Sophie went to a party…
So, after last week’s unavoidable delay, I’m offering some memories of scents of a Christmas or two amid general Solstice perturbations. But let’s start with a great big welcome to December, despite this week’s wild winds.
I’ve always liked wind. I find it exciting and yet strangely peaceful. For me nothing beats cuddling up indoors, in front of a good fire, while the wind turns the world outside upside down.
I even thought about that on Friday night, when Storm Darragh woke me up. Gusts shook my house and tore down a climbing rose on the patio. (The patio is a small city job, protected by 8 ft walls on three sides and backing onto a four storey house. It must have been a veritable tornado!)
Yesterday morning the air outside tingled – and smelled like the sea in a storm. And I immediately started writing a story.
Scents of Winter Birthday with Mother
Unlike me, my mother hated wind more than anything. So it was tough on her that she was born in December, when there was plenty of wind about, getting in the way of going out for a birthday dinner and theatre.
My father and I got used to looking for treats to bring indoors. Fortunately her favourite flowers were anemones, which our local florist would find for us in time for the day. We tried to fill her vases before breakfast, not always successfully.
It therefore amused me enormously when someone told me that anemones were the lilies of the field which get a mention in the Sermon on the Mount for toiling not neither did they spin. My mother did both, ferociously. Well, she did if you count knitting as a subset of spinning.
And then a Greek scholar of my acquaintance pointed out that they were also known as Windflowers. The Greek word for “wind” was apparently “anemos”! Pliny the elder allegedly said that the flowers only opened when the wind blew.
My mother laughed like a drain and said that must be her subconscious trying to reform her. So she came for a windblown walk with me up Boar’s Hill, over a frosty meadow.
The blustery air was like a hit of burgundy wine. We stopped to sit in the lee of a wood, protected by almost leafless trees, and the scents were all of woodland undergrowth and hedgerow. “Ah,” said my Greek friend, who also loved wine. “Sous-bois.” (A French term that indicates a forest-floor including undergrowth of moss and mushrooms as well as fallen leaves. Much prized in wine-tasting, particularly burgundy.)
Scents of Christmas Past
When I was a child I loved Christmas. Actually I still do, most of the time. Only now there is more organising, with attendant worries, and a harassing feeling of Not Enough Time. That, of course, is all grown up stuff. It did not impinge on my childhood delight.
As a child I started to notice the change in the mornings first. It was dark when I left for school. Fog would swirl under the street lights as I went to catch my bus.
The fog smelled new and alien, slightly bitter, of wet leaves and animals. Well, there was a farm at the top of our road. It was exciting.
Morning fog said the world was going into the dark. Who knew what dreams would come out of it? That was when I started to write my stories.
And the dark meant having tea in front of the fire and, even better, making toast to go with it. This was either on the brass fork with a figure of a Cornish Pixie on top or on a plainer, telescopic one. The latter extended, so you didn’t scorch your whiskers, as my father used to say. But it didn’t have the magic of pixie brass.
My father and I would toast, while my mother buttered. If we wanted jam, or honey, or even a squidgy, fudge-tasting cheese that my father liked, we had to add it ourselves.
It was a messy, crumb-y business. And the toast was the best ever. Good, thick slices of fresh bread that we ate hot and crisp round the edges, soft with the nutty taste of butter that had soaked invisibly into the middle.
And, oh the scents of twigs burning among the coals and deliciousness on our plates! When we put up the Christmas tree, and ate by firelight and fairy lights, it was cosily perfect.
Actually the scents had been building up over weeks. To begin with, it was dried fruits marinading in brandy, with maybe a dash of oloroso sherry. Or two.
Then came steaming (Christmas pudding, in my grandmother’s case for next year); and baking (Christmas cake first, ginger and cinnamon and mouthwatering almost-caramel).
