I still miss my dear Victoria magazine.  I guess I think about it especially this time of year because the Valentine’s issue was always so delectable.  And perhaps because the first one I ever picked up in the grocery store was February 1989.  I could scarcely believe my eyes as I started flipping through, and closed it with an instinctive gesture.  This was no ordinary periodical to peruse aimlessly in a check-out line.  This was a literal infusion of beauty that made something glow deep down inside of me.  I carried it home with a secret delight, and sprawled across my bed in my pink and blue room I fell under the spell of a magazine that impacted me as no other publication ever has–or ever will. 

It sounds trite to say it, but Victoria was truly a friend to me throughout my teenage years, a companion that offered me a lovely alternative to the ungainly and downright ugly trends I saw all around. Into my twenties I started picking up decorating ideas for my someday coming ‘house o’ dreams’.  And when I was planning my wedding, I knew exactly which issues to take to the florist and to spread before the cateress.  At last I would have my own version of the flower coronet from June 1990 and the afternoon tea reception all silver and lace and roses that was a composite of many nuptiuals covered in those grace-laden pages.

I found the inspiration for my dear kitchen in January 2000.  We had been talking about tackling the project for months, but the moment my eyes lighted on those white cabinets with inset doors and glass panes I knew where to start.  "This is it," I told Philip.  And he believed me enough to start ripping up the floor and pulling off the cabinet facings! 

When the old editor stepped down and a new one emerged I began to feel nervous.  My friends and I would discuss it with furrowed brows–"Have you seen the new Victoria?"  "Yes, it looks like Good Housekeeping or Elle Decor."  We were worried.  The cover lost its sloping script.  The by-line tellingly went from A Return to Loveliness to Celebrating the Achievements of Women.  The only achievements that I was interested in celebrating–at least in the pages of that old-fashioned publication–were the time-honored ones of true beauty, home-keeping, literature, gardening, fine arts.  I wanted to read about the tender, nostalgic things that first drew me in the first place, that spoke to my feminine heart and told me I was not alone in my passions.  

I cancelled my subcription after an almost tearful deliberation.  I just couldn’t watch the demise.  It was like seeing an old and dear friend slowly distance themselves.  But then I thought better of it.  I would rather go down fighting, for surely Victoria was worth fighting for.  So I wrote a letter.  (I can hear Jo March–"A letter?  That’ll show them…")

For those who are interested you will find find it below:

Dear Ms. —-,

I have never been very good about writing letters of praise or complaint. To be honest, I have composed far more in my head than have ever been set down on paper. But this situation, owing to its nearness to my heart, compells me to voice my opinions as vehemently as possible.

I have been a ‘Victoria’ subscriber since almost the very beginning. (April 1989) From the first moment that I opened your beautiful magazine I was transported to a sweet, romantic time that I have always felt akin to. Your writers have possessed the artful ability to captivate and charm, to make one feel as if the world really was a place where loveliness thrived and gentle thoughts and manners held an honored place. And your photographs are works of art! It has always been calming to me merely to flip through the pages and lose myself in the sheer prettiness of them–the verdant English landscapes and tumbling gardens, dainty dressing tables and gowns fit for princesses.

I buy your decorating books and your cookbooks (and I have never known a ‘Victoria’ recipe to fail!). As teenagers, my friends and I would attempt to re-create scenes from your magazine, coming up with outfits and events inspired right out of your pages. I was even published in your ‘Reader-to-Reader’ newsletter, an honor which I hold very dear. I have saved each and every issue in pristine condition, pulling out old ones seasonally to glance over and gain fresh ideas from.

I share all of this to give weight to my complaint. As you can see, I have been a faithful ‘Victoria’ reader for twelve years, and have awaited its monthly arrival with eagerness. What a disappointment, then, to witness the change that has apparently swept over it in recent months. 

What has become of my beautiful magazine, with its elegant fonts and sweeping title and its timeless, edifying articles? I don’t want to read about facial peels in ‘Victoria’; I want to read about rosewater and glycerin, and gardenias in the hair, and all of the other pretty things that set it apart from every other magazine. I don’t know this new Victoria; it’s a stranger to me.

