Tomorrow is International I Love Broccoli Day!!!!!!!

I am getting this in early, just in case I will be so busy celebrating tomorrow that I forget to post it.

International I Love Broccoli Day is celebrated every year on 31 July mainly in the Auvergne, but there are also small pockets of aficionados in Paris, London, and, as you can see, Oxford (me, basically).  I yield to no one in my love and appreciation of this noble vegetable, and although occasionally one has a bad day and gets a nasty stalk, generally speaking it must be considered the Prince of the cabbage family.

So I wish you a very happy I Love Broccoli Day!

How to Keep Cool in Hot Weather – With Scarves!

My most romantic moussie ...

We have just had a week of very hot (for me) weather, and I would have no doubt keeled over with heatstroke had I not used my loaf and implemented a few cooling devices.  You will be aware of the usual things, using a silk-filled duvet and linen bed sheets, drying laundry indoors, turning off the towel rail, that sort of thing. 

Can you see my hand through the fabric?

Those of you who wear scarves will have moved away from the heavy large 90cm ones and used their small silks and mousselines at the start of summer.  In addition to wearing my mousselines, this is the time when my pre-Hermes scarves come into their own again, because they are made of thinner material and therefore cooler.  In the heat I wear all scarves away from my neck, folded in the basic bias fold and worn loosely under the collar of a linen shirt.  And when I have to go outside into the sun, something I try to avoid in the heat, I fold the scarf into a triangle and wear it with the long side across my shoulders and neck, to protect the back of my neck from sunburn.

Delightfully cool in looks and feel!

Nevertheless even a scarfie like me has to admit that scarves add fabric to an outfit, which is not desirable when the temperatures are in the upper 20s.  So why the preposterous title of this post?  Because I have discovered the secret of keeping cool by using scarves earlier this week!

I was walking home from work and happened upon a Sahara shop which had a sale.  Now usually I steer clear of this shop, they sell drapey loose garments ideal for big ladies and even their smallest sizes are too big for me.  But they have great colours and use nice materials, so occasionally I drift in and have a quick look. 

On this occasion I spotted two things that caught my fancy.  Firstly, an asymmetrical linen dress that looked deliciously cool – it is, I know because I bought and wore it the next day and it was simply wonderful.  The second thing I spotted was linen scarves.  Very thick, large linen scarves.  On sale!  I had seen them before, but rejected them – after all, who wants a big heavy scarf when it is hot?  I wanted flimsy, blowing in the wind sort of scarves!

But this time I had a 2+2=4 sort of flash of genius.  I will share it with you, because extensive googling has failed to find any other website which gives the same tip.

As we all know, drying fabric cools the air that surrounds it.  Linen is especially good for this, because it is incredibly absorbent and holds an awful lot of water, and thus releases an awful lot of water while it dries.  This is why drying laundry next to your bed when it is hot is such a great idea.

But what do you do while at work?  I work in a brick tower, the sun beats down on it all day long and there is no shade whatsoever.  In the morning after a hot day the office is like an oven – brick is good at storing heat!  Hanging wet sheets around my desk is not really an option, nor is putting my feet into a bowl of cold water.  I try to gain relief by organising frequent trips to the nearby ice cream parlour, but though good while it lasts the cooling qualities of ice cream are fleeting.

Are you guessing what I am getting at?  Drying linen sheets …  thick large linen scarves …  a woman addicted to wearing scarves …  Like all great ideas it is really extremely simple.

Linen scarf

Here it goes.  You buy a linen scarf/stole, ideally one of a sort of waffle fabric, thick and large – a bit like a pashmina.  In the morning when you go to work and it is still a little cool you just use it normally, hanging around your neck loosely.  As the day progresses and the temperatures rises, you first take off your linen scarf and make do with the other, little silk scarf you wear as usual.  Now it gets even hotter, you mop your brow, things are getting impossible.  This is the time for taking your linen scarf to the bathroom.  You soak it in water, wring out the excess, and either put it around your neck, folded into a sausage, or – and this is my favourite – wear it like a stole, around your back and arms, with the ends hanging glamorously at each side.  Because the scarf is wet it stays in place well, I am able to work - including typing - while wearing it.  It really looks quite elegant, I had loads of compliments on it.  And it cools down your entire top half, I even had to take it off once or twice because I was getting too cold.  It is a good idea to wear it with a linen dress or top, because of course your clothes get a bit moist as well and not every garment looks good while and after having been repeatedly moistened and dried like this.

