Short Summer

Now that the weather has turned decidely autumnal, I thought I would slap you and your wind-beaten face with reminders of the beautiful British weekend.

Yes, the great British summer is indeed short. This has the effect of all the summer wares you get in the sale still looking fresh.

If you're scared of shorts, don't worry, my legs are a bit too. These are the only pair of shorts that I own, apart from the sports shorts that sit in my bottom drawer wishing they could go for a run. These pleather ones have a flat fronted obvious waistband, pleats and feel quite flattering on.

I'm fond of this sunshine yellow chiffon top, with its scalloped edges. It is otherwise known as The Chick (as in a baby chicken). The farmyard is not normally my source of inspiratiation. Its shocking colour made it like an attractive, screaming child- hard to ignore and craving love. The gold earrings and necklace were worn mostly so that I could feel something dangling on my skin.

Are you back to being covered up and cozy? Or, do you have '"transitional" pieces?

Outfit: Yellow Top, H&M. Shorts, Warehouse. Gold Swirl Earrings, Marks and Spencer. Tiny Gold Locket, Topshop. Orange Bag, vintage, from my favourite Oxfam (in Rickmansworth). White Gladiator Sandals, Clarks.

If you're in Oxford on a nice day, please go punting, or at least to a riverside pub. I would recommend The Victoria Arms on the basis that it has a huge lawn and they never say anything about it when you bring your own picnic. There were about 10 Marks and Spencer bags spread out about 5 minutes before I took this photo at The Victoria Arms.

Beet It

Although this may look like a blackcurrant fool or some sort of blackberry mousse, it is in fact a beetroot and walnut pesto. Beetroot dip, really. Its idea came from my local food festival in Thame, Oxfordshire. I was allured by something with a pretty berry colour and then tasted how incredible it was. Then I asked the price. It was one of those moments when you politely walk away and then privately deem it so extortionately priced that it influences you to do it yourself. Consumer outrage is a beautiful weapon.

Beetroot is one of those vegetables that I love yet rarely eat. This recipe makes me crave beetroot, or at least its walnut dip form. It’s sweet, nutty, creamy, and the basil and garlic give it piquancy. I’m sure you don’t need the parmesan, but I think it adds just a bit more depth and creaminess.

Television chef Gino D’Acampo’s explains the glories of Italian food as providing: “Minimum Effort for Maximum Satisfaction.” I think this simple starter or snack fits the bill. It works really well with toasts rubbed with garlic.

It’s the texture of a slightly chunky hummus and I’m sure it would work equally well with pitas. I’ve heard the flavours make a good sauce for mackerel. (My fish mission isn’t quite far enough along to vouch for this though.)

It would make an elegant canapé in a cos lettuce leaf, with or without beef, and maybe even a dash of horseradish sauce.

Beetroot Dip Recipe

1 ½ cups cooked beetroot

½ cup toasted walnuts

½ clove of garlic

3 sprigs of basil

2 teaspoons of parmesan cheese

4 teaspoons or large drizzles of olive oil

Salt and pepper

Makes just over 1 cup of finished dip; about the size of a small hummus container.

If you have a food processor, just put it all in together and slowly add the oil as the rest of the mixture combines. I think the texture is nicest when you can still taste tiny bits of the different elements, rather than it being completely smooth. Add salt and pepper according to your taste, and more oil, if you think it needs it.

I just have an inexpensive stick hand blender, so I chopped everything small before trying to use the hand blender. It worked fine.  

Polished Jewels

 

Summer suits crisp whites and pretty pastels. I think of ice cream colours of bubblegum pink, lemon sherbet and pistachio as particularly sun-bleached. Blondes (platinum and golden) benefit from summer, their locks resplendent echoes of their sunshined skin. Latin women also flourish under summer with their natural bronze ready to wear gold, safari browns and campfire orange. Black women look incredible wearing acid summer brights—think Rihanna and Nicki Minaj.

I like to think darker haired, paler skinned, Celtic looking types flourish in the fall. Autumn demands warmer colours and bolder, jewel tones. Barack Obama told Americans after he won the election that: “This is our moment.” Hilary Alexander, Fashion Director of The Daily Telegraph declared that Kate Middleton’s choice to wear Alexander McQueen (by Sarah Burton) was “a fashion moment.” If you’re dark-haired or like jewel tones, friends, this is your moment.  Think garnet, sapphire, emerald, black onyx, any really.



