Borrowing from the Greeks

The secret to happiness is freedom, the secret of freedom is courage.

The bravest are surely those who have the clearest vision of what is before them, glory and danger alike, and yet notwithstanding, go out and meet it.—Thucydides

Whenever we feel fearful, cornered and optionless, if we are open to it, balm and inspiration are available. We have choices, no matter how small they seem. Little by little, great change is possible.

While rearranging and reorganizing my overflowing office, I found these two quotes by Thucydides, tucked away in a drawer. I've had some dark days recently, and they are among the glimmers of light and hope life has thrown my way.

The old gypsy curse, "May you live in interesting times" applies to all of us sharing this planet. It also applied to Thucydides. An Athenian, he is best known as the historian of the Peloponnesian War, a 27 year long conflict between Athens and Sparta. He was in his 20s when the war began, served as a general and was exiled for a military defeat. Unable to take an active role in civic life, he chose to dedicate himself to being an impartial observer and chronicler of the war between Athens and Sparta, and so the impact of his life has echoed down through history in a way it probably never would have if he had been able to continue in a military or political career.

When I apply the long lens of history, my problems seem very small, and of far less significance. The tiny city-state of Athens inspires me. So small, often beleaguered, but with a philosophy that changed the world because they had not only convictions, but courage. Their ideals have made it possible for me, a woman with no fortune, aristocratic lineage or connections, born over 2500 years later, to have freedom of choice and the power to engage my destiny.

Closer to home, a woman who knew this well was Amelia Earhart. So different in so many ways, I don't think I have to spell out what they have in common. I have cherished these words for almost 20 years now:

Courage is the price life exacts for granting peace.—Amelia Earhart

Preparing Peacocks

My avian obsession continues . . . and I realize if I don’t change up the subject, I’m going to have to rename this blog. The current topic of investigation and illustration is peacocks, but perhaps I have an excuse this time. Saturday night I dined at Watershed, where executive chef Scott Peacock works his magic {the vegetables are especially delicious} and earlier in the week I found the most marvelous treehouse and a menu by Chef Peacock via Pia’s blog. A curious combination of coincidence, no? Not surprising, then, that when I glanced over at the peacock that’s been pinned on my board for the last two years, I decided that NOW was the time to use it in an illustration.

So . . . illustration completed, culinary preparations of peacock came naturally to mind. And really, if there’s anything more fascinating than birds, surely it is food.



I easily found a medieval recipe* for preparing peacocks, and was poised to offer it to you . . . but as I perused the instructions, it occurred to me that it might be a bit offputting to my more sensitive readers. Not that the recipe is particularly cruel, mind you, except for the obvious sacrifice of the bird. It’s just a bit, um—graphic—unless you are an experienced taxidermist.

So instead I offer you a few alternatives:

The first is a cocktail {yes, I know the pun is a bit much}

Peacock’s Tail

Ingredients:
1 oz Chartreuse liquor
3/4 oz grenadine syrup {semi-frozen}
1 tsp Strega herbal liqueur
Lemon Sherbet

Directions:
Pour Chartreuse into an oversized frosted martini glass. Partially fill with crushed ice, tamping down the top with the flat end of a barspoon. Add a layer of the semi-frozen grenadine, and fill with lemon sherbet. Sprinkle Strega on top, and garnish with a mint leaf.

Scott Peacock’s Fried Chicken Recipe
Adapted from The Gift of Southern Cooking

Ingredients:
1/2 cup kosher salt
2 quarts cold water
1 three-pound chicken, cut into 8 pieces
1 quart buttermilk
1 pound lard
1/2 cup unsalted butter
1/2 cup country ham pieces, or 1 thick slice country ham cut into 1/2-inch strips
1 cup all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons cornstarch
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

Directions:
1. Make the brine: Dissolve kosher salt in cold water. Place chicken parts in a nonreactive bowl or pot; add brine and cover completely. Refrigerate 8 to 12 hours.
2. Drain the brined chicken and rinse out the bowl. Return chicken to the bowl and pour the buttermilk over. Cover and refrigerate for 8 to 12 hours. Drain the chicken on a wire rack, discarding the buttermilk.
3. Meanwhile, prepare the fat for frying by putting the lard, butter and country ham into a heavy skillet or frying pan. Cook over low heat for 30 to 45 minutes, skimming as needed, until the butter ceases to throw off foam and the country ham is browned. Use a slotted spoon to remove the ham carefully from the fat.
4. Just before frying, increase the temperature to medium-high and heat the fat to 335 degrees. Prepare the dredge by blending together the flour, cornstarch, salt and pepper in a shallow bowl or on wax paper. Dredge the drained chicken pieces thoroughly in the flour mixture, then pat well to remove all excess flour.
5. Using tongs, slip some of the chicken pieces, skin side down, into the heated fat. {Do not overcrowd the pan or the cooking fat will cool. Fry in batches, if necessary.} Regulate the fat so it just bubbles, and cook for 8 to 10 minutes on each side, until the chicken is golden brown and cooked through. Drain thoroughly on a wire rack or on crumpled paper towels, and serve.

