The inspiration for Country French Kitchens, the book, arose from percolating design ideas during the course of several trips to Paris, armchair travel to Provence…and my own frustration at the lack of resources available for developing an American translation of this style. You can view the results of my own country French kitchen installation via video on my amazon.com author’s page. While it doesn’t show you the entire room, it gives you a glimpse into some of the solutions that my renovation offered me and my family for the space.
Since then, I have been looking forward to further travel to France, to scout local markets, explore those rural villages which time constraints had never before allowed, and shop for the Provencal fabrics, pottery and glassware that I currently purchase stateside.
A dream come true, I will be leading a group of students in a sojourn to Southwest France, specifically the Dordogne region, in July-August of next year. As a group, we will hunt for country French treasures, scavenging the countryside in search for all things beautiful and wonderful. I’m teaming up with fellow teacher Diana Gessler, a gallery-represented fine artist and author of five books, four of which are bestselling illustrated travel books. Her latest, Very Washington, DC, earned her a signing at the Smithsonian's Museum of Natural History. Diana will be teaching The Art of Illustrated Journaling, as she has found that her students are able to beautifully illustrate their own travel experiences in their own developed style, once techniques in pen and ink drawing, watercolor washes and map-drawing, caricature doodling and fancy lettering are taught. Diana has been illustrating her own world travels in journals for the past 30 years. Her students testify that she has forever changed not only the way they travel and the way that they "see" places, people and experiences; indeed, they claim that she has changed their lives.
We will, together, explore the beautiful Dordogne region of Southwest France, named for the river that runs through it, and have timed the trip to take advantage of the many brocantes (open-air antique fairs) and vide-greniers (open-air flea markets) that the area has to offer during these twelve days of our trip. Hunting for country French treasures for our own homes and for permanent capture into our personal illustrated travel journals, we'll wander quaint villages, scavenge the markets, and explore the true rural countryside, enjoying French food and wine in the process. On-site instruction in The Art of Illustrated Journaling and Country French Design will occur both in the newly-renovated art studio of the 18th-century farmhouse, Petit Rousset, which will be our home for twelve days, as well as during our day trips to these various markets, fairs and other noteworthy excursions.
During a recent corporate breakfast of the global investment bank from which I run my daytime advisory practice, the keynote speaker, Jonathan Clements, co-author of The Little Book of Main Street Money, noted three financial goals that appeal to the cave dweller in each of us. The second goal is to “build a life of thoughtful progress.” He advises us to “spend our money on building life experiences.”
“You’ll always have Paris,” he told the audience. Travel, unlike shopping trips to department stores to buy expensive merchandise which yields temporary pleasure, gives you more and better memories over the years. It helps you build a life of thoughtful progress.
We'd love for you to build memories and make “thoughtful progress” by joining us in France. Please visit our online page for terms and a registration form, as well as our brochure:
http://www.rousset-perigord.org/LPRLibrary/2010/gessler-fernandez.shtml.
Feel free to call me with any questions (203.942.8282). If you are unable to join us but know of a world-traveling or Francophile friend, please ask them to contact me at: emomrx@yahoo.com or to call me to discuss. The trip is limited to 18 guests.
Until next time, sending all my very best!
Carolina
Monday, October 12, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Country French Design Inspiration in the Dordogne!
Stay tuned for the itinerary on an upcoming Arts Education trip to the Dordogne region of Southwest France, named for the river that runs through it. With my friend and colleague Diana Gessler, we'll be teaching The Art of Illustrated Journaling as well as Country French Design via our very own Treasure Hunt! Learn how to capture travel memories permanently in your own handpainted, hand-rendered journal using time-tested techniques of five-time author Diana Gessler, along with tips from Country French Kitchens author Carolina Fernandez. Record your adventures in pen and ink drawings, watercolor washes, creative doodling, caricatures of the people we'll encounter on our day trips, quirky maps and individualized comments during this twelve day sojourn. We will scavenge the brocantes (open-air antique fairs) and vide-greniers (open-air flea markets) in the quaint villages on our journey; peek our heads into authentic country French kitchens; shop for locally made fabrics, pottery and produce; and enjoy glorious French food and wine along the way. We'll explore lands inhabited since prehistoric times, including the charming villages of Eymet, Bergerac, Ste. Alvere, Monpazier and Sarlat, among others. Details forthcoming! We'd love you to join us!
