Thursday, July 21, 2011

National identity & the fate of nations

Aatish Taseer
Saturday's Wall Street Journal is often the best paper of the week.  This Saturday was no exception. Most notable was an impressive editorial titled, Why My Father Hated India Why My Father Hated India by Aatish Taseer.*  It was insightful.  

Taseer's father was Salman Taseer,  governor of Punjab Province.  He was assassinated in Islamabad Jan. 4, 2011, by his security guard, who objected to his defense of a Christian woman charged with blasphemy. Pakistani law prohibits blasphemy against all religions but is de facto applied only to impiety against Islam. 


Taseer presents a compelling account of Pakistan and India in 1947.  The idea for a separate country for India's  Muslims was birthed in 1930 by Muhammad Iqbal, an Indian Muslim poet.  

"Iqbal's vision took concrete shape in August 1947.  Despite the partition of British India, it had seemed at first that there would be no transfer of populations.  But violence erupted, and it quickly became clear that in the new homeland for India's Muslims, there would be no place for it's non-Muslim communities.  Pakistan and India came into being at the cost of a million lives and the largest migration in history."
 
As Taseer describes the history he teases out what makes up national identity.  In the case of Pakistan, it's hatred of India.  "The shared experience of carnage and loss is the foundation of the modern relationship between two countries...But in Pakistan, the partition had another, deeper meaning.  It raised big questions, in cultural and civilizational terms, about what its separation from India would mean.

"In the absence of a true national identity, Pakistan defined itself by it opposition to India.  It turned its back on all that had been common between Muslims and non-Muslims in the era before partition...dress, customs multicultural festivals, marriage rituals and literature.  The new country set itself the task of erasing its associations with the subcontinent, an association many came to view as a contamination.  Had this assertion of national identity meant the casting out of something alien or foreign in favor of an organic or homegrown identity, it might have had an empowering effect.  What made this self-wounding, even nihilistic, was that Pakistan, by asserting a new Arabized Islamic identity, rejected its own local and regional culture." 

There were so many wrong turns made by Pakistan.  At the time of the partition it was structurally more successful, "better roads and cars, thriving businesses, compared to starving India." But something started to happen in the 1990s.  India began turning away from socialism just as Islamized Pakistan became more extreme, on the road to failed-state status.  

The Pakistan-India conflict brings to mind ancient Greece's Peloponnesian War, between Athens and Sparta.  Athens lost.  It was once the premier city state in Greece, reduced to a state of complete subjection.  

 I realized there's an odd familiarity to the story of Pakistan, bringing me to surprise number three:  Is the U.S., with it's political self-destructiveness, becoming like Pakistan, transforming itself into a self-wounding place?

Another editorial in Saturday's WSJ teases out this idea.  Peggy Noonan wrote about polls measuring the right track/wrong track numbers on Presidential economic policies.  "The wrong track numbers hit 63% this month...But there are other reasons for American unease, and in a way some are deeper and more pervasive.  Some are cultural...Pretty much everyone over 50 in America feels on some level like a refugee.  That's because they were born in one place--the old America--and live now in another.  We're like immigrants, whether we literally are or not.  

"But everyone over 50 in America feels a certain cultural longing now.  They hear the new culture out of the radio, the TV, the billboard, the movie, the talk show.  It is so violent, so sexual-ized, so politicized, so rough.  They miss the old America they were born into, 50 to 70 years ago.  And they fear, deep down, that this new culture, the one of their children, isn't going to make it.  Because it is, in essence, an assault-ive culture, from the pop music coming out of the rental car radio to the TSA agent with her hands on your kids' buttocks.  We are increasingly strangers here, and we fear for the future.  There are 100 million Americans over 50.  A third of a nation."

Two disparate writers from extremely different places have touched upon a nihilistic cultural trait that corrodes the soul of a society.  Quick!  What's the antidote? 


