A Mouse-Eye View
I collect children’s books. There is a common, slightly patronising myth that adults who collect children’s literature (ahem, me) are clinging to a nostalgic security blanket in book form. But in my experience, if you spend any real time in the Hundred Acre Woods, for example, or tracing the rhythmic, looping cadences of Lynley Dodd’s Hairy Maclary, or admiring the quiet emotional precision of Kevin Henkes’ mousey protagonists, you quickly realise kid’s lit isn’t about escaping adulthood at all. It is, at least for me, about honouring a form of storytelling that achieves maximum resonance with economy. As an adult, I collect these books because they offer a rare kind of aesthetic and emotional purity: a space where thoughtful illustration and deliberate prose converge to handle massive, complex human truths with an elegant, comforting gentleness - a gentleness that feels especially helpful these days, at bedtime or, indeed, at just about any time.
Take, for instance, the curious and delightful abundance of mice in these worlds. From Henkes’s fiercely resilient Chrysanthemum to classic literary rodents, Beatrix Potter’s Hunka Munka and Tom, or even our own E.B. White’s Stuart Little, children’s literature is positively teeming with tiny whiskered faces. I don’t think this is a coincidence; it is a brilliant narrative device. Mice occupy a space in the natural world that mirrors the child’s experience in an adult world: they are small, vulnerable, constantly navigating a landscape built for much larger creatures, and must rely on their wits and quiet courage to get by. By looking at the world from a mouse-eye view, these books safely explore big, daunting ideas, like anxiety, belonging, identity, and fear, without overwhelming the reader. It is a masterful scaling-down of the universe's vastness into something digestible and profoundly empathetic. And mice are so cute in little coats!
Of course, the magic of these books doesn't rely on narrative structure alone; it is a sensory, artistic experience driven by rhyme and visual storytelling. There is a distinct, visceral joy in the playful language of authors like Dennis Lee or the whimsical bounce of Sherri Fitch (Going to the ex, going to the ex, going to the Exhibition). Their rhymes create a sonic landscape that sticks in the mind like a song, transforming reading into a performance. Decades after I was first handed these literary treasures by my parents, the jaunty gallop of these rhymes is still lodged in my brain. Would it be better to remember important phone numbers or my passwords? Maybe, but it would also be a lot less fun than knowing all the words to ‘Alligator Pie.’ Plus, when paired with illustration, the text gains a whole new dimension. In the best children’s books, the artwork isn't just decoration; it functions as a parallel narrative, revealing secrets, subtext, and emotional depths that the words leave unsaid. It’s a beautiful dance between the visual and the textual.
This brings us to the core question we briefly touch on in this week’s episode, a question that was at the centre of Carole Anne Moore’s career at the NYPL: is a children’s book actually easier to conceive and write than a full-length, multi-hundred-page novel? The short answer is an absolute, resounding no. There is a pervasive cultural assumption that fewer words equal less work, but the reality is quite the opposite. When you are writing a sweeping novel, you have the luxury of space: room to let a scene breathe, chapters to slowly unfurl a character's psyche, and pages of exposition to set a mood. A children’s book enjoys no such indulgence. It demands compression, accuracy, weight, precision, and fast.
When your total word count is tightly constrained, every single syllable has to punch far above its weight class. You have to establish a universe, evoke an emotional arc, and stick the landing in a fraction of the space. Writers like Jane Yolen or Kevin Crossley-Holland understand that in a shorter format, structural flaws have nowhere to hide. A sloppy adjective or a clunky rhythm sticks out like a beacon. Conceiving a brilliant children's book requires a level of artistic discipline, precision, and clarity that rivals the most intricate poetry. It is the art of distilling the infinite into a single, perfect drop.
All this to say, dear reader, that I urge you to give the children’s section a closer look the next time you step through the door of your favourite bookseller’s. You might be surprised at how many old friends await you there - Paddington or Corduroy, Chrysanthemum or Gillian Jiggs, Max, King of the Wild Things, or Winnie the Pooh, Charlie Bucket, or Stuart Little. Or, in keeping with series four, you might find Wilbur and Charlotte, ready to welcome you to the Zuckerman farm for another adventure in the springtime sun. Wherever these friends take you, I hope the journey is full of delights.
Jennifer
That’s A Wrap
As we close the round green door on this season of The Reader’s Museum, we find ourselves standing back at Bilbo’s gate, looking back at the vast, intricate landscape we’ve traversed and the unexpected journey we’ve shared over the past few months. Focusing on The Hobbit wasn't just a deep dive into a fantasy series: it was an exploration of a created world so dense with history, linguistics, and heart that it felt, at least to me, less like reading and more like travelling. Spending the last few months immersed in The Hobbit reminded us that sometimes the smallest stories, and the smallest protagonists, leave the largest footprints.
While Middle-earth eventually grew into a sprawling epic, returning to the cozy hearth of Bag End allowed us to focus on the charm, wit, and material world of Bilbo Baggins. We didn't just follow a map to a Lonely Mountain; we looked at the textures and treasures that make this story a masterpiece of children's literature and world-building. We kicked off the season analysing Bilbo’s pantry and the significance of the unexpected party, a deep dive into how Tolkien uses domesticity and food to establish what is truly worth fighting for. Our community spent a week deconstructing the verbal duel between Bilbo and Gollum. We looked at how Bilbo’s wit, rather than a sword, became his greatest survival tool. From the Arkenstone to the dragon-guarded gold, we discussed the dragon-sickness and the complicated morality of wealth and greed that surfaces as the company nears Erebor. Watching Bilbo grow from a respectable, stay-at-home hobbit into a master thief with a heart of gold was the emotional core of our discussions.
In our final podcast episodes, we talked about how The Hobbit differs from the grander, darker themes of Tolkien’s later work. It’s a story infused with folklore and a sense of wonder. We explored how the book’s roots in Old Norse and Old English mythology gave us iconic moments—from the talking spiders of Mirkwood to the majestic, if slightly grumpy, Beorn. And we returned, more than once, to the simple virtues at the heart of Tolkien’s writing, typified by this admonition:
"If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world."
These parting words from Thorin Oakenshield served as our season’s guiding light.
So, as the dwarves head back to their halls and Bilbo returns to his pipe-weed, The Reader’s Museum is preparing for a short hiatus before we announce our next theme. All our deep dives into the geography of the Wild, the heraldry of the dwarves, and all the images that accompany each episode on our Instagram page are still available in the archives of the Reader’s Museum, ready for you to relive the journey to the Lonely Mountain along with Bilbo over and over. Thank you for joining the Company. It’s been a grand adventure, but as every hobbit knows, the best part of any journey is the stories you have to tell when you get back home.
Namárië,
Jennifer
Memory Lane
There is a photograph of me above my desk of a six-year-old version of myself perched precariously in the high branches of an apple tree at my grandparents’ house. I can describe the scene perfectly: the sun dappling through the leaves, the scratched bark against my knees, the feeling of being on top of the world. But recently, I’ve started to wonder: Do I actually remember climbing that tree? Or do I only "remember" it because I’ve looked at that photograph a hundred times? Is it possible that we don’t remember days, we remember moments, and sometimes, those moments are given to us by a camera lens rather than our own eyes?
