A Moment in Time

Visiting historic homes is one of my favorite pastimes, when I travel, or when I’m in the mood for a quick day trip from home. Newport, Rhode Island, where wealthy families once built elaborate “summer cottages” during the Gilded Age is a marvelous place to step into the past.

Last summer, a like-minded friend and I took a road trip to Newport. We toured two of the famous mansions, the Breakers and the Elms. One of the rooms I always find fascinating is the kitchen. I enjoy looking at the old-fashioned appliances and equipment used to whip up delicious meals and confections. On our summer visit, we were able to take part in the Servant’s Life tour at the Elms, after traipsing through the ornate rooms upstairs. These photographs have inspired the story below. Happy reading!

Shifting from foot to foot as she stood behind her broad, wooden baker’s bench, Poppy delicately placed a ring of fondant forget-me-nots on the top of the three-tier cake.

Already, the day felt endless. She had risen before sunrise to put the finishing touches on the wedding cake and to get the three additional desserts Mrs. Crocker insisted on adding to the menu into the oven. Time was short. At noon, the daughter of the house was to be wed.

“Ooh! That looks too lovely to eat,” a flutey voice called out from the doorway. “Hello, Poppy!”

The chef looked up and smiled warmly at the bride-to-be. She was dressed in a camel hair wrap coat with a wide fur collar and sturdy walking boots. “Good morning, Miss Rose. My goodness, you’re up early. Are you going out?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” the girl explained. “I was on my way to walk on the beach, but the scent of your baking led me on this detour. What smells so heavenly?”

“Ooh, the tartes tatins!” Poppy exclaimed whirling around to don oven mitts and swiftly pull the French apple tarts from the oven. She let out a sigh of relief as she placed three trays of golden brown pastries on her bench to cool.

Rose drew closer to breathe in the apple-cinnamon aroma, letting her coat slip from her shoulders. She lifted a floury sheet of paper from the table top. It was a hand-written recipe for madeleine cakes.

“That’s the last item on the menu I have to prepare,” Poppy explained, hurrying around to pick up Rose’s coat and drape it over the back of a black bentwood rocker by the stove. “They’re your grandmother’s favorite.”

Rose nodded and smiled in thanks and observed, “Yes, Granny has always been obsessed with Marcel Proust and his madeleines. The summer I turned ten she insisted on reading the first volume of A La Recherche du Temps Perdu to me.”

She handed the recipe to Poppy and went on, “Mrs. Crocker would make a batch of these cakes every morning. This is her recipe, isn’t it? One morning, she showed me how they were made and even let me help her with the baking.” A wistful smile lit up Rose’s face. “Those madeleines tasted extra nice at tea time. Granny even commented on how good they were.”

“What a lovely memory,” Poppy said, gathering the ingredients to mix the batter for the tea cakes. “Mr. Proust would surely approve.”

“Have you read A La Recherche?” Rose asked with an admiring glance.

“Only in English,” said Poppy, “but the translation is quite good, I think.”

Rose reached for her coat, saying, “Well, I suppose I should let you get on . . .”

At the same time, Poppy said, “Would you like to help . . .”

They each stopped mid-sentence and shared a laugh.

“I don’t mean to presume,” Poppy said hurriedly. “It’s just that I think baking can be a calming pastime and I wondered if it might settle any wedding jitters.”

Rose tilted her head, considering this idea. “I do feel a bit jittery. I suppose that’s why I couldn’t sleep.”

Poppy clasped her hands in front of her, waiting.

With a decisive nod, Rose rolled up her sleeves. “I would love to help. Why shouldn’t I?”

As they got to work, Rose and Poppy continued to chat, casting aside the rules and strictures imposed by society and savoring the warmth and companionship of the moment — a moment they would each look back upon with fond nostalgia.

Saints, Stained Glass and the Sé

Thrilled to be traveling in Europe again, my husband and I thoroughly enjoyed a trip to Lisbon in April. What a warm and friendly city! Everyone we met from the hotel staff and restaurant servers to taxi drivers and local shopkeepers made us feel welcome. Our hotel, Memmo Alfama, was located in the medieval district of the city, just steps away from the national cathedral (the Sé).

