Bright Supper I & II
(For Seraphic, who only has herself to blame. )

I
The kitchen window
Fills the closed bowl of my eye
With warm liquid light.

II
The clouds’ hearts are grey,
But their thirsty skirts soak up
The last dregs of sun.

• A note on the post-title:

In II Mach., ix, 16, Antiochus promises to adorn with precious gifts (anathemata) the temple he has pillaged; and in Luke, xxi, 5, mention is made of the temple built of precious stones and adorned with rich gifts (anathemata). As odious objects were also exposed to view, e.g. the head of a criminal or of an enemy, or his arms or spoils, the word anathema came to signify a thing hated, or execrable, devoted to public abhorrence or destruction.

J Gignac, The Catholic Encyclopedia (1907)

"So, tell me about your Holy Father..."

 “Don’t become a blogger,” they warned me, “it’ll only lead to navel-gazing.”  “Rubbish,” said I to myself said I, ”you won’t catch me posting about my holidays, recipes and dreams!”

So, I was seated in the south aisle of a large church, facing west towards an elevated narthex in which the Pope (recognisable as the current occupant of the chair of St Peter, Benedict XVI) was sitting, without attendants, in a throne also placed to the south of the narthex. 

My fellow congregants were also facing towards the Pope in the west, and nearby (immediately behind me, I think) was my friend Samantha (but who had about her a touch of another cronie, Hazel)*.  “Samzel” appeared to be reading out a document, or perhaps a part of Scripture, but was taking a pop at the Church in some sort of way.  Appalled, I turned and upbraided her, rather showily defended the Magisterium (or the person of the Pope, or whatever or whomever was being attacked by “Hazantha”) and made my way in protest up to the Pope’s seat in the narthex, intending to walk out. 

I made a point of paying proper obeisance and expressing my loyalty to His Holiness, kneeling on my right knee (not my left) at the Pope’s throne and, reaching for his right hand, kissing his ring.  The ring itself was, I was disappointed to note, to a modern design: a simple broad gold band pierced with a cross.  His Holiness smiled indulgently and paternally at me, and soon I noticed he had changed out of his pontifical clobber (a simple modern white Mass set with plain white mitre, as it seemed) and was accompanying me through the streets of what might have been Rome or some lesser ancient Italian town. 

HH was now wearing a plain dark-grey chunky woollen pullover over a white shirt with black clerical stock and full Roman collar, very informal but still somehow befitting his dignity.  I specifically remember the woollen jumper because at various stages I felt it under my hand as I escorted le Pierre de nos jours companionably around the old town, up stairs and through courtyards, etc., placing my hand gently on his back or supporting his arm as we went, laughing in a friendly way to one other.  The Pope’s English was flawlessly good, with what I took to be an undisguised Bavarian accent. [That I wouldn't in waking life know a Bavarian from a Bolivian accent is neither here nor there.]

My overwhelming impression was of his informal, paternal warmth and humour—gentle, twinkly-eyed, intelligent, kind.  A very model of a Holy Father.  I also remember thinking that I must keep alert and try to remember the details of this very exciting and important occasion, but being anxious that this effort (and my being overawed by the whole situation) would distract me from conversing with the Pope in a natural way.

Notes: *Samantha is a feisty feminist friend from my philosophical past; Hazel a milder but still feisty companion and quondam office-mate.

 Conscious influences: 

• Fr Basset’s light-hearted account of Rome during the first session of the Council (Vat. II, natch), Priest in the Piazza, which I was reading just the night before.  [Light-hearted because he couldn't have guessed the trouble that would ensue... ]
• The C of E’s synodical vote on “lady bishops”.
• Recent blog posts on Benedict XVI (whom Dominus conservet et vivifecet, et beatum faciat in terra, et non tradat in animam inimicorum eius).
• Gene Robinson’s sermon-heckler.

Unconsious influences

• Er, how would I know?

