little willow

Paul McCartney wrote the song "Little Willow" in memory of Ringo Starr's first wife, Maureen Cox Starkey, who died of cancer in 1994. Paul had remained close with Maureen and her children, and wrote this song to comfort her grieving family. The song appears on the album Flaming Pie, 1997, and was included on the CD Diana, Princess of Wales: Tribute, 1997. I adore it's simple words and its lovely calming effect works on me every time I listen.

An interesting side note, that's Maureen cheering at the end of the song "Get Back". When Paul says, "Thanks, Mo.", he's referring to her.

Bend little Willow

Winds gonna blow you hard and cold tonight.

Life as it happens,

No body warns you, Willow hold on tight.

Nothings gonna shake your love,

Take your love away.

No ones out to break your heart,

It only seems that way.

Sleep little willow,

Peace is gonna follow,

Time will heal your wounds.

Grow to the heavens.

Now and forever,

Always came too soon.

Nothings gonna shake your love,

Take your love away.

No ones out to break your heart,

It only seems that way.

Bend little willow,

Winds gonna blow you hard and cold tonight.

Life as it happens,

No body warns you, Willow hold on tight.

Muskoka Maharani

Back in March, my Aussie journalist friend, David McMahon asked me if I would be kind enough to read his latest novel, Muskoka Maharani, Penguin Books, 2010, and post about it on my blog. Of course, I told him it would be a delight. Well, it took forever and a day for it to arrive from India, then it took just as long for me to get around to actually reading it.

First, I had to find the meaning of the unusual title. Muskoka is a municipality two hours north of Toronto, and Maharani is a princess in India. This all makes complete sense after finishing the book, which is set basically in and around a fictitious little Anglo-Indian railway colony in pre-Indepence east India. The term Anglo-Indian, during the colonial era, was used to refer to those people who were of strictly British descent, but were born and raised in India, usually because their parents were serving in the colonial administration or armed forces.

The story begins in the present with Harry Barnsley, an Australian newspaper reporter, who, I can't help but believe, is McMahon's own alter ego. If Barnsley doesn't come up with a hot story, his job at the paper is over. His Anglo-Indian advertising director gives him a lead in far off Muskoka, Canada, where her Aunt Serena has long kept a secret about assisting in the capture of a certain German spy in World War II. He travels to Muskoka to track down Serena and land his much needed story.

The thing I like best about this book, is that it's peppered with charming details of Anglo-Indian life in the 1930s. McMahon, who was raised in India himself, masterfully conveys these unique first hand bits of culture and domesticity. In fact, I found myself wishing he had included more of them. There is one lovely scene in particular, in which the servant woman would use the ash, leftover from the previous day's fire, to make a paste to wash the dishes. "...Jeera would rinse everything in the sink. Then, taking some of the ash in her right hand, she would rub it carefully across the wet surface of the first piece of cutlery and crockery...every square inch of the object she was washing....before giving the item one final rinse under the water to leave the surface looking as good as new."

Towards the end of the book, the story shifts to 1940 England, were Serena is a nurse, enlisted into Churchill's Special Operations Executive. I especially enjoyed these chapters, which take on a bit of a Charlotte Gray feel, and actually wish more detail had been devoted to these intriguing war time events surrounding Dunkirk.

Sixty years later, the revelation of Serena's secret, (a spoiler, so I can't tell) takes Harry Barnsley to Vatican City. Even though I feel the surprise ending is just a tad outlandish, Muskoka Maharani is a well written, interesting read, set in a place and time in India, which I previously knew very little about.

poor poets, and others

The nickel dinner would, in periods of poverty, be gratifying indeed. Then, during those too chance bonanza moments, the same dinner could be a manifold blessing--not the least of which would be a coin or two toward the next private depression, whether it be prefaced by purchase of a painting too dear (yep), three bars of imported soap (uh-huh), a box of strawberries out of season, or an unexpected tonsillectomy (...or root canal).

Poets are often out of funds. Many times they try to keep body and soul together by eating candy bars, apples, doughnuts, and an occasional hamburger, usually standing up. This is a mistake. Meals should be eaten sitting down. --Ann Rogers

On my weekly visit to my local Goodwill store, I always browse their sizable book section first. This week I came home with a first edition of A Cookbook for Poor Poets (and others), by Ann Rogers, Scribner's, 1966. I'm not one to usually buy a cookbook, but it's a small book, and at first glance, doesn't look like a cookbook at all. Since the title included both poets and cooking, I had to take a peek. The pages are delightfully mellow (you know I adore that patina) and it's scattered with charmingly quirky illustrations by Anna Kopczynski. It's comprised of simple, low budget recipes from the 1960s, just like Holly Golightly might prepare in her spare New York apartment.

Rogers, a girl after my own heart, stresses the importance of elegant meals, however humble. Her cooking elements include stocking a good spice shelf, investing in a solid frying pan and last, but not least, a good French knife. Her first rule is always have fresh bread; second, always use butter; and third, always serve wine. Each chapter is accompanied by a delightfully written introduction.

