Patti Friday: Fine Art America

Showing posts with label Fine Art America. Show all posts

Monday, June 9, 2025

Prue and the Red Velvet Society

Prue Blevins lived in a village so small the post office doubled as a bait shop and the mayor’s dog held unofficial office hours on the church steps. The whole town leaned up against a lazy river that looped like a lopsided smile, and everything—weather, gossip, and tomato yields—moved at the speed of porch rockers and polite pauses.

Prue, widowed these past fifteen years but no less opinionated for it, was the reigning matriarch of the Violet Valley County Horticultural Society, a group she founded with two other women and one man who only joined for the lemonade. Now, it boasted twelve active members and one waiting list (Tammy Jo Elkins, who refused to deadhead anything and once mistook a peony for a cabbage, had been gently told to “just enjoy nature from a respectful distance”).

Most days, you could find Prue in the community parkette, a glorified triangle of land wedged between the diner and the feed store, tugging weeds with the precision of a surgeon and muttering things like, “Heaven help me, these marigolds are drunk on sunshine.” The bronze fountain in the center—a ring of dancing children cast in 1963—sprinkled merrily beside her, though one child had a slight lean due to an unfortunate incident involving a mischievous raccoon and an overenthusiastic high school band fundraiser.

But the real magic happened the first Tuesday of every month, when Prue hosted her gardening ladies at Dot’s Diner. Dot, who ran the place with a spatula in one hand and a can of Aqua Net in the other, reserved the corner booth under the big window. Prue would waltz in, hair pinned up in what she called her “bouffant with backbone,” and treat every single woman to a thick, glorious slice of Red Velvet Cake.

Now, this was no average cake. Dot made it from scratch with buttermilk, cocoa, and a cream cheese frosting that could redeem even the rudest cousin at a family reunion. It was the unofficial currency of kindness in town.

Prue had a tradition. Before they ate, she’d raise her fork and declare:
“Here’s to dirt under our nails and frosting on our lips. May your mulch be rich, your petunias obedient, and your neighbor’s cat stay out of your zinnias.”

The ladies would laugh, clink forks like champagne glasses, and dig in.

One Tuesday, a newcomer named Clarabelle—who had just moved from Collingwood and wore gardening gloves with rhinestones—asked, “Prue, why Red Velvet?”

Prue dabbed her mouth delicately. “Because it’s dramatic,” she said. “It looks like it’s got a secret. Just like gardeners—we know what goes on under the surface.”

The women all nodded. There was wisdom in that cake.

So Prue weeded. She hosted. She celebrated soil and sweetness. And in a town where not much changed, she became a quiet legend: the woman who kept the parkette tidy, the roses pruned, and the Red Velvet flowing—proof that a little sugar, a lot of sun, and a stubborn root system can hold a village together just fine.

ORDER a fine art print of ‘Red Velvet Cake’ here.

Poppy in White. Milk and Moonlight. White Cake White Icing

Poppy in White

Poppy Calhoun had a calling. Not a job, not a lifestyle, not even a “personal aesthetic” as those downtown girls with podcasts might say. No, Poppy had a calling, and it came in shades of milk and moonlight.

She lived her entire life in white. Not just white, mind you—white, ivory, cream, vanilla bean, frosted pearl, alabaster, and on occasion, when she was feeling wild, a daring ecru. Her closet was a snowy spectrum. Her front porch was flanked by white hydrangeas the size of small cabbages. Even her rescue cat, Blanche, wore a tiny linen collar the color of whipped meringue. Poppy’s hair was the palest ‘Targaryen’ blonde.

Poppy was a Flower Stylist, the kind of florist who didn’t just arrange blossoms—she curated floral poetry. Her studio, tucked into the back of an old house with chippy paint and floorboards that creaked like your Aunt ’s Sophie’s knees, was the kind of place you whispered in without realizing why. Brides-to-be came from three counties just to sit on her marshmallow velvet loveseat and imagine what their big day might smell like.

“I specialize in white weddings,” Poppy would say, smiling like a secret. “Not just the flowers. The feeling.”

And Lord help the woman who asked for red roses.

Each bridal consultation included tea served in antique china and one perfectly plated slice of her famous White Cake White Icing. It was part gesture, part ritual, part spell. Two layers, snowy and soft, flavored with almond and something Poppy would never admit out loud but might be a dash of coconut extract. The frosting was a whipped cloud of buttercream that made grown women cry and one groom-to-be propose to Poppy by mistake.

“It’s like eating a silk pillow,” one bride whispered reverently, as though sugar could be sacred.

Of course, not everyone understood her devotion to the palette.

“Don’t it ever feel a little… sterile?” her cousin Susie Lou asked once, waving a rhinestone-studded nail at Poppy’s kitchen, where even the salt and pepper shakers were shaped like porcelain swans.

“It feels peaceful,” Poppy replied. “Besides, have you ever seen a stain on a white tablecloth and not remembered the exact moment it happened? White holds memory. It’s honest.”

Susie blinked, popped her gum, and muttered, “Well, alright then, Sister Ghost.”

But the brides understood. And the flowers did too. Casablanca lilies, Queen Anne’s lace, garden roses, dusty miller, lisianthus, gardenias that bruised if you so much as looked at them cross-eyed—Poppy coaxed them all into clean, dreamy arrangements that looked like moonlight had decided to get married.

By year’s end, she’d sent fifty-seven brides down the aisle in a soft cloud of cream and calm. And each one of them said the same thing, months later, in thank-you notes edged with dried petals:

“I still think about that cake. And the calm. And how white, in your hands, felt like the warmest thing in the world.”

Which just proves what Poppy always said: White’s not cold. It’s hope with frosting.

ORDER a fine art print of White Cake White Icing here.

Sunday, June 8, 2025

Victorian Sponge: The Queen, the Cake, and the Pimento Panic

The Queen, the Cake, and the Pimento Panic

Lizzie Henley had lived in Alabama for exactly three months, two weeks, and five afternoons, and she still wasn’t sure whether “fixin’ to” meant about to do something or threatening to.

Back home in Surrey, “picnics” meant gingham blankets, gentle banter, and a nice Victoria Sponge if the weather held. In her new Southern neighborhood, picnics were full-blown catered affairs with pimento cheese in crystal bowls, coconut cakes that could double as wedding centerpieces, and monogrammed coolers big enough to house a medium-sized pony.

Today’s event was the “Preppy Picnic,” held under the weeping willow by the river, hosted by the Ladies Auxiliary and coordinated by Mrs. Trudy Pickens — a woman with a bouffant so high Lizzie was fairly certain it had its own barometric pressure.

Eager to contribute, Lizzie baked her best Victoria Sponge: two golden rounds, light as a sigh, sandwiched with raspberry jam and whipped cream, dusted with icing sugar and dignity. She nestled it in her wicker basket and braved the heat, mosquitoes, and suspicious glances from a man who looked personally offended by her straw hat.

At the picnic, long folding tables bowed under the weight of Southern classics. There were deviled eggs in formation, congealed salads in every shade of pastel, and no fewer than four coconut cakes, each taller than a toddler and glistening like snow on a humid afternoon.

Lizzie cleared her throat and placed her cake delicately between a stack of cheese straws and something labeled “Peach Pretzel Surprise.”

“Whatcha got there, hon?” asked Mrs. Pickens, eyeing the cake like it had a British passport and questionable intentions.

“It’s a Victoria Sponge,” