Do Clothes Make the Woman?

Readers seem to want to read something about personal style, which makes me tremble as all my life I have loved the beautiful clothes in fashion magazines and worn hand-me-downs. I'm a freelance writer with a husband in the heritage industry, which means I still wear hand-me-downs, albeit from vintage or, as they are known in the UK, charity shops.

Yes, I have my luxury clothing dreams, but it is my belief that you can develop a pleasing style of your own without spending as much money as you might think you would have to. You don't. You just have to be willing to flip through racks and racks of rags to find what will look good on you. 

Most of the time, what looks good on you is colour. Advertisers use a lot of red because it is the colour the human eye first perceives. Therefore, I do not understand why girls on the prowl for boys do so in drab colours, e.g. black tights, blue denim shorts, tight black tops with their breasts all squished up. This overemphasis on the bottom suggests the girls think men are monkeys, and the overemphasis on the squished up breasts suggests that the girls think deep down all men want to bring a stripper home to mother. 

We can wail all day long about how it isn't nice to judge, but the truth is that everybody judges everybody by our clothes. Whole cities can get reputations for style or dowdiness based on the fashion choices of their women.  Paris has a good reputation for well-dressed women. Newcastle (aka Geordie Shore) does not. And what you wear does "send a message" whether you mean it or not, and although the message may not be "I am a loose broad," it may be "I don't belong here" or "I couldn't care less about myself" or "I hate people."

 "I don't belong here" clothes can be as dangerous as "I am a loose broad" clothes, and the best thing I ever did, sartorially-speaking, was refuse to wear my best pale blue acrylic Sunday dress to my first high school dance. Instead I borrowed grey cords and a purple sweater from a friend, which made my mother cry, but at least I did not stick out like a pale blue acrylic thumb. 

Shortly thereafter, the 1960s made a comeback, and so I saw my mother's 1960s clothes in a whole new light. Hitherto, I had worn them glumly because that's what there was, and Mum never threw anything out. But suddenly 1960s minis were in fashion, and Mum's 1960s minis were no longer knee-length on me, so I began to wear them with aplomb. I bought the 1960s revivalist message-- the pale pink lipstick, the black turtlenecks, the black or patterned tights, the big chunky earrings. (In hindsight, I should have gone with the hair, too: grown mine out and ironed it flat.) What I could not raid from my mother, I bought at Le Chateau with my allowance or birthday gift certificates or Christmas money or any money I could get my hands on, really, and Le Chateau was a great shop for teens because it copied the latest fashions and flogged them at a fraction of what the originals much have cost. 

It was all a wonderful exercise in creative experimentation, which is what your teenage years should be about: learning about stuff, experimenting with stuff, training your eye, thinking critically, asking for good advice, taking good advice. And although those grey cords were my badge of fashion freedom, I discovered that I much preferred skirts. I am a girly girl: I like skirts. I like anything that emphasizes that I am not a boy, and nothing says girl like "skirt." There is no reason to display your round bottom, breasts or thighs to get the "I'm a girl" message across. All you need is a nice skirt. Shoes with heels of any height also send the "I'm a girl" message, for men don't usually wear shoes with heels higher than an inch.  

I wore mini-skirts until I was about 30, and then I stopped.  This was mostly because I hated how they rode up when I sat down, but it was also because for years I had preferred the Victoriana side of Goth fashion and also gypsy-look stuff. Both Victorian ladies and gypsy ladies were very modest about legs, and my favourite skirt was (and is) a black velvet maxi-skirt Morticia Adams would have liked. 

In recent years, I have developed an intense boredom for women's legs. Calves are okay if they are bracketed by pretty shoes and the froth of a knee-length hem, but the constant tide of blue-denim and black-stretch bipeds that flows up and down the streets of Edinburgh depresses me. Women used to float; now we scissor. Left, right, left, right, left, right.  Zzzzzz.  It should go without saying that the only place for sweatpants or yoga pants is the gym or yoga studio.

