Samedi: The Art of Beauty

Over at "The Joyful Molly", Molly Joyful has been treating us to more and more eclectic fare. Once a site for all things Royal Navy, Molly is now exploring everything from Medieval land disputes to fashion. My hat is off to you there, girl. And thus, a link.

The above engraving is from a pamphlet entitled Gallery of Fashion, Month of November 1795 which fell into Molly's hands to everyone's - well - joy. More pictures and elaboration can be found at her post here. As we can see from this picture, though, England had a bit of a time pulling itself out of the old hard corsets and paniers era of the 1770s and moving into the classical inspired fashions known as Empire (not empire, by the way, which always sets my teeth on edge: it's pronounce om-PEER). Unlike Paris, which had that messy revolution to jolt it into nearly nude fashions, London stubbornly clung to billowing skirts and properly covered cleavage. No wonder a British sailor loved a stop in a French port of the late 18th century.

In fact the British, and the Americans outside of racy New Orleans, tended to like their Empire gowns with a bit more fabric than the French. A pity, I think, but no one was asking me.

All that said, those gloves are stunning.

Not in the mood for fashion? How about a little something else 18th century and French: magick. The Appendix blog has a wonderfully scholarly evaluation by professor Lisa Smith of a circa 1718, handwritten book entitled Recueille de diferents secrets (Collection of Different Secrets). Find it here and learn how to do everything from repel snakes to stop field fires. This incredible archive of folk-magic and religion proves that "The Enlightenment" hadn't quite taken hold the way Rousseau might have hoped.

And with that, I will leave you to your Samedi. Bonne chance ~

Lundi: Recipes

Happy Lundi Gras! Tomorrow, of course, is Mardi Gras - Fat Tuesday - one of the biggest holidays for anyone with ties to the Gulf Coast and especially for all of us Creoles. Eat, drink and be merry for Lent is just around the corner. And here's a recipe that lets you do all those things at once: bread pudding with whiskey sauce from Roy F. Guste, Jr's The 100 Greatest New Oleans Creole Recipes.

2 eggs
2 cups milk
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1/2 cup raisins
1 stick butter
1 cup sugar
6 ounces stale french bread (about 1/2 of a 32 inch loaf)
1/3 cup bourbon whiskey

In a large mixing bowl mix the eggs, milk, sugar, vanilla and raisins. Break the bread into small pieces and add to this mixture. Fold all together and let it soak for a few minutes. Butter a loaf pan or baking dish. Pour the entire mixture into the buttered pan and bake in a 350 degree oven for 1 hour and 15 minutes or until a knife inserted in the center comes out clean.

The whiskey sauce: melt the butter and sugar together in a saucepan. Turn the heat off and add the bourbon. Mix thoroughly.

To serve, spoon the warm bread pudding onto plates and drizzle some of the whiskey sauce over the top.

Note that Monsieur Guste adds that any fruit of your choice can be added to the bread pudding before baking. I think "craisins" - those dried cranberries - are a nice substitute for raisins, of which I am not a fan. Be creative, have fun and bon appetite ~

Header: They Are Only Collecting the Usual Fans and Gloves by Charles Dana Gibson via American Gallery

Lundi: Recipes

Watching that horribly boring Super Bowl yesterday - no, it was never a "nail-biter"; I'm sorry but Kapernick is not a Super Bowl winning quarterback - I just focused on the New Orleans story line. It was so much fun to see so much of home, even if it was only on the TV. And when the lights went out, I laughed myself just about sick; the revenge of Saints fans everywhere.

Anyway, how could one not think about food when one is thinking about New Orleans? From beignets to etouffee, there is no better place to eat in the world. And speaking of etoufee, here is a delicious recipe from that master of old time Creole cooking, Leon E. Soniat, Jr.* This one comes with a little hint about chopping onions. If you want to avoid that horrible sting in your eyes, always use your sharpest knife and chill the onion in the frig for a bit before you chop it. This trick really does work; try it next time.

3 pounds raw shrimp, peeled, washed and deveined
1 pound crab meat
1 stick butter
4 tablespoons olive oil
2 medium onions, finely chopped
1/2 bell pepper, finely chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced
2 ribs celery, finely chopped
2 cups chicken stock
1/4 cup dry white wine
1 tablespoon cornstarch
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1 bunch green onions, finely chopped
3 tablespoons minced parsley
1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
Salt and pepper to taste
1/4 teaspoon Tabasco or to taste
Cooked rice

Heat the butter and oil in a large, heavy pot such as a Dutch oven. Add onions, bell pepper and celery. Saute for five minutes and remove from heat. Add the garlic.

To one cup of stock add the cornstarch. Mix well and then add the mixture to the pot. Now you may need a little help. While stirring the pot continuously, add the wine, tomato paste, green onions, parsley and Worcestershire sauce. Add the shrimp, cover the pot partially and simmer ten minutes. Stir once or twice while it cooks. At about five minutes, stir in the other cup of stock and add some salt, pepper and Tabasco. Simmer another ten minutes while continuing to stir occasionally. Now add the crab meat and simmer another five to ten minutes to cook it through.

Serve over fluffy rice with some good bread to sop up whatever is left at the bottom of you bowl. Bon appetite ~

* recipe from La Bouche Creole II by Leon E. Soniat Jr. and June Soniat from Pelican Publishing c 1985

Header: Watching the Pot by Carl Emil Mucke via Old Paint

Mercredi: The Art of Beauty

Our stay in New Orleans was not long enough to permit our entering into society, but I was told that it contained two distinct sets of people, both celebrated, in their way, for their social meetings and elegant entertainments.

The first of these is composed of Creole families, who are chiefly planters and merchants, with their wives and daughters; these meet together, eat together, and are very grand and aristocratic; each of their balls is a little Almack's, and every portly dame of the set is as exclusive in her principles as a lady patroness.

The other set consists of the excluded but amiable Quadroons, and such of the gentlemen of the former class as can by any means escape from the high places, where pure Creole blood swells the veins at the bare mention of any being tainted in the remotest degree with the Negro stain.

Of all the prejudices I have ever witnessed, this appears to me the most violent, and the most inveterate. Quadroon girls, the acknowledged daughters of wealthy American and Creole fathers, educated with all of style and accomplishments which money can procure at New Orleans, and with all the decorum that care and affection can give; exquisitely beautiful, graceful, gentle, and amiable. These are not admitted, nay, are not on any terms admissible, into the society of the Creole families of Louisiana.

