FeeFiFoto Blog

Rigging A Jury Is Illegal But There's No Law Against Jury Rigging

From some site called Answerbag:

The origin of jury rig is nautical and dates to 1788. It is from the nautical term jury mast. This term dates to at least 1616 and refers to a temporary mast erected to hold sail when the normal mast has been lost due to storm or battle. It is commonly thought that this sense of the word is a clipped form of injury mast, but no evidence of this longer term has been found. This form of jury is etymologically unrelated to the jury that sits in judgment at a trial.

I had to replace a strip of veneer that fell (or was pried, perhaps?) off the front of a desk.

I have tools.  I have wood glue, and if that won't do the job I have duct tape.

I squished the glue on the veneer and placed the veneer on the desk and held it there and held it there.  When I moved my hands to the center, the ends sagged.  When I moved my hands to the ends, the center bowed out.  When glue bubbled from the edge I swiped it with my finger and wiped it on my leg, the only readily accessible washable surface.

I don't have the attention span to stand in the same place for hours holding a piece of veneer until the glue dries.

I don't have clamps wide enough for a desk.  I doubt clamps of that width even exist.

Trying to hold on the veneer with strategically placed bungee cords seemed to have calamity written all over it.

Fortunately, we are a family that reads.  

After turning the desk on its back and replacing the veneer, I painstakingly balanced approximately twenty dictionaries and coffee table books on the edge and tiptoed out of the room.  By the next morning the veneer was firmly fixed to the front of the desk.

But I added a few nails, just in case.

How Many Of These Books Have You Read?

Chaucerian Girl presented a meme in which I had to participate because I love the chance to show off.  (That's assuming that what I'm attempting to brag about here is truly bragworthy.  It might be pathetic.) 

Here's a list of books that presumably ought to be read by all who are or fancy themselves intellectuals.  Anything bolded is something I've read; anything italicized is something I tried to read.  At the bottom of the list I've added some essentials that were left off the list by what must have been unfortunate oversight.

_____________________________________

Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell

Anna Karenina

Crime and Punishment

Catch-22

One Hundred Years of Solitude

Wuthering Heights: I'm sorry, Emily Bronte and her characters' pretentious angst wearied me.  And, what in the blazes is"wuthering" anyway?

The Silmarillion

Life of Pi: a novel: Admittedly a gripping piece of fiction, but by the end the extravagant gruesomeness turned me off.

The Name of the Rose

Don Quixote: I think I might have read this as a younger person.  All I remember is that he dies in the end.  Doesn't he?

Moby Dick

Ulysses

Madame Bovary: This one was heartbreaking and absorbing, and the death scene at the end was viscerally disturbing.

The Odyssey

Pride and Prejudice: Over and over again, annotated, BBC, A&E, I don't care what version but please, no sequels.

Jane Eyre

The Tale of Two Cities: The best of times, the worst of times, a far far better thing; but watch out for that Madame DeFarge because she'll give you the Dickens.

The Brothers Karamazov: No, but I saw them in concert once.  They tried to juggle a carton of eggs.  It didn't end well.

Guns, Germs, and Steel: the fates of human societies: I have enough reasons not to be able to fall asleep at night, thanks.

War and Peace

Vanity Fair: Becky Sharp is everything I could never be.

The Time Traveler’s Wife: Four years later and I'm still trying to figure out the timeline.

The Iliad

Emma: Rereading it right now, as a matter of fact.

The Blind Assassin

The Kite Runner: Annoying

Mrs. Dalloway

Great Expectations: That dusty, venomous white spider, Miss Havisham

American Gods

A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius

Atlas Shrugged

Reading Lolita in Tehran: a memoir in books

Memoirs of a Geisha: Meh

Middlesex

Quicksilver

Wicked : the life and times of the wicked witch of the West: Okay, okay -- I get it: you've read all the Oz books, you know all the ins and outs of all major and minor characters.  Did you have to use up so much paper beating me over the head with your knowledge?

The Canterbury Tales: A looong time ago, probably not long after they were first written.

The Historian: a novel

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

Love in the Time of Cholera

Brave New World

The Fountainhead

Foucault’s Pendulum

Middlemarch

Frankenstein: Much sadder than I'd anticipated it would be.

The Count of Monte Cristo

Dracula

A Clockwork Orange: Really, who could slog through this book?  It has a glossary, for heaven's sake!

Anansi Boys

The Once and Future King

The Grapes of Wrath: Many times, and always with an abundant supply of snackage at hand.

The Poisonwood Bible: a novel

1984

Angels & Demons

The Inferno (and Purgatory and Paradise): No, but I did read all of Paradise Lost, aloud.

The Satanic Verses

Sense and Sensibility

The Picture of Dorian Gray: Hellooo nightmares

Mansfield Park

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest

To the Lighthouse

Tess of the D’Urbervilles

Oliver Twist

Gulliver’s Travels

Les Misérables: But I liked the play, and in fact the music is right now running through my head.

The Corrections

The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time

Dune

The Prince

The Sound and the Fury

Angela’s Ashes: a memoir

The God of Small Things

A People’s History of the United States: 1492-present

Cryptonomicon

Neverwhere

A Confederacy of Dunces

A Short History of Nearly Everything: This.  Is an amazing book.  It's recently been reissued with photos and graphics, which makes it eminently browsable.  This book deserves a place on every nightstand in the country.

Dubliners

The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Beloved: I don't care what Oprah said.  I made it all the way through this book and was like "huh?"

Slaughterhouse-five

The Scarlet Letter

Eats, Shoots & Leaves

The Mists of Avalon Oryx and Crake: a novel

Collapse: how societies choose to fail or succeed

Cloud Atlas

The Confusion

Lolita: Gave me the willies.

Persuasion

Northanger Abbey

The Catcher in the Rye

On the Road

The Hunchback of Notre Dame

Freakonomics: a rogue economist explores the hidden side of everything

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: an inquiry into values

The Aeneid

Watership Down

Gravity’s Rainbow

The Hobbit: I made it through the entire series and thought to myself: "why did I waste my time?"