 

The Pomeranian, by Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach

One of my favourite German language writer is Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach.  She wrote in the second half of the nineteenth century, and is famous for her deep understanding of human nature.  I believe nowadays she is mostly known for her stories involving animals, the most famous of which is Krambambuli – I defy anyone to read that story and not drench at least a dozen handkerchiefs.

She is little known in English speaking countries, though most people probably know her aphorism, ‘Even a stopped clock is right twice a day.’  Another one, and one of my favourites, is ‘We don't believe in rheumatism and true love until after the first attack.’

I recently read about the seemingly inexplicable behaviour of some children who are fostered, namely, they behave so badly that eventually even the most dedicated of foster parents throw in the towel and the child is passed on to the next foster home.  The reason, apparently, is that the child, having been disappointed so often, has to test and test and test whether s/he is truly loved by behaving badly, until the foster parent can’t cope any more, and then the child thinks, ‘I always knew it wouldn’t last!’

This is not just true for foster children; there are many people, both children and adult, who have been hurt and disappointed so often they are afraid to trust anyone.  Whenever they meet someone who professes to like or even love them, they think – subconsciously, probably – ‘Ha, I have heard this before, let’s test this so called friend/lover and see whether they are genuine!’  And then they do everything they can to ‘test’ the other person by being hurtful and selfish – after all, if the other is a real friend/lover they will stick around no matter what, right?  And of course the other person gets fed up with getting hurt and leaves.  ‘Ha, I knew it was too good to be true,’ thinks the distrustful one, never realising that it was their own bad behaviour which caused the departure of their friend/ beloved, and not the lack of friendship/love.

Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach’s short story, Die Spitzin (the Pomeranian) is only a few pages long, but throws a light on both the problem and a possible resolution.  I have translated and summarised it below.

The Pomeranian

A small boy is abandoned and found by villagers.  No one has a clue as to his family, and an old widow takes him in, not out of kindness but because she hopes to get a reward one day if the boy’s parents showed up.  But no one comes to claim him, and after a few years the widows dies.  The boy is now a burden on the community, which resents this.  He gets the worst food, rags for clothes, and everyone abuses, beats and insults him.  He sleeps in hay barns, never for long in the same one, since he is chased away when found out.  He hasn’t even a name – they call him Provi, as a provisional name, until they can think of something suitable.

One winter Provi is very sick.  He is staying in the hay barn of the Schoberwirtin, the local pub landlady, and she checks up on him every day to make sure he is still alive, and gives him a mug of milk.  And after he has recovered from his illness, without any help or nursing care, the landlady continues to give him a mug of milk each morning.  At five every morning he goes to the pub and calls out: ‘My milk!’  And the landlady gives him his mug of milk and he drinks it and goes away.

But one morning the pub landlord, who is usually sleeping off his hangover from the previous day, witnesses this performance.  ‘A scum like you, coming here and demanding something!  You should be begging for it!’  And he gives the boy a good hiding, to reinforce his point.

The next morning Provi is back again demanding his milk.  The Schoberwirtin gives him the usual mug, but tells him that he should learn to ask for things nicely.  ‘You are almost fourteen years old now, you have to learn how to get on with people!  From now on, if you want to have milk, you have to ask nicely.’

It is hard for the Schoberwirtin to speak like that to him, and the boy can see this.  But instead of recognising that she means well by him and wants to help him, he enjoys his power, the only power he has – to make her feel bad.  From now on he never comes again for his milk, and when they meet in the village he does not greet her.

The boy finds work with a stonemason.  He sleeps in the empty goat-shed, and makes friends with the five sons of the stonemason.  They are the right companions for him, nasty and cruel, and particularly enjoy tormenting the animals of the household.  Provi feels good in their company, and joins in their nasty ways.

The one worst treated is the old Pomeranian she dog.  She only has three legs and one eye left, and a kick to her rump has left her permanently crooked.  Nevertheless she does her duty, barks at every passing dog and intruder, and carries her head up high.  She hates both the children and the stonemason, who always takes her puppies away and drowns them, except for one she can keep.

One day she has puppies again, and the stonemason gives the job of drowning them to his oldest son.  She is suspicious when the boys try to take away the puppies, but Provi tricks her by speaking gently and stroking her – poor soul, she knows nothing of human treachery and depravity!  They get her puppies and drown them, leaving her only one, and consider it great sport to do so.

But after that Provi begins to hate the old dog.  At night while in his shed he hears her looking for her lost puppies.  Normally she stops looking after a while, but this time she continues.  She looks for them everywhere, and she disturbs his sleep.  The stonemason and his family are in the house and aren’t bothered, but Provi has to listen every night.

