Inspiration

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

Mrs. Kiersey’s Brown Bread

March 8, 2018 By Allison

I am several generations removed from Ireland, so I access my “Irishness” in oblique ways. Little bits come down through language—a sweet prayer to my guardian angel taught to me by my grandmother or my mother’s admonishment to stop screaming like a banshee. A few objects evoke Ireland for me—the delicate Belleek dish at my bedside, adorned in roses, shamrocks, and Irish heather. An understated Waterford bud vase that I pull out in the spring.

I believe that food also has the potential to connect me to my almost unreachable, virtually unknowable heritage. But how? My family’s “Irish” recipes have been liberally adapted to suit American tastes. In flipping through Irish cookbooks, I am delighted by the names of traditional dishes: Dublin Coddle, Barmbrack, Wicklow Pancake.

Yet I gravitate toward something more basic: Irish Brown Bread. My family doesn’t bake brown bread, so I have no family recipes to reference. A few years ago, I fell into an internet hole of brown bread recipes. Overwhelmed and confused, I abandoned my brown bread quest. But then I thought to pester my Irish friend and colleague. He is a real Irishman with a real Irish mum, and I suspected that she would have a tried and true brown bread recipe. My persistence paid off. When I finally got my hands on the recipe, I knew I had found “my” brown bread.

Over the last few months, I have been playing with this Irish recipe in my Kentucky kitchen. Mrs. Kiersey’s recipe for brown bread is quick and straightforward. Coarsely ground whole wheat flour is key, as it gives the desired texture and density to the loaf. Buttermilk gives it a nice bite. Baking soda does a lot of heavy lifting, so make sure yours is fresh! The resulting loaf is crusty and hearty. Serve it with salted butter or hard cheese. Enjoy at breakfast or for an afternoon snack with a bold, black tea.

Baking Irish Brown Bread has created a subtle, yet moving pathway between my foremothers and me. Were they Irish? Yes! Did they bake brown bread? They may have. I acknowledge that my new penchant for Irish Brown Bread is a tenuous connection to women whose names and stories I do not know. Nonetheless, the gesture of bread making allows me to imagine the invisible women of my distant, yet meaningful history.

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Sharing Soup, Sharing Stories

March 4, 2018 By Allison

When it came to throwing a party, my Grandma Rose Mary was a pro. While I was lost in a mass of aunts, uncles, and cousins, she was making the party happen. Her presence was strong yet subtle. Her gatherings taught me to value my extended family.

As a child and then a young adult, I got to know Grandma in more intimate settings. We shared dozens of lunches over the course of many years. During these meals, I learned about her. She and I had attended the same elementary school, and so I loved her stories about the nuns, about early morning music lessons, and about the time she won a radio at field day. As I got older, she told me about her travels to India, Afghanistan, and other places I will probably never see.

Sometimes we dined at the Younkers Tea Room, and sometimes we shared soup in her kitchen. I still see myself in that farm kitchen, seated on a bench against the wall… asking lots of questions, drawing her out, and seeing the stories flow into one another. Once, when I was learning to cook, she passed on a few of her favorite soup recipes. I love her soups and I love that her handwriting is mixed in my messy recipe files.

Grandma Rose Mary’s Ground Beef Soup with Rosie Stars is a winter standard in my home. Over the years, I have adapted it to my tastes. Although it comes together quickly, it has smooth, rich flavors. Tomato juice and Italian parsley lend it brightness. Shredded cabbage makes it mellow. Ground beef and pasta give it heft. I make this soup on Sunday and eat it throughout the week, thinning it with water as needed.

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Savory Valentine Biscuits

February 11, 2018 By Allison

Heart-shaped cookies abound! In the spirit of the season, I developed a savory cut out cracker recipe for a Valentine aperitif. Since I forego frosting and sprinkles, this treat is relatively low maintenance.

My heart biscuits contain a few ingredients, two of which stand out: Parmesan cheese and Piment d’Espelette. Piment d’Espelette is a sweet, flavorful red pepper grown in a Basque village called Espelette. I bought mine in France, but it’s available dried and ground in specialty markets and online. I use it anywhere I’d use black pepper—in vinaigrettes, on roasted vegetables, and sprinkled on soup. It’s a little deeper and sweeter than black pepper. And it’s so pretty. The subtle, red pepper flakes make my rustic crackers worthy of Valentine’s Day.

If you don’t have Piment d’Espelette in your spice drawer, I suggest using ground pink peppercorns. They lend a deep pink-purple hue to the crackers and taste just as delicious.

What should you sip with your heart biscuits? Something bubbly: Champagne, Prosecco, a white beer, or sparkling water with a twist of lime. Happy Valentine’s Day!

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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

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