When developing your style, it is helpful to look at fashion magazines and fashion books (e.g. about the history of Yves St Laurent) and take notice of what you like and don't like. Then ponder why you like or don't like them. (What messages have you learned about clothes, and are they valid or invalid, based on your lived experience?) Pay attention to your feelings. It is also helpful to go to galleries and look at paintings, but also to look at what the artists are wearing. (I love looking at artists' outfits at openings.)  

Also, keep your ears open. Do people tell you that you have a strong resemblance to Audrey Hepburn or some other public woman? If so, have a look to see how you resemble her (whether in colouring or shape or both) ,note what she wears or wore, and pull together versions of her looks according to your income. (To the charity shops we go!)

I suppose I should say something about modesty, perennial obsession of the Catholic blogosphere. Modesty is relative to your surroundings, and I had a reader who was targeted for rape because she was wearing an unsually modest outfit at the party. (Predators prey on those who look weak, including uncomfortable.) Remember: looking like you don't belong can be more dangerous than looking "immodest".  In the West, hemlines rose to over the knee in the 1920s, and nothing was the same again. The conservative 1940s, which were war-torn and interested in conserving cloth but also morals and morale, were okay with knee-length skirts and elbow length sleeves. Therefore, I shall make the pronouncement that if you are wearing a shirt or blouse that shows no cleavage or upper arm and skirts or walking shorts that go to your knees (or trousers that do not scream "Look at my bum!"), and perhaps a beret, hat or scarf in neighbourhoods where religious men are nasty to bare-headed women, then you are modestly dressed by any standard, and anyone who says you're not can go soak his head.

If you are at any doubt as to whether or not your outfit is immodest, go directly to the internet and look up "Duchess of Cambridge" or "Kate Middleton." Yes, she lived with her boyfriend for years before marrying him. Yes, yes, yes. Don't do that. But DO have a look at what she is wearing today because she is the most scrutinized woman in the country with the cruelest media (bar none), and she has to represent her husband, his family and the UK every public moment. As a result, she wears clothes that are classy, appropriate and modest. In terms of modest yet stylish dress, keep your eye on Kate and you can't go wrong.  Her look says "Elegant Young Princess," and frankly I think Woman's Lot would be vastly improved if we all dressed like elegant young princesses until we were forty, and then dressed like the Frenchwomen our age.

Of course, the Duchess of Cambridge is tall and very thin, so the actual clothes she wears, even when they are affordable, will not suit many of us. Just keep an eye on her hemlines and what sort of clothes she chooses to wear to whichever occasion. For advice on which clothes best suit your frame, I recommend finding old copies of the Trinny and Susannah books, which you can find very cheaply in charity shops (in the UK) and no doubt online, everywhere else. T & S are rather brash and Broken Britain in their tone, but they do have good advice. As Christians, you may prefer to keep your cleavage a little more covered up than they suggest. 

A word about British fashion: the middle- and high-end shops of Edinburgh are full of beautiful, glorious, feminine clothes. Why do so few British women seem to wear them?!?!?! If I had the money, I would frolic through the department stores like a lamb among the daffodils of spring. As it is, my purse confines me to three looks: the Racy 1930s Woman Novelist (hats, gloves, cocktails, the rarely-used cigarette holder), the Pre-Raphaelite Painting (velvet skirts and a lot of hair) and (default) the "Gypsy Witch," which is not my expression but that of a young man who dresses like a Damned Foreign Johnny of 1938.

Gypsy Witch wears long wool skirts, paisley, bright necklaces and shawls of all kinds, advises young girls on their love lives, reads young men's minds and feeds them delicious soups. Oh dear, I would terribly like to be an elegant Frenchwoman my age, but I seem to have become Gypsy Witch.

If everyone buys my Greene Tribute Novel, maybe I will be able to make the transition to elegant Frenchwoman. Everyone go pre-order! Vite! Vite!  (Here's Amazon for those in the UK, and a Polish site for those in Poland, although October seems rather late. The book comes out in the USA in July!)

Random Economic Activity

Cherubs, I have nothing about Single Life today. Zip. Mostly all I can think about is whether or not my beauty therapist made me look the teeniest bit like Groucho Marx yesterday by not making my eyebrows thin enough or by dying them maybe a leetle too dark a brown. But I can distract myself from this horrible thought by staring at my bee-oo-tee-ful pink fingernails. Yesterday was beauty shop day, and I enjoyed it.