Psychologists call this phenomenon Source Monitoring Error - quite a fancy name for something that I think is relatively common. It occurs when our brains fail to distinguish the source of a memory. Did the information come from a real-life experience, or was it suggested by a photo, a home movie, or a story told dozens of times by a parent? Over time, the brain weaves these external artifacts into our internal narrative until they become indistinguishable from reality. In a sense, photographs like the one over my desk act as external hard drives for our lives. However, the more we rely on them to store our history, the more our biological memory takes a back seat. We stop remembering the event itself and start remembering the artifact of the event.
Contrary to popular belief, and, frankly, our own experiences of it, memory is not like a video recording for which we simply hit "play" like an old camcorder. It is reconstructive. Every time you recall a memory, you are rebuilding it from scratch. When I look at a photo of the apple tree, my brain is busy taking the visual data, like the colour of my spring jacket, the height of the branch, and builds a sensory experience around it to fill in the gaps. This is where my imagination takes over. I might "remember" the smell of the apples or the sound of my grandmother calling me in from the porch for lunch, simply because my brain knows those things should have been there. It’s not lying to me, exactly; my brain is just being an extra-helpful storyteller.
One of the easiest ways to tell if a memory is authentic or photogenic is to check the perspective. In most genuine, lived memories, we see the world through our own eyes - that is, first- person. However, when we "remember" things through photographs, we often see ourselves as if from the outside, in third person. Close your eyes and think of a childhood memory. Do you feel the texture of the environment? Or do you see a static image of yourself? If it's the latter, you might be remembering a photograph.
It can be a little unsettling to realise that some of our most cherished memories might be constructed from these outside sources, or at least heavily edited. But perhaps it doesn't matter. Whether the memory comes from the experience or the photo, it still forms the bedrock of our identity, the story we tell ourselves about who we are. The apple tree remains a part of my history, even if the memory of it is a beautiful collaboration between a six-year-old’s bravery and a 35mm film camera. We are, after all, more than just a collection of neurons. We are the sum of the stories we choose to keep.
Jennifer
Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones…
There is a specific kind of "imposter syndrome" that comes with reaching adulthood with your skeletal system entirely intact. I’m talking about those of us who have never spent an afternoon in an ER waiting room, never felt the sickening pop of a fracture, and—most importantly—never got to experience the social peak of the elementary school playground: The Cast. If you’re a fellow member of the "Never Broken a Bone" club, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Here is a tribute to all the milestones we missed out on.
In the third grade, a neon pink or lime green cast wasn't just a medical necessity; it was a high-fashion statement. It was a physical manifestation of your bravery. I spent my childhood watching classmates get "cool" signatures and inside jokes Sharpied onto their fiberglass shells, while I sat there with my boring, functional, un-signed skin. I’ll never know the satisfaction of having my best friend sign their name in bubble letters over my ulna. Or what about when someone broke their dominant hand and got a "scribe"? For two weeks, they became a local celebrity who didn't have to take their own notes or finish the spelling test. They just sat there, looking weary and heroic, while a peer did the heavy lifting. I spent those years taking notes vigorously with two fully functioning hands, like a commoner. Where was my administrative assistant? Plus, every broken bone comes with a story. Sometimes it’s a "heroic sports injury", and yes, if you’re wondering, falling off the monkey bars counts. Sometimes it’s a "clumsy legend" tale, like tripping over a stray Lego. But even if your reason for injury is embarrassing, it will eventually turn into excellent fodder for dinner parties, possibly with a little dressing up and some careful embroidery of the truth.
For those of us who have never broken anything, our closest brush with medical drama is usually a "really bad bruise" or a "stubbed toe that felt like it might be broken but definitely wasn't." It’s hard to command a room with the story of the time you almost fell but then regained your balance. Now, to be fair, this is perhaps the one part I don't mind missing. I’ve watched friends try to maneuver a coat hanger or a ruler down the side of a cast to reach a phantom itch three inches deep. It looked like a special kind of torture. I’ll take my "boring" lack of fractures if it means I can scratch my own arm whenever I want. Luxury.
But there’s a weirdly superstitious feeling about being an adult who hasn't broken a bone. Every time I trip on a curb, there’s a split second where I think, Is this it? Is today the day I finally get my cast? But until then, I’ll keep walking around with my 206 original, un-mended pieces, feeling slightly left out of the Secret Society of the ER, but grateful that I can still write my own name and butter my own toast. Are you, dear reader, a member of the Never Broken club, or do you have a signature-covered cast hidden in your attic somewhere?
Jennifer
Battlefield
I recently found myself perched on the edge of my office chair, watching a rugby game with my tongue lodged between my teeth, a frown knitting my brows, witness to a spectacle that felt less like a modern sporting event and more like a live-action reenactment of the Battle of Maldon. You may well ask yourself why I would do such a thing, and the only answer I can offer you, dear reader, is that research often takes a person to some distinctly strange places. I am, admittedly, a total novice when it comes to the laws of rugby. I spent most of the first half waiting for a whistle that never blew, but I did learn that you don’t need to understand the finer points of the scrum to be struck by the staggering scale of the participants. They are vast, ambulatory mountains who seem to have bypassed the standard human skeletal structure in favour of something reinforced by steel. Frankly, a lot of them seem to be built like fridges, fridges with little leather bonnets strapped under their chins. (I looked up the purpose of these bonnets and learned that they are not bonnets, they are scrum caps, and they keep the players from pulling each other’s ears off. Shudder.) Watching them hurtle toward one another at top speed and then collide with what I can only assume is the sickening crunch of bone and the distressing rattle of brains made me wince. Don’t they feel it? I certainly did.
There is a profound, almost startling stoicism to the way they hit each other. In an era where a stiff breeze can send a professional footballer into a series of theatrical rolls, cligning to his knee like he’s worried it’s going to come off, the average rugby player treats a bone-shaking impact more like a minor social inconvenience. These men threw themselves into the fray with a reckless abandon that suggests they have reached a private agreement with their own nervous systems to simply ignore pain. As the two opposing lines of giants crashed into each other, I couldn't help but think of the Anglo-Saxons. Here was the shield-wall in polyester jerseys: two war-bands meeting on a grassy field, bound by a code of conduct that is as rigid as it is violent.
Of course, the Anglo-Saxons didn't have referees to review their skirmishes, but the spirit remains remarkably similar. There is a strange, formal beauty to the violence of a sport like rugby: a set of careful, almost liturgical rules that govern exactly how one is allowed to upend one's neighbour. Although I do worry for their poor grey matter, sloshing around in their skulls like jelly in a jar every time they get hit. One thing I am not going to do, dear reader, is look up concussion statistics for professional rugby players - I’m just going to assume that it’s absurdly high. As best as I can tell, rugby is a game of territory and attrition, a literal struggle for every inch of the field, conducted with an intensity that made me wonder whether the winning side receives a kingdom rather than a trophy. Watching the ball, that peculiar, egg-shaped object, which seems to have a mind of its own, being pitched backward while the players charge forward, struck me as a peculiar defiance of logic. But maybe there is a strange wisdom in moving backwards, away from a goal? Maybe I’m missing something. No, no, not maybe. I definitely am. Oh well.