*Aatish Taseer has written several books and articles about the no-man's-land of trying to understand his father and his father's country.  He's the illegitimate son of Salman Taseer, a Pakistani politician, and his Indian journalist mother, Tavleen Singh.  His parents had a one-week affair in Delhi in 1980.  A month later, his mother discovered she was pregnant.   "For a young woman from an old Sikh family to become pregnant out of marriage by a visiting Pakistani was then (and now) an enormous scandal. During the week when she was considering an abortion, my father called unexpectedly from Dubai," Taseer recounts in a WSJ interview.  He talked her out of it.   Mother and son followed Salman's tumultuous political career, multiple imprisonments, democratic governments and failed ones.  At the age of 21 Aatish visited his father in Lahore and their relationship flourished, for a time.  Until the bombings in London.  Aatish wrote a an opinion piece for a British online journal Prospect, stating, "To be Indian is to come from a safe, ancient country and, more recently, from an emerging power. In contrast, to be Pakistani is to begin with a depleted idea of nationhood. In the 55 years that Pakistan has been a country, it has been a dangerous, violent place, defined by hatred of the other—India."  Father and son were still estranged at the time of the assassination.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

A Default Deterrent

What's missing in this picture?
-The current circular sparring in Congress and the White House over our debt ceiling epitomizes the difference between the private sector and the Never, Never Land of politicians.  In the real world banks and debt collectors would be far more demanding-it's called bankruptcy, i.e. shame, no access to other people's money for seven years, maybe even homelessness and other radical lifestyle changes.


I'm reminded of a conversation I had recently with a friend.  I said no way could the private sector ever get the country in such a jam as our politicians have with our $14 trillion debt.  Bernie Madoff?  Small potatoes.  The tricky young English banker testing the limits of his first assignment in Singapore?  Aspiring but no cigar.  You get the picture.


What's missing from our political class is any immediate consequences for their actions/inactions.   Parents, teachers, dog trainers, good bosses, etc. all know the road to success is paved with clear instructions and immediate consequences for one's actions.  Your dog wants to sniff a hydrant while you're walking-Yank!  The pinch collar sharply reminds him who's boss.  Your child doesn't clean up their room?  Sorry kiddo, give me back my car keys this instant.   If politicians merrily charge our collective debt limit to the point of no return?  Hmmm, sorry, then WE can't have our social security checks.   Whoa! There's definitely something wrong with this picture.


My humble suggestion to change the power dynamic: Whenever the politicians can't come to an orderly and timely agreement & risk a government shutdown the president, every congressman, senator and all those assisting them on the public payroll will NOT receive their paychecks, or federal pension contributions, or health insurance co-pays, etc. for the duration, and will not be reimbursed for wasting our time.  This lot needs a good dose of negative re-enforcement.  If these draconian penalties don't work I suggest we get the CIA water boarders out of retirement. 




-A letter in this morning's Wall Street Journal captures the heart of the matter.  David Zukerman of the Bronx, NY is incredulous that President Obama is toying with his only means of support.

"I have no income other than my monthly Social Security check of $1,065 (plus another $200 in food stamps) no bank account, no money stashed away anywhere.  I look not to the Republicans as the cause of my imminent and literal pennilessness.  I look to the president as the cause for using my vulnerability to play political politics in hopes of re-election and ever-greater governmental power to advance the interests of those with whom he apparently feels most comfortable: our neoaristocrats, the people who can be found at the president's $35,000 fundraisers..."

Jewel on the Prairie

If its a sunny day on December 25th Marcel Breuer’s Annunciation Priory’s bell banner in Bismarck, North Dakota, will cast a cross-shaped shadow at noon on the stone front of the chapel. This article was first published Winter 1986 in North Dakota Horizons Magazine.  Things have changed but some things remain the same, such as the beginning.
 __________________________________________________________________
A renowned architect, and an innovative prioress 
          defied the odds to build a masterpiece
___________________________________________________________________

Seven miles south of Bismarck, North Dakota, far removed from the architectural epicenters of the 20th century, is an American classic.  It was created by world renowned architect Marcel Breuer, an innovative prioress, and a small band of Benedictine nuns.  It is one of a very few buildings of such distinction in the region.  The place -- Annunciation Priory.

