Since my last letter, and in the space of - three days? - I moved halfway across the world, left a job that I adored, moved in with a partner for the very first time, got engaged, packed, and unpacked my bags.
Chronologically, it went like this:
I left a job that I adored. My last day involved big blue flowers and a chocolate cake with my name on it, and presents that made me immediately weep. Also - much to my surprise - four post-exposure rabies injections, two of which were on my entirely unsuspecting bum. Two days later, I got engaged. We were in the most beautiful treehouse, and I had a (significant) mouthful of cheese at the time, so that was excellent. Then there was a goodbye party, with vast amounts of grilled salmon and hot dogs, and blurry group photos, and late-night singing. Then I packed my bags and moved halfway across the world. Home! And I moved in with my partner for the very first time. A new sort of home. Then I started to unpack my things, bit by bit.
It turns out you can pack most of a life (my life, specifically) into one big big suitcase, a canvas backpack, a guitar case, and a harp flight box. If you don’t need to fly with a harp, you can probably skip the last one. Your call. And if you’ve no idea what a harp flight box is, I will tell you: it’s a dazzlingly cumbersome case designed to keep a harp safe on a plane. Safe from what, I’m not entirely sure. Man-handling, I guess. Mine is red, the shape of an enormous coffin on wheels, and was - on this occasion - stuffed chock-full of bras and miscellany. This was a cunning packing strategy I soon came to regret, when the airport staff inevitably asked me to unzip the case so they could see what was inside this mysterious container.
“It’s not all bras!” I yelped. “There’s a harp tucked in underneath! The bras are just there for … padding.” (Marie Kondo eat your heart out.) The gentleman at airport security man-handled the bras for a minute, burrowing away until he found the harp itself. 'All present and correct, on you go.' So on I went.
It's a strange feeling when your whole life undergoes a sea-change, and so quickly.
When I got back to London, I noticed that my delight in small, familiar things was more tangible than it was before. These things matter when you’re finding your feet. Especially when you’re using that phrase a lot.
- Oh, you know, finding my feet. But good! It’s good.
And it is. But still I’ve found myself enormously grateful for little moments of quiet constancy. Steadying moments for when you're feeling a little unmoored.
Yes! This is just as it was before. (Even if how it was, was totally unremarkable. Even better.) Just as it always is.
Today is Thanksgiving in America. I'm sure you knew that, but still. Happy Thanksgiving! Happy Thursday! So I’m going to do the thing. I know, it’s naff. But my very favourite thing about being a grown-up (apart from crisps whenever I like!) is not having to care about that. That being said, this isn’t an awards ceremony. I’m not clutching a holographic-glass pyramid in my clammy little palm and openly weeping (or so you think). So I’ll save my people thanks for in-person. These are just the small things that have cheered me up, or helped me to feel the soft ground under my feet.
The unspoken agreement that the first one up makes the tea. Somehow, this accord has yet to be broken. despite the fact that we like our tea at different strengths.
Him: “Just show the bag to the cup. Barely introduce them.”
Me: “Bag and cup would 100% give speeches at each other’s weddings.”
Oh WAIT, there is one better tea: the cup when you get home from work, beyond knackered. That is a peerless cup.
(What’s your tastiest tea? I would very much like to experience some vicarious tea joy.)
The merry hum of a tumble dryer.
A glass of really cold tap water. One of my favourite things about winter is that it makes tap water deliciously icy. I appreciate that less in the shower department, but you can’t have it both ways, so.
When I sleep in, and someone says I ‘must have needed it!’ There is no greater validation.
Buying Christmas presents, in the knowledge that I'll wrap them while watching The Apartment (my sneaky tradition).
Curling the ribbon with a sharp pair of scissors. I say that because I’ve yet to do it successfully, so the anticipation is EXHILARATING.
The first glimmer of recognition from someone who works in my local shop/cafe/pub.
And the moment when that graduates to a proper greeting. My dad is the master of this. We recently met up for lunch in the neighbourhood where I grew up. He'd stopped off to pick up supplies from the bagel bakery, once a daily ritual, and then we went into our formerly-local bookshop. Immediately we get to chatting with the lady who runs the shop,and she points to his unmarked, entirely nondescript carrier bag. ‘That's a lot of bagels today, David! I'm glad to see you stocked up.’
Seeing bus drivers wave to each other (a rare treat).
Buying a pint of milk, and noticing that the expiry date is after a day that I’m feeling nervous about. If milk can survive this, then so can I!
Hunting for sea glass with my ma. She calls them jewels. Heart-shaped is best, obviously. Second best? Tiny! The ones you really have to squint for, to sift through hundreds of salt-crusted stones and shell fragments to find.