 … “trifle”.

As if my poor dinner guests did not have enough to contend with at the old Palazzo Ben’Ambro, I recently concocted a quick, easy and utterly cheaty pud.  It can only by the most athletic stretch of terminology be described as a trifle, but what it lacks in authenticity and sophistication it makes up for on the ease and temporal economy fronts.  If you would know the secret of this dish, you need but read on. 

First, take as many slices of (moderately) stale brioche (you may cut off the crusts if you affect gentility) as you have mouths to feed, and either toast them till light brown or (if you care even less about your cholesterol intake than I do) fry them in a pan with butter till equivalently hued.  Next spread the slices with a thick layer of good fruity jam (I used an excellent Scottish bramble jam, but if you prefer lychee and guava, well… ).  Finally, scoop some pre-softened fine vanilla ice-cream (check for the speckling of vanilla seeds) onto each serving and garnish liberally with ripe soft fruit (brambles and raspberries do the trick nicely).

What else you choose to do in elaboration or adaptation of this simple receipt is your own affair.  I served mine in bowls laid on a table with spoons (and, I confess, forks) provided for ease of conveyance from dish to lip and with a passable Brown Brothers muscat: eating it out of last night’s pizza carton with disposable chopsticks and washing the lot down with Vimto, whilst not entirely lacking in post-Bohemian chic, will win you no style points in my book.

I have foreborne posting a photograph of the dish in question here: Fr E, if he is reading, will know why…

Alright, so I’ve been terribly remiss in my blogging recently, and have fallen behind in my personal correspondence and I have left undone those thinges whiche I ought to have done, and I have done those thinges which I ought not to have done, and there is no health in me (as Anglicans once were wont to say - and given recent events ought perhaps to revert to saying… ).

But this is what I have been doing!  Above, me at the summit of Ben Cruachan, which a crony and I climbed on Saturday.  Below, Mr T (said crony) atop the same.

 Mr T was concerned about how his hair came across in this photie, but with views like this behind him (and the state my loony locks were in) who was looking?

Ben C is part of a long horseshoe ridge which encompasses another Munro (a peak over 3000 ft) — but by the time we’d scaled the 1126 m / 3694 ft of Ben C himself (minus the 80 or so metres-above-sea-level of our starting position), and taking into account the crazy wind-speeds we’d braved whilst attempting lunch on the bealach (well look it up then), Mr T (who does this sort of thing far more often than me and is consequently in far better shape) deemed we’d proved enough for one day.  I for one was just delighted not to have cried out for an iron lung after the first steep ante-slope at the start of the climb and was positively elated at still feeling fit at the summit — so I was not minded to differ!

The final photie is of that shameless old bluffer BA the next day at a much more peaceful luncheon spot, near Inveroran.  Yes, it was every bit as idyllic as it looks, thanks.  We punctuated Sunday’s trek with a cool post-prandial pint in the Inveroran Inn before heading back up-and-over to the horseless carriage.

So there we have it: a weekend of good grub and fine beer, of good walking and fine views, all in the finest of good company (well, there was just Mr T and myself — so I mean his!).  The fact that we had to decamp from our room in the bunkhouse to another at 0030 on Sunday because water was pouring through the ceiling utterly failed to put a damper (pun foreseen but otherwise unintended) on the proceedings. 

Any more of this sort of thing and I’ll be losing my “pale and interesting” credentials altogether!

Whilst I’m the lucky recipient of all the traffic Fr Finigan has kindly put my way (thank you again, Father!), it would be quite wrong of me not to advise my many current readers of an opportunity to do themselves a huge literary favour and perform a corporal work of mercy at the same time.

