Can elegance change your life?

 

Yes, indeed it can. 

I remember when I signed up to become a Mary Kay Beauty Consultant... don't laugh. It was the closest thing I had to finishing school. This was before Mary Kay Ash passed away and the standards lowered. More's the pity. 

At that time, the mid to late 1990's, we were not allowed to wear slacks. We were required to wear dresses or skirts with stockings. Of course because we were beauty consultants, our hair and make up had to be perfect from the moment we left the house. You never knew when you would meet your next customer. 

I worked hard at looking good. My family teased me terribly but I did not care. This was important to me. I remember the day my director told me I had mastered. "the look". I was over joyed. I was a terrible sales woman but I didn't care. The fact that I had accomplished looking polished had me walking on air. 

When you make the effort to look good, smell good, speak well, and treat others with kindness and respect... doors open for you. Women who wear make up to work make more money than those who do not.  

Men, even young men, who wear suits, know how to properly shake hands, look people in the eye when speaking to them, etc. are generally more well regarded than men who do not. 

 You change internally when you change your external world. When you eat sitting down at an elegantly dressed table with food properly prepared and presented. You elevate yourself through everything you do with intention. 

Hercule Poirot embodies elegant living to the point of obsession.  Is it elegant living, or OCD? It is a fine line he frequently crosses, often to the vexation of his friends and colleagues. However, Mr. Poirot has his standards and he refuses to abandon them even for the comfort of those around him. 

This is not the same as the OCD riddled Mr. Monk from the t.v. show MONK who is all about OCD after the death of his with traumatized him.  

Poirot saw order, method and elegant living as a necessity in a disordered, messy, brutal world. Elegant, precise, and intentionally living was a gift he gave to himself and to those around them. Seeing it as a gift was up to them. Monk's OCD was also a shield but it was a shield against more calamity entering his life. It was his talisman against the world lest something else worse than the death of his wife happen. Although what could be worse than the death of his wife? Monk's OCD was his cage. Poirot's elegant living was his joy. His gift, as I said, to himself and to the world. It's almost as if he was saying, "I refuse to be another ugly thing in an already ugly world."

Elegant living is a gift you too can give to yourself and to the world around you. 

Start right now by decluttering, and cleaning your home. Even if you live in a tiny, studio apartment, you can still elevate your life. Then, make dinner. If you do not know how to cook and only order out, stop eating out of the take away food cartons. Even if it is only one set of dishes for yourself, buy a set. Clear off space on a flat surface and serve yourself dinner on those plates. Use real flatware (silverware-fork, knife, spoon) and a cloth napkin. 

When you are finished eating- and you ate without the t.v. or computer entertaining you, clear up all left over food, place it in the refrigerator, and wash up those dishes you just used so that they are ready for your next meal. Did you think elegance was effortless? It is not. 

next, you are going to dress in clothing that fits you. No more saggy pants, over sized shirts, skirts, hoodies, etc. In fact, no more hoodies period unless you are going for a hike in the woods. You know you do not need to dress like a getto Olympian to go for a walk, right? 

This is supposed to be a blog post, not a tome so I will end it here with a few more words of advice. Is it time for you to elevate your look?  To stop with the "office siren look" and dress like a grown professional woman? To elevate your words, how you eat, etc.? 

We all need polishing from time to time and glow ups are not always just about looks; wearing make up doing our hair, getting manicures although all of that is relevant, it is also about how we present ourselves verbally ad intentionally to the world.  

There are many books you can find online in pdf form, at the library, or even to purchase- that can help you on your journey of improvement.  

Do not eat the bread of idleness, go find something to do to elevate yourself, or your environment. Go! 

 

Plain Living: A Gentle Return to What Matters

 

There is a quiet kind of life that doesn’t beg to be seen.

It isn’t loud, impressive, or fast-paced. It doesn’t chase every trend or cling to every convenience. Instead, it moves slowly, intentionally—rooted in gratitude, steadiness, and quiet purpose.

This is the heart of plain living.

Plain living is not about deprivation. It is not about rejecting the modern world entirely or striving for some unreachable ideal of perfection. It is about choosing enough. It is about creating a life that feels peaceful instead of pressured, grounded instead of scattered.

It is a return—back to simple rhythms, meaningful work, and a home that nurtures rather than overwhelms.

If your heart has been pulling you in this direction, you are not alone. Many people are feeling the weight of constant noise, consumption, and distraction. The good news is: you don’t have to change everything overnight.

You can begin right where you are.

---

10 Gentle Ways to Begin Transitioning to Plain Living

1. Start with your intention

Before changing anything outwardly, get clear inwardly.
Why do you want a plainer life?

Is it peace? Time? Faithfulness? Financial relief?

Write it down. Return to it often. Your “why” will guide every small decision.

---

2. Simplify one space at a time

You don’t need to overhaul your entire home.

