When one door closes, another one opens. Also, that nautical light. Oh, and also that bird’s egg blue dutch door. Oh, and also that Tolix Chaise in the dining room. Okay, I’m done.

I’ve missed you!

Bisous,
Madeline

The post Loves, I’m back. first appeared on A Little Fleurish.

Sometimes, life is confusing. Sometimes it makes perfect sense. Doors close, windows open. I need to clean them, whatever. DON’T JUDGE. There are children in Paris that won’t eat their goûter because they’re terrified right now. Which is sad because chocolate and bread can solve the world’s problems if we let them. Let’s break bread together. Drink wine together. Understand that we are all the same.

Here is what we need. Sun on our shoulders. Swaying branches that bend yet don’t break. Here’s to STRENGTH. And cheese. Always cheese.

Bisous, loves. xxx

The post Strength. first appeared on A Little Fleurish.

I am on vacation right now. Sometimes you just need to exfoliate, get the hell out of your château and explore the world. Made my way down the coast to Biarritz, crossed the border into Spain, meandered through St. Jean de Luz, down to Riogordo, and then the car broke down in Ronda, which is the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me.

At the urging of a good friend, I explored this ancient, dramatic city and all of the medieval, historic charm it offers. The theatrical escarpments and views take the breath from your lungs and it’s really cute that the Puente Nuevo was constructed in 1751.

So here I am, enjoying this lovely city, not knowing where tomorrow will take me. Presently, a dark-eyebrowed, high cheek-boned waiter is serving me what’s called a “Paloma”. Not because he knows I like Mexicans, but because grapefruit in this region of Spain right now is amazing. Skin the color of rose petals. And I don’t even like grapefruit, but this is a lovely drink. Oh. And because I smiled when he told me that it translates into “my dove”. I am a dove.

Here’s the breakdown. 1/4 c fresh grapefruit, 1T fresh lime juice, 1t sugar, 1/4 c (good) tequila, and 1/4 c club soda.

I would send you the recipe but I’m too busy enjoying myself.

Bisous,
M.

(Maybe Morocco tomorrow)

The post La Paloma first appeared on A Little Fleurish.

I find it deeply sad that people don’t appreciate the ephemera. Things that last but for a moment. Like mayflies, for instance. Does existing for an eye-blink mean that there is no benefit to their existence? Monuments to the past are grand, because they help us appreciate that which came before us, but existence. Existence, however short and futile, is worthy of reverence.

This morning while I was meandering, I ran across a bunch of Twinspur, just barely blooming. I had to stop and take a deep breath because I understood in that single moment the next time I wandered down to this spot, everything would be different. They would be gone, replaced by something new and young. I cried a little and then clipped a hefty handful. As I wandered home, I thought about where this lovely little flower originated and when I found out they are native to South Africa and the Afrikaans name is Bokhorinkies, which sounds like the name of Brooklyn band that should be on the cover of Blender, I smiled.

It was strange. I knew they would die soon. But instead of lovingly putting them in water and gently placing them upon a sun-drenched windowsill, I gathered some rosemary and wrapped them protectively in twine. Graceful bundles that I knew would only survive for a few hours. But they were the most beautiful bundled bits of nature you can imagine. They sat on my bedside table and in the morning they were gone.

That’s how life works.

Love,
Madeline

The post Ephemeral. first appeared on A Little Fleurish.

When you have friends (and you should, they are important) you need to take care of them. If someone dies, send flowers. Give hugs. Strong hugs, not pat-on-the-back hugs. Let them tell secrets and pour their hearts out, because you will need them there as well. Do you really want a friend that sends a box of Mrs. Field’s cookies when they find out your 21-year-old cat suffered from depression and died a painful death on a cold, rainy day under flourescent lights while you held her in your arms and weeped? NO.

So, take care of your friends. I always try to provide those I love with gifts that are heartfelt and have some sort of myself in them. That means a lot. For instance, I love growing herbs. I mean, I have an herb wall. I’m a little obsessed. I’m obsessed about a lot of things. Life, really.