The cathedral is officially called Igreja de Santa Maria Maior de Lisboa. It is the bishop’s seat or Sedes Episcopalis. Construction began in 1147 on the ruins of a Moorish mosque. Part of the site today is an archaeological excavation of the mosque.

While exploring the historic place of worship, the brilliant rose window caught my eye. The Romanesque window, which depicts the twelve apostles encircling Jesus, bedazzles the stone floor of the choir loft with jewel colored sequins of light. My vacation photos of the cathedral inspired the following photo essay.

Climbing the stairs to the choir loft, Anabela drew in a deep breath, trying to quiet the insistent thoughts whirling through her mind. She had so much to get done by Sunday, just two days away. For the first time, she would be hosting her family’s Festa de Santo Antonio celebration. Everyone would come back to her house after marching in the parade down the Avenida da Liberdade.

At the top of the stairs, Anabela glanced up at the gleaming rose window. Jesus and his twelve apostles depicted in the stained glass had an overarching view of the shadowy nave down below. Last summer, she had married Silverio in this church on a hot July morning. Anabela had walked up the aisle, escorted by her proud papa, while her cousin, Mariela, who was the choir organist, played the processional. Mariela was now teaching Anabela to play the organ and had insisted that she was ready to play at Mass on Sunday.

Taking a seat at the organ and closing her eyes, Anabela allowed herself a moment to daydream about her wedding day. She remembered the flowers, hydrangeas and lavender decorating the altar. She recalled the smiles and waves from her friends and relatives who filled the pews. But most of all, she thought of Silverio standing calmly at the front of the church, waiting.

Speaking of Silverio, she couldn’t keep him waiting today. She was supposed to meet him at Mercado da Baixa as soon as she finished her organ practice. They were going to buy the food for the festa. Sardines (of course), fresh kale for the caldo verde, fruit and vinho tinto for pitchers of sangria, and loaves of bread and pasteis de nata from their favorite bakery. Anabela had a shopping list tucked safely away in her purse.

Hurriedly, she opened her folder of music. She spread out the pages, placed her hands on the organ keys, and began to play. As the chords and melody of her favorite hymn filled the church, outside the sun broke through a layer of clouds and streamed through the rose window. Swirls of kaleidoscopic color danced across the floor of the choir loft, seemingly in time with the music. Anabela watched the sequins of light and played on.

She felt as though Santo Antonio had sent her a sign. Sunday would be a beautiful day.

Words and Photos: A Dream Come True

 

Many years ago, I traveled by train from Los Angeles to San Diego to visit my aunt and uncle.  When I arrived, I wanted to see Balboa Park and spent a delightful afternoon wandering around its Spanish Village Arts Center .    One of the picturesque galleries caught my eye, and the photograph I snapped has inspired this photo essay:

Balboa Park, San Diego, CA (photo by L. LeVasseur, 1990)

The small stucco building is draped in flowers and sunshine. Its white walls glow pink in the morning air.  The rooster weathervane glints golden in the delicate light and spins lazily with a faintly musical creak.

Marisa and Joe carry sacks of fresh vegetables across the empty courtyard.  Soon the colorful slate tiles will be covered with umbrellaed tables for guests who prefer to dine beneath the brilliant blue sky.

As Marisa deposits her bags in front of the eclectic lilac door, the inspiration for the name of their new restaurant, Joe fishes the key from his coat pocket.  The door swings open and they stand back to admire the results of all of their planning.

Entering the brightly decorated dining room, she immediately heads for  the kitchen, while he hauls in the bags of produce and then begins to take down the chairs from the sturdy oak tables.  In just a few hours, the hushed tranquility will be replaced with the rush and clamor of their very first lunch hour.  The clatter of silverware, the hum of conversation and the sizzle of the kitchen grills will fill the space, along with the warm and comforting aromas of chilies, cumin and cilantro.

Marisa emerges from the kitchen, her face already smudged with flour.  She has put a batch of churros in the oven.  She and Joe exchange a smile. After years of studying in culinary school and working in other chefs’ kitchens, their dream has finally come true.