I understand that nothing can remain changeless with stagnation. That variety and progress are necessary to keep your readers becoming bored. But I felt that you had always done a good job at that without compromising that intangible charm that makes ‘Victoria’ so special. I hate to say this, but I find much in the last few issues to be trite and unappealingly up-to-date, with glaring block letters stamped across the front and pictures all layered on top of each other. I flipped through the entire January issue without seeing one thing that made me want to stop and savor.

I dislike coming across so critically. This is just to important to me to let it slip by. I cannot bear to see my favorite magazine reduced to something I don’t want to spend money on anymore. Please consider these thoughts and feelings from a loyal subscriber. They represent those of many others I have talked with.

Have the last five issues been merely an experiment? Have the vision and purpose of ‘Victoria’ changed altogether? Can I expect to see a ‘return to loveliness’ in the pages of my magazine?

In just a few weeks I had a very kind, handwritten note from the editor herself.  She explained away the changes as an attempt to attract advertisers, and cordially invited me to view Victoria as a ‘old friend in new clothes’. And she promised that I would never see another article on facial peeling in my magazine (emphasis hers). 

She was right–I didn’t see that again, or much of anything else.  For soon after that Victoria died. My friends and I started receiving Self and Cooking Light to fill out the remainder of our subscriptions. And my dear friend was no more.

Please don’t think me overly-sentimental. (Okay maybe I am, but that’s beside the point…) There’s just never been anything like it, and I have reason to think there never will. I am not a person that gets excited over magazines–I hate to admit it, but my Living will lie untouched for weeks after its arrival. (Actually, I’ve cancelled that one, too, now…) But I have all of my old Victorias, carefully sorted and filed and ready for easy access whenever I need them. And in this frantic modern world, that’s more often than not.

Who will join me in lifting a tea cup to the lost, lamented Victoria?

Here’s a little post I wrote for YLCF:

Hearts and Flowers 

Here is a song I urge you to purchase as an mp3. (It’s only .99! And I don’t think it’s available on an album.) It’s one that Philip and I just love. Whenever it comes on, we both stop whatever we happen to be doing and just sit down and listen to it.

If you like it, you can purchase it here.  Select ‘In Tall Buildings’.

We heard Gillian Welch perfom this song live, and the audience was visibly moved–us included!  As Gillian says in her introduction, it’s one that will make people want to quit their jobs and move to the country.  So very touching, and a sad commentary on our wealth-driven society. If you’ve never heard Gillian Welch and David Rawlings, allow me to introduce you to the finest bluegrass pair living!! Their soulful harmonies are some of the most hauting music I’ve ever heard. (And the best CD–in my opinion–is Revival.  Maybe it’s just because we listened to that one all through our engagement!

Yesterday afternoon found me poking about in the attic in search of old family ephemera for an article I was writing.  The day was wild and wet, and the wind shrieked deliciously about the eaves as I crouched under the one dim lamp, a pile of yellowed papers and photographs on my lap.  As a little girl I used to dream of an attic such as this for the Nancy Drew mysteries I was always acting out with my sister.  I love my shadowy garrett all the more now because of it, I imagine.  I wish that it was populated with hump-backed trunks filled with vintage treasures and make-shift costumes and adorned with imaginative stage draperies like the March girls’, but perhaps that will come with time.  For now, there’s plenty of scope for the imagination in the mysteriously shrouded pictures and chairs and the boxes upon boxes of geneaolgy paraphernalia.

I love my history, and it’s so real to me when I can read over one of my great-grandmother’s college papers or finger a scrap from her wedding dress.  I never tire of poring over old pictures, imagining the hopes and dreams behind the solemn faces.  And I love it when I make a connection in my own mind between the stories my grandmother told me as a child and the scrawling script on the back of one of  these faded prints.  Yesterday I came across a photo of Ida Ward and her young daugher, Frances.  I gazed at it tenderly for a while, noting the protective arm of the mother and the unclouded smile of the child, remembering the story that Ida had died soon after that picture was made and that Frances had gone to live with my great-grandparents (Ida’s brother and sister-in-law) who always had room in their home and their hearts for another child.  Interestingly enough, I found a book in an old bookstore years ago that bore the inscription Frances Ward, S—- Georgia.  There was no doubt that it was the same Frances; the little town was much to small to have more than one.  I bought it on the spot.

