Fantasy Food
I have just eaten a large bowl of microwave popcorn, possibly the greatest food invention of all time. How I love watching the bag swelling up through the glass window as it goes pop pop pop all on its own. Ping!
I like the sweet variety which comes complete with all kinds of cack and tastes scrumptious while you’re eating it, but leaves your mouth feeling more than a little tainted. In fact, I feel as though someone has been raising battery chickens in mine. My tastebuds may never again fully appreciate a fine pinot noir.
Yet still, when I’m looking for something a little naughty but not really terrible – like a whole tub of Häagen Dazs Maple Pecan ice cream – for a treat, it’s one of the things I reach for.
This is because popcorn is one of a number of foods I have spuriously convinced myself are healthy. My thinking goes like this: how can something with so much roughage be bad for you?
I have similar delusions about homemade cake. Whenever my daughter comes home from a birthday party with a slice of horrid supermarket cake – blue icing is a tell-tale sign – I try and disappear it while she’s distracted with the garbage in the party bag.
Shop cake is bad. Full of colouring and flavouring, trans fats and preservatives. But cakes I make are healthy. They have the good eggs and the good butter in them. Organic eggs and butter. Sometimes even biodynamic ones. Eggs are growing food, so I think a lovely cake containing four of them is good.
I also think butter is good. It’s yellow and sunny-looking. It makes me think of milkmaids and happy cows in green fields and Heidi. It’s a happy food. Margarine is bad. Margarine makes me think of factories.
Working on the same rationale, I am convinced of the healing power of homemade apple pie. This is a foodstuff that has the distinction of being the single worst thing you could eat on the Atkins Diet. This made me determined to become a master of making it.
I taught myself to make pastry so I could make good apple pie for my family. Served with the good cream as well. Which is extra-thick double cream. The sort of cream you think of when you read the phrase ‘peaches and cream complexion’.
Cheese is good too. It’s a growing food. As is ham. Not nasty slimy supermarket ham, but chunky butcher-cured ham. Proper salami is good too. The more nurdled, European-looking and smelly the better.
It doesn’t seem to figure in my food logic that any salami I can buy wasn’t actually made in my Serbian husband’s cousin’s orchard in a smokehouse stoked with his own wood, but in a food processing plant where it would have been well doused in nitrates. I associate all smoked meats with vital European people who eat it for breakfast washed down with some terrifyingly strong moonshine liquor.
Most ethnic foods have this healthy quality; the more authentic the better. I feel happy eating absolutely anything in a Singapore hawker’s market. It’s all so marvellously fresh.
Similarly, while holidaying in any European country, white bread holds no fear. Generations of slender French children have been raised on a breakfast of hot chocolate and large helpings of baguette lavishly spread with butter and sugary jam, so when I’m in Paris that’s what I have for breakfast.
And why not add a healthy croissant? All that lovely Normandy butter, so redolent of fresh air and wild flowers. In France, even chocolate feels like a health food.
I am fully aware that all of the above is deranged thinking. But the conclusion I’ve reached is that over the past thirty years I’ve read so much contradictory nonsense about what food is good for you, or not, with the same ones moving back and forth between the two categories, I might as well make up my own rules.
The Age of Elegance
I think we have a lot to learn from the Old Girls. I don’t mean the quite old girls, like myself; I mean the really old girls – ie, you’re barely in this club aged eighty, sister.
I’ve been thinking about them ever since I met my friend Sarah’s new step-girlfriend. That’s what she calls her, because she is the new girlfriend of her late mother’s boyfriend. Are you still with me?
To explain: Sarah’s mother had a boyfriend, Desmond. Sadly, Sarah’s mother died a couple of years ago and Desmond now has a new babe, the Step-Girlfriend. And as he had become a big part of my friend’s family when he was dating their mother, Des’s new octogenarian arm candy has been enthusiastically welcomed in too, although she is no relation by either blood or marriage. But my goodness, she is fabulous.
It’s not just the size 8 figure, the defined waist, or the way she walks as though she were about to break into a quickstep at any moment. It’s not even her perfectly kept nails, or her beautifully set silver-white hair. No, that’s all good, but it’s not the heart of it.
Of course, her clothes help. She’s always immaculate in a cashmere twinset and pearls for casual day wear, a suit – which she probably calls a ‘costume’– for smart day, or a selection of lovely below-the-knee, neatly waisted dresses, for dinner or cocktails. I’m told, although I haven’t seen it myself, that it’s proper long gowns if there is any chance of a dance at an evening event. She doesn’t ever wear trousers, but she always wears heels. So she is always beautifully turned out, but there is more to her appeal than grooming.
The really amazing thing is that the Step-Girlfriend is not the only one I know of this marvellous breed. Two more immediately spring to mind, both mothers of good friends, in their nineties and a delight to behold and spend time with. And that, I think, is the crux of the charm of these golden girls. They aim, at all times, to be delightful.
At least two of them, I know, belonged to theatrical companies that entertained the troops during the Second World War and they still have the polished deportment of young actresses. They hold their heads up on their necks like swans, their backs perfectly straight, and their default facial setting is a raised-eyebrow smile. They always look interested in what you are saying to them, even if you rather suspect they can’t quite hear you.
