Art for Art's Sake . Being A Girl . Nostalgia
Kitschy, Kitschy, Eeuw …
On July 19, 2020 by Speranza
I was recalling the 1960s “rec room” from my early childhood today and feeling a pang of empathy for that small girl, who was so proud of the questionable family touches that I felt sure elevated our home to another plateau of grooviness …
First, there was the purchase of a new Naugahyde couch, (“but what is a Nauga,” I questioned repeatedly, wondering what this unknown animal could be like.) The colour alone – a startling shade of Flaming Apricot – should have been the tip-off here and its slippery, unyielding cushions were as cold and rigid as a cemetery bench. But I loved it nonetheless and any rogue Cheeto dust remained undetected.
British Stuff . Cooking . Nostalgia
Open Love Letter to The Victoria Sandwich Cake
On October 19, 2019 by Speranza
Just for a moment, can we forget about the news and the state of the world and instead talk about cake? I know this seems shallow and possibly verging on the politically incorrect but honestly, it’s starting to turn a bit chilly outside and somehow even the sunlight itself is becoming harsh and brittle – certainly, no longer gentle.
So I need cake.
A Victoria Sandwich cake is a simple iconic sponge cake. ‘Sponge cake’ in itself is a troubling term, since a true ‘sponge’ has little or no butter and relies on egg whites to be poofy which is definitely NOT the case here. Many sources suggest that this cake was Queen Victoria’s favourite and was served at tea parties to help with her endless grief after her husband’s passing. But to me, it was simply the go-to, working class cake of my childhood and was made from my mother’s only cookbook as seen here – a hilarious cookbook in retrospect too, almost Monty Python-ish at times but quite unconsciously so, which of course makes it even funnier.
Childhood . My Mother . Nostalgia
Make Mine a Troll
On May 29, 2019 by Speranza
Anyone who knows me well has heard about my devotion to “Trolls” (aka “Gonks” in the UK) the popular, hi-liter haired dolls that were very popular in the sixties. While other girls were collecting the newest Barbie, it’s probably quite telling in some weird psychological way that I was never impressed or even remotely interested in regular dolls and instead much preferred my growing tribe of Trolls. Each one had a different hair colour, including two with striking, snow-white tresses whom I presumed to be elderly and accordingly named Martha and Frank. I saved diligently to increase my collection whenever possible and expanded to include the tiny Trolls sold as pencil toppers or key-chain danglers although their hair was never the same caliber as the larger ones and would routinely tear off in one piece, like a bright conical flame with a stiff headband of adhesive.
This was always a sad moment because a bald Troll is suddenly a bit too close to a perverted uncle for anyone’s liking.
My Father . My Mother . Nostalgia
The Importance of Being Idle
On September 20, 2018 by Speranza
I was thinking of a family story when I woke up yesterday, one of my favourites and never ceases to delight me. I’m not sure why I enjoy the story so much but I suspect it’s because it illustrates the stark differences between my parents so vividly. My father, a short-fused, A-type personality was a man who got things done, was always early for appointments and had no tolerance for anything or anyone that had a whiff of “idleness” about it. (I have put idleness in quotes because what he, and many others, considered to be “idle” in wartime Lancashire could easily include pausing to draw breath). I often think he would not do well with the current avalanche of self-care books available because he literally, would not understand the concept.
Introspection . Nostalgia . Reading
Reading Matters
On November 19, 2017 by Speranza
I have been between books for a while now partly because I have a new job which has required a massive learning curve (and I’ve been steadying myself of an evening with the cozy perfection of Nigel Slater’s food writing) and partly, because I recently completed (she said, not without some pride) the entire series of Karl Ove Knausgaard’s non-fictional “novel” series.
Fortified, I then pressed onward with the entire Neapolitan volumes written by the hauntingly hard-to-read, hard-to-put-down, hard-to forget Elena Ferrante whose work I now admire immensely.
These books are like opulent, rich meals – with dessert – and beg to be savored not gorged, since they are certainly not easily digested afterwards. With Knausgaard particularly, it was troubling to decide if I applauded what he was doing (writing frankly about his life without any filter and thus exhibiting a total disregard for anyone else’s feelings) or despised it; however, what intrigued me most were his descriptions of the everyday and the banal which he chronicles from childhood to the present day; the expression of a cashier he might never see again; the certain feel of a day; the outside weather echoing what he felt within himself; his documentation of a parent’s sharp, throwaway, put-down which crushes him.