I mixed up some of her "Cucumbers, Hans Christian Andersen" (isn't that cute?) this morning to serve for lunch. I sneaked a little taste and they are divine. I know this isn't a unique recipe, but it's one that I don't usually make. It's a perfect summer side dish.

2 long cucumbers
2 tsp salt
2 Tbsp dill weed
1/4 cup water, 1/4 cup vinegar, 1/4 cup sugar

Do not peel or seed the cucumbers, slice paper thin (I used my handy dandy mandolin) sprinkle with salt and chill overnight. When ready to serve, drain cucumbers and mix with the remaining ingredients. Additional chilling blends the flavors nicely. This dish can serve as a salad, relish, sandwich filling or garnish.

therapy

My eyes are closed
when I brush my teeth,

in the same way

I close them

at the hairdresser's.

Blind to distractions,

I relish the pleasing primp,

full mute sweep,

a coiffure of the mouth.

Lies, grinds, loves

confessed, roots rinsed

in a minty makeover,

eyes closed over the sink,

pink toothbrush posed.

willow, 2010

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munch ado

According to oral history, the Baron Münchhausen's astounding feats included riding cannonballs, travelling to the Moon, and escaping from a swamp by pulling himself up by his own hair, or bootstraps, depending on who tells the story. Karl Friedrich Hieronymus, Freiherr von Münchhausen (1720–1797), spelled Munchausen in English, was a German born baron, who in his youth served as page to Anthony Ulrich II of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel, and later joined the Russian military. He served until 1750, taking part in two campaigns against the Ottoman Turks. Returning home, Münchhausen supposedly told a number of outrageously tall tales about his wild adventures.

By the 19th century, his tales had undergone expansions and transformations by many notable authors and had been translated into numerous languages, totaling over 100 various editions. Baron Munchhausen's adventures have also been published in Russia, where they are quite commonly known, especially the versions adapted for children. It is not clear how much of the story material derives from the Baron himself; however, it is known that the majority of the stories are based on folktales that have been in circulation for many centuries before Münchhausen's birth.

I was fascinated this week by the mention of Munchausen Syndrome on Gyan Ban's blog. It is an attention seeking personality disorder, named after the Baron Munchausen. A predominantly female disorder, in which an emotionally immature person with narcissistic tendencies, low self esteem and a fragile ego has an overwhelming need to be the center of attention. This is achieved by capitalizing on, exploiting, exaggerating or feigning illness, injury, or personal misfortune. The opportunities for attention can be increased by feigning victimhood through alleged victimisation, isolation, or exclusion. The Munchausen person often depicts another, usually a family member, as a victimiser or persecutor, and herself as the victim. Know someone like this? Let the mental health specialists handle it.

Among the many film adaptations, my personal fave is Terry Gilliam's wild and quirky The Adventures of Baron Munchausen, 1988. The film stars John Neville as the Baron and nine year old Sarah Polley as Sally Salt. Supporting the Baron as his faithful crew were Eric Idle, Charles McKeown, Winston Dennis and Jack Purvis. The film also featured Uma Thurman, Oliver Reed, Jonathan Pryce, Sting and Robin Williams, credited as Ray D. Tutto. (Why? I have no idea.) Here's two of my favorite scenes from the movie, the first is Uma Thurman as Venus, and the second is John Neville as the Baron, trying to have a deathbed scene, which is so hilariously apropos, considering the syndrome named after him. I don't usually post two video clips, but they're both shorties, so take a peek.

sassy

Willow weep for me

Willow weep for me

Bend your branches green

along the stream that runs to sea

Listen to my plea

Hear me willow and weep for me

Gone my lovers dream

Lovely summer dream

Gone and left me here to weep

my tears into the stream

Sad as I can be

Hear me willow and weep for me

Whisper to the wind and say that love has sinned

Left my heart a-breaking, and making a moan

Murmur to the night to hide it's starry light

So none will see me sighing and crying all alone

Weeping willow tree

Weep in sympathy

Bend your branches down along the ground and cover me

When the shadows fall, hear me willow and weep for me

(oops, embedding is denied...click HERE to listen on YouTube)

My wickedly willow series would be seriously lacking without this classic! Catalyst and R. Burnett Baker suggested this one. (Thanks, guys! xx) So many greats have recorded this one, it was hard to choose. I went with Sarah Vaughan. I love her clear, rich sound. Her nickname was Sassy. Man, if I could sing Iike this, I'd call myself Sassy, too.

American composer and lyricist Ann Ronell (1908–1993) was romantically involved with George Gershwin at the time she wrote her most famous song, "Willow Weep for Me" (1932) and speculation in the New York City composer community is that Gershwin actually wrote the song and gave her the copyright as a gift. However, this has never been proven and is still, at this point, based on the striking similarities in the song to the blues-inflected style of Gershwin.

my latest food crush

This is now officially my favorite summer recipe, thanks to Suki! Everyone loved-loved-loved this deliciously cool dish. Since I have a couple of grown sons wondering randomly in and out of the manor, I made a large double batch and added some chicken, and left the bottle of hot sauce on the table. It didn't last 24 hours.