This beautiful lady above was so arresting that I pulled her out and scanned her.  Her name was Myrtle, and she was one of my great-grandmother’s best friends at Young Harris College, class of 1905.  Isn’t she lovely?  Why, oh why can’t we dress and fix out hair like that now?  Most all of the romance has gone out of feminine apparel–but I digress… (And yes, there are exceptions, of course …)

On a humorous note, I found a letter tucked in among some papers of those same college days that made me gasp and then smile.  It was addressed to: Those young ladies who are in the habit of assembling over our unfortunate heads on Sundays and other days for the purpose of enjoying the sound of their own voices and feet, particularly of the latter.

What followed was a missive that would put Lady Catherine de Bourgh to shame.  A scathing remonstrance upon, presumably, my great-grandmother and her ‘giddy’ friends for the carelessness and cruelties of Youth–though upon close inspection the only real accusation I could find was that of their youth itself.  Knowing all that I do of my great-grandmother, her serious passion for study, her humor, her kindness, I can scarcely comprehend anyone writing her a letter like this!  It sounds like something out of the Anne books–Diana’s offended Aunt Josephine or one of the surly Pringle clan.  My very vivid imagination tells me that these charming young ladies won her over in the end and wrought a great victory for the side of Friendship.

I love everything that’s old; old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine.

Oliver Goldsmith: She Stoops to Conquer

Here is an exquisite little poem for a chilly night…

The hearth we sit around is prayer,
At desk and choir-stall: there
The warmth of love bounds forth
In stationary fire;
Within the house of faith the north
And night of self-retire
Shut out the door, and hot desire
Lights up the air,
Runs through the hair,
As morning sunrise brightly tints the spire.

copyright Dom Julian Stead, There Shines Forth Christ

I can’t WAIT to see this movie! 

Even the trailer brings tears to my eyes.

My sister saw this documentary-style film in New York and wept all the way through it–she said that it made her want to paint ballerinas, which I think would be great considering her ballet background and her art career!  She told me that she floated around for days afterwards, borne up by the sheer beauty of the footage and the energy of the interviews with surviving members of the Ballet Russes, many of which have passed away even since the film was made.

The sacrifices these people made, and the joy they had in simply doing what they loved!  What an inspiration to all of us pursuing our individual artistic callings in daily life!  Ballet has always been such a huge part of me, I can’t help but be moved by this tribute to the company that dazzled the whole world with its glamor in the middle of the last century.  I remember sitting on the floor with my ballet students showing them pictures of Alicia Markova and Maria Tallchief and explaining their mark on the ballet world–and now to actually see them in their element, to hear them interviewed and watch them dance…it seems like such an honor.

It opens in Atlanta February 10th, and we will definitely be there.  Philip has listened so patiently to all my rantings about classical positions and placement and epaulement for all these years–bless his heart!–so I know he’ll appreciate it, too!
 

Here’s what the Sundance Film Festival had to say:

 BALLETS RUSSES maps the company’s Diaghilev-era beginnings in turn-of-the-century Paris–when artists such as Nijinsky, Balanchine, Picasso, Miró, Matisse, and Stravinsky united in an unparalleled collaboration–to its halcyon days of the 1930s and ’40s, when the Ballets Russes toured America, astonishing audiences schooled in vaudeville with artistry never before seen, to its demise in the 1950s and ’60s when rising costs, rocketing egos, outside competition, and internal mismanagement ultimately brought this revered company to its knees.

— Sundance Film Festival, 2005

I simply cannot believe that my little sister is celebrating her first anniversary of marriage today!  Sometimes it seems like we should still be playing with our dolls and having picnics by the creek…

Here’s a little story that I wrote when she was on her honeymoon last year. 