They cannot marry, that is to say, no ceremony can render an union with them legal or binding; yet such is the powerful effect of their very peculiar grace, beauty, and sweetness of manner, that unfortunately they perpetually become the objects of choice and affection. If the Creole ladies have privilege to exercise the awful power of repulsion, the gentle Quadroon has the sweet but dangerous vengeance of possessing that of attraction. 

The unions formed with this unfortunate race are said to be often lasting and happy, as far as any unions can be so, to which a certain degree of disgrace is attached.

~ from Domestic Manners of the Americans by Frances Trollope

Mrs. Trollope was an Englishwoman who traveled through the U.S. from 1827 to 1831. Her book is full of dislike for Americans and, as this passage shows, certain misunderstandings - and surprising insights - of and into the customs she encountered.

Header: Frances Trollope by Auguste Hervieu c 1832 via Wikipedia

Samedi: Ghost Stories

The ghost story I'm about to tell is an old favorite down New Orleans way. It tells of a young woman who was the Devil's mistress, and the horrible fate that awaited her when she strayed from his bed. But the Devil gets a bit of his own back as well. Retold in writing a number of times, most famously in the Depression era collection of stories Gumbo Ya~Ya edited by the irrepressible Lyle Saxon, I was pleased to see it included in a library book brought home by my middle school daughter called Spooky South by S.E. Schlosser. The story is best told by someone who witnesses the haunting rather than by a detached third person, at least to my mind. So here is my version of "The Devil's Mansion" as told by young Arlette Panelle whose Maman knew a lady that lived there...

I'm old enough to sit at table with my parents, but not old enough to debut in society, and it's just now that Maman's best friend Madame Larendon moves into the biggest house on Rue St. Charles. There are rumors about the house and always have been. Folk say it's haunted and I have even overheard the servants' gossip about deaths and ghosts. Maman crosses herself and holds tight to the golden crucifix around her neck when our coach goes by the mansion. But no one will tell me what was wrong with the house. In the daylight, gleaming white and windows clean, it looks like a lovely place. I suppose I didn't think about it until Madame moved in.

Maman and Madame have been friends forever. My mother is from an old Creole family that claims men who stood on the line with Andrew Jackson at the Battle of New Orleans. Madame Larendon is a Beauregard; her father is the famous General Pierre Gustav Toutant - the Little Creole. I was born after the war, but heard nothing but praise for the old man. When Madame's husband moved the family into the mansion on St. Charles, my mother was a bit upset. After all, Madame is in the family way at last. How could Monsieur make her move in such a state? Or is it the house that troubled Maman?

When the Larendons had lived in that old mansion awhile, our whole family is invited over for supper. I'm the eldest and of course expected to keep my four brothers in line. I imagined we'd be seated in the kitchen. Was I surprised when Madame had set a place for me at the head table. But what is even more shocking is that that table is set in the back dining room, a small rotunda where the family would normally break their fast in the morning. Madame called it cozy but it is, in fact, cramped what with Monsieur's older sons and all. When Papa inquires about the main dining room, Monsieur Larendon mumbles something about renovations. No one says any more on the subject.

We manage to finish without spearing one another with out meat knives, and we ladies retire to the back parlor for coffee and cakes. I'm not allowed coffee, but Madame makes up for is with warm milk. I'm bored with all the talk of fall fashions from France and who is marrying who and the scandalous painting of Madame Gatreau. When no one is making the least attention, I sneak out of the parlor. I'm determined - just red-head determined - to find  out if the main dining room really is being renovated. What if the haunting takes place there? I pass through the foyer and find a lamp at the bottom of the enormous staircase. Picking it up, I slide the dining room door open and enter the dark room.

The room is chilly and the furniture is covered with white sheets. Maybe Madame is renovating. The whole place smells musty and a breeze - seemingly from nowhere - makes the crystal chandeliers ripple and sing like a cold spring. I shiver; my late summer gown hardly covers my arms and goose flesh starts to rise. Nothing happens in the oppressive darkness, like sticky molasses. I turn to push the door back again and then I am made of marble. I literally can't move, other than to turn my head.

As if by a switch, the chandeliers glow with candles. The sheets are gone and a man and woman sit at the long table, the food before them making my mouth water despite the way I glutted myself at supper. The couple is dressed in ancient clothing; the man's cravat is so high he can hardly move his head, and the woman's gown is a scandalous sheath that accentuates every curve of her gorgeous figure. Her breasts spill over the lilac satin. The two are talking, but I can't hear a sound. Even the clink of china and silver is not to be heard.

As I watch, the woman's fair face darkens. Her onyx eyes flash and she stands up so abruptly that her chair falls to the ground. She is yelling now, screaming soundlessly at her supper companion while twisting her long, white, linen napkin in her hand. To my horror, she runs to him, whips the napkin round his neck, and chokes him clear to death. It is hard to believe her tiny hands can be so strong, but he falls to the floor as white as the linen around his neck.

A moment later and blood begins to drip from those slender hands. The woman, who has not seen me before this moment, begins to wipe her hands on her dress as her eyes cast their gaze on me. The blood keeps flowing, not from her but from some unseen source, and she wipes and wipes, staining the delicate satin with globs of purple gore. Finally she offers her hands to me, her mouth open in an unheard scream. It's worse not to hear than to hear. I drop the lamp and cover my ears but the specter just keeps screaming.

And then the world goes black.

I spend two weeks in bed, shivering with a fever no one understands. Finally, Maman answers my only question: what happened in that house?

A beautiful octoroon became the mistress of the Devil just after the Americans came to Louisiana. There was so much mischief for the Devil to do then, what with smugglers and pirates, bootleggers and new money, that he couldn't settle down with his gorgeous doxy. So he set her up in that mansion on Rue St. Charles and told her not to betray him. But she was bored and had a wondering eye. Soon enough she took a rich young Creole as a lover, and they supped in splendor every night in that grand dining room.

The Devil heard of his cocotte's betrayal and he met the young man on the levee one fall afternoon. "You can have her," he told the startled boy. "Marry her; I'll make you a gift of ten million silver reales if you do. But you must promise to always live under the names of Madame and Monsieur Elle."

Delighted, the couple celebrated with a feast. It was only then that the girl's beau told her he had changed his name. She knew the awful truth of that name. It was not Elle but L; L for Lucifer, a name that would brand the couple as infamous no matter where they went. The gorgeous octoroon saw red and, in her uncontrollable rage, she killed the young Creole before supper was done.