The origins of the Priory are as dynamic as the surrounding landscape of rolling hills and Missouri River valley.  In the autumn of 1954 prioress Edane Volk dispatched two sisters to St. John’s Abbey in Collegeville, Minnesota.  The Benedictine monks there had commissioned Breuer, one of the most influential architects of the Bauhaus period, then living in New York City, to design their chapel, library and future building plan.

The challenge:  Could Marcel Breuer ( pronounced like broiler without the l ) design a cluster of buildings in one of the most remote parts of the country that could withstand some of North America’s harshest climate yet nobly reflect the Benedictine philosophy of prayer and work, and at a price the fledgling order could afford?  Breuer met the challenge.

Prioress Volk no doubt assumed the Lord was on her side but she was also an astute businesswoman.  In making her request she’d calculated that she could clip considerable expenses because St. John’s was paying the architect’s expenses as far as Minnesota.  The short additional trips to North Dakota would save precious resources if Breuer would be so kind as to arrange them while in Minnesota.  He was and he countered that perhaps he could design them a “little jewel” on the prairie in the process.

'Many people in Bismarck at that time thought, Who are these sisters to get this fancy New York architect?  They’d be broke before they begin,’ Sister Volk recalled.  They were all wrong.

                                  Madonna & Child sculpture at entrance to chapel

In the late 1940s St. Benedict’s Convent in St. Joseph, Minnesota, missioned 140 nuns to North Dakota to establish a new Benedictine motherhouse to meet the rising need of teachers and nurses for religious schools and hospitals in the region.

Originally the plans were to build the Priory on land the sisters owned in Dickinson.  But when newly appointed Bishop Hacker took office in Bismarck, he made inquiries about locating the Priory in Bismarck, closer to the Catholic establishment in the state.

When a Bismarck farm family, Mr. and Mrs. Charles Swenson, donated a tract of land seven miles south of the city, Bishop Hacker had second thoughts.  Such a remote site could prove to be too much of a challenge for a group of women.  He too was wrong. The sisters wanted a remote place, away from city activity, in keeping with monastic tradition but also close enough to Bismarck to enable them to participate in their work and the community.

“Father Michael Marx was then on leave from St. John’s and teaching in Bismarck.  He encouraged me to consider Breuer as architect of our Priory,” Sister Volk said.

Glory, who were we to go talk to this great architect from New York City!” But Marx encouraged her.

The sisters had made several visits to new priories in the region, studying architectural styles.  They knew they most wanted a priory that would enhance their lives as Benedictines and would suit the site near Bismarck.

“When we heard about Breuer’s philosophy of contemporary architecture-that buildings show a connection to their surroundings and not just be a replica of the past, as well as his study of the Benedictine Order and his previous monastic work, we were convinced he could build the Priory,” Sister Volk recalled.

“He inquired about our daily schedule, where we ate, what we did for recreation, how we prayed; not just work but our spiritual needs,” Sister Volk recounted.  “Benedictine life-what does that mean?” he would ask.  He wanted to get that into the buildings.”  Breuer asked the sisters their ideas of what they wanted in their home.  “He was very perceptive of our needs and never tried to push his ideas on us, he never confronted people.  Instead, he’d say, ‘Well, Sister, we’ll work that out.’”

Marcel Breuer drew up a 100 year plan including, in the first stage, a girl’s high school (now part of The University of Mary) completed in 1959; the second stage, providing the permanent chapel and convent for the sisters, completed in 1963; and the third stage, the building of The University of Mary, ongoing.  The first and second stage combined, cost just over $3,400,000 - a modest sum for such a treasure.

