in my life

In my life, I have spent countless winter holidays in Florida, but the one that remains in my memory the most magical, the most full of hope and happiness and infinite possibilities, is the one shown in the pictures here: the winter of 1964. I don't know if it was my first trip to Miami with my family, but it was right after the Beatles had their first visit, on their first US tour. They had stayed at the Deauville, a pretty swish beachfront Miami hotel, and - no one remembers who the connection is now. A friend of my parents', or the best friends we were staying with (Joe was my dad's best friend, and his wife Chickie was my mom's - everyone met at college). And their girls - Anne, Jodie and Kari - were the coolest girls we knew. Anne especially, the older sister I wished I had (and who is still that way for me to this day: we'll be seeing them, if all goes well, this winter, in Miami).

Whoever this mystery man was, we were his guest that day at the Deauville. The Beatles had just stayed there, and our host was the first guest in the suite they'd occupied. He was telling the grown ups, as we listened with rapt attention, that girls were constantly showing up at their door, crying and touching the walls and the carpet.. that was the winter that the Beatles - their music, their very being - were transforming our lives. Our play involved imagining that we were their girlfriends: I always got Paul, who did look so much like my dad. I don't know that any music, at any time of my life, ever affected me as strongly as those songs, on that holiday. And has, all through my life.

This is that end of the year time when I look back, and look forward. One year ago today, my father's cousin Cliff Kimmel - the brother he wished he had, his lifelong closest male relative - was still alive. He died on New Year's Eve, in Florida. My dear friend Major Bobby Collins died here in London, one month later, on the 31st January, and in the spring, one of my father's closest friends, Paul Lazrove, died suddenly of complications from simple heart surgery. I remember what Major Bobby said a year earlier, when - in a strange twist of fate - he chose me to be there, as his next of kin. For a month, I visited him in hospital every day. They thought, the first night, that he might not make it through, and, drifting in and out of consciousness, he told me that if he died that night, it would be okay: he had had a rich and full life, and he had no regrets. And then, switching gears, he told me one of his many amusing stories.

All photos by my father, apart from the ones of the Beatles. And I guess my mom took the shot of my father, with their first dog, Junior, sometime before I was born. And it's funny - girls and their dads - because in this photo of my father, I can also see a lot of my husband. And on it goes.

I can picture them all, sitting round a pool - my dad either diving off the high board, or watching someone doing it. The sky is blue, the water is warm, the palm trees swaying in the tropical breeze: that is my idea of heaven. I bet John and George are there too, and pretty girls, and everyone is laughing.

me, i'm still on the road: the butchers' arms in woolhope

How was your Christmas? Ours was lovely: quiet, small, perfectly formed. It's funny, about life, when you don't have any expectations.. I've developed, over the years, Jill's Inverse Proportional Theory of Expectation and Happiness. The less I expect, I've discovered, the more surprised and happy I am with the results. This applies to just about everything, but especially, to a lunch we had on Boxing Day.

It was just the most perfect pub lunch in every way.

We were driving home to London on Boxing Day, after a brisk walk with Mum in Law and the dogs in the gorgeous Herefordshire countryside. We'd booked lunch at the Butchers Arms in Woolhope, not knowing what to expect really, apart from knowing it was on the way home, and that Stephen Bull had bought it in 2009. My father in law had had what he proclaimed was his worst Christmas, ever - he's having a real time of it, health wise, and couldn't even make it downstairs for Christmas lunch - but he was bright enough on Boxing Day to come downstairs, and give us directions to Woolhope, which is really in the absolute middle of nowhere. Which means it's in the middle of the most heavenly countryside.
When we had called to confirm the reservation, the dogs - cartoon dogs, really - Scrabble is a black and white Jack Russell who must have been crossed with a pig at some point - and Kipper is some kind of hilarious terrier of some description, she can bounce higher and farther than any creature on earth - and they were barking while my husband was on the phone with the pub. They asked if he'd be bringing the dogs. 'Not these dogs,' he answered, but when we got to the pub there was a big shiny glass jar on the bar, filled with dog biscuits, and a huge blonde dog arrived with a group, and then a charming black Scottie.. I've never seen such a charming place. Everyone felt welcome. Even those crazy dogs would have felt at home. Outside it was cold and grey and wet, and the minute we came into the dining room - beams low enough to knock a grown man out - fire going, walls about eight feet thick, it felt like sinking into a warm bath.

It felt like everything an inn or a pub should be: a shelter from the storm, a place where strangers come in from far away places, and the staff ask how your Christmas was like the mean it. And you ask how theirs was, and they tell you. And strangers start asking each other where they got their dog (the Scottie, actually, was bought from Harrods). And someone bangs their head on the beam and everyone says 'mind your head' and laughs. And everyone leaves feeling like they've made some new friends.