The boy is now at an age where he starts to think about his life.  He is used to ill treatment, and although some people have shown him kindness, he quickly discounts and forgets this.  As for the Schoberwirtin, he hates her.  She is rich and has everything, but expects him to beg for a drop of milk!  Whenever they meet, she looks at him as though to say, please ask nicely, so I can help you!  Hah, that isn’t going to happen, thinks the boy.  He curses her and moves on.

One night the old dog is looking for her puppies again, and making a lot of noise, so he throws a log at her.  She yelps, and her little puppy whines.  Then there is silence.  But the boy still can’t sleep.  He thinks of the dog and her endlessly searching for her puppies.  If his own mother had been like that, he wouldn’t now lead such a wretched existence!  Perhaps she was farmer’s daughter who had become pregnant by a farm hand and been too ashamed to keep him?  His life could have been so different if his own mother had been more like that poor old dog!  He finally goes to sleep.

The next morning the old dog comes to him in his goat shed, carrying her puppy in her mouth.  She can barely walk, she drags herself along, blood flows from her mouth in a thin trickle.  He must have hit her last night with the log.  Now she lays her young at his feet, her last puppy, and looks up at him.  And he reads in her eyes an infinite trust, a desperate beseeching, to please take care of this last of her puppies.  And this look brakes through the armour the boy had built around his heart and hitherto prevented any feelings of kindness or tenderness in him.  ‘Dear dear’, he says, and the dog, hearing his answer, falls down, shudders, and dies.

Provi is suddenly overwhelmed by feelings quite alien to him.  He finds himself kneeling next to the dog, petting her, kissing her, because she had been a good mother, and he has killed her, and it breaks his heart and he cannot stop crying.

Then the little puppy comes to his attention, the puppy who noses his mother’s stomach in search of milk.  The boy takes the puppy into his hands, and cuddles him, and listens to his whines and little cries.  It is hungry, of course, and the old dog is dead, and where can he find milk for the little bundle of unhappiness who is now his charge?  The stonemason isn’t going to help, that’s for sure, he will drown the puppy like his siblings, and there is an end to it.  What is to be done?

The puppy is sucking on his finger, but that isn’t going to help it much.  The boy looks down at the dead dog.  If you want the young to live, killing their mother is a bad idea!  Slowly an idea penetrates his thick stubborn skull.  Suddenly he clenches his jaw and resolutely walks out of the shed with the little puppy in his arms.

All the way through the village he walks, until he comes to the pub.  And he goes into the kitchen, where the landlady is cooking breakfast.  Later she said that he looked scary, and spoke with a voice cracked with pain, as though the words were tearing his throat as he spoke them.  And he said, ‘Schoberwirtin, Mrs Schoberwirtin, I beg you for some milk, please.’

That was a turning point in a human heart, and of a human fate.

Tip of the Day - Exercise by Drinking Tea!

Ever eager to aid my faithful readership in leading a fulfilled and healthy life, I present my tip of the day:  Exercise by drinking tea!

The crucial part of this approach to exercise is that tea needs to steep for about five minutes, so it does not work with instant or powdered stuff.  You must use proper leaf tea!

This is how it works.  Whenever you feel the need for a nice cup of tea – and what would be the point of a nasty one? – you propel yourself to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

While you wait for the water to boil, you hoist yourself on to your exercise bicycle and work away – about five minutes.  When you hear the kettle whistle (or the click an electric one makes when the water has boiled) you fall off the exercycle in a state of utter exhaustion and stagger back to the kitchen.  You rinse the pot with hot water, add the leaves of tea, put on the lid, and – I am afraid I can’t spare you here – climb back onto the exercycle for another five minutes of energetic pedalling.  Then you decant your brew into a porcelain cup – no, a mug will not do! – add a few biscuits to reward yourself for your work-out, and go back to your couch-potato existence.

If you do this twice during the evening, and five times a day during the weekend, you will clock up 200 minutes (that’s three and a third hours in metric money) of aerobic exercise a week at very little trouble.  You simply utilise the time you would normally waste by watching the kettle.

And the best part?  No more forgetting when you have poured the water onto your tea leaves and having to discard super-strong cold tea – believe me, you will keep an eye on the clock while pedalling away!

Another Rainy Day in London …..

Last Saturday was of course Bastille Day, and it is celebrated by London’s French community with various - mainly outdoor – activities.  I had yanked myself out of the old snore-vehicle at an early time, donned my Bastille Day scarf  - Feux d’Artifice – and dragged my tired self to the coach to London, intent on partaking of the festivities in the company of some favourite friends.