In Cold Blood: a true account of a multiple murder and its consequences: This is an extraordinary book.  The first time I read it I had nightmares and couldn't touch it again for a very long time.  I reread it last summer and now I absolutely revere the book and its author.

White Teeth

Treasure Island

David Copperfield

The Three Musketeers

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And mine:

The Phantom Tollbooth

To Kill a Mockingbird

Alice in Wonderland (annotated, if you can get it)

Candide

The Diary of Anne Frank

The Great Gatsby

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

How about you?

Dr. Seuss Never Gets Old

Today is the birthday of Dr. Seuss.

I posted some of these pictures before but I never get tired of admiring them.  Horton (with his egg) is one of my favorites:

I feel so lucky to have these paintings in our house to admire whenever we like.  They make me smile.

Dr. Seuss's writing has been important to our family for decades; sometimes I still read his books to my kids.  Whenever I buy a baby gift, it always includes a dose of the Doctor.

Today Is The Birthday Of W.E.B. Dubois...

Dubois was a 20th Century sociologist, intellectual, author and civil rights leader.  Poignantly, he died in Ghana the night before Martin Luther King delivered his "I Have a Dream" speech.

To learn more about King's speech and the events leading up to it, pick up Behind the Dream: The Making of the Speech that Transformed a Nation, by Clarence B. Jones and Stuart Connelly.  Were you aware that King's famous speech was largely improvised?  Me neither.

Let's Celebrate...

Ferris Wheel Day and National Heart to Heart Day.

It's Ferris Wheel Day in honor of the birthday of George Washington Gale Ferris, Jr., who invented a ride called the Gale Wheel (gotcha!  Just kidding.  It's really the George Washington Wheel) for the World's Columbian Exposition in Chicago in 1893.  Want to learn a little bit about the Chicago World's Fair and feel your toes curl up inside your Uggs at the same time?  Pick up Devil in the White City by Erik Larson, the story of the Fair intertwined with the nefarious doings of Dr. H.H. Holmes, a con artist who lured young women to his World's Fair Hotel and murdered them.

Oh, and it's also Valentine's Day.

Favorites Of 2010

Recapping some of my favorite posts of 2010, because I'm not Allie Brosh* and no one else will do it for me

A List Of My Favorite Posts From 2010
Which Should Carry Exactly As Much Weight As
When The Waitress Confides Her Favorite Menu Items
But It's My Blog So If You Don't Like It Get Your Own Blog

In January, there was the time I bargained for that dress.  Remember when I bargained for the dress?  It's a cute dress.  In fact, I'm wearing it right now.  I'm a bit concerned that if I don't praise the dress while wearing it, it might rise up and throttle me as I doze with my face pressed into the keyboard and unintentionally type hgyhygggggggggggggg: In This Economy, Retailers Are Smart To Bargain.

In February, the car broke down due to an electrical malfunction which had absolutely nothing to do with my leaving the lights on, which I did because the warning dinger didn't ding because there was an electrical malfunction (see above): Is There Ever A Convenient Time For The Car To Break Down? (Hint: there isn't).

In March, the entire airport broke down, which again was not my fault and furthermore had nothing to do with electrical malfunctions or electricity of any kind.  Except maybe lightning: Weather Disruptions Worked In Lindsay Vonn's Favor...

In April, we touched on the colors of travel (hint: there's lots of blue): Blue Is The Color Of Heaven

In May, I had some advice for the varmint population in our yard on how to appear less blockheaded: Letters of Advice.

In June, Robespierre became a Bar Mitzvah.  I wrote a lot about the subject (you try throwing a Bar Mitzvah without raving even while sleeping); here is one of my favorite posts on the subject: Superhero Or Super Villain -- Choose Wisely.

In July, I Shot An Elephant In My Pajamas, which degenerated into an existential discussion of grammar. With this post I received one of my favorite comments of all time from Ivan Toblog: Written, your statement would have to say something like, "Don't use that spoon. I killed a fly with it."

In August, I did some reading: More Of What I've Been Reading Lately.

In September, some of us got stuck in the mud.  Fortunately, we got out and lived to tell the tale: Sorry We Weren't In Touch Last Weekend. We Were Swamped.

In October, I discussed why cell phones rock: Why I LOOOOVE My Cell Phone.

In November, I unveiled my FeeFiFoto Fundraising program: Need To Raise Money For Your Organization? Here's My Proposal.

In December, I remembered that I forgot to have the sprinklers turned off before the first freeze: My Mistake.

*Of Hyperbole and a Half.  Last year I compared myself to Dooce but I don't like Dooce and never have, so I'm happy to be able to compare myself (heh) to someone I admire instead.

Do you have a favorite 2010 post?  Of mine?

Miss Havisham Cried Her Eyes Out When Her Fiance Left Her. Then She Spent The Rest Of Her Life Exacting Revenge.

 

 

 

 

 

I Want To Know This Person

My first year practicing law, when I wasn't sneaking through the office clutching the walls, wearing beige and trying to be invisible, I participated in a double-secret program operated by one of the senior associates whereby participants were challenged to retell the facts and result of a famous and famously ridiculous case in the voice of any well-known author.  There were submissions in the styles of Ernest Hemingway, Margaret Mitchell, William Faulkner, William Shakespeare, our local newspaper's unctuous society columnist, and even one of the uber-senior partners of the firm who liked to drop names at every opportunity.

I wasn't very good at the actual writing, but I enjoyed the game nevertheless, because all submissions:

1. Defied the managing partner who frowned on any waste of firm paper or supplies, and
2. Were pretty darn funny

Comes the publication of the (auto)biography of a former President of the United States, and I come across this review on a well-known web site that sells books and everything else:

So you see, I walked into Costco the other day, and I saw the cover on this book and I said to my secret service agent, "That guy looks very familiar." ... In this picture on the cover I look very decisive and slightly studly as well.  (Don't worry! I'm not turning into a brainiac or anything. That word decisive was one of the words they put on the dust jacket thingy that sort of covers up the book's cardboard covers.  Plus--you may not know this--that dust jacket thing helps keeps the words in the book.)