State Highway 1804 skirts the Missouri Rver south of Bismarck.  It meanders past large ranch homes with good -sized swatches of pasture stocked with well-bred horses.  Off in the distance, on a prominent river bluff, stands a tall concrete banner that recedes from view as the road curves, leaving one wondering what that prominent, unusual object is.  A half mile futher on it reappears, in the near distance.  A simple wooden roadside sign says, “ University of Mary and Annunciation Priory.”







                      Sister Emannuel, "Scrubbing the porch of the Lord."

Turning off the highway onto the Priory road there is no doubt that this is the rugged landscape of the American West.  Sage brush, prairie grasses and roses grapple for moisture amidst the rocky glacial debris.  Shelter belts and fields of crops cut straight lines in the countryside yet there is a wildness about the site that arriving at the parking lot does not dispel.

Breuer’s bell banner stands off center, in front of the long fieldstone cloister walk that establishes the Priory’s souther parameter.  This is in keeping with Benedictine tradition of placing the cloister to the south, and the church to the north.

Three bronze bells are suspended from the banner, one named Hilary, in honor of Bishop Hilary Hacker; another named Joseph, in memory of Monsignor Joseph Raith; and Mary, the smallest bell, in honor of the patroness of the community.

The bell banner exemplifies Breuer’s mastery of concrete.  Varieties of concrete have been used since Roman times but not until the late 19th century invention of reinforced concrete did it become a staple building material, valued for its strength, speed of assembly, versatility and modest cost.


The Priory bell banner soars 100 feet into the air, a huge pennant perched upon a two-way cantilever support.  Its strong sculptural form creates bold shadows on and around it.  No other building material is capable of such height, shaping economy and durability.  Stone, brick--impossible.  Metal, wood--maybe but too expensive.  Breuer delighted in using grainy patterned wooden frames to cure his concrete forms, imbedding them with the wood’s pattern and personality.

“Some people around Bismarck were sure the bell banner would topple over in the first good blizzard,” one of the sisters recalled humorously.  It has long since weathered that test.  It is a particularly suitable prairie structure--large, visible from a great distance across the rolling farmland and, of course durable, to withstand fierce extremes of weather.  Its dramatic spiritual form heralds the religious community that resides within earshot of its bells.

Marcel Breuer was born in Pecs, Hungary, in 1902.  he attended the art Academy in in Vienna and later the Bauhaus School of Design, in Dessau, Germany, where he became a professor.  It was at the Bauhaus that he established himself as one of the primary design influences of the 20th century, along with Walter Gropius, the Bauhaus founder, and Ludwig Mies van der Rohe.

The  Bauhaus School espoused a radically different approach to design and building that stressed the importance of an object’s use in determining how it should look.  Form follows function was their credo.  They strived to mimic the sleek aesthetic of machines.  A car engine, for instance, is purely functional, not glitzed up with superfluous detail.  Objects were made of durable, economical, often industrial materials, such as stainless and tubular steel, concrete and canvas.  These materials were transformed from ugly ducklings into beautiful functional objects such as the Breuer chair, made of tubular steel.  Breuer’s chair is an apt example of successful Bauhaus principles.



              Two Breuer-designed chairs



Hindsight shows something got lost in the translation.  What had initially been intended to produce unpretentious, honest forms quickly became a good excuse to build on the cheap.  Cities around the world show this to be true, with their repetitive plethora of glass and steel boxes for buildings and mind-numbing interiors for rooms.

This makes the presence of Annunciation Priory exceptional.  A scant 25 years after the closing of the Bauhaus (which existed for barely a decade, from the 1920s to the early 30s) the Priory was designed and built thousands of miles from the origins of its principles while maintaining all of its best ideals. 

The Bauhaus was closed with the rise of Nazism.  Gropius and Breuer soon settled at Harvard University, where they taught at the School of Design.  Together they created one of the first International Style  (what streamlined buildings are called) structures of note in the country, The Gropius House, in Lincoln, Massachusetts, in 1937.  Mies van der Rohe went to Chicago, where he began work on the Illinois School of Technology.