Fried chicken is delicious eaten hot, warm, at room temperature or cold.







* If however you have a morbid turn of mind, are fascinated by things grisly or suffer from insatiable curiosity, by all means, check out the link

When Spring and Snow collide

Ashen Beauty

It is the most beautiful of ashen days, a steady rain outside soaking the grey, grey world. It is a day for solitary wandering in the woods by the lake. A day to intimately examine the wet lichens and mosses. A day to watch reflections in the pond at Piedmont Park or the dripping, saturated blooms of star magnolias and daffodils. A day for hot tea and lemon in delicate china cups, sipped while reading 19th century novels under the warmth of an incandescent lamp. A day to meet friends in the twilight at the cozy bar of Parish for cocktails and oysters.

From the Archives: Through the Orchard

A broad, flat lawn stretches in front of you, a swath of deepest emerald under luminous blue, empty in the twilight except for a table alone in the center, a single candelabra casting a pale amber circle on its surface. You cross to the table, lift the candelabra and carry it with you as you continue over the lawn and pass into an orchard. On the border of the orchard you feel the edges of the grass, cool on the lawn, now dry and warm. The air is coated with the scent of fruit and lies heavy between the trees, silvering the bark and graying the leaves. As if the candle flames had flown and multiplied, fireflies flicker above your head. Thick and random they glint in the twists of branches and the spaces between the trees.

But as you pass deeper in the orchard, the trees grow denser, older, and the number of fireflies gradually dwindles. The trees close in together and the branches above your head change from sinuous, cultivated curves bearing leaves and fruit to straight, stiff branches of wild hardwoods. Beneath your feet the grass has given way to a packed forest floor scattered with leaves. The fireflies are gone, but the flame points of the candle burn brighter now, illuminating the indigo spaces between the trees.

Beetlemania

“The Creator, if he exists, is inordinately fond of beetles.”— J.B.S. Haldane

I am too. And craving this book by Christopher Marley.

Forget diamonds and rubies. I want a necklace of jeweled scarabs, bezel set in 24 karat gold, cabochon-style, thank you very much. Can you hear me, Mr. de Vera?

Armchair Ornithology

I find the beauty of birds irresistible. I want to draw them, study them, collect books about them and, in certain cases, collect particular specimens themselves. At the moment, the avian I want to collect is Andrew Bird. Or, perhaps more specifically, his music.*

My introduction to Andrew Bird was a promotional flyer featuring the back of his head, covered by a mop of brown hair, juxtaposed with the exotically plumed heads of tropical birds, again from the back. The flyer announced a performance, but the nature of that performance was undefined. I had no idea who Mr. Bird was or what he did. I only knew I would like it.

Due to my failure to investigate this alluring mystery, I didn't actually hear his music until over a year later, while housesitting for a friend. A woman of diverse and sophisticated musical taste, she had Armchair Apocrypha and I eagerly popped it into the sound system. What came out was delicious—a peculiar and original combination of verbal virtuosity, evocative rhythm, layered melody, violin, glockenspiel, guitar, musical samplings and whistling.

This past month, it occurred to me to check if perhaps he would be performing in Atlanta again. Very unusual for me, as I don't seek out live music. I found that yes, he would be. Very soon. And the show was sold out. I contacted friends with connections and actually considered standing outside the venue the night of the show to see if anyone was selling tickets . . . I really wanted to see that show. I concentrated my energy; I had a feeling it just might happen, although I had no idea how it possibly could. And then, two days before, my friend emailed me. She had two tickets and had decided to ask ME if I wanted to attend the show. I'm sure you can imagine my answer.

In honor of Mr. Bird, I wore a pair of j. crew jeans, lavishly embroidered with chrysanthemums and, naturally, birds. Mr. Bird himself wore a brown jacket with a teal glen plaid, along with a red tie. The richness and layered delicacy of his music was even more wonderful in person. I wanted to open my eyes to watch him perform, to close them and bathe in the nuances of the aural magic.

It’s hard to pick just one of his compositions to share with you, but Imitosis is a favorite—and it pleases me that the carapace of one of the insects is created from a vintage rhinestone button identical to one I inherited. {It’s the circular rhinestone one with the gold border}.








*Although I would certainly welcome Mr. Bird himself as a most delightful ornament to my nest.