Word Wenches

A Plague of Cats and Rats

Halloween! I always get the fun holidays. And as usual, when I dig around looking for a morsel of history, I turn up fascinating facts. Did you know that Oliver Cromwell’s hatred of witches was a serious factor in the particularly virulent outbreak of plague in England in 1665-6?

I was simply poking around, looking for any All Hallow’s Eve practices in the Regency era, when I stumbled across the fascinating bit about cats. It seems the superstitious believed cats were “familiars,” evil spirit guides for witches. Cromwell and his compadres had a decided Inquisition mentality and decided to eradicate witches...and cats. Honestly, I think the cats must have just looked smarter than Cromwell’s fanatics, which made the hunters paranoid--spooky cats will take over the world! Or suck your brains out. 

I do not even want to consider what kind of sport they made of all those poor London alley cats, but the ghosts of those cats got their revenge. Without cats, the rats escaping the ships in England’s ports spread like wildfire. And we all know that fleas from rats caused the plague. So thousands of people died from superstition. And kept on dying because once doctors figured out fleas caused the disease, they then condemned all cats and dogs to death because they carried fleas. Science and superstition, hand-in-hand, not a pretty sight.

Regency era Halloween was such a hodgepodge of customs, history, and muddled church and pagan rituals that most Anglicans simply celebrated Guy Fawkes Day on November 5th. Even then, the habit of begging for pennies or food—previously for prayers for the dead—became begging for pennies for fireworks. The Scots still had their good Celtic celebrations, but Jane Austen wouldn’t have been familiar with the pagan celebration of a night when spirits slipped through the thinning veil between the old year and the new one. It’s possible English girls had heard the superstition about eating an apple in front of a mirror in hopes of seeing their beloved, but those kind of tricks, and treats like flummery (usually a molded porridge) and barmbrack (a type of Irish raisin bread), wouldn’t be recognized as a holiday celebration in Jane’s home.

But Jane would have read the same kind of horror novels as we read today. The Mysteries of Udolpho play an important part in Northanger Abbey, so Jane was obviously aware of gothic horror stories. Frankenstein was published in 1816, so there was some chance she read that. “The Headless Horseman” came out in 1820 and too late for Jane, but certainly fair game to the characters in our favorite era.

I know as a genre, we play fast and loose with the actual dates of the prince’s regency. My new release in the Regency Nobles series, Irish Duchess, is set in 1821,(Book View Café, November 6) but the characters romp through earlier books and years, so I count them as Regency related.

Since we don’t have kids around our house, we’ve been slacking off on the Halloween traditions. What will you be doing this year?

Toothache!

Anne here. A week ago I had my first-ever toothache. It’s an abscess under a crown — my only crown— so... complicated stuff is going to be done. But the toothache itself, the pain (until the painkillers kicked in) and the swelling (until the antibiotics kicked in) took me completely by surprise. My jaw swelled up just like the kids who had toothache in the comics I read when I was a kid — remember? — they used to bind them around the jaw with a bandana. Well, that was me. For nearly a week I looked like a chipmunk.

Thanks to modern medicine I didn’t suffer too much, but it got me thinking about teeth and dentistry and what happened in the past. Pretty much all I knew was my grandma’s infallible method, the application of oil of cloves, which does actually help, if you have oil of cloves on hand, which I did.

In the comics and cartoons and stories I read in my youth, the only cure for toothache of this sort was to pull the tooth, and the methods ranged from tying the offending tooth to a door -handle (or car or runaway horse or whatever) and yanking it out with a sudden jerk. That or a gigantic pair of evil-looking pliers. And all without a sedative, let alone a nice numbing injection.

Of course, this wasn’t the reality of dentistry in my childhood — it’s funny, isn’t it, how the drama of those old fashioned approaches persisted in the stories and cartoons long after they’d ceased to occur in everyday life. I suppose attaching a tooth to a runaway horse is always going to be a better story than going to the dentist.

But having started thinking about it, naturally I did a little research, and found some fascinating stories. In some cultures people believed toothache was caused by tooth demons, or tooth worms, or humors (unbalanced body fluids).

I know it’s fairly widely believed among some readers of historicals that in the distant past, most people’s teeth were rotting in their heads by their early twenties — I’ve heard this cited as a reason why people don’t like medievals, for instance, because of the belief that everyone would either have horribly snaggled teeth or rotting stumps. But the evidence doesn’t support that. For a long time the main problem people had with teeth was not decay, but the wearing down of the enamel of the teeth because of the fine gritty material that was found in bread and because of the widespread habit of chewing bones.

And a common method of cleaning the teeth — from the Chinese to the Babylonians and the Romans — was a chew stick, a stick chewed at one end to fray the woody fibres and then used to scrub the teeth clean. This method is still used by many people in some African and Arabic-speaking countries. The ancient Chinese invented toothbrushes with bristles and French dentists were advising the use of toothbrushes in the early 17th and 18th centuries. Even flossing isn't new — it's been around forever.

It wasn’t until sugar began to be imported and was widely available, and flour became highly refined that gum disease started to become more common, and decay was found more often in the roots of the teeth.

We often think of dentistry as a very modern discipline, but it’s been around, albeit in some odd forms, for a long time. They were making false teeth back in ancient Egypt — attaching them to the person’s remaining teeth with gold wire. The ancient Romans quite commonly used gold crowns, and it was a Roman who first invented a drill for the teeth. Mind you, he also recommended the packing of the hole with a mixture of roasted earthworms, a medicinal plant and crushed spiders’ eggs, which strangely never really caught on.

Did you know there is a patron saint of dentistry? It’s St. Apollonia, who as part of the torture she endured for her faith, had her teeth smashed and pulled out in Alexandria in 249 AD.  Her saint’s day is commemorated on February 9th.

In the middle ages, dentistry was the province of barbers, who also did a bit of surgery on the side. There were also “tooth-drawers” who traveled around the country attending the various fairs and performing their gruesome task in public to entertain the crowds.

I quite like the story of Queen Elizabeth the first, who in the winter of 1578 was, according to a contemporary account, "so excruciatingly tormented with that Distemper (toothache) that forced her to pass whole nights without taking any rest". Despite the pain she was suffering, and the lack of sleep, the fear of having her tooth pulled was worse, and she kept putting off the dreaded deed. Finally the Bishop of London, unable to bear the continued suffering of his sovereign, called on a surgeon, and had one of his own (few remaining) teeth pulled out in front of the queen, in some kind of show of solidarity and to encourage her to have it done herself.

I have to report that, disappointingly, none of my friends offered to do this for me. I did suggest it, but they only laughed in what I thought was quite a heartless manner.

In the meantime, think good thoughts for me on Wednesday, when I’ll be at the dentist having complicated things done. (I confess, I’m a bit of a wimp when it comes to dentistry and I always come away exhausted, as much from the effort of trying to appear brave as from being injected and drilled and whatever.)

So what about you — have you ever had a bad toothache? Want to share a dental horror story? Ever lost a tooth in an original or amusing manner? Are you the kind who rushes to the dentist at the first hint of a problem, or are you more like QE1 and tend to put it off?

PS, Stay safe, alll you facing tsunamis and hurricanes at the moment. 

Blythe Gifford introduces The Brunson Clan in Return Of The Border Warrior

Nicola here. Last year I was fortunate enough to spend a holiday in the Scottish Borders. It's a stunningly beautiful part of the UK with dramatic scenery and a tumultuous history. I remember thinking that you could not get a better setting for a historical series packed full of passion and adventure.  Then I heard about Blythe Gifford's new trilogy, set in the Borders during the Tudor era and I could not wait to get her to visit the Wenches and tell us all about it! 

