“In every-day affairs it is so easy to let things drift.  So tiresome sometimes to leave an interesting book or study to find out what is going wrong in kitchen or household…yet it must be done.”  (From ‘Mrs. Beeton’s Every Day Cookery and Housekeeping Book.”)

I really love this quote because I know that if ‘something is going wrong in kitchen or household’ I am directly connected to it, the wrong has me at the other end of it.  In Mrs. Beeton’s world, it is implied that much of the work is in overseing and instructing, perhaps settling an example.  I also feel like she’s speaking to me directly, it is certainly tiresome to leave an interesting book.  

Read “Good Women Have Their Reward,” and find out just how different attitudes once were, in some cases nothing has changed.  You will find it on “A View From Outside the Box,” url: adialogue.  

An ad to be found in Mrs. Beeton’s book, “Mrs. Beeton’s Every Day Cookery and Housekeeping Book.” 

“The tired man of business returning home after a harassing day, maybe one in which he has had no time to snatch a meal, sorely needs a pleasant well cooked, comfortable one to await him.”  (from the same book)

“Mrs. Beeton would be horrified to know that in my home we share the task of meals, albeit I tend to do it more often than the others as I’m better at it.  Most shocking are my occasional “fend for yourself” nights, where we all make something for ourselves to eat when we are hungry.”  

An excerpt from “Good Women Have Their Reward,” a piece about one Victorian woman and how she influenced the thinking of millions of women then, and perhaps even now (except this one it seems).  Go to “A View From Outside the Box,” to read more, url:adialogue.

Today I return to a familiar topic, that of my waywardness as a keeper of the home.  I picked up a book recently I had not looked at for a while, Mrs. Beeton’s Every Day Cookery and Housekeeping Book.”  The book was published in 1861 and my copy, which cost £42, is inscribed as follows: “Mrs. D. Wilson from her Mother on her 24^th birthday Oct 8^th 1905.”  Mrs. D Wilson, just what would you make of my time – do good women still have their reward?

I’m not so sure we do.  I have spent since 7:30 this morning chasing my tail and wishing I had an old fashioned wife.  I don’t believe women can have it all and the state of my kitchen, the mountain of laundry that needs done and the list of chores I haven’t accomplished only grows while I write.  I am pleased to have written the chapter I completed on my book and to have started this piece but it comes at a cost, and yet…

Isabelle Beeton was born in 1836 and by 1856 she married Samuel Beeton, a publisher of books and magazines.  As well as running a large home to her high standards, she wrote articles in various publications.  Eventually she compiled current best practice on matters to do with household management and published, “The Book of Household Management Comprising Information for the Mistress, Housekeeper, Cook, Kitchen-Maids, Lady’s –Maid, Maid-of-all-Work, Laundry-Maid, Nurse-Maid, Monthly-Wet and Sick Nurses, etc, etc – also Sanitary, Medical & Legal Memoranda: With a History of the Origin, Properties, and Uses of all Things Connected with Home Life and Comfort, edited by Mrs. Isabelle Beeton.” Not only did she find time to write that title of a celebration of the verbose, she put together the 1,112 pages containing 900 recipes, gave birth to four children, the first who died of croup at three months of age and the second who died of scarlet fever before he was two years old.  She had numerous miscarriages and stillbirths and what amazes me is her stoicism and positive enterprise.  The day after her fourth child was born she contracted puerperal fever and died a week later at the age of 28. 

Despite the emphasis of her ‘feminist’ credentials in the movie, “The Secret Life of Mrs. Beeton” (|BBC, 2006), Isabella Beeton was no feminist.  She contended that, “A good woman should be a good housekeeper, for the latter must possess one of the greatest of all virtues, namely, unselfishness.  An utter abnegation of self is almost a necessity with the mistress of a household, for with her rests the question of the health and comfort, if not the happiness, of all its members.”  Abnegation of self – do we even know the meaning of those words anymore? 

Before you get your defensive knickers in a twist, let me cast one stone only, thrown directly at myself.  In terms of house cleaning and management, of consistency I am an abject failure.  It’s not that I am incapable of the work, or that any part of it is beyond my capabilities, simply that I am not motivated to keep up the day to day of it.  There is always something else that seems more diverting or important for me: “In every-day affairs it is so easy to let things drift.  So tiresome sometimes to leave an interesting book or study to find out what is going wrong in kitchen or household…yet it must be done.”  I have tried, particularly when I was younger, to fit into a more Beeton like mold.  I did sustain it with considerable effort but it made me miserable.  Now, my efforts are sporadic and often, last minute.  I tend to clean up when people come and I am unrepentant and at peace.  When a friend came for a visit last week, I opened the door and commented, “thank God you’ve come, I really needed to tidy up!” 