Cold Szechuan Noodles

1 pound noodles, fresh Chinese or spaghetti/linguine
4 TBS tamari soy sauce
4 TBS oriental sesame oil (I used peanut sauce)
1 TBS Chinese rice vinegar
1 TBS sugar
1/2 tsp chili oil (I used Sriracha hot chili sauce, the bottle with the rooster)
1 red bell pepper, cored and shredded (I julienned them)
3 scallions, thinly sliced (I halved them, cut diagonal 1 1/2 inch slices)
2 carrots, grated
garnish with a scallion branch

(I also added sauteed sliced shiitakis and sliced cooked chicken.)

Cook noodles al dente. Drain. Drop into a large bowl.

Mix 3 TBS soy sauce, 3 TBS sesame oil and the vinegar, sugar and chili oil in a small bowl. Pour onto noodles. Toss noodles with tongs to coat them. Marinate 2 hours or more, tossing occasionally. Cover and chill noodles, if they are prepared more than 4 hours in advance.

If noodles have been chilled, bring them to room temperature before serving. Mix remaining soy sauce and sesame oil and pour over noodles. Stir in red peppers, scallions and grated carrots and serve. Yum. A. Licious.

flying shirley

New Television Antenna, 1949, Norman Rockwell

I've been getting a ton of hits on my sitemeter lately on a particular post about my Shirley Temple. Are Shirleys back in vogue? Maybe. So, gentle readers, by popular demand, this is a re-post of Flying Shirley, originally posted in February of 2009.

When I was a little girl, I adored throwing my dolls in the air. The most fun, was tossing the baby Jesus from my grandmother's nativity set, complete with permanent plastic swaddling clothes, as near the ceiling as possible. To Grandma, this little fetish was entirely disrespectful. Like Queen Victoria, she was not amused, and promptly ordered me to stop, which I did, until she was safely out of the room.

I often dreamed of flying, myself, running fast as I possibly could in the grass, until my feet miraculously left the ground. It was exhilarating, drifting, wind in my face, arms out like Peter Pan, with an aerial view of my house and yard. I've heard it said to dream of flying is a sign of creativity, or maybe it was simply my childish craving for autonomy.

One Michigan summer day, a five year old me was doing my favorite Shirley Temple doll a favor, by sharing with her the thrill of flight. Higher and higher she flew, until she landed with a thud on the roof. I was mortified. Shirley, up there on the blazing asphalt, was more than I could bear. I begged my parents to rescue her, but to no avail. Fall came, and by November she was covered with a heavy blanket of snow. All winter, I imagined my Shirley, cold and abandoned on the roof.

With the arrival of spring, my father, anxious to see a ball game, climbed on the roof to adjust the TV antenna. He descended with a treasure, my beloved Shirley. Her ringlets were frizzled, one of her eyelids hung partially shut, and she had lost that curious, intoxicating scent of new plastic. I had never seen anything so lovely. I never again dreamed of flying.

Head of a Doll by Charles Simic

my flying Shirley

Whose demon are you,

Whose god? I asked

Of the painted mouth

Half buried in the sand.

A brooding gull

Made a brief assessment,

And tiptoed away

Nodding to himself.

At dusk a firefly or two

Dowsed its eye pits.

And later, toward midnight,

I even heard mice.

In the 1930s, the lovable little Shirley Temple became a symbol of happiness and hope in the midst of the Great Depression. A wave of merchandising followed, including a series of high quality Shirley Temple composition dolls (composition is a sawdust-based wood pulp, which can crack easily, so many did not survive). Later, in the 1950s, Shirley Temple dolls were made of vinyl and are therefore more common. Celebrity dolls have been in production for a long time. In the 1840s, several famous ballerinas were featured as paper dolls. Also in the 1800s, various military heroes were portrayed as dolls/figures. John Bunny, the silent film star, was one of the first dolls produced in 1914 by Louis Amberg & Sons, and the first Charlie Chaplin doll was produced in 1915. The Shirley Temple doll by Ideal was a wild phenomenon in the 1930s, and would go on to be one of the most successful celebrity dolls in history.

Note: My daughter looked so much like Shirley Temple when she was a little girl. In fact, she is still fondly known to one particular maestro as "Curly Top". I guess you could say I've been blessed with a real live Shirley doll of my very own.

patina

for Chester Lewis Hanna, 1914-2007

The last time I saw him,

he was a dandelion

pale with seed,

uneven and linty.

Under his bifocals,

his eyes had accrued

a thick luminous layer,

ripe with tales

of the great depression.

When he spoke,

his soft breath,

over his pocket protector,

smelled sweet and mellow

like his favorite prunes.

Mostly, I listened, mute,

afraid to shout large enough

for him to hear;

the sound might discharge

the fragile pod, a burst

of woolly seed, his DNA

in parachutes.

willow, 2010

brief encounter

The folded blade craved my flesh.

No one knew my slender shrieks.

I bolted, mad, to the evening heat,

and hid in the blue of the juniper bush,

hushed the tears, so he wouldn’t hear.