Now it's over to Blythe:

First, thanks for having me back.  Many books by the Word Wenches sit on my keeper shelf, and it’s always an honor to share your corner of cyberspace.

The occasion is the launch of my new trilogy in the US and the UK.  RETURN OF THE BORDER WARRIOR, a November release from Harlequin Historical, is the first of three about the Brunson Clan, a family of Reivers on the Scottish Borders during the early Tudor era.

Stubborn and strong, the Brunsons are the most feared family on the turbulent Scottish Borders:  The family that will kneel to no one!

In Historical Romanceland, where I live and work, Scottish Highlanders get all the glory, but I find the Borders much more interesting.  Whether there was a formal war or an uneasy peace, the Borders were, in effect, a war zone for 300 years.

Constant war, along with a bleak, hilly terrain ill-suited to settled agriculture, and inheritance laws that split land into smaller and smaller parcels all combined to make it difficult to keep body and soul together.  To survive, the Reivers, a term applicable to both English and Scottish families, “made a living” by stealing from one another, or, alternately, by collecting “blackmail” from those who could pay to be left alone.

Loyal to family above king, these folks had feuds that rivaled the famous Hatfields and McCoys  They were beyond the law of either government, and usually even beyond the reach of the special Border Laws that were developed in a joint Anglo-Scots effort to bring order from the chaos.

The term “Borders,” refers to an area encompassing both sides of the formal demarcation line.  It operated in many ways like a third country with its own governmental districts, called Marches.  Wardens, think of them as sheriffs or governors, were appointed for each March and the wardens of the Western Scottish March and the Western English March, for example, were supposed to work together to keep the peace and punish those who broke it.  Their success was marginal at best.

This was, in part, because the inhabitants, north and south of the demarcation line, had more in
common with each other than with the rest of their respective countrymen.  They were just as likely to make war on an enemy family on their own side of the border and to ally with one on the opposite side.  Borderers were fierce fighters, but they fought on their own terms and there was many a story of cross-border families calling their own truce in the middle of the kings’ battles.  In a desperate effort to try to “keep the players straight,” the Border Laws prohibited marriage across country lines.

It worked about as well as you might expect.

All this offered story possibilities that were irresistible.  So I hope my new trilogy, will introduce readers to a setting that has it all:  strong men, bold women, and a code of honor and loyalty unmatched in the realm.

The first book is the story of John, the youngest son, who returns home after years of serving as a “big brother” to the young Scottish king.  John is a man with something to prove, both to himself and to his family.  As the only blue-eyed Brunson, he’s always felt as if he didn’t belong.  Now, he no longer wants to.  As soon as he enforces the king’s command for peace, he plans to return to his life at court and leave the valley of his birth for the last time.

But first, he must persuade Cate Gilnock to release his family from their promise to avenge her father’s death.  Cate is a woman fierce as a warrior, but behind her eyes John senses vulnerability and secrets she refuses to share.  Bit by bit, he falls in love with her, and with each step, he is drawn back into the life he thought he had left behind forever.  Because of Cate, he discovers he is more like the rest of his family than he thought until, finally, he must decide:  Is he truly a Brunson?  Or is he the King’s man after all?

CAPTIVE OF THE BORDER LORD, January 2013, will tell the story of John’s sister, Bessie Brunson and finally, Black Rob Brunson, oldest son and leader of the family, meets his match in TAKEN BY THE BORDER REBEL, March 2013. 

Blythe is offering a signed copy of RETURN OF THE BORDER WARRIOR to one lucky reader who comments on today’s blog so don’t hesitate to post your questions, comments and thoughts!

Blythe’s website is here and there is an extract from the book here. Thank you very much, Blythe, for visiting the Word Wenches today! 

Photo credits.  Cover used with permission.  Author photo by Jennifer Girard.

 

Common errors

Hi, Jo here, talking about the things people get wrong about history.

I enjoy the BBC radio programme In Our Time, which gathers experts to discuss a range of subjects. I can remember visiting England a few years ago and tuning the radio to Radio 4, my favorite station. A few minutes later I wandered over to my husband in a blissful haze, saying, "There's a program on the Library of Alexandria!"

You can find In Our Time here, and I believe it can be listened to from anywhere in the world. They have also put all previous programs on line to either listen to or download as podcasts. The history archive is here.

Can I interest you in Alfred and the Battle of Edington or The Opium Wars?

If, like me,  you enjoy listening to intelligent discussions while you do handiwork, then this is a treasure chest.

The host, Melvyn Bragg is calm, intelligent and well informed, so I was startled when in the most recent episode on William Caxton, he voiced the common error that people in the past had a life expectancy in the early forties. The context was that Caxton was brave to be venturing into a new business, printing, at that age. In other places I've heard people claim it to be in the thirties.

This notion comes about from taking all births and deaths. It doesn't take into account the very high childhood mortality. Life expectancy in all times, including the present, depends on peace and war, feast and famine, poverty and riches, etc but one estimate is that once a person lived past childhood, let's say into the late teens or early twenties, their chance of living to sixty was the same as in a developed nation today. Certainly people did live into the eighties and even made it to 100 now and then.

Just to check, I went to Wikipedia and pulled up people born in the same year as Caxton, 1417. Obviously these were famous people, and thus on the more fortunate end of life, but then, so was Caxton.  I found an age range from 29 to 78, and the 29 year old was killed in a hunting accident.

When I averaged them, I came to an age of 57.

Life expectancy was lower then than now, but a man in his early forties wasn't facing the grave.

There's another excellent BBC Radio 4 programme called The Things We Forgot to Remember. "Michael Portillo presents a series revisiting the great moments of history to discover that they often conceal other events of equal but forgotten importance."

I found the episode on The Georgian Facade particularly interesting, but Americans might be particularly interested in the one on The Boston Tea Party.

History is so often not as we think. Isn't that wonderful!

There are so many things that are "common knowledge" but wrong. Do you know any?

As we're close to Halloween, I'll mention that my Halloween story, Lord Samhain's Night, is available as an e-book. This is a short novella that appeared in a hardcover called All Hallows' Eve, in a very low print run, so it's been very hard to find. You can find out more here.

Jo

 

Found in the Publishing Attic: Dangerous Gifts

by Mary Jo

Ten days ago at the New Jersey Romance Writers Conference, I gave a speech about the changing landscape of publishing.  (Putting that talk together was a real chore, because really, who knows???!!)  But today’s blog is about some of the interesting things that can be tossed up by the eddies of the new publishing river. 

Years ago, Jo Beverley and Karen Harbaugh and Barbara Samuel and I did an anthology called Faery Magic—historical romance novellas involving faeries.  It was the first of three anthologies we did together, and a whopping great amount of fun, as author generated anthologies so often are.  We go wild with world building and bouncing ideas off each other and a good time was had by all.  Much time was spent discussing the usages of faery, fairy, and Faerie.  (Okay, so maybe one has to be a word wonk to enjoy such discussions. <G>)

Faery Magic was published in 1998. and reissued with a new cover several years later when it became ripe for the reversion of rights to the authors.  In those distant days (around 2004), authors were generally very happy to have books reissued.

But when reversion time recently rolled around again, the publishing landscape had changed.  Any author reclaiming her rights can now indie publish a novella in e-book format, and maybe make some reasonable money. 