The other day, my friend Therese lost her dear father. He was just shy of 95, a war veteran, honorable, witty, passionate, kind, gorgeous, strong and everything a father ought to be. Obviously I ran out to my garden and clipped a bunch of rosemary and thyme. And then went to the chicken coop and gathered some eggs. And wondered what I could do with these things. I try to stay in the moment. I knew it would come to me. And then I remembered that I make a fabulous tomato, olive and rosemary quiche. So, I packaged up a little bag of herbs, put some fresh eggs in a butter-soft linen sack, and lovingly wrote the recipe for her. And then I made the quiche. She’s focused on death and do you think she really wants to make this thing right now? NO. But she has some lovely eggs for breakfast and herbs to smell while she’s feeling so blue.

That’s how you do it, friends.

xxx, Madeline

The post Sympathy. first appeared on A Little Fleurish.

Pears are kind of boring on their own and have the annoying habit of being ripe for 3.5 seconds before they turn into a disgusting, grainy mess. Kind of like avocados, and they are even WORSE. “Don’t eat me. Don’t eat me. Not ready yet. EAT ME. Too late, asshole.”

So pears. Yeah. They do that too. BUT. If you go out to your groves and select a few “ripe this afternoon” ones to make a delicious cocktail, you can feel amazing and tipsy at the same time. And this recipe is simple and so beautiful, just like me.

You’ll need about two cups of fresh apple juice, if you’re planning on serving this at a dinner party (you are), one ripe but firm pear, so be responsible and discriminatory. Firm but ripe. Ready. Waiting. Hard to the touch. But just soft enough that you could penetrate its heart if you really had to. You get the picture.

Go to your garden and grab a hefty handful of thyme. Like 12-15 sprigs. Doesn’t really matter. Enough. Open your antique liquor cabinet and pull out the Grand Marnier. You could also use Orange Curaçao if you like Dutch people, and who doesn’t? I mean Charles the Bold is such a badass name for a duke. Plus there’s all that cinnamon and saffron.

Make a decision on the orange liqueur and then select a very dry bottle of champagne. We are not serving this to a frat house full of beer pongers. DRY. Combine the apple juice, pear (very thinly sliced), thyme and 1/4 c liqueur. Let it sit in your fridge for several hours while you pick out a new nail color. Maybe Peachy Nude. That would look amazing holding this cocktail. Mutually beneficial. Not too aggressive. Simpatico.

Pour it into six glasses, discard the thyme, and fill the remaining with champagne. Garnish with a fresh sprig of thyme and smile.

Love,
Madeline

The post Pear Thyme Fizz first appeared on A Little Fleurish.

Obviously I line-dry my laundry. It takes 10-12 hours, which gives me time to flower-arrange, plus they don’t need to be ironed and smell like sunshine. The 17th century still has things to teach us. Let’s all move back there.

I was out in the parterre garden this morning, hanging my negligees, and realized I don’t have a grand canal, which obviously needs to be fixed. Every French girl needs a canal, within which to wade barefoot and read Madame Bovary while sipping a glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, so YES, Pepito, we’re building one.

I don’t know how “grand” it should be though. I’m a humble girl at heart. I mean, I’m not talking Venice scale, obviously. That would make my château look like it’s trying too hard. Must show some restraint. Perhaps, just a small estuary behind the bowling green? Wait I don’t have a bowling green. I should probably have one. Duly noted. Off to lounge.

Bisous,
Madeline

The post Laundry. first appeared on A Little Fleurish.

Yeah, it’s a pile of wood sitting on my gorgeous stone floor. Get it out of there, Pepito. Actually, the smell when the fire is burning is lovely, so fine, I’ll deal with it. But put half of that pile on the other side of my amazing mantle. Balance is important.

The one thing about this bedroom is that I haven’t named it yet. It feels very “Lord and Lady of the Manor” however, so we’ll see. Wait, but the bed is only two feet off the ground so you sort of have to roll out, which doesn’t feel very royal. Oh, and that pile of wood. Whatever, we’ll get there.

Anyway, I wanted to show you the GORGEOUS chandelier I found at the deballage in Avignon last weekend. Yes, I can get in to that place. I have dealer status. I knew immediately I had to have it, but it weighs 800 pounds, and it turns out that hanging a chandelier is only slightly less involved than a craniotomy and takes two to four more hours, so I knew it would be a tricky little bastard to install. Luckily, my torero is always up for a good challenge. Also, I feel a bit apprehensive about working with electricity, however Pepito does not.

