Bucolic neurotic
They lie stacked on the round table in the family room, fantasies for the middle class, magazines that describe an idyllic summer-time life in the country.
I’ve subscribed to them for years, eagerly carving out time to lose myself in their pages. It matters not whether the month is February or June, they depict scenes of life that is seductive to the “nth” degree if you long for bucolic serenity.
The houses are quintessentially quaint complete with welcoming porches on which pristine wicker furniture is played against carefully collected antiques, family heirlooms and repurposed farm implements. These are porches where the rain never comes in and gets the cushions wet. Inside the furniture is comfortable, slipcovered with fabrics whether handwoven, found in some out-of-the-way place or produced by an exclusive company that uses only Egyptian cotton and patterns from pre Colonial Williamsburg’s upper classes. There are always fireplaces, custom built from water washed stone or rocks hand carried from the birthplace of an ancestor. Bedrooms must have sloping ceilings and dormers. Beadboard is essential to these dwellings.
In these magazines, it is de rigueur to serve a mammoth feast on long farm tables cozily decorated with hand picked wild flowers. Table cloths are stenciled or a lithesome example of shabby chic. Mismatched farm house chairs soldier along the table with baskets of the same flowers attached to their backs for added whimsy. The menu for these feasts is invariably long, emphasizing home made fare utilizing locally grown foods. Starters might be tiny zucchini pancakes with sour cream from the owner’s goats or cow’s. There might be a soup concocted from the radishes and arugula grown by the children of the household garnished by wild greens gathered in the fields. Main courses will inevitably showcase the protein sources of the area whether they be of the field, the stream, the lake or the local grocery store. And the desserts…homemade fruit pies, cloufutis, tarts, etc. mouth watering creations all. All of this is put together by a storybook family. There is a smiling mother, always slender with casually perfect hair and a drop dead gorgeous husband. They have perfectly behaved children who are often pictured running carelessly through fields of wild flowers ( which they pick and bring home for feasting occasions).
Sigh…This is what I read about, what engages my fantasy life. It is a picture of perfection that I try to emulate every summer. It makes me wonder what it is that I do wrong? I have a “country house”… a small cottage, or in Central New York parlance, a camp of about 750 square feet. Once I thought that I could transform its rusticity ( a code word) and be courted by Country Living or some such magazine, but reality is a cruel teacher.
Take the meal thing. Once I had the idea of growing edibles out there. I planted rhubarb. It disappeared. I planted tomatoes, beans, onions, etc. Bugs ate them. I have been relatively successful growing mint.
That is a rather limiting crop. If I start, say the day before a scheduled party, I may be able to rustle up some hamburgers, hot dogs and chicken, maybe some potato salad and, if there is any on the store shelves, some baked beans. I can buy a cake or some cookies ( and decorate them with sprigs of mint).
Even if I planned ahead and stocked everything that is needed for an elaborate meal, the equipment at my command at my “country house” is less than complete. Do I have eggs? Milk? Cornstarch? … and even more exotic … tapioca? What about seasonings? Are they Ok to use if you brought them out 15 years ago? Probably not. Who has a potato masher at their camp? Well, I do now after that incident with cauliflower several years ago. And as for baking, even with all of the fans at top speed, the place is hotter than Hades in the summer. Firing up the oven to pie temperatures might be reason for commitment to a place that is very quiet and securely locked.
I’ve tried decorating for these meals. Really, I have. I have quite a collection of tablecloths at the ready. Hey, we’re out in the country so wild flowers should be a cinch. With this in mind, I sent my innocent little girl to pick wild flowers on the side of a dirt road, not even a road but one of those rights of way that leads to our camp. She came back with a tear streaked face, sobbing that the lady on the top of the hill yelled at her for picking the flowers along the road. Her tears dried, we pressed on and put the few that we did collect in an assortment of pickle and mayonnaise jars with an emphasis in minimalism. We wove ivy around the backs of the chairs. The place looked passing good.
Our guests arrived. We brought out the food. Several thousand flies appeared as if on cue, so persistent that we had to retreat into the house. Those that stayed outside were not only assaulted by the biting flies, but some unfortunately sat back far enough in their chairs to come in contact with the ivy that had once grown next to ( we found this out later) poison ivy. Nice.!
No one points out in these articles that these country houses have to be cleaned, before and after the parties. No one points out that when these country houses are near water, there are bathing suits draped over shower stalls, railings and chairs, dripping moisture into which people with dirty feet walk. There are no pages which depict the less than half eaten food left by quarrelsome visiting children. No one shows you the smiling mother with her arms up to her elbows washing the dishes that were produced by the smiling guests. No one describes the sense of utter exhaustion that ensues after one of these attempts at chic country entertaining. Nope, you don’t see that in the magazines.
I have a theory that there are basically only a few types of people who have these country homes. The first type is the professional urban dweller, who, be they neurosurgeon or real estate developer, metamorphosize from cool to country on Friday nights as they drive up ( it is always up) to the country. Somehow their country place is also home to entirely different wardrobe. Instead of serious black and white city attire, this chicer than chic couple wear Ralph Loren’s interpretation of farm attire while they walk their perfectly groomed Borzoi’s through their manicured English country garden. Who takes care of their country digs while they are elsewise occupied is never mentioned. The second group are also urban dwellers who specialize in interior design or antiques and use their county home as a part time business. Holy tax write off. The third type are those who retire from Wall Street, the law or medical research to a country life and raise farm animals for cheese and such. They are always shown standing near some hay rick that they have transformed into an interesting guest room, punch dispenser or smoke house. Interview them and they will tell you that they will be marketing their country made products, e.g. goat cheese, carved walking sticks, soft sculpture apples, etc. soon. There will be a website for further enquiries. The fourth type are crazy people who enjoy taking care of two houses, two yards, two pantries, two weed filled gardens with crumby soil, two sets of everything … putting all of it away in the fall and dragging it all out in the spring.
There are marginal variations to the four genera in this classification system but this pretty much gathers it all in. It doesn’t take black flies, carpenter ants, mice, squirrels, wasp nests, plain annoying ants, acres of wet moldy towels, septic system failures and tax increases into account but it’s good enough.
I still keep reading those darn magazine as if something would change.