Seeing her crime, she lost her sanity and imagined blood on her guilty hands. As she tried to wipe it away, the Devil appeared and killed her. He carried the bodies of the octoroon and her lover to the roof of the mansion. There, in the yellow light of a full bayou moon, he butchered and gutted them whence he proceeded to feast on every part of them but their skins. And here my mother spares me not a word, even telling me that the stray cats ate the lovers' discarded flesh.

But the Devil had forgotten one detail - and isn't the devil always in the details? He'd promised Our Lord and Savior in the desert long ago that he would never, ever do his worst under the light of a full moon. And so, as he ate with the fluids of his kill running all over his hands and arms, he began to stick to the roof. Before the Devil knew it, the bodies of Madame and Monsieur L had molded his visage to the top of the gable above the front door of the mansion on Rue St. Charles. And there he sat, a living, motionless gargoyle. A reminder to all of New Orleans how evil once ruled their glorious, sunken city.

I recover at last. Ten days later we hear the awful news; Madame Larendon has died in childbed. But Monsieur lives on in that nasty house until his own death just after my wedding. Then another acquaintance, Madame Jacques, moves into the mansion on Rue St. Charles. She too sees that horrible incident replay itself and yet she stays for some time. At last, after the birth of my first child, she vacates that hated house too. And so it stands empty, with the Devil grimacing down at all who pass, and the story only whispered from one person to another while the foolish octoroon and the Creole boy suffer night after night after endless night...

The story ends long after Arlette's time. Though no one can say exactly where on St. Charles the Devil's mansion really was, everyone is sure it was demolished in 1930. And isn't that a curiously specific detail for a so called fable?

Header: Mansion on St. Charles Street in New Orleans via Wikimedia

Lundi: Recipes

I love rum. Admittedly, I don't drink it all that often; I'm basically a wino. But it's great to cook with and lends itself particularly well to sweets.

Today's recipe is from the Times~Picayune and the entry in their book Cooking Up A Storm begins:

New Orleanians have a long history with rum, which was the base of many early drinks, so it's not surprising that this cake is a favorite of our readers. We received many requests for it and had several recipes in our archives. Here is one that Y.G. of Kenner sent in 1997.

And so, Y.G.'s recipe for Classic Bacardi Rum Cake:

1 cup chopped pecans or walnuts
1 (18.25 ounce) box yellow cake mix
1 (3.25 ounce) package vanilla instant pudding
4 large eggs, lightly beaten
1/2 cup cold water
1/2 cup vegetable oil
1/2 cup dark rum (80 proof), such as Bacardi

Glaze:

1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter
1/4 cup water
1 cup sugar
1/2 cup dark rum as above

Cake ~ Preheat your oven to 325 degrees. Grease and flour a 10 inch tube pan or a 12 cup Bundt pan.  Sprinkle the chopped nuts over the bottom of the pan.

In a large mixing bowl, mix all the remaining ingredients together, then pour the batter into the pan. Bake 1 hour or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. The cake should pull away from the sides of the pan a bit when it's done.

Let cool in the pan for 10 minutes and the turn it out onto a rack to finish cooling.

Glaze ~ While the cake is cooling, melt the butter in a saucepan. Stir in the water and sugar. Boil for 5 minutes, stirring constantly so the mixture doesn't scald or stick. Remove from heat (turn off your gas burner!) and add the rum. Stir to combine.

When the cake is thoroughly cool, prick the tip with a fork or toothpick. Drizzle the glaze over the top and let it sit a half an hour or so to allow the glaze to seep into the cake.

This cake will produce eight to ten servings. Bon appetite (and cheers!)

Header: Cakes and Wine by Thomas Waterman Wood via American Gallery

Lundi: Recipes

I've featured recipes by the incomparable Leon E. Soniat, Jr. here at HQ before. I like to mess around with recipes, too, and fit an existing recipe to the taste of those I cook for. Chef Soniat's Creole style recipes are a great base to take off from and today's omelet recipe is a good example.

The original appeared in La Bouche Creole II as the Potato-Onion Supper Omelet. My kids aren't big on onions but they do like potatoes and are very fond of rosemary potatoes. Voila! Soniat's supper omelet went from Potato-Onion to Potato-Rosemary just like that.  I don't much trouble to make it an omelet either (no folding over, etc.) Here's the recipe; enough for four hungry people.

6 to 8 tbsps olive oil
2 potatoes, washed and cubed (you can peel the potato if your family prefers, by all means)
2 tbsps butter
8 eggs, lightly beaten (add a little milk if this is how you usually scramble eggs)
1 to 2 tsps dry rosemary or a few sprigs of fresh rosemary, leaves peeled off the stalk and coarsely chopped
Salt
Black pepper
Tabasco

Heat the oil in a large skillet. Add the potatoes and cook them over medium heat until golden brown and crisp, about 8 to 10 minutes. Remove the potatoes to a paper towel to drain.

Pour off a bit of the oil, leaving about 2 tablespoons, and add the butter. When it foams, return the potatoes to the skillet and add the eggs and rosemary. Stir in the salt and pepper to taste and a few dashes of Tabasco. Continue to stir for a minute or two more then - and this is the hardest part - leave the omelet alone. Let it cook for another one or two minutes, or until the eggs are done to your liking.

Serve immediately with some warm rolls or a fresh baguette. This is a delightful winter meal and can be tweaked with any herb that particularly appeals to you and yours. Bon appetite ~

Header: Egg by Edward B. Lintott via Old Paint

Samedi: Ghost Stories

There's a chill in the air and the smell of smoke. Night comes earlier and creatures great and small are preparing for the bleak months ahead. Hallowe'en is in the offing; that can only mean one thing: it's time for Saturday ghost stories. Gather round and let me tell you of the things that go bump in the night. And so we shall honor those whose day it is, the King and Queen of the Dead, Baron Samedi and Maman Brigitte.

This story originated somewhere in the southeastern United States. Often claimed by the Gullah coast of Georgia, that claim is just as often contested by the bayous south of New Orleans. It plays on the ancient belief that dogs can see supernatural beings in general and ghosts in particular. I tell it in my own voice, imagining myself back on the old homestead down Rigolets way when I was a teenager. The place was my father's Aunt Bette's house, rickety and creaky and full of it's own spirits no doubt. It's gone now, but I remember the two short summers I spent there every time I tell these stories.