The elegant simplicity of the simple, covered-up sheath reminds me of Jackie Kennedy, or a dress Kate Middleton might have looked at, but ultimatley rejected. I wanted to exaggerate its lady-like quality with an excess of pearls.



Leaves wouldn't fall without wind, thus it's impossible to avoid the odd windswept shot.



My favourite narrow boat and backdrop of the day. It's rusted and unloved but the colours somehow give it life.



I like the seasonal synchronicity of how berry shades also look appropriate to wear at exactly the moment you can harvest them.





Linguistic ¨Laughs ¨

I know what you might be thinking, rather pretentious title, right? Possibly, but in this case, there’s little pretending. A couple of language related stories have genuinely made me laugh hard this week. Solitary activities rarely produce intense laughter. Twice this week, I have been overwhelmed by belly laughs, with no one around to hear them. If you can, share these with someone else, and see if you both laugh too. I’d bet on it.

One feature on Wednesday’s Radio 2 Drivetime, was about the umlaut (¨). I know, it doesn’t sound totally, immediately hilarious. Patience, young linguistic grasshoppers. On the show, Simon Mayo and the Drivetime team interview Professor Rüdiger Görner, Director of the Centre for Anglo-German Cultural Relations at Queen Mary’s University in London.



Here is Simon Mayo looking like a comedic radio presenter should- a little bit cynical.

Image from the Radio 2 Drivetime website.



After discussing issues of origin, purpose and pronunciation, the subject turns to more important matters. Specifically, how metal bands like Mötorhead, Mötley Crue, Blue Öyster Cult and Spinal Tap use umlauts and how we should actually pronounce their names. Listen and learn:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio2/shows/simon-mayo/ 

Play with the iplayer between 20:24-25:19, though all Mayo's work is worth a listen.

The other piece that I thought was fantastic was The Sunday Times’ official ‘Dud of the Week.’ According to Dan Cairns, this was the Superheavy album. This is the unfortunate new project from Dave Stewart of The Pet Shop Boys, Joss Stone, Ziggy Marley (so far, so bad) and (ahem) Mick Jagger.



Superheavy, looking cool at their Superheaviest. Maybe the blurriness of the photo will only increase their mystique.

Image from livelyindepthmuscient.com .


Supergroup? Not quite. Marley begins the album by emphasising how intensely super and heavy the group is. Say the following in your best Jamaican, dance hall guy voice:

'“Massive, large amount, you understand? Excess heaviness, heaviest, heaviest title holder.”' Cairns notes how: 'Then the doubts begin to surface. “Heavyweight contenders,” [Marley] continues, “you understand?”'

Cairns explains how it is a ‘flaccid hybrid of reggae, country and soul.…Superheavy? Superdiabolical.’ One can imagine.

What's your feeling on Jagger's Timonthy Everest shocking pink suit? I know he's Jagger and can therefore pull off whatever he wants and be eternally cool. The question is whether he should. Jagger's Suit: do you love it or hate it?

(Note the Superheavyness of the band in the background.)

Tale of the Slightly Mod

I like to think an acquaintance of Twiggy's in 1963 would have noted the collar, vertical lines and pink lip with an approving nod. The hair would need to be sleeker. Mods preferred the club or coffee house to an afternoon outdoors. See below. 

Think about when you’ve felt out of place. Remember when you used to imagine yourself living in a different historical period. Vintage fiends must find themselves at odds with contemporary culture all the time, romanticising the Blitz, flapper freedom or 1960s Cool Brittania. One of the proud tales of my misspent well spent youth involves elaborate constructions of myself as one of the great glamourous women in Scott Fitzgerald and Hemingway’s stories, abound with insouciance, knowing glances and literary men.

The photos below make me think of how life would have been slightly trying for the odd bloke or girl who wanted to be a mod but lived in the countryside or someplace else better suited to a Jane Austen lady or gentleman. Mods need motorbikes, cities, rival gangs, danger, garage music and quick access to sharp tailoring. A calm row in a 1920s skiff doesn’t really convey that you’re tuff or boss.

 

The slightly Mod would approve of the stripes, though the choice of rowing as an activity wouldn't exactly help her street cred.



The innocence of the classic English duck race would frustrate our tortured Mod. 



