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.

A bit about me...

 

I came of age in the latter years of the twentieth century, in the decades of the 1970s and the 1980s, when the spirit of the feminist age had so entered into the customs of the people that it was no longer remarked upon, but was received as the natural order of things. Its words were spoken in the schools, and its counsels were heard in the entertainments of the day, and its judgments were repeated often, so that many received them without question. And I myself perceived it not at the time, but only afterward, when the years had passed, that my understanding of a woman’s life had been shaped by these teachings, even as clay is formed upon the wheel, until it seemed that no other form had ever been intended.

And it came to pass in those years that the stories set before us, whether in the moving pictures or upon the television, instructed us continually, though no lesson was named. For the daughters of the land were told to prepare themselves for independence, and to seek learning, and to establish themselves in professions, and this was counted wisdom. But of the keeping of a house, and of the ordering of a family, and of the faithful care of husband and children, these things were seldom spoken of as a calling to be desired.

In those days there were programs much loved by the people, wherein households were shown, yet the manner of those households was changed from what had been in former times. In one, a mother pursued her studies that she might enter a profession, while the labors of the home were given into the hands of a hired servant. In another, the care of the family was entrusted to one who had been brought in from without, and who received wages for the work that once had belonged to the wife and mother of the house. And this pattern was seen again and again, so that it appeared a small thing for a stranger to keep the hearth, but a strange thing for the mistress of the house to do so for her own.

Thus was the message set forth, though it was not spoken plainly: that the tending of a home was worthy when it was a trade, yet of little account when it was a devotion; that it was good to labor for the household of another, but of less honor to labor for one’s own; and that the better life was to be found not within the walls of the home, but always beyond them.

Yet there had been a time, not so long before, when another picture had been shown. In the stories of earlier years, the family was set forth as a thing to be cherished and preserved. The generations dwelt nearer one to another, and the burdens of life were carried together. The father was not despised, nor the mother made a figure of weariness and complaint, nor the children lifted up above their elders; but each had his place, and the peace of the household depended upon the faithfulness of all.

But as the years went on, these images were changed. The father was made foolish, and the mother troubled on every side, and the children spoke as though they were wiser than those who had brought them forth. And the house itself, which had once been shown as a refuge, was shown rather as a place of confusion, where none seemed fully at rest. And the people laughed, for it was meant to be laughter; yet the lesson entered in all the same.

These things work slowly upon the mind. For when a generation is told often enough that one path is higher and another lower, many will walk the higher path as it has been named, even if their hearts were inclined elsewhere. So it was that many women were brought to believe that a life given to home and family was a lesser life, fit perhaps for those who could do no other, but not to be chosen with gladness.

Therefore it is the purpose of this writing to say what is no longer often said, and to say it without shame.

It is no small thing to keep a house well.
It is no small thing to be a wife.
It is no small thing to bear and to raise children, and to order the days of a household with care and with diligence.

For there are some women to whom this life is not a burden, but a calling; not a failure of ambition, but the fulfilling of it.

Even now there are daughters who look upon the noise and haste of the present age and feel no desire for it, though they are told they should. They would rather build a home than a career, and keep a table than an office, and give their strength to the life of their own family rather than to the service of strangers. They would learn the arts that make a household flourish, and would count it no disgrace to do so.

Let them not be told that such a desire is foolish.
Let them not be told that such a life is wasted.
Let them not be told that honor is found only in the places the world praises.

For many generations were sustained by women who lived in this very manner, and their work was not forgotten by those who depended upon it.

My purpose here is to restore, in some small measure, the good name of the homemaker; to speak well of marriage, and of family life, and of the quiet labors by which a household stands; to give due place to the teaching of girls in the skills that were once thought necessary to every well-ordered home; and to set forth the beauty of a life that is simple, faithful, and steadfast.

This place is for those women who feel themselves called to such a life, whether they stand at the beginning of it, or have come to it after many years, or only now begin to see its worth.