My Aunt once told me, when I was just fourteen, that dogs can see ghosts. I didn't think much of it at first, but she would often point to her big mutt when he jumped or barked or howled for no apparent reason and say: "There; Gator sees a spirit." It did get me wondering about it when I went back home to California.

Two summers later, I was back at Aunt Bette's and I asked her to tell me more about dogs seeing ghosts.

"Oh, people can too," she told me. "How," I asked. "All you do is run your finger over a dog's eyelashes and then run that wet finger over your eye," she made the motion as she spoke, smearing her thick eyeliner a bit. "Y'all will see all the spirits round this bayou. But be warned." My Aunt paused here, and looked at me with a serious stare. "Some of 'em ain't that pretty."

A few nights later, after supper, I was on the porch with Gator. He was snapping at a fly that got through the screens and then all of a sudden he stopped, looked straight out into the dark and howled. The sound was high pitched, like a hurricane wind through broken glass. The hair on my neck stood up; the hair on Gator's did too. I don't know what came over me but before I could think I wiped my finger over Gator's one good eye and then swiped it over both of mine.

I turned my eyes back to the dark. "Any spooks out there," I called. "Cause my dog and I can see you all."

I didn't see a thing except dark beyond the porch light. The only noise was the song of frogs.

Standing up, and still quite without thinking, I opened the porch screen and stepped down to the ground. Gator came with me, his one good eye still peering out toward the water and his tail between his legs.

"You spirits out there?" My bravado was more for myself now. The dark was thick and I could spy a mist rising from the dead cypress trees in the water. "I can see you. Show yourselves."

As we watched, Gator and I, that mist took form. Rising up before us, like a reanimated corpse coming straight out of its tomb, was the white incarnation of a dead woman. She wore old fashioned clothes that were dripping with water and moss. Her face was like a skull and as we watched her right arm raised up from her side and her bony finger pointed straight to us. Her jaw dropped and a scream, so piercing I thought my eardrums exploded, emanated from her open mouth.

Where a moment before we had been glued to the ground, Gator and I sprang into action at the same time. We jumped back up onto the porch, ran into the house and dove under the afghan that always hung over the back of it. There we huddled together, shivering even though it was 90 degrees outside.

My Dad and my Aunt, who had been in the kitchen having a little after supper something, heard the screen door slam and came into the front room. When Aunt Bette saw Gator and me quivering under her blue and white afghan, she must have known what was going on. "Just leave 'em, Jack," she said when my Dad starts asking what we're up to. "I think I scared your girl with my ghost stories."

Dad went back in the kitchen but Aunt Bette turned back the afghan and whispered: "You better wash your face well tonight. Especially those green eyes. Gator and I can tell you, there's a lot more gruesome specters in the corners of this old place."

Aunt Bette went back to the kitchen and I ran upstairs, my eyes closed until I reached the bathroom. I scrubbed my eyes with soap, and that's no lie. They were red for a week, but it was better than ever, ever seeing a ghost again.

Header: Danse Macabre via Gutenberg online

Jeudi: Curios

The alligator is an amphibian both maligned and adored along the Gulf coast of the United States. Feared for their quiet ferocity, they are also appreciated as sources of magickal instruments. They just happen to taste great, too.

In old time hoodoo, animal curios were used quite literally all the time. Though the practice is discouraged more or less in our modern age, alligator curios continue to be popular. Bats, cats, frogs and toads have been set aside to a large degree but alligator parts can often be found, usually because they are raised commercially. The majority of the animal is sold for meat or hide - much like cattle - while feet and teeth are doled out to root workers. For a fee, of course.

Alligator teeth are popular amulets worn for protection in the South, particularly around the neck. This is no different than the practice in my current home state of Alaska, where bear and wolf teeth are worn to protect and impart the strength of the animal. The nice thing about gators is that they shed their teeth throughout their life. The truly lucky person will find a gator tooth along the bayou and then use it for the most common intention of this curio: good fortune in gambling.

Both the feet and teeth of alligators are considered extremely lucky as pocket pieces for those who frequent the gambling table. The tooth probably obtained this reputation for the reason just mentioned. Carrying the foot - usually of a small alligator - can reasonably be considered a form of like-makes-like magick. These amputated parts somewhat resemble an outstretched human hand, just waiting for money to be deposited in it.

Here are two old time recipes for gambling luck pocket pieces. One enlisting a gator's tooth, the other its foot.

Take an alligators tooth and, while visualizing yourself winning consistently at your chosen game of chance, dress it with whiskey, Van Van oil or Easy Life oil. Carry this in your pocket when you go out to gamble, and re-anoint it frequently.

On a piece of brown paper (a piece of paper bag works well), write down your wish for money in red ink. This may be specific to gambling or any other way of getting an income. Dress a gator foot with Van Van oil or whiskey and wrap the brown paper tightly around it. Wrap red thread or twine around this packet three times and tie this off with three knots. Carry this with you, in your pocket or purse, as you pursue your chosen source of money. As with the tooth, dress this mojo frequently with your chosen libation.

Some folks also attach an alligator foot to a key chain and use this daily to bring general luck and, as always, money. If you are really old school, attaching the foot to your watch fob harkens back to the very old days of New Orleans voodoo/hoodoo. Legend has it that Jean Laffite had a bejeweled gator foot that dangled from his watch fob. This was lost, depending on the story you hear, either at the Battle of New Orleans or in the great Galveston hurricane of 1818. Either way, his luck seemed to go with it.

And there's the lesson; hold on to your alligator foot, or tooth, for dear luck. Bonne chance ~

Header: Alligators by Tom Root via American Gallery

Jeudi: Root Work

Negativity is, unfortunately, all around us. Our ancestors who practiced magickal arts knew it, and they knew how to wash it off - both physically and spiritually - on a regular basis. Particularly in hoodoo, a magickal discipline informed by those on the margins of society, baths to wash away negative and harmful vibrations are plentiful. Here is my favorite recipe for both a relaxing and affective bath to scrub you clean of psychic gunk.

In a muslin square, assemble equal parts of the following dried herbs, either from your garden, the farmer's market, or that big grocery store down the way:

Basil
Rue
Rosemary
Lemon zest
Sea or Kosher salt

Tie the bag up with white thread and let it steep in your very warm bath water for five to ten minutes.