It would be very easy to dismiss Mrs. Beeton, to counter that the people who she was primarily writing her book for were replete with domestic assistance.  This is true but let’s not discount her wisdom just yet.  She addresses the consequences of inattention and poor management with this: “The tired man of business returning home after a harassing day, maybe one in which he has had no time to snatch a meal, sorely needs a pleasant, well cooked, comfortable one to await him.  If this be delayed, if hungry, and as a consequence (unless he be superior to masculine failings) cross, small wonder is it if he makes those around him suffer for the fault of the one whose duty it should have been to have provided for his needs.”  I agree cautiously, it is reasonable for the one who is at home to prepare some sustenance.  I do not think that sex dictates the ability to provide this though, and it should have become less applicable when women joined the workforce.  Wouldn’t we all appreciate that?  Mrs. Beeton would be horrified to know that in my home we share the task of meals, albeit I tend to do it more often than the others as I’m better at it. Most shocking are my occasional “fend for yourself” nights, where we all make something for ourselves to eat when we are hungry.

Mrs. Beeton goes on to warn that the “hardworking man thus tired goes from his home to his club, or, in a lower social scale, to a public-house, there to get what he should have had in comfort at home…but oh, housewives, beware of it.  Its approaches are so insidious that it forms a dangerous foe…”  Isabella Beeton devoted her whole short life to this credo.  How much good it did her is a point to be debated; it has been speculated that she contracted syphilis from her husband and that this was also passed on to her children.  She died young, even for her time and the astonishingly successful book, grossing nearly £2 million in the seven years after it’s release; she was not to benefit from.

Isabella Mary Beeton, tireless advocate of the importance of a woman’s role in the home, editor, publisher, mother, wife and example to millions of women – you are to be admired.  You were both a woman of your time and also before your time. You highlighted the importance of animal welfare, the use of local and seasonal produce and offered vegetarian meal options long before others had even dreamt of these issues.  You asked no one to do anything you were not prepared and able to do yourself and your work ethic was a shining example.  I can’t help but wonder what you would have accomplished today. 

I will leave you with this: “There is an innate love for housekeeping in most girls, and it might so easily be cultivated.”   So good people, cultivate what you wish to grow and in that, you will have your reward.  

(Material from “Mrs. Beeton’s Every Day Cookery and Housekeeping Book.”  Additional material from Wikipedia.)

 © S. Marian, May 29, 2012

Happy Mothers Day British Mums and Mums to be.  I have had a brilliant morning so far, rather than the usual jolt into action I am a lady of leisure.  My bleary eyed boy came to give me his good wishes and I’ve had hugs from my daughter.  They gave me my presents yesterday afternoon as they couldn’t wait (a terrible trait they inherited from me).  I have been told I can have whatever I want today, breakfast in bed and a cup of tea is forthcoming and they will even clean the house if I want.  I’m sure I’m not that cruel, perhaps I’ll take them out for the day.  

I love my gifts - the sweet little big boy gothic owl wrapping his wing protectively around his little sister owl sitting on books of astrology.  The card is perfect, the mug hilarious (more on that below) and I am going to Ikea this week to get a frame for the poster - you know I love that too.  That’s an accounting of my day so far, I hope all of you are having a good one.  Happy Norooz to the Iranians, tomorrow is the first day of a new year.

(On the top of the box of the ‘Freudian Sips’ mug, the following is written:

Freudian Slip:[n]: a verbal or memory mistake that inadvertently expresses a hidden wish or repressed feeling.  Also known as a parapraxis {from para+ Greek praxis a doing, deed}  Example: “I meant to ask my mother to pass the butter at the dinner table.  Instead, I shouted, ‘You stupid cow, you ruined my life!”)

A lovely, lovely video about lovely British products - lovely!  

Happy Mothering Sunday (Mar.18) for those British Mums and for this one too.  If you are a Britophile, or just want a ‘lovely’ laugh (you will understand if you watch it), take 6 minutes of your time and find out about the world of British toiletries.  Discover which toiletries the Queen favours.  Find out why this is the lovliest video you will ever watch!  

guardian:

Mother’s Day British beauty gifts

Traditional British toiletry brands are struggling at the moment - not least because people don’t realise that in recent years they have greatly improved the quality of their products. Another plus is that most are made in the United Kingdom. These are things that might enhance their appeal to mothers, says Sali Hughes

Long before the movie, “Inception,” my Mother loved to listen to this song, her signature song in so many ways.  She loved Edith Piaf, her passion and her vulnerability.

(Edith Piaf, “Non, Je ne regrette rien.”)

As my Mother slips further into the ever unreachable, unknowable dreamscape that is dementia, I feel her shadow behind my steps.  I hear her tone in my voice, I feel her eccentric attitude behind my actions, and her wry expression on my face.  It’s not that my sense of self has been lost or diminished but that she has somehow joined me.  As she goes deeper into uncharted territory, some essential part of her has become my travel companion, her bold steps matching my own.