I do understand that this could be perceived as a hangover of the 1950s man-pleasing mode, when women were expected to adopt a perfect wife persona, hiding their real needs and feelings under a wipe-clean easy-care veneer of feminine charm. That would be terribly depressing, and I really don’t think it’s what I am seeing in these three luminous ladies.
Rather it is a refined form of self-discipline, always to put on a delighted and delightful demeanour, whatever you are really going through inside, as a courtesy to others. In our age of letting it all hang out, where people exert no self-control about venting whatever is getting them down at any given moment, regardless of the effect their mood may have on others, it really is a pleasant change.
And I don’t excuse myself from that criticism. I’m a shocker for letting whatever I’m feeling – be it frustration with a slow supermarket queue, or a genuine concern – play across my face like a Reuter’s screen. Or worse, come marching out of my mouth with snide sarcasm attached. Not nice.
So while I am all in favour of being real about your feelings in the appropriate context, I think there is a lot to be learned from these shining members of an older generation. I would very much like to learn how to be delightful.
House Party
Quick! Help! I’ve got to have a party! I’ve got to have a party because it’s the only way I will ever get my house finished. I’ve got to have a party and invite all my most stylish friends, the ones with beautiful houses full of lovely light fittings, as the prospect of public bare-lightbulb shame is the only thing that will jolt me back into decorating action.
You see, I’ve reached that stage of home renovation where you simply run out of energy. I swear I felt the last drop of it drain out of the soles of my feet about five minutes ago, after I moved some books from one bookshelf to another. Then I just had to lie down. On the uncarpeted, unsanded, un-seagrassed horror floor.
This energy slump always seems to happen just after that joyous turning point where renovation starts to turn into decoration – ie the good bit, the th
rilling bit you have been longing to get to since you started the whole crazy project, oh, about 200 years before. The bit that has made you a slave to interiors magazines your whole life. Well, forget it.
The problem is that the invisible bits of making a house nice – replacing broken window sashes, putting in a power shower and dimmer switches – use up all your energy (not to mention MONEY), so by the time you get on to the jolly part with the curtains and the lampshades you are lying whimpering on the sofa watching the world’s worst movie (me last weekend – it was set on Hawaii, need I say more?).
The big show-pony parts of doing up a house – the new kitchen and the walk-in closet in this instance – are exhausting while they are going on, but so wonderful when they’re done that they buoy you up.
I have spent hours in my new kitchen re-styling the glass-fronted cupboards and wiping the surfaces, I love it so much. Hours when I should have been out foraging for light fittings and curtain poles I could stand to look at.
Have you bought a curtain pole recently? It’s so stressful. Most of them are foul. But they’re lovely compared to overhead lights.
It’s weird really because just about every aspect of life from draining racks to computers has had the design makeover now and all look lovely, but ceiling-hung lights seem to be stuck back in the Brass Age. The Cheap and Nasty Brass Age.
It seems to be impossible to get something chic and simple that isn’t going to hang way down and give careless visitors unscheduled lobotomies.
And I hate ceiling lights anyway – I love the soft pooled light of table lamps (my fantasy is to have that groovy wiring thing where they come on from the light switch at the door). But you have to have ceiling ‘fittings’ (horrid word) otherwise you end up with my house – a bare-lightbulb gulag.
So I’m having a party on Saturday night. The invites are out, the RSVPs are in and I have no choice but to find some hidden reserve of oomph to at least get some more curtains and pictures up before then, to distract people’s eyes from the lightbulbs. It would be a really great leap forward to get the toolbox off the dining table. Or even closed.
I know the party scenario works because last time I did it I got so much done on the day of the event that just before the guests arrived I was lying on the sitting room floor rewiring my stereo with the white speaker wire I had bought specifically for the task some eighteen months before.
It looked so much better – as did the vases of cut flowers, wittily arranged bibelots etc. I was far too exhausted to enjoy the party, but who cared?
Great Clothing Mysteries
The Bermuda Triangle. The Mary Celeste. The Abominable Snowman. The Loch Ness Monster. Crop circles. Atlantis. These are some of the great mysteries of the world.
But really we don’t need to look to exotic locales, alien life forms, or the sea bed for mystery – it lurks right at home, in our wardrobes and closets.
So after years of research with archaeologists, UFO investigators, experts in the paranormal and my best girlfriends, I have assembled the ultimate list of the Thirty-Three Great Clothing and Style Mysteries:
How do fine gold chains get knotted and tangled sitting untouched in a box in a drawer?
How do earrings put away as pairs become solo?
How do shoes get smaller in the box?
How do stains appear on clothes that were clean when you put them away?
Why do hems fall down and buttons drop off only when you are in a horrendous rush?
How do moths know which is your most expensive cashmere jumper?
How do moths survive the stinkiest of moth repellents, while it’s impossible to remove the smell?
Why is it always the navy-blue T-shirt which is clean and ironed when you want the black one – and vice versa?
Why does a child always drop tomato sauce on to a white part of a navy-and-white striped top?
