too expensive, and too alcohol-heavy. Although I do make the occasional Aperol Spritz, I am usually happiest serving and sipping rosé.

Since the arrival of hot weather, my impulse to decorate drinks has been strong. I accept that cocktails aren’t my thing, so I’ve turned to iced tea. I make a cold infusion with this iced tea blend from the Nilgiri region of India. My iced tea is smooth, crisp, and clear. It is a refreshing canvas for my summertime decorations—sweet mint, cucumber, Thai basil, blueberries, strawberries, lemons… These days, my iced teas are juicy and complex. My culinary imagination blossoms as I slice, infuse, and taste. My berry forward iced teas are buoyant and lush. Basil and lemon give the teas a bite. When I allow them to rest in the fridge for a few hours or even a few days, they develop depth.

Although I can’t garner much enthusiasm for Old Fashioneds or Mint Juleps, stunning teas and seasonal garnishes serve as my creative tools of experimentation. I brew, smell, sample, and tinker. Eventually, I achieve a drink that captures the moment–a modest, ephemeral taste of summer.

Inspirations

My Sparkling Apple Spice Tea Cocktail

Elmwood Inn Fine Teas’ Kentucky Tea Julep

The Tea Squirrel’s Summer Tea Mocktail

Tea Party with Littles

May 24, 2018 By Allison

It was their first tea party and my first time to host a tea party for toddlers. A year later, Nora and Sylvie still talk about the “lovely tea” and the “treats” we shared on Grandma’s patio. Here are my pointers for teatime with toddlers.

Philosophy
Keep it simple. Most toddlers will not appreciate elaborate, time-consuming pastries or sprawling tablescapes. Prepare everything in advance: tea, food, and activities. If possible, have the tea party outside, as the littles are sure to make a mess!

Teaware
Keep your grandmother’s fine china away from toddlers! I purchased sturdy, inexpensive, and mismatched cups and saucers from TJMaxx because I wanted the girls to experience afternoon tea. I served sweets and savories on small enamelware plates. The feeling was “grown up” for them and no stress for me.

Tea
I served Strawberry-Kiwi fruit tea, which is caffeine-free and naturally sweet. It is delicious warm, at room temperature, or iced, so it’s easy to make and set aside so you can keep an eye on the kids. I added about 2 teaspoons of honey to the 6-cup teapot.

Sweets and Savories
I served a few items I knew they’d be familiar with: apple slices and peanut butter and cheese and crackers. I also purchased a few pastries that would be new to them, in the hopes of expanding their gastronomic horizons. Mini petit fours and bite-sized lemon tartelettes from the local bakery were the perfect size for their little fingers.

Activities
I had some small coloring books, crayons, and stickers on hand. I also played a Disney playlist from Spotify. They sang, they danced, and their grandmother was surprised that they knew all the words to almost every song.

Takeaway
We had a ball! Sylive and Nora nibbled and gulped cup after cup of Strawberry-Kiwi tea. I didn’t worry too much about etiquette—I’m the fun aunt, after all! They occasionally left the table to collect acorns or crawl around on the patio. They were cute as buttons, and our next summer tea party is in the works.

Keyhole

April 28, 2018 By Allison

...everything is already present, though hidden.
–Hildegard of Bingen

We’re drawn to the grandeur of Gothic cathedrals—height, history, stained glass, light. So old! So holy! So overwhelming!

I’ve made my way to Chartres Cathedral several times in the last twenty years, and each visit allows me to know the space more intimately. With each day spent wandering the Cathedral, its light, colors, and shapes become more deeply rooted in my internal landscape. Likewise, I think that through my thought and presence, I become part of the very long history of Notre-Dame de Chartres. I believe that different versions of myself linger in the transepts, the ambulatories, and on the 13^th century labyrinth.

During my last visit to Chartres, the Cathedral was cold and hushed. More than usual, I absorbed detail. A small, dried bouquet tacked to a column, a group of women praying the rosary at the foot of a statue of the Virgin Mary, a tunic-shaped keyhole on the North Porch of the church. The decoration had been already present, though hidden to me, lost among the statues of Old Testament figures. The minute detail announces that Notre-Dame de Chartres houses the Sancta Camisia, a veil that is believed to have been worn by the Virgin Mary. A sacred relic, the garment was given to Chartres in 876 by Charlemagne’s grandson, Charles the Bald. The Sancta Camisia has been credited with protecting the Cathedral over the centuries, and it is still an object of devotion for pilgrims.

Each of my occasional Chartres pilgrimages helps me to unlock present-hidden parts of myself. The knowledge doesn’t reside in the Cathedral like I once thought. Rather, I believe that sacred places emanate a peaceful beauty that enables us to access the wisdom we already possess.