In many hued, high heeled shoes, her steps were always bold and stylish. I have only stories about her early life, no doubt colurfully accessorised with fiction.  She was born and raised in Finland, a single child who only ever needed her own company.  As a young adult she escaped to Italy and worked as a bambinaia (nanny), soaking up the language, culture and a certain bravado that never left her.  She also acquired a Dutch boyfriend, which became a lifelong habit – the Dutch, not the boyfriend.  Wherever she went she absorbed the cultures with open curiosity and the languages even more readily.  By the time she had me in her mid 30’s she had seven (fluent) languages floating around her head and fragments of others.  She was very solitary, sharp, difficult, excessively particular and creative, with a creativity that seeped out of her pores.  Everything she did was done with panache, a look on her face that seemed to say, “but of course.” 

To my Mother, it was obvious that things should be done for maximum effect, careful consideration given to the presentation of anything.  Looking back, some of that which I failed to appreciate as a child, now seems charming and even enviable. Longing to travel more, but before she was able to afford to do so, she was an intense armchair traveller.  She would go to the library and withdraw books about a particular country; not just books with enticing glossy pictures but historic, cultural, recipe and language reference books.  Armed with a crash course in her chosen country, plus some records and she was set.  I have a distinct memory of coming home from school on St. Patrick’s Day one year, and my Mother greeting me at the door clad in green, green from head to foot.  Sentimental Irish music in the background and my Mother, my irrepressible Mother cheerily commenting, “tráthnóna maith duit!” (Irish Gaelic for good afternoon.)  That night we dined on Irish fare, lamb stew, potatoes and soda bread and oh how I suffered. I longed for a Mother who was less interesting, unpredictable, less of a wild card.

This wild card lived a life of irony though.  She married not one but two Dutchmen and trained to become a bookkeeper – not exactly an expression of creativity.  Her second husband, my Father, was the pie pastry to her bittersweet fruit filling and in almost every way they were in opposition to each other.  Compared to the blunter instrument that is my Father, my Mother was a violin; complex, rich and varied in tone and expression, excessively sensitive and very particular about how she was handled.  She loved colour and to her it was almost another language.  She talked about Bastille Blue, Cossack Red and my particular favourite, Finnish Highway Brown.  She could be witty but also very cutting.  In a social situation, if things were slow or less interesting than they ought to be, she could also be outrageous and socially, a little dangerous.  As she put it, “I was just trying to liven things up.” 

Life was not that easy for this determined woman and she truly embodied what the Finns call “sisu.”  Sisu is my Mother and sisu is also the Finnish spirit, the ability to keep fighting after most would quit, combining bravery and bravado with ferocity and tenacity.  She was also her own worst enemy - a woman that frequently took on too much.  Her dinner parties were the stuff of legend, the food a gastronomic revelation, ambitious, memorably delicious and artfully presented.  Her dinner parties were not memorable for any of this though, but rather the time the guests would be made to wait before the food was served.  The combination of the mammoth tasks she set herself, perfectionism, poor time management and the worst culprit of all, the seducer - vino, meant the guests waited.  She didn’t mean to make people wait and was apt to come out of the kitchen frequently to describe the delicious food she was preparing.  My Father became expert at keeping the cheese and biscuits stocked and the wine glasses full.  Often, by the time the food arrived, two or even three hours later, the guests would have thanked her for gruel and water.  Most of their friends knew to eat a bit before they left home but one German friend, a particularly timely gentleman, was not amused.  He could hardly contain his disgust.  That was the thing about my Mother; she tended to polarise opinion.

It was in her nature not to be bothered about other’s opinions of her; she would just shrug and carry on.  And carry on she did.  She finally realised her travelling ambitions in her 50’s, and spent days and weeks planning the next adventure.  Despite doing a mass of research before the internet made that easy, putting together enough money to travel with choice and style and visiting every continent, her greatest achievement was my Father.  My Father was not the adventurer, most definitely a creature of time, place and habit – his favourite phrase being, “you can set your watch by me.”  Can you imagine what was required?  Sisu, just one word and it says it all.  For my generation it’s hard to understand why she needed him in her schemes at all but she did.  He was her foil, her anchor in an inexplicable way and she needed him.  Best of all though, is that she gave them memories to turn over and return to for the rest of their days. 

Older now and in my 40^th year, I can hardly believe how like her I’ve become in odd and significant ways.  I really didn’t see this until I found myself dealing with my own annus horribilus; a year of disaster and misfortune that went on for three long years.  As I fought on several fronts, taking on lawyers, insurance companies, government and I don’t remember who else (throw at least one ex-Himself in there) – more than once, a word was used to describe me. Later when I succeeded in achieving not one but two legal precedents (and two Pyrrhic victories but that’s another story), I heard the word again. An old friend from Glasgow commented, “you’re pure gallus, by the way.”   It’s fitting that the child of “sisu” should turn out to be gallus; defined as, “(a Scottish word) bold, daring reckless, having the ability to laugh adversity in the face.  Mother, wherever you are, I’m glad you’re with me.  

This is dedicated to “ejitbob”; thank you for providing the spark that fired this piece, maybe you’re not an ejit after all. 

 ⓒ S. Marian, Dec. 20, 2011