Creative Sanctuary

Inspiration

Recreating Melbourne

By Allison

Oh, how I’d love to slip away to Melbourne for a weekend!  Alas!  Quick visits to Australia are out of reach for most of us in the Northern Hemisphere.  But all is not lost.  My memories and pictures bring me back to the mosaic floors of Melbourne’s elegant covered passages and its iconic street art.  And in my Kentucky kitchen, I revisit a stunning meal shared with my good friends Stephanie and Jeremy.

Each and every dish at Rumi Restaurant was exquisite—creamy labne, cheese-filled pastry “cigars”, meatballs in tomato and saffron sauce.  But one dish stood out, and I’ve been recreating it for months.  Each time it evokes early Australian autumn, merriment, and friendship.  This salad is made with a Middle Eastern grain called freekeh.  Chewy and slightly nutty, freekeh is a substantial grain.  Serve it as a vegetarian main or in verrines as a savory-sweet starter.  The juicy grapes beautifully juxtapose the tart feta.  The pomegranate molasses lends a slight, deep sweetness.  The parsley adds a vegetative touch that unifies the salad.

Freekeh, Grape, and Feta salad comes together fairly easily and has the power to awaken memories.  Bon appétit!

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Slow Looking

By Allison

The painting unfolded before me and in me.

I’d spent years looking at art, then promptly filing away the images.  Wandering through museums, I encountered works by Rothko, Brancusi, and Degas.  Often, they moved me.  Yet I never lingered.  There was so much art to take in, so I “stacked” the images in my mind, sometimes retrieving them in conversation, in my studies, or in subsequent museum visits.  Mary Cassatt’s portraits of children sprung up in tender moments; Malevich’s White on White stumped my students; I sought and found Camille Claudel’s love story in her sculptures at the National Gallery in Washington, D.C.

Yet somehow, I never allowed myself to sit with these works.  After so much study and so many museum visits, I found myself in the National Galleries of Scotland in front of Van Gogh’s The Plains near Auvers.  For once, I wasn’t prone to move efficiently through a museum.  Rather, that dreary afternoon I planted myself in front of the piece that beckoned.  Van Gogh’s green and gold fields seemed to move on the canvas.  The grasses in the foreground swayed from side to side, and successive fields opened back toward the horizon, one after the other.  I sensed that I was in the painting and that the painting was in me.  My altered perception of space left me feeling a bit wobbly, but I remained “inside” the image, allowing my mind to move farther into the fields. By engaging in “slow looking”, I connected to an artist and his chosen landscape in a startling, deep way.

The Plains near Auvers still moves about in me.  Sometimes, in a quiet moment, I inhale and summon the haphazard rectangles, the swirly sky, and the dabbed red flowers.  Other times, the painting wells up, catching me off guard.  I am glad to have my tall, orderly stores of images, gathered over years of museum time.  They are my foundation and springboard.  Now I know to be still with them, attuning myself to their quiet language of color, line, and shape.

 

Inspirations

Inspiring Impressionism:  Daubigny, Monet, Van Gogh, National Galleries of Scotland

The Art of Slowing Down in a Museum, New York Times

Slow Art Day

 

My Madeleines de Proust

By Allison

“…I brought to my lips a spoonful of tea in which I had softened a piece of madeleine.  But at the exact moment when the mouthful mixed with cake crumbs touched my palate, I shivered, attentive to this extraordinary thing that was taking place in me.  A delicious pleasure had invaded me, isolated, no notion of its cause.  It had instantly made me indifferent to the vicissitudes of life, made its disasters harmless, its brevity illusory, in the same way that love operates, filling me with a precious essence:  or more accurately this essence wasn’t in me, it was me.”  –Marcel Proust, Du côté de chez Swann

Shell-shaped madeleine cakes were a part of my life before I ever knew about Marcel Proust and the memory-inducing power of his petites madeleines.  When I was a student in Paris, a bakery close to my school sold five madeleines for five francs—a deal!  At lunchtime, I’d often make my way down the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs to pick up one of the tidy white bags holding five portable cakes.  Sometimes they were still warm.  Madeleines were my ideal student snack—simple, toothsome, and shareable.  A chocolate éclair or strawberry tartelette would have been more impressive, but the dainty butter cakes comforted me.  I imprinted my own madeleine experience well before encountering Proust.

Later, I would discover that Proust, too, found comfort in madeleines.  In the first volume of his 3,000 page novel Remembrance of Things Past, tasting a madeleine dipped in tea unleashes the narrator’s memory of taking tea and cake with Aunt Léonie.  In French culture, a madeleine de Proust refers to a heart-warming, evocative culinary experience that joins past and present.  Madeleine cakes are one of my madeleines de Proust.  They bring me back to the sweet, exhilarating sadness of being so far from home.  Other sweets unleash my involuntary memory, allowing me a delicious, temporary dance between past and present:  Grandma Rose Mary’s orange cookies, Grandma Mary Ellen’s sticky rolls, and the frosted graham crackers Mom served me as a toddler.  The frosting was always homemade, and she always served them on a rectangular, strawberry-patterned tray that is still in her kitchen.