The sky  for the nearly Mod would be cloudy and murky, reflecting her inner identity crisis. She regarded the bridge as an obvious visual metaphor for her desire to escape and journey across to the burgeoning city.



She liked the checked skirt, with its buttons and box pleat, though wished she could afford a matching blazer.

The clenched fist reveals the nearly Mod's slight tension. How many other middle class suburban kids just wanted to be in London, Brighton or Liverpool away from green spaces and their parents’ china? Take a moment to mourn the plight of the wannabe mod, circa 1962.

Slightly Mod-ish Outfit. Top, Ben Sherman. Skirt, Marks and Spencer. Bag, vintage. Lipstick, Rosa, Topshop.

Alien Invaders

Confessions:

1.       I don’t really like salmon.

2.      I don’t even really like smoked salmon.

Maybe there are other people on a fish mission. Like me, they’re probably trying hard to like fish. People who don’t like fish are placed in the “hasn’t quite grown up yet/ hasn’t acquired any taste” camp. They sit alongside the other children people who don’t like red wine or olives. A lover of the good life would surely think to themselves: “Oh, she doesn’t like fish. Isn’t that unconscionable! Isn’t that quaint!” They’d chuckle and easily patronise me in their minds.

So, I’ve been on a mission: to make my tastes come of age. I’ve found a fish that you should try if you see it—smoked trout. It has very large flakes like cod, so the texture melts but doesn’t fall apart. It is brined before it is smoked, giving the non fish lover comfort, as it has the familiar scent of bacon. As it is already cooked, there is no "AHH! I never cook fish. How do I cook it?" panic. Simply warm it.



On its own, the colour makes smoked trout look like an anemic cousin of salmon. I prefer to think of it as subtler. The basil sprig is cheesy, but it needed a colour contrast, I felt. This was the amount of smoked trout from one whole trout, which was about 8 inches long. It cost £3 and was enough for two large portions.

Smoked trout also marries well with other fish classics: tartar sauce, new potatoes and peas. Especially if you're on a bit of a fish mission, there's no need to go more exotic, the fish is powerful enough.

If you really don’t like fish, mix it with some crème fraiche or cream cheese for a smooth, rich dip for bread.

And if you’re lucky, as I was, the fishmonger likes that you ask questions and offers you some free crayfish, hoping your custom will be returned. As American crayfish in British waters, like many non-native species, they have flourished and imposed themselves on the meeker, resigning British crayfish. So, now British fisherman and ecologists want the alien invaders out. They’re sweet, soft and quite complex in flavour. They don't just look like langoustines or lobsters, they taste that way. You play with the claws and bash them to get to the fine meat. Add a Marie Rose sauce (ketchup and mayonaise) and the smoked trout and you’ll feel like you’ve had a summer-y, seaside meal in France, or wherever they do things right and perfect.


Clockwise from left: crayfish, Marie Rose sauce, smoked trout, new potatoes, peas, tartar sauce.


Let me know if you can help me further on my fish mission.


The main claw on our right is very sharp. These crayfish are a bit like medieval knights: fearsome attacking sword on one side, shield for defense on the other.



The Closest I’ll Come to London Fashion Week or Any Fashion Week

As all fashion media types are throwing around their comments about NYFW or LFW, I’ll remain working in rural England. This was as close as I got-- a visit to Somerset House, a week ahead of London Fashion Week.

If you see any off-duty model shots or “street” style photos, they’re generally in front of Somerset House. Somerset House is a beautifully proportioned neo-classical London building, home to the Royal Academy of Arts, not exactly a scruffy street where one expects to find experimental street style. Its huge size and enormous courtyard mean that it is physically far from any street. Still, I was prepared to be asked to have my picture taken and answer all kinds of questions about the collections, what I’m wearing, my style, must have autumn items, the most interesting trends, etc.. I’d even settle for a “Gosh, it’s raining” comment.

   

Note the large chasm between me and the stone wall, surely a metaphor for the distance between myself and London Fashion Week. Even the bright orange and cobalt print are overwhlemed by grey stone. 



Top, Warehouse. Earrings, Accessorise. Orange Pencil Skirt, 1980s Marks and Spencer. Bag, charity shop.

Alas, the only other “photographers” around were a group of women wearing fluorescent pink hats, on a hen night. For now, I’ll have to remain an elusive influence on London Fashion Week.