Anyway, I like the title of this book.  It's a very pointy sort of title.  There are these decisions, you know, and each decision has a point to make. I mean, each decision has its own point of view.  These decisions, they sort of--it's like they have their own opinions.  And so there are what I like to call "Decision Points."  (I did my decisive thing and decided to have them put this title on the book after golfing with one of my medical friends--this fellow is a doctor, a human healer who practices his love on his patients--and one day he was saying something about "incision points."  So I decided, if I change the letters around, I'll have a good title there.  A very pointy title, if you will.) ...

Plus the other cool thing about my book Decision Points is that it has an index.  Just like you would expect, things are very orderly in the index.  They made sure to put the Q before the R, and then the S before the T.  Which is very convenient because they have that same system in the phone book, I noticed.  Putting the letters in a certain order, I mean.  Again, that's another example of somebody being very decisive...

I'm in awe.  I want to know this reviewer.

If You Can't Stand The Book, Try The Movie

You know how sometimes they make movies based on books so you can just watch the movie and pretend you know what you're talking about when someone mentions the book?  Or you can even show the movie to your kids because it's completely the same as reading the story? 

Not that I've ever done that, but I've heard of some careless, neglectful parents who do.

Well, back in the days when movie tickets cost a nickel and if you wanted to see the movie again you had to either pay another nickel or hide under the seats until the lights went back down and it was pointless to wait for the movie to come out on video because there was no such thing as video and recording a movie off of a television broadcast wasn't a reliable alternative since nobody owned televisions, you couldn't simply show your kids the movie to get them to stop nagging you to read them the story.  You might, however, be able to find stories on the radio (radio: it's that thing in the car dashboard that you can use to tune in to baseball games when you're not texting, emailing, shaving or snacking).

It just so happens that Orson Welles (remember him?  Citizen Kane?  any of this ringing a bell?) operated this intellectualistic theater company that broadcast productions on CBS radio.  One Sunday night, just before Halloween 1938, Orson and his colleagues broadcast a play based on H.G. Wells's (no relation) War of the Worlds, updated to present day and integrated into a seemingly innocuous fake ballroom music program.  The music was interrupted by fake news bulletins reporting the discovery of strange metal cylinders in New Jersey (of all places) and the subsequent rampage of Martians, until some mysterious virus brought them down in a way mere humans couldn't because Jeff Goldblum hadn't even been born yet.

Well.  Even though the program was introduced by an announcement that it was just a dramatization... and even though this announcement was repeated several times throughout the show... and even though radio listings in the newspaper for that evening announced an hour-long radio play called War of the Worlds...

People across the country went nuts.

Here's a long excerpt from a much longer article that appeared in the New York Times on October 31, 1938.

"A wave of mass hysteria seized thousands of radio listeners... last night when a broadcast of a dramatization of H. G. Wells's fantasy, "The War of the Worlds," led thousands to believe that an interplanetary conflict had started with invading Martians spreading wide death and destruction in New Jersey and New York.

The broadcast... disrupted households, interrupted religious services, created traffic jams and clogged communications systems... At least a score of adults required medical treatment for shock and hysteria.

In Newark, in a single block… more than twenty families rushed out of their houses with wet handkerchiefs and towels over their faces to flee from what they believed was to be a gas raid…

Throughout New York families left their homes, some to flee to near-by parks. Thousands of persons called the police, newspapers and radio stations… seeking advice on protective measures against the raids.

The radio play, as presented, was to simulate a regular radio program with a "break-in" for the material of the play. The radio listeners, apparently, missed or did not listen to the introduction, which was: "The Columbia Broadcasting System and its affiliated stations present Orson Welles and the Mercury Theatre on the Air in `The War of the Worlds' by H. G. Wells."

They also failed to associate the program with the newspaper listening of the program, announced as "Today: 8:00-9:00--Play: H. G. Wells's `War of the Worlds'--WABC." They ignored three additional announcements made during the broadcast emphasizing its fictional nature.

Mr. Welles opened the program with a description of the series of which it is a part. The simulated program began... An announcer remarked that the program would be continued from a hotel, with dance music. For a few moments a dance program was given in the usual manner. Then there was a "break-in" with a "flash" about a professor at an observatory noting a series of gas explosions on the planet Mars.

News bulletins and scene broadcasts followed, reporting… the landing of a "meteor" near Princeton N. J., "killing" 1,500 persons, the discovery that the "meteor" was a "metal cylinder" containing strange creatures from Mars armed with "death rays"…

Telephone lines were tied up with calls from listeners or persons who had heard of the broadcasts. Many sought first to verify the reports. But large numbers, obviously in a state of terror, asked how they could follow the broadcast's advice and flee from the city, whether they would be safer in the "gas raid" in the cellar or on the roof, how they could safeguard their children…"

Tee hee.

Seventy years later it is kind of funny, although I definitely would have been among the first to run screaming from the room.

Anyway -- it just so happened that I own a recording of the original radio broadcast of War of the Worlds.  It looks like this:

And it sounds like this:

I don't know why I own this record.  I bought it a long time ago, probably around the same time I bought the soundtrack to Star Wars. Even though I've forgotten why I own it, though, I remembered that I own it, and even where it was, and I showed it to Cupcake and then took her to my parents' house so she could listen to the record on a real turntable, since I haven't had one of those for years.

Frankly, she was more interested in operating the turntable and asking questions about records (what do you mean you have to turn it over?) than listening to the recording, but I feel I've done my job and I'm finished with War of the Worlds in any form.

When the group chooses Moby Dick, I'm off duty.