Start with one drawer, one shelf, one corner.
Keep what is useful, beautiful, or meaningful—and let go of the rest.

A calm space helps create a calm mind.

---

3. Cook more from scratch

You don’t have to become a homesteader overnight.

Start small:

• Bake simple bread

• Make soup instead of buying canned

• Prepare basic, nourishing meals

This reconnects you to your home and slows your daily rhythm in a grounding way.

---

4. Embrace repetition

Modern life tells us we need endless variety. Plain living gently disagrees.

Wear simple, repeatable outfits.
Cook familiar meals.
Keep a steady routine.

Repetition removes decision fatigue and creates peace.

---

5. Reduce unnecessary spending

Plain living naturally reshapes your finances.

Pause before buying. Ask:

• Do I truly need this?

• Do I already have something that works?

Choose fewer, better things—and learn to care for what you own.

---

6. Create daily rhythms

A plain life is often a rhythmic life.

Simple anchors might include:

• Morning quiet time or prayer

• Midday work and home care

• Evening wind-down without screens

You don’t need a strict schedule—just a gentle flow.

---

7. Limit noise and distraction

Constant input is one of the biggest barriers to a peaceful life.

Consider:

• Reducing social media time

• Turning off background noise

• Spending moments in silence

You may be surprised how much clarity follows.

---

8. Learn one practical skill

Plain living grows through capability.

Choose one skill to begin:

• Cooking from scratch

• Sewing or mending

• Gardening

• Food preservation

You don’t need to master everything—just start somewhere.

---

9. Let go of comparison

This is essential.

Plain living will look different in every home.
You do not need to match someone else’s version of “simple.”

Your life, your family, your calling—these shape your path.

---

10. Move slowly and with grace

This is not a race.

You are not “behind.”
You are not failing if things feel messy or inconsistent.

Transitioning to a plain life is a quiet unfolding. Some days will feel aligned; others will not. Keep going gently.

---

A Life That Feels Like Home

Plain living is, at its core, about dignity.

It is found in:

• a meal made with care

• a home tended faithfully

• a quiet moment of rest

• a life not driven by urgency

It may look simple from the outside—but inside, it is rich with meaning.

You don’t need to escape your life to begin.
You simply need to begin noticing, choosing, and simplifying—one small step at a time.

And over time, something beautiful happens:

Your life begins to feel like home again.

The Dignified Kitchen: The Beginning

 

I am embarking on a mostly self-guided cooking challenge. My goal is simple: to elevate my cooking skills. What better way than to learn from one of the most legendary French chefs in America—Julia Child?

Yes, I know it’s been done before. But when something works, you lean into it. And when I say it works, I mean this: who better to guide me in elevated cooking than the woman who helped define it for home cooks in the 1960s? Julia Child set the standard—and why not learn from the standard?

My cooking journey has been a long one. I’ve gone from eating cans of tuna over the kitchen sink, or devouring half a rotisserie chicken alone when I was single, to cooking for my husband and myself, and even once a week for a home group for several years.

I can absolutely put together a quick meal—open a package, unwrap a pork tenderloin, toss it into a casserole dish with potatoes and vegetables, add butter, serve with a green vegetable, and call it dinner. And for many people, that’s a fantastic meal. It’s fast, reliable, and it feeds busy lives well.

But there is little skill required in assembling convenience foods and cooking them until done. I already have a foundation—knife skills, menu planning, shopping, and kitchen organization—but I want to go further.

I want to truly understand cooking: how to time dishes so they come together at once, how to braise, sauté, and brown properly, and how to do it well with variety and confidence.

So I return to, Julia Child.

Her approach to cooking invites curiosity, patience, and joy. She teaches not just recipes, but technique—the kind that builds real skill over time. Along the way, I may bring in a few other voices—perhaps a recipe from the Mayberry cookbook or a vintage Betty Crocker—but for the most part, it will be Julia and me in the kitchen.

We must eat. So why not eat well?

On learning a skill until it becomes part of you... it's not just for artists and athletes

 

    There is a great difference between knowing how to do a thing, and having done it so often that it becomes part of one’s very manner of living. In our time, many are content with the first, and never arrive at the second. We learn enough to manage, enough to get by, enough to avoid inconvenience, and then we turn our attention elsewhere. Yet there is a deeper satisfaction reserved for those who remain with a task long enough that the hands grow sure, the mind grows calm, and the work itself becomes a kind of second nature.

Every true skill begins in awkwardness. The first loaf is uneven, the first stitches uncertain, the first attempts at any craft marked by hesitation and doubt. This is as it should be, for nothing worth keeping is learned in a moment. But if a person continues, returning again and again to the same labor, something quiet begins to change. The motions grow smoother, the eye more discerning, the judgment more trustworthy. What once required effort becomes habit, and what was habit becomes ease.

It is at this point that the work begins to give pleasure. Not the quick pleasure of novelty, but the steady pleasure of competence. One no longer asks at every step what must be done next, but moves forward with confidence, knowing by experience what is required. The mind is freed from confusion, and the hands are free to do their work well.