Sell your children (but only if that should be what it takes to raise such a paltry sum) to buy a copy of Seraphic Single’s The Widow of Saint-Pierre.  It is the novel I have enjoyed most this year, and it’s good, clean, Catholic stuff - witty, wise, supremely well-written and a cracking good read.  And the author is undeservedly broke.  And wants to travel to Bonnie Scotland.  From Canada.  And has a fab blog.   But doesn’t know I’m puffing her incomparable tome (yet!).  And… well, how many good reasons do you need?  Oh, and if you don’t, the ninja Carthusians of Achiltibuie will put you on their “to do” list.

Thank you for visiting Tremendous Trifles!

I have been sent the following from that most satirical of Scottish orders, the Ninja Carthusians of Achiltibuie.  I can only imagine they intend it to be sung to the best tune ever to grace the words of “The race that long in darkness pined” — Dundee.  I hope it is clear that I can, of course, take no responsibility whatsoever for it, or its effects…  [Clears throat awkwardly]

Si explicatum requiris, circumspice, circumspice, circumspice.                                                                                         

The rite that long in darkness pined
Hath burst back into light;
“Laus Deo!” shout the folk who felt
The Nervous Ordo’s blight.

To Cath-o-lic Westminster’s throne
Came Castrillon from Rome,
The joyous throngs their left knees bowed - 
But Cormac stayed at home.

When Father Finigan the brow
Cardinalatial crowned*
With golden mitre, Trad hearts leaped
But how the liberals frowned.

The tidings that the Card’nal brought
From Rome made manifest
The Pontiff’s will: that with this Rite
All parishes be blest.

Questions from Damian Thompson made
The Sandalistas sting.
The “Bitter Pills” did swallow hard,
Each “prophet, priest and king”!

So let us Alleluia sing,
Our praise to Christ uplift;
And to His Vicar, thanks for this
Extr’ordin-ary gift.

*Technically, Fr F was removing the mitre, but…  Hymnodic license, innit?

Photo courtesy of Mr Quaintance

I’ve had the following poem knocking around in some corner or other of the hollow drum of my head for weeks now, and I’m not sure quite why (apart from the obvious seasonal resonance).  It’s long been a solid favourite of mine, and I’m sharing it with you good folk since I can’t think of anything better to do with it.  I present to you Louis MacNiece’s The Sunlight on the Garden:

The sunlight on the garden
Hardens and grows cold,
We cannot cage the minute
Within its nets of gold,
When all is told
We cannot beg for pardon.

Our freedom as free lances
Advances towards its end;
The earth compels, upon it
Sonnets and birds descend;
And soon, my friend,
We shall have no time for dances.

The sky was good for flying
Defying the church bells
And every evil iron
Siren and what it tells:
The earth compels,
We are dying, Egypt, dying

And not expecting pardon,
Hardened in heart anew,
But glad to have sat under
Thunder and rain with you,
And grateful too
For sunlight on the garden.

Inspired by my recent encounter with that miracle of musical loveliness, Dame Emma Kirkby, last night I listened to my 1976 recording of her performing Dowland with The Consort of Musicke.  The following song  (which I listened to for what must have been the x-hundred-and-somethingth time) struck me as being jolly fitting fare for posting here.  That’s all.  Do enjoy it.

Fine knacks for ladies, cheap choice brave and new,
Good pennyworths but money cannot move,
I keep a fair but for the fair to view,
A beggar may be liberal of love,
Though all my wares be trash the heart is true.

Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again,
My trifles come, as treasures from my mind,
It is a precious jewel to be plain,
Sometimes in shell the Orient´s pearls we find,
Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain.

Within this pack pins points laces and gloves,
And divers toys fitting a country fair,
But in my heart where duty serves and loves,
Turtles and twins, Court´s brood, a heav´nly pair,
Happy the heart that thinks of no removes.

John Dowland, The Second Book of Songs or Ayres

A Gushy Encomium upon Emma Kirkby, DBE

After nearly twenty years of distant adulation, I finally got to hear Emma Kirkby live in concert last week—and it was very much worth the wait.  [Worth it for me, that is--I didn't take the liberty of asking Dame Emma how it was for her...]