Gropius stayed at Harvard, while Breuer spent the 1940s perfecting house designs, as ‘...the shelter as simple, expressive geometry in fieldstone, glass and taut white surfaces, cantilevered over the countryside or precisely placed in fields and on hills,” as noted by architectural critic Ada Louise Huxtable in her book, Kicked Any Good Buildings Lately?

By the 1950s and 60s Breuer was receiving the meatiest of commissions, such as the UNESCO Building in Paris; the Whitney Museum in New York City; Housing and Urban Development headquarters in Washington DC; and closer to home, St. John’s Abbey, in Collegeville, Minnesota.

These structures established the now familiar Breuer trademarks of ‘...powerful, repetitive patterns of precast facades, artfully sculptured columns, Y-shaped buildings, folded and fanned concrete and elevated sculptural shapes, which push reinforced concrete technology into the realm of abstract art.
Priory cemetery                                                                  Summer 1984
On a warm summer’s day, Sister Edane Volk recalls the events of 30 years ago, when she was prioress and worked with Marcel Breuer to create Annunciation Priory.  She is dressed a newer, modified habit and although retired, has just finished a day of volunteer work at a Bismarck hospital.

“Breuer was a very talented man, yet he had great humility.  He was soft spoken, and never talked of the other great things he did, like that UNESCO Building.  He’d say, ‘Yes, I helped with that.”

Breuer lived for a time with time with the monks at St. John’s to enable him to more fully understand their lifestyle.  Sister Volk did not know what religion he was only that he was buried a Lutheran, in 1981.

At the Priory’s entrance, behind the bell banner, is a fieldstone and white concrete cloister walk, a courtyard and a terra cotta flue tile screen that establishes a sense of monastic seclusion.

The convent and school wings jut out from the flue tile-fronted main building.  To break the monotony of the two wings, Breuer produced a checkerboard pattern of screens alternating with buff-tone brick.  Unlike conventional screens that fit the windows these are set in a framework about 12 inches from the building.

Light and shadow are important components of the Priory, most notable the bell banner.  Once a year near Christmas the shadow of the cross in the banner is cast onto the front of the chapel, 100 feet to the north.

           The bell banner’s shadow cast at noon on Christmas day  photo Greg Becker

The Priory, which includes the convent, dormitory,space for religious retreats, communal dining and meeting rooms, is made of simple concrete block walls, vinyl and brick tiled floors and plaster ceilings, for the most part.  Simplicity is the rule.  The windows are many and the walls are white with the occasional accent of Chinese red, moss green, yellow an a memorable shade of blue affectionately referred to as “Breuer Blue.”

The only ornamentation are the larger than life-size photomurals of Gothic paintings, including works by Duccio, Giotto, Frencesca and an anonymous work of the “Annunciation.”

The chapel is the heart of Annunciation Priory, an intriguing combination of modern elegance and ancient simplicity.  It is a large space with no interior supports, relying instead on master engineering and an hyperbolic parabaloid-shaped roof with exterior buttresses.  Imagine a wide W with outside supports for the lateral thrust of the outer lines of the W.

                Priory Chapel's paraboloid-shaped roof with bell banner in background

The exterior is bare concrete, fieldstone and copper-sheathed concrete for the roof.  The interior is a striking contrast of light and dark:  Dark-stained simple pews and floor with walls and ceiling painted white.  A Breuer compromise, and a good one.  At St. John’s Abbey Chapel, Breuer also used concrete but left the interior its natural fieldstone grey, a color he felt was too “masculine” fro a women’s chapel, so he had the Priory painted white.  As Breuer said, “Form follows function...but not always.”

Two grand floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows flank either side of the chapel, in amber, rose and blue, that change shades with changing daylight.  These windows serve to visually separate the choir and the Nave.

