Leenie Brown fell in love with Jane Austen's works when she first read Sense and Sensibility followed immediately by Pride and Prejudice in her early teens. As the second of five daughters and an avid reader, she has always loved to see where her imagination takes her and to play with and write about the characters she meets along the way. In 2013, these two loves collided when she stumbled upon the world of Jane Austen Fan Fiction. A year later, in 2014, she began writing her own Austen-inspired stories and began publishing them in 2015. Leenie lives in Nova Scotia, Canada with her two teenage boys and her very own Mr. Brown (a wonderful mix of all the best of Darcy, Bingley and Edmund with healthy dose of the teasing Mr. Tillney and just a dash of the scolding Mr. Knightley).
The recipe for Lemon Puffs as it appears in The English Art of Cooking by Richard Briggs, printed in 1798.
I chose this recipe thinking it would represent Austen’s Fools. You know ─ the characters who seem all that is charming but turn out to be. . .well. . .not so nice. I thought the sugar could represent their charm and the sourness of the lemons could represent those parts of their character they wished to keep hidden. Little did I realize how this experiment was going to truly show me their characters.
I followed the recipe as it was written except for one small change. I found whipping the eggs and sugar by hand to be something I was not capable of doing for half an hour. Though I did persevere for more than half of that time, I finished the half hour using an electric hand mixer.
After the half hour of mixing, the egg and sugar mixture was thick but no overly so. I questioned the addition of three beaten eggs, but since the recipe said to add them, I did. Perhaps I had done something wrong, but my mixture became quite runny as I suspected it would. Still I continued. I dropped small drops on a parchment lined pan and baked them. The results were not unlike the Austen characters who seem so promising but leave disappointment in their wake. As the small drops baked, they ran together and flattened out…there was no puff in my lemon puffs. How disappointing!
They seemed to lack substance ─ does that sound like some of those rather shallow Austen Fools?
So what is a lady to do when met with such disappointment? Go looking for a Colonel Brandon, of course. Or in the case of my lemon puffs, search the kitchen for ingredients which might have been found in a regency kitchen.
To my runny, disappointing lemon puff mixture, I added. . .
3 1/2 t. baking powder (I do not know if they had this back then, and perhaps baking soda would have worked just as well or better since there was an acid, the lemon juice, in the batter already.)
1 1/2 c. almond flour
1 1/2 c. all-purpose flour
I then dropped the much more substantial batter onto parchment lined pans and baked. I wish I could tell you precisely how long I baked them, but I can’t since I forgot to set the timer, and the oven was accidentally turned off during the baking of one pan. My best guess is they took about 13 minutes to bake at 350°F. And, in the words of my dear husband who endured the grumbling that went along with this baking experiment, the results were “surprisingly delicious”─crisp on the outside and soft and cake-like on the inside.
This makes me wonder. . .can an Austen Fool be made into something less disappointing? Now there’s something to ponder while enjoying a lemon cookie with a cup of tea.
About a week ago on a snow day, I sat down with my computer and decided to take part in a playground challenge at A Happy Assembly (a JAFF forum). The topic was grovelling and making amends. I thought about that horrible scene in Pride and Prejudice where Darcy’s proposal is firmly refused. I decided to give a unique reason to Elizabeth for her burst of anger and harsh words.
It is snowing again today, but I am at school and not home. Traffic was horrid, and I was late. I ended up filling in for a colleague and had part of a class taken for fundraiser. I am feeling rather growly, so I decided to share Elizabeth and Darcy’s story of what happened after the refusal but before Darcy could leave the parsonage.
A small bit of understanding, a kind word, a small gesture is sometimes all it takes to go from grumbly to contented…to have
A Change of Heart
“Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.” Darcy turned to leave.
Elizabeth saw the hunch in his shoulders and the slight shake of his head. Was he deriding himself? Had she truly heard pain behind his anger? Her emotions threatened to overcome her, and without a thought, she called out to him.
