I interviewed Jane Brocket a while ago. She is the author of ‘The Gentle Art of Domesticity’ and she believes that we should ignore dust in favour of expressing ourselves creatively in our homes. “My quilts make me happy,” she declares. The article was published in The Irish Times.

Was intrigued by something Nate Berkus said on Oprah. He suggested that we should ’shop in our homes’ and I think it’s a clever tip. He’s a wonderful interior designer and he says many people have furniture etc that might benefit from being moved to another part of the house. For example a pretty table might be languishing in the spare room and it has the wow factor and looks ‘new’ when moved to the kitchen. Obviously we have to shop in ordinary shops sometimes! But it’s fun to appreciate what we already have.

Lots of love,

Grace

Lots of love,

Grace

‘I am a forty eight year old woman who loves books and I have read zillions in my life. My husband has never heard me laugh out loud as much or cried as I read “Ready or not”. It was a fabulous read and I am now an avid fan of yours. So sad when the book ended but ready for the next one. Wonderful and beautifully written.’

Dance with Wings by Amelia Carr
 
This is a story of two lives and two generations – Sarah’s and her grandmother Nancy’s. It is a compelling family drama moving from World War II to the twenty first century. Nancy was one of the courageous band of women pilots in the Air Transport Auxiliary doing their ‘bit’ for the Allied forces. The author has done much background research and she has woven into her engrossing story real life events. Family secrets and war time love and romance make for a satisfying story. Sarah gradually comes to learn more of her grandmother’s hidden past and as she does so she changes the course of her own life. But I won’t spoil the ending. One to wallow in on holiday – well worth a read. The feel of the war period is convincing and it’s nice to see women’s war time exploits being given centre stage.

When I was a girl the aroma of freshly baked cake softened any childhood worry. The fragrance drifted out from the big Aga in the rectory kitchen and seemed to fill the house with tiny kisses.

I liked that making a cake took time. It was a choice. A treat that had to be assembled. Preparations for it were deeply satisfying. My mother swirled a wooden spoon through the mixture. I loved the way the texture grew creamy and confident. How it slurped deliciously into a baking tin before it was placed carefully in the oven.

What would it taste of? Lemon zest perhaps or vanilla..caraway seeds or chocolate. It was hard to resist having a little peek at it as it swelled importantly in the heat..gathering sponginess and firmness and a golden exterior. There were some expert proddings to test that it was fully cooked before it was decanted onto a wire rack to cool.

This was the time to gaze at it in familiar wonderment. There was, it seemed, an almost alchemical quality to the process. A rather untidy array of ingredients on an old wooden table had cohered into a delightful symbol of cosiness…a simple and deeply comforting pleasure that would require icing. And perhaps an array of edible decorations…silver coloured balls to give it some extra vavavoom. When displayed on a large porcelain plate it acquired a sort of cakely stage presence. It was watched and admired, and then eaten swiftly. Any memories of the mild messiness it had caused in the kitchen were forgotten. The dustings of flour that frequently drifted onto clothes. The escapee granules of sugar. The discarded oily paper that had once contained margarine.

My own attempts at baking are more amateur. Whimsical and experimental. Every so often the urge to bake comes upon me. I reach for a porcelain bowl and weighing scales and baking powder as though embarking on an age old ritual. I select the cake that calls to me from a small array of recipes. I grease the baking tin. Should I use cinnamon? Who knows what my cake may become. I do not bake very often. I am not a master of the craft. But the long ago aroma of my culinary efforts is almost a reward in itself. Hopeful and sweet. Warm and musky. An old joy to share in slices. Accompanied, of course, by steaming mugs of tea.

I must admit that I have sometimes felt a deep disappointment about this. There are many mornings when sashaying around my garden in the south of France seems far preferable to less sultry endeavors. But I don’t own a garden in the South of France…not yet anyway. And if I did one of its pleasures would surely be sitting in the sunshine and enjoying a large cup of Earl Grey Tea surrounded by the uplifting aroma of lavender.

The great thing about simple pleasures is that I can at least partially replicate this sensual scenario in wintry Co. Wicklow. I have the Earl Grey Tea and I have the lavender aromatherapy oil. And on a sunny morning golden sunbeams pour through my large kitchen window. Why wait for Provence? Life is here and now. As the Buddhists say ‘wherever you go you are there’.

In thriftier times simple pleasures become even more important. However it’s best not to get too happy clappy about this. Soaking in a seductive bubble bath will not, for example, fool you into thinking you are at a Caribbean health spa even if you surround yourself with scented candles. But a little pampering can go a long way and at least you don’t have to worry about mosquitoes. And curling up in front of an open fire with a good cat can be as delicious as coiffing cocktails in Park Avenue. That deep fortissimo purring is a concerto in itself.

Sometimes simple pleasures can be very small indeed, but no less important. One of my brothers loves Kimberley biscuits, but not the chocolate coated variety. For him to put chocolate on a Kimberley is to dilute the purity of the Kimberley experience. Vienetta has added vavavoom to many a family meal time. …And eating succulent toast smothered in butter and jam in bed has a voluptuous late night night feel about it…especially when it’s accompanied by cocoa.