The alter is Cold Spring, Minnesota blue granite, and completes an axis line through the granite vestibule fountain to the bell banner. The wall directly behind the alter is gold-leaf covered ceramic tile and radiates a lush warmth during mass from the glow of tall candles.

Sister Denise, the Priory building manager, affirms the characteristic resident’s belief that “There’s something about this place that’s special.”  She qualifies her assertions with the manager’s eye for the accounting books, “However, I’ll be speaking to Mr. Breuer in heaven about all those windows and the flat roofs-such heating and re-roofing bills!”

Sister Miriam recalls the stonemason who faced the local fieldstone for the chapel and cloister walk, “Peter Teminson was originally from Latvia, or Lithuania.  He was a coal miner, who served in the American Army during the war and afterwards settled in Bismarck.  He faced all that stone himself, with a sledge-hammer.  He knew how to hit them too, he never had to swing twice.  When Teminson returned to visit the completed chapel he was so move by its beauty that he hugged the stone walls.

Breuer also designed the original administration classroom building of the University of Mary, which is about a quarter of a mile to the northeast, by way of a footpath along the bluffs of the Missouri River.  It is only the Catholic university in the state, is co-educational, and just this year reached university status.  It has also made good use of local fieldstone which comprises walkways and portions of buildings.

Annunciation Priory represents the missionary spirit of the Church, the pioneer drive of the settlement of America and the best of modern architecture.  The great thought that went into its design is enhanced  by its remoteness.

“Breuer couldn’t get over the great open space out here,” Sister Volk recalled, “it’s surprising how many visitors come here on a summer’s evening.  We feel we have a special place here for people, at Breuer’s little jewel.”

                   Lathe walkway showcases Breuer’s use of shadow for design variety


           

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Elizabeth David A Luscious Revolution


First published online March 5, 2009

In the early 1970s, shortly after we moved to Cheadle Hulme, Cheshire, I enrolled in an evening class at the University of Manchester.  Manchester is at latitude 53 degrees.  Churchill-polar-bear-capital-Canada’s a smidgen further north, at 58 degrees.  Although not nearly as cold as Canada a northern English winter then was often foggy, with a damp, bone-chilling cold and rainy.  It got dark by 4:30 p.m.

As soon as Jim got home on Wednesday evenings I’d leave our toddler Anna in his care, to share dinner then bedtime Beatrix Potter stories, while I dashed the short walk to Beechfield Lane to catch the bus into the sulphur-lit city.

                Manchester, photo: Dr. Nicholas Higham, professor of mathmatics, University of Manchester

The grimy, double-decker took about 50 minutes, winding through the outer suburban villages then Victorian semi-detached, row houses, past old factories, then finally to the University near the city center.  That winter nine of us studied Women in English History.

Typical of much of my education I remember far more about the after-class decamping to the ‘Straight Arms’ which was easily the saddest, most stern pub I’d ever been to, slightly redeemed by being near the bus stop.  Its style was typical of old industrial town centers of the North, a tile and brick building with ancient plumbing, high ceilings, dark stained wood and a profusion of signage decidedly flinty, “No Dancing,” “No Singing,” “No Swearing.” 
 
Nonetheless I learned much there, and had fun too.  Sometimes the instructor’s husband, a filmmaker, would join us.  I became friends with two fellow students, Ann and Pauline.  It was at Pauline’s that I first experienced the influence of Elizabeth David.  Pauline invited us to dinner at her family’s Victorian Heaton Park row-house on a frigid winter’s night which she lit with the bright flame of Provence.

She’d spent college summers in the south of France where she discovered a radically different cuisine from doer English fare.  She brought home from her travels a determination to ferret out olives and olive oils, eggplant and zucchini, lots of garlic plus an enchanting dining style all of which she brought to table that cold night in northern England.   The entree was roasted lamb with potatoes and a side dish of ratatouille Nicoise.  I can taste it still. Her inspiration: Elizabeth David’s French Provincial Cooking (FPC). The next day I  bought a copy, now annotated extensively.