I’ve indie published backlist novellas before: I have a four novella holiday collection called Christmas Mixchief , and my one contemporary Christmas novella, A Christmas Fling, is available as a free standing story.

So I asked for reversion of rights on my story, Dangerous Gifte.  But this is where the twist came in.  Kensington said they were starting a new e-only line and would like to publish my story as part of that.  I was torn.  I’m very possessive about my stories (MINE, MINE, MINE!!!!), which is why I’ve always been quick to revert rights when possible, a habit which has stood me well in the new age of indie e-booking.

But Kensington is also my principal publisher and they’ve done very well by me.  After much indecision and further coaxing by my editor (imagine trying to lure a feral cat to hand), I decided it would be an interesting experiment to have my publisher put out a novella electronically.  So as of last Thursday, Dangerous Gifts is available from all the usual downloading places, including the Kensington site. Barnes and Noble, and Amazon. 

Dangerous GIfts is a Regency riff on “be careful what you ask for.”  I reread the story a few days ago, and remembered how much I enjoyed writing it.  A faery lord, Ranulph of the Wood, becomes enamored of the enchanting harp music of a girl who plays in his woods, which are on her father’s estate.  He wants to bring her into Faerie so he can always have her music, but there are rules about how this can be done.  So he offers her a faery bargain: the greatest wish of her heart in return for her performing any one of three simplel tasks. 

The plain, lonely daughter of elderly parents, Leah Marlowe yearns to be beautiful and beloved.  Such a dream seems impossible until a handsome, well dressed London gentleman magically appears in front of her as she plays in her favorite glade:

 “I am Ranulph of the Wood, a lord of Faerie," he said softly.  "I can give you beauty so great that it will bring all mortal men to their knees. Wealth, fame, the love of heroes—you can have whatever, or whomever, you most desire.”
     She gaped at him.  He was mad; there could be no explanation. Or perhaps she was merely dreaming.  
    “This is no dream.”  Ranulph took her right hand and raised it to his lips, pressing a cool kiss on her tense fingers.  “It is a sign of your own magical gift of music that you can see me.  Usually only sorcerers or simple country people can see the Folk, but sometimes artists and poets and musicians can also.”  
    She pulled her hand away, beginning to wonder if by some wild chance this encounter could be real.  The woods around her had always had an uncanny reputation, and the villagers avoided the area.  Leah came to this glade to play because the music inside her was always most powerful here.  “If you’re a faery, prove it.”
     He shook his head sadly.  “So skeptical, you modern mortals.”  He reached inside his coat and drew out a small looking glass.  Then he extended it to her, his fingers trailing sparkling light.  “See what you might be.”  
     Leah looked into the glass, and almost passed out with shock.  The image revealed was stunningly beautiful.  Her mousy brown hair had become a marvelously thick, glossy mane streaked with sun-kissed blondness, while her nondescript, gray-green eyes were a striking shade of green.  Her fair skin seemed almost to glow and her features had been refined to exquisite perfection.  Yet eerily, the face was still hers. 
     The image shimmered, and suddenly it showed plain Leah Marlowe again.  She gave a small whimper of protest at the loss of that vision of loveliness. 

Will true love survive the dangers of a faery bargain?  Trust me. <G> It’s a fairly long novella and includes more than one romance, a dazzling female faery from India, and a magical cat with long, fluffy black fur. 

A great advantage of e-pubbing is that stories like Dangerous Gifts that have been buried in old anthologies can become readily available.  Readers who are completists and want to glom all of a particular author will find it easier to do.  Me, I’m just glad to have a favorite story available again.

What do you think of this new trend for e-publishing long lost stories?  Have you pounced on some that you’ve long wanted to read?  Are there such stories you’d love to see e-pubbed? 

And if you’re a stalwart print fan—I’ll give a print copy of Faery Magic to one person who comments on this blog between now and midnight Tuesday. 

Mary Jo, wishing everyone magical cats of their own <G>

 

Guest: Blythe Gifford

Greetings! This coming Friday, October 26, Nicoloa Cornick's guest will be Blythe Gifford.

Blythe is launching a new series (the Brunson Clan Trilogy) set on the turbulent Scottish Borders of the Tudor era. The Return of the Border Warrior is the first book in this series. The Chicago Tribune has called Blythe's work "the perfect balance between history and romance."

Please join us this coming Friday and enter the Tudor world of the Scottish borders!

(Photo credit: Jennifer Girard)

The Grand Tour

Cara/Andrea here,
I recently attended an “Art In Context” lecture at Yale’s British Art Center which highlighted the opening of an exhibit entitled “The English Prize.” It’s a small but very interesting show, not just for the artwork but for the intriguing story behind it. And given the unique insights it gives to “The Grand Tour”—a term we aficionados of British history hear so often—I thought I would share some of the fascinating things I learned.

All of the pieces on display were part of the cargo carried by the Westmoreland, a 26-gun British merchant ship which set sail for London from Livorno, Italy in January 1779. Other goods included parmesan cheese, anchovies, olive oil and textiles, but the fifty crates containing artwork acquired by English “Grand Tourists” and other travelers was the most valuable loot. For loot it became when the ship was captured by two French warships and declared a prize of war.

The contents were sold off in Spain, and much of it was purchased by King Carlos III (though one painting ended up in Catherine the Great’s collection in St. Petersburg.) Because a
detailed inventory listing who owned what ended up being preserved, scholars recently began taking a closer look at this seemingly insignificant moment and as they looked more carefully at the individual pieces, they realized that taken together, the captured art actually showed a grand picture—as the Yale exhibit states, “It is a rare time capsule, giving insights into the personalities and trends of the important cultural phenomena known as the Grand Tour.”

Now, most of us have heard the term “Grand Tour” and know it refers to the trip through the Continent made by rich young British gentlemen in order to acquire some polish. However, the scholars looking at the Westmoreland cargo have learned some wonderful details about this rite of passage by looking at who had purchased the artwork, and then going back and studying the letters and diaries of those individuals.

From those sources, we have learned that the ritual had a well-established route that was followed by many of the travelers. The first stop was Paris, where the young men were expected to learn about the social graces—dancing, fencing, and how to dress fashionably, as well as the art of conversation and an appreciation of the theatre. From there, they would head south, usually to Nimes, where they would get their first exposure to the classical Roman ruins of the Mediterranean area. From there, they often headed across the Alps and stopped in Geneva before heading south into the Italian peninsula.

Rome were the ultimate destination (with Florence and Naples—especially at Carnival time—also important stops.) It was here that the classical education that these young gentlemen studied at school and university was meant to come alive. But how, you might wonder, did these callow youths appreciate all the culture and history surrounding them? An excellent question! And that brings us to another interesting detail of the Grand Tour.

Traveling with a tutor was considered part of the ritual. Often these men were teachers the young gentlemen had become acquainted with during their university studies, but a few of them were actually professional tutors, who studied specifically to lead this specific educational trip. Through previous travels, they often had well-established connections in Rome with artists and dealers. This was important because collecting  was a large part of the Tour’s purpose. But more on that in a moment.

Letters and diaries show that relationship between a tutor and his protégé was far from a simple teacher-student relationship. The young man’s father expected the tutor to control the finances and the wilder impulses of his son. And yet, the two men were travel companions for a lengthy period of time, and were together, as we say today, 24/7, so they often developed a close friendship. (Many Grand Tour tutors went on to become influential men in their own right—government ambassadors, playwrights to name just a few—because of the bonds they had developed with their aristocratic pupils.)

