strawberry sauce

April 10, 2012

Text and art by katherine sandoz

We all know the pleasures of eating strawberries and some extol their aphrodisiacal properties, but none so well as Madame Tallien.  Born to the aristocracy, given six names, and raised by nuns, this strawberry lover survived a march to the guillotine, bearing the fruit (ten) of multiple lovers and husbands (including the notoriously seedy and filthy Napoleon Bonaparte), several stints in prison and all of the great political and social shifts of the late 1700s.  A style maven and risk-taker throughout her life, she insisted on bathing solely in the cure-all juice of strawberries.

(“madame tallien in her bath”,  11” x 8.5”, mixed media on watercolor, 2012)
original Salted & Styled artwork available here

 

 

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More Inspiration

March 14, 2012

please pass the salt

It’s a known fact that salt figures greatly in all things, especially in seasoning conversation and supper. The following is one fact that is not so readily known that I picked up from a great Southern lady who happens to be my neighbor: Certainly, the salt is on the table with the pepper. We taste our food first, and then we ask for the transfer that originates from the left and travels right. It never arrives from across and don’t you sneak a shake prior to answering the call.
May 31, 2012

The King’s Belly Sandwich

When I was younger, I was obsessed with Elvis Presley. Okay, I still am. But back then my imagination was so ripe, I could picture myself on the the brightly decorated sets of his formulaic movies, befriending costars like Shelly Fabres. Shelly would ask “Libbie Marie (I would, of course, change my name) what did you and “E” do last night” and I would fill her in on all the exotic fun a sheltered ten year old could dream up for a date with the king.
Those were the innocent thoughts that filled a young heart. And these are the flavors, in honor of a first crush –my king, that satisfy an adult appetite.

November 20, 2012

Life of Pie

My formative years were made up of blueberry pie. Each summer Mom would drag my sister and me to the blueberry farm where we’d sit on buckets and encourage plump, steel-blueberries from their perch. “Try not to get the stems,” Mom would instruct. “Or the green berries. Or the ones that have a hint of red—they’re too bitter. They’ll ruin the pie.” In between her cautionary tales, she’s slip into a quiet meditation, working methodically through the rows.