My sister-in-law’s post on food writing so inspired me this morning that I thought I’d just sit down and tell you what I’m fixing for dinner tonight, as it’s one of my all-time favorite meals.  This recipe is Comfort Food, pure and simple, which is what my hearth-loving soul craves in winter.  I love to cook–I love the breathless challenge of a mousse or a triple-layer cake (though I have a cache of amusing stories on the latter I’ll just have to share someday!).  I once even made a dessert for my sister’s birthday that was supposed to resemble the Duomo in Florence to celebrate her deep passion for all things Italian.   But in all honesty, it’s in the simple, hearty, healthy dishes that I find my greatest motivation and joy; those inglorious, unglamorous everyday meals that you won’t find on the pages of Bon Apetit, but which nourish the heart as well as the body and create an atmosphere that truly defines a real home.  Like the melt-in-your-mouth pot roast that appeared on our Sunday table almost every week growing up and its fragrant accompaniment of broth-drenched vegetables.  Or the lovely herb-stuffed hen, roasted with a surprising assortment of peppers and turnips and new potatoes that held the place of honor all of the other Sundays, it seems.  My grandmother’s crispy hoecakes, slightly blackened on the outside, golden perfection on the inside, of which all of my attempts to imitate have resulted in a rather unappealing mush of corn meal and canola.  Philip’s mother’s eye-popping spread of mashed potatoes, creamed corn, sweet potato casserole, fried okra, green beans, hot rolls, cole slaw and fresh tomatoes–it makes me hungry just thinking about it!

So here’s my offering to that noble registry of Meals of True Renown.  I hope that my own children someday will say that it makes them think of Home.

Winter Vegetable Pie

This pie is made with a lovely assortment of roasted root vegetables and mushrooms.  I even love buying the ingredients–how few recipes in our American repetoire call for parsnips!  I always feel so ‘Mr. MacGregor-ish’.  And I usually pile the vegetables on the counter for a while, or in a big stainless collander just because they’re so pretty to look at.  Begin with:

4-5 medium carrots, peeled, halved lenthwise and cut into 1/2-inch chunks
1 1/2 lbs button mushrooms, stems removed and halved or quartered
1 1/2 lbs Yukon Gold potatoes, cut into 1-inch chunks
3 large parsnips, peeled, halved lengthwise and cut into 1-inch chunks
1 lb leeks, white and pale green parts only, washed well and sliced into half-moons

Toss all of the vegetables with 1/4 cup olive oil and 3/4 tsp thyme and season generously with salt and pepper.  Roast for 25 minutes at 425 degrees on two rimmed baking sheets; toss.  (If they’re sticking to the pans, sprinkle up to 1/4 cup water over each.)  Roast until browned and tender, up to 20 minutes more.  Transfer to a shallow 3-quart baking dish, or 9/13" casserole.  For the topping, combine 2 cups flour, 2 1/4 tsp baking powder, 3/4 tsp baking soda, 1/2 tsp salt and 1/4 tsp pepper.  Cut in 6 Tbsp of cold, unsalted butter until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs.  Mix in 3/4 buttermilk and 3/4 shredded cheese and with a floured hand knead against the sides of the bowl till combined.  If dough is too sticky, add up to 1/4 cup more flour.

For the sauce, bring 3 cups vegetable broth (homemade or canned low-sodium) and 3/4 cup dry red wine to a boil.  Whisk in 2 Tbsp cornstarch dissolved in 1/3 cup warm water; continue to boil for one minute.  Pour over vegetables and toss to coat.  Drop small mounds of dough on top of vegetables and bake until brown, 15-20 minutes.  Cool 10 minutes and serve.

*this recipe orginally appeared in Everyday Food magazine, January 2004.  A most worthy publication!

The whole process of this dish is delightsome.  The rythmic peeling and chopping and piling; the subtle sizzle coming from the oven as the vegetables roast and the intoxicating aroma that fills the house as the flavors intensify.  Even the walk down to the hen house to toss out the trimmings as a special treat to the girls, and the happy, chuckling clucks of pleasure with with the carrot peels and mushroom ends disappear before my very eyes.  Though Jenny Penny and the brood have made it quite clear that they do not like leeks.  They won’t even cast a sideways glance at them (and if you’ve ever seen a hen give something a sideways glance you know what an amusing gesture it is!) but step over them indignantly and leave them untouched till Philip or I remove the dried stalks!