But things did not work out well.  Rain rain rain ruined the atmosphere, and before too long I suggested what I always suggest when things get sticky in London:  ‘Let’s hail a cab and go to the Club!’  Since I was not the only one who was cold and wet my suggestion was taken up with alacrity, and ere too soon we were decanted in Pall Mall.

For some weird reason we were the only ones who haunted the Club that day.  In the restaurant six eager waiters hovered around our table and pounced whenever we evinced any sign of needing service.  As a result we ate and drank rather more than was usual at this hour, and our conversation took a distinctly Wodehouseian turn. 

We fell into discussing the advantages and disadvantages of aunts (‘overrated!’) and butlers (‘insupportable!’) and whether we ought to motor down to Huntingdonshire and spend the remainder of the day at K’s country house.  Having dismissed the notion that his wife might object or his father throw a fit we crammed into another cab and drove direction Paddington Station.  Upon arrival K confessed that he did not have a country house in Huntingdonshire.  D said she did not mind, she would be happy to go to one of the larger counties instead – where exactly was his country house?  K confessed that he did not have one at all.  D failed to be discouraged, and invited us all to go to K’s London pad instead.  K confessed that he did not have enough room to swing a cat, after which unfortunate remark – D is very fond of animals – D stormed off in a huff, carrying with her K’s umbrella (it was still raining).  K looked decidedly dejected, so I told him ‘Pip pip and tally ho, dash it, old bean, what a ripping day we had,’ and detached myself from his morose company before he could borrow my umbrella.

 

Trickling back to Marble Arch I remembered that the main attraction of this little blog are my amazing photos, and took a few of the Horse’s Head that graces its environs.  The head has been there since June 2009, but somehow I never had my camera handy before.

I had chosen a good day, for what did I discover but another statue across the street!  It is a Horse? Reindeer?  Sleipnir?  Anyway a mythological looking steed mounted by a Mongolian warrior type.  I immediately thought of Gengis Khan and took lots of pictures.

Upon returning home and a bit of googling I found that I had been quite right.  The 16ft tall (5m) statue depicts the legendary leader wearing Mongolian armour on his steed.  The sculpture is by Dashi Namdakov and will remain at its current position until early September.

A Deluge of Froggies and Prickly Crumbs: Just Another Sunday in the Little House

Major mega problems in the House of Lenck again this morning.  I was going to go to London and cheer on my valiant friend S who was running in a marathon, but the recent epic rainfalls had taken their toll on my pond and clogged up the overflow, as I discovered to my horror when I had a quick gander through the kitchen window at the crack of dawn.  The flooded garden situation was complicated by the presence of hundreds of tiny froggies the size of a Euro cent who were hopping all over the place, getting into mischief and under my feet.  Plus it was cold, and raining again, and water dripped down my collar, and with every step I was probably killing a dozen tiny frogs.

Frog on leaf

After unclogging the overflow and indulging in a bit of judicious bailing just in case, I retreated to my Nostalgia Studio with my ‘early morning tea’ and a newspaper, in a bad mood and chilly disposition.  While sipping my tea and reading the leftovers of last week’s Observer – I was in no mood to leave the house and buy a current one – I reflected once again on the Servant Problem.  This was a popular topic of conversation among the middling classes in the 1930s, and when in a certain sort of mood I like to revisit it.  Now I am not a great believer in servants, partly because I don’t like being spied on, partly because I don’t trust anyone but myself when it comes to cleaning my carpets and furniture, and certainly not laundering my clothes.  There are, however, three tasks I would love to delegate to someone else.  (1) Cleaning the bathtub; (2) laying a fire in the Parlour on a cold evening, so I am greeted by its dancing flames when I enter the house after a long day at work; and (3) preparing a cup of early morning tea.

Frog next to electric cable

A long time ago in the US I knew a charming Frenchman who made a cup of tea for his English wife every morning before he went to work while she stayed in bed and read the papers.  To this day I consider this the epitome of romantic love!  Just imagine being woken with a kiss and a cup of tea, complete with biscuits and the newly delivered newspaper!  Of course one could not expect to be kissed by one’s servant (interestingly enough this angle was never mentioned in the 1930s discussions of the servants’ problem), but just the tea, biscuits, and newspapers would do.

But since I strongly suspect that there would be no one out there willing to work for the pittance I could offer to clean my bathtub, lay my fire, and nip in to make a cup of tea every morning, I have reconciled myself to doing these things with my own fair hands, as I did this morning.  Strangely enough, I did not ruminate about getting a servant to unclog the overflow, which surely is much worse – especially in the dripping rain – than making a cup of tea.  I am a stranger to myself sometimes.