Monday, August 17, 2009
Laughing and Crying with Julie
If you’re a French foodie, French interior design book junkie and/or, like me, are particularly crazy for French kitchen design, then run—don’t walk—to the nearest theater to catch Julie & Julia.
Just when I thought that Meryl Streep had performed at peak in her latest films, The Devil Wears Prada, Mamma Mia! and Doubt, I was transfixed watching her completely and totally absorb (I hate the word “channel”) the persona and larger-than-life character of Julia Child.
Oh my!
What a charmed life, living in Paris in the 50’s. The dinner parties. The daily trips to the patisserie. Fresh air and fresh food. Lots of free time. Could life be any sweeter? I flashbacked to my days in Miami, where we were also given a short-time assignment because of my husband’s job. The direct parallel to my own life gave me a small lump in my throat as I felt her pain of idleness. Of displacement. Of being in a strange—yet beautiful—land with no friends, no calling, no discernible purpose. We, too, lived in near nirvana-land. We had the boat, the pool, the tennis courts. The dinner parties. Fresh (hot) air and fresh food (fish).
But shy of old friends or even neighbors who might carry on a meaningful conversation, I felt isolated and above all else, lonely. As did Julia.
And then, watching her transformation as she developed and then carried out her Big Idea: to follow her intuition (certainly not just plain dumb luck resulting from her boredom) and attend classes at the Cordon Bleu, the opportunities that followed, the friendships that were nurtured. Finding her “true work.”
I saw a part of Julia of which I was totally unaware. I entered her life as she spoke to me with words and actions that gently pricked my heart. For I saw that all of my struggles in working as an author and as a writer were faced by her. And by Julie Powell, played by the terrific Amy Adams. I clung to every word. Every scene. I know I’ll need to see it at least three of four more times—soon!—to absorb all of its messages completely.
Both Julie and Julia found there true work in passions outside of their day jobs. Both stuck it out. When things didn’t go their way. When time pressures reared their ugly heads. When they faced rejection by the publishers and people whose opinions mattered most to them. When exhaustion and frustration and rejection surrounded their higher callings, they persevered anyway. As anyone who has ever tried to get published knows all too well, this is the normal course of affairs. Death of vision. Working when others are relaxing. Obstacle after obstacle and naysayer after naysayer.
Being true to myself pushed me into a two-year labor of love with the publication of Country French Kitchens. It was an inspired idea. One of my few epiphanies. It was born from frustration by a lack of resources in the marketplace and a desire to help others get the information that I craved. Most people told me that it would never see the light of day. I am not an interior designer. I am not a kitchen designer. I am not French. I am not a classically-trained chef. The odds were certainly against me. I am, above all else, a wife and mom to four. I work as a Financial Advisor by day. I happen to have a passion for art and design and have renovated eight homes along the way. I happen to love writing and painting more than anything else and desire to make a difference in this world. I chose to not give up. I chose to work at this project at the end of every work day—like Julie—and to devote every weekend to it until it was completed.
Like Julie, there were a few times when I dropped the proverbial roast on the floor. Sometimes, when one is juggling too many balls, one of them will fall on one’s foot. But, like Julie and Julia, I knew that I needed to follow my gut. Be true to myself. Find and follow my true work.
I’d love to hear your thoughts on Julie & Julia. Finding more personal life parallels than most, perhaps, it struck too many chords for me to count. Did it likewise do that for you? Let me know: emomrx@yahoo.com.
Bon Appetit!
Just when I thought that Meryl Streep had performed at peak in her latest films, The Devil Wears Prada, Mamma Mia! and Doubt, I was transfixed watching her completely and totally absorb (I hate the word “channel”) the persona and larger-than-life character of Julia Child.
Oh my!