Meanwhile, add a sprinkling of holy water (either from the Catholic/Orthodox Church or made by you) and/or a sprinkling of Florida Water (available at many of the shops noted on the sidebar including New Orleans Mistic and Erzulie's Voodoo).

Florida Water is an American version of a specific French eau de cologne that became popular, particularly in New Orleans and then New York, in the late 18th century. By the 19th century, Florida Water was the scent of choice for both lady and gentleman Creoles in Old New Orleans. The recipe was quickly picked up by root workers for use in a like-makes-like sort of way: if rich people wore the scent, it would surely convey their luck to the less fortunate.

This bath will work perfectly well without holy water and/or Florida Water so don't feel constrained by ingredients. In fact, never feel afraid to omit or substitute an ingredient in any hoodoo working. As noted before, root work is largely an art of the less fortunate, and that means we don't always have access to everything a spell/working calls for. As in love, you most beautiful magickal tool is your mind.

Soak in this bath for at least fifteen minutes, allowing the scent of the herbs to wash your mind clean of negativity as their presence in the water cleanses you body. When you step out, allow your skin to air dry if at all possible.

If you do not have a bathtub, you can brew the same mixture in four or five cups of warm water and pour it over you at the end of a shower. The spiritual results will be exactly the same. Bonne chance ~

Header: Lisbeth Prepares a Bath by Carl Larson c 1909 via Old Paint

Mercredi: The Art of Beauty

When I was working in an office, and I'm dating myself here, we ladies had to wear skirts and the gentlemen had to wear suits.  There was the inevitable groaning about ties and pantyhose with the majority of the ladies claiming that "some man" surely designed both.  Particularly the pantyhose. Although history would prove my distaff coworkers mostly wrong, it turns out that there is a grain of truth to their grumbling.

Stockings or hose as we know them today probably started as a necessary fashion choice of the Northern tribes known to the Romans as barbarians.  It goes without saying that it gets a lot colder in Northern Europe than along the sunny Mediterranean so, aside from those wacky, blue-faced Celts, most of the tribesmen in cooler latitudes chose to cover up their legs.  This was accomplished with a kind of leather legging that was fastened around the thigh with cording of leather or fabric. The cord was then wrapped around the leg down to the ankle.

This trend in men's legwear continued into the Medieval period but with the leather legging replaced by a knitted stocking.  The trend began in Italy, where the stockings were held up with a sort of garter belt around the waist, and headed north in a hurry.  By the mid-16th century, the stockings had become what we would now recognize as a pair of hose.  They were made from cloth or silk and during the high Renaissance might be worn parti-colored, with one leg mismatched to the other or a pattern, in particular the now ubiquitous diamond pattern that we associate with court jesters, all over.

By the mid-17th century, what was known as trunk hose had become the norm. These continued to be made of cloth or silk, but were attached to the short breeches, often called slops, worn by both the fashionable and the working man.  While silk was preferred at court, home-knit wool or linsey-woolsey was the more frequent material for these type of leggings.

Meanwhile, women had jumped on the stocking bandwagon.  For a number of centuries after the Renaissance era, European women wore their stockings only to the knee or just above.  Here, they were gartered with ribbon, leather or string, depending on the means of the wearer. A well constructed pair of wool stockings was expected to last a working woman for a year and extra petticoats would probably have been necessary in colder climates to keep the exposed area from knee to waist at least somewhat comfortable.

By the 18th century, cotton stockings were available, although silk was still the favored material for the wealthy.  By this period both men and women were wearing these accessories no higher than the knee, and the mania for exquisite, jewel-encrusted garters, which began during the Restoration of Charles II in England, had spread like wildfire.

Stockings also began to be embroidered, particularly at the outside ankle, with what was called "clocks".  These were detailed embellishments, either of scroll work, natural items like leaves or flowers, or even animals, that were particularly popular with the ladies.  Une roulette ostentateuse, "a flashing clock," became a euphemism for a certain kind of lady among the Creoles of old New Orleans in the late 18th century.  A lovely example of a late 19th century pair of stockings with peacock clocks can be found here. Most stockings, particularly those of ladies, were white throughout the 18th century and into the Victorian era, with dove gray and - almost exclusively in Paris - nude making a brief appearance during the Napoleonic era.

As the 19th century advanced, men's stockings turning into socks while women's stockings became more and more daring.  By the 1870s, Paris was exporting stockings saturated with color. Purple, royal blue and even black were popular but the most coveted stockings were made of scarlet silk. The stocking color often matched that of the petticoat. A brief mania for stockings with horizontal striped, usually alternating black and red, took hold during the 1890s.

At the dawn of the 20th century, more familiar, muted tones became popular and stockings were, for the most part, made by machine.  A garter belt, usually attached to some form of undergarment, held up stockings that were often matched to the shoe color in shades of taupe, beige and particularly gray.  The mad '20s saw ladies casting off their girdles and rolling down their stockings, but they the mid-'30s garter belts were again firmly in place although some of the privileged who could spend time tanning went without stockings, at least in the summer.

After World War II, a reborn mania for fine, nylon stockings emerged spurred no doubt by the material's sudden availability.  The design houses of Paris would custom dye them for their clients. R. Turner Wilcox, in her contemporary and addictive book The Mode in Fashion described the joy of post-war stockings:

With the quantities of exquisite sheer nylon stockings again available, the bare-legged fashion has left us. The general color is darker and in many hues of muted tones of green, plum, brown and black, but so gossamer sheer are the stockings that such colors appear but as shadows over the flesh.

It wasn't until the late '60s and '70s that the "innovation" of pantyhose came upon woman kind.  Thankfully, we're not as likely to be wearing them now. Instead, we've traded their tyranny for the joys of "shapewear". But that is an entirely different subject...

Header: Fine Feathers stocking ad c 1954 via Mid-Century   

Lundi: Recipes

Last week, the ubiquitous Times-Picayune laid off half their staff and announced that they would be publishing only three times per week.  This despite having the largest readership, judging by paid subscriptions, of an daily newspaper in the United States, including the New York Times.  The Times-Picayune has officially been in business for 175 years but, prior to being a Times subsidiary, was a local southeastern Louisiana paper dating back to the days of Jean and Pierre Laffite.  If that isn't a sad comment on the state of journalism in the modern U.S. I don't know what is.