There was  a lot of equipment. Cable connectors, flanges, braces, something called a nipple (humorous), and tons of wires. I’ll spare you the awful details, but after fourteen hours, it was installed and nobody was dead because I made sure to turn off the switch prior to this project. Sometimes I think ahead.

I LOVE it, mes fleurs!

xxx, M.

The post Electric. first appeared on A Little Fleurish.

Sometimes in October I pick bittersweet from my garden and shove it into a closet to dry and forget about it for half a year, like a lot of other things. Bittersweet dries beautifully, so when I discovered it three weeks ago all I could think about was wrestling together a gorgeous wreath, but unfortunately dried bittersweet doesn’t bend properly, so I cried a little, scrapped that project, said “fuck it” and made pain au chocolat in my nightgown instead.

I have a lot of projects. They usually involve excited destruction of something in a tunnel-visioned frenzy, asking Pepito to repair it, realizing that he’s already ruined part of the château and then vowing never to ask for help again. So much easier to take matters into my own hands. Do you remember this? Of course you do.

Today, while I was meandering my orange groves I found a slab of wood that’s been lying in the sun for centuries, so I thought about it for a minute, and then welded on three-inch square iron legs. I know how to do that and have metal lying around. Boom. Furniture. But, furniture needs jewelry. Some objets de charme. Obviously, I rushed over to L’Isle sur la Sorgue, scooped up three antique candle pedestals, a few first editions and bell jars (totally charmant). Full disclosure: that wreath I made a few years ago, when I had some spare time on my hands. LOVE.

What do you think, mes fleurs?

xx,
Madeline

The post Charmant. first appeared on A Little Fleurish.

Artichokes are tricky little monsters. Those outer leaves are basically weapons. The inner leaves cause serious esophageal damage because they look edible but are basically weapons. Now that I think about it, 90% of the vegetable is inedible.

The reason I’ve put up with artichokes for so long is because I enjoy a challenge and the hearts are delicious. Actually, I’ve started just buying them from my local épicerie, so forget the challenge thing. I use that extra time to trim my cuticles. Here is an amazing spring recipe that I make all the time at the château once it’s warm enough to walk outside in my negligee and you will LOVE it.

Grab a couple of hefty handfuls of baby red potatoes (roughly forty) and slice them in half. Drizzle a little bit more olive oil than you would normally use and toss in a bunch of garlic cloves. It really doesn’t matter how many. Maybe ten. Grind a few seconds worth of sea salt (pink himalayan if you can get it) and a bit of pepper for a kick, and then roast it for 25 lovely minutes in a hot oven.

Wait. I guess you need to know what a “hot” oven is. If you cook a lot, you instinctively know how to heat your oven and when the food is done. If you’re someone that needs to follow directions and can’t improvise we probably aren’t going to be friends, but you’re still reading this recipe, so I’ll elaborate. Very cool is around 110°C (225°F). You could cook a brisket for half a day and meander your grounds. Next comes very slow, around 250°F. After this comes slow, which is about 300-325°F. I like slow because I can cook a lot of things in the same amount of time it takes me to do short tasks, like fold a tiny load of laundry. It’s a very convenient temperature. Moderate heat is 350-400°F and hot is 450°F. This is serious heat. If there are charred bits of stuff in your oven (there are) they’ll burn and the smoke alarm will probably go off. You may need to evacuate, so think about what you’re going to bring. Extremely hot is 500°F and broiling is 550°F. I never use these because all that charred stuff = fire. Oh, I didn’t include Celsius temps because everyone in Europe already knows this.

Okay, so back to the recipe. Put the potatoes in a HOT oven, around 450°F. Monitor the smoke level, combine two cans of chopped artichoke hearts, two cups of arugula and a splash of vinaigrette (I like basic oil/vinegar with a teeny bit of truffle oil). Fold in the potatoes, put onto a cute platter, run outside, pour the wine and smile.

Good job!
M.

The post Not bad. first appeared on A Little Fleurish.