He took my waist, tucked me hard

between his legs, rendered a finger

from my fist, held me fast around the wrist.

My skin opened, but did not bleed,

and spit the splinter like a melon seed.

willow, 2010

I'll never forget screaming as my grandfather chased me with his pocket knife, and how it didn't hurt when he pressed the open blade flat against my finger.

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wild hare

Tufts of hairy crabweed

sprout from my temples

like crazy hemp

in the rabbit hole

of an all day tea party.

I happen to descend

from a whole line

of fertile Mad Hatters,

resistant to most sanity.

My forebears flattened

theirs in Brylcreem

with results even Bonaparte

would envy.

The edges stuck out

from my father’s flattop

and grew to a hedge maze

that hid him from me,

like a mock turtle.

willow, 2010

willowy coolness

This week's wickedly willow song is the fabulous Joan Armatrading singing one of her best known songs, "Willow". Armatrading is the talented British singer, songwriter, guitarist, and three-time Grammy Award-nominee, nominated twice for BRIT Awards as Best Female Artist; also received an Ivor Novello award for Outstanding Contemporary Song Collection in 1996. Armatrading currently lives in Surrey, England, where her farmhouse home includes a recording studio. Anyone who can write super lyrics, set them to music, dole them out with this kinda flair and lives in a farmhouse in England is in my willowy book of coolness.

I may not be your best

But you know good ones

Don't come by the score

If you've got something missing

I'll help you look

You can be sure

And if you want to be alone

Or someone to share a laugh

Whatever you want to do

All you got to do is ask

Thunder

Don't go under the sheets

Lightning

Under a tree

In the rain and snow

I'll be your fireside

Come running to me

When things get out of hand

Running to me

When it's more than you can stand

I said I'm strong

Straight

Willing

To be a shelter

In a storm

Your willow

Oh willow

When the sun is out

A fight with your best girl

Prettiest thing you ever saw

You know I'll listen

Try to get a message to her

And if it's money you want

Or trouble halved

Whatever you want me to do

All you got to do is ask

I said I'm strong

Straight

Willing

To be a shelter

In a storm

Your willow

Oh willow

When the sun is out

leave your sleep

I know, I'm always saying this, but I love the blogging community. I am fortunate enough to have the most generous and inspiring blog friends. Last week, my dear friend FireLight, knowing how much I love, not only poetry, but children's books, as well, surprised me with a splendid gift.
Leave Your Sleep is Natalie Merchant's new album, just released in April; a double CD with 25 tracks in a variety of styles, from reggae to klezmer, from orchestra-and-voice to bluegrass. This album is so unique because the songs are settings for poems by e.e. cummings, Rachel Field, Robert Graves, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Ogden Nash, Robert Louis Stevenson, and others.

As Merchant set the poems to music, she called on 130 musicians, in groups as diverse as the Irish band Lunasa; session greats the Memphis Boys; the Chinese Music Ensemble of New York; the Klezmatics; jazz-jam band Medeski, Martin and Wood; and playful L.A. girl duo the Ditty Bops. It truly is an anthology of not only poets, but musicians, as well. What started out to be a children's album, grew into something quite special, that's not just for kids.

Albert Bigelow Paine

Below is a sample of one of the songs, the poem "The Dancing Bear" by Albert Bigelow Paine. I absolutely adore the fabulous Eastern European klezmer feel to this piece.

Paine (1861–1937) was an American author and biographer best known for his work with Mark Twain. Paine was a member of the Pulitzer Prize Committee and wrote in several genres, including fiction, humour, and verse. He also wrote several children's books, the first of which was published in 1898. For a time he served as an editor of St. Nicholas Magazine, a leading children's periodical of the time.

Take a listen. I've added the words to the poem, too.

THE DANCING BEAR

Oh, it's fiddle-de-dum and fiddle-de-dee,

The dancing bear ran away with me;

For the organ-grinder he came to town

With a jolly old bear in a coat of brown.

And the funny old chap joined hands with me,

While I cut a caper and so did he.

Then 'twas fiddle-de-dum and fiddle-de-dee,

I looked at him, and he winked at me,

And I whispered a word in his shaggy ear,

And I said, "I will go with you, my dear."

Then the dancing bear he smiled and said,

Well, he didn't say much, but he nodded his head,

As the organ-grinder began to play

"Over the hills and far away."

With a fiddle-de-dum and a fiddle-de-dee;

Oh, I looked at him and he winked at me,

And my heart was light and the day was fair,

And away I went with the dancing bear.

Oh, ’tis fiddle-de-dum and fiddle-de-dee,

The dancing bear came back with me;

For the sugar-plum trees were stripped and bare,

And we couldn't find cookies anywhere.

And the solemn old fellow he sighed and said,

Well, he didn't say much, but he shook his head,

While I looked at him and he blinked at me

Till I shed a tear and so did he;

And both of us thought of our supper that lay

Over the hills and far away.

