I became a red-lipped hard-core Francophile.
Angela J. Reed
My mother introduced me to the young Diana Frances early one morning. She resplendent in ivory silk taffeta by the Emmanuels, the longest wedding gown train the world had ever seen, me in my Carter’s jammies circa 1981. Watching her every move in my formative years, I learned about fashion, etiquette, formality, and presentation. (Think of a child contemplating spectator pumps and hats for the Royal Ascot. So absurd. So fabulous.)
All of this “training” taking place in between trips to the most wonderful place on earth; my grandparents’ farm. Here I would pull weeds, snap beans, wash radish and shadow my precious grandmother as she hung blue jeans on the line; immaculate after she had her way with them but studded in faded blue skhol rings to her chagrin.
My first job was walking the bean rows to pull weeds in the summer heat. (Pre Monsatan). A large metal hook in hand and a pick-up truck parked on the side of the road as my compass to get me back to a sandwich and a thermos of cold water.
One side of my being was nurtured with glamour and aesthetic, while the other side grew in desperate love for open fields and the feeling of soil in my hands. From both of these worlds came two uniting themes: A preference for femininity and a love for times gone by and just about everything that goes with them. (Except that nasty bit about no penicillin, they can keep that part).
My interest then traveled to Hollywood as I fell in love with Marilyn Monroe, and across the English Channel to France. I became a red-lipped hard-core Francophile. All this by the time I was fifteen.
I’ve never looked back which means I’ve had plenty of years to settle into this person who’s quite dogmatic about creating beauty, having skills from times gone by, and the fortitude and grit to squeeze everything out of an ordinary day. This is not to say I share the current culture’s thrill of seeking out the next “experience.”
I have no problem with the ordinary. The ordinary gives us a gift of choice each time it presents itself; celebrate it or elevate it when appropriate.
From Brontë to Boondocks, I’m as pragmatic as I am fanciful. As farmy as I am fashionable. I’m “old ” enough to be set in my ways, comfortable with the fact that I am a bit ornery, and that’s not for everyone. I’m your new friend that had all her babies at home, wears red lipstick every day, and doesn’t give a hoot for pop culture and all that nonsense going on out there.
I am ‘Parisienne Farmgirl,’ and I’m delighted that you’re here.
Grab My Cookbook
A Coffee Table Cookbook “From France to the Farm”
In From France to the Farm, Angela, takes her readers on a journey from the streets of Paris to the rows of her kitchen garden on her quiet farm. Recipes grounded in the country roots of the women in her family are infused with a touch of French flair.
Full of gorgeous photographs this book is perfect if you’re looking for inspiration for your kitchen routine and life! Funny and honest.
A heartfelt look into the practice of farm to table, this book will be a favourite in the kitchen and on the coffee table…
Captivating Thousands Through My Old World Design Society