Madeline on Our Mind

April 7, 2018 By Allison

In an old house in Paris that was covered with vines
lived twelve little girls in two straight lines

My four year-old niece Sylvie Rose is intrigued by the story of a little girl in Paris named Madeline. Her father bought the storybook for Sylvie before she was even born, and I imagine they have spent many hours reading and rereading about Miss Clavel’s sense that something was not right... about Madeline’s subsequent surgery…the crank on the hospital bed… the dollhouse from Papa…her friends’ hospital visit.

I suspect that some of Sylvie’s devotion to Madeline is due to the fact that she lives in Paris. Sylvie Rose knows that Aunt Allison is a French teacher who makes occasional visits to Paris. Her questions give me glimpses of her four-year old mind: Madeline is a real kid, right? Where is her house? And during my most recent trip to France she called to ask, Did you find her?

I love her intensity and admire her persistence in her search for Madeline. These FaceTime conversations strengthen my bond with my niece, but they have also served as a surprising throwback to my own childhood. When I was seven or eight, I was infatuated with Madeline. My little sister had a pop-up version of the book, and I loved it so! I think I found beauty in the order of the twelve little girls in two straight lines. In two straight lines they broke their bread, and brushed their teeth, and went to bed. These words are etched in my mind.

Madeline was probably my first exposure to Paris, or at least to the idea of Paris. Each monument pictured in the story is now familiar to me—Notre Dame, les Invalides, les Jardins de Luxembourg. Paris is home to me. As a little girl in Iowa, these places would have seemed otherworldly. I believe that I chose to study French, in part, thanks to my affinity for Madeline and my curiosity about the vision of France I discovered in her story.

Many years later, Sylvie Rose is weaving her own literary landscape, and Madeline is part of it. Watching her, the story of the little girl in Paris reemerges, expands, and intersects with my niece’s quest.

Inspirations

Ludwig Bemelmans’ Madeline, published in 1939

Reading with kids

The joy of summer reading

Transport Me

March 31, 2018 By Allison

As soon as I stepped into the theater, a sumptuous hush fell over me.

In its opulence, the Royal Opera of Versailles is somehow cozy. The rocaille swoops and curves impart lightness, and the gold warms. The chandelier light is soft. The 18^th century theater is made of wood and holds 712 spectators. We had gathered to watch Barry Douglas and the Camerata Ireland perform three of Mozart’s Piano Concertos (20, 23, 25). As people made their way to their narrow, velvety seats, the theater got warmer and our reverent anticipation heightened.

Although Mozart and the Royal Opera are linked to a specific time and place—18^th century Europe—the evening felt timeless and placeless. I was alone, yet surrounded. I was in France, and I was elsewhere. The fragile space and ephemeral sound brought on a happy clarity, unbound by geography and time.

Inspirations

Official website of the Opéra Royal de Versailles

Official website of Camerata Ireland

I Lost the Art of Letter Writing

February 24, 2018 By Allison

When I was eight, my grandmother gifted me my first diary. She must have ordered it from the Lillian Vernon Catalog. It was bright pink with tiny yellow and purple hearts. It had a lock and key. I was tickled.

I began writing in my diary on January 1, 1987. Since I hated boys and didn’t have any secrets to record, I wrote about my days. Math class-basketball practice-sleepover. Reading class-basketball practice-dinner with the neighbors. Math class-basketball practice-Connect Four with Beej and Trish. After a month, I realized that my third grade life lacked variety. My diary had become repetitive, so I set it aside.

In middle school the expected intrigues sprouted, so I began to journal. At about the same time, I became a prolific letter writer. For almost two decades, I penned three and four page letters on fine paper with fancy pens provided by my father. During those formative years, I filled pages and sent them to friends around the world. I loved the tactile experience of putting words to the page, of embroidering my stories on paper.

Several years ago, I abruptly stopped writing letters. I still have an abundance of beautiful stationery, and I sign important documents with Dad’s Waterman pens. Why did I abandon a beloved and soothing activity? I often hear people say that they just don’t have time to write letters, and although time is a consideration, I don’t really buy that explanation. We choose how to spend our precious time—with family, in front of Netflix, at the gym, or hard at work. Although I am nostalgic for the ambitious letter-writing me, I choose to use my leisure time differently. I want to take walks with my friends, and I want to share meals with them. For now, face-to-face exchanges with loved ones take precedent over letters.

Yet the blank page still calls to me. Its emptiness is an inspiring, potential space of creation. When I sit down in front of a blank piece of paper or a white computer screen, ideas shoot through me and chains of words form in my mind’s eye. Some of them make their way to this blog—a crisscrossed echo of the journaling and letter-writing I left behind. Happily, I am still “embroidering”.

Inspriations

My lovely friend Dana is a talented letter writer who blogs about all things mail on Save Snail Mail.

Thomas Mallon’s book Yours Ever investigates letter writing in the western world.

I once visited the delightful Musée des Lettes et Manuscrits where I saw several of Matisse and Picasso’s letters. Sadly, the museum closed in 2010.

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

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.

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