Then the dancing bear he took my hand,

And we hurried away through the twilight land;

And 'twas fiddle-de-dum and fiddle-de-dee

blueberry banana muffins

Warning: for full food attack, click to enlarge

So, what yummy thing did I bake at the manor this weekend? These yumalicious muffins. The banana makes them super moist, and adds a delightfully subtle background flavor. Okay. I admit it. I ate three.

1 stick butter

3/4 cup granulated sugar

2 eggs

2 bananas, mashed

1/2 cup milk

2 cups flour

2 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp cinnamon

2 cups fresh (I used) or frozen blueberries

Cream butter and sugar, add eggs, mix in bananas and milk. In separate bowl, combine flour, baking powder and cinnamon. Add moist to dry ingredients and mix only until batter is moist. (Not too much or muffins will be rubbery.) Carefully stir in the whole blueberries. Spoon into greased muffin tin and bake 25 minutes at 350.

the new order

I am a magpie.

My fleshy nest is feathered in flotsam.

Not a hoarder, but rather, a hunter, gatherer

of thoughts, scavenger of curios and the curious.

Like Mary Kate Danaher,

I must have my things about me,

until the fate of the new familial order

ascends with flourish; mutiny, without asking.

The manor, ready for auction, is shiny,

stripped and greased, for meticulous scrutiny.

The coronation flask, the one with the crown

and manacled G and E, is taken down, emptied

of pencils, writing, and worth, and marked,

so appropriately, “Goodwill”.

I, too, am carefully wrapped, boxed,

and labeled “assorted secrets and stories”,

a discreetly forgotten casket, stowed

dowerless, in a thrift store of dirt.

willow, 2010

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the yearling makes my dna tingle

James Dunnam home, near Brewton, Escambia Co., AL, circa 1900
(click to enlarge)

The Yearling, N. C. Wyeth

Sunday night I watched the wonderful 1946 film adaptation of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings' The Yearling, the story of a rebel soldier and his wife, who after the Civil War, become pioneer farmers in Florida. Every time I see it, I am reminded of my great-great-great-grandparents, James Alexander Dunnam and his wife Sina Isabelle Morris, who farmed near Brewton, Escambia County, Alabama, near the Florida border, just after the Civil War. They raised nine children in this house, that looks so much like the one in the movie. I often wonder what similar hardships they suffered, and what "Old Slewfoot" stories they might have to tell. My great-grandmother, Ida Belle Lewis, is the little girl sitting on the left of the front steps, with her hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun. Notice the portrait of the Dunnam's deceased son, Enoch, her uncle, placed outside on the porch, as part of the family photo.

James Alexander Dunnam and Sina Isabelle Morris Dunnam, circa 1900

This is a Sepia Saturday post.

un-reel

I don't know about you, but I've been getting quite a few new hits from Blogger's "next blog" feature. So much so, in fact, that I thought I'd give it a whirl myself, to see what the big deal was. After all, isn't it supposed to encourage mixing in the blog community? It conjured delightful images of Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy at the Netherfield ball. Or better yet, Scarlett O'Hara and Rhett Butler dancing the Virginia reel, the folk dance most popular in America from 1830 - 1890, where all the couples mingle by switching partners.

So, I mustered up my best blogging brilliance and clicked the link on my navbar. The first blog featured a post about a new addition to the family. Since they were complete strangers, I felt a little awkward and quickly moved on to the next blog. Another baby post. Click. More babies. Don't get me wrong, I love babies, but mine are grown and I've not yet entered into the world of grandparenthood. I gave up. Until the next day.

More hopeful this time, my cursor wandered up to the navbar and timidly clicked on "next blog". Maybe I would encounter someone who shared my fondness for woolly socks, opera, or browsing dusty secondhand book shops? The first blog was a cat blog; every post a cat. Okay, well, I like cats, but I don't live for cats. Click. Kittens. Kitties on the header and sidebar; lots of kitty awards. Click. More felines. Was it something I said? I don't recall posting anything about cats, or babies, for that matter. Twelve successive cat blogs later, I gave up.

That's my uneventful experience with "next blog". It certainly was not the "reel" experience I was looking for, Virginia or otherwise. I guess you could say it was un-reel.

all around my hat

One of my favorite wicked willowy songs is "All Around My Hat", from a 1975 album by the same name by Steeleye Span. The album was their eighth and highest charting, reaching number 7 on the UK charts, and staying on the charts for six months. It briefly made the band a household name in England. In the United States it became the band's first album to chart, reaching number 143.

The song "All Around my Hat" is of nineteenth century English origin. In an early version, dating from the 1820s, a Cockney costermonger* vowed to be true to his fiancee, who was sentenced to seven years transportation to Australia for theft, and to mourn his loss by wearing green willow sprigs in his hatband for "a twelve-month and a day," as traditional symbol of mourning. In Ireland, Peadar Kearney adapted the song to relate to an Republican lass whose lover had died in the Easter Rising, and who swears to wear the Irish tricolour in her hat in remembrance.

*Costermonger (had to look it up; rare in these parts)
Function: noun
Etymology: costard + monger
Date: 1514
British : a hawker of fruit or vegetables

This song is dedicated to the charming Michael of Shouting at Westminster Streetlights, who sent it to me some time back. So, Mick, if you're out there, this one's for you. xx

It's impossible to listen to this one quietly, so turn your volume way up!