Why do you always lose the expensive sunglasses, but keep the pair you bought in a service station for years?
Ditto new mascaras and treat lipsticks/pharmacy cheapies?
Why do fluffy cats love lying on black clothes?
How does the tissue manage to escape the pocket inspection you always do before the black wash?
How does the pair of black undies hide away in the drum of the washer just before you put a white load on hot?
How do silk blouses attract salad dressing?
Why is it always a favourite earring that gets caught in a jumper and pings out of your ear into, for example, a waiting storm drain?
Why do things come back into fashion right after you have sent the one you used to love, but haven’t worn for a few years so really ought to throw out, to the op shop?
Why do fashion designers keep trying to re-introduce the waist when not many women have them any more?
Why are so many leading designers of women’s clothes men?
Why do women love wearing clothes which men hate?
Why do we never learn that things we buy in end-of-season sales are usually so, like, totally over by the time that climate’s season comes round again?
Why do fashion magazines keep presenting ‘nautical’ and leopard print as ‘new-season trends’ when they never, ever go out of style?
Why are the shoes we love the most the ones which are hardest to walk in?
How can some flat shoes be even more uncomfortable than high heels?
Why do people with naturally straight hair always want curls and vice versa?
Ditto large/small bosoms? And sticky-out/flat bottoms?
Why do young women in the glorious bloom of youth wear so much more make-up than older ones, who might benefit from it?
Why are bridesmaid’s dresses always repulsive for bridesmaids over the age of ten?
Why are the ‘special occasion’ dresses, shoes and handbags we pay the most for the ones we wear the least?
Why can you never find anything you like when you have some money put aside to spend on new clothes?
Why do you stumble upon the most amazing bargains when you are broke and not allowed to buy anything?
Why did it stop being the norm to wear a hat?
Why do we continue to judge female politicians on what they wear?
Mortifying Mummy
My relationship with my daughter reached a thrilling new benchmark this morning. I’m so excited because it was the first time she was openly embarrassed to be seen with me in public. Brilliant!
In the middle of the morning rush, she suddenly asked – in an overly casual tone – as both parents seemed to be getting into the car, which one of us was actually dropping her off at school?
When I said it would be her father, she breathed a loud sigh of relief, accompanied by a pantomime mopping of brow. I was surprised. He takes her to school more often than I do and she’s normally touchingly pleased when it’s my turn, so why was she relieved this morning that it wasn’t? There was a two-word answer: ‘Your shoes’.
But she didn’t actually mean my shoes, she meant my socks. My dear little fine-wool black ankle socks, which I was wearing with my trusty brogues. And a denim skirt.
‘Don’t you like my ankle socks? ‘I asked, waggling a foot at her, pretending to be hurt, while secretly delighted.
‘No! They’re embarrassing!’
‘But I love them, they’re fun and they’re really comfy.’
‘They’re embarrassing!’
‘You’re wearing ankle socks; why can’t I wear them?’
‘I’m eight. And mine are white. Black ones are embarrassing!’
The more she protested the happier I got. But why am I thrilled at this sudden outbreak of projected self-consciousness? Because it shows she is growing up normally.
Suddenly finding your mother embarrassing – as opposed to simply the font of all comfort – is an essential landmark in a girl’s development. It shows she is becoming aware that everything associated with yourself has a symbolic meaning that reflects on to you and affects your status.<
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So having a middle-aged mother turn up at school wearing black ankle socks with a skirt could make her look uncool, which is – obviously – a disaster.
Of course, it’s sad that she’s lost the innocence of the days when she would happily skip along the street in her Minnie Mouse dress and ears – and would have been thrilled had I done the same – but I understand that this is a crucial stage in establishing her own identity, opinions and tastes, entirely separate from mine. Of course that will lead, in time, to the day when she tells me she didn’t ask to be born, but I’ll deal with that when it comes.
And I must also confess that apart from all this marvellously evolved acceptance of my child’s inevitable separation from me, I have a less admirable reason for being stoked about her school gate shame as well. Which is this: if she’s embarrassed now, it’s more likely she might think I was cool when she’s older.
There was a particular outfit of my own mother’s which I can remember mortifying me at the school gate. It consisted of a skirt in brown ‘antique leather’ (she introduced me to that term, when explaining why I should appreciate said ensemble, rather than beg her never to wear it again), well above the knee, with the hem cut into fringing.
That was bad enough (I thought) but it had a matching fringed waistcoat and – wait for it – she wore it with knee-length boots. She looked like Nancy Sinatra, when the other mums looked more like Nancy Reagan and I hated it. I wanted her to wear a 100 per cent Crimplene dress (guaranteed drip dry!) with a matching shortie jacket.
Wind the clock forward fifteen years and I was getting about in that fringed leather outfit myself, proudly telling anyone who would listen that my mum used to pick me up from school in it. By thus claiming cool status for her, I reflected it back on myself – in the exact reverse of my daughter’s recent understanding.
So I’m hoping that the more she hates what I’m wearing now, the cooler she will retrospectively think I was in future. Might be time to break out the vintage hat collection.
Style Notes Page 2