In honor of the great Picayune whose name came from how much it once cost, a wonderful old Creole recipe which has been featured in the Times-Picayune on more than one occasion: spinach Madeleine.

This recipe was probably first published in the now famous River Road Recipes cookbook from the Junior League of Baton Rouge.  It's a casserole that many Louisianans wouldn't dream of leaving off the Thanksgiving or Reveillon sideboard and it has, these days, one curiously modern ingredient: Mexican Velveeta.

2 10 ounce packages of frozen, chopped spinach
4 tbsps butter
2 tbsps all purpose flour
2 tbsps finely chopped onions
1/2 cup evaporated milk
1/2 tsp black pepper
3/4 tsp celery salt
3/4 tsp garlic salt
1 tsp Worchestershire sauce
Salt
Cayenne pepper
6 ounces Velveeta Mexican Mild, cut into small pieces
Bread crumbs (optional)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Coat a 9 inch square casserole dish with butter or non-stick spray.

Cook the spinach according to the package directions. Drain and reserve 1/2 cup of the liquid from the pot.

In a saucepan, melt the butter over low heat.  Add the flour, stirring to blend; continue to stir for about 1 minute, making a very light roux.  Add the onions and cook until soft, not brown.  Add the milk and reserved spinach liquid, stirring constantly to avoid lumps.  Cook until liquid thickens and coats the back of a wooden spoon, about 10 minutes.  Add pepper, celery and garlic salts, Worchestershire sauce, salt and cayenne to taste.  Add the cheese and stir until it is melted completely.

Place cooked spinach in an even layer in the prepared casserole dish.  Pour the cheese sauce over the spinach and top with bread crumbs if you like.  Bake until golden and bubbly, about 30 minutes, and serve warm.

This recipe has another little connection to old New Orleans and Jean Laffite, at least to my mind.  One of the ladies he was linked with at times was named Madeleine Rigaud.  That's all we know of her, just her name and her connection to Laffite the pirate.  You can make up the rest over the spinach dish that shares her name.

Header: Andrew "Action" Jackson salutes the Times-Picayune

Lundi: Recipes

A Quatre Cake, or Quatre Quart as it is known in its native France, is essential pound cake a la Francais.  You need to channel a bit of Alton Brown to do it correctly, because the ingredients are based on weight, not measure.  There are four (quatre) ingredients: eggs, room temperature butter, sugar and all purpose flour, and the very best way to tackle this recipe is with a scale.

First, preheat your oven to 350 degrees and butter and flour a bunt or loaf pan.  Now you’re ready to mix.

Start by weighing your mixing bowl, then break the eggs into the bowl and weigh it again.  The difference is the weight of butter, sugar and flour you will need for the recipe.  Everything goes into the bowl to be mixed well. 

Pour into your pan and bake for about 50 minutes or until the top of the cake is golden brown and a toothpick inserted toward the center comes out clean.

Remove from oven and let stand for a minute or two.  Then turn your cake out onto a wire rack to cool. 

This basic cake can be tinkered with a million different ways.  Add berries or other fruits, drizzle in some honey or chocolate sauce or top it with something as simple as a dusting of powdered sugar.  It is, of course, very dense so a loaf of this cake will make up to 15 servings.  Bon appetite ~

Header: A lively yellow kitchen from 1959 via Mid-Century (that would wake you up in the morning!)

Lundi: Recipes

The time for finishing up last year’s salmon has arrived in the Frozen North.  People are already out in the icy streams fishing for trout and very soon the spawning salmon will be jumping onto hooks all over Alaska.  It’s the usual cycle.

One of the best things to do with not-so-well-frozen salmon is to smoke it, and smoked salmon makes a wonderful, bagels-and-lox style sandwich.  The inspiration for this recipe is French in origin but the addition of hardboiled egg and cucumber make it awfully similar to the old New York favorite.  Feel free to use cream cheese rather than mayo if you’ve a hankering for a shmear, which would convert this into a lovely brunch dish.

Good baguette, preferably fresh from the bakery

Mayonnaise

Smoked salmon

1 hardboiled egg, thinly sliced

1 large tomato, thinly sliced

½ cucumber, peeled and thinly sliced

Salt and pepper to taste

Slice and/or split your baguette and dress both sides with a good quality mayo.  Layer smoked salmon, egg, tomato and cucumber then salt and pepper as you prefer.  This makes a great buffet item as people can chose the ingredients they like.  Thinly sliced red onion, capers, lemon wedges and lettuce are some other additions you might consider.  Bon appetite ~

Header: Copper Pot with Cheese and Garlic by Roy Hodrien via Old Paint

Samedi: Ghost Stories

The excitement of NOLA Navy Week has me thinking about my ancestral home and the many legends of ghostly ships, seafarers and – in particular – pirates that linger there to this day.  With all that swirling around in my head, I realized that we haven’t had a good ghost story here at HQ for awhile.  Despite the brightness of spring, or warmth of fall depending on where you are on our dear Earth, I invite you to draw the blinds and allow yourself to slip away to an ancient, Louisiana bayou, where the frogs are chirping and the drown just won’t stay dead…

There was a quadroon man named Louis who lived on Bayou Grand Caillou in Louisiana.  He was a fisherman and sometimes he was happy with his trade, sometimes not.  Louis heard, from the other fisherman, that on a nearby island which was not much more than a muddy chenier, the Baratarian pirate known as Gambi had buried some of his treasure.  Now the talk went that Gambi was the most ruthless and treacherous of the pirates who aligned themselves with the famous Jean Laffite.  He would slit a man’s throat for no reason, and it was said that if anyone tried to steal his treasure, his ghost would slit his throat, too.

Louis was a brave man if, it must be admitted, not very bright and he began to enquire after this pirate’s treasure.  Where was it, he asked his friends, and when was the best time to go to the island and dig it up?  His friends told him he was crazy but Louis persisted.  Finally one old Cajun told him that the only way to find Gambi’s treasure was to go to the little island at night, under a full moon, and look for a patch of moss that glowed silver in the moonlight.  That was where the pirate had hidden his long lost horde.

As we said, Louis was brave, so on the night of the next full moon he packed up his little pirogue with a shovel and canvas and everything he thought he’d need to bring that pirate treasure home.  He quietly sailed out to that deserted island where there was nothing but a broken down old boat shed, one or two sad cypress trees and big patches of green moss all over everything.  Louis pulled his boat up high onto the broken shells of the shore, turned and almost immediately saw the silvery moss over by one of the trees.