Honeymoon Over -- When The Book Club Picks A Book You Hate

Marvin

Cupcake's latest subject for the online book discussion group was H.G. Wells's War of the Worlds.  I was surprised at the choice of this challenging late-19^th Century science fiction novel, since some participants in the group are only nine years old; still, the membership includes students all the way up to high school level so it's the members' choice whether they read any month's selection.  My tentative suggestion that she might want to consider skipping this month's book fell on rejecting ears. 

Before she'd finished the first chapter, however, Cupcake got bogged down in Wells's archaic style of storytelling, and asked me to read the entire thing to her in one day so she'd be ready when the discussion group became active online.

I groaned and pleaded that we just continue with Emma and I'd tell her what happened in WOTW, but she claimed that she couldn't PARTICIPATE in the discussion INTELLIGENTLY without having read the BOOK but the book was too HARD to read on her own and I'm always telling her to ask for help aren't I so now she's asking for help and how can I not help her? 

How can you tell your kid not to read a classic?

Turns out, War of the Worlds is way tiresome.  The writing, I mean.  The story itself is interesting: 

Indestructible metal cylinders fall to earth, which turn out to be occupied by large, leggy Martians intent on incinerating everything in their path with no clear goal aside from world domination.  Eventually, after frying nearly everyone in Britain (but seemingly no where else; jingoism, anyone?) the Martians keel over for unknown reasons which the author attributes to microbes, whose link to disease had been only relatively recently identified by Louis Pasteur.

H.G. Wells was one of the first writers of modern science fiction; his stories laid the foundation for modern science fiction books and film, even the Rocky Horror Picture Show.  War of the Worlds is a groundbreaking piece of literature.  Nevertheless, in spite of the book's importance as a foundation of the genre of science fiction, its tone is stilted and pompous.  Wells employs a tired technique of telling, not showing: first I did this, then I did the other thing; I didn't know it at the time but later learned that...; he told me he'd seen the following...; I think this technique was tired even when he used it in 1898. 

Finally I just couldn't make it through one more chapter describing the exodus from one insignificant English village to another and the narrator's condescending conversations with characters he clearly believes are inferior to him intellectually and socially. 

I declared myself off duty, spoiled the ending, and loaded Independence Day, pointing out that the main difference between the book and the film was that in the book the Martians caught their own cold and dropped dead without any assistance from the human race or Jeff Goldblum, which may or may not be the same thing.

There, I announced.  Done!

Incidentally, according to Cupcake, most of the discussion about War of the Worlds consisted of how much the book club members hated it.

More Of What I've Been Reading Lately

Provenance: How a Con Man and a Forger Rewrote the History of Modern Art, by Laney Salisbury and Aly Sujo, 2009

I've cruised museums and galleries with more than my share of smugness over how knowledgeable, worldly and sophisticated I must be to recognize and enjoy the work of great artists.  Then along comes Provenance, the meticulously detailed true crime story (hey, art forgery is a crime, isn't it?) of John Myatt, a down-and-out, reasonably talented artist who gets caught up in a complex forgery scheme orchestrated by John Drewe, a chronic liar who variously portrays himself as a nuclear physicist, professor, historian, army officer, and weapons expert.  The con man ropes the painter into creating paintings in the styles of famous artists.  Meanwhile, Drewe creates false provenance using documents torn from vintage books and stolen from museum libraries.

This book made me slightly paranoid.  Now I glance sideways at the art in my home and think "Ah haaahh... is this the real thing?  Or is it fake?  It could be fake and how would I know?  I'd never know.  I've been duped, I just know it!"

Lately I recognize new advantages to decorating with my kids' artwork.  At least I know it's authentic.

This book was as exciting as any fiction thriller.  Even my mother praised it and if you knew my mother you'd be just as surprised as I am.  I had only one issue with Provenance, though: where are the pictures?  Seriously, there's not one photo of the characters, documents or artworks, forged or otherwise, although there is a very useful cast of characters at the beginning to which I referred many times.  But really -- a book about pictures with no pictures?

__________________________________________________________________

Freedom Summer: The Savage Season That Made Mississippi Burn and Made America a Democracy, by Bruce Watson, 2010

What do I remember about Freedom Summer?  Nothing.  I know 1964 was the summer my parents took my sister and me to Florida, where we tried to catch fish in the hotel lobby fountain, then commandeered an elevator for possibly an entire afternoon, until a couple of bellboys caught up with us.  Little wonder we didn't take another family vacation until I was 12. 

As I was wreaking havoc in Miami, dozens of college students, mostly white, were traveling to Mississippi to register black Americans who'd been cheated out of their constitutional rights by white neighbors claiming that Negroes neither needed nor wanted the vote.  Since no more than 7% of the state's black population was registered before 1964, the white opponents of black suffrage claimed this proved their point; they conveniently failed to acknowledge that beatings, shootings, harassment, threats, vandalism, and murder probably served as effective deterrents.  The story partially revolves around the murders of three Freedom Summer workers, Michael Schwerner, James Chaney, and Andrew Goodman; the search for their bodies; and the 40-year campaign for justice against their killers. 

This is a story everyone needs to know.  It's a story of how wrong things can be; how insults and barbarism can be counteracted gradually through years of effort by many dedicated people; how you just possibly might not be right simply because you claim to be.

_________________________________________________________________

In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote, 1965

 

The first time I read In Cold Blood, in my twenties, I had no living daylights left in me to speak of.  The story of a quadruple murder on a prosperous Kansas farm before Thanksgiving in 1959, the search for the killers, their trial and hanging, made me quiver like a feather, and not in a good way.  I've avoided rereading literature's original non-fiction novel for fear of another succession of sleepless, freaked-out nights, but this summer, due to a new interest in Truman Capote, I gritted my teeth and determined to read it again even if I had to confine my reading to daylight hours, turn all the lights on, lock the doors and engage the burglar alarm. 

But this time -- no willies, no heebie-jeebies.  Nothing but utter engrossment in a charismatic story that flows like the music of Beethoven. 