By the time of the final whistle blast, I was exhausted just from watching. I may still be foggy on what constitutes a knock-on or why the referee spent so much time peering into a scrum, that pile of tangled limbs, one that seemed deeply significant, but I left with a bemused respect for this modern-day version of battle. There is something comforting in the knowledge that, despite our increasingly digital lives, we - and yes, I suppose I am counting myself among that ‘we’ - still find joy in gathering to watch gargantuan players contest a patch of grass with the ferocity of those ancient kings from today’s episode. What I do know for sure is that the sidelines are for me. I don’t know how I would have faired in regular Anglo-Saxon life, but no matter what, I don’t belong on the battlefield.
Jennifer
Small Sorcery
The word ‘magic’ is one we often toss around with a certain lightness, but it carries a weight of history that would make any bookshelf groan. It derives from the Old Persian magush, meaning "a member of a learned priestly cast.” To the ancients, magic wasn’t about pulling rabbits from hats or sawed-in-half assistants; it was synonymous with deep, specialised knowledge. It was the art of understanding the hidden gears of the world. I find great comfort in this older definition. It suggests that magic isn’t necessarily a break from reality, but rather a more intimate engagement with it. When we look closely enough at the mundane, at the way a specific pigment catches the light or the intricate logic of a well-worn path, we are, in a sense, practicing magic in its original form.
Of course, our modern world often feels determined to scrub away the ‘magical’ in favour of the efficient. We are surrounded by polished glass and frictionless interfaces that demand very little of our wonder. Yet, even in a city of concrete and schedules, magic has a habit of bubbling up through the cracks. It appears in those small, startling coincidences: finding the exact book you needed in a dusty corner of a shop, or the way the evening light hits a particular brick wall and turns it, for a fleeting moment, into gold. These are the glimmers of the everyday, the moments where the veil between the ordinary and the extraordinary wears thin enough to see through. It doesn't require a wand, merely a bit of patience and perhaps a very sharp pair of eyes.
There is a specific kind of magic, too, in the objects we surround ourselves with. We might think of them as mere things: a favourite fountain pen, a sturdy pair of boots, a beloved ceramic mug, but they are also vessels for memory and intent. In literature, a single object can hold the weight of an entire character’s history, and I suspect the same is true for us. When we use a tool that has been crafted with care, or handle an artifact that has survived the tumble of decades, we are touching a tangible form of sorcery. It is a connection across time, a silent conversation between the maker and the user. It’s a reminder that while the seasons may shift and the snow may pile high against our doors, the human desire to imbue the world with meaning remains a constant.
As we move through the world, whether we are trudging through the last stubborn slush of spring or strolling under a clear summer canopy, I hope you find your own pockets of the magush. Perhaps it’s in the rhythm of a task well done or the quiet thrill of a new discovery. There is plenty of enchantment to go around if one knows where to look. Until next time, dear reader, may your days be filled with small wonders.
Jennifer
By Any Other Name
Do you feel like your name, dear reader? I think I do—I find it hard to imagine myself as anyone else but Jennifer. I do not, in my estimation, look like a Julie or a Cynthia or a Tammy or a Linda, and certainly not at all like the names that we encountered in this week’s episode: certainly not Hildegard, nor Aelfgifu, and not even Mathilde. Yet, if we look through the lens of semiotics, this deep-seated "Jenniferness" is a bit of a linguistic illusion. In the world of Ferdinand de Saussure, my name is merely a signifier, a specific string of phonemes and letters, while the "me" sitting here is the signified. Hey there: signified here. Nice to see you. There is no natural, biological reason why the sound of "Jennifer" should represent this specific collection of memories, research interests, and half-finished knitting projects. It is an arbitrary label, a social contract signed at birth, proving that the link between a name and a person is held together by nothing more than repetition and collective agreement.
Despite this academic detachment, the semiotic triangle suggests that the "thought" of me and the "name" of me are inextricably linked by our shared culture. Forgive the grammar here, folks: this is tricky stuff to think about, and writing about it is like dancing about architecture. When the world says "Jennifer," it isn't just making a sound; it is invoking a reference. Over decades, that arbitrary label has become a "sticky" sign - one that is stuck to me. We are taught that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but semiotics reminds us that names aren't just passive labels: they are the vessels through which the world perceives our essence. Without the name, the essence becomes a much harder thing for the world to grasp.
Ultimately, I have to wonder if I grew into my name or if the name grew into me. While there is no inherent "Jennifer" DNA, the name has served as the linguistic scaffolding for my entire life. It is the sound that means "me" to the world, and to myself, a convenient shorthand for a human being. Perhaps we don't look like our names because of some cosmic destiny, but because we spend our lives filling those arbitrary sounds with the substance of our selves. But whether it’s the ancient weight of a mouthful like Aelfgifu or the 20th-century familiar of a Jennifer, (hey! That’s me!), surely our names remain the most durable artifacts we own, and perhaps the only part of our material culture that is entirely invisible, yet undeniably ours.
Jennifer (there I am again!)
Armour
In writing this week’s episode, I was at first considering how little armour shows up in the average person’s daily life - or, perhaps I should say, how little it shows up in my life. I am not usually under siege by Vikings or Vandals, and so when I leave my house, I really do not need a helm or a shield or a mail shirt (Mithril or otherwise) to protect myself from evil or enemy. On the other hand, as spring s-l-o-w-l-y begins to take over from winter, I am realising that perhaps I do wear a sort of armour, one that is becoming more apparent to me as I shed it, now that temperatures are, mercifully, on the rise.
I have replaced my long, substantial parka with its hood for a sort of in-between coat - it still has a hood, ideal for the sudden rain and sleet that are still making their presences felt - but not as bulky or warming, nor quite so long, as my winter jacket. Yesterday, I went for quite a long walk without a toque or mittens, and wore a lighter scarf than I have done in months, and it felt like being let out of prison, flying along the street with wind in my hair - but admittedly, with my hands stuffed in my pockets. I think perhaps I was a little too excited by the joys of early spring and its burgeoning warmth, and forgot about the wind. More fool me.
And yet, the more I think about it, the more I think I continue to wear types of armour year-round. In a way, we all do. Perhaps not the metal kind, but still. I wear a scarf all spring long - a light one, really more of a pashmina, though I know they went out of favour in the early 2000s, but a bare neck feels deeply exposed, and you never know when a length of spare fabric might come in handy. And when sultry, sweaty summer finally comes around, coquettish and demanding like a Southern Belle, I’ll don my widest-brimmed hat and linen and, most crucially, SPF 50, which might well be understood as shield and mail in a tube, armouring me against the onslaught of the sun.
And when winter returns (shudder and shriek), I’ll wrap my muffler round my face and neck and yank my toque down over my head so that all you can see are my eyes: the rest of my face and head are swathed in wool. This similarly impedes my vision, too, so that really all I can see is what is directly in front of me. Sometimes, wandering around outdoors on the days when I choose to brave the cold (inadvisable), I wonder if this is what it’s like to wear a helm, with only a little slit for looking through.