What a charmed life, living in Paris in the 50’s. The dinner parties. The daily trips to the patisserie. Fresh air and fresh food. Lots of free time. Could life be any sweeter? I flashbacked to my days in Miami, where we were also given a short-time assignment because of my husband’s job. The direct parallel to my own life gave me a small lump in my throat as I felt her pain of idleness. Of displacement. Of being in a strange—yet beautiful—land with no friends, no calling, no discernible purpose. We, too, lived in near nirvana-land. We had the boat, the pool, the tennis courts. The dinner parties. Fresh (hot) air and fresh food (fish).
But shy of old friends or even neighbors who might carry on a meaningful conversation, I felt isolated and above all else, lonely. As did Julia.
And then, watching her transformation as she developed and then carried out her Big Idea: to follow her intuition (certainly not just plain dumb luck resulting from her boredom) and attend classes at the Cordon Bleu, the opportunities that followed, the friendships that were nurtured. Finding her “true work.”
I saw a part of Julia of which I was totally unaware. I entered her life as she spoke to me with words and actions that gently pricked my heart. For I saw that all of my struggles in working as an author and as a writer were faced by her. And by Julie Powell, played by the terrific Amy Adams. I clung to every word. Every scene. I know I’ll need to see it at least three of four more times—soon!—to absorb all of its messages completely.
Both Julie and Julia found there true work in passions outside of their day jobs. Both stuck it out. When things didn’t go their way. When time pressures reared their ugly heads. When they faced rejection by the publishers and people whose opinions mattered most to them. When exhaustion and frustration and rejection surrounded their higher callings, they persevered anyway. As anyone who has ever tried to get published knows all too well, this is the normal course of affairs. Death of vision. Working when others are relaxing. Obstacle after obstacle and naysayer after naysayer.
Being true to myself pushed me into a two-year labor of love with the publication of Country French Kitchens. It was an inspired idea. One of my few epiphanies. It was born from frustration by a lack of resources in the marketplace and a desire to help others get the information that I craved. Most people told me that it would never see the light of day. I am not an interior designer. I am not a kitchen designer. I am not French. I am not a classically-trained chef. The odds were certainly against me. I am, above all else, a wife and mom to four. I work as a Financial Advisor by day. I happen to have a passion for art and design and have renovated eight homes along the way. I happen to love writing and painting more than anything else and desire to make a difference in this world. I chose to not give up. I chose to work at this project at the end of every work day—like Julie—and to devote every weekend to it until it was completed.
Like Julie, there were a few times when I dropped the proverbial roast on the floor. Sometimes, when one is juggling too many balls, one of them will fall on one’s foot. But, like Julie and Julia, I knew that I needed to follow my gut. Be true to myself. Find and follow my true work.
I’d love to hear your thoughts on Julie & Julia. Finding more personal life parallels than most, perhaps, it struck too many chords for me to count. Did it likewise do that for you? Let me know: emomrx@yahoo.com.
Bon Appetit!
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
What Makes a Country French Kitchen Country French?
It's the question I hear all the time. Check out my response in the latest issue of ARTES, an e-magazine devoted to fine art and design. Country French Kitchens is the featured book of the May issue.
Go to: www.arteswriting.com.
Go to: www.arteswriting.com.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Sweet and Gentle Milestones
Our family hit a milestone two weeks ago. Or, better said, our son did. Nick graduated from Wake Forest University. Magna cum laude. With a degree in Psychology and two minors. My own son did better at my alma mater than I did. And I’m thrilled for him.
Many of you readers have followed Nick’s journey, which has been a rather remarkable one, to say the least. And so it was with enormous gratitude and yes, pride, that we watched him march across the stage and accept his diploma. Our throats caught emotion and our hearts and minds filled with unspeakable joy.
Milestones. It seems like we’ll all be facing them in these next few weeks. Commencements. Weddings. First jobs. Prom. Our daughter will hit a milestone in two weeks when she’ll perform the difficult Fritz Kreisler Praeludium and Allegro at her spring recital. Her nearly-80-year-old grandmother will make the trek to Connecticut to experience it; as a younger woman, she taught more than 200 violin students a week, and considers watching her own grandchild play this signature piece of violin repertoire part of her reward for all of those years of diligence.
It is, of course, the successful passing of mini-milestones that allow us to enjoy the major ones. I sat through Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star ten thousand times in preparation for the glory of the Kreisler piece. And yet I still get a lump in my throat when I hear a three-year-old play it. It brings a floodgate of memories of the hours spent in our living room, holding the bow on my kids’ 1/16th size violin or singing the song or turning on the tape so they could listen to it as they fell into dreamland.
One must make sweet and gentle leaps before she can make more strenuous ones. And so it goes. On and on and on.
During the course of my more than twenty-two years of motherhood, there were many days when I found my mini-milestone to be as sweet and gentle as a shower taken without interruption. Or a morning met with dry sheets on all four of our kids’ beds. Sweet and gentle was the mini-milestone of ninja turtle underpants instead of pull-ups; Tide-with-a-bow-on-top and our kid’s initiation into personal laundry instead of mom-the-family-laundress doing it all. Sweet and gentle milestones included clean kids’ bedrooms without nudging. Christmas recitals and soccer tournaments. Our daughter singing—live and onstage—to the Jonas Brothers.
I have come to realize that one doesn’t get to experience the joy of a major milestone until one witnesses the victories of multiple sweet and gentle mini-milestones along the way. Book contracts don’t come along until one has written dozens of articles and stories gratis. Singing to the Jonas Brothers doesn’t happen until one has memorized all of their songs, could lip sync them in each one of their movies, and traveled great distances to more than one of their concerts. Homes don’t get renovated until one has read hundreds of decorating magazines and made dozens of expensive decorating mistakes. One cannot perform the Kreisler concerto until she has mastered the Bach A Minor Concerto first. And college graduations just can’t happen until one has pulled all-nighters for finals and research papers for four years running.
As you go through the days of June, recognizing achievements in your own life and in those of whom you most love, allow yourself the indulgent luxury of re-living a few of the more painful and monotonous memories of the path to victory. Re-live, if briefly, some of the journey. When your daughter accepts the math award, remember all of those nights when you helped her with simple addition. At the tennis banquet, think of all of those days when you were the human ball machine, gently tossing her balls so that she could one day play on the varsity team. The days of June are sweet: they are abundantly filled with milestones of all shapes and sizes. May they bring to you, like they are bringing to us, unspeakable joy!
Many of you readers have followed Nick’s journey, which has been a rather remarkable one, to say the least. And so it was with enormous gratitude and yes, pride, that we watched him march across the stage and accept his diploma. Our throats caught emotion and our hearts and minds filled with unspeakable joy.
Milestones. It seems like we’ll all be facing them in these next few weeks. Commencements. Weddings. First jobs. Prom. Our daughter will hit a milestone in two weeks when she’ll perform the difficult Fritz Kreisler Praeludium and Allegro at her spring recital. Her nearly-80-year-old grandmother will make the trek to Connecticut to experience it; as a younger woman, she taught more than 200 violin students a week, and considers watching her own grandchild play this signature piece of violin repertoire part of her reward for all of those years of diligence.
It is, of course, the successful passing of mini-milestones that allow us to enjoy the major ones. I sat through Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star ten thousand times in preparation for the glory of the Kreisler piece. And yet I still get a lump in my throat when I hear a three-year-old play it. It brings a floodgate of memories of the hours spent in our living room, holding the bow on my kids’ 1/16th size violin or singing the song or turning on the tape so they could listen to it as they fell into dreamland.
One must make sweet and gentle leaps before she can make more strenuous ones. And so it goes. On and on and on.
During the course of my more than twenty-two years of motherhood, there were many days when I found my mini-milestone to be as sweet and gentle as a shower taken without interruption. Or a morning met with dry sheets on all four of our kids’ beds. Sweet and gentle was the mini-milestone of ninja turtle underpants instead of pull-ups; Tide-with-a-bow-on-top and our kid’s initiation into personal laundry instead of mom-the-family-laundress doing it all. Sweet and gentle milestones included clean kids’ bedrooms without nudging. Christmas recitals and soccer tournaments. Our daughter singing—live and onstage—to the Jonas Brothers.
I have come to realize that one doesn’t get to experience the joy of a major milestone until one witnesses the victories of multiple sweet and gentle mini-milestones along the way. Book contracts don’t come along until one has written dozens of articles and stories gratis. Singing to the Jonas Brothers doesn’t happen until one has memorized all of their songs, could lip sync them in each one of their movies, and traveled great distances to more than one of their concerts. Homes don’t get renovated until one has read hundreds of decorating magazines and made dozens of expensive decorating mistakes. One cannot perform the Kreisler concerto until she has mastered the Bach A Minor Concerto first. And college graduations just can’t happen until one has pulled all-nighters for finals and research papers for four years running.
As you go through the days of June, recognizing achievements in your own life and in those of whom you most love, allow yourself the indulgent luxury of re-living a few of the more painful and monotonous memories of the path to victory. Re-live, if briefly, some of the journey. When your daughter accepts the math award, remember all of those nights when you helped her with simple addition. At the tennis banquet, think of all of those days when you were the human ball machine, gently tossing her balls so that she could one day play on the varsity team. The days of June are sweet: they are abundantly filled with milestones of all shapes and sizes. May they bring to you, like they are bringing to us, unspeakable joy!
Saturday, May 9, 2009
What Mom Really Wants for Mother’s Day: A Little Something
There were countless years when all I really wanted was a nap. Then some when the thought of a restaurant dinner out—no cooking, serving or cleaning up—was our family’s little Mother’s Day ritual. But our favorite “Mother’s Day restaurant” closed when the economy headed south, and, frankly, the idea of spending all that money to feed our large brood just doesn’t turn me on this year. No. Not this year.
In the Recessionista spirit of “less is more” and Simplify-Simplify-Simplify, all I really want this year is a little something. My hunch is: this is what’s driving you too.
Mom wants:
Something a little fun: something slightly impractical that won’t break the family’s bank that she would most likely never buy were it not for Mother’s Day. I splurged with something a little crazy when I took the money my mother always sends me for Mother’s Day and—a few weeks early when I was on a random shopping trip out-of-town—bought a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarer’s in turquoise. Not your average fifty-something’s choice for a new pair of shades. I admit: they’re a little zany. But hey: girls just wanna have fun.
Something a little sweet: chocolate or a cupcake or a big bowl of ice cream drizzled with caramel sauce. Mother’s Day screams: eat something caloric with a high fat content. My husband knows that I can do without an entire box of chocolates…but he better bring me a super dark bar or two to nosh on throughout this coming week.
Something a little tender: we don’t need much, do we? Just enough to let us know that all of our daily sacrifices are noticed…at least one day a year. Tender to me means someone in my family proactively dealing with the dirty dishes in the sink and the clean ones in the dishwasher. The crumbs on the floor and the old food in the fridge. Before I even mention it. Tender to me means having one of my teenagers wash and vacuum my car as a complete surprise. Tender to me means my husband brewing the morning coffee and delivering it to me in bed.
Something a little time-indulgent: An extra-long peek at the newspaper. That proverbial Sunday afternoon nap that almost always seems so out of reach. A leisurely phone call to a friend. Getting horizontal on the sofa with a new book. Painting the forgotten canvas. Dabbling. A pedicure.
Something a little orderly: especially meaningful to those of us who feel like we are carrying the weight of the world on our shoulders is an orderly environment. Whether it means that the kids pick up their loosely-strewn toys or that the teenagers pick up the laundry all over their bedroom floors; whether hubby might kindly re-organize the stacks of magazines on the family room coffee table or that he’ll neatly stack the mail in the drawer. Orderliness breeds creativity. And oh! How we could all use a larger dose of that.
Mother’s Day has a different connotation for every single mom. Some ignore the day altogether. Some require unusually high levels of doting and devotion. I just want a little something.
Whatever you need, whatever inspires you to motherhood with excellence: I am sending along my very best wishes for a most wonderful day. And hopefully, you will have some control over how, exactly, you spend it.
In the Recessionista spirit of “less is more” and Simplify-Simplify-Simplify, all I really want this year is a little something. My hunch is: this is what’s driving you too.
Mom wants:
Something a little fun: something slightly impractical that won’t break the family’s bank that she would most likely never buy were it not for Mother’s Day. I splurged with something a little crazy when I took the money my mother always sends me for Mother’s Day and—a few weeks early when I was on a random shopping trip out-of-town—bought a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarer’s in turquoise. Not your average fifty-something’s choice for a new pair of shades. I admit: they’re a little zany. But hey: girls just wanna have fun.
Something a little sweet: chocolate or a cupcake or a big bowl of ice cream drizzled with caramel sauce. Mother’s Day screams: eat something caloric with a high fat content. My husband knows that I can do without an entire box of chocolates…but he better bring me a super dark bar or two to nosh on throughout this coming week.
Something a little tender: we don’t need much, do we? Just enough to let us know that all of our daily sacrifices are noticed…at least one day a year. Tender to me means someone in my family proactively dealing with the dirty dishes in the sink and the clean ones in the dishwasher. The crumbs on the floor and the old food in the fridge. Before I even mention it. Tender to me means having one of my teenagers wash and vacuum my car as a complete surprise. Tender to me means my husband brewing the morning coffee and delivering it to me in bed.
Something a little time-indulgent: An extra-long peek at the newspaper. That proverbial Sunday afternoon nap that almost always seems so out of reach. A leisurely phone call to a friend. Getting horizontal on the sofa with a new book. Painting the forgotten canvas. Dabbling. A pedicure.
Something a little orderly: especially meaningful to those of us who feel like we are carrying the weight of the world on our shoulders is an orderly environment. Whether it means that the kids pick up their loosely-strewn toys or that the teenagers pick up the laundry all over their bedroom floors; whether hubby might kindly re-organize the stacks of magazines on the family room coffee table or that he’ll neatly stack the mail in the drawer. Orderliness breeds creativity. And oh! How we could all use a larger dose of that.
Mother’s Day has a different connotation for every single mom. Some ignore the day altogether. Some require unusually high levels of doting and devotion. I just want a little something.
Whatever you need, whatever inspires you to motherhood with excellence: I am sending along my very best wishes for a most wonderful day. And hopefully, you will have some control over how, exactly, you spend it.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Weekend Rhythms
It’s not that I don’t love my job; it’s that I love my family and my home. Friday night comes and, wow! I can hardly wait to pull into my driveway. The weekend has its own distinct rhythms, and I have come to honor and respect them. Yes, indeed, to cherish them.
Friday usually means leaving work after the market closes. I rarely stay past five and hope to leave a little past four. As it’s typically the slowest day of the week, I work accordingly, catching up on all of the things in my inbox and other administrative tasks left behind in the swoosh of client calls and market volatility. The drive home holds less tension than do the other four work days. Bloomberg radio, my constant driving companion, is more tolerable. On Fridays, I feel slightly less responsible for carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. That’s what others are hired to do, what politicians are expected to do. I literally feel my body settling deep down into my leather car seat as I wind my way through the Connecticut countryside. There is a discernible calmness of mind and of spirit. For I know that I will be able to focus my energies, for two days anyway, on everything else that I have going on in my life.
That night almost always means food from our favorite local Asian restaurant. And while we try to mix up the selections from week the week, we find that it’s consistency in flavors nourishes not only our bellies, but our spirits as well. Few things calm me down for the weekend ahead more than does a piping hot bowl of curried soup. I usually desire an almost immediately horizontal position shortly thereafter. It is one of the few times during the week that I turn into a potato before darkness sets into the night. A movie on cable might follow. Or some TV time with my hubby or kids. But generally, Friday evening to me and my family means tummies full of Asian food, our dog at one of our feet, and a blanket covering a body that has gone completely limp.
Saturday morning is another story entirely. For me, it means an early rise and a good game of tennis with the gals. Court time is 8 AM sharp, and the combination of chasing down balls, a decent sweat and a lot of laughter is my favorite start to the day.
And then one of my favorite rituals takes place: my Saturday morning trip to the local grocer. My husband oftentimes offers to go instead, but I remind him that to deny me the trip is to strip me of one of the most emotionally enjoyable experiences of my week. The grocery store is legendary. Stew Leonard’s claims to be the largest dairy store in the world. But to me, it means the freshest fruits and vegetables that I can find, plenty of naked chicken and beef and pork, and one of the best selections of seafood in the area. The store is laid out in a maze, and once entered, it is very difficult to turn around and start all over again, as you’ll be going against traffic if you do. A walk down the first aisle finds me squeezing Florida oranges, eyeing the freshly baked muffins, pinching French baguettes and enjoying a sample size of just-brewed coffee.
It’s on to the deli counter, where “naked” meats, all without preservatives or fillers or antibiotics or hormones are served up with a smile. But my favorite aisles are those bearing freshly-picked herbs and vegetables. Ahhh! There’s nothing like a whiff of fresh cilantro to get one’s creative culinary juices flowing! An hour later, groceries are placed into the cloth bags that I carry in with me; an effortless commitment to a greener grocery trip is one of its rewards.
The lunch treat is chock full with my discoveries. Fresh mozzarella and vine-ripened tomatoes. Avocados. Berries. Could it get any better than that?
Saturday afternoon usually affords me either the luxury of working on one of my miscellaneous projects: a new book or a proposal or assembling a few sunshine baskets. Or catching up on my mail. I love getting lost in the work that lies on my home office desk. Ignored by me all week for utter lack of time or energy, it demands my attention by Saturday afternoon, and I am happy to oblige. The work carries me into the night, at which point my brain is no longer able to fully function. Thinking through a multitude of potentialities, the speed and variety which sometimes feels like raindrops falling into a waterfall, I have to lay down in an effort to calm my mind down. A horrible napper, I like to try midday nonetheless. The Saturday afternoon nap is a weekend ritual that is, to me, irresistible in concept anyway.
The evening gives me the time to cook up some of that wonderful food that I bought only hours earlier. Working in my French kitchen, I remain inspired by the great French chefs who have come before me. For I’m just a country cook. A home cook. Trying to please just my family and me. And sometimes friends, too, when we’re fortunate enough to have them over to share in the bounty.
It’s very French to slow down and enjoy the process of preparing food for your loved ones. If you stopped and asked some of the world’s best cooks what their secrets were, I suspect that the mere slowing down to work through the process would be one of them. Of taking the time to slice the vegetables. Or rolling out the dough. Cutting off the stems and peeling the fruit. Setting the table with beautiful china and linens and silver and candles.
And on Sunday, our laziest of all days, when other than attending worship services and leisurely catching up on our favorite magazines, books or papers, we hang out as a family and delight in the art of doing nothing. A nibble here and perhaps another meal or two to prepare, the weekend ends on a note of contentment and peace. Yes, the kids command our attention. Yes, the dirty laundry screams at me from its basket. And the crumbs on the floor need sweeping. The dog walking. But the rhythms of the weekend give us pause from the pressures of life. Our bodies, designed to take note and give in, relish the gaps in time that only the weekend brings.
I hope that as you contemplate re-calibration and the changes that it may inevitably bring to your work week, your family and your personal bottom line, that you are able to see them, as I have. And to respect and honor them. In order to increase your level of peace. Family harmony. Of infusing beauty into your home. Nourishing food into bodies. Oh! The weekend. Blissful intervention into the state of the world in which we find ourselves.
Peace,
Carolina
Friday usually means leaving work after the market closes. I rarely stay past five and hope to leave a little past four. As it’s typically the slowest day of the week, I work accordingly, catching up on all of the things in my inbox and other administrative tasks left behind in the swoosh of client calls and market volatility. The drive home holds less tension than do the other four work days. Bloomberg radio, my constant driving companion, is more tolerable. On Fridays, I feel slightly less responsible for carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. That’s what others are hired to do, what politicians are expected to do. I literally feel my body settling deep down into my leather car seat as I wind my way through the Connecticut countryside. There is a discernible calmness of mind and of spirit. For I know that I will be able to focus my energies, for two days anyway, on everything else that I have going on in my life.
