I saw an old photograph of myself yesterday with bright red nails, and for the first time in a long time, I missed manicures. Once in a while, and only for a day two before the polish chipped, it felt lovely to walk around with beautifully buffed, crimson talons. I think I miss the eavesdropping as much as the manicure. It was always so fun to listen to people chatting on their phones, or bitching to their aesthetician. “I should have dumped him then and there….” And it was the only time I ever got to catch up on who has cellulite and who wore it better. Everyone. And neither. It was a diversion in my day. A moment to step off the carousel and into Kelly Clarkson’s kitchen. And then dash home with the prettiest hands to make dinner.
I think about colour a lot. I think about colour the way a cook might think about spice. Do salt and cinnamon work together, and how do I combine less familiar spices such as annatto, nigella and galangal? Unlikely combinations (colours, spices, people) are my favourite occupation. I love to see what happens when a high wattage pink collides with caramel or when a sensitive science buff befriends an ebullient artist. Magic. Even conventional pairings like canary yellow and sky blue can be utterly original. The key is how you put the colours together, and more importantly, the confidence with which you wear them.
I’m not sure how it’s never occurred to me to wrap flowers in newsprint. What a delightful way to bring blooms to a friend. Just be sure to choose the arts section, books or sports. No one wants their dahlias wrapped in Coronavirus numbers and political disarray.
My mother-in-law turned 70 yesterday. At some point in the day, it occurred to me that Frida was 46 when I met her. That’s basically the age that Jason is now. And I’m not far behind. At 19 –– that’s how old I was when I met Jason –– 46 was lightyears away. Our parents were middle aged. And that seemed old. My jeans hovered around my pelvis bone, Frida’s buttoned up above her navel. Time really does fly. Of course, now that I’m in my 40s I realize that it’s not old at all. And that higher waisted jeans are chicer and more comfortable. And that lines on a face give it life and movement. And that wisdom comes from experience, better yet, reflecting on that experience. And that all these lessons take at least two decades to absorb.
I swam in the lake today, my second lake swim of the summer, and it was invigoratingly cold. The wind was so strong, that the lake felt like an ocean, wild and free. It was only for a few minutes that I swam –– on my back and a few strokes of front crawl –– but that wonderful feeling of being fully submerged will stay with me for weeks.
“And what name will your children go by?” asked our Greek island priest, Father Panagioti a few days before we got married. “Sarracini,” responded Jason without pause. We’d never talked about it, and while I didn’t actually object to future sprogs taking Jason’s family name, his quickfire response made me think about it twice. A small spat later –– every couple needs one of those on the threshold of saying “I Do” –– and our baby Yianni was a confirmed Sarracini. The name Sarracini comes from the word Saracen. In the book, The Modern Traveller, the author says, “of the various definitions of the word saracen, I prefer the Arabic word Saraini, which means a pastoral people.” It’s a lovely name, and one that sings when you say it. Our children are proud of it, as they should be. Last week, our contractor, a wonderful Romanian fellow, played ‘O Sarracino loudly through our house and it was impossible not to sing along. And for anyone dreaming of far away places, look at the breathtaking Villa Saraceni at Scala dei Turchi in Sicily. It’s other worldly.
One of my most treasured friends is Turkish. What struck me when we met, was how naturally we gravitated to one another, and how she seemed to have none of the prejudices I would have expected a Turkish girl to have about a Greek girl. I was raised with a narrative, mostly through text books, and elders, that focused only on our rivalry. Buket’s history, the lens through which it was seen and taught, is different to mine. Needless to say, we became fast friends, and two decades later, share a mutual love and admiration for one another that defies stereotypical images. This week, I learned about the work of Fahrelnissa Zeid and immediately thought about my friend, Buket. Zeid was one of the first women to go to art school in Istanbul, and is widely seen as one of the most important female artists of the 20th century. Her extraordinary abstract paintings with kaleidoscopic patterns reflect her many influences, from Islamic and Byzantine art to pointillism and abstraction. Please watch this short film if you have a moment. I found it rich with eccentricity, warmth and colour. “She was the east and the west, combined in harmony.”
There was a big storm in Toronto last night, a concert of percussion instruments, with lightening and thunder, and beating hale. Immediately, I thought about my Mum, and the stories she told us when storms set in. “Mary must be mopping the floors and rearranging the chesterfields.” It came naturally to her, it still does, to round off the edges of reality with whimsy and humour. To this day, she believes wholeheartedly that children should live out their wonder years for as long as possible, and that answers to challenging questions should be honest, but simple. It’s one of the hardest tasks as a parent, to take complicated issues and make them digestible, without stripping them of their fibre. I’ve thought about all the delicate conversations parents are having with their children this week, and what a responsibility and privilege it is to be a parent today. Teach them how to wipe their bottoms and ride a bicycle; teach them how to manage their pocket money and stand up for their friends; teach them tech etiquette and internet safety; teach them why Marie Curie wasn’t allowed to go to college in her own country, what melanin is, and how amazing it is that our world is filled with so many different kinds of people; teach them how to set a table, and screw in a light bulb, and teach them respect and empathy. “You may not always be able to answer the question in the exact moment that it is asked,” my Mum once said. At a tech talk for parents with kids in Grade 5, the speaker reminded all of us to listen more than we talk. “When talking through tricky issues with your kids, you should be hearing their voices more than your own,” she said. I think we can get so set on trying to convey our messages, impart our knowledge, that we forget to actually listen to theirs. Kids are the wisest among us, because they tune in to what is not being said. They watch, and absorb our actions more than they listen to our words. Teach by example, goes the old adage. We’re going to botch up as often as we succeed. To admit to our mistakes, our ignorance, our shortcomings, shows humility, and is as important a lesson as any other. More. Honesty, peppered with humour. And when lightening strikes, because it will, I hope my children will think of Mary testing her new pot lights, and also know that swimming during a thunderstorm can be dangerous.
When I was about ten, I made my first skirt. It was a simple A-line silhouette, and it was cut from a delicate, floral fabric. That skirt is the only item of clothing I’ve ever made, not counting all the jeans I’ve turned into shorts. I’m hopeless with a needle and thread, I can barely darn a sock. But I love to imagine all the things I would make if I could sew. For starters, I’d make my summer wardrobe of caftans and loose fitting pajama pants, as well as an endless supply of printed napkins and throw pillows. Nothing fancy, but things I usually pay someone else to make that I wish I could do myself. It’s a basic skill I learned as a child. I should have kept it up.