The unexpected glide of a cheap biro.
When the training wheels come off, in whatever context.
Popcorn with lemon juice, black pepper, and a generous splosh of olive oil. Or: melted butter, hot sauce and - believe it or not - nutritional yeast. I know, that sounds terrible. But, conversely, it isn’t.
The existence of lollipop ladies. And milkmen. Hard though they are to come by.
The title sequence of any comfort telly. The very first beat of it.
A footprint in dried cement. Even better: a paw print.
‘Nude’ nail polish. OPI have a colour called Dulce de Leche, which I especially covet. If I was the kind of person who could wear nude nail polish, I would wear pearly silk shirts every day, in slate-grey, or the colour of double cream. But Ben wouldn't let me get a raspberry sofa, such was his conviction that I'd destroy it immediately with baked beans or similar, so I may be a ways off yet. (The sofa is navy blue, so I can eat all the navy blue food I want!!)
Anyway, as it is my nails are usually gold, cornflower blue or rosy pinkish-red: three colours that I genuinely consider to be neutrals. So perhaps I'll save the nude polish for Dream Me.
Throwing away the foil top of a yoghurt pot, without anyone telling me off for being wasteful. I know it’s the creamiest bit, but I don’t like getting yoghurt on my nose, and I always, always do. (This is EXACTLY why I can’t wear nude nail polish. You can’t be going about in dove-coloured silk with yoghurt on your nose.)
Swimming in the sea, or a nippy freshwater pond, then reaping the nods of approval from passers by.
The fact that Walkers Thai Chilli Sweet Sensations are ALWAYS on offer. Always, despite being the the unmatched king of crisps. I am baffled, but genuinely delighted every time. Sometimes, when they’re £1 each (for a big bag!) I’ll buy two, such is my certainty that this good fortune can't go on forever.
Dozing in a car. Dozing on a train. Dozing while conversation whirrs gently on around me.
A nighttime shower, and going for the triumvirate: clean sheets, clean jammies, and freshly-washed hair.
If I had a bath: having one. With bath oil made from swiss herbs or similar. Failing that, a big glug of Matey.
Feeling toasty. See also: eating a toastie.
The word ‘due’ when it refers to a bus. Especially if it's a night bus. Double especially when I have hot, salty chips.
And this is my number one favourite - the place where I feel centred and content, even when everything else is mayhem: riding the bus, sitting on the top deck, front seat.
A common complaint against the noble bus is that its slow to the point of comedy. And that's fair. The bus laughs at those in a rush. You know those scenes in films, where someone has a sudden realisation, and then some great music comes on, and everybody hauls ass to get them where they need to be? (It's usually to stop a wedding, or to tell Julia Roberts something, urgently.) The bus is pretty much the exact opposite of that. If you're running late, the bus will kick you in the shins repeatedly, and steal your travel card.
But, on the days where I have a little time, or enough in the tank to get up that bit earlier, I love being able to trundle along and watch the world go about its business. The extra hour spent above ground feels like keeping my head above water. It honestly helps me breathe.
Whenever I get on the bus, I usually try to let one person on before me, and I do it in quite a theatrical, Walter Raleigh laying a cloak over a puddle kind of way. I do this partly because I it's a common courtesy, but also because it’s so easy to forget otherwise that we’re all in it together. Everybody’s trying to get somewhere, hopefully warmer and more welcoming than this particular stop.
I've learnt not to do this on the tube, partly because it's a brutal, subterranean world where the ordinary rules of civility don't seem to hold water, and partly because I get squished and tutted at. Yesterday, I was on a very delayed overground train, the kind where not everyone can get on, and a Titanic-style scrum ensues at every station.
From deep within the bustle, I heard a man shout:
‘Let us on! We have a funeral to get to!’
To which someone replied: ‘That’s how you dress for a funeral?!’
You see? The tube is a god-forsaken place. The bus, on the other hand, operates at a gentler, kinder pace. It tends to be populated more by people with babies, or silver hair, and kids on their way home from school, one of whom always has a packet of sweets, and is divvying them up amongst his friends like he’s Joseph in Egypt.
Yesterday, the lady I let on before me scampered up the stairs and took the last top deck front seat, and I don't mind telling you that I almost reconsidered my entire policy there and then. But, it transpired that she was saving the seat for her parents, and I think they were tourists (Hamley’s bags - a telltale sign), and they really seemed to be loving it, so I couldn't begrudge them the best seat in the house.