The fact that I made it through In Cold Blood with no trouble this time must indicate that I'm jaded and more cynical than I was in my 20s.  Maybe a dose of cynicism isn't so bad; I suppose I'd be an insufferable bore if I were as delicate and innocent now as I was back then.

____________________________________________________________________________

The common thread in all these books?  Deception, especially self-deception.  How Capote's killers convinced themselves that all their problems and issues and challenges were the fault of someone else, certainly not themselves, and how even their victims were somehow to blame for their own murders.  How John Myatt convinced himself that what he was doing wasn't really hurting anybody and was bringing in much needed money to support his family, and how John Drewe convinced everyone he encountered, including himself, that he was brilliant and entitled.  The scene near the end where Drewe tirades about his innocence and the injustice of putting him on trial for forgery is especially poignant.  And finally, how many, but not all, Mississippi whites convinced themselves that terrorizing their black neighbors who wanted to vote was appropriate and even decreed by the Lord.

What I've Been Reading Lately

Hattie McDaniel: Black Ambition, White Hollywood, Jill Watts, 2007

Hattie McDaniel should be a permanent Hollywood icon: a singer, a comedian and, as anyone knows who's paid due attention to her performance as Mammy in Gone with the Wind, a gifted actress who could have conquered any role brilliantly, a la Tom Hanks.  Because of her race, McDaniel was pigeon-holed as a domestic worker or minstrel show performer in every movie role she ever played.  Small consolation that she paved the way for so many talented actors; she deserved better. 

Despite the heavy-handedness and occasional inaccuracies in the prose (McDaniel's full name is overused, and at least one photograph is mislabeled), this story of the neglect of an extreme talent is touching and maddening.

_________________________________________________________

Fifth Avenue, 5 A.M.: Audrey Hepburn, Breakfast At Tiffany's and the Dawn of the Modern Woman, Sam Wasson, 2010

Ahh -- Audrey Hepburn.  I'm swooning a little bit right now.  The face.  The dress.  Who is there who doesn't adore Audrey Hepburn?

This book is the captivating story of the making of one of the most beloved films out there, a film based on a novel about a carefree hooker and her gay best friend during World War II. 

Sound familiar?  No?  That's because the movie's producers, paralyzed by anxiety over having to sell as a hooker a star who might as well have been a certified princess, dumbed down the original story to get it past the censors and the public.  Gay narrator becomes straight gigolo in love with Holly.  Hooker becomes party girl.  Instead of disappearing to South America and then Africa, Holly retrieves her nameless cat, kisses "Fred," and they presumably stay together. Mickey Rooney does a resoundingly  unfortunate turn as a Japanese photographer with ridiculously squinty eyes and such a crowd of teeth that he looks like he's wearing somebody else's dentures along with his own.

The result?  A somewhat generic (in 2010 terms, that is; it was groundbreaking in 1961) love story about a girl looking for her place in the world.

Still, the narrative nimbly transports the reader, especially the parts about how Henry Mancini created a completely fresh musical idiom, and why Blake Edwards's miraculous cocktail party scene, which lasts about ten minutes, took a week to film.

_________________________________________________________

What Is Life Worth?: The Unprecedented Effort to Compensate the Victims of September 11th, Kenneth Feinberg, 2006

 

Kenneth Feinberg, currently charged with administering the $20 billion BP fund to compensate those harmed by the Gulf oil spill, wrote this memoir about his role as Special Master of the federal September 11th Victim Compensation Fund.  This is the story of the humanity Feinberg invested in attempting to help ease the pain of the inhuman events of September 11, 2001.  He and his law firm tackled the job pro bono, spending months meeting with every potential claimant to determine eligibility for compensation and arrive at a fair settlement.  "Poignant" doesn't begin to describe the tone of this book; one of the most wrenching vignettes comes near the end, when Feinberg describes his profound sadness at being unable to get through to seven families so paralyzed by grief that they were unable to apply to the compensation fund, even though he and his staff begged to be allowed to fill out all the paperwork for them.

No Bullies Allowed

Ever been the victim of bullying? Ever been a bully-enabler?

Chapter Eight.  That's all you need to know: CHAPTER. EIGHT.  The rest is prelude and epilogue, and while it might occupy you if you need something to read, you don't need it like you need Chapter 8.

I'm reading Jodee Blanco's Please Stop Laughing At Us... One Survivor's Extraordinary Quest to Prevent School Bullying.  Ms. Blanco offers a stirring (although frequently wordy and sometimes garbled) memoir of relentless persecution by classmates beginning in elementary school and enduring all through high school.  Her story is gruesome and at times so extreme as to be barely believable, except that we've all seen it, inflicted it or lived it.

Visit Blanco's excellent and attractive web site for information on her program, It's NOT Just Joking Around!, and by all means pick up her new book (I am NOT being compensated in any way for this review.  Jodee Blanco doesn't know me from Adam.  I feel very strongly about this issue), but if you don't have the inclination, merely bookmark this post because I'm going to give you the quick and dirty intro to her program right now.

Here we go.

"How often are you hanging out by the lockers with your friends when someone who you don't think is cool passes you in the hall?  You and your friends look at each other and roll your eyes, perhaps even snicker.  I know that you're not trying to be mean,' I explain.  "You're just joking around, right?"  Heads begin to nod.  "Wrong!" I shout.  "To that person, it's not just joking around.  When you ridicule, bully, exclude, or ignore someone on purpose, treat that person as if you wish they didn't exist, you're damaging them for life," I exclaim."

...

"I thought things would be different [in high school].  There was this girl who let me sit at her table every day as long as I promised not to talk, to her or her friends.  Can you imagine how hard that was?  ...Then, one afternoon, one of them gets up and tells me that I can't sit there anymore.  'It's not like we hate you or anything,' she says.  'It's just that everybody else does, and we don't need them to start giving us a hard time too.'  I begged them to reconsider, explaining that no one else would let me sit at their table.  'Look, Jodee, it's nothing personal.'  I then began what would become the most humiliating journey of my life, going from table to table begging people to let me sit with them."