Not all will desire this path, nor is it required that all should.

But for those who do, let it be spoken of with respect, and not with scorn; with seriousness, and not with mockery; and, when it is well lived, with gratitude, and even with pride.

Elevating Your Voice: How to Speak with Refinement in a World Full of Crude Humor

 

photo by Alex Caza

 Among the many gifts given to mankind, speech is one of the most powerful; for by it we make known not only our thoughts, but our character. The words a person chooses declare, often more plainly than he intends, the manner of spirit that dwells within him. And in every age the speech of the people reflects the temper of the times, whether for good or for ill.

In these present days, it has become common to hear language spoken lightly which in former years would have been set aside as coarse or unseemly. Words once kept for moments of anger or distress are now used in ordinary conversation, and vulgar expressions are offered in jest where once wit and courtesy would have been thought the better part. Because of this, many feel within themselves a quiet discomfort, though they cannot always say why. They would speak freely, yet they would also keep their dignity, and they find the two not easily joined in the manner now expected.

If you have ever found yourself shrinking from words you once used without thought, or holding your tongue because you expect the speech of others to turn crude, know that you are not alone in this. The habit of careful speech is not lost, though it is less taught than it once was. And like any good habit, it may be learned again by those who desire it.

The first step is to take notice of one’s own words. For many speak carelessly, not from ill intent, but from long custom. There are certain expressions that weaken a person’s presence without his knowing it: oaths spoken for emphasis, coarse jests made for easy laughter, and the idle phrases that fill silence when a moment of thought would serve better. It is a wise practice to mark such habits quietly, and to resolve, little by little, to set them aside. For mastery begins with awareness.

When a word has been put away, another must take its place. Refined speech does not require stiffness, nor does it demand grand or complicated language. It asks only that a person choose words with care, and speak them with intention. A mild exclamation may stand where once an oath was spoken; a thoughtful remark may serve where once a crude joke would have been made; and often the best word is no word at all. Those who hear such speech recognize in it a certain steadiness, and they give it respect without being told to do so.

Yet a person cannot govern the speech of others, and in every company there will be those who speak without restraint. In such moments, the most graceful course is not rebuke, but composure. A quiet nod, a change of subject, or even a thoughtful silence will often say more than correction spoken aloud. By such restraint a person shows that his standards are not shaken by the noise around him, and this in itself sets a boundary that needs no explanation.

It should not be thought that refinement forbids humor, for laughter has its proper place in every well-ordered life. But there is a difference between wit and vulgarity, though the world sometimes forgets it. True wit delights the mind without lowering it. A clever story, a well-chosen comparison, or a remark made with gentle irony will be remembered long after a coarse jest has been forgotten. The one leaves behind a sense of pleasure; the other, too often, a feeling that something has been made smaller than it ought to be.

The habit of good speech is not formed in a day. It is cultivated as a garden is cultivated, by steady care and by patience. Let a person begin with one small change, and keep to it until it becomes natural. Let him read the words of those who write with clarity and dignity, for the ear learns by hearing as the hand learns by doing. And let him take quiet satisfaction in his progress, for each improvement strengthens the next.

In time, the reward of this discipline becomes plain. 

Speech that is measured gives the impression of confidence, for it shows that a person is master of himself. Speech that is precise carries authority, for others listen more closely to one who does not speak at random. And speech that is courteous lends a kind of elegance to the whole manner, so that even simple words seem to have weight.

This is not pretension, as some suppose. It is the outward sign of inward order. When a person chooses his words with care, he shows respect not only for those who hear him, but for himself.

Therefore let every word be spoken as though it mattered, for indeed it does. Speech has the power to wound or to heal, to diminish or to elevate, to bring disorder or to set things right. He who governs his tongue governs much besides.

And it is no small freedom to move through the world with language that is clean, deliberate, and well kept. For such speech draws respect without asking for it, and makes room for conversation that leaves all who take part in it a little the better for having spoken.