That night almost always means food from our favorite local Asian restaurant. And while we try to mix up the selections from week the week, we find that it’s consistency in flavors nourishes not only our bellies, but our spirits as well. Few things calm me down for the weekend ahead more than does a piping hot bowl of curried soup. I usually desire an almost immediately horizontal position shortly thereafter. It is one of the few times during the week that I turn into a potato before darkness sets into the night. A movie on cable might follow. Or some TV time with my hubby or kids. But generally, Friday evening to me and my family means tummies full of Asian food, our dog at one of our feet, and a blanket covering a body that has gone completely limp.
Saturday morning is another story entirely. For me, it means an early rise and a good game of tennis with the gals. Court time is 8 AM sharp, and the combination of chasing down balls, a decent sweat and a lot of laughter is my favorite start to the day.
And then one of my favorite rituals takes place: my Saturday morning trip to the local grocer. My husband oftentimes offers to go instead, but I remind him that to deny me the trip is to strip me of one of the most emotionally enjoyable experiences of my week. The grocery store is legendary. Stew Leonard’s claims to be the largest dairy store in the world. But to me, it means the freshest fruits and vegetables that I can find, plenty of naked chicken and beef and pork, and one of the best selections of seafood in the area. The store is laid out in a maze, and once entered, it is very difficult to turn around and start all over again, as you’ll be going against traffic if you do. A walk down the first aisle finds me squeezing Florida oranges, eyeing the freshly baked muffins, pinching French baguettes and enjoying a sample size of just-brewed coffee.
It’s on to the deli counter, where “naked” meats, all without preservatives or fillers or antibiotics or hormones are served up with a smile. But my favorite aisles are those bearing freshly-picked herbs and vegetables. Ahhh! There’s nothing like a whiff of fresh cilantro to get one’s creative culinary juices flowing! An hour later, groceries are placed into the cloth bags that I carry in with me; an effortless commitment to a greener grocery trip is one of its rewards.
The lunch treat is chock full with my discoveries. Fresh mozzarella and vine-ripened tomatoes. Avocados. Berries. Could it get any better than that?
Saturday afternoon usually affords me either the luxury of working on one of my miscellaneous projects: a new book or a proposal or assembling a few sunshine baskets. Or catching up on my mail. I love getting lost in the work that lies on my home office desk. Ignored by me all week for utter lack of time or energy, it demands my attention by Saturday afternoon, and I am happy to oblige. The work carries me into the night, at which point my brain is no longer able to fully function. Thinking through a multitude of potentialities, the speed and variety which sometimes feels like raindrops falling into a waterfall, I have to lay down in an effort to calm my mind down. A horrible napper, I like to try midday nonetheless. The Saturday afternoon nap is a weekend ritual that is, to me, irresistible in concept anyway.
The evening gives me the time to cook up some of that wonderful food that I bought only hours earlier. Working in my French kitchen, I remain inspired by the great French chefs who have come before me. For I’m just a country cook. A home cook. Trying to please just my family and me. And sometimes friends, too, when we’re fortunate enough to have them over to share in the bounty.
It’s very French to slow down and enjoy the process of preparing food for your loved ones. If you stopped and asked some of the world’s best cooks what their secrets were, I suspect that the mere slowing down to work through the process would be one of them. Of taking the time to slice the vegetables. Or rolling out the dough. Cutting off the stems and peeling the fruit. Setting the table with beautiful china and linens and silver and candles.
And on Sunday, our laziest of all days, when other than attending worship services and leisurely catching up on our favorite magazines, books or papers, we hang out as a family and delight in the art of doing nothing. A nibble here and perhaps another meal or two to prepare, the weekend ends on a note of contentment and peace. Yes, the kids command our attention. Yes, the dirty laundry screams at me from its basket. And the crumbs on the floor need sweeping. The dog walking. But the rhythms of the weekend give us pause from the pressures of life. Our bodies, designed to take note and give in, relish the gaps in time that only the weekend brings.
I hope that as you contemplate re-calibration and the changes that it may inevitably bring to your work week, your family and your personal bottom line, that you are able to see them, as I have. And to respect and honor them. In order to increase your level of peace. Family harmony. Of infusing beauty into your home. Nourishing food into bodies. Oh! The weekend. Blissful intervention into the state of the world in which we find ourselves.
Peace,
Carolina
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