"Eventually I ran out of the cafeteria and into the bathroom and cried," I say.  "But if a teacher had gone up to any of those kids and said, 'Hey, you guys, I just saw Jodee weeping in the lavatory, what did you do to her?' they would all have responded, 'We didn't do anything.'  And they would have been telling the truth!  Bullying isn't just the mean things you do," I say.  "It's all the nice things you never do!  Letting someone sit alone at lunch pretending not to see how badly that person wishes to be included?  Bullying!  Letting someone walk to class by themselves afraid to talk to anyone for fear of being rejected?  Bullying!  Always choosing the same person last whenever dividing into teams for gym or class?  Bullying!  It's all bullying!"

Recognize yourself in any aspect of this story?  I'd be surprised if you didn't unless you were home schooled and even so -- who knows? maybe your mother was a bully.

Bullying is like psychological kudzu: we might never eliminate it, but we can fight like the dickens to control it.  Whatever protection we can offer our children and each other will be better than what our parents and teachers offered us (not assigning blame here -- they did what they thought was right), which amounted to: "Ignore them.  They're just jealous because you're so smart/talented/pretty/bipedal/straight haired/curly haired/bucktoothed..." 

Blanco's most surprising, yet sensible, piece of advice is not to ignore bullies at all:

"Never ignore the bully and walk away.  You must look the bully in the eye without any emotion or fear, command him to stop, and then stare him down just long enough to let him know you mean business.  Next, begin walking away, and then turn briefly back toward him and say "See you later."...  [S]tanding up for yourself nonviolently in the moment abuse occurs is your human right."

Thoughts anyone?  If you had to choose a side, which would it be?

NOTE: According to Strollerderby, today marks the beginning of No Name-Calling Week.

Too Many Books Might Be Similar To Too Much Chocolate: Unlikely, But Still Possible

Everywhere we look: books. 

Books in Cupcake's room, books in Robespierre's room, in my room, on the dining room table (which we don't use for meals because it's loaded with books), on the basement steps, in the bathrooms, on the kitchen counter and in every pocket and cranny in the car except the cup holders.  We even have books under the kitchen sink but those are phone books and nobody I know actually reads them (although I'd totally pay to hear James Earl Jones read the phone book).

I converted the kids' baby room into a library but the shelves filled up immediately and there were still more books underfoot.  I finally quit insisting that Cupcake move all the books out of the cabinets in her room and put them in the library because there simply wasn't any room left in the library.

I'm not complaining because books seem to add some insulation in cold weather. 

Okay, I am complaining.  We were beginning to look like hoarders.  Intellectual hoarders, yes, but hoarders nonetheless.

So Cupcake and I created the Book Exchange (patent pending). 

We invited all the girls in her grade to bring at least ten books they didn't want to read again, to trade for books they hadn't read.  As I'd suspected, we got a bunch of High School Musical, Rainbow Fairies, Nancy Drew, princesses and mean girls.  We also got Charlotte's Web, The Trumpet of the Swan, two copies of The Penderwicks, The Kid Who Became President, Because of Winn Dixie, books by Andrew Clements, Beverly Cleary, Dan Gutman (but no Harry Potter or Percy Jackson, because who could ever surrender those?).  Almost everything was snapped up quickly; we were left with a handful of orphans to donate to our school's book drive in December.

Entertainment?  Why yes, we did have entertainment.  In addition to hosting a group scuttle from the upstairs playroom to the downstairs playroom to her bedroom to the driveway for leaf sledding, Cupcake prepared a rather challenging quiz called: How Well Do You Know Your Books?

Anyone want to take a stab at it?  I'll give a $10 FeeFiFoto gift certificate to the first person to answer more than half of these questions correctly.

1. Name the 4 houses of Hogwarts and their founders
2. What’s another name for a pen?
3. Name the 4 members of the Mysterious Benedict Society
4. What is the name of Percy Jackson’s sword?
5. Do you like green eggs and ham?
6. What’s the name of the dog in the Phantom Tollbooth?
7. What book has a main character named “Wilbur”?
8. Was Stuart little?
9. Name as many pets as you can from all seven Harry Potter books (we found 16!)
10. What is the name of Rodrick Heffley’s band?
11. Who publishes The Quibbler?
12. What is Jasper's power?
13. Severus Snape: Good or evil?
14. Who is the author of School Story?
15. What does Skye Penderwick do to the cookies?
16. What’s the name of the Meanest Doll in the World?
17. Name the 3 Deathly Hallows
18. Luke Castellan: hero or villain?
19. Here's another riddikulus question: what is that spell from?
20. What is Charlotte’s web address?
21. Fill in the blanks: A ____________ ‘s a ____________ no matter how ________.
22. What language is Miss Perumal teaching Reynie?
23. What is your favorite book?

How well do you know Cupcake's favorite books?

Grandma Wasn't Always Right: There's More Than One Way To Make Soup

I've discovered how to make soup that's entirely worth the effort

Grandma's Chicken Soup

1. Place one chicken (not too big, not too small) in a pot and just cover it with water.  Simmer.
2. For the next hour stand over the pot skimming foam and scum and schmaltz (chicken fat, which is great for flavoring mashed potatoes if you can enjoy them despite the threat of imminent heart attack).
3. Simmer until it's done.
4. Remove chicken, cool and cut meat off bones, adding some back into the broth and saving the rest for the palest chicken salad west, or east, of the Mississippi.
5. Salt copiously.
6. Add big chunks of onion, celery and carrots (live dangerously -- add a parsnip too.  Make sure to remove the wax coating first.  Woohoo.)
7. Simmer until vegetables are soft and limp.
8. Retrieve vegetables from the bowls of kids and adults who insist their food contain no green stuff, orange stuff or slippery white stuff.