It was the hors d’oeuvres that most dazzled.  In little bowls, arranged on a cloth-covered tray, Pauline served black olives in oil; cottage cheese; celery heart and tomatoes stewed in olive oil, coriander and peppercorns; herring in tomato sauce ( the Danish Food Centre near St. Ann’s Square, Manchester offered a fine selection of fish and cheese at that time), and thinly sliced salami.

Elizabeth David, in FPC instructs on hors d’oeuvres, “Something raw, something salt, something dry or meaty, something gentle and smooth and possibly something in the way of fish.”  Yes, that’s the way David’s recipes often read—open ended, kind of scary to the inexperienced but an approach, when seasoned by trial and error, aimed to liberate cooks from de rigueur lists, replaced by an inculcated understanding of how ingredients blend and work together.

“…the main object of an hors-d’-oeuvre is to provide something beautifully fresh looking which will at the same time arouse your appetite and put you in good spirits,” David instructs in FPC.  How many sad meals lack these most essential ingredients?  She goes on to describe, as she does in all of her books, not just recipes but the places she found these foods, who prepared them, reviews of exotic cookery books dating back generations, and places she visits such as a hotel in northern France, the Hotel de la Poste at Duclair.  “There were thinly sliced cucumbers, little mushrooms in a red-gold sauce, tomatoes, cauliflower vinaigrette, carrots grated almost to a puree (delicious this one), herring filllets.”  She also makes note of skillful use of color and presentation.


David’s early cookery books translated the joy of Mediterranean cuisine to a battered, war-weary population.  England had food rationing for 12 years, ending in 1953. David lamented the difficulties in obtaining fresh basil and pine nuts but persevered.  Terrance Conran, noted English designer and restauranteur, said, in his introduction to the Folio Society’s exquisite 2006 printing of Italian Food, part of their David series, “Elizabeth David changed the U.K.                                                
"In the early fifties, when much of the British Isles was grey, broken and rationed, her books brought the hope of a different sort of sunny, colourful, well-fed life into our gloomy world.”  Conran was so awed by David that when he opened his London restaurant, Bibendum, after establishing his Habitat home emporiums, he insisted on installing an elevator, at considerable expense, hoping to attract the now infirmed David who lived nearby.  She became a frequent diner, often with Francis Bacon whom she met there                        
                        
Born Elizabeth Gwynne, circa 1913, to a wealthy member of Parliament, she grew up in an idyllic 17th century Sussex manor house, Wootton Manor.  In the 1930s she went to Paris to study at the Sorbonne.  It was there she began her lifelong mission to expand cooking in the British Isles.  She was caught on the Continent during World War II, fleeing German occupation, first to Corsica, then Greece and Crete when helped by the British to escape to Alexandria then Cairo. 

“So it was only later, after coming home to England, (after World War II) that I realized in what way the family had fulfilled their task of instilling French culture into at least one of their charges.  Forgotten were the Sorbonne professors and the yards of Racine learned by heart, the ground plans of cathedrals I had never seen, and the saga of Napoleon’s last days at St. Helena.  What had stuck was the taste for a kind of food quite ideally unlike anything I had known before,” David recounts in FPC.

David was a scholar.  the bibliography of FPC is 15 pages, her prose renowned for its accuracy and wit.  “The origin of Parmesan cheese must be very remote.  “The Parmesans (natives of Parma, Italy) claim that it has been made in the district for 2000 years.  In any case it was already well-known in the 14th century...(a storyteller recounts) in the province of Parma, ‘there’s a mountain consisting entirely of grated Parmesan cheese...on which live people with nothing to do but make maccheroni and ravioli, and cook it in capon broth,’” David recounts in Italian Cooking.

“Provence is a country to which I am always returning...as soon as I can get on to a train.  Here in London it is an effort of will to believe in the existence of such a place at all.  But now and again the vision of golden tiles on a round southern roof, or of some warm, stony, herb-scented hillside will rise out of my kitchen pots with the smell of a piece of orange peel scenting a beef stew,”  David waxes euphoric in her introduction to Italian Cooking.