All Around My Hat, Steeleye Span version

all around my hat i will wear the green willow
and all around my hat for a twelve month and a day
and if any one should ask me the reason why i'm wearing it
it's all for my true love who's far, far away.

fare thee well cold winter and fare thee well cold frost
nothing have i gained but my own truelove i've lost
i'll sing and i'll be merry when occassion i do see
he's a false deluding young man let him go farewell he

other night he brought me a fine diamond ring
but he thought to have deprived me of a far better thing
but i being careful like lovers ought to be
he's a false deluding young man let him go farewell he and

all around my hat i will wear the green willow
and all around my hat for a twelve month and a day
and if any one should ask me the reason why i'm wearing it
it's all for my true love who's far, far away.

quarter pound of reasons and a half a pound of sense
a small sprig of time and as much of prudence
you mix them all together and you will plainly see
he's a much deluding young man let him go farewell he and

all around my hat i will wear the green willow
and all around my hat for a twelve month and a day
and if any one should ask me the reason why i'm wearing it
it's all for my true love who's far, far away.

all around my hat i will wear the green willow
and all around my hat for a twelve month and a day
and if any one should ask me the reason why i'm wearing it
it's all for my true love who's far, far away.

photo from Flickr

my latest crush

Several of you were asking about my delicious new header image. It's the work of my current artist crush, Meredith Frampton (1894 – 1984), a British painter and etcher. The header above is a cropped version of the Portrait of Marguerite Kelsey (1928). I adore the elegant, yet slightly surreal feel of his work. (Kelsey, by the way, was a celebrated artists' model and one of the last of her kind. She first began posing at the age of 15, in 1924, and so popular did she become that she was often booked months in advance.)

Meredith Frampton was born in London on March 17, 1894, the only son of the noted establishment sculptor Sir George Frampton and the artist Christabel Cockerell. He was educated at St John’s Wood Art School and the at the Royal Academy Schools. Frampton became one of the most sought after portraitists of the inter-war years, but was a painfully slow worker and unsurprisingly, his output was small, but significant.

Portrait of a Young Woman, 1935, Tate

A Game of Patience, 1937

His oil on canvas Portrait of a Young Woman (1935) was presented by the Trustees of the Chantrey Bequest to the Tate. Frampton later said that he painted that picture as "a relaxation from commissions, and to celebrate an assembly of objects… beautiful in their own right". The sitter was Margaret Austin-Jones, then aged 23. Her dress was made up from a Vogue pattern by Frampton’s mother. The vase in the picture made of mahogany, was designed by Frampton himself.

Due to failing eyesight, Frampton retired from the active exercise of his profession in 1953 and fell into obscurity, but his 1982 Tate retrospective somewhat revived his reputation. He wrote of his own work: "I think my principal aim has always been to paint the sort of picture that I would like to own and live with had it been painted by someone else." Frampton died on September 16, 1984.

Frampton's work at the Tate

Ten Dreams

that's cracker, jack

Friday afternoon, my local Aldi store happened to have a huge display of Cracker Jack bags on special for 99 cents each, right in front of the check out lanes. For old times sake, I tossed a bag in my cart. I haven't eaten any in ages, not since I was at least five years old. Part of the whole Cracker Jack experience was the individual box, the feeling of ownership, opening it up like a birthday present and looking for the prize tucked inside. So, I was a bit disappointed that foil bags have replaced the lovely little boxes. As I tore the tear off strip at the top, I wondered if they still included prizes. My heart skipped a beat. Maybe I'd find one of those cute pot metal rings like Paul Varjak so charmingly had engraved at Tiffany's for Holly Golightly? Or maybe one of those teeny plastic hand tools I remember from the 50s?

Sure enough, on the top was one of those familiar paper packets. I ooo-ed with delight and carefully opened the perforated edge. Inside was a tiny booklet with a lame cartoon of two mountain climbers scaling a pencil. The image had two slits and was dubbed a "pencil topper", supposedly to decorate the tip of a pencil. Okay, Frito Lay, I admit it was a huge letdown. But, it tasted even better than I remembered. In fact, it tasted so good, I ate the entire seven ounce bag. Actually, it's only six ounces, since there's at least an ounce of those crumbly lip-sticking kaniggets at the bottom. I nearly fell off my computer chair when I read the nutritional facts on the back of the bag. Serving size: 1/2 cup. Calories: 120. Do you know how many kernels of Cracker Jack fit into 1/2 cup? Six. Who eats just six?

According to legend, a unique popcorn, peanuts and molasses confection, that was the forerunner to Cracker Jack caramel coated popcorn and peanuts, was introduced by F.W. Rueckheim and Brother, at the World's Columbian Exposition, Chicago's first World's Fair. In 1896, Louis Rueckheim, F.W.'s brother and partner, discovered the process for keeping the molasses-covered popcorn morsels from sticking together. Louis gave the treat to a salesman who exclaimed, "That's crackerjack!"