This is how I've made soup for as long as I've been cooking.  There have been occasional experiments and errors, like the time I added giblets, including the liver (bleargh), but generally the soup is the same: pale yellow, salty, full of mushy or slippery vegetables.  Chicken soup is meant to be bland.  Really, is there any flavor to chicken soup other than salt?  You slurp it and try not to drop the vegetables or splash on your clothes.

Granted, when you're sick, there's nothing like chicken soup to help you feel better.  Just the thought of it is comforting.  But tasty?  No.

Julie and Julia may have changed my life.

In 2005 I picked up the memoir of a directionless young woman who challenges herself to blog about preparing every recipe in Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking in 365 days.  I loved when she tried to hack open a cow's leg bone with the only substantial knife she owned, working in a kitchen about the size of my kitchen table, only to learn later that the butcher gladly would have sawed it open for free if only she'd thought to ask.  I loved how she despaired and nearly gave up, only to be rescued by the pleas of a readership she didn't even know existed. 

(Hello, all my thousands of lurking readers out there!  I know you love my blog, even though you don't leave comments.  I can just sense it.)

She accomplishes her goal, builds a fan base, sells her story, does loads of interviews, signs a movie contract, buys new clothes, meets Meryl Streep but does not get played by her, and lives happily ever after, dining on Chinese takeout for the remainder of her days.  Or something like that.

I saw the film because I liked the book; because I like Meryl Streep and Amy Adams; because I loved Dan Ackroyd's take on Julia Child.  I saw the film because I like to cook.

A few weeks before the movie opened I came across a book called Proust Was a Neuroscientist, by Jonah Lehrer.  The author's thesis is that some writers, composers, painters and even chefs, instinctively uncover scientific truths before scientists get there first.  The chapter on Auguste Escoffier, the early 20^th century French master chef, caught my imagination most vividly.  Escoffier discovered how to stimulate an as yet unidentified taste receptor on the tongue for... deliciousness.

According to Lehrer:

"After the meat was cooked in the hot pan... the meat was taken out to rest, and the dirty pan, full of delicious grease and meat scraps, was deglazed.

Deglazing was the secret of Escoffier's success.  (A liquid, such as wine, vinegar or even water, is added to the pan after the meat is removed.)  As the liquid evaporates, it loosens the fronde, the burned bits of protein stuck to the bottom of the pan...  The dissolved fronde is what gives Escoffier's sauces their divine depth."

Is your mouth watering?  This might help.

Take a napkin as you ponder: Why is your mouth watering?  Why is the mere description of beef stock enough to compel you to Google Julia's cookbook, currently on the bestseller lists, 48 years after it was first published?

Your taste buds are recalling Umami, (not the latest Pokemon, although it sounds like one), which is a Japanese term for deliciousness.  According to the Times:

"There are at least five basic tastes: sweet, sour, salty, bitter and the most recently discovered, umami. This last flavor, which means “savory” in Japanese, can be detected in miso, soy sauce and other Asian foods, particularly those that contain monosodium glutamate."

And, according to Lehrer:

"Glutamic acid [the amino acid that gives meat its flavor] is itself tasteless.  Only when the protein is ionized by cooking, fermentation, or a little ripening in the sun does the molecule degenerate into L-glutamate, an amino acid that the tongue can taste...

Of course, umami is ... the reason that meat - which is nothing but amino acid - tastes so darn good.  If cooked properly, the glutamate in meat is converted into its free form and can then be tasted...

And of course, umami also explains Escoffier's genius.  The burned bits of meat in the bottom of a pan are unraveled protein, rich in L-glutamate.  Dissolved in stock, which is little more than umami water, these browned scraps fill your mouth with a deep sense of deliciousness."

Deliciousness.  Dee-lish-us-ness.  It's what makes a char-grilled burger irresistible.  It's what makes you fantasize about Grandma's brisket just now, simply because I mentioned it.  It's the key to cooking meat.

I read the books.  I saw the movie.  Since I'm not as dumb as I look, I put 2 and 2 and 2 together and realized: Hey!  Grandma got it wrong!

Sorry Gram.  Stop swinging the handbag at me.  We still love you.

Chicken soup is bland because the process of boiling fails to summon the umami hidden in the meat.

I'd stumbled on this fact after making soup out of a Thanksgiving turkey carcass I couldn't stand to throw away but was too lazy to spend an hour dismantling; the result was richer and more satisfying than plain chicken soup, even though my kids refused to let me add wild rice because they have this thing about eating any food that starts out black.  But until I read about Escoffier, and saw "Julie" make boeuf bourguignon in her phone booth sized kitchen, it had not occurred to me that I could get the same result on purpose, by cooking the meat before putting it in the soup.

I've never been too good at recognizing patterns.

Last week I roasted soup bones for thirty minutes, placed them in a pot of water, sloshed some more water around the roasting pan to pick up every remnant of meat, and then simmered the entire concoction for -- wait for it -- 12 hours. 

Actually, it was more like twelve hours broken up into four hour increments, because I had to go to bed.  I don't know how Escoffier did it.  He must have had a team of kitchen slaves.  I have two clingy dogs hoping I'll drop something on the floor.  I'm fairly certain that I wouldn't be able to rely on them to keep a watchful eye on soup as it simmered overnight.

After removing the fat and shredding the meat off the bones, I sauteed chopped carrots, celery and onions, which I added to the soup pot, along with a cup of barley and some water.

I'd post a photo of the rich and healthy soup that resulted from my exploration, except for two things:

1. I dislike any kind of food photographs, and
2. We ate it all up

Meanwhile, Little Miss and Miss Puppy are having a glorious time quarreling over the leftover bones.

Have you ever learned something new when you thought you already knew everything there was to know?

Summer Reading

Robey: "I'm bringing one of those books to camp."

Me:  "Which one?"

Robey: "How To Kill A Mockingbird."