Today B.A. and I toddled up and down Edinburgh's Nicholson street and environs looking for bargains. We bought the following:

computer monitor cleaning wipes (I)
a bottle of white wine (B.A.)
a box of "Tension Tamer" tea (I)
Roger Scruton's I Drink Therefore I Am (B.A.)
new heels on my best boots (I)
a chicken pastry from Gregg's (B.A.)
Two Fat Ladies: The Cookbook (B.A. & I)
lunch at "Black Medicine" (B.A. & I)

I almost bought a lot of stuff, but didn't. For example, there was a lovely dark green, brand new wool-cashmere blend overcoat in a charity shop for £12, but when I put it on, I thought it looked--and I looked--too military, as in World War 2 military.  Sort of stern and war-weary.  I want something nipped in at the waist from now on. I'm tired of all the up-and-down-ness of too many winter coats, you know?

In Blackwell's book shop, where B.A. didn't want to go, lest he weaken and buy full-price books (which he did), I searched high and low for a book specializing in mastering language acquisition, but couldn't find one. The study guides were all about math and writing essays.

Now that I am home I have been looking at shoes online.That's the kind of Saturday it is.

College as Marriage Market

Andrew Cusack sent me this, as it was written by a friend of his at the New Criterion:

 In 2008, when I was a college junior, I went home to New Jersey one weekend to visit my family—and almost immediately regretted it. My mother seemed more interested in my romantic life than my academic life: "Have you found a boyfriend yet?"

I rolled my eyes and said no. With a healthy dose of young-adult arrogance, I explained that I was too busy studying, working on the college review, and helping out at my sorority. No time for men. My mother nodded, acknowledging that there was a lot going on.

Then she said calmly but forcefully: "You're in college. You're at Dartmouth. There will never be a better time to meet someone. I'm sure there are many interesting boys around. If you don't find one before you graduate, you might not find one at all—so start looking."

That reminds me of something my mother said when I was in college, and the result was my early divorce. 

I dated a lot in college, which really means that I usually had a boyfriend. I was fun and at least outwardly cheerful, got involved with a few groups and causes on campus, spoke up in class, had zany hair, got noticed. 

I was also intensely thoughtless, and had an idea at the time that the more boyfriends or admirers you had, the more successful you were as a woman. This is a really stupid idea, but that's the message I had taken on board, so I went out with guys way longer than I should have, for the sake of having fun, attentive boyfriends, and then broke up with them, sometimes rather abruptly. I looked Betty, but I acted Veronica.

Not being entirely heartless, I felt rather bad about my "fickleness." I was frustrated both with myself and with the guys I went out with. How come I got bored so easily? How come I never met a guy I wanted to permanently commit to? And even though I took an extra year to complete, graduation was looming, and my mother had said it was easier to meet men in college than afterwards. She, of course, had married a brilliant PhD student she met as an undergrad. 

I think I'll lightly skip over what happened next, for once. And--guess what? I discovered that there were still single men around after graduation. There were single men in grad school. There were single men at work. There were single men in parishes. There were single men all over the place. There was absolutely no reason for me to have dreaded my college graduation as the cut-off point after which there would be no more single men. (And for the record, I was better-looking at thirty than I was at twenty-four.)

What did make meeting good men more difficult, after college graduation, was being married (naturally) and then divorced because the experience of an unhappy marriage was the worst thing that had ever happened to me in my sheltered life, and it seriously messed with my head. The annulment procedure, though necessary, was for me traumatic. 

I know a woman, a beautiful woman, who married a college boyfriend who was awful to her, and even before she got divorced or her annulment, met a wonderful man. They were friends, nothing more, because, of course, she was married. However, when she got her divorce and then her annulment, they were free to marry, and did. Now they have children.

When she told me her story I was grateful because until she did I was the only annulled woman of my generation I knew, and until then I didn't know anyone who knew firsthand what I had gone through. But at the same time I was hit with a wave of despair because it had worked out okay for her in the end. Even before she had escaped her agony, she had met the right man. Did God love her more than me? I feared so.