What foods bring your past into the present?  Tell me about your madeleines de Proust in the comment section.

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Cicada Song

By Allison

Then each one of us, […] will move back out on the pitch-black porch and let the body heat of the day leech from the house and our own bodies out onto the night, its billion singers—tree frogs, cicadas, the deathless crickets, the high whine of bats–” Renyolds Price, Outdoor on the Porch

This bean has recently fallen under the spell of cicada music.  As the day’s last light falls, she wanders from Grandma’s porch into the front yard to explore the emerging sights and sounds of twilight…  she seems most intrigued by cicadas, which the Bean Girl sometimes refers to as bicadies.

She hears their song—verging on deafening—but she doesn’t see them.  Perplexed, she returns to the porch, peppering Uncle Jack and Aunt Allison with questions.  What are cicadas/bicadies? Where are they? Why do they make that noise?

We dig deep to share what we remember about the insect.  In the winter, they live underground.  After many years, they are ready to come up and spend time in the trees.  Cicadas have wings.  When Uncle Jack gets technical, Bean Girl makes her way back to the yard, swatting at oak and hickory trees with sticks.  She hopes to lay her eyes on a cicada.

Her precocious exploration sparks my own inquiry.  What do cicadas teach us?  I recall that they are a beloved symbol of Provence.  They spend years underground before seeking the sunlight.  19th century poet Frédéric Mistral even granted cicadas their own motto:  the sunlight makes me sing.

That light is slipping through our fingers.  The evening air is heavy, but we feel autumn coolness pushing up against these last days of summer.  As Bean Girl searches the yard, we settle deeper into our spots on the porch and sip the last of the rosé, engulfed in cicada song.

 

Inspirations

Out on The Porch

The Song of the Cicada

 

Impromptu Porch Party

By Allison

The beginning of August was gloriously cool and breezy—not Iowa State Fair weather by any stretch of the imagination.  Mom’s cozy front porch is underused, so one day I welcomed her home from work with a mini porch party.  It was a snap to organize this tiny gathering:

–I mixed up a pitcher of Aperol Spritz—a refreshing and slightly bitter Italian apéritif we drank during our trip to Florence a few years back.  Happy memories of relaxed, buoyant terrace restaurants!

–I picked up some nibbles at the local grocery—pitted olives, bocconcini (bite-sized mozzarella) marinated in olive oil, parsley, and red pepper flakes, roasted and salted pistachios.

–I pulled out Mom’s most colorful glassware, which are works of art in themselves.

Our porch party required a little thought but not much action.  It came together quickly and allowed us to have a relaxed, lighthearted moment together, enjoying the flowers and the late summer light.

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Le bon thé de Sahar

By Allison

Cardamom TeaMy friend Sahar is a cardamom tea connoisseur.  Milky and minty with a bold cardamom profile, her morning sips are robust and comforting.

On a recent visit to her home in Sydney, I studied her technique through my bleary morning fog. Her cardamom teabags are an easy reach from the electric kettle.  As the water comes to a boil, she places one or two teabags in her favorite mug.  She pulls fresh mint and milk from the refrigerator.  She places a small container of cardamom pods on the counter.

When the water reaches a rolling boil, Sahar pours it into her mug, leaving room for milk.  She brews a strong cardamom tea, sometimes boosting the flavor by dropping a cardamom pod in the mug.  She pinches three or four mint leaves from a branch and slips them into the mug.  The tea steeps for several minutes. Before drinking, she adds a splash of milk.

I was thrilled by her cardamom tea ritual, and she sent me home with cardamom teabags and loose tea.  Sahar shared Wagh Bakri, Ahmad, and Premier’s Cardamom Tea.  I have enjoyed preparing all of these teas à la Sahar.  When I make “her” cardamom tea, my mind drifts back to her warm welcome and gentle spirit.

I have made a small adjustment to Sahar’s morning cardamom tea, adding about ½ teaspoon honey to each serving.  Sometimes I zap the milk in the microwave for 15 seconds before adding it to the tea.  I have also used her method to prepare Masala Chai, a symphony of black tea ginger, cinnamon, cardamom, black and white pepper, clove, and nutmeg.  I find the fresh mint to be a lovely addition.  This fall, I plan to work up a caffeine-free Sahar tea with this Chai Rooibos Caffeine-Free Infusion.

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Summer Reads

By Allison

I let reading take over this summer.  It’s just what I needed.  Last summer I was too busy to settle in with my books, only able to squeeze in a few novels here and there.  I missed the ease of summer reading and vowed that this year would be different.  I have been consuming books!

Real books

Le Camélia de ma mère by Alain Baraton

Wabi-Sabi for Artists, Designers, Poets & Philosophers by Leonard Koren

The Romance of Tea by William Ukers

Une Gourmandise by Muriel Barbery

Biographie de la faim by Amélie Nothomb

Olio by Tychimba Jess

 

On the Kindle

Middlesex by Jeffery Eugenedies

The Hidden Life of Trees by Peter Wohlleben

The Light Between the Oceans by M.L. Stedmen

 

Audio Books

The Story of the Lost Child by Elena Ferrante

The Signature of All Things by Elizabeth Gilbert

The Goldfinch, by Donna Tartt

What are you reading?  In what format do you read?  I am new to audio books and having fun with them.  I’d love to know your thoughts!