The fisherman set directly to his task, the chuff and hiss of his spade, his own breathing and the croaking of frogs the only sound beside a mournful wind off the Gulf.  But then Louis heard another sound, like something being dragged across the shells at the water’s edge.  He turned and he was surprised to see his pirogue down in the water when he was sure he had dragged her high up on land.  He threw his shovel down and marched into the water.  Retrieving his boat, he dragged it up on shore again but this time he tied her up to that other sorry cypress tree.

Louis marched back to the hole he had started, grumbling about the wind and tide, but just as he was putting shovel to dirt again he saw two ugly, hairy feet appear, their toes just hanging over the chasm of his little ditch.  Suddenly, Louis felt cold.  He gulped even though his mouth was as dry as sand, and with all the courage he had he looked up from his spade.  There before him stood two horrible, grinning pirates.  They were sodden with water and seaweed, while little shrimp crawled in and out of their clothes and hair.  They each held a cutlass, both dripping with either rust or blood – Louis did not want to know which – and they stared at him with eyes as cold as gleaming silver.

Now Louis was brave, if not very bright, but he was also a good Catholic and he knew what to do when the Devil jumped up.  He fell to his knees, clasped his hands under his chin after crossing himself and began to recite the Hail Mary over and over and over again.  After the seventh sincere recitation of the prayer to the Virgin, Louis finally opened his eyes.  Sure enough, those silver-eyed, watery pirates had disappeared and Louis, well, he was still alive. 

Even as Louis let out a sigh of relief, he heard that awful scraping sound behind him once again.  Turning, he saw a third pirate sitting on his pirogue.  This one wore a long dagger, held a fine ivory handled pistol and his bristling, black mustache dripped red with blood.  He too was dripping wet, covered with crawfish and seaweed, but he wore fine, leather boots that marked him as a captain.

“Gambi?” Louis asked.

“The very one,” the phantom replied.  “And if you don’t get in this pathetic dinghy and row for your life, I’ll shoot you or slit your throat for no good reason.”  The pirate smiled, and one gold tooth gleamed like fire in the moonlight.

Louis didn’t have to be told twice.  Abandoning his tools, he untied his boat and jumped in rowing as hard as he knew how as far away from the island as he could. 

Once the pirogue was a few leagues out into the bayou, Gambi’s ghost put away his nasty pistol, slipped over the side of the boat and disappeared into the inky water.  Louis would later tell his friends that he knew for sure the creature was not of this Earth as no bubble rose to the surface when it sank below the waves.

So Louis went straight home and there his wife nearly shot him herself, he looked so different.  His hair had turned stark white and he would never smile again.  Though he told his story to anyone who would listen, it wasn’t long before Louis went to bed one night and died, perhaps joining those phantom pirates on that little chenier off Bayou Grand Caillou.

This story is told with many different variations around southeastern Louisiana and is especially remembered in the book Gumbo Ya~Ya edited by the incomparable Lyle Saxon.  In that version, however, the island is identified rather than the pirate; it is called L’Isle de Gombi.

Header: Phantom of Bayou des Mortes by Lew Lehrman

Mercredi: The Art of Beauty

Reputedly Venus had a beauty spot, one lovely drop of darkness to highlight her perfect complexion, the imperfection that made her beauty complete.  It was probably in emulation of the goddess that patching was known in Roman times.  Patches first began to appear in England in the late sixteenth century, the fashion reaching its height in the later seventeenth century and remaining popular into the eighteenth.  ~ from the book Beauty and Cosmetics 1550-1950 by Sarah Jane Downing

Historical ideas of beauty are certainly as fascinating as our own and the curious habit of “patching” – applying a piece of fabric or leather to the face with glue – is one of those seemingly odd points of fashion that perhaps we as moderns should pay attention to.  Patching became a habit, one might even say an addiction, for certain fashionable people in the era mentioned above.  Some renowned belles and beaus patched whole sections of their face, neck and décolleté.  In other instances, patches were used to signify political affiliation.  Much like tattoos today, patches had multiple meanings and were not limited on some bodies to one here and there.

Patches began as small lozenges made of black velvet, silk or leather that were glued to the skin of the face.  Occasionally, the patch was a bright scarlet red.  These were used as beauty enhancers on the stark white makeup that was made popular by Elizabeth I of England.  Known as ceruse, the makeup was manufactured from lead and could do damage not only to the skin but the whole body.  Lesions and sores, as well as pimples, warts, moles and other “disfigurements” could be covered with the patches to achieve a seemingly perfect complexion.

As the fad for patching increased, particularly after the Restoration in England, patches themselves grew more and more fanciful in shape and even size.  Along with lozenges, which grew large enough in some instances to cover half of one’s chin, horseshoes, crescent moons, stars and in very extreme cases silhouettes of a coach and four were popular. 

In France, where patches were often shaped like little bees in flight, critics began to call the things mouche meaning fly because they appeared to swarm on fashionable skins.  There is, as usual with French speakers, a bit of an in joke to this dig; mouche a miel. “honey fly”, is the term for bee in French and mouche, like puce (flea) or chou (cabbage) was a term of affection.

Placement of the patches also became a language unto itself.  As Downing points out a patch placed on a dimple in the chin or cheek, popular with dandies, was known as “gallant.”  “Coquette” brought attention to a lovely smile while “passion” appeared at the corner of the eye.  Later, during the reign of England’s Queen Anne and beyond, women patched to show their political opinions.  From the Spectator of 1711:

Politically minded dames used their patches as party symbols: the Whigs patching on the right, and the Tories on the left side of their faces, while those who were neutral, decorated both cheeks.

Certainly not far from modern tattooing or t-shirt designs as fashion that makes a statement goes.

Even Samuel Pepys, the famous diarist who originally decried patching, came around in his entry of November 4, 1660 where he writes, “My wife seemed very pretty today, it being the first time I had given her leave to wear a black patch.”  This response seems to have broken the dam for young Elizabeth Pepys, who the rest of her short life became an avid wearer of patches.  A votre santé mes petite mouches ~

Header: A Lady Fastening Her Garter by Francois Boucher

Mardi: Herbal-Wise

Chickweed, a humble, easy to grow plant as one might surmise from its name, is used for similar purposes in both hoodoo and Wicca.  Chickweed is thought to attract love and, even more so, to encourage it.