Indoor clothing can feel similarly protective. I have a leather jacket which, when worn zipped all the way, has a collar that stands up like a funnel, shielding the lower two-thirds of my face from the world. I was skeptical about this article of clothing, but having tried it on, I discovered that I loved having a kind of hole into which I could retreat, with only my watching and distrustful eyes peeping out from above the collar. The world can be a deeply unpredictable place, and that little barrier between it and me was and is comforting. I would recommend a similar garment to all.
But perhaps the very best, and most ubiquitous armour I regularly use aren’t garments at all - they’re my headphones. Oh, beloved headphones - many and varied blessings upon you! They do double-duty: to the outside world, they indicate that I am not interested in conversation while sitting on the subway, that I wish to be left in peace. And all the while, they keep swirling, unhelpful thoughts at bay with their constant music, audiobooks, or podcasts. Sit alone on the bus with my own thoughts for twenty minutes? Hardly! Would an Anglo-Saxon go to battle without their shield? And when I step out my door, I must be similarly dressed and ready for war - even if it is only with public transit and myself.
Jennifer
Treasure
The treasure in this week’s episode is sort of the typical stuff a person might imagine - gold, jewels, silver, other precious metals and gems. It’s the sort of stuff that pirates bury, that Scrooge McDuck dives into, and certainly the kind of thing a greedy dragon would appreciate as a bed. Sounds distinctly uncomfortable to me, but then again, I am not a dragon.
But, as Tolkien himself points out, the world would be a merrier place if folks loved food and drink and song above hoarded gold, so perhaps Tolkien’s treasure trove would simply be a room heaving with people eating and drinking and singing together - Bilbo’s bath songs, anyone? But that got me thinking about what my treasure trove might be, if I were to have such a thing. And as I looked around my little office, the answer came at once: books. I’m still not sure that I would be inclined to sleep on an enormous pile of books in an underground cavern - I think bookshelves are a much better choice. I suspect that many people of my vintage were inspired and delighted by the Beast’s gift of a huge library in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast, with floor-to-ceiling shelves brimming with books, and several of those thrilling attached ladders so you can slide around and reach any tome you choose. He might be a giant buffalo-bear in a cape, but if he’s got a home library, I think the relationship is worth a shot. Just saying.
But then, in imagining that quantity of books and where to put them all (for I do not have a dedicated home library, and so books tend to float around my home and sometimes end up in the most surprising places), I was reminded of a poem by Mary Oliver:
Things!
Burn them, burn them! Make a beautiful
fire! More room in your heart for love,
for the trees! For the birds who own
nothing - the reason they can fly.
I am not planning to burn my books, dear reader. They are, I admit, too precious to me, and particularly in this political climate, book burning seems…well, inadvisable, at the least. But I have taken some excellent books out from my library recently, including a charming handbook of North American birds, in which I discovered that the tiny, fat, feathery puffballs that live in the hedge near my home are domestic sparrows: the males dark brown with white markings, the females all one shade of tawny brown. They twitter and chirrup and coax me out the door with their hopping and their stillness. They tell me spring is on its way, despite all evidence to the contrary, from within their tangled bowers in the hedge. I see them perched on twigs and branches, and marvel at trees, and wonder how many I’ll get to see in my lifetime. Ten thousand? A hundred thousand? No matter the number, it is too small. Perhaps, even more than my beloved books, I treasure my daily walks and my communion with the trees growing and arching above the streets of my city, and the plucky little birds who call them home.
Jennifer
Cherry Sops and Hippocras
This week’s episode details some dishes that are very rarely found on your average menu. Indeed, the names of these dishes are a bit unfamiliar and sound more like good names for cats than for tasty treats. That unfamiliarity might render them a little suspect to modern diners. Still, their historical context makes them a bit like a culinary time machine, allowing us to step back into the past with each bite. They might not become a daily meal, but they are an exciting link to the way people ate in the early medieval period, and you may recognize them as the ancestors of later dishes, such as Welsh rabbit (a bit like a savoury sop) and Gluhwein (a later version of hippocras). Bon appetit - or should I say Prost! Salud! Sante! Cheers and Chin chin!
Cherry Sops
Ingredients
1 lb cherries
1/3 liter white wine
4 oz. butter (113 g) (and more for toasting bread)
1/4 cup sugar plus a few teaspoons for finishing
Loaf of Italian bread
Instructions
Melt four oz. butter in a saucepan, then add the wine. Bring to a boil, until wine has colored.
Add sugar and cherries to the wine and butter mixture. Cook for 20-30 minutes, stirring occasionally, until it's a thick syrup. Watch to make sure it doesn't boil over.
Right before the cherries are done, fry bread slices in a skillet with butter.
Pour cherries on toasted bread and sprinkle with sugar.
Serve this straight away as a dessert. You could use blueberries or strawberries in place of cherries, and experiment with different white and rose wines. The wine doesn’t have to be the highest quality you can find - it is, after all, going to be cooked with a lot of sugar, fruit, and butter, so don’t waste your best bottle on this recipe. Now, is the resulting sops rich, boozy, and sweet? Yes - that’s the point! This is feasting food, not everyday fare. It would make a nice finishing touch to your Renaissance-themed Christmas party. What, doesn’t everyone have those?
Now we move on to the hippocras.
Hippocras
Ingredients:
1 bottle red wine (feel free to use cheap and cheerful plonk - the spices and sugar are, after all, meant to cover up not-so-good wine)
4 cinnamon sticks
2-inch piece of fresh ginger, sliced
2 slices of a whole nutmeg, or 1/4 t ground
4 whole cloves
4 black peppercorns
2 sprigs fresh rosemary
1/3-1/2 c sugar (optional)
Instructions
Combine the wine, spices, and sugar if you are using it in a large container with a lid. You could use a water jug or a very large jar for this.
Cover tightly and let the wine infuse at room temperature for at least 24 hours before you plan to serve it. Strain out the spices before serving using a metal or cloth strainer.
Serve at room temperature in regular wine glasses.
Hippocras, like so many very old recipes, has many versions. You can try different combinations of additions to your wine, depending on your taste and what you have on hand. Cinnamon sticks, orange and lemon zest, ginger, nutmeg, cloves, fresh herbs like sage or thyme, dried fruit such as cranberries or apricots, and honey instead of sugar are all possible here. Of course, these additions will change the flavour of your hippocras. Keep in mind, too, that medieval taste buds appreciated sweet and savoury together, so don’t be alarmed by the presence of peppercorns or herbs alongside sweeter ingredients. Enjoy!
Jennifer
Fun and Games
I have recently taken a swimming class that left me high and dry, dear reader. In an attempt to leave the house more and do something besides sit hunched over at my desk doing a fair impression of a shrimp, I signed up for an adult swimming class at my local pool. This is the sort of class where you ostensibly learn the finer points of back crawl and whip kick, where you practice breathing patterns and build up your stamina for swimming lengths. The other folks in my lessons were all Francophone, and the vast majority were either injured runners looking to stay fit without causing further damage, or triathletes. These are a special type of person who likes three sports (running, cycling, swimming) so much that they cannot possibly choose between them, so they do all three and nearly simultaneously. This breed of vigorous Quebecois athlete is very common in my experience, and their love for sport and competition seems equal only to their love of Lycra. I was the only one there for fun.