Such mastery need not belong only to artists or craftsmen by trade. It may be found in the kitchen, in the garden, at the writing desk, in the workshop, or in the daily keeping of a home. Wherever a task is done faithfully, day after day, with the desire to improve rather than merely to finish, there skill takes root.

Our age often praises speed and variety, yet the finest things are usually the result of repetition. The cook who prepares the same dish a hundred times learns more than the one who attempts a hundred dishes once. The seamstress who mends carefully grows more capable than the one who replaces what is worn without thought. The homemaker who keeps her rooms in order each day lives more peacefully than the one who waits for disorder to become unbearable.

To learn a skill until it becomes part of you is not a burden, but a privilege. It means that your days are not wasted in confusion, but shaped by practice, and strengthened by patience. And in the end, the work itself becomes a companion, familiar and steady, asking only that you continue.

French onion soup and French cuisine

There are times when a person becomes aware, all at once, that life may be lived at a higher level than one has been accustomed to living it. Not in riches alone, nor in display, but in care, in skill, and in the quiet determination to do even ordinary things well. Such moments come unexpectedly, and often through the smallest occasions—a book read at the right hour, a meal well prepared, or a story that shows what a life devoted to mastery may become.

I was reminded of this not long ago while watching a film set far from the place in which I live. I dwell in a state that lies far from the sea, in a city that is honest and industrious, yet not much given to elegance. There is no shame in this, for every place has its character, and ours is shaped largely by the love of open air, of mountains, and of work done with the hands. Yet it must also be admitted that where life is filled with motion and activity, the quieter arts are sometimes neglected. One may spend a day hiking, building, driving, or laboring, and never once be asked to consider beauty, refinement, or the pleasure of doing a thing with true skill.

Even in matters of food, this difference may be seen. There are places here where one may dine well, and I am grateful for them. Yet when the talk turns to what is called fine cuisine, the choices grow fewer, and the imagination seems to narrow. A restaurant that names itself French will almost always offer the same familiar dishes, prepared in the same familiar way, as though the whole of a great tradition could be contained in a few recipes learned long ago and seldom improved. One finds the onion soup with its heavy crust of bread and cheese, the mussels, the pastries, the rich sauces, the dishes that have become symbols rather than living parts of a craft. Some are made well, and some indifferently, yet all give the feeling that only the surface has been touched, while the depth remains unseen.

It was while thinking on these things that I watched again a film I have long admired, the story of a woman who gave her life to the art of cooking, and who pursued that art with such steadiness that it opened doors she had never sought. She was not loud, nor boastful, nor in any way unkind. She simply knew her craft, and honored it. Because she honored it, others came to honor her. She cooked for farmers, for students, for statesmen, and at last for the President himself, not because she demanded it, but because she had made herself worthy of the work.

What struck me most was not the fame she achieved, but the manner in which she lived. She loved good ingredients, and treated them with respect. She cared about the old recipes, and learned them thoroughly before she allowed herself to change them. She believed that a meal, rightly prepared, was not a small thing, but an act of generosity and of order. Even when her life carried her to the most unlikely places, she remained what she had always been—a woman who knew her skill, and practiced it faithfully.

Such examples have a way of stirring the conscience. One begins to wonder how often we excuse ourselves from excellence, not because it is beyond us, but because we have grown accustomed to less. In this country especially, we are rich in many things, yet we do not always know how fine life can be when care is taken. We hurry, we simplify, we make do, and in doing so we sometimes forget that the ordinary duties of the day may be performed with grace, if only we are willing to learn.

I do not say this as one who has already arrived. I am, by my own reckoning, a competent cook at best, able to prepare meals that satisfy my household, and for this I am thankful. My husband, God bless him, is patient and easily pleased, and that alone is a gift not to be overlooked. Yet I find within myself a growing desire to do better—not for praise, nor for display, but for the quiet satisfaction that comes from knowing that a thing has been done as well as I am able to do it.

There is a beauty in giving oneself to a craft, whether it be cooking, sewing, gardening, writing, or the keeping of a home, and staying with it long enough that the hands learn what the mind once struggled to understand. Skill does not come all at once, nor does refinement appear by wishing for it. It is built slowly, by repetition, by patience, and by the refusal to be content with carelessness.

Perhaps this is what our age forgets most easily—that excellence is not reserved for the famous, nor for the wealthy, nor for those who live in great cities. It may be found wherever a person chooses to do his work with attention, and to keep doing it until it becomes something worthy of respect.

And so I have resolved, in my own small way, to take my place again at the stove with a little more seriousness than before. To learn the old recipes properly. To try the unfamiliar ones without fear. To treat even a simple meal as something that deserves thought and care.

For a dignified life is not made of grand occasions alone.
It is made of daily acts, done well, until they become part of who we are.