The tutor’s official role was to show his pupil the important classical sites and through these travels to educate him to appreciate the art and culture of classical antiquity. And in doing so, he often shaped that young gentleman’s taste in art. One of the individual travelers highlighted in the exhibit is Francis Basset, who at age 12 came into great wealth on inheriting copper and tin mines in southern England. After attending Harrow and Cambridge, he hired William Sands to guide him on his Tour.

Sands was a professional tutor with many useful connections in Rome, and through his journals we have learned many interesting details of the Grand Tour. There was a well-established English community in the Eternal City, and on arrival, Grand Tour travelers would stay in this enclave. There, they would usually engage the services of a resident agent/dealer—James Byres and Thomas Jenkins were the two most prominent—to help arrange access to artist studios and to help negotiate the purchases of antiquities. Who the tutor or agent knew often helped shape the taste of the pupil. For example, Sands was good friends with the noted Italian artist Giovanni Piranesi, who was known for his dramatic etchings of classical subjects. So it’s no surprise that Basset’s crates on the Westmoreland contained numerous prints by Piranesi. (Other notable pieces among the captured art include watercolors by John Robert Cozens and portrait busts by Irish sculptor Christopher Hewetson, who was working in Rome.)

Perhaps the most significant piece of art among the Westmoreland’s treasure is the full length portrait of Basset by the painter Pompeo Batoni because it’s a wonderful example of yet another important cultural tradition of the time—having a formal Grand Tour portrait painted to display at home. There is a very specific symbolism to these portraits—the gentlemen are usually shown holding a map of Rome, which indicates that they had visited the city. Fragments of ruins are meant to show their familiarity with classical art, and lastly, the scenic views of important buildings in the background serve to show how well-traveled they were.

These portraits were intended to be hung in a prominent place back home and their purpose was not only to be a “travel snapshot” for the men shown, but also to trumpet to viewers that the subject of the portrait was a sophisticated, well-traveled, well-cultured individual.

I hope you have enjoyed this quick dash through the Grand Tour. Now, let’s play collector too! If you could choose any piece of art from Rome to bring home, what would your heart desire? I would have asked an agent to find me a chalk drawing done by Michelangelo or DaVinci. Or perhaps some Roman coins, or . . . Sigh—It’s so hard to choose!

What Are You Reading?

Susan here -- running a little late, with apologies! And much in need of a break after some crazy weeks of family stuff, unexpected stuff (the sort we all encounter now and then...), high-pressure whirlwind writing, and a head cold. My head is also crammed with historical research on about a dozen topics at the moment. So if some of you are in a similar place, let's give our heads a little rest and take a short break in Wenchland to play a reading game, something we like to do now and then on the blog.

"What Are You Reading Today?"

Maybe (like me) you're reading several books at once, fiction, nonfiction, research, contemporary, historical, mystery, etc. . . . use more than one book to play if you like!

Please pick up the book (or e-book) that you've been reading most recently, and turn to page 11. Choose the first sentence of the first full paragraph (if it's an unnumbered e-book, tap through 11 screens or choose a page early in the book). Then -- type that sentence (or two) into the Comments area and post it to share with us. Please include the title and author. 

The fun of this are the endless variations in what we're all reading. I love a quick peek inside books that I might not have known about or considered otherwise. And since it's a game - there's a prize! I'll send an autographed copy of Mischief and Mistletoe, the Wenches new holiday anthology, to a winner chosen at random from the comments area. 

I’ll go first, with more than one book - these are all in the active reading stack:

Page 11 of Clockwork Angel by Cassandra Clare:

"Nothing you need worry about," said Mrs. Black, who had already climbed inside and had her skirts spread out across one of the comfortable-looking seats. The inside of the carriage was richly decorated with plush purple velvet bench seats facing each other, and gold tasseled curtains hanging in the windows."

Page 11 of The Maid and the Queen: the Secret History of Joan of Arc by Nancy Goldstone:

"At first, Raymondin, lost in his own grief, failed even to notice Melusine, but she soon succeeded in securing his attention by calling him by name and recounting the source of his sorrow, much to his astonishment."

Page 10 (because pg. 11 is a chart!) of The Time Traveler's Guide to Medieval England by Ian Mortimer:

"It is here, among the city's shops, that your preconceptions of medieval England will begin to fall apart. Walk into the center of any large town or city and you will be struck by the extraordinary range of costumes, from russet-clad peasants to richly dressed merchants and esquires and their wives, and maybe even a knight or nobleman."

And page 11 (e-book) of Tess of the D'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy (I try to keep at least one classic in play):

"Nick-knock, nick-knock, went the cradle; the candle-flame stretched itself tall, and began jigging up and down; the water dribbled from the matron's elbows, and the song galloped on to the end of the verse, Mrs Durbeyfield regarding her daughter the while. Even now, when burdened with a young family, Joan Durbeyfield was a passionate lover of tune." 

Now it’s your turn! What are YOU reading?  There could be a giveaway book in it for you - we all could use just one more book, right? :)

~Susan

 

Ask A Wench: Where do we live, and why?

by Mary Jo

Okay, no one actually asked us why we live where we do, but a discussion was triggered by Joanna Bourne’s recent move into an aerie in the Blue Ridge mountains.  It was such a fun discussion that we thought we’d share it with you. 

Joanna: 
I'm very lucky.  I don't have to dream about where I want to live.  I can have it.  For me, this means high up in the mountains, in the deep woods. 
 
I lived for many years in big cities.  Those were good times in a lot of ways.  City life is exciting and rich and varied.  But I never got used to the car exhaust and the dirt -- the paper litter -- and worse -- underfoot.  I get pummeled by the noise.  I'm offended by the endless yammering of advertising.  There are just too many people.

I'm escaping all that.  I'm not Thoreau with his  "I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach."  I'm not so philosophical.  I just plan to enjoy the place.

My little house up here is surrounded by silent air and rocks and the green things making a hard living from rock.  There's nothing meretricious.  Nothing false or mean.  You can put out your hand and under it is meadowsweet, clover, pussytoes, moss and the grey slate that's rested there a million years.  There is no square foot I walk on that isn't subtle and true to its nature.  Nothing has been reduced to the horrible simplicity man imposes on his surroundings. 

This is all just achingly beautiful.

Nicola:
I lived in a small town for the first few years of my life, moved on to cities for the next twenty years and then retreated to country villages when the city bustle became too much. Now that I am getting older I am planning the move back to a small country town, so I am going full circle. Our current cottage is in a hamlet of 25 houses. It's designated a hamlet not a village because there no shop, pub or public transport. It's a drive of about 8 miles to the nearest town. We've been cut off by snow in winter before now and also by floods.

I enjoy the community feel here, I find the beautiful countryside inspiring but it can also be an isolated place for someone who works alone. I'd prefer to be closer to shops, restaurants and cultural activities. I do like people around me, but on my own terms. Where would I live if I could? I'd divide my time between a house by the sea and Mompesson House in Salisbury, the perfect sized Queen Anne town house with the amenities of the city but tucked away quietly in the historic cathedral close. The only problem is that I doubt the National Trust would be prepared to give it up to me!
 

Anne: 
I grew up shifting house (and school and sometimes country) every  couple of years because of my dad's job, so I was keen to settle when  I grew up.
     I live in Melbourne, which is ranked as one of the world's most livable cities.   It's the second largest city in Australia (4.1 million) and was founded in 1835. It boomed after the 1850's gold rushes and was for a  short time in the 1880's, one of the world's biggest and wealthiest  cities. That Victorian-era wealth is still visible in the many public buildings and terrace houses in the inner city. 