In hoodoo, dried chickweed is secretly added to a spouse’s food to keep the marriage happy.  Needless to say, this subterfuge is usually thought to be the domain of the distaff half of the union.  I had an old Creole lady tell me once that adding chickweed to Herbs de Provence was the best way to sneak chickweed into just about any savory dish.  No one could taste it for the lavender, she said.

Root workers also squeeze the juice from leaves and stalks.  This is added to floor washes to keep a home peaceful and surrounded by love.  A small amount can also be added to a bath for the same purpose, particularly if the bather is the cause of unrest in the home.

According to Scott Cunningham, chickweed is added to the ingredients of love spells and sachets to encourage strong and lasting affection.  Chickweed is certainly the go to love-drawing herb for those who are ready to make a lifetime commitment.  Bonne chance ~

Header: Pointe de Convention by Boilly c 1797

Lundi: Recipes

The three As, asparagus, artichokes and avocado, always make me think of spring.  Even though we don’t see the first two (that are edible, anyway) until well into summer (when the locally grown produce hits the farmer’s markets), I still remember my “salad” days in SoCal, making them for Easter brunch or dinner.  So, in memory of those times, here is a delicious Creole stuffed artichoke recipe from my favorite New Orleans chef, Leon E. Soniat Jr.

4 medium sized artichokes

½ stick (1/4 c) butter

4 shallots, finely chopped

¼ cup finely chopped onions

1 cup cooked and deveined shrimp

1 ½ cups seasoned bread crumbs

Salt

4 tbsps lemon juice

1 egg, beaten

Tabasco

Olive oil

With a knife or kitchen shears, but off the top third of the artichokes.  Pull off some of the larger outer leaves at the bottom.  Open the center and clean out the choke (those fuzzy, purplish leaves) all the way to the heart.  You can gently scrape the heart in the center with a spoon to make room for the stuffing.  Cut off the stem to form a flat bottom and stand the four artichokes up in a saucepan.  They should fit together snuggly so that they can’t really move around.  Add a tablespoon of salt, two tablespoons of lemon juice and boiling water to cover.  Cover with a tight lid and allow to simmer for half an hour.  Remove the artichokes from the water and turn upside down on a towel to drain.

Put the butter and two tablespoons of good olive oil in a skillet.  Sauté the shallots and onions in this mixture for five minutes.  Remove from heat and add the bread crumbs.  Chop the shrimp into small pieces and add to the skillet along with one teaspoon of salt and two tablespoons of lemon juice, the beaten egg and Tabasco to taste.  Mix thoroughly and then spoon the mixture into the drained artichokes.

Put the artichokes into a small pan and then pour boiling water in the pan to about 1 inch.  Brush the artichokes with a good bit of olive oil, cover with foil and bake 30 minutes in an oven preheated to 350 degrees. 

As a main dish, this recipe will serve four; as a side dish, it will serve six.  Bon appetite ~

Header: Preparations by Todd Williams via American Gallery

Jeudi: Weather-Wise

Spring has sprung (in most places in the Northern Hemisphere, anyway) and for our agrarian ancestors that meant not only caring for but paying close attention to the animals around them.  If old wives are to believed, there was a lot of knowledge to be gleaned from seemingly coincidental contact with or behavior of the creatures of the world.  Today, a handful of examples.

Watch the cows when you let them out to pasture.  If the separate and graze each in their own space, fair, sunny weather is certain.  If they cluster together in pods, spring storms are in the offing.

When small birds like sparrows and chickadees continue to feed and chirp through a rain, a long spate of good weather is just over the horizon.

Hens and roosters grouped together under the eaves when the sun is shining bright is a sure sign of storms to come.  As old wives say: “Fowls can smell foul weather.”

Likewise, doves or pigeons suddenly returning as a group to their roost or pigeonniere foretell a swift change in the weather.

A rooster crowing in the rain means sunshine will soon prevail.

If the first butterfly you see in spring is yellow, you should wear a scarf all year to avoid a deadly fever.

Wishing to find affection when you spy the first robin in spring will bring true love before the end of the year.

If you see a fox digging in your garden, you should put down mulch against a late frost.

Header: A former pigeonniere transformed into a garçonnière (young gentleman’s cottage) at Burnside Plantation in Ascension Parish, Louisiana, photo courtesy of  enclos*ure take refuge

Lundi: Recipes

Everyone who knows me knows I love the recipes of the late, great Leon E. Soniat, Jr.  Since I did not have to good fortune to be exposed to Creole cooking on a regular basis growing up, the recipes in Soniat’s cookbooks make me feel as if I’m reclaiming part of my heritage every time I dive into them.  Here’s just another example of the gentleman’s culinary genius from La Bouche Creole II; the decadent Trout Leon:

6, 6 to 8 oz trout fillets

1 cup cold milk

Salt & pepper to taste

½ lb sliced fresh mushrooms

1 stick melted butter plus 2 tbsps butter

2 egg yolks

¼ cup finely chopped green onions

2 tbsps flour

1 cup scalded milk

¼ cup dry white wine

¼ tsp white pepper

Tabasco to taste

1 cup whipping cream, whipped

Dash freshly ground nutmeg

Marinate trout fillets in cold milk for half an hour in the frig. 

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Remove the fillets from the milk, pat dry, sprinkle with salt and pepper and arrange in a baking dish.  Add the mushrooms and pour half of the melted butter on top.  Bake until fish flakes; about 15 to 20 minutes.

While the fish are baking, prepare the sauce by placing egg yolks in a mixing bowl and beating them with a whisk until they thicken.  Beat in the remaining melted butter, a little at a time.  Set aside.

Place the 2 tbsps of butter in a skillet and sauté the green onions over low heat, taking care not to brown them.  When the onions are soft, add the flour and mix well.  Simmer about 4 minutes, stirring constantly.  Slowly add the scalded milk, stirring all the time.  Let this sauce cook on low heat to thicken, about 4 or 5 minutes more.  Remove from heat and, when the sauce is almost cool, stir in the egg yolks and butter; mix well.  Add the wine, white pepper and Tabasco.

When the fish is done, remove it from the oven and preheat your broiler.  Fold the whipping cream into your sauce, add the nutmeg and spoon over the fish.  Brown for a minute under the broiler; keep an eye on it so that it does not burn.

Serve with fluffy rice for a delicious dinner for six.  Bon appetite ~

Header: Three Gurnards Beside a Saucepan by George Nicholson c 1930 via Old Paint