Porridge

 Dear Reader,

Freshwater pearls form in lakes, rivers, and other non-salted water.  Over 90% of freshwater pearls are known as baroque pearls.  This means they have an irregular shape, the most abundant type.   This irregular shape is what makes them so beautifully unique and individually special.

Freshwater pearls are just as real as saltwater pearls as long as they come from a pearl oyster.  The only difference is that freshwater pearls are not so expensive as saltwater ones because the latter are more difficult to find and process.

With only one in 10,000 oysters producing a pearl it is clear that freshwater pearls are a rare and precious find.

I must say I have never thought much about pearls before today.  I used to wear them when I "came out" as my mother thought I should and had a beautiful string of small seed pearls.  It seems a shame that so many oyster shells are opened and then discarded when they do not contain a pearl.  What a waste.

 

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From John Ruskin  August 20th 1875 in Coniston Lake, Lancashire

'This morning ....... intensely beautiful, pure blue seen through openings in quiet cloud and lake calm; but the clouds not quite right - tawny and too thick ....    chopping wood.  Fairly fine with sweet air.'

From Alfred Tennyson  August 25th 1860  in Cornwall

'Tintagel.  Black cliffs and caves and storm and wind, but I weather it out and take  my ten miles a day walks in my weather-proofs.'

 

From Gilbert White   August 26th 1787 in Hampshire

'Timothy the tortoise, who has spent the last two months amidst the umbrageous forests of the asparagus beds, begins not to be sensible of the chilly autumnal mornings; and therefore suns himself under the laurel-hedge, into which he retires at night.He is become sluggish, and does not seem to take any food.'

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Porridge

 

The kitchen maid

plunges thin white arms

into the heavy cast-iron pot,

scours the glutinous porridge

from its insides.

She imagines her mistress

out in her carriage

on pleasure calls,

wearing lilac silk,

freshwater pearls around her neck,

her hands, idle white, in her lap.

She weeps.

 

The housewife scours the saucepan,

eases the porridge from its sides,

brushes the sticky mess into the sink.

She imagines her husband

taking the train, office-bound,

making important telephone calls,

lunching with partners Lucy and George

in that Italian bistro, discussing deals,

drinking white wine, laughing, living.

She weeps.

 

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With very best wishes, Patricia