My house isn't far from the city centre but it's in a quiet area, close to parks and a creek and nature trail, where I used to walk my dog every night. This is a painting of the Merri creek at dusk — my  local creek— done in 1885 by Tom Roberts. There are more trees now, and just over the horizon there are houses and flats. But it's still  lovely.

I can walk to shops and cafes, it's a quick trip by public transport into the city and there are wonderful restaurants in all directions —  Melbourne is a "foodie" city. I'm close to the university, and the museum and have four public libraries at my disposal. I have a house in a small, tangled garden, and though if I listen carefully, I can hear distant traffic, I usually wake up to the sound of birds singing in the trees outside my window— rainbow lorikeets and magpies, usually, which is magic. This is the sound of lorikeets.

If I moved, I'd probably move to the country near the beach. I used to live next to the beach, near here — this is Charles Conder's 1888  painting, "A Holiday at Mentone."  I do miss my nightly walk along the  beach, which is these days populated with joggers. But really the only  thing I want to change about where I live is my house — I need to renovate or rebuild. But it's such a disruption I keep putting it off.

Pat:
I could write books about dream homes. Probably already have. <G> I'm a house-aholic, as anyone who has followed my career can attest. We're ever in search of our dream home. But after going through so many of them, we have become jaded. Every home has flaws. They're things, just like the furniture in them. It's the ideas populating your head and the people populating your life who are more important.

I hope. Because we'll be dumping 40 years worth of collections and making the final reduction in scale from our peak at about 6k square feet and a quarter of block of land to 1400 sf on a postage stamp.

I think we'd need at least four houses to cover all our desires! minimum.

Mary Jo:
Joanna's aerie is gorgeous, but I wouldn't want to live in such isolation.  Like Jo, I prefer to have people around as long as they're not too close and they don't bother me. <G>  In fact, I'm a born suburbanite—I want trees and a country feel, but with lots of upscale conveniences nearby.  I grew up on a farm in homogeneous rural country which was lovely, but—homogeneous.  I certainly didn't hate it, but I couldn't wait to get away (and skipped a year of high school in order to get away sooner.)  I yearned for exciting diversity and crowds to disappear into and a chance to find my own tribe, though I wasn't as articulate about it then.  So I went to a fairly large university and found that broader world and never lived in rural western NY again. 

I lived in California and England before docking in Maryland, and I like it here. There’s great diversity in the terrain, from ocean to mountains.  It’s in the middle of the Eastern Seaboard and has a moderate sort of temperament that appeals to me.  My present house is surrounded by trees and feels rather rural, but everything one can need is within a few miles.  Perfect! 

Susan: 
Growing up in the Adirondacks in a small town near Lake George NY, surrounded by spectacular views of mountains and lakes, where the air is sweet, clear and tangy with pine, kind of spoils one later for a great place to live -- especially if one has to leave, as I did as a teenager when my father was transferred to a company in Maryland. In some ways the Adirondacks reminds me of parts of Scotland, one reason my heart is in both upstate NY and Scotland.

I still live in Maryland, a great place with some very pretty scenery...but I will never ever, being Northern born and bred, acclimatize to the ghastly humidity or the long, hot summers -- and, being Northern, the winters here are dampish and icy rather than snow-globe beautiful (okay, and winter can be treacherous and bitter in the north, but writers can stay indoors and dream instead of venture out on snowy days!). So I wouldn't say I'm living in my dream place. I'm here more or less by default, and my family is here, in a nice suburban home with all the amenities and conveniences. I go up north (and off to Scotland) whenever I can, which helps balance living with beastly humidity and a low mountain profile in the distance.

What's my dream home? A castle. A manor house. A cabin by a mountain lake. If I could pick one home, any home, that could be mine ... I think I'd go for Scott's Abbotsford. To me, that's a little bit of what is surely heaven.      

Whipmistress Sherrie:

I grew up in suburban Tacoma, within walking distance to school, mom and pop grocery stores, the neighborhood park, and streets so safe kids could play in them. But it was definitely “city,” and my sister and I yearned for the rural life since early childhood. Maybe we were influenced by the popular Westerns on TV that glorified the pioneer life.

While a city can be alluring and exciting, it can also be draining. I never feel drained in the country. Instead, I am energized. The country life fills a deep primal need in me.

Where would I live if money were no object? Smack in the middle of a national forest. I’d like about 100 acres of forest and meadow of my own, surrounded by a 10-foot chain link fence. I wouldn’t forsake my social life, because there are very few places left anymore where you are completely isolated. I’d still attend my weekly critique group meetings and do things with my sister, and participate in holidays and go out to dinner and movies. But my deepest desire is to live away from the city’s fast pace, invasive lights, and intrusive security cameras. I want a place where I can shed the city trappings and feel closer to Mother Earth.

I’ll never forget the time I was riding my mare in the woods on one of the old logging roads behind my barn, when she suddenly stopped and looked up. I looked up too, and saw a huge owl glide by, just over our heads, coasting silently with wings outstretched. It landed on a dead tree several yards ahead, then folded its wings and turned to look at us.  It was a magical moment that both my mare and I enjoyed in reverent silence. You don’t get that in the city.

Cara/Andrea:
I think I’m the only Wench who is living just a few miles from where I grew up. Now, I  haven’t been here all my life—for a number of years I lived right in Manhattan, and unlike some of the others, I find a lot to like about big cities. One can often feed off the bustle and energy in a positive way. And then there are the wealth of cultural attractions and opportunities, especially in New York, as well as the restaurants, theaters, shops and all the quirky little places tucked away in unexpected places that surprise and delight.

But at heart, I find the simple beauties of nature even more appealing, so I’m up here in the woods now, where I can see deer and foxes and a gaggle of funny crows who often come quork around in my front lawn, just below my writing window, and make me smile. The subtle hues of a sunset over the nearby Long Island Sound, the textures of a country stone wall, the way the sunlight plays on the wild raspberries growing in my backyard—these all make me stop and appreciate what really matters whenever I start to let myself get tied in knots by life’s everyday stresses.

So, despite having not strayed too far afield from my roots, I feel I have the best of both worlds. I have the country and solitude, which suits my introvert nature. But the city is just an hour away, and I’m often there for the day. A half hour in the other direction and I’m in New Haven, where I can take advantage of all the fascinating lectures, art, music and films that go on at Yale University.

As for where my dream home would be? A villa in Tuscany, where the light and the deep connection to the earth and to history is very powerful, would be wonderful. So would a chalet in the Swiss Alps—I love the majestic sense of space, the quiet and the vistas of mountains.

Jo:

It's so interesting to think about why we choose places to live. I already knew that I like to be close to things whereas others value solitude, but when Joanna claimed her cabin was fine because "There's a grocery store,  library, and restaurants about ten miles away..." I cyber-shrieked, "Ten 
miles!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" We live in a small town within walking
distance of shops, library, doctor etc etc. Our nearest city, Exeter, is 12
miles away, but we need a really good reason for such a Big Trip.

I  grew up in Morecambe, and we walked to nearly everything. Lancaster was
about 4 miles away and going there was an occasion. Mind you, we didn't have a
car. I wonder how many people in North America grew up without a car. That
shapes our patterns.

There's also a cultural pattern in our perception of distances. Apparently most
communities  in England (hamlets, villages and such)  are  less than four miles
from each other, leaving aside  moors and such. To illustrate, as I said, the
Big Smoke is 12 miles away, but between are Starcross, 4 miles away, Kenton, 6
miles, and Exminster, 8.