Love,

Grace

‘This may sound like Bridget Jones territory but Alice is less spikey,
certainly drinks less and makes more effort to make a life for
herself…The writing is full of quirky wit and energy.’ ‘Book of the
Week’ THE EXPRESS (‘Wise Follies’)

‘…..Grace Wynne-Jones has written an entertaining, intelligent and genuinely funny story….this is a great read, especially for commuters…guaranteed to shorten any journey.’ THE IRISH TIMES
(‘The Truth Club’)

On a crowded bus some time ago I sat beside a smartly-dressed middle-aged woman who was eating a big bag of popcorn.. Devouring it actually. She was shoving her hands right into the bottom of the bag and munching and crunching with the zeal of a ten year old. It had that slightly addictive shop bought snack smell about it…cheese flavoured perhaps…but not in the way cheese really smells. I almost felt like asking if I could have some too but by then she had consumed the lot and was holding up the bag to check if any stray morsels were left in it.

I felt rather delighted by her unselfconsciousness and the way she appeared to be acting completely out of character. When we see someone we do tend to form opinions about them according to their appearance. She seemed to be on to something. If she could eat popcorn like that she might be the woman on the package tour who didn’t go to the museum but flirted with waiters at a palm-fringed cafe….who could belt out ‘Midnight Train to Georgia’ at a karaoke session…who could up and leave some worthy event because she’d decided there was something she’d prefer to watch on the telly.

As a novelist I enjoy such musings. Perhaps she wasn’t like that at all, but she did have a passion for the small pungent pleasures of popcorn and she didn’t care who knew it. Yes, she was growing older with panache.

Happy St. Valentine’s Day!

Love,

Grace

So it’s no wonder that the Wind In The Willows is one of my favourite children’s classics. It starts with Mole abandoning his spring cleaning. The bigger world is summoning him imperiously. He leaves his whitewashing without a second glance. I have experienced many similar moments. So many times I have dearly longed to dash out the door and leave behind tasks such as drafting complicated reports, filing or scrubbing the kitchen. ‘Yippee!’ I want to cry as I scurry towards Tuscany. Yes, why not go to Italy right now? It’s a refreshing thought anyway. One that sends a tangerine blast of elsewhere through the room. Out. I know I need to get out. Later. Maybe to the beach and an Italian cappuccino in a seacape cafe. Watching the waves glide and stretch. Embrace the shore…and leave it. At times like that what I really want is for everything to feel fresh and new again. Pristine and without my footprints. Like childhood snow.

Woooosh. That was the silent sound of it. A white carpet that had landed overnight. Silent. Still. New. Transforming. Cold too…but I didn’t mind.. I want to be out in it. Feeling its crunch, its curve and tingle. Its strangeness. I wanted to tumble into its softness. Hold it. Throw it. Taste it too. It might be gone soon. Rush…to get get dressed in woolies, coat, mittens, hat, gumboots. Magic. Yes, that’s what snow felt like. A familiar place had become elsewhere. New again.

These days snow has a very different meaning for me. Yes, I appreciate its beauty, but not its inconvenience. The grubby slush on city pavements. The turned up thermostats. The delays to transport. The nip in the air. It is not new snow it is old snow. I know it now. Or at least I think I do. Because that’s what happens as we grow older. We have footprints. A past that can dilute the present, if we let it. Sunshine, snowdrops and spring. We feel we know them. And yet we don’t. Not as they are this time. A child would know that. To allow things to be new again. A sort of adventure.

Wriggle…that’s what my mother’s pug pups used to do when I held them as a girl. Wriggle and squirm…their fawn coloured paws gently thrashing the air. They wanted to be off somewhere. They were enthusiastic…about everything it seemed. Unless they were asleep. Sometimes they lay contently on their backs displaying their sweet plump pink bellies. All young animals have it, and many older ones too. That excitement in sheer existence. Each walk is embarked on as though it is the first one ever. Food…wow. Even if it’s the same old chunks from a tin they scoff it down. Relishing every morsel. Whatever their past is they are open to love, if it is offered gently. It seems they are born with the secret of spring, but we have to learn it all over again each time we forget it. And take our first coltish steps towards beauty. As green shoots rise through the dark earth. And their flowers open for the first time.

Wishing you a happy New Year.

Lots of love,

Grace

Of course we attended one of the services ourselves and sang the carols lustily. A clergyman’s family is almost under an obligation to make up for the mumbled notes of some of the congregation. Even bats occasionally stirred seasonally in the rafters. My mother was very fond of these creatures. The church Sexton wanted to get rid of them but Mum protected them devotedly.

As a young girl I often thought about my presents during the service. Itemising them….savouring them. We were not rich so these treats felt special and I loved the gaudy cosy paper they came in. I sometimes looked around and wondered if I could spot new presents worn by the large congregation…a particularly posh hat or colourful scarf for example, or pretty mittens. Though it was morning I had probably already eaten some chocolate. There was a lot of chocolate in the rectory at Christmas. The layered, delicious boxes, arrived as gifts from parishioners. It was welcome booty.

Dad loved his glass of Harvey’s Bristol Cream sherry thirstily imbibed after the sermons, the prayers and the carols. Christmas dinner took up much of the afternoon. Mum was an excellent cook. We enjoyed the spectacle of brandy being poured over the Christmas pudding and that moment, after ignition, when it flamed before us. An elderly and dear pal called Kate used to join us for the feast. She had very poor sight but she relished the tastes and sounds, the cider and the silly jokes in the crackers.

I often miss the simplicity of those yuletide celebrations. Their rhythms were cocooned, deep and cherished. Our countryside Christmas was never perfect. Even some of our festive decorations were faded, but others were new and bright. Somehow its mixture was gloriously sufficient. And knowing this added lustre to its mid-winter sparkle. Along with the treats and gifts and sips of cider of course.

The big crowd churches…and the chocolate.

Lots of love,

Grace