Sign Here Please: In Which Cupcake Braves A Lightning Storm To Meet The Author Of The Lightning Thief

Rick Riordan came to town.  Pronounced "RY-or-dun," not "ree-OR-dun," or "REAR-dun."  He's the author of The Lightning Thief books, but his appearance didn't seem to have been particularly well-publicized; it was mentioned on the public library website and on a poster at the library entrance.  Of course, I don't get out much, and I have little patience for our newspaper and the TV news, so for all I know there were commercials and fliers and billboards and lawn signs and skywriting that I never saw.  The swooning excitement of my daughter and her friends might have tipped me off, however, or the note on the sign that said doors would open at 6:00 and the program would commence at 7:00.  It didn't really matter, though, since I had to be at Robespierre's band banquet at the same time, so I'd arranged for the Cupcake to attend with a friend.  Her friend's mother brought all three of her kids, and mine, each toting a couple books to be autographed.

When they arrived at 5:30, the line stretched out the door and around the building.  Ultimately, nearly 1500 people turned up for this event.  Do you know what 1500 looks like?  It looks kind of like this:

o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

Except imagine that instead of a well-aligned and well-behaved bunch of "o"s, you have anxious kids accompanied by parents-who-only-want-the-best-for-their-children and would try anything to push themselves to the front of the line to get it.  ("Seriously," the man pleaded, "I'm hypoglycemic... aaand I'm phobic about lightning... aaannnd the dog ate my homework... and I'm pregnant!  Yeah, that's it.  I have to get inside.")

Oh, and April showers might bring May flowers, but May where we live?  Thunderstorms.  Lightning (not completely inappropriate in this instance, but still...)  Tornadoes.  Power outages.

They stood in line.  The crowd grew.  They received group line tickets for an audience.  The crowd expanded.  They saw friends from school.  The rain came.  The crowd got wet.  They got inside.  The crowd doubled every 15 minutes.  The rain came down harder, accompanied by thunder and lightning.  Trees exploded.  Power lines fell.  The angels wept.

They waited FOUR. HOURS. to meet the author.  Cupcake, who'd read the last book in the series eight times in one week (no, that's not a typo), was too tongue tied to say anything other than "Thanks" when her turn finally came (I know -- unbelievable for a nine-year-old who writes her own blog).  Each visitor was limited to four signed books; Cupcake and her friend persuaded him to personalize one more for a friend who couldn't make it to the library extravaganza.

Now we have two autographed Percy Jackson books in our library; I suspect they'd be on the short list if the house ever caught fire (heaven forbid).  Meanwhile, I've had to place a moratorium on any more Lightning Thief reading for the moment.  Can you develop an addiction to a book series?

Into A Nearby Telephone Booth: I'm A Hero Because I Heard Rick Riordan Is Coming To Town

They screamed.  They squealed.  Their eyes practically popped out of their heads.  They held each other's hands and jumped up and down.  Were there tears of joy and ecstasy?  Swooning?  Rending of garments?  Quite possibly.

What brought on this frenzied display of emotion?  Was school canceled for the rest of the semester?  Had the entire class won the lottery?  Was Paul McCartney dropping in for a private concert?

It was my announcement to the Cupcake's third grade class that Rick Riordan, author of The Lightning Thief and the rest of the Percy Jackson series, is coming to our public library on tour for his newest book (the last in the series).

For that brief moment I was a superhero.  Who knew it would take so little to impress them?

Wordless Wednesday: In Honor Of The Birthday Of Dr. Seuss

These are three views of our library, which started out as Robespierre's nursery, and then Cleo's.  The paintings were done just before Robey was born, by the guy who taught me to watercolor.  When we had the shelves put in I couldn't stand to sacrifice the paintings, so we worked around them.  The blue fish in the center of the last photo had to be moved to make way for the shelf, so I painted the one you see here.

Dr. Seuss's writing has been important to our family for decades; sometimes I still read his books to my kids.

Sometimes I Wonder How Smart She Really Is...: The Things Kids Say

Remember our trip to London, when Cleo and I saw a performance of The Sound of Music and encountered a slight misunderstanding about the meaning of the phrase "her dead father" ?

On this trip we saw a performance of Mary Poppins on Broadway.  Now, on Amazon the book Mary Poppins, by P. L. Travers, ranks 13,914th in popularity.  By contrast, the 25th anniversary DVD of the Disney film ranks at #73 among movies.  Quite a difference.  The Tale of Despereaux comes in at #867 in books, while the various books in the Twilight Saga appear at places 2, 3, 6 and 12.

So it's safe to say that not too many kids or adults are reading the original Mary Poppins books, and that our main impression of the famous nanny everyone wants to employ, even though she never gives references and makes it a practice never to explain anything, comes from the work of Walt Disney and Julie Andrews.  Therefore, any characters who appear in the books but not the movie are going to seem foreign to much of the theater audience.  So I was preparing to answer obscure questions from Cleo regarding unfamiliar characters and events, although she should have been nearly as well informed as I was, since she read a couple of the books last year.

But I wasn't prepared for this.

In one scene Mary Poppins and the children visit Mrs. Corry, who runs a magical sweet shop, which in the book is depicted by this rather ordinary illustration:

This and all other photos from Jim Hill Media, except as otherwise indicated

...but in the musical is portrayed much more whimsically, possibly to inspire the audience to rush to the lobby during intermission and buy armloads of candy and treats:

And Mrs. Corry, who in the book is a widow dressed all in black, appears in the play as a voluptuous Caribbean woman in a bright orange and red confection of a dress with a bustle made of cupcakes and a tall orange headdress:

 

During the sweet shop scene Cleo turned to me and asked in a whisper if this was the same lady with the hat who'd sung for the President.

I had to think about it for a moment. 

Caribbean woman? 

Singing for the President? 

What president?  The story takes place in Edwardian England (even though Queen Victoria inexplicably and disturbingly appears in one scene).

It took me a second to realize which lady Cleo meant.  Have you figured it out?  Here she is:

 

Photo from The Daily Voice

Maybe we should lay off the Julie Andrews for a while...