My other requirement for an ideal location is the sea. I was born in a room
overlooking the sea and grew up on the beach. Everything is different when
we're close to the sea -- the air, the light, and perhaps even the earth.
Seismometers can pick up the waves hitting land from hundreds of miles away, so
it's possible we can sense the earth's heartbeat beneath our feet. And miss it
if it's not there.

 

MJP again. "Home" is a profound influence on our lives and souls, whether it's a home of the heart or a home of circumstances.  How do you feel about where you live?  And where would you live if you were free to choose?

Home is the sailor, home from the sea, and the hunter home from the hill....

Mary Jo, who lives inside the Baltimore Beltway but can watch deer right outside her living room windows

School Days

Anne here. I’ve just been invited to a reunion of my high school final year class. It’s a significant year, and the organizer has put out a call for us to contact others in the year and to gather up school memorabilia, old photos and old stories. I’m only in contact with two friends from high school, but we’ve been dredging old memories. When I mentioned this to some other friends, it sparked a discussion about teachers we loved and teachers we hated and ones who made a significant impact on our lives. (That's my mother as a schoolgirl on the right. I'm on my laptop and not at home so I don't have access to most of my pics.)

I initially assumed that because we moved a lot there wasn’t time for any teacher to make a major impact on me, but when I thought about it, a few special people stood out, and the impact they made was probably not one they’d expect to be remembered for. 

Miss Fitcher was my very first teacher. I won’t say she taught me to read — much to my mother’s annoyance, I could read before I started school (Mum thought that wasn’t fair on the teacher.) Miss Fitcher was elderly and white-haired and as well as the 3 R’s, she taught us dozens of songs and poems, many of which I still remember. She loved to read us stories at the end of the day and I’m sure she instilled the love of books in every child she taught. She was my teacher for two years and when we left to live to Scotland, she gave me a St. Christopher medal to keep me safe. We weren't Catholic and my mother wasn't too keen on me wearing it, but I still have that little medal. Thank you Miss Fitcher.(Here's a pic of me at school in Scotland that I just pulled off my own website. Can you pick me out? I explain which one is me on my website.)

Next was Mr. Tresize, who was the school librarian when I was in year 5 and 6— the final years of primary (elementary) school. My friend, Alicia (pronounced A liss ee ya, not Aleesha) and I were both great readers, and we got into the habit of borrowing a books of about the same length and then racing to finish them first. It got so that we were borrowing a book every night, and Mr. Tresize didn’t believe we really were reading them, so he tested us on each book before we could borrow a new one. That made us both good, fast, effective readers. So thank you Mr. Tresize.

Next was Mrs. Reckenburg, my maths teacher in year 8 (2nd year of high school.) When she found out my father had been promoted again and we were moving to the city, it was she who pointed out the area we were going to had a terrible reputation. At this stage, I’d been to six different schools in six different towns in eight years, and the chances were we’d move again in a year or two. She arranged for me to sit an exam for an academic high school in the city — and that’s where I ended up spending the last four years of my schooling. It was a great school and when two years later my father’s job took us to the opposite side of the city, I was able to keep the school and my friends. It took me 90 minutes to get to school but I did my homework on the train. So thank you Mrs. Reckenburg.

At that next school I had a science teacher called Mr. Paddy Meagher (pronounced Marr.) He looked like My Favorite Martian and he was crazy and clever and hilariously funny and he made science such an adventure. To this day when I think of photosynthesis, I think of Paddy Meagher in his leopard skin bikinis, sun bathing on the top of the nurses quarters of the hospital behind the school, drinking water and eating candy supposedly called Chlorophillies — and failing to photosynthesize because he lacked the right enzymes. Science class was a joy to attend. Thank you Paddy Meagher.

Lastly was Mrs. Yvette White, who took me for history in year 11. She was heading toward retirement age when she had us, but she had a wonderfully flexible and original mind. More than anything, she taught us to think and to reason and debate ideas and all kinds of propositions. It wasn’t enough to learn historical facts — it was what you did with the facts that counted. She also encouraged me to incorporate creative writing with history, which history teachers simply didn’t do in those days. . . and well, I’m still doing it. So thank you Mrs. White.

I had a very different history teacher the following year. I won’t say his name, because I don’t have fond memories. He was a loud, blustering fellow who handed out notes by the ream, but spent most of the class strutting up and down at the front of the class, sounding off. He delighted in humiliating students and prided himself on marking very hard. If you got 12 out of 20 for an essay, you were doing well with him. He smoked non-stop in the classroom and when anyone complained he’d blow smoke in their face. My, how times have changed.

What about you? Do you have good memories of school, or bad ones? Do you still keep touch with any school friends? Are there any teachers you remember with fondness — or acrimony? Any things that were commonplace at school in your day that would be unthinkable now? Tell us about your school days.

The Stiff Upper Lip

Nicola here, reflecting on the qualities associated with the “stiff upper lip” and whether they are the type of characteristics we like to read about in our heroes - and heroines.

No Self-Control

A new series on TV in the UK is tracing the “emotional history” of Britain and it is interesting to discover that the nation has not always been associated with reserve, resilience, restraint and emotional coolness. In the Middle Ages visitors including the Dutch scholar Erasmus commented on the fact that the English were always kissing each other, weeping, arguing and generally allowing their passions to get the better of them. Italian visitors to the Elizabethan court also commented unfavourably on how the British lacked self-control. It was a time when the Brits were renowned for letting it all hang out emotionally and it was the French who invented the word “sang-froid” to describe a quality that their neighbours across the Channel singularly lacked.

During the English Civil Wars of the 17^th century the Parliamentarians, famous for frowning on celebrations of festivals such as Christmas, represented the virtues of modesty and discipline whilst the cavaliers revelled in pleasure and panache. This vogue for indulging the emotions was popular during the Restoration and by the 18^th century the word “sentimental” was a term of praise. It referred to a person of taste and refinement, someone who would openly show emotion. Both men and women wept over books such as Samuel Richardson’s Clarissa, and sentimental paintings were very much in fashion. The last great hero of this era was Horatio Nelson, flamboyant and sentimental, a man who paraded his passions in public.  This was a man who had no hesitation in asking one of his closest friends to kiss him goodbye on his deathbed. When Nelson died the huge outpouring of grief at his funeral mirrored the emotional nature of his life.

 

The Lip Stiffens 

But the Napoleonic Wars and the French Revolution were changing British attitudes towards the expression of passion. The French Revolution was seen as a disastrous result of the outpouring of rampant emotional expression. Passion was seen as dangerous to life and liberty.  At its most extreme, political passion resulted in revolution. So it was time to stiffen the upper lip and reject the display of emotion. Jane Austen’s heroes reflect this change. They have admirable self-control and seldom express their feelings. When they do, what they say is concise, heartfelt but not flamboyant: Mr Darcy, for example, only expresses his admiration for Elizabeth Bennett when goaded into it by Miss Bingley. Henry Tilney in Northanger Abbey is determinedly unsentimental, rejecting the heroine's wild flights of imagination. Even Frederick Wentworth, possibly the most open of Jane Austen's heroes is still a model of military restraint, resourcefulness and fortitude. As for the heroines, Elinor, representing sense, is favoured over Marianne, representing Sensibility.

Lord Byron was another man who simply could not resist indulging his emotions. In contrast, the Duke of Wellington came to exemplify all that was admired in stoicism and self-control. The “Iron Duke” was emotionally restrained. One could not imagine him asking his best friend to kiss him under any circumstances. The story of his exchange with Lord Uxbridge at the Battle of Waterloo demonstrates this. When Uxbridge had his leg shattered by a cannonball he declared: “By God, Sir, I’ve lost my leg!” “By God, sir, so you have,” Wellington replied calmly.