That seat is a triumph and a joy, and I'll tell you why:
First of all you get to see huge swathes of the city, and better yet - all the mini scenes within it. Last week, in one journey, I spied the biggest, fluffiest dog I’ve ever seen (a possible Chow Chow sighting), three people checking their reflections in a shop window, and smiling, two enormous shiny police horses, numerous hello hugs, and an elderly couple unceremoniously chuck multiple loaves of sliced bread out for the pigeons in Bloomsbury Square. Then they walked off holding hands.
Secondly: you can pop your feet up. That comfort alone is the worth fifteen extra minutes I would have spent faffing around in my flat.
Lastly, and this is especially crucial if you’re in bit of a mope: you can pretend to be the driver. Now you’re the biggest thing on the road. Beep beep!
You know how some people have a thing that always makes you think of them? And when you see That Thing out and about in the world, you have to tell them immediately?
Well mine, apparently, is this. I know I’m not as cool as the friend I always send anything to do with Patti Smith, or the one who’s synonymous with leopard print. I’m neither as adorable as people who LOVE dogs, or as elegant the person you always remember when you see a particularly excellent moon. But I still love it when people tell me ‘I knew you and you alone would appreciate this glorious vista!’ And it’s a picture of their boots propped up happily on the window ledge of a bus, with a backdrop of the Kilburn High Road.
So, if you ever find yourself needing to find your feet, this is what's been working for me lately: plonking them up, right where I can see them, watching the world go by, and giving myself the extra space to get where I need to be.
The Cameo
My guest this week is Jessica Cottis.
Photo: Gerard Collett.
What’s your job title/profession?
Conductor.
What would you love for people to know about your work?
I’m always searching for subtleties of nuance, colour, balance and tempo, yet I make no sound. It reads as a riddle, but conductors really are nothing without their musicians. On another level, we act as ambassadors. Music enables people to connect, with themselves and with each other. The wider and more profound those connections, the better.
What do you wish people would stop asking about your work?
Being asked how gender defines conducting. It doesn’t. Yes, music-making is very personal, but it’s also inherently universal.
How did you get started as a conductor? Was it something you were set on from an early age or something you were slowly drawn to later in your career?
It came later. It wasn’t a slow awakening. I’d developed a wrist injury which meant I couldn’t keep working as an organist. I studied law for a bit and really enjoyed it and during that time saw a brilliant performance of Der Rosenkavalier at the Vienna State Opera. From this moment I knew I had to conduct. It was like a match struck suddenly in the dark.
What made you/helped you to choose what you do?
Wanting to share ideas with other musicians and get them across to an audience. Having started out as a organist—an instrument that is an orchestra in itself—it was perhaps inevitable.
What’s your perfect breakfast for a workday?
Exactly the same breakfast, every day: oats, banana, and a few squares of dark chocolate.
When you’re preparing for a part, do you have a dedicated/preferred workspace? If so, what does it look like?
A large surface, with natural light, or by lamp light. I like best to study very late at night, when the world has gone to sleep.
Preferred stationary/tools of the trade?
Coloured pencils to mark up my scores. I use three specific colours: I hear winds as hues of blue, brass as green, and strings as red. So, in my scores I use light blue, light green, and a strong red. Harp is red too! This is the bane of my life:
What are your dressing room essentials?
An absence of fluorescent lighting. Quiet, and with a sofa.
Is there anything that always goes with you when you’re on the road?
Two batons, a metronome and a little hardback of Shakespeare’s complete sonnets.
What are your work hours like? Do you ever try to create a routine for yourself or is that completely impossible given the nature of your job?
Long. There is no typical day for a conductor. I could be sitting at my desk, poring over scores and historical documents for hour upon hour, or with an orchestra in a concert hall, making these thoughts into music. Some days are taken up with travel; then I read a lot. And others with devising interesting programmes or new projects with the organisations with which I regularly work. The one thing that remains constant is walking. There’s a kind of curious link between mind and feet, I think. Walking allows much space for the imagination.
Do you work with fixed goals in mind or take it day by day depending on what comes up?
I rarely have fixed goals unless there’s a deadline, in which case I’ll focus without stopping. I tend to learn scores quickly but sometimes the process needs more air and space. I guess the music itself sets it’s own pace, you have to work with it.
What’s your favourite thing about your job?
The music!
Least favourite?
I enjoy the nomadic lifestyle but I do miss loved ones and home.
Go-to work snack/sustenance?
Dark chocolate. Salted cashews.
How you define a good/successful day?
In The Waves, Virginia Woolf wrote “I am rooted, but I flow”. These are the best days.
Do you have any hobbies/passions outside of work? (Is such a thing even possible with your schedule?)