"Crackerjack" was originally a noun, appearing in the U.S. around 1895, meaning "a person of excellence, superior knowledge and ability." The root of "crackerjack" is a sense of "cracker" current in the early 1860s meaning "a remarkable individual" or "an outstanding example of something." This sense of "cracker" was based, in turn, on a very old (around 1460, in fact) sense of "to crack" meaning "to boast or brag." The "jack" element of "crackerjack" doesn't really mean anything. Its role in the word is to rhyme with "crack." (You know how much I adore rhymes and ditties.)

Speaking of ditties, the song "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" written by Jack Norworth and Albert Von Tilzer in 1908, immortalized the snack with the third line, "Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack." Since 1918, Sailor Jack and his dog, Bingo, have appeared on the packages. I noticed Jack and Bingo have a new updated 21st century look. In 1964, our Columbus, Ohio based Borden, Inc. purchased the Cracker Jack Company, and in 1997 Borden sold it's division to Frito Lay. The new packaging is okay, but come on; the prize needs a little work.

last two photos borrowed from Google images

lamb chop

for Elspeth

It was a long summer

of pastries and Pavarotti.

Little did I know,

craving donuts and opera

would bake up a tasty cream puff

with a mouth wide for song.

Not till that judge tossed his pencil

and leaned back in his chair,

did I realize your splendid bakery.

Sometimes the recipe was wrong,

but you opened those brave chops

and sang like a daughter of God.

The ovens have been hot.

Your crust is not as tough as it seems.

After the wild flour settles,

your sweet bel canto

puts Krispy Kremes to shame.

willow, 2010

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lasagna with asparagus, leeks and morels

Okay. I could've eaten all of this myself. This is officially my new favorite recipe. It's from the April issue of Bon Appetit, but I just now got around to making it. Succulent. That's all I have to say.


2 Tbsp butter, divided
2 medium leeks, white and pale green parts only, halved lengthwise, sliced thin
1 pound thick asparagus spears, cut on diagonal into 1 inch pieces
4 oz fresh morel mushrooms, rinsed, coarsely chopped, or 5 oz fresh shiitake mushrooms, stemmed and coarsely chopped
2 teaspoon chopped fresh thyme (use the fresh, it makes a difference)
3 1/2 cups low salt chicken broth
1 1/2 cups heavy whipping cream
1 bay leaf
2 Tbsp flour
3/4 tsp freshly grated nutmeg (I love this part)
non stick oil spray
1 9 oz pkg no-cook lasagna noodles
1 1/4 cups (about) finely grated Parmesan cheese

Saute leeks in large, heavy skillet in 1 Tbsp butter, transfer to bowl. Add remaining 1 Tbsp butter and saute just until tender-crisp asparagus, mushrooms and thyme. Sprinkle with salt and pepper to taste. Add to the bowl with the leeks and toss. Add broth, cream and bay leaf to the same skillet and heat for about 6 minutes until slightly thickened. Sprinkle flour over and whisk to blend. Remove bay leaf. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Preheat oven to 350. Coat four 2 cup shallow oval or round banking dishes with nonstick spray. Break corners from noodles to fit. Spoon 1/4 cup sauce into each dish, place one noodle in each, then 1/4 vegetable mix, 2 Tbsp sauce over, and rounded Tbsp cheese. Repeat two more times. Cover tightly with foil, bake 40 minutes. Remove foil and bake 10 more minutes or until thick and lightly browned. Let stand at room time 5-10 minutes before serving.

Note: Next time I make this, I will make a roux with the butter and flour in the skillet before adding the broth and cream. I think it would work well baked in one medium pan, as well.

summer hours

This delicious film from my Netflix queue deserves a whole post of it's very own. Summer Hours, (L'heure d'été), 2008, written and directed by contemporary French filmmaker, Olivier Assayas, opens in a gloriously crumbling old country house an hour north of Paris. (Remember how I adore patina?) The 75 year old Hélène (Edith Scob) has gathered her three children (Juliette Binoche, Charles Berling and Jeremie Renier) and their families for her birthday, and discusses with them the fate of her extraordinary art collection, comprised by a dozen circa 1900 masterworks, including furniture by Louis Majorelle and Josef Hoffmann, glass and ceramic vases by Félix Bracquemond and Atelier d'Auteuil, and paintings by Camille Corot and Odilon Redon. The art was inherited from her famous uncle (and possibly incestuous lover), Paul Berthier, a fictional post-Impressionist painter. It's thrilling that many of these gorgeous pieces are actually on loan from the Musée d'Orsay and star, right along with the actors, in the film.