Last of all was the Yule log, because my aunt loved turning the chocolate icing into a Gothic horror, its dark hollows lovingly incised with a fork. The whole was only slightly domesticated by a little Santa-on-a-sledge. She allowed him to skim a wide, ominously smooth whirlpool of chocolate cream. It would not have been out of place in Mordor. To be honest, the cocoa and vanilla sponge was much better licked from the bowl before it was cooked and turned Grimm. But, hey, grownups were funny.
And then, oh joy, the tree would arrive and the whole house perked up and put on its best dress, perfumed with the scents of pine leaves.
Even now that smell makes me comb my hair, straighten my shoulders and prepare to party.
Scents of Christmas 2024
Which brings me right up to this year. I was just starting to think about Christmas and worrying whether I would get the book finished before then, as I had promised myself. (For the interested – it’s still on the lap of the gods.) And I received a lovely invitation from Perfumer H to a talk in their new shop in 15a Clifford Street, London SW1.
Life was a bit fraught and very busy. I noted day and time in the diary, and looked forward to a happy evening sniff-in. (I should say here that on the last two such invitations I had scored nul points. On one, I mistook the venue and, on the other, the day, not the time, the DAY.) And went back to an ever-growing To DO list.
This time I was determined to be on time, in the right place, with my hair in a braid. Indeed, I was nearly early. The new shop is lovely, with a gorgeous fireplace and the sort of ambiance that makes all your antennae uncurl with a happy sigh. If I was putting it in a novel, I’d probably describe it as welcoming with more than a hint of mystery. (Judge for yourself here.)
I found someone I knew to help me buy perfume for Christmas presents. We found the right scents for two, pretty easily. I brooded on the third, making notes and sniffing cheerfully. “Oh, you must meet Nigel,” said one of my hosts in passing.
I smiled politely and nodded, keeping on with my list. (Thinking of Molesworth’s imagined career as a dress designer – “A catchy little number in orange velvet trimmed with squashed muskrat by Nigel” – I thought ho ho ho, that’s a good joke. Note To Self: Must remember that not everyone has been mainlining PG Wodehouse and Willans and Searle since their schooldays.)
The party was now definitely partying, I postponed finishing my list until after the promised talk, and chatted a bit. Lyn stopped by and asked kindly about my book — I skidded round that one — and then she, too, said, “Have you met Nigel yet?” So I said no, not quite sure why Nigel, whoever he was, would want to meet me.
I was introduced. I hadn’t see him before at Perfumer H and it soon became clear he was a writer. Ah, that would be it, I thought. This young man wants to pick my brains about publishers or genres or editors. So I did the right thing and asked him what he wrote.
There was only the tiniest pause. And then he said, “Well, I mostly write for newspapers about food but I’ve written a couple of memoirs.”
And I looked round the shop and realised that, for the first time ever, there were hardback copies of a new book called Feast on the shelves between the perfume bottles. Had that invitation said something about a surprise guest? My lizard brain scrambled to recover.
And I said, “OK, sorry, I didn’t recognise you. I know who you are now.”
Because the book, of course, is written by Nigel Slater. And he and Lyn Harris have just collaborated on a multi-discipline experience called Feast. You will see more on her website.
I must say Nigel was exceptionally nice about it and very funny. The talk was, indeed, Nigel and Lyn, who are clearly best friends, discussing the way they work, and it was fascinating. He is a fan, as I have been for many years, of her perfume INK. And at his suggestion she has tweaked the ingredients for a special edition as part of this collaboration.
Yes, I brought some home to see whether it will help me gallop to the end of this book. It may well do so. I will report back.
When I came home with all my purchases — including a copy of his book which is an absolute treasure trove of triggers for the senses and gorgeously written — there was card enclosed in the bag with a recipe for a marvellous-sounding orange ginger cake, specially created for this collaboration by Nigel. I am slowly acquiring the ingredients. I may well report back on that too.
So definitely a new memory, incredibly stimulating, with a multitude of scents attached. And more to follow. But oh dear, a 3rd gaffe in attending Perfumer H events. AAAAARGH!
That is wonderful, Sophie! Just the sort of thing I would do. Hopeless at recognising celebs. Still, things come in threes, they say, so you’ve had your quota of perfume shop gaffes. All will be well next time.