This was foolish, and although it looks like I remarried too late to have children (the elephant in the Seraphic Singles room), I don't think God loves me any less than a woman who has children. Indeed, I think He may love me just as teensy-weensy bit more, for He sides with the poor, the ill, the widow, the orphan, the refugee and the barren, and He's just got a different job for me. 

And part of that job is to tell the truth about Single Life, and the truth is that your college graduation is NOT NOT NOT your marital expiry date. God has a plan for you, and it may involve you marrying a college sweetheart, but it just as easily may not. 

Sure, if you are inclined to early marriage, then you should be open to meeting guys at college and having "just a coffee" when asked, and giving a marriage-potential guy two more dates/chances before deciding if there's a spark. As soon as you know you just couldn't marry him, then let him know you don't see a future for the two of you. As Catholics or other Christians, we should be above having boyfriends just for the sake of having boyfriends.  But please, for the sake of your future happiness, don't force yourself into commitments because you think there's something wrong with you if you don't feel committed by fourth year.  Everyone is on a different schedule. As hard as it would have been, I was supposed to wait it out.

More on Boundaries

As I was rereading yesterday's post, it occurred to me that I ought to have said something about boundaries. Guarding your heart and, let's face it, your whole self from harm involves the setting and maintaining of boundaries.

When we are kids, we are taught a lot of boundaries. We are allowed to play in these places, and not in others. We aren't supposed to talk to strangers unless our parents prompt us to do so. (A bit confusing.) We can't take candy from strangers--again, not unless our parents prompt us to do so. (Also confusing, like so many parental mixed messages.) Some of these boundaries are about our parents' comfort and ease. But most are about our personal safety.

Civilization is all about human beings--especially weak human beings, like children--surviving, thriving and flourishing in community. It is about training the strong not to hurt but to protect or at least to suffer the weaker to survive and thrive unmolested. Christian civilization stresses that all human beings deserve to survive and thrive unmolested--unless they are hurting others, in which case they must certainly be restrained.

However, human beings are not innately civilized, and human beings are thoughtless or wicked quite a lot of the time. Some human beings dedicate themselves to destroying civilization, rather like  that game where you remove parts of a toy tower (or house of cards), block by block (or card by card), to see how much you can remove without the tower crashing down. For example, how often can a child listen to hateful, misogynist, sexually explicit, rape-culture pop music before he or she starts despising women as whores or, ahem, "ho's"?

When civilization begins to fall apart, those who are weaker are most vulnerable. And, although I'm very sorry to say this, this means women, especially young women.* Not only are most women physically weaker than most men, women--especially young women--care more about what people think of us. In general, women want to be cherished, and men want to be respected. We women want to be thought of "nice," and so we often smile ingratiatingly in even the most outrageous of circumstances. We are more likely than men to be victims of political correctness because to be called racist or homophobe or any other nasty name threatens our status of "nice" faster than it threatens our jobs.

I once knew a teenager who was mentally and emotionally abused and manipulated into doing sexual stuff she didn't want to do by a boyfriend who was confined for life to a wheelchair. Disabled men can be just as gentlemanly or as abusive as other men, that's for sure. And this is where I make my Woman Trumps Everything but Child speech.

You may discover, in life, people trying to break down your boundaries or forcing you to second-guess your instincts by acting or speaking as though you are some kind of privileged tyrant, either because of your colour, your ethnic background, your religion, your sweet demeanour, your education, your nice family, your ability to walk, whatever. I highly recommend that you have nothing to do with such people, or at least tell them that they are making you feel uncomfortable, and then talk about what they said with HR (if at work) or your chaplain (if at college).

What's more, I highly recommend that if you get on an elevator and see a man who makes you feel uncomfortable, get off the elevator, even if he is a different colour from you.  If you are walking down the street and you see a man before or behind you who makes you nervous, cross the street, even if he is a different colour from you. It is very important that you privilege your physical safety over your fear of being called a racist. And if anyone ever, ever tells you that if you don't go out with him or kiss him or anything else with him it's because you are a racist, leave at once. Call your mother. Call a cab. Get the heck out.