This might seem like an ordinary family melodrama, but Assayas takes the story to a highly poetical level. It's rich in meaning, but not sentimental, dealing with the relationships between people and art and the past. It conjures images of Chekhov's The Cherry Orchard; the leaving behind of a lovely era and gently moving into a new order. I liked this one so much, I wanted to pop it back in the machine and watch it again. It's gentle, but ravishing. A perfect summer film.

more wicked willowiness

I searched high and low for a video clip of the great Duke aka John Wayne singing "Tit Willow" in The Shootist, but no such luck. Darn. It's so incredibly sweet. Anyway, the original "Tit Willow" is sung by the character Ko-Ko in Gilbert and Sullivan's comic opera, The Mikado, which opened in London on March 14, 1885. It ran at the Savoy Theatre for 672 performances, the second longest run for any work of musical theater. And just so you know, a "willow tit" is a small bird, with a gray-brown body and black crown, that lives in the marshy woodlands of Europe, innocently enough. Below are two of my favorite renditions of "Tit Willow", performed in the first video by the charming TV brothers, Frasier (I had the hugest crush) and Niles Crane. By the way, did you know that Frasier was a spin off from the sitcom Cheers, and that it ran for eleven seasons? I loved the witty comedy and sparkling chemistry between the characters. And the second clip by the delightful Rowlf and Sam Eagle, who need no introductions.

On a tree by a river a little tom-tit

Sang "Willow, tit willow, tit willow"

And I said to him, "Dicky-bird, why do you sit

Singing 'Willow, tit willow, tit willow'"

"Is it weakness of intellect, birdie?"

I cried "Or a rather tough worm in your little inside"

With a shake of his poor little head,

he replied "Oh, willow, tit willow, tit willow!"

He slapped at his chest, as he sat on that bough

Singing "Willow, tit willow, tit willow"

And a cold perspiration bespangled his brow

Oh, willow, tit willow, tit willow

He sobbed and he sighed, and a gurgle he gave

Then he plunged himself into the billowy wave

And an echo arose from the suicide's grave

"Oh, willow, tit willow, tit willow"

Now I feel just as sure as I'm sure that my name

Isn't Willow, tit willow, tit willow

That 'twas blighted affection that made him exclaim

"Oh, willow, tit willow, tit willow"

And if you remain callous and obdurate, I

Shall perish as he did, and you will know why

Though I probably shall not exclaim as I die

"Oh, willow, tit willow, tit willow"

the curse of chief leatherlips

Wyandot warrior

It's Leatherlips season at the manor. For those of you who are new readers of this blog, the Native American Wyandot Chief Leatherlips was executed 200 years ago today, June 1, 1810, on the banks of the Scioto River, in the general vicinity of Willow Manor. The chief was called "Leatherlips" because he was known to be trustworthy; his word was his bond. He was friendly with the white settlers in and around Dublin, Ohio, including the early resident Sells brothers, and was a local fixture at their new Black Horse Tavern. His Wyandot people relocated to Northwest Ohio, and were plagued by many mishaps, including disease. They blamed Leatherlips for their turn of unfortunate luck and returned to Dublin to escort him to their northern encampment. When he refused, his fellow Wyandots accused Leatherlips of witchcraft, and pronounced the sentence of death, executing him by tomahawk. This photo is of a Wyandot warrior, similar to how Leatherlips may have looked in his full tribal regalia; since he was killed in 1810, there are no photos of him in existence.

The Curse of Chief Leatherlips

This time of year is also our local Annual Muirfield Memorial PGA Golf Tournament. It is said that Jack Nicklaus built his course on sacred Wyandot Indian burial grounds, and that the tournament is cursed by Chief Leatherlips. It is certainly peculiar that every year, golfers and spectators are drenched with torrents of rain. Could it be that Central Ohio just gets a lot of rain this time of year? Possibly.

Bill Moose Crowfoot, 1930

Another Native American who was known to wander the area of the Scioto River banks in Dublin, Ohio, was Bill Moose Crowfoot, pictured here in head dress and beaded tunic, 1930. He is said to be the last of the Wyandots to live in Central Ohio. Born in Northwest Ohio in 1837, Crowfoot moved to the Columbus area with his family, when most of his tribe was displaced to Kansas and later Oklahoma. When we first moved to Willow Manor, there were three "Indian trees", sometimes called signal trees, in a line about 150 yards apart, the center one on our property. They were maples bent as saplings and secured with buckskin ties by the Wyandots, to mark a significant location. These maples grew into huge unusual "s" shaped trees. I've always wondered, exactly what was the significance of the trees in this particular location at the manor?

Some 20 years ago, when the area around the manor was very rural, my youngest son came into the kitchen one sunny June day. "Mommy, who's that old man outside in the overalls?" After investigating the area there was no one to be found. A few years later, also in the month of June, by the way, WT saw an old Native American looking man in overalls, standing near a stack of three large rocks we fondly call the Willow Manor Cairn. By the time he walked across the property to greet our visitor, he was gone.

The months of May and June are always hot spots for ghostly occurrences at the manor. A long time resident passed away here in the month of May, and sadly, a previous owner, died by his own hand at the manor in the month of June. This week has certainly been no exception; there's been lots of drawer openings, door slammings and loud nightly noises. But, the most unusual this week, so far, was a dead snake, it's head obviously crushed, strangely displayed on the rock wall outside the garage door. The Wyandot tribe was known to do the snake dance in order to bring on rain. Maybe Leatherlips was just gearing up for the Memorial Tournament, since it's been pouring rain all day. Did I just hear thunder?