Reflections - Janeite’s Delight
Celebrating Jane
When it comes to Jane Austen, I’m a fanatic.
I’d stood in Catherine’s farmhouse dining room and followed her directions.
“Spread your arms wide.” Having volunteered to sew a Regency dress for me to wear at a Jane Austen ball, Catherine circled me. “Raise them over your head.” Before taking a stitch in the actual ball gown, she tested the pattern by sewing a prototype dress out of one of her old sheets. “Bend forward.”
All the snaps on the back bodice popped.
Catherine mumbled. “I’ll change the snaps to hooks.” She scribbled a note. “Stand straight.”
Stretching into a yoga mountain pose, I gazed through the tall window at the March sunshine peeking through clouds. My fingertips brushed against the smooth, blue marbled cotton. Her old sheets were much prettier than my holey, dingy-white ones destined for a rag bag.
Catherine tugged at the skirt. “I’ll add two inches for the hem.” She jotted another note.
“Your prototype is lovely. Good enough to wear at a ball.”
Catherine smirked, deepening her rosy dimples. “Wear it around the house.”
“I could wear it for Jane Austen’s birthday no matter what I do.”
We giggled.
In the nine intervening months, I reflected on my hasty remark. Wearing the dress to celebrate Jane appealed to me. The “no matter what” could be a problem. I kept my Google calendar clear for December 16. No hands and knees bathroom scrubbing. No swimming—well, COVID-19 took care of that. And COVID meant no tea party with friends. I would spend the day celebrating on my own.
You’ll never get the push up bra on by yourself.
Maybe if I kneel by the bed and lean into it.
Your breasts will flop out when you hook the contraption.
I can wear my sports bra.
That won’t look authentic.
For fifteen hours, I’ll need a comfortable fit, not an authentic look.
On December 16, Jane’s 245th birthday, I pulled Catherine’s prototype off the hanger and stared at the short puffy sleeves. I would freeze in the summer dress unless . . .
I pulled on long underwear and a black turtleneck before slipping into the dress. Reaching back, my fingers traced the empire waistband without finding the hook. I moved up and down, fumbling until I touched a smooth, hard button. Aha. I could use the buttons that Catherine substituted for hooks on the bodice . . . if each arm grew a foot longer and formed a second elbow.
“Spence,” I yelled. “I need your help!”
From the great room came his chummy, talking-to-cats voice. “Come on fellas. Janet needs us.”
Spence arrived with the three cats trailing him.
“Will you button and hook the back of the dress for me? I can’t reach.”
The empire waistline tightened. He’d found the hook.
No wonder Jane’s heroines always had maids. But who helped the maids? Obliging husbands like mine?
The cats wove around us.
“These buttons are slippery . . .and small . . . okay. Got them.” He patted my back. “You look like Jane Austen.”
As if! But buttoned in, my day with two celebratory events and whatever else began. First the cake.
With the skirt swishing and the arm bands snug against the layered sleeves, I hummed and cleared the kitchen for baking Authentic English Gingerbread Cake from the recipe provided by the Pittsburgh JASNA group.
At the beginning of December, I had checked the cupboards for ingredients. We lacked three. I could substitute olive oil for butter because of my lactose intolerance and skip the rum for soaking raisins. I didn’t want to skip the candied orange peels. The day before Jane’s birthday, I’d prepared the peels from two navel oranges. Scraping pulp, slicing peels into quarter inch wide strips, then boiling and boiling with sugar proved a sticky process.
Pulling up the image of the recipe on my laptop, I squinted at the tiny print and reached for ingredients—flour, molasses, brown sugar.
The brown sugar bag on the top shelf held a tablespoon of sugar. I’d seen a bag with at least a cup. Climbing onto a chair in the long dress could be dangerous. I tiptoed and stretched. “Did you use the brown sugar, Spence? I can’t find it.”
“It’s on the top shelf.” He moved Gilbert’s paws off his computer keyboard. “Kitties don’t use computers,” he said.
I waved the bag with the tiny amount of brown sugar at the man and cat.