So imagine my dismay at the end of every lesson, when there were about fifteen minutes left, that our instructor would cheerfully announce a race - a relay, individual races, round robins, you name it. Who can front crawl fastest? Who can tread water the longest? Apparently, these questions were pressing and demanded answers. The sad and sorry truth is that I had at least part of the answer: I could guarantee that under no circumstances would the answer be ‘me.’ I knew before I ever got in the water that I would be the slowest, the most awkward, the least comfortable in the pool, and I had made a tenuous sort of peace with that. Someone has to be last - why not me? I tried to be a good sport about these races, putting on a rueful smile and doing my level best, trying to ignore the thought that all of these competitive, Spandex-wrapped folks surely already had enough opportunity to beat each other at sport and then swagger about with their medals, drinking protein shakes and squirting packets of goo into their mouths. But a little voice that grew increasingly louder with every lesson had its own question: why are we doing this?
The answers to that are, in my opinion, unsatisfactory. ‘Because competition is fun!’ I hear you say. Well, fun is subjective. Swimming breathlessly against someone who is beating the pants off me, easily, over and over and over is not my idea of fun - nowhere near it. “Competition pushes you to do better!’ others might chime in. Again, I think this assertion needs deeper consideration. I actually do not find that pressure helps me do well - I tend to feel best about my output when I am left well enough alone to sort myself out. Other people screaming “Lache pas!” (Don’t give up) at me from the other side of the pool does not inspire me to greatness - it induces violent rage.
Does all of this stem from childhood sports trauma, the terror of gym class? I’m sure that it does. I have such clear memories of being picked last for things, of knowing, deeply and profoundly, that I was never an asset to any sports team. I got to a point where I would wearily offer to sit out the game to give my classmates an out from the socially awkward moment of having to pick me as a partner, making it easier for everyone. We all know how this is going to end, was my argument. Let’s not delay the inevitable with pretence. I also remember thinking that there was a strange imbalance in the pool of my childhood swimming lessons or the gymnasium of mysense of school, which I could not make . When I did exceptionally well at a spelling test or a book report, the teacher would slide those graded papers back to me overturned, and we were strictly warned not to share our grades, for fear of hurting the sensitive feelings of the rather stupid boys (and yes, they always seemed to be boys) who could not figure out how to spell ‘patio’ and refused to do the readings. But there seemed to be absolutely no consideration for my sensitivities during a dodgeball match or a game of soccer baseball - everyone knows that Jennifer is dreadful at literally all team sports, and we routinely remind her of that. What is that for? Does it build character? Does it push me to want to be better at broomball? No, dear reader, it did not. And I confess it remains an ineffective tool for motivation. My fellow adult swimmers and I did not openly discuss our incomes or divorces or emotional intelligence or our latest work performance review at the pool - but at the end of every hour, we were all left in no doubt about who was the worst swimmer in the water - and that was me. I do not have an answer for how to resolve this imbalance - I no longer wish to shame other people for being stupid and lazy as I did as a child (not an attractive tendency, I know), so I have no idea how to level the playing field, har har. If you have an answer to this question, dear reader, you might let me know.
Jennifer
Honey Cakes
Just like Bilbo and his travel companions, we are going to enjoy some delicious and fortifying honey cakes this week. These cakes are sweet but not too sweet - unlike white sugar, honey imparts flavour beyond sweetness, and depending on the type of honey you use, these cakes will also taste subtly of that more complex flavour. A good quality honey is imperative here - it’s sort of the star of the show. Lavender honey, cinnamon honey, or wildflower honey would all be welcome choices, but honey straight-up is also great. Pair these with a cup of tea or coffee for an afternoon break, or as a celebration of the taste of spring - you’ll find these tasty little cakes go with just about everything! Bon appetit!
Ingredients
1 ¾ cup flour
1 ½ tsp baking powder
½ tsp salt
½ cup 1 stick unsalted butter, room temperature (plus about 3 tbsp for greasing muffin pans)
zest of 1 lemon
¼ tsp freshly ground nutmeg
¾ cup milk
2 eggs
¾ cup high quality honey + 1/4 cup honey for drizzling on top
1 tsp vanilla
Instructions
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
Butter your muffin tin, or line your tin with baking cups or squares of parchment paper.
In a bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, salt, nutmeg and lemon zest.
Using a fork, mix the butter into the flour mixture until it resembles sand. Set aside.
In a small bowl, whisk together the milk, eggs, honey, and vanilla.
Pour the wet mixture over the dry and combine until the dry is just hydrated, but do not over-mix.
Spoon the batter into your muffin tin- it will be between 1/4 cup and 1/3 cup of batter each.
Bake for 16 minutes, or until mostly done but not quite golden.
Remove each cake from the muffin pan and allow them to cool slightly on a baking sheet lined with parchment or a silicone baking mat.
Warm the remaining 1/4 cup of honey in the microwave or on your stovetop for about 10 seconds.
Using a silicone pastry brush, coat the tops of the cakes with the honey, allowing it to run down the sides. Let the cakes sit for about 5 minutes so the honey can soak into them.
Bake for an additional 8-10 minutes, or until the cakes are golden brown and the edges are crisp.
If you wanted to get very fancy, you could add lemon juice and a little zest into the last 1/4 c of honey to heighten the citrus flavour, or a little extra cinnamon if you’ve used cinnamon honey to make your cakes a bit spicier. But, quite honestly, these honey cakes are great as is, without any extras, and make for a tasty treat at just about any time of day. You can certainly take a page from Beorn’s book and offer them to beleaguered guests! Enjoy!
Jennifer
Seeing Stars
A few years ago, I was in an elevator, having a terrible time. I had just finished watching a comedy show at a now-defunct summer comedy festival. It was, as usual, sweltering and sticky, so the dim, cool interiors of the theatre were deeply welcome. I remember very little from the show itself aside from some heckling, which made my skin crawl, but almost nothing from the performer’s stand-up has stuck in my mind. The heckling was distinctly Canadian in nature - relatively gentle, mostly people just referencing the comic’s other work in a supportive, somewhat sycophantic way. I seem to recall that even he was a bit surprised at the quality of heckle, apparently anticipating a much more aggressive response from the punters.
The show let out, and about two hundred or so people, greatly cheered and cooled from several hours in that dark theatre, poured from the double doors. There was more than one way to get out of the building, and my husband and I took the elevators - I don’t remember why, exactly. Just as the doors were about to close, a very familiar face appeared, and another comic who was in town for his own festival performance stepped into the elevator, and down we all went. It was a harrowing journey. I am from a smallish city in the middle of the country that does not have a great reputation with performers, so I had never seen a famous person in, you know…person. I once passed by Rick Mercer in an airport, but I hardly think that counts. But this comic, whose work I had seen on numerous programs and heard on podcasts, was now standing in the same elevator with me, and I was surprised by my own reaction. I hated it. A squirmy, slithery feeling of prickly shame and embarrassment and too much self-awareness wriggled down my spine - a distinctly unpleasant experience. He was genially signing programs and taking selfies with the other people in the elevator, and I wanted the tiled floor to open up and swallow me whole.