“It is indeed certain...that the sprout from Brussels, the drabness and dreariness and stuffy smells evoked by its very name, has nothing at all to do with southern cooking,” David writes.  Ever the culinary sleuth, David adds rich details from battered, out-of-print cookery books.  Her writing style creates not only a desire to replicate certain dishes but insight into their history.

“Provence is not without its bleak and savage side.  The inhabitants wage perpetual warfare against the ravages of mistral; it takes a strong temperament to stand up to this ruthless wind which sweeps Provence for the greater part of the year...It does not do to regard Provence simply as Keat’s tranquil land of song and mirth.  The melancholy and savagery are part of its spell.”  This could be said, too, of North Dakota.

Although David’s Mediterranean series was written primarily for an English audience her books translate well anywhere.  She addresses measurements, weights, oven temperatures, etc. in each of her books for good reason.  I remember how shocked I was when my Betty Crocker cake recipe was a dud in England.  English flour is milled differently plus the Imperial cup is larger than the American one.  Also the electricity is a stronger current and the public gas is of a different vintage too.  Weighing food anywhere in the world is more consistent that using cups as a measure.

   
Photos circa 1970s:                              
Jim stirring a pot of Elizabeth David’s currant jelly             Anna washing our garden tomatoes for ratatouille

In North Dakota we grew red and black currants , gooseberries (for a couple of years anyway, until the dastardly fungus got them) and strawberries.  We also grew eggplant, zucchini, peas, beans, tomatoes, potatoes, corn, peppers, onions, shallots, herbs, etc. etc.   It was a marvelous place to have a Mediterranean cookbook.  The all round BEST Elizabeth David recipe we ever made in North Dakota was on a late sunny morning in June right after harvesting our first crop of sweet green peas. 
_______________________________________________________________

Potage Creme de Petits Pois Cream of Green Pea Soup
                                      -Elizabeth David’s French Provincial Cooking

This is one of the nicest, freshest and simplest of summer soups.   Those who claim not to be able to taste the difference between frozen and fresh peas will perhaps find it instructive to try this dish.  Not that a very excellent soup cannot be made with frozen peas, but when fresh peas are at the height of their season, full grown but still young and sweet, the difference in intensity of flavour and of scent is very marked indeed.
 
Quantities are 1 3/4 pounds of peas
the heart of a cabbage lettuce--I used Boston lettuce  or you could use iceberg
1/4 pound (yes, 1/4 pound) of butter -next time will try soy based margarine
1 3/4 pints of water
salt and sugar

Melt the butter in your soup saucepan; put in the lettuce heart washed and cut up into fine strips with a silver knife; add the shelled peas, salt, and a lump or two of sugar.  Cover the pan; cook gently for 10 minutes until the peas are thoroughly soaked in the butter.  Add the water; cook at a moderate pace until the peas are quite tender.  Sieve them, or puree them in the electric liquidizer.  Return to the pan and heat up.  a little extra seasoning may be necessary but nothing else at all.   Enough for four ample servings.

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In 1963, at age 49, David had a cerebral hemorrhage.  She went on to receive many awards for her culinary skills but the honor that she most treasured was being made a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature in 1982, which recognized her skills as a writer.  In 1986 she was awarded a CBE (Commander of the British Empire, a   Knighthood).   She died in 1992, at 78.
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As I write this feature our home is filled with the magical scent of Terry B’s oven braised beef stew ( Blue Kitchen ) Feb. 6, 2008.


The beef is marinating in wine, bay leaves with onions and is bubbling away in my new Staub braisier. What an oddly satisfying state of affairs.  The French connection is  alive and well.  Elizabeth David helped promote the dissemination of fine cooking.  I salute her.  (and Terry,  Pauline, my Mom, Julia Child and aspiring cooks everywhere!).