Woman trumps race. Woman trumps gay. Woman trumps handicap. Woman trumps poor. Woman trumps ethnic group. Woman trumps everything and everyone except children and babies because most woman are more vulnerable than most men, especially in a crumbling civilization. My ethnics prof back in Canada told students always to consider, in an ethical dilemma, "the most vulnerable person in the situation." When it comes to strangers or near-strangers, the sexual revolution, the darkened street, the drunken party, that would be you, my female readers.

This is not to say you cannot inflict a lot of emotional damage on men because of course you can, and I hope you don't do so deliberately or out of thoughtlessness. But you do have to realize that although the sun is shining and the world is beautiful, there are a lot of men who will say or do absolutely anything to take advantage of you and then, after you are crying in agony of spirit, smugly congratulate themselves on their cleverness. (To such men, any lie that does the job counts as cleverness.)

So boundaries. Now that you aren't a kid anymore, it is up to you--not your parents--to draw up these boundaries and to enforce them. Here are a list of potential boundaries you might have chosen already or might find helpful:

1. You don't allow men in your dwelling unless you have known them for a long time.
2. You don't go on overnight trips/out of town with men you barely know.
3. You do not go behind closed doors with men you barely know.
4. You don't discuss "such personal subjects" (i.e. sex stuff) with men who are not your husband or boyfriend.
5. You don't discuss your marital status.
6. You don't discuss your religious beliefs in a casual way, at work or at parties.
7. You don't accept lifts from strangers.
8. You don't discuss race or politics or [whatever] at work/with strangers/ etc.
9. You don't talk to strangers on the street beyond remarks about the weather or giving directions.
10. You don't talk about your sins, except with the clergyman in whom you have chosen to confide.

To enforce your boundaries, you have to speak up. If you have to preface the stating of a boundary with, "I'm sorry, but," that's fine as long as it's just a polite convention and you are not really sorry for your boundaries and God-given autonomy. If speaking firmly doesn't seem to convince your interlocutor of the inviolability of your boundary, or if he starts calling you names (e.g. racist, prude, selfish), then I recommend walking away. And if he tries to physically restrain you, scream your lungs out. Either way, you must then call a friend or relative to tell them what happened, so that your sense of autonomy is strengthened by someone who loves you.

*Teenage girls are particularly vulnerable to STDS/STIs.

Guarding Your Heart

I found an email this morning asking for practical tips on how to guard your hearts. Guarding one's heart, this reader suggests, is really hard when guys seem to show some cautious interest and then do not follow up.

That sounded very familiar to me because I come from one of those towns where Cautious seems to be every man's middle name. I know a Latina who got very depressed after moving to my hometown in Canada because men didn't seem to notice her anymore, and of course I am always charmed in Italy when seventeen year old boys roll their eyes at me and say "Bellissima!"  Complete nonsense, but flattering nonsense, especially when you're 39+.

Anyway, my heart-guarding advice can be divided into having a good defense and a good offense.

The good defense is 1. being rooted in reality. This means constantly telling yourself the truth about some guy you like, even (especially) if that truth is just that you don't even know him. It is just so easy to fixate on a handsome face and make up a story to go along with it. Not that I was fixated on him, but my shock when I first heard David Beckham's voice---!

Sad to say, the only proof that a guy is that into you is that he figures out a way to spend a lot of time with you in person, and not for free therapy, either. If all he wants to do on what you thought was a coffee date is talk about your beautiful best friend, then he's not into you. And why bother thinking all day long about a man who would prefer your friend to you, anyway?

If you really cannot stop yourself from thinking obsessively about some guy, then I recommend that you give him a fake name and write outrageously adventurous or romantic stories about him. This is better than mooning about for it is productive and will underscore the difference between fact and fiction.