But why? He seemed perfectly affable, quite pleased that people were speaking to him and appreciating his work, not at all the self-satisfied, hot-headed star one sometimes hears about. Why was I so uncomfortable, so eager to flee the elevator and return to the sweaty, soupy air so typical of July out east? I suspect there is more than one reason. Firstly, I can be shy with just about any new person, regardless of how many times I’ve seen them on television. But also, when you meet a new friend at a party or your weekly sewing class or something like that, (just me?) they know about you exactly the same amount that you know about them, which is usually nothing. But in this case, I had all sorts of exposure to this person in a way that is distinctly unnatural, not normally recreated in more regular encounters. There is a name for this - a parasocial relationship. It might be interesting, it might be satisfying in some ways, it might bring joy, but it will always be one-sided. And the television might have something to do with it, too. I had only ever experienced this person as a two-dimensional image, usually sitting behind a panel desk on a comedy show, and suddenly, here he was, with three dimensions and legs and everything. Very disconcerting. Perhaps my discomfort came, then, from confronting a reality that my television screen had erased: that this was not a two-dimensional, miniature image, but a real, honest-to-goodness human being, with thoughts and feelings and foibles and strengths just like everyone else. And perhaps realising this illusion-shattering reality would enable me to encounter another star in person in the future and not immediately wish to disappear. All the same, I don’t think I’ll risk it.
Jennifer
What’s Opera, Doc?
You know those moments when you realise, quite suddenly, that the things you experienced as perfectly normal turn out to be a bit strange, a bit peculiar? I thought I had a very regular, run-of-the-mill childhood well into my teens, and then discovered the awful truth: I grew up listening to classical music, and that was distinctly not the norm. Depending on your opinion of that genre, we have my mother to thank or to blame. I still sort of think of Handel’s Messiah and Mozart’s Magic Flute as children’s music, because those were on frequent rotation when I was a little girl. The first thing I learned to whistle (a skill I worked on with ferocious determination) was Chopin’s Nocturne No 2 in E-Flat Major Op 9, because my mother played it frequently on the piano in the living room. I did not know that this was unusual behaviour for a six- or seven-year-old. It was just the music that was around, the records that were on the usual rotation, or the melodies my mother hummed during the day.
Did I learn the more usual children’s fare? Of course. At school, I was taught classics such as Raffi’s "Baby Beluga" and happily sang along to "Skinnamarink" after watching Sharon, Lois, and Bram on Saturday mornings, but the strains of etudes and sonatas always made up the majority of this mix. This tendency was only strengthened by my enrolment in Orf classes and children’s choirs, where I learned to count rhythm to Tchaikovsky, the parts of the orchestra with Prokofiev’s Peter and the Wolf, and proudly learned the parts for Vivaldi’s Gloria. Was I an insufferable little soprano, refusing to read anything but the top line of music? Did I scoff at pop music, which I found to be extraordinarily simple and boring? Yes, I did. I’m not proud. I was a terrible snob. Thankfully, my teen years introduced me to British pop of the 1960s and 1970s rock, so my self-satisfaction was somewhat corrected. I admit I am still partial to much of the classical music and opera over other genres, and I wince at flat notes and unsupported breathing; I do not have a poker face when it comes to music. These are not the shiniest parts of my personality, not the aspects of my character of which I am most proud or pleased, but here we are.
So imagine my delight at discovering Looney Tunes’ adaptations of familiar favourites: the Barber of Seville, The Flying Dutchman, Tannhauser, Ride of the Valkyries, Hungarian Rhapsody, the Minute Waltz - all paired with the delightful comedic stylings of Bugs Bunny and company. There is something that tickled me about Elmer Fudd singing “Oh, Bwunhiwde, you’we so wooooovewy,” and Bugs responding in simpering tones, “Yes I knooooow it, I can’t heeelllp it.” Or when I was about ten, going to see Fantasia 2000, and being utterly charmed by the animation paired with Rhapsody in Blue and Carnival of the Animals and The Pines of Rome. Did the Firebird Suite scare the living daylights out of me, and did I leave the movie theatre early? Yes - that flaming bird demon was enough to give me nightmares for weeks. Trust Stravinsky to scare the pants off a kid.
The good news, dear reader, is that unlike the record store or streaming service, enjoyment does not require categorisation. I can appreciate sugary pop music, earnest 60’s folk rock, classical music, synth-heavy 1980s new wave, and opera equally. I do not need to choose - the world is my oyster, and I can delight in all of it. But I will admit that, having been reminded of Chopin’s Nocturne No 2 in E Flat Major Op 9, I will be humming it for the rest of the day: tra laaaaa!
Jennifer
What’s in a Name?
Some folks really like to name inanimate objects. This is Digby the toaster; that’s Fran the chaise longue. I can sort of get behind some of it: as mentioned in this week’s episode, naming cars makes a lot of sense to me. My mother had a car at one point in my childhood called Arthur, a dependable name that would get you out of a tight scrape - and he was red. A gallant car, chivalrous, keen to help a lady out of a tight spot: that sort of thing. My best friend’s car was Wally while we were at school, and it was an apt moniker, too. Wally was very sweet, tried hard, and sometimes wasn’t up to the task of making it through a southern Ontario winter without a little extra care. He wasn’t rough and tough: he was a bit timid, a bit in need of encouragement, which my friend usually offered by patting him lovingly on the dashboard and saying “Come on, Wally!” whenever he approached hills. Similarly, my father drove a large-ish sort of SUV for a long time, a big green behemoth I called Jimmy Hop Toad. This name was not universally adopted, but then, Jimmy did not often require support as Wally did.
But I do think you can take this sort of thing too far. My husband is a musician, and so I have encountered lots of folks who name their guitars, and this I find more difficult to swallow. Guitars are almost always named after women, which gets into yucky territory very quickly. When I have broached this opinion in the past, people will often clamour to tell me that the practice must be all right, because B.B. King named his beloved guitar Lucille. So he did. But the rest of us are not B.B. King, and so perhaps it is wise to leave the naming of instruments to the greats, and skip calling our many and varied guitars “Taloulah” or “Athena” or “Beryl” or what have you. One can take this sort of thing too far.
Relatedly, I am always on the search for good pet names. In many ways, they are deeply unused names. My cat’s name is Maebh, but I hardly ever call her that. More often than not, she is Brave Miss Maebh, Maebh-y Baby, Gremlin, Kitty, The Grey Lady, Ladygirl, Fluffbutt, or Principessa. I like Irish names for pets, but especially for cats. There is a certain impish quality that many cats possess which I feel is well encompassed in a name like Fionnukin or Aoife. But I admit that I am also charmed by the idea of a dog or cat named a perfectly normal human name - Kevin, Belinda, Eugene, Stephanie. Then one only has to wait for the perfect, delicious moment to announce that you are running late for work because “Kevin got stuck behind the fridge again” or “Stephanie jumped on me in the middle of the night”, and leave your listeners wondering about the strange, slightly inept roommate you seem to have acquired. If I’m honest though, dear reader, I’ll stick with the Irish names for the time being. They seem to suit well, and I do secretly enjoy a horrible satisfaction at watching the vet receptionist struggle through them a couple of times a year. And perhaps one day, if I am in a situation to own a car and give it a name, I might say airily to a friend that we were late getting Niamh to the vet because Gary just refused to start, and delight in their confusion. Otherwise, though, I think I’ll leave the inanimate objects in my life unnamed.