Spence put his computer down and tiptoed to pull every bag off the top shelf. “Huh. Maybe there’s some in the basement.” He banged down the metal stairs to the cold cellar and shouted, “None here.” Returning, he put his hand on my shoulder. “Do you want me to get some in Cochranton?”
“Yes. Please,”
He left.
Recipe from Pittsburgh JASNA Group
I lined cupcake tins with papers, squinted at the recipe, and fetched the other ingredients. Since my new sifter only held three cups, I sifted in two batches—two cups of flour, a tablespoon of ginger, and a tablespoon of allspice each time. Next I needed to cut the orange peels. Though they'd been drying since the afternoon before, they stuck to my fingers when I sliced them. I popped a strip into my mouth and licked each sticky finger. Tangy sweet orange exploded on my tongue. Squinting, I skimmed down the list of ingredients to find the amount of orange peel. Yikes! I’d misread the measurements for spices.
Spence opened the door. “Here’s your brown sugar.” He dropped the bag on the kitchen table.
“I made a fatal error. I used tablespoons of spice instead of teaspoons.”
He tucked a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. “No worries. It will taste even better.”
Not as confident as Spence, I finished the batter—only catching one more mistake. I forgot the soda so put it in with a little more milk before stirring in the raisins and candied orange peels.
A heavenly gingerbread aroma floated out of the oven and made three cat noses quiver. When the gingerbread had baked, I set the cupcakes on the kitchen table to cool and covered them with a tea towel to protect them from Rills. He eats anything and everything without gaining weight—his only trait that makes me jealous.
With the gingerbread secure, I prepared for my second celebratory event, a walk in the Regency dress like Jane had done thousands of times. The outdoor temperature on the kitchen weather station registered 26° F (-3° C). Flurries drifted past the sliding glass door. Not the best weather for a summer Regency dress.
But all Jane’s heroines walk no matter the weather. Marianne Dashwood walked in wind and rain, Elizabeth Bennet walked through mud, and Fanny Price walked in extreme heat. I could manage the snow if I had more than long underwear to keep me warm. I pulled on jeans under the ample skirt, layered two thick sweatshirts, then added boots, a scarf, stocking knit cap, and mittens.
Spence’s and my boots left a line of parallel prints in a dusting of snow. A chickadee sang chick-a-dee-dee-dee to warn that people invaded its territory. A blue jay called jeer, jeer, jeer. Flurries intensified chilling my face and making me expect to inhale a few. I also expected the necessity of holding my dress up to my knees for the hike up Creek Road hill. Neither happened.
My boots never caught in the skirt. The skirt entangled my legs. With each step forward, the fabric wrapped my shins and calves.
Grabbing the sides of the skirt at knee level, I yanked the fabric away from my legs, spread it wide, and let go. Step, step, step, untangle. Sheesh. With the extra exertions to manage the skirt, I panted loud enough for the cats to hear back at Wells Wood.
Spence, who never pants, stopped three quarters of the way to our two snag turning point. “Do you want to turn around now?”
Give up? Not me. I could do this. I paused to catch enough breath for a weak “no.” Tugging the skirt away from my legs, I wondered if Jane’s heroines ever had this problem. The novels didn’t say.
At our turn around point by two snags, I gazed down the switchback hill and hoped the walk downhill would be easier.
As if defending itself from a kicking horse, the skirt continued to wrap itself around my legs. Together, the dress and I strode-strode-swaddled, strode-strode-stretched all the way to babbling Deer Creek. Exhausted like Jane’s heroine Anne Elliot, I was “very glad of” Spence’s arm to support me the rest of the way home.
Inside the log house, I brewed Twinings herbal tea in honor of Jane and bit into the Authentic English Gingerbread Cake.
Scrumptious.
Moist gingerbread with a tweak of sweet, tangy orange tingled my taste buds. Spence had been right. The extra spice made up for the lack of butter and rum. As if I were Rills, I downed four of the cupcakes before getting Spence’s help out of the dress.
It wasn’t the solo celebration I’d planned. Spence had to rescue me again and again. But, thanks to Spence and Catherine, I had a Jane Austen birthday celebration I’ll never forget.
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| Celebrating Jane with Ande |