Meanwhile 2. don't tell people your secrets, m'kay? Don't try to speed up intimacy (by which I mean a deep, soulful, meeting of hearts) by telling new friends or crush objects or your date The Whole Truth About You, Warts and All.  Your secrets and deepest feelings are precious, and there will be emotional payback if you share them with the wrong people or even with the right people too soon. You should approach all first and second dates as if your happiness depended on projecting that you are happy and confident and your life is practically perfect and no man has ever done you wrong, and (if you are asked about him) your ex-boyfriend was a great guy; you just had different goals.

The good offense is 1. light flirtation. Light flirtation means acting and speaking as if you are a fun, confident person who isn't afraid of men, thinks they are awesome and loves a good joke.

I belong firmly in the Don't Chase Men School of Thought, but this doesn't mean I don't belong to the Reel Him In School. Actually, when you think about it, there is the Hunting Him Down School--for "modern women"--and the Fishing School--for "trads."

I recommend the Fishing School. You go where the fish are, wearing fishing lure colours, sit quietly and stealthily, and when a fish comes slouching along and says "Hey," you reel him in with your smile, your sense of humour, and your other-centeredness. Other-centeredness means that when you talk to somebody, you are 100% conscious of your audience and the effect your conversation is having on him. It means noticing, for example, that he is wearing a sharp tie, and saying, "Hey, sharp tie!"  You cannot sit like a lump; now is the time to shine. Fake it till you make it.

The late Queen Mother was apparently an absolute genius at being able to talk to everyone in a crowded room while giving each and every one the impression that he was the one she had come to see. This quality is called charm, and I think it a very useful quality to have.

Now, it was pointed out to me in my last year of Singleness that I only ever flirted with people that I was obviously never going to go out with, e.g. my female friends and elderly Irish priests. Flirtation when you are Single is like a high-wire act without a net, but I suppose one needs to be bold--and to pretend we don't care what happens if we tell the guy we've had a crush on for six months that he has beautiful eyes. (For the record, I think that is okay as long as you don't contact him afterwards. By the way, if his friend should afterwards sneakily ask you what you think of him, say you think he is a great guy--"Why do you ask?")

Meanwhile, once you have chatted lightly and brightly with your fish, you must let him go and go on your way, forgetting all about him until he swims into view again. Easier said than done, I know. If it's any comfort, this gets easier with practice and age. Practice on the guy behind the counter at Starbucks.

Guarding your heart does not mean looking and acting like an icicle. It means staying rooted in reality and dealing with men as they are and not as who you would like them, or fear them, to be. It means not filling your head with stuff you make up but with facts. It means not forcing deep, soulful conversations or telling your secrets to the wrong people or too soon. Paradoxically, it also means unleashing your inner Scarlett O'Hara--talking to men as if they are delightful, amusing people whom you are lucky to know but don't take too seriously. In short, project happiness and confidence, even if you have to fake it, which we all do at least some of the time. People like happy, confident people.

And don't call them. Let them call you. If they don't call you, forget them. Men generally show what they want to do by doing it. Simples.

Auntie Seraphic & the Nice TOO Catholic Boy

Well, my dears, here is the first Auntie Seraphic letter of the Easter season, sent to me just before I closed the office for Holy Week. And hold onto your hats, for it is from a man, and a man who very sensibly asked me for first and second date advice, too.

Dear Auntie Seraphic,

X turned me down for a second date because I'm Catholic. By her lights, Catholicism is too different from whatever flavor of protestant she is to continue [seeing me]. I'm very disappointed. On the one hand, I can see how this would save us all the pain that would result from re-litigating the Reformation. On the other hand, it's not everyday that I meet a pretty girl who takes her version of the Christian faith seriously (and who has many other qualities I find deeply attractive).

She wants to be friends once I move down to DC, where I had a job interview on Monday. I don't know how I feel about this. I already have several friends in the Washington metro area, but not so many that I should blithely turn down an offer of friendship. At the same time, I'm dubious that unrequited romantic attraction is a firm basis for friendship. In all likelihood I would become more attracted to her as I got to know her better.

Any advice you could offer would be greatly appreciated.

Best,

Nice TOO Catholic Boy

Dear N2CB,

I'm sorry that happened. In a way it's a mini-martyrdom, really, since this definitely counts as suffering for the faith.