Jennifer
Bannock
Of course, if we’re going to spend a whole episode chatting about food, we’ve got to have something to snack on! This recipe for bannock is a modern take on quite a traditional food, so you may well have your own version that is a bit different from this one. Bannock has been around for so long that loads of people and cultures have had time to develop their own take on this really versatile quick bread. Make yourself a batch to accompany a cup of tea, a bowl of soup, a pot of jam, and this week’s episode! Bon appetit!
Ingredients
3 cups all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 ½ cups water
¼ cup butter, melted
Instructions
Stir together the dry ingredients in a large bowl.
Pour the water and melted butter over the flour mixture.
Combine the wet and dry ingredients to make a large, shaggy ball of dough.
Turn the dough out onto a floured surface and knead about 10 times.
Pat the dough into a flat circle, about an inch thick.
Warm an oiled or buttered frying pan or skillet over medium heat.
Place the dough in the pan and cook for about 15 minutes on each side, until golden brown.
Slice the bannock into triangles and serve.
You can choose some fun add-ins to this recipe - cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg and cardamom would make a lovely spiced bannock, ideal for autumn and paired with a cup of chai. Herbs and grated cheese would make a savoury bread that would be right at home next to a hearty bowl of soup or stew. Berries, dried fruit, or chocolate chips would turn this more neutral version into a sweeter quick bread, or you could just slather your piece with jam! Any way you slice it, the versatility of bannock is one of its best features, so you have plenty of room to get creative! Enjoy!
Jennifer
Seed Cake
Seed cake is old school - really old school. The earliest recipes for a cake flavoured with caraway seeds comes to us from 1591’s The Book of Cookrye and several subsequent versions appear in cookbooks and household manuals right through to the 19th century. This cake was popular and well-liked for so long because of its main ingredient: caraway seeds. Not only do they impart a nutty anise flavour, but they were also believed to aid in digestion, so eating a cake studded with caraway seeds after a meal was considered a delicious and effective way to end supper. As it happens, this belief is true - caraway is a digestive aid. But, happily, it also makes a tasty snacking cake or an after-dinner morsel, so feel free to enjoy this seed cake whenever the fancy strikes!
Ingredients
450 g butter
450 g flour
350 g sugar
2 tablespoons caraway seeds
6 eggs, whisked
200 ml brandy or 200 ml madeira
ground mace and grated nutmeg, to taste (these are both powerful spices, so I like about 1/8 tsp each)
50 g chopped candied citrus peel (optional)
Instructions
Pre-heat the oven to 170 °C or 325°F and grease and line a 7" round cake tin.
In a large bowl, cream the butter and sugar, then sift in the flour.
Add the mace, nutmeg, and caraway seeds, and mix well. (Add the chopped candied peel if using at this stage as well.)
Stir in the whisked eggs and the brandy.
Beat the cake again for 2 to 3 minutes, until the batter is very smooth.
Pour the mixture into your tin lined with buttered paper.
Bake it for 1½ to 2 hours, until a skewer inserted into the center comes out clean and the cake is well risen, firm, and golden brown.
Now, caraway seeds can be tricky to lay your hands on - they are not as popular as they once were. Some grocery stores and specialty shops will have them, but if you are in a pinch and cannot hunt up the seeds in question, you can reach for fennel seeds or poppy seeds. However, the result will be quite different: you will have made a cake with seeds, rather than a seed cake, strictly speaking. Also, keep in mind that this cake is quite dry. It is meant to be: some writers describe it as having a delightful ‘clack’, or the tendency to stick to the roof of one’s mouth. A pretty colourful image, but never mind. As such, I recommend pairing seed cake with a beverage - it was made to be eaten at tea time, so a cup of tea is always a good choice. You could also try lemonade or cordial, or a charming little glass of something stronger (brandy or madeira, perhaps) to go along with it if a cup of tea is not quite your cup of tea. Enjoy!
Jennifer
Marginalia
In this week’s episode, we’re talking about, at least in part, book jackets, originally meant to keep books safe in their journey between book binder and book reader. Of course, the books on my shelf often have dust jackets, but in the more modern sense - the little flaps of folded paper, emblazoned with the author’s name and the book title and the cover image and blurbs and author photo and biography and the publisher’s name and all the rest. They may still go some way to protecting the books on my shelf, but they are nowhere near as defensive as the original brown paper wrappings of old. Instead, I am the defender of my books, guarding them carefully from destruction and ruin.
I do not mean that my books are under attack from invaders, swinging swords and buckling swash. I mean that I am one of those fussy, uptight people who likes to keep a book in the best condition I can, and for me that means no writing on the pages, no dog-earing the corners, fastidious use of bookmarks, and nothing more than a careful cup of tea while I read - no greasy fingers leaving stains on the paper, no smudges of dirt and dinner. I hate to hear the crack of a new book’s spine, and nothing gives me so much shame as the circular stains on a childhood favourite who had a nasty run-in with a leaking lunchbag. I have some second-hand paperbacks with crumbling, tattered front covers, softened with age, and I handle those poor dears with extra care and delicacy. My high school copy of Romeo and Juliet was in such bad shape that I made a new cover for it, hoping against hope to protect its curling pages from more damage, and, to my relief, the new binding has lasted reasonably well. The most I will admit to doing is putting my name on their frontispiece, and this is more for the books than for me - since childhood, it seemed important to me that my books know they are beloved, that they belong to someone who treasures them. If I were a book, I think I would take comfort in a pencilled name on my inner cover as a point of pride, like being named after an adored family member. Any books that might be reading this are very welcome to weigh in on the matter.
But there is a flaw in this caution, in the preservation of books taken to this level. As a reader, I delight in a pristine book, but as a historian, the very best documents are the ones covered in someone’s scrawl. Second-hand books that have little notes in them are adored - they are like little messengers, linking two strangers with those smudged notes and asides in the margins. I love an old frontispiece with a bookplate bearing the name of the previous owner, and an inscription from the giver (and, as I think we can all agree, books are among the best gifts). I once spent an exciting afternoon in Library Archives poring over correspondence between an artist and a gallery, and the typed part of each letter was polite, restrained, cordial. But the responding notes each writer had scribbled told quite a different story - one of frustration, contempt, dogged stubbornness, and some choice language. If those snarly letter-writers had stuck strictly to their typewriters, I would never have uncovered their real feelings, the dramatic complexities simmering under the surface of their words. Perhaps I am doing future historians a disservice by not writing charming, witty asides in the margin of my beloved books.
These personal, revealing little notes are nothing new, by the way. People have been scrawling things alongside the main body of their texts for centuries - there’s even a word for it: marginalia. Some of our earliest examples, which stretch all the way back to the earliest illuminated manuscripts, feature little notes and drawings, some quite silly, paired with serious religious tracts, the Gospels, and Books of Hours. There are little animals jousting, tiny knights tilting at giant snails, fantastical beasts, grinning skulls, little doodles, and rarely, little cat pawprints from when some ancient monk’s cat stepped in the ink. Scholars have dedicated their careers to studying marginalia. So perhaps I am quite wrong-headed in endeavouring to keep my books perfect, untouched. I cannot promise that I’m going to paint miniatures in the margins of my pages suddenly - that feels like quite a leap, and it would give me heart palpitations. But perhaps the very lightest of pencil marks…alas, no, dear reader. If I am honest, that still feels like too much. Instead, I might borrow another practice from those ancient monks: florilegia, the practice of keeping a little notebook or journal of quotations and scraps of text from one’s favourites, paired with reflections and thoughts, to be read together to create a new text, to spark new meaning and as a devotional practice. If future historians find my florilegium, I hope it brings them the same delight I feel when I encounter a message from a past reader. Or perhaps they’ll find some disintegrating copy of this blog, and then who knows what they’ll think, dear reader?