I am sure you have seen it–the refrigerator door that proudly displays the work of a child or grandchild. I remember having my refrigerator’s door covered in demonstrations of my children’s ability at art or schoolwork, although it has been a few years since then. As they have gotten older, there has been less and less to display and less and less enthusiasm to have it displayed. It’s part of growing up, I suppose, but every now and again, I miss that cluttered door. So, today, this post is a refrigerator door post.
Below is an epic poem written by my son for his English class. He has not yet received his marks on this poem, so I am not posting it because I am proud of his grade. I am posting it because I am proud of the young man he is becoming. I remember when writing anything creative was torturous. I spent many hours sitting next to him working on sentence structure and helping him see where more detail could be added to make his writing more interesting. Now, as evidenced by this poem, he produces fine work without my assistance.
The Battle of Valcoast
From deep within the mountain in the dark and doleful dungeon
Awakens the attendant of awesome volcano spoils
In the village of Valcoast the vale of mountain quakes
For the mighty dragon of Wildebarrow met the warrior of disaster
With a great roar the guardian takes flight on giant wings of gales
And spreads fire to the forest around the fenlands near Valcoast
The Valcoast guardwatch sounds the alarm to alert all
Of the accelerated approach of danger that is the agile dragon
Men at arms blunder out of barracks to behold an awesome sight
For the dragon of death was descending on their village
Flames spew forth from the maw of the dragon
To ravage the robust rosewood ramparts of the stout village perimeter
Above the noise of the igneous inferno could be heard an intimidating sound
For many warrior warrigals from Wildebarrow’s void had been woken
By the dragon to wage war against the warrior of disaster
Atop of the keep tower the disaster-hero took his position
To do battle with the dreadful dragon of death
With mighty sword and mighty shield the magnificent disaster-warrior fought
And though the warrior was the strongest of men the dragon was stronger still
For with one colossal claw the dragon cleaved his shield in two
Though the hero had lost his shield he fought back hard-as-nails
And cut off the colossal claw on the mighty dragon’s paw
All the while the hero fought many fighters were fighting still
For below in the village a huge battle broke out between many warriors and warrigals
The battle was bleak and there was much bloodshed that day
But the garrison of Valcoast won the battle and there were many bellows of victory
The cries were cut short as from far above they heard the clash of a sword
The hero was still on top of the tower trying to slay the beastly basilisk
Hours went by but there was no sign of stopping as the dragon and hero were well balanced
Finally with one mighty swing of his sword the hero struck the dragon’s scruff
And with one final tremendous roar the dastardly harbinger of death was defeated
Many songs were sung that day of the successful battle
And of the warrior’s fight against the dragon and warrigals of Wildebarrow.
Countryside Photo Credit to Cheri Lucas Rowlands/The Daily Post
Motivation comes in many forms.
For me, the motivation for writing this post came in the form of a writing challenge from The Daily Post.
The motivation for actually posting it? An unwillingness to allow my worry dragon to intimidate me into silence.
So, what was the challenge? The challenge was to pick a setting and an opening line from a list of possible options and write a post–any post, any style, any genre.
My choices:
The setting–the countryside.
The opening line–well, you can read that below.
The post–a story about a character who has appeared in my Oxford Cottage stories and his surprising source of motivation.
Lawrence, the Lonely Viscount
Loneliness is an interesting feeling, he thought, not always an unwelcome or unpleasant feeling, but always interesting. This time was no different. There was no longing for company, no hurt that needed solace, no feeling of unrest, just a quietness that was welcoming, comforting, restorative. The breeze blew softly making the leaves of the tree he lay under tremble slightly as the long grasses tipped their hats to him. He bent his right leg and propped his left foot atop his knee. His arms were crossed behind his head acting as pillow. He closed his eyes and drank in the tranquility that surrounded him. This was what he needed. He needed to be alone, to withdraw from life for a few brief moments and contemplate in lonely seclusion–far away from the house, past the edges of the formal gardens, hidden in the rolling countryside.