I don't usually write to guys, so I'm of two minds about the whole friendship offer. On the one hand, it's good to know more people. On the other, you are right: you don't want to get hooked on a pretty girl who just wants to be friends.

Tell you what. Don't contact her for about a week, which is about as long as it will take her to feel regretful for having turned down a good guy. Then send her an email saying it would be great to see her again when you're in DC. If you're lucky, by the time you get down there, you will be over her, but she will think to include you in a party or some group activity, where you can meet someone else! 

Meanwhile, I'm sorry. Personally, I'm not a big believer in mixed-religion romances, so I can see her point, but it's still sad. Good for you for trying, though. 

Want me to print your letter? It may interest my readers to know that a good, available Catholic guy is DC-bound. 

Grace and peace,

Seraphic

***

N2CB said "Sure," so if my Catholic DC readers would like to go as a group (since we do not do matchmaking here on Seraphic Singles, and I have never met the man, though he is certainly a long-term reader) and take out their brother Catholic for coffee and cake to make up for the continuing side-effects of the Protestant Reformation, then do let me know in the combox!

***
Update: Thanks to ML for his March donation!

Happy Easter!

Happy Easter, poppets. But, oh, so tired! I feel like I spent the last five days doing nothing but going to the gym, shopping, cooking, shopping, baking, laundering, washing dishes, washing counters and going to church for very long stretches of time.

We had Polish guests for Easter, so we had Polish Easter food as well as British Easter food, and everything turned out, even my hot cross buns which, ironically, were the most difficult thing to make. 

I also went along to the traditional Polish Holy Saturday blessing service with my guests to have their/our Easter basket (full of food for Easter Sunday) blessed. The Cathedral was absolutely packed, and I have not seen so many babies, children and perambulators in one place for a long time.

"You should be pushing a perambulator," said an irrepressible friend who has not quite worked out the relationship of age to fertility, and I heartily agreed. But meanwhile I had quite enough to do with guests and complicated recipes. To expand your culinary horizons (or flatter them if you happen to be Polish), here is how I made my lovely traditional Easter breakfast żurek (Polish sour) soup:

Seraphic's Easter Żurek 

500 mL bottle of kwas (also known as żur) from your local Polish shop. It is made of fermented rye flour and water. It keeps for a long time but have a look at the expiry date just in case. 

1.5 L of very good vegetable broth (I use Kallo cubes.)

4 white kielbasa sausages (actually pinkish)

bay leaf

1 Tbsp of marjoram

2 allspice grains

4 peppercorns

2 crushed cloves of garlic

1. Make up your lovely vegetable broth and throw in the herbs and spices. Bring to boil.

2. Boil the sausages for 15-20 minutes in the broth. Then fish them out and cut them up.

3. Continue to simmer the broth and lightly fry the sausage.

4. Pour in the kwas. Unless you know you love fermented soup, taste as you go.

5. Throw the  fried sausage into the broth-kwas mix and cook over medium heat for 10 minutes.

5. Squish two cloves of garlic until they are extremely squished and throw them in the simmering broth.

5. Taste to see if you want to add salt.

6. Hard-boil two or three eggs.

7. Put half an egg into each bowl and ladle the żurek over it.  

You can make this dish a day ahead and put it in the fridge, but don't add the eggs until you are about to serve it. It will feed 4-6 people as a breakfast (if they compute soup for breakfast) or first course, served with proper rye bread and not white American/British supermarket bread, the horror. 

I am told every Polish family has its own way of making żurek. My way made both our guests and Benedict Ambrose happy, so it works for me. The amusing thing is that it started out as a recipe I found online but got changed quite a bit, for one of the guests kept making suggestions, some of which I took, and others I rejected. Also, the original recipe wanted juniper berries. Well, who in Edinburgh has got juniper berries anywhere but in their gin, I'd like to know!

The first time I ever had żurek it was made for me by a friend living with her granny in her granny's Warsaw flat. My friend is now a postulant in an enclosed Benedictine order. Goodness knows when I will see her again, but meanwhile żurek reminds me of her.