The Doughty Victorians

The Victorian era enshrined the stiff upper lip as a virtue throughout all classes of society. Britons’ inclination to express passion was suppressed, beaten out of young men at public school and repressed by the Church.  Explorers and soldiers were models of cool self-control and so were the women who supported them. Florentia, Lady Sale, during the disastrous British retreat from Kabul in the First Afghan War wrote in her diary: "Today we fought our way through the Jugdulluk Pass. Fortunately, I was only wounded once."

Much of the literature of the Victorian period reflected this cool stoicism. Invictus by WE Henley, Vitai Lampada by Henry Newbolt and If by Rudyard Kipling all praise the quality of the stiff upper lip in the face of adversity. However, the flip side to such fortutide could be a lack of imagination and empathy. There was a strong backlash against the stiff upper lip at the start of the 20th century from those who felt it ironed out all sensitivity.

Is there still a place for the stiff upper lip?

These days there is a general consensus that the stiff upper lip is quivering too much with sentimentality. We Brits cry regularly – even tennis player Andy Murray, the dour Scot, gets emotional. We get passionate for the things we care about. And yet some of the British classic understatement and stiff upper lip does survive. In my family the enquiry “How are you?” is always greeted with the answer “fine, thank you” regardless of circumstances. When my other half and I were driving through the African bush and got stuck in deep sand we took turns in digging the Land Rover out whilst the other one kept watch for a lion attack. We needed all our reserves of calmness and fortitude then. 

I’m not suggesting that the qualities of coolness in the face of danger, resilience and restraint are exclusive to the Brits. Far from it. I don’t see them as the preserve of one particular nation over another. During the Victoran period there was in fact a fear that the Americans in particular were going to overtake the British in terms of their coollness under pressure and their positive attitude. Other races were also acknowledged to possess the stiff upper lip: The Germans were renowned for their discipline, the Australians for their resilience and resourcefulness and the Nordic races for their calm.

I have to confess that I do find many of the qualities associated with the stiff upper lip to be attractive, in real life as well as in my fiction. I suppose ideally I would like a hero who possesses some restraint and a great line in understatement, but who is still emotionally literate enough to declare his love to the heroine. I also love strong heroines who are clever and resourceful. 

What about you? Do you prefer the strong silent type of hero who suppresses his passion or the sort of man like Nelson or Byron who isn’t ashamed to show his emotions in public? Or a hero somewhere between the two? Are there any particular examples of restraint and self-control you admire in real life or in novels? And what about the heroines? After all, the stiff upper lip isn't the sole prerogative of the male of the species!

Regency look or Georgian?

Hi, Jo here, comparing and contrasting Regency and Georgian ladies' fashion.

I've been interested in the Regency since my teens, but that was entirely because of Georgette Heyer. At that time I didn't distinguish between the Georgian (ie 18th century) novels such as These Old Shades and The Convenient Marriage, and the Regency, such as April Lady, Sprig Muslin etc. If I had, I'm sure I'd have voted for the Georgian, because even then I adored the peacock men, the hooped silk gowns, and the atmosphere of sophisticated decadence.

On the subject of clothes, there's me as a teenager with my sister the nun. They left habits behind fairly soon after that, thank heavens. That was taken in the 1960s, the only other period that favored high-waisted dresses, but it's caught me in a suit. It was a very mannish, very tailored suit I bought from a charity shop. Once I'd cut the skirt well above the knee it was great. The one on the right is of me in a high-waisted dress. I don't like it much.

I don't think a high-waisted style is flattering to many, which is perhaps why, throughout history, it rarely catches on. For one thing, the waist is very important in female allure.

If we look at Regency fashion plates, I don't see a style likely to flatter many women, and the high breasts would be uncomfortable for most because of the corsets needed to achieve that.

Years ago, people would say they liked Regency fashion because women back then didn't have to wear corsets, but we now know that isn't true. For the fashionable look, a lady had to wear one, and a substantial one, too, which could restrict movement as much and perhaps more than the Georgian stays.

Why more? Just my deduction, but when the appropriate look is flattened breasts, light garments achieve it reasonably well. They were called jumps. (See right.) When the look is breasts at armpit level, there's no way to achieve it without heft, including wide shoulder straps that make it impossible to raise the arms above shoulder level. See the right hand example in the picture on the left.

However, the belief that women could enjoy the freedom of a gown over a shift perhaps helps with the appeal of the Regency.

What do you think?

Another matter is hair. We all know the stories of the extreme hair fashions of the later part of the 18th century, when fashionable ladies wore feet high constructions which were kept in place so long that mice took up residence. I'm sure that was as common as Regency belles dampening their skirts so they'd cling to their bodies.

Oddly, the 1960s also saw high hair such as the beehive look, achieved with serious back-combing and loads of strong hair-spray. Thank heavens that soon gave way to the long, loose look. But is there a connection between rising waistlines and rising hair?

The Georgian period is long and for most of it hairstyles were rational. See the lady with the jumps. I chose to set my Georgian romances, the Malloren World books, in the 1760s in part because I liked the hairstyles.They did powder their hair for court and some other major events, but not all the time. The neat hair look is obvious in my favorite period portrait, which is from the 1760s, and which I think is perfect for my character Diana, Countess of Arradale and Marchioness of Rothgar.

Isn't that a more gorgeous look than the Regency on the right? Mind you, if you click on that to enlarge it, you'll see her skirt is almost transparent! However, enlarge "Diana" and look closely and you'll see she's flashing a nipple. Strange goings-on.

Here's a French fashion plate from the early 19th century that compares the latest look, on the left, with the older style on the right. The lady on the right is dressed for court rather than every day, so the contrast isn't entirely fair, but for fantasy and fun I'd rather play dress up in the old style than in the new.

What about you?

In my opinion the Georgian look works for any age, whereas the Regency style best suits the young.

Agree or disagree?

Jo

 

 

 

Fish and Chips Ahoy!

by Mary Jo

I adore fish and chips.  I grew up inland and fish were not a regular part of the diet, but on rare occasions, we’d go to a “fish fry.”  That was a fundraiser dinner put on by a local fire department with fish and French fries and I don’t remember what else, but surely pies would have been there for dessert, this being Upstate New York. 

The wonderful crunch of deep fried batter contrasted so beautifully with the mild white fish within.  Fabulous!  The experience was so far from the dreary fish sticks served regularly in the school cafeteria that I never considered them even remotely related. 

Later I realized that fish and chips are the iconic food of the British Isles, which are bodies of land completely surrounded by fish.  Potatoes grow really well there, too.  Fish and chips as we know them required deep fat frying, and appeared in the Britain in the 1860s. 

Both Lancashire and London claim to have invented fish and chips: here’s a sign commemorating the London location.  There is also a theory that deep fried fish began in London and moved north while chip shops originated in Scotland and moved south, and they met and married in the Midlands.  I’m not sure if that’s true—the facts are not entirely clear—but as a romance writer, I like it. <G>

The idea for this blog struck when Wench Jo Beverley recently had a birthday.  Forget chocolate—she wanted fish and chips for her birthday treat. 

I understood perfectly.  Indeed, during my recent trip to Ireland, I ordered fish and chips several times and consumed them with great pleasure.  Possibly the best fish and chips I’ve ever had were at the Crackpots restaurant in Kinsale.  I think the fish leaped right out of the boat and into the deep fat fryer.  (Traditionally beef drippings were used, but now it's more likely to be something like peanut oil.)