Jennifer
Ambulare
The charming word ‘perambulator’, rather a mouthful if truth be told, comes from the Latin ‘per’ , through, and ‘ambulare' to walk, making a perambulator ‘one who walks through’ or ‘stroller’. Now this word applies to the wheeled gadget we usually associate with babies, but first it meant a person who passed through boundaries - one who strolled, literally, a stroller. I like to apply this older meaning to myself: I am a stroller - not a wheeled carriage for babies, but one who strolls. I know by now, dear reader, that I have mentioned more than once my love for a good ramble. In my opinion, it’s the best way to encounter a new place, a good way to clear the mind, the only way to make meetings enjoyable, and the best method for seeing as many dogs as possible. I am very lucky to live in a walkable city, and although I have lived in my neighbourhood for several years now, I still find little delights and new charms every time I step out my door.
Of course, this is not necessarily the easiest time of year to go wandering. It takes many long minutes to get dressed in all the requisite layers, and by the time I am ready to leave home, I am already hot and irritated. Then there is the ever-present problem of navigating the street. Falling snow is very charming: fallen snow causes headaches. There are snowdrifts to climb and clamber over, badly-cleared sidewalks, ice, slush, and increasingly narrow tracks left by the snowplows to struggle through after several months of snow. If it’s warm, the snow melts and then freezes and melts again, creating crisp layers of ice hiding under the latest cover of snowflakes. The result is either that you stride confidently about and then slip, like a cartoon, arse over tea kettle, and wind up feet in the air, flat on your back, or that you waddle, penguin-like, taking mincing steps and an uncanny fear gripping your heart and locking your knees. The little rubber cramp-on boot covers can help with this problem, but at some point, the ice is going to win. Nature so often does.
However, we are past the Winter Solstice, and so technically speaking, the days are growing longer and the nights shorter, even if only infinitesimally. Spring is eventually going to arrive again, and one of its greatest pleasures will no doubt be the freedom to wander clear, rain-washed streets with a light jacket and no mittens. Summer, of course, is in many ways the best for this - throw on a pair of comfortable shoes and off you go, ready for any amble your heart desires. I admit that at the height of summer, I tend to go walking very early in the morning or after dark, when it is coolest, but either way, there is still untold joy in tripping out the door without much thought or care.
There is perhaps one person I regularly encounter on my regular wanderings who is at even greater ease than I am, who has even fewer cares, regardless of season or sun - and that is the chubby-cheeked baby, ensconced in a stroller, being pushed along the pavement in their pram. In winter, they too have to be dressed within an inch of their lives, often rendered immobile by the layers of clothes, so that they resemble little snow-suited starfish rather than human children, arms and legs stiffly akimbo. And in summer, when the sun is hottest, the confines of their strollers are often canopied to shade their tiny occupants. Whether wrapped from top to toe or shielded from the elements or kicking their little bootied feet with rapture as they go, I am always struck by the thought, when I see a baby in a pram pass by: “Now that is the way to travel.” Perhaps, though, upon reflection, I would miss striding about at will, and the good, tired feeling after a long walk that makes a cup of tea and a rest so satisfying. Another year of wandering and journeys awaits us in just a few short days, and I am looking forward to what those adventures have to bring. Happy ambling, or perambulating, to you, dear reader, in the coming year.
Jennifer
LBD
There is a dress hanging in my closet as I write this- black, sombre, controlled - that immediately springs to mind when I think of a ‘little black dress’. But it’s not really for going out, for date nights or parties. It’s for conferences. I pair it with the same black blazer, the same black shoes, black tights and a careful bun every time I wear it. Only my hands and face are visible, distinct from this swath of black. There is a sort of uniform at conferences, unspoken, but no less potent than if it were written down and acknowledged, and black is a big part of it. Most of the academic gatherings I have attended are a sea of black, punctuated by grey. To be fair, I have only participated in art history conferences, so perhaps meetings of other scholars are a veritable rainbow of colour - I do not know.
I’ve wondered about why we all dress in this uniform of black since my very first conference, more than a decade ago (shriek). I even wrote a paper about it. I think the rigid but silent rules of dress for these occasions are shaped by the tightrope that academic women and queer folks have to navigate. We’re wearing black to appear serious, sophisticated, equal to the challenge of the work we set out to do - and fighting against the deeply ingrained assumption that we are not up to the task. Rigid, matte black clothing (for of course, nothing should be shiny or reflective) also does a good job of erasing any hint of sexuality - the black blazer particularly obscures the body, blending with the black clothing beneath it, so that in the dimly lit rooms of a conference talk or panel, we are reduced to heads and hands, floating in an ocean of black. It reminds me very much of 17th-century Netherlandish paintings of guild members, each in their respectable black doublet and ruff, hands and faces leaping out as the only colourful elements in an otherwise murky, dark canvas. And, in a manner of speaking, we are doing something very similar to those Dutch men: following a strict dress code, one that draws attention to our faces, our heads, and shrouds all the other parts of us.
This is painting a very dark picture -ha ha - of academic life for women and queer people, and I admit, sometimes it can feel brutal. But there is light at the end of the tunnel - quite literally. At some conferences, every once in a while, if you are lucky, you will spot her: an eminence grise, literally the ‘grey eminence’ with beautiful snowy white hair, massive framed glasses and a colourful, bespoke necklace or silk scarf over the elegant grey of her draped top and trousers. She points us to a saving grace in academia, distinct from other industries - getting old is good. She is confident, stable, tenured, a research chair and the head of a department, secure in her position and her wisdom. She has nothing to prove - her list of publications is a mile long, her classes are legendary, her scholarship formidable, and she has survived forty years of academic life. She is a presence. That is, I think, why she can doff the black and settle into the gentler tones and shades of grey - she no longer needs the respectability of black: people respect her as a matter of course.
I will admit a flaw in this argument, dear reader, and that is summer. I have an upcoming conference in June, and I am struggling mightily to imagine what I am going to find to wear for that event. Most academic conferences take place during the academic school year, when everyone is on campus, so black is appropriate, because it’s fall or winter. This is my first warm-weather conference, and I have no idea what I’m going to do. Surely head-to-toe black is not a good choice; no one wants thick black tights and a black wool blazer in the dead of summer. One day, if I can survive long enough to reach the status of an eminence grise, I’ll have the luxury of soft, gentle grey - or perhaps I’ll be so well-established that I won’t care one bit about my clothes, and I’ll wear whatever pleases me. In the meantime, you’ll find me digging in my closet, frustrated, and longing for the security that only the little black dress and blazer can give.
Jennifer