He had known she would never be his, but to have her married and so happily so, did sting just a bit. There was not another like her. He was nearly certain of it. How many years had he been parading through the seasons with nothing to show for it but a little more apathy, a bit harder edges, a heart that seemed less and less touchable. He sighed. There were others, not as lively as she, but acceptable and perhaps even lovable.
He switched legs, propping his right foot on his left knee. Did he even know what it was to feel love? He had felt strong, protective feeling for her, but were they really any greater than those he had for his own sisters? He found her attractive, that was different from how he thought of his sisters, but attraction did not equate to love. He had been saddened when she had refused his offer of marriage, but he had not been shattered. He had not even felt melancholy. He had actually been somewhat relieved–relieved enough that he had almost wholly sworn off all strong drink so that he would not find himself in such a situation in the future. No, he had not loved her, not in the way a husband was to love a wife. He had loved the idea of her. Someone who would always be eager to listen and share his deepest concerns and greatest joys. Someone who could arouse a feeling of desire.
He swatted at a fly that buzzed near his ear. Annoying creatures. Not unlike some of the ladies of the ton. Buzzing and flapping about with no purpose but to drive you to distraction. There was one, on the outer edges of the ton, that piqued his interest. She could buzz and flap with the best of them. He had watched her do so in many of the finest rooms in London. He knew that it was to garner the attentions of his cousin. He had on more than one occasion seen her glue herself to his cousin’s arm and babble on about things of no importance. She had pursued his cousin, it is true, but not with a heartfelt-longing for the man himself. There had been disappointment when she learned of his cousin’s betrothal, but there had been no headaches or other complaints of malady that bespoke a love-sick heart. She was obviously looking for position and wealth in marriage. She was the sort of woman from whom men of his rank ran–the fortune hunter.
He sat and stretched out his legs while leaning back on his hands. Was that all the interest she had in him? Had she spent hours with him as they waited news of Elizabeth and Georgiana’s safety just to engage his interest so that she might have a chance at his money and title? He shook his head. No, she had not pursued him. She had never crossed the room to sit beside him. She had never laid claim to his arm in the manner she had with his cousin. She had waited for him to approach her, for him to offer his arm. He had seen her eyes follow him around a room, only to dart away when he looked her direction, and she had coloured in embarrassment. When he had engaged her in conversation, her speech had on several occasions faltered, something that did not happen when she spoke to others. Perhaps…a faint ember of hope ignited in his heart…perhaps, she felt attraction to him as a man and not as a viscount of substantial fortune.
Attraction was but one part of choosing a marriage partner. His father had made sure that all his children knew that fact. If he could not prove to his father an attachment beyond attraction, his father would not give his blessing to such a union. But, attraction was a first small move toward the eventual loss of his current single state–not his attraction to be questioned, for he had no trouble feeling attraction to many a pretty lady, but her attraction to be scrutinized to assure it was attraction to something other than his current and future titles or his fortune.
He stood and smoothed his clothing, making sure to remove any leaves or blades of grass that may have attached themselves to his jacket or trousers. Assured that he looked presentable, he strode to his horse and took his seat. Slowly, he nudged his mount into a steady cantor. He looked back down the fence line of the adjacent field where his brother and cousin often rode as if the devil were in pursuit. He shook his head. He was certain he would never understand the need to race forward whether on horse or in a relationship. A steady pace, calm and assuring, that would keep solidly to the prescribed path. That is what he needed, was it not?
He turned his horse toward Netherfield. Loneliness was indeed an interesting, shifting feeling. The loneliness that he had sought, the peace that it had brought, the clarity of mind that it had helped him achieve, had been replaced by a dissatisfaction with his current state and with a desire to leave a certain type of loneliness behind. Impatience accompanied this loneliness. It compelled him to urge his horse to gallop more quickly. There was a lady of interest that he wished to know better. Now was not the time for a leisurely ride about the countryside. A laugh escaped him as he felt a longing to allow his horse to chase the wind back to the wedding breakfast. Loneliness, he thought, is fickle. Not only can it provide tranquility, it seems it can also provide motivation.
To my runny, disappointing lemon puff mixture, I added. . .
