Dear Summer

Dear Summer,
I can see it in your eyes that you’re moving on. But we’ve had a good run, haven’t we? You gave me armfuls of flowers as if it was nothing. We sipped cold wine and laughed on the patio together. We fell asleep with the windows open, listening to crickets on a cool breeze. We even tramped about in the woods, breathing in that green mossy smell. I shall remember you fondly during the long cold winter, as I wistfully scan photos of times we shared.

With a tear and a smile, I bid you farewell and look forward to seeing you again next year.

Rita

P.S. If you find me missing for a few days, it’s because I’ll be drawing out the last few drops of joy you have to offer.

The Days of Wine and Roses

They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
Love and desire and hate:
I think they have no portion in us after
We pass the gate.
They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream.

Ernest Dowson

Happy Hour

A few years ago, someone in our neighborhood started a new tradition of the neighborhood happy hour. It takes place once a month, usually on a Friday night, in a different house. The character and style from one month to another varies according to the host, the season and who is able to attend. All those attending bring a covered dish and/or a beverage to share.

On Friday night, my husband and I hosted. I had to work on Friday, so my husband did a stellar job getting ready. He thought of everything; from borrowing the neighbors’ outdoor furniture, buying ice, bringing up a table from the basement, and lighting the torches.

While we were prepared to take it indoors, we were blessed with perfect weather as 40 of our neighbors poured in from every direction with fruit salads, hummus and pita, pasta salad, peach pie, crackers and cheese (boursin, my favorite!), as well as beers and wines of every flavor.

As all of the houses in the neighborhood were generally built in the 1920’s, we trade renovation stories, talk about the local political issues, and learn about who has expertise in what. And it always a treat to see how others decorate and restore their homes.

This event was a nice reminder of what a great neighborhood I live in, filled with interesting and talented people as our friendships grow stronger. We stayed up into the wee hours playing a computerized version of charades with the new couple across the street. And if you drink just a little too much; no worries, you can stumble home.

Vacation, Part III

I’ve had some difficulty composing my thoughts about this place because it has me spellbound. Do I talk about the family who commissioned it, or the famous architect who designed it? Honestly, with Fallingwater, one can’t see where one starts and the other begins. The Kaufmanns were close friends with Frank Lloyd Wright; they could live with Wright’s famous restrictions, but Wright gave them greater leverage because they understood his aesthetic. It was a symbiotic relationship, mostly.

The Kaufmanns (if you are unfamiliar) owned a department store that, in its height comprised 59 stores in 5 states, and was bought by Macy’s a few years ago. They had a home in Pittsburgh, and a few other vacation homes sprinkled throughout the country, but Fallingwater is by far their most famous – and for good reason.

My first glimpse of the house was the legendary one from downstream of the waterfall. Pictures simply can’t do it justice. Even by today’s standards, it is a forward-thinking, magnificent home. The house exists in perfect harmony with its natural surroundings, which became Wright’s trademark in residential design. Throughout the house, you can hear the waterfall. The elements of design; wood, stone, steel, and glass, and natural, colorful textiles are constant reminders of the purpose of the home. To relax and connect with nature.

I entered the house through the kitchen, about half the size of my own which, I might add, is considered small by today’s standards. Designed with the most current appliances in 1934, it seems humble and purely functional. As I made my way through the various spaces, I was moved by how each room was intimate, rather than an ostentatious display of wealth. While the house is made up of more than 3,000 square feet, about half of it is the terraces themselves, so interior rooms are smaller than one might think. In the great room, with light pouring in from the tall windows onto the long couches, you could kick off your shoes and flop down right there. As I moved through one rambling space to another, I could see the bookshelves loaded with books. Everything stands exactly as the family left it when they donated it to the Western Pennsylvania Conservancy in 1963, so it feels utterly lived in. None of the rooms have that precious quality where you are afraid to breathe, in spite of the Tiffany and Picassos. This was a house where a famous and wealthy family felt they could be completely themselves. I should like to hear a better definition of home.

Fallingwater has restrictions for the use of photography taken on the premises. I debated and struggled about how I might share my moving experience of such a magnificent space, and respect their wishes at the same time. With ample proof of utter disregard all over the internet, I thought I might at least give a glimpse. I have posted a few photos on my photostream here, which I will remove in one week. Until then, enjoy!

Vacation, Part II

I confess my knowledge of history is a little spotty, but my husband makes a hobby of it, so while on vacation we visited some spots where significantly important things happened during the creation of our country. One of those spots was where General Braddock is buried. Braddock was in the process of eking out Braddock’s Road, which would become National Road 40, when he was killed in battle in 1755, which, to those of you are historically challenged like myself, was before this was even a country. His assistant, Lieutenant Colonel George Washington, had him buried right where he died under the road so that his remains would be undisturbed.





We visited the glen where, with the aid of some Indians, Washington ambushed (though this is highly debated) a French scouting party, in the process killing a French guy named Joseph Coulon de Jumonville. This is said to have been the event that started the French and Indian war.





We also visited Fort Necessity (wouldn’t that be a great name for a home goods store? I digress.), which Washington, as a British officer, had built with some flaws. On a beautiful plain for grazing cattle and horses, it was too close to the forest which left them exposed when the French retaliated. Washington suffered great losses that rainy day 255 years ago. He would later buy land in this area, in hopes of seeing a tavern built on the national road to refresh pioneers moving west. Though he would not live to see its construction, Mount Washington Tavern stands as a monument to his wishes. Washington went on to become the first president of something or other, as well as a popular sitter for very large paintings.