The Butchers Arms is owned by Stephen Bull, who you might not know as well as, say, Gordon Ramsay or Jamie Oliver, but he is one of the founders of what we know today as modern British food.
The Head Chef is Mr Fran Snell, who came on board two years ago from The Dukes Hotel in Bath. With a grounding in fine dining they offer honest but brilliant food, and I really can't praise him highly enough. He works with two other chefs in the Kitchen; Lydia Taylor, responsible for the starters and Hannah Telfer, puddings.
From the moment we shared Lydia's starter of chicken and mushroom croquettes - light, rich, crispy balloons that seemed to hover above the plate, served with a truffle aioli and wild green salad that might have had a walnut oil dressing - sitting at our wooden table next to the open fire - we knew we were in the hands of true artists. It's not a large place: two small rooms, a small number of covers, and yet we noticed probably four wait staff - male and female - all friendly, charming, and attractive. It takes real skill and professionalism to make it seem so effortless.




'This is the best pub,' my husband said to our waiter - in the course of our visit, we were served and looked in on by about four charming staff people - as he passed on the way back to the kitchen. 'You haven't had the main yet,' he quipped, 'it could still go terribly wrong.'

But it didn't. It just kept getting better. It's done as a two or three course lunch: £19.50 or £24.50, respectively, and we opted for two courses each, sharing a starter and dessert. I had a luscious goats cheese and chutney roulade with vegetables and potatoes and parsley sauce - layer upon layer of texture and colour and flavour - and he had what was billed as 'sausage roll and chips'. I'll never know how good it was because he wouldn't let me taste any.

And then, pudding. We couldn't decide between warm ginger cake with toffee ice cream, or cherry and chocolate torte with chantilly cream. I was flipping a penny and he was mocking me for not flipping it the right way, so our waiter made the decision for us: 'It's Christmas, go for the chocolate.' He then said something about seeing if he could get us an offcut. It's a good thing we shared it: it was rich and heavenly and we could barely finish it, delicious as it was, when suddenly - true to his word - he dropped another plate on us: a small slice of the warm ginger cake, with a tiny globe of the homemade toffee ice cream.

It's those kind of touches that you remember. And make you want to return. With the in-laws, as a thank you for what was, in its own weird way, the loveliest of Christmases.

It was my plan to illustrate this post with Shelter from the Storm, but do you have any idea how hard it is to capture the illusive Bob Dylan on YouTube? Instead, you might be able to open this - Tangle up in Blue - in a separate window, but I bet by the time you get to this, he will be gone.

21.12.12: still here, feeling fine

Yesterday - the day before the end of the world as we know it - I was having lunch with my friend Sophia, and couldn't stop staring at her hair. It looked just like Olivia Palermo's, shown here in a shot I took of her at fashion week. I'm extra noticing gorgeous hair at the moment because I can't stop stroking my own. It's like having a cat on my head: it's so silky and just feels so good.

And the reason my hair is feeling so good is because of James Brown. Not the singer, although you can play his song by clicking here, but James Brown the hairdresser. Besides being basically hairdressing royalty here in London - I mean, he does the best people's hair - he's also making these products that are just so yummy.One thing I find particularly great about the JBL Signature range is that the products don't contain any silicone - personally as much as silicone gives great shine and 'slip' to hair, I prefer products that contain natural extracts for their conditioning and detangling properties. And the High Gloss conditioner has been formulated with red seaweed extract to give a silken feel and a reflective sheen, but it is entirely plant derived so won't build up on the hair.

I mean - I wouldn't want silicone in my lips or my boobs, why would I want it in my hair?

So yesterday, after what feels like weeks in a TB ward, surrounded by mountains of Kleenex and drippingly dirty hair, to shampoo with these beautiful white products, and the heady scents - my husband even noticed, when I came out of the shower, how great the room smelled - well, I'm hooked.

And my friend Stephanie - Odyssey - has reported in from Texas, and so far, they're still feeling fine.. as another friend, Melinda, said yesterday 'I guess it's not the end of the world if the Mayans turn out to be wrong about tomorrow.' (Love that line: I mean, think about it).

It's already twilight here - I've bought these cool little blue pinpoints of light that are winding around the olive tree we smuggled back in a suitcase from a holiday in Spain, and the scent of these vanilla ricotta cheesecakes I've been baking is wafting round our home - and I'm feeling rather good. So far, I think I like this new Mayan phase!