I’ve many interests, it is possible. So many subject areas are deeply fascinating. Visual art, natural sciences, astronomy, theories of human psychology, political science, history, medicine, architecture, literature. I also like things that fly: I’m obsessed with butterflies and am training to pilot helicopters.
If so, how do you make time for them? Where do they fit into your day/week?
The nature of my work is all-consuming. But the brain has a huge capacity for knowledge, and and we always make time for things we love.
What’s one piece of advice you would give to someone who wants to do what you do?
Develop your ears. Listen, to everything.
What’s the best piece of advice someone’s ever given you?
Sir Colin Davies once gave us (conducting class at RAM) the best piece of advice for the opening of Beethoven 5: “just whip it” he said, whilst flicking his baton as though urging on faster a horse. It works!
What’s your top tip for getting shit done?
Paths are made by walking.
What two recordings should I listen to this week?
Mahler’s Das Lied von der Erde, with mezzo Christa Ludwig, tenor Fritz Wunderlich, and Otto Klemperer with the Philharmonia Orchestra. Pianist Jayson Gilham’s solo debut album on ABC Classics. Bach, Schubert and Chopin.
Any memorable career highlights or lowlights you'd like to share?
High point: last year, conducting at the Royal Albert Hall for the first time at the Proms.
Low point: at the start of my career, having learnt the wrong opera and needing to cram La Cenerentola in 3 days. I didn’t sleep and my eyes felt nubby like burnt-out candles.
Finally, what career advice would you give to an aspiring conductor?
I think our society tends to squeeze lemons too early. Take the time you need to develop; intellectually, culturally, philosophically and personally, and allow space to really think about what you do. Music is about living: it can’t be rushed and you can’t bluff it.
Check out Jessica's website here.
Follow her on Twitter: @JessicaCottis
Some Music
Last week was World Kindness Day. (Oops, two weeks ago now. I was too slow in writing this.) I hadn't heard of this one before, but I've been thinking about it ever since.
So the theme of this week's playlist is just that: kindness.
And as a bonus, because I imagine you've all been very kind this week (and every week!) here's one of the most uplifting, heart-glowing videos I know of: Playing For Change.
A Poem
Goulash
by Myra Schneider
A crucial ingredient is the right frame of mind
so abandon all ideas of getting on. Stop pedalling,
dismount, go indoors and give yourself masses of time.
Then begin by heating a pool of oil in a frying pan
and, Mrs. Beeton style, take a dozen onions
even though the space you’re working in is smaller
than the scullery in a Victorian mansion. Pull off
the papery wrappings and feel the shiny globes’ solidity
before you chop. Fry the segments in three batches.
Don’t fuss about weeping eyes, with a wooden spoon
ease the pieces as they turn translucent and gold.
When you’ve browned but not burnt the cubes of beef
marry meat and onions in a deep pan, bless the mixture
with stock, spoonfuls of paprika, tomato purée
and crushed garlic. Enjoy the Pompeian-red warmth.
Outside, the sun is reddening the pale afternoon
and you’ll watch as it sinks behind blurring roofs,
the raised arms of trees, the intrepid viaduct.
In the kitchen’s triumph of colour and light the meat
is softening and everything in the pot is seeping
into everything else. By now you’re thinking of love:
the merging which bodies long for, the merging
that’s more than body. While you’re stirring the stew
it dawns on you how much you need darkness.
It lives in the underskirts of thickets where sealed buds
coddle green, where butterflies folded in hibernation,
could be crumpled leaves. It lives in the sky that carries
a deep sense of blue and a thin boat of moon angled
as if it’s rocking. It lives in the silent larder and upstairs
in the airing cupboard where a padded heart pumps
heat, in the well of bed where humans lace together.
Time to savour all this as the simmering continues,
as you lay the table and place at its centre a small jug
in which you’ve put three tentative roses and sprigs
of rosemary. At last you will sit down with friends
and ladle the dark red goulash onto plates bearing
beds of snowhite rice. As you eat the talk will be bright
as the garnets round your neck, as those buried
with an Anglo-Saxon king in a ship at Sutton Hoo,
and the ring of words will carry far into the night.
Circling The Core (Enitharmon Press, 2008)
A Recipe!
As you may have guessed from this week's poem, my seasonal comfort eating has now begun in earnest. To prove that I mean business, I welcomed in the season by making my own bread! And butter! I know, I can hardly believe it myself.
I used a recipe from The Little Library Cookbook by Kate Young.
I love this book, and heartily recommend it for the bibliophiles and ... eating-philes (is it obvious I don't know the word for that one?) in your life. I think it would make the loveliest gift, but I unabashedly bought it as a gift for myself, and I think that's okay too. More than okay, in fact!