You comfort me, Liz. Thank you!
As you know, Sophie, I, too, have been mainlining those luminaries since schooldays, and I have to admit I’ve been doing a pretty good job on Nigel, too. So I’m very jealous. And so pleased you finally made the event!
Yes, I thought you would click to Molesworth too, Lesley. I ran him past a goddaughter and friend only last night and they thought the name Searle rang a bell. I restrained myself from going into my full Fotherington Thomas imitation, but it was an effort. I am old, I am old. I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
But do you dare to eat a peach? (I love that poem. According to Youngest, I mutter it a lot without realising!) xx
Oh me too. And I’m not a huge fan of his on the whole. But J Alfred P is really something special.
Fabulous story and past memories. Loved it all. (And as a fellow December child and hater-of-wind, I very much identify with your mother.)
Thank you Jan. I absolutely understand the thing about wind, having watched my mother, who travelled through the London nights regularly while bombs were falling, twitch and huddle at a strong gust. It just affects me differently. Interesting.
Such an evocative blog, Sophie, full of the scents of my own childhood and mashing the fallen leaves on an avenue lined with horse-chestnuts on my way to school, breath-streaming in front of me and freezing legs. No tights or trousers in those far off days.
The Christmas pudding recollection of your grandmother brought to mind my mother-in-law who had been nanny for the children of Sir Robert Peel. She told me that they made the mincemeat and Christmas puddings in December, then put them in the attic before retrieving the ones they’d made the year the before.
And I laughed out loud at not recognising Nigel Slater, who I love. I now have a hankering for both his cake and sniff of Ink. I hope it does the job for you.
Thank you , Liz. I enjoyed my trot along these particularly wind-blown paths of memory very much.
And I, too remember those freezing legs – and horrid knee socks that fell down if you ran too energetically. The past was not all joy.
I shall definitely report back on both cake — if it survives both my cooking and having to be gluten-free – and my new “Perfumer H INK Rewritten by Nigel Slater”. I have great hopes of both.
Loved the stories and the scents – thank you for sharing! I have a large Nigel Slater collection – love the way he writes. I bet that talk was fabulous x
It was more of a conversation, Kate, and it was absolutely fascinating. They work in parallel rather than similar ways, I would say. But what is fascinating is that they completely speak the same language when they talk about both the process and the outcome. And a huge amount of it is to do with memory. I wish I’d taken better notes, to be honest.
I’m a Nigel Slater fan too, Kate, and I loved Sophie’s story. Made me hoot. Interesting coincidence that such a chunk of Sophie’s blog is about toast and that was the title of one of Nigel Slater’s memoirs.
Thank you, Joanna. Oddly enough, I hadn’t noticed that. Though I remember reading Toast with much pleasure – especially after Julie Cohen used a page from it in a distinctly thought-provoking talk on writing sensual scenes at that mini conference in (I think) Cirencester.
I do think hot buttered toast is one of the abiding treasures of humanity. Definitely on my list to offer the first visiting alien I encounter.
Lovely blog, Sophie, I enjoyed every word. And smell. The scents of Christmas are what I miss most, especially in this day of fake trees. For me nothing beats the scent of fresh cut pine. I don’t get a full sized tree any longer, but I do get a few small pine branches and load them up with tiny paper decorations. As for age, Lettuce go then, you and I . . .
Years ago I went to the Severs House in Spitalfields at this time of year (everything is pretty much unreconstructed 18th century) and the smells were pine and ivy and apple and woodsmoke – and they had wonderful pale blue green ribbons with bows twisted into the greenery and gold painted walnuts in their shells hiding among the leaves. Heaven!
Oh Lettuce where art thou?
You know, many years ago I met a woman who genuinely believed that a Garden Maud was a sort of summer house. She had only sung the ballad, rather than reading Lord Tennyson in all his glory, and thought it was self-evident.
Have always counted myself very lucky for that encounter. I might never have met her. How good life is sometimes to some of us.