 

Between, Within, Beneath

By Allison

<img class="alignnone size-medium wp-image-768" src="https://www.creativesanctuary.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/collioure-succulents-water-300x300.jpg" alt="Collioure Succulents Water" width="300" height="300" />Life is lush in this Mediterranean village.  Located in the south of France mere miles from Spain, Catalan culture pervades Collioure.  Tapas, espadrilles, sunshiny wine…  People glide between French, Spanish, and Catalan.  Vivacious and expressive, they draw me in.

I initially came to Collioure to spend a few days on the water.  I discovered the light that moved Matisse, making way for Fauvism.  I ate fresh, briny anchovies.  I watched the sun rise over the medieval lighthouse-church sitting at the edge of the water.  This bright village of 3,000 gave me both solitude and company.  I made friends at every turn—at the hotel reception, walking along the jagged inlets, sipping Banyuls wine at a waterside café.

I also experienced the grace of stillness.  In “Song of the Reed,” mystic poet Rumi counsels,

Stay where you are
inside such a pure, hollow note 

I practiced inhabiting that hollowness.  Allowing my mind to settle beneath the buzz of the village, I connected to the minute elements of its landscape.  From that still, internal space, my attention moved to the generous succulents that dot the village, to the smooth, flat stones that make up the beach, and to the laundry artfully hung outside the windows of pink, yellow, and blue homes.  Inside my hollow note, the surrounding hills and massive château lost their grandeur.  The vividness of Collioure made its way to me through the secrets hidden within the notes of overlapping voices and juxtaposed colors.

 

Inspiration

Rumi’s “Song of the Reed”

Chamomile/Camomile

By Allison

chamomile herbal teaI am sorry to say that Peter was not very well during the evening.  His mother put him to bed, and made some camomile tea; and she gave a dose of it to Peter! —The Tale of Peter Rabbit, Beatrix Potter

With her strong connection to the natural world, Beatrix Potter knew that chamomile was just the thing to ease her mischievous protagonist.  Preparing and sipping herbal infusions is soothing and healing.  But we needn’t wait for upset to benefit from them!

In the last few years, I have liberalized my consumption of chamomile and other tisanes.  I admit to getting a little bored with plain water.  I crave variety.  I always keep a few herbal teas on hand, and chamomile is one of my “fun” hydration options.  I find chamomile to have herbaceous, subtly floral notes.  Warm, it calms me.  At room temperature, the drink tastes more botanical.  Chilled chamomile tea is refreshing and cooling.

Studies on the health benefits of chamomile are intriguing. Yet even without reading up on the medicinal uses of this dainty flower, we can choose to use it in healing ways. As we prepare tisanes, we connect with the plant and the people who grew and harvested it.  Drinking a chamomile infusion is hydrating, and that in itself is therapeutic. Peter’s mother instinctively knew that chamomile would help her little rabbit.  We, too, can trust ourselves to reach for the tin of chamomile when we need to rebalance, rehydrate, or rejuvenate.

 

Inspirations

Miss Potter, a charming biographical film about Beatrix Potter

Blog post on chamomile and other tisanes, by tea expert Bruce Richardson

 

 

Maximizing Summer

By Allison

My little patio garden is bursting.  Each year, I tinker with this square space off my kitchen.  I’ve learned that it’s too sunny for impatiens and that begonias thrive in the morning sun.  Potted herbs always take off, and so each summer I find myself swirling ribbons of basil into gazpacho, stirring mint into lemonade, and topping my green salads with chives.

Yet as much as I cook, I can’t possibly use all the herbs tumbling over the terra cotta pots!  The basil is blended into pesto, frozen in ice cube trays, and then transferred to freezer bags, to be popped out later in the year.  Last summer, I finally started drying sage, mint, thyme, and rosemary.  Why did I not think to do this before?

After snipping the herbs, I bring them inside and give them a good rinse.  I remove and discard all the yellowed or bruised leaves and thoroughly dry the rest. I lay them out on a big plate, and the drying process begins.  In the days that follow, I flip them, shift them, and watch their slow transformation.  As I go about my day, I may sense a hint of mint in the air; sometimes I’ll notice the sage leaves begin to curl.  I honor the humble beauty of a patio garden by preparing herbs for colder seasons.  I waste less of summer’s goodness.  And perhaps most unexpectedly, the weeks of herb drying become a meditative experience for me—one that requires focus, attentiveness, and care.

Each herb dries in its own time. As they are ready, I gently nestle them into the glass jars I’ve set aside and labeled.  Months later, I will reach for them to season a pot of lentils or bundle them into a bouquet garni.  These moments will bring me back to the summer fullness of my lively little patio and to the slow beauty of watching herbs dry.