I have enormous respect for people who embroider –– it’s such intricate, painstaking work. I came across the vibrant creations of Zélia Smith today, and for a second or two I thought about picking up a needle and thread. I love her simple patterns and bold colour choices. I think I should start with mending the odd sock. With a neon thread, perhaps.
I’m often looking for affordable art, a beautiful splodge of paint to add to our walls. Tess Guinery‘s prints caught my eye this afternoon and I thought I’d share her work. Red, pink and orange is one of my favourite colour mixes, and Summer Sandwich is topping my wish list. “In this season the colours were brighter, the sounds were alive and all my senses were electric—it was as though the colours were holding the sun and the sun was holding me,” says the Australian artist. Have a look, it’s all so warm and wonderlust-ie.
It’s a little fantasy of mine to own a pair of Jean Royère chairs. Royère was a French designer known for creating colourful and irreverent pieces like the iconic polar-bear sofa. “I’d always had a thing about interior design. So much so that as a child I didn’t want toys: I asked to be allowed to decorate a room in the attic in our country house.” These aquamarine beauties are to-die-for, as are these adorable ouefs. I’m quite sure that if I ever sit on an ours polaire, I’ll never get back up again.
I remember a time when travel was as much about the journey as it was the destination. As a little girl, I dressed for flights. “You never know who you might meet on the plane,” my Dad used to say. I had a nautical pant suit that I recall wearing on a flight from London to Athens. I felt like Alexis Colby. I guzzled orange juice like it was champagne and pretended the in-flight magazine was Vogue. The flight attendants were so chic, with their hair-sprayed chignons and ruby red talons. My grandmother had been a flight attendant in the 60s, and she made it all sound so glamorous. “It was how I got to see the world.” She met my grandfather on a flight between New York and Havana. They were married a year later. When I met Jason, air travel still felt glamorous and carefree. His father, who had helmed the family business for decades, could call in for an upgrade every time I flew. The white linens, Scottish smoked salmon, flutes full of bubbles, it was all so decadent. Today, I’ve traded in my sailor suit for anything with an elasticated waist. There are no upgrades, the seats are sardine-can-small and even a pretzel will cost you. The journey is an experience most of us barrel through to get to where we need/want to go. And yet, no discomfort or stress can keep people away from an airport for too long. A pandemic may have slowed us down, made us more deliberate in our choices, (which is a very good thing) but travellers will travel. There’s much to much world to explore, and too many people to meet and clink glasses with over paella or Thenhuk soup. As psychologist, Marie Murray observed in the Irish Times, our urge to travel is innate. “It is our nature to travel. It is our joy to travel. It is our paradoxical psychological disposition to wish for the contradictory conditions of stability and change: to stay and to go, to be and to explore, to rest and to travel unceasingly.” Maybe Ralph Waldo Emerson was right, and it is about the journey. The discomfort, the tension, the thrill and the relief.
What turns me off slaw is the mayo. I’m not a fan of mayonnaise. But this lovely recipe from Aussie cook and author, Julia Busuttil Nishimura uses parmesan to capture the creaminess of mayo. I can’t think of a more heavenly dinner, than a piece of fish or steak on the barbecue served with this crisp and crunchy salad.
There’s a Greek saying, “the first child is for you, the second is for your child.” The third, I’d say is for the whole family. At least, that is what Luma is for us. She is being raised by us all, and is the sum of all our parts. I had been ambivalent about having a third child, and not because I didn’t feel another baby in my bones, but because it’s hard to listen to the body when the mind is so vocal. The second she took her first breath, I let go of mine. In the weeks and months after she was born, I’d walk past a familiar tree or house and think to myself, last time I walked by this tree, Luma didn’t exist. What a different world that was. Suddenly, wooden benches and window sills, the Chestnut Tree in my neighbour’s garden, all looked different. Everything came into focus. “You are the sweetest story ever told. Of how light became a person.” It’s your Birthday next week, and we’re all anticipating the day as much, if not more, than you are. We have a scooter for you, and butterfly wings.
I watched Dirty Dancing yesterday, and it made me nostalgic for the Catskills. The Catskills and cinched waists. Every year, for the last few years, we’ve piled into the car and headed to Upstate New York. Last year, we began in Rhinebeck and ended up in the Adirondacks. We’ve explored all the little towns in and around the Catskills and the Hudson Valley, and we always come home with treasures a plenty; a racing green ceramic bowl handmade in Kingston, a beautiful straw hat made by a Hudson milliner, alpaca stuffies from a farm in Roscoe, an ostrich egg from a local farmer’s market in Rhinebeck. Today, I came across the work of Blackcreek Mercantile & Trading Co. They’re based in Kingtson, and make breathtaking furnishings in solid wood. While a dining room table wouldn’t fit in our boot, I look forward to one day bringing home a hand turned salad bowl or two.
My kids have been baking cakes this week, the ones that comes straight out of a box. There’s something so sweet and nostalgic about a box cake. I used to make Angel Food Cake all the time. Even as I write the words I can taste it, all sweet and fluffy. My Auntie Polyxene made the best Betty Crocker Swirl Cake. You just knew it would taste the same every time. That’s the thing about box cakes, they’re reliable.
I started pottery shortly after my third child was born. For at least a year, I made the most minuscule things. I could only work on that scale. Tiny pinch pots fit for a doll’s house. I’d labour over each one for hours. Most of the them cracked before making it into their first firing. I didn’t care. I found the process, and the experience of handling clay, deeply gratifying. I’ve not done much yoga, and I’ve never meditated, but handling clay gives me the focus and quiet that people associate with both those things. These days, I make much larger vessels. Sometimes, I feel I can only make something large. And yet, every now and then, I return to the lowly pinch pot. Tiny and therapeutic, it feels like the right thing to do.
Here, at Hotel Mezzatorre in southern Italy, is one of my favourite palettes; various shades of terracotta, stone and sea blue. These are the colours I grew up with, so my draw to them is innate. Of course, if I were being super particular, I’d plant a heap of pink bougainvillea in the pot.
All rights reserved © La Parachute · Theme by Blogmilk + Coded by Brandi Bernoskie