Author: Mr. LJ

Sometime teacher of Modern Languages and European Literature. Now back in my native Dorset with my faithful companion, Fig.
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In Memoriam Batger’s Chinese Figs

The most delicious of all confections and the most intense of gastronomic pleasures at Christmas time, which, alas, have ceased to exist. I had hoped to find something comparable amongst the glacé fruits at Fortnum and Mason, but these fall a long way short of the exquisite crystallised figs I knew as a child. Sic transit gloria mundi.

How I miss that choice Christmas confection
Of Chinese Figs! Their recollection,
Such texture and sweetness
Restored to completeness!
I’m praying for their resurrection!  LJ St.Martin

Batger’s Chinese Figs

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Apricot Jam

It has been a good summer for fresh fruit from the garden, with peaches at home and apricots and greengages in France, inter alia. The jam made from the apricots is quite outstanding on a slice of pain noir fresh from the market bakery “à quatre pas de notre maison.” Slurp!

Confiture à l’abricot faite à St. Martin au mois de juin
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Waking in London II

Waking in London on the second day, I am now a member of the oldest private French restaurant club in the city, having been introduced by Charlie. I was smitten by the cadre, a real coup de foudre, by the charm of the patron and by his willingness to converse in French. What clinched it, however, was the music. What could constitute a warmer welcome than “Je me suis fait tout petit”, by Georges Brassens! When the owner of the club declared how much he was missed, I knew I was in the right place and that there was no resisting the temptation of membership. The cheese board takes some beating, too; indeed it was one of the finest I had seen.

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Waking in London

On waking, this time in London, I have two of the greats on my mind, Erasmus and Proust, the former for a titbit characteristic of his inventive wit and of which I have only recently become aware, which merely reveals that I should have made a point of reading footnotes more assiduously:

“He was born Gerrit Gerritszoon. Believing that this name derived from the German word begehren (to desire), he manufactured the name by which he is known by translating “desired” into Latin (desiderius) and Greek (erasmus).”

the latter for his eyes and for the painstakingly inventive character of his relationship with them:

“Je n’oublierai jamais, dans une curieuse ville de Normandie voisine de Balbec, deux charmants hôtels du XVIIIe siècle, qui me sont à beaucoup d’égards chers et vénérables et entre lesquels, quand on la regarde du beau jardin qui descend des perrons vers la rivière, la flèche gothique d’une église qu’ils cachent s’élance, ayant l’air de terminer, de surmonter leurs façades, mais d’une matière si différente, si précieuse, si annelée, si rose, si vernie, qu’on voit bien qu’elle n’en fait pas plus partie que de deux beaux galets unis, entre lesquels elle est prise sur la plage, la flèche purpurine et crénelée de quelque coquillage fuselé en tourelle et glacé d’émail.”

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Firenze, l’anno scorso

As I set up this site, it occurs to me that a number of posts are going to appear somewhat out of chronological sequence, but as long as they fulfil an evocative function, I’m not too concerned. I think I’ll persevere with it, and I may even catch up with myself. This visit in September 2016, so rich in discovery and rediscovery, led on to some interesting reading, notably of histories of the Medici, starting with Lauro Martines’ “April Blood”, an authentic ripping yarn brought to life by an historian equal to the task.

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With delicious Lucianic irony, the great and gentle Erasmus, through the eyes of Folly and with the problems afflicting the sixteenth century Church in the crosshairs, prophetically describes, with a comprehensiveness that leaves little left to be said, the patterns of management and administration prevalent in the independent school system in the twenty-first century: “Whereas if there be anything burdensome, they prudently lay that on other men’s shoulders and shift it from one to the other, as men toss a ball from hand to hand, following herein the example of lay princes who commit the government of their kingdoms to their grand ministers, and they again to others, and leave all study of piety to the common people. In like manner the common people put it over to those they call ecclesiastics, as if themselves were no part of the Church, or that their vow in baptism had lost its obligation. Again, the priests that call themselves secular, as if they were initiated to the world, not to Christ, lay the burden on the regulars; the regulars on the monks; the monks that have more liberty on those that have less; and all of them on the mendicants; the mendicants on the Carthusians, among whom, if anywhere, this piety lies buried, but yet so close that scarce anyone can perceive it. In like manner the popes, the most diligent of all others in gathering in the harvest of money, refer all their apostolical work to the bishops, the bishops to the parsons, the parsons to the vicars, the vicars to their brother mendicants, and they again throw back the care of the flock on those that take the wool. But it is not my business to sift too narrowly the lives of prelates and priests for fear I seem to have intended rather a satire than an oration, and be thought to tax good princes while I praise the bad.” from “In Praise of Folly (Dover Thrift Editions)” by Desiderius Erasmus, John Wilson

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