My very first girlfriend at university was a nice girl who quite closely resembled Kirkby, and who was also a light-voiced soprano.  She broke my boyish heart within a few chaste weeks.  Eheu!

This, if anything, exacerbated my “pash” for Miss Kirkby.  She was now not only the great unavailable beauty and goddess of early song–she had also become the emblem of my Paradise Lost. 

But above all, her clear glassy voice, especially as exercised in  the early repertoire with which she had become most closely associated, was the purest enchantment to my soppy ears.  I first came to revere John Dowland as chanted by her–a “deep and meaningful” musical engagement that has by far outlasted any of my romantic ones.  She and Dowland have on countless occasions helped me to grieve, or to take my ease, or to recharge, or to rejoice, or to contemplate (and not just my own navel, either…); and they have together provided a substantial portion of the  soundtrack to my life.   I’m enormously grateful for all that.

So, finally to hear Dame Emma live, in an ancient Scottish kirk, singing baroque cantatas and in the most splendid voice was, well,  magical.  I had booked an unreserved seat, there being no numbered ones left, and managed to find one at the end of a row in the north aisle.  Sneakily, and on the pretext of not wishing to spoil the view of the lady seated immediately behind me, I moved the rush-bottomed chair round the pier to face the stage more directly, although there was no chance of a clear view of the Great Dame herself from any position in that aisle. 

A bewhiskered usher soon approached (and reproached) me, burring in a voice straight out of Dr. Finlay’s Casebook: “Now, this is grand, isn’t it?  But I’m tryin’ to keep the passage clear…”  I was forced into a partial retreat (of perhaps 20 degrees or so) around the pier.  Thus was my first experience of the celestial voice a blind one.  I saw Dame Emma only after she had sung the first of the cantatas of the evening, and only then because I stood to applaud her, using the opportunity to cross the aisle in doing so. 

I repaired briefly to the local tavern for some refreshment at the interval (only buying an ale at all to avoid the discourtesy of making free with the landlord’s facilities without recompense), determined upon my return somehow to command a better view in the second half.  I had not waited a score of years to be in her presence only to have her remain as invisible to me as if I had stayed at home with my well-worn discs.  So, spotting an as-yet unreproached old gent who had moved his unreserved seat into the north transept, next the reserved stalls, I followed suit and availed myself of a deliciously uninterrupted view of the Dame’s music stand and, in time, of the Dame herself.

Oh, but she was beautiful, and expressive, and elegant, and charming—and yes, dear Seraphic, her autumnal hair was big!  She sang Bach’s Ich habe genug most affectingly, and I shared the narrator’s deep satisfaction in the fulfilment of a long-held desire.  I clapped my tingly hands raw, and only just managed to gulp back a wild roar of Brava! as Dame Emma took her final bow (after favouring us with an encore - Lascia ch’io pianga ).  As she left the platform for the last time, the elderly gent in front turned to me jovially and said, “Well, you certainly gave her a good clap!”  My elation prevented me at the time from realising that this was a kind way  of saying, “You just about deafened us with your paw-thumping!”

If you are by any chance reading this soppy old tommyrot, dear Dame Emma, I was the wild-eyed, black-moleskin-suited loon standing in the north aisle of the kirk, grinning athletically and beating my palms noisily together in dopey joy.  I am, I am told, quite harmless.  A thousand thank-yous.

Is this a vain thing fondly invented by me, or do I have a distant memory of seeing a cartoon to this effect in the Spectator (or some such rag) years ago? I’d love to think it was mine, but someone’s bound to know otherwise…

Scene: Two appropriately vested gentleman lay clerks in choir, one holding open a musical score entitled “Mass for Four Voices”.

Lay Clerk #1: (Leaning over to peer at L.C. # 2’s score) Cor!

Lay Clerk #2: (To L.C. #1) Oi! Are you looking at my Byrd?