Have a lovely weekend!

Vacation

Hello there, back from vacation …
It would be a serious understatement to say my husband and I don’t get the chance to take a vacation together often, so when we saw a tiny space in both our schedules, we quickly made plans to go to western Pennsylvania. The landscape is stunning, and there’s a million things to do clustered in a rather compact area.
While I compose my thoughts about the piéce de resistance, I needed to share a little about the place we stayed. Summit Inn is perched on this great mountain so that you can see deep down into the valley of Uniontown. While I thought (shrug), “I’m from Vermont, I’ve seen vistas before,” the scenery blew me away.





The inn was built in 1907. If you squint a little, it’s very easy to imagine what a visit was like then; men in their straw hats and spectators, women in muslin gowns, playing croquet and lawn tennis. Such places were built, not as a place to park your luggage while you attend a wedding or business meeting; they were the destinations themselves. And like other such places, this one comes with a history. Imagine guests like Warren Harding and Henry Ford sitting in the Stickley chairs (still there) in the grand lobby by the fire discussing politics and smoking pipes.

We did things that people apparently do on vacation. We slept in a little, lingered over our breakfast, sipped wine on the terrace while the night closed around us and another guest played at the piano. We met a delightful Italian family, and talked the night away. We woke surrounded by luscious fog. We saw what we imagined were ‘regulars’ reading and sipping appletinis in their wicker chairs on the porch. We just might have to become regulars ourselves. Magical, isn't it?

More on the rest later …

Julie & Julia

When I was in seventh grade, the school I attended nominated me and my best friend Kelli to go to summer culinary arts camp for three weeks. I never questioned it at the time, but dutifully went to camp and learned how to flip eggs in a pan, how to make and decorate a cake from scratch, and when to pull brownies from the oven. While the experience was special for me at the time, my appreciation for it didn’t fully emerge until years later.

My mother didn’t watch Julia Child on public television, and I sometimes wonder how my life would have been different if she had. Is it overstating the fact to say my life might have been any different? Considering the impact that Child’s books and show have had on American cooking, I don’t think it is.

My mother’s cooking omitted all of the heart-stopping creams and sauces that Julia found to be the staple to French cooking; my grandmother died of a heart attack at the age of fifty, and so my mother vowed to steer clear of the things that might perpetuate this family history.

What my mother had, which Julia did not, was five daughters; she had to use an economy of scale. This accounts for her buying and having butchered a cow every year which was stored in the basement freezer. Running downstairs for the ice cream always had a morbid element, when right next to the ice cream was a cow’s tongue, taste buds intact. But my mother’s menu wasn’t joyless. Sundays brought desserts native to her Québec roots. Sticky rolls made with maple syrup, pecan pie, and a pie one of my sisters and I refer to as Distraction Pie (raisin) which others would eat so we could have more of the better desserts.

The movie Julie & Julia isn’t just about an American in Paris learning how to cook French cuisine and a blogger in Queens, cooking her way through a cook book. It is also a loving portrait of a marriage. In the movie, like life, food is mingled with the events and celebrations we share with our family and friends. It is steeped in powerful meaning, both sensual and civilized. It is a nod to history and the future at the same time.

In honor of Julia Child, I made some bread today. It turned out okay; I’m a bit rusty. But with her books, and her charming, blundering shows, I too believe anything is possible.

Bon Appétit!

Break

Hello, friends. I'm taking a few days off as my husband and I make an adventure ... (hint: what do you think of Frank Lloyd Wright?) we haven't had a vacation this year and we're both excited about seeing new things and spending time away from technology and deadlines. I'm bringing my camera and 'Mrs. Dalloway' with me, and I'll be back to share some pictures.

Have a lovely weekend!

The Hours

As a big fan of Virginia Woolf, I’m a little chagrined that it took me so long to see ‘The Hours.’ The film weaves together the lives of three women living in three eras; the famous writer Virginia Woolf (Nicole Kidman) battling depression; Laura Brown (Julianne Moore), a wife and mother in 1950’s suburbia, suffering with her inability to embrace her traditional life; and Clarissa Vaughn (Meryl Streep), a New York editor coming to terms with the inevitable death of an ex-lover and dear friend from AIDS. The thread that connects these three women is Woolf’s book ‘Mrs. Dalloway,’ a story about a London society woman who throws parties to avoid thinking deeply about her inner life and choices she has made. You will find that the story’s plot is subtly woven into the plot of ‘The Hours.’

If you put aside the gender and sexuality politics, the film becomes about defining what constitutes happiness, and how it can be so different from one person to another. Woolf is suffocating in their Richmond, Surrey cottage (though I could certainly find happiness there!) and yearns to get back to their London life. Laura’s husband defines their married life in the suburbs as paradise even as his wife suffers in silence. Even Clarissa, who has thrown off the apparent confines of sexuality of the two previous women, battles anxieties about leading a “trivial” life. As her daughter comments, “it only matters if you think it’s true.”

What saves the film from becoming sentimental is its ability to look at life straight in the eye, unflinchingly.