Cod has been the traditional British favorite fish for deep frying, with haddock in second place.  The discussion of fish and chips practically turned into an Ask A Wench blog. 

Nicola Cornick:  “I was brought up on fish and chips. It was a staple meal in the Yorkshire of my childhood and we were lucky enough to live just around the corner from a prizewinning fish and chip shop. The smell of fat was very pungent!

I particularly liked having a bag of chips in the evening with the little left over bits of batter sprinkled on top of the chips. These were called scraps in my part of the world but have different names in different parts of the UK. Cod wasn't on the menu in those days. It was all haddock from the North Sea and deliciously fresh. I didn't like vinegar but had lots of salt. My arteries are probably irreparably furred. These days I eat fish and chips much less frequently and my favourite fish and chip experience is sitting outside the Applecross Inn in the West Highlands of Scotland eating fish and chips and looking across the sea to Skye."

I thought fish and chips would be popular in former parts of the Empire, and sure enough, weighing in from Australia:

Anne Gracie: “Mary Jo, fish and chips is still very popular here, though we don't  have British cod, which is delicious. Flake (or shark) is the most popular fish for fish and chips, mainly because there are no surprise  bones, I suspect, not for the flavor, which is fairly bland. For me there's nothing better than sitting on the beach or in a park, eating fish and chips straight from the paper — none of this plate or knife and fork nonsense. And it's still a "first day of the holidays" ritual for many people. When my writers retreat group go on retreat, it's usually our first meal of the retreat— fish and chips and champagne.”

Canada: another country heard from!:

Jo Beverley: “I had great fish and chips in Hobart, Tasmania.  Dorado, maybe?  I like haddock. Don't much like cod. In Canada the choice was between halibut and cod and I went for halibut. I remember in Nova Scotia stopping by a van for fried clams and chips.  The fish needs to be fresh. At a pinch it can be previously frozen, but days old fish is never, ever good.  Morecambe, where I grew up, had been a fishing village and there were still fishermen bringing in the catch. The fish we ate was always really fresh.”

Traditionally, Americans have to work harder or travel farther for their fish and chips:

Susan King: “I didn't have GOOD fish and chips until my first trip to England in college. Then I was totally, uh, hooked. As it were. I have tried them in several places in England and Scotland, and wherever I can find them over here. The best I've ever had -- a small pub at the foot of the castle hill in Stirling, Scotland. Not only delicious battered fish and perfect chips, but the peas were garden fresh. Best ever. Not to mention great atmosphere.” 

Fish and chips were a mainstay of the working class, and also a major part of British diet during the World Wars—in WWII, they were among the few foods that were never rationed. 

I discovered this when I was researching my young adult novels, in which time traveling teens moved from Regency England to World War II.  And they all loved fish and chips.  The chippy in their town was called The Codfather. 

Some Americans have yet to meet proper fish and chips:

“Cara/Andrea confesses that fish and chips is not part of her culinary experience, but after hearing the other Wenches wax poetic on its appeal, she promises to try it next time she is in England.”

"There is something about chippies that calls forth puns: A Salt and Battery, A Batter Plaice (plaice being a common British fish), Salmon to Watch Over Me, The Frying Scotsman, and Oh, My Cod. So you get not only food but entertainment.

Traditionally, fish and chips were served in a newspaper cone, and it’s said that the porosity of the newsprint was perfect for absorbing oil and preventing greasiness. Since newspaper inks might not have been as healthy, it’s not longer used, to the regret of some.  Ideally, you’d eat them from a cone, piping hot and delicious on a cold, windy day, while walking home with your mates. 

I like that it's now much more possible to get good fish and chips than used to be the case.  They're not exactly health food, but in my research, I find that they're significantly lower in fat and calories than a lot of the other standard American fast foods

Here’s are some fun facts from a British Food website: 

“Deep-fried fish in a crispy batter with fat golden chips is still one of Britain and Ireland's favorite meals. The love for them ranks alongside Roast Beef and Yorkshire Puddings, and the recently nominated Chicken Tikka Masala, as the English National Dish.”

Compared to other take-away foods Fish and chips have: 9.42 grams of fat per 100 grams. The average pizza has 11, Big Mac meal with medium fries has 12.1, Whopper meal with medium fries has 14.5, chicken korma 15.5 and doner kebab 16.2.

Fish and chips have 595 calories in the average portion - an average pizza has 871, Big Mac meal with medium fries has 888, Whopper meal with medium fries has 892, chicken korma 910 and doner kebab 924.

Statistics courtesy of Seafish UK.

Fish and chips are a good source of protein and vitamins, too. The discussion of fish and chips on the Wench loop sent half of us out to eat some.  <G> Luckily, they’ve gotten easier to find in the US—there are a couple of Irish pubs near me that do a very decent job.  So I went to the nearest pub for lunch. <G>

Have you had a chance to eat proper British-style fish and chips?  If so, did you love or hate them?  If not—would you like to give them a try?

Mary Jo

Sugar and Spice . . . and Everything Nice

Cara/Andrea here,
As many of you may have noticed, the Wenches have been making merry over the last two weeks in celebration of the recent release of our Christmas anthology. (Mischief and Mistletoe officially went on sale September 25.) The overall theme we decided on was a very simple one—a Wicked Wench at Christmastime—and then off we went to write our individual stories. (Trust me, the Wenchly brainstorming sessions on coming up with the concept for our anthology were highly amusing, to say the least!)

The result is eight individual stories tied together by this one holiday ribbon—and as a reader I find it delightful that each has its own unique interpretation of “wicked” and reflects the style of its author. I’m betting those of you familiar with the Wenches will be able to identify the author of each simply by reading a snippet!

I n my story, I chose to create a heroine whose “wickedness” is simply being a headstrong hoyden. She’s no proper lady—which tweaks the perfectly tied cravat of the oh-so proper hero. He believes in order and the rules . . . until a chance storm forces them to join forces in a desperate journey to reach London in time for Christmas.

Now, along the way, I actually have the hero do something a little wicked too—he purloins a sackful of freshly baked gingerbread .  . . which got me to thinking about this traditional English holiday treat. So I decided to do a little research on the subject and thought I’d share a few sweet facts.

According to the Smithsonian website, gingerbread is thought to have been brought to Europe by Crusaders returning from the Levant. Whatever its origins, it became a popular staple of  Medieval fairs and festivals. (It was a token of good luck for a lady to give her favored knight a piece of gingerbread during a tournament.)  Another source cites that the first record of gingerbread formed in the shape of a human figure comes from the court of Queen Elizabeth I, who is said to have presented important guests with their likenesses made out of the spiced dough.

Gingerbread is still very popular traditional holiday treat throughout Europe and most countries have their own individual regional variation. In the Nordic countries, a thin, crisp pepper-spiced biscuit is an integral part of the Yuletide celebrations, while in Germany, a great favorite is a soft gingerbread known as lebkuchen. In Poland, the city of Toruń has been famous for its gingerbread since the Middle Ages, and in Bulgaria, the local specialty is made with honey and covered with a chocolate glaze. My Swiss mother adored biber, a marzipan filled gingerbread cake that is the specialty of the cantons of Appenzell and St. Gallen—and so do I!

How about you—do you like gingerbread?  Have you a specific type that you enjoy during the holidays? If you’re not a big fan of gingerbread men, what’s your favorite holiday cookie?