If you're so eager to make your own bread and butter that you simply can't wait to get your mitts on a copy, Kate wrote up the recipe here. She also made this gorgeous video for making the butter.
I watched it on repeat while I was whisking away, and found it immensely soothing. The first time I made the butter (yes, I am now a serial butter-maker) I didn't have an electric whisk, and it took me about an hour of gentle-ish hand-whisking. Dishearteningly, it took Ben about fifteen minutes to make the next batch.
My First Loaf
The stars aligned! Have I secretly been a baking genius all this time??
Well, no. I followed a VERY clear and helpful recipe. And even then, my friend Rosie sat in my kitchen while I took my first bambi-baker steps, drinking tea, and offering top quality reassurances at all the right moments.
Loaf II
My Grandma bears an uncanny resemblance to Paddington Bear. Not physically (she is a human woman) and not really like Ben Whishaw, but like the bear in the books. The way I always imagined him. I won't go into all the similarities here, but this one is key: she lives, almost exclusively, on marmalade. With toast and a thick swipe of butter.
So I made my second loaf for her.
I started this one with the quiet confidence of a pro. Knead knead knead. Prove prove prove. Then, when it was done, I suddenly panicked that I would proudly cut the first slice, and the inside would be completely raw, or inexplicably full of spiders. (I wonder if they feel this way on Bake Off?)Much to my relief, it was neither. It was warm and delicious, and we ate it with Leek and Potato soup (also from The Little Library Cookbook, also warm and delicious) and ice-cold Gewürztraminer. Loaf III
For my Grandma again. I wrapped it up in napkins and string for two reasons:1. I was transporting it in my backpack, and wanted to preserve as much of its warmth as possible on the tube ride over.
2. I had grown overconfident as a baker, and it was a bit of a misshapen beast.
But my confidence wasn't entirely ill-placed. It still tasted like all the things bread should taste like: comfort and sustenance, mainly. It kept our bodies and souls together, and we ate it with poached eggs on top.
(Obviously this photo was taken after I'd sliced the wonky bit off.)
Oh, I mustn't forget to give the butter a moment in the sun. It was very good, primrose-yellow butter. Fresh as sea air, and as finely salted. My Grandma was fashioned from sea air, so that feels just right.
Links!
Continuing the theme of comfort eating: if you eat meat, check this out: a roast calculator! So nifty!
For the vegetarians among us: David Rudnick's ranking of the top 22 pasta shapes (from worst to best) is a pure joy in an otherwise cruel world. My favourite lines: 'friend to the humble pea' & 'a true Comrade To Sauce'.
For the vegans among us: I'm afraid I have nothing for you this week, beyond my genuine admiration.
But maybe you'll enjoy this article about a man trying to return a butternut squash because he thought it was cheese. See? You're right. Cheese makes fools of us all, in the end.
These Kitchen Disasters made me weep with laughter.
Can I Ever Be a Cos Woman?
I loved this article by Lauren Bravo. Sadly in my case the answer is no (said with real feeling, by a well-wishing friend.)
Relevant to my interests: a flowchart of German animal names.
On the (excellent) subject of animal recognition, here's a beautiful, shimmering piece by Robert Macfarlane: Badger or Bulbasaur - have children lost touch with nature?
But I also believe that names matter, and that the ways we address the natural world can actively form our imaginative and ethical relations with it. As George Monbiot wrote recently, calling for a “new language” to vivify conservation, “words possess a remarkable power to shape our perceptions”. Without names to give it detail, the natural world can quickly blur into a generalised wash of green – a disposable backdrop or wallpaper. The right names, well used, can act as portals – “hollowings”, in Robert Holdstock’s term – into the more-than-human world of bird, animal, tree and insect. Good names open on to mystery, grow knowledge and summon wonder.
Something that has summoned wonder for me this week: I am so excited to read Emily Wilson's translation of the Odyssey. [Here are two fascinating pieces: by her in the Paris Review, and about her in The New York Times Magazine.] She's the first woman to have translated Homer's epic poem into English, and that's thrilling just because it is. But read her opening, and tell me you're not excited it about it too:Yep. My wonder has been well and truly summoned.
If you would like to be dazzled by something today, but don't fancy cracking into the Odyssey just at the moment (and fair play to you), this video of the Kyoto Tachibana High School marching band blew my tiny mind.
Yeah, now I feel like a Faultier too. Don't worry about it, you're doing great.
Finally, as we slip from Autumn into proper Winter, I found this guide to Japan's 72 Microseasons immensely cheering.
And that's it! See you next week!
Love,
Katya
The Katch-Up's header illustration is by the brilliant Tamsin Baker.