Frog in centre of picture

Having thus spent the morning pleasantly, I attempted to venture into the garden again.  The sun had come out, and everything looked green and pleasant.  The buddleias are in bloom, and after the rain there was a very fresh smell about.  It seemed a good idea to sit outside for a while in my deckchair, reading a book and listening to Nature’s wise counsels, which were manifesting themselves in the rustling of leaves and the singing of birds.

But alas such joys and the contentment they bring were not to be my portion.  I had hardly stepped into the Mouserleaum (lean-to conservatory) when I discovered dozens of tiny frogs which had discovered the raffia mat and, having decided it was excellent camouflage, had taken it for their own.  There was no way I could make it out into the garden without squashing dozens of froglets, and considering the dead-toll I had inflicted earlier when I unclogged the overflow of the pond I did not have the stomach to do that.

Frog on garden hose

I took some photos as evidence, but the ones of the frogs on the mat are useless – the mat is indeed the exact shade of the frogslets and unless they move they cannot be detected.  I did take some pictures of the froggies on my garden hose etc for your esteemed perusal.

The froggies have been extremely lucky this year.  Not only has the weather favoured them, but since I have not been able to do much gardening recently because of my injured hand, the garden is very shady and overgrown and provides excellent cover for them, which stops the birds, which normally come into my garden to eat the tiny frogs as they emerge from the pond, to inflict their usual ravages.

Oh well, back to reading the papers!  Incidentally, do you know the famous German proverb, ‘People who never eat in bed don’t know how prickly crumbs are?’  Every indulgence has to be paid for.

The Metamorphosis is reaching its climax!

I have had the most exciting of weekends!  OK, so it rained most of the time and was pretty cold, and the milk curdled in my tea and my filing cabinet was delivered late and Z had a cold and couldn’t meet up and I didn’t get home from work Saturday until 1:30 in the morning – but all that is as nothing to me, because the taddies have almost completed their metamorphosis into froglets.

Saturday afternoon I skipped into the garden while there was a wee break in the rain to check up on the taddies, and Low! and Behold! there was squirming at my feet and every moss-covered rock near the pool’s edge was covered in emerging froglets!

Now most people don’t realise this, but frogs do not emerge from the pond fully formed and in perfect frog shape.  The transformation is gradual, first the hind legs grow, and then the front ones, and then the tail is slowly reabsorbed into the body until only a little stub is left, and the transformation from tadpole to frog is complete.  A new frog is absolutely tiny and very cute, only the size of a small fingernail. 

They tend to leave the pond after a good downpour, because the fragile little creatures get easily dried out by the sun and if the land is wet they have a better chance of making it to the nearest shady crevice.  If there has been a long dry spell, they usually jump (literally!) at the chance to leave the pond at the first heavy rainfall, even if the transformation from taddie to froggie is still incomplete – they simply can’t take the chance that this is the last rain of the season, because missing it may mean having to emerge in the baking heat and shrivelling up and dieing on their first day of frogdom.  In such circumstances the froglets often emerge from the pond with a long tail still attached.

This year has been so consistently wet that the taddies have felt no need to hurry.  Instead of emerging from the pond in one fell swoop and once and for all, they seem to have decided to do the business much more leisurely and gradually.  Whenever there is a little rain, and/or the rocks surrounding the pool are moist, they hop and waddle out of the water and lay on the rocks, trying out the new medium, as it were.  If they feel threatened, or the air gets dryer, they just wriggle back into the pond.

During the last ten years or so since I had frogs in the pond I have never seen such a thing.  In every other year they left the pond in one go, usually in August or September.  Before then, they hid somewhere in the pool.  But this year’s unhurried behaviour is consistent with their attitude of the previous year, when they refused to leave the pond altogether and were still cavorting in its leafy shallows in November.  This race of tadpoles/frogs has developed a laid back approach to life which I, in my capacity as surrogate mother, find not a little disturbing.  How ever are they going to survive in the harsh world that is my garden?  Will they be easy prey to the birds and hedgehogs and foxes who haunt my few square yards?  And what about surviving the winter?  Will they knock on the kitchen window right around Christmas time and demand I take them in and put them up during sub-zero temperatures?  All 8,546 of them?  It doesn’t bear thinking about!

PS  You notice the stickleback over the rim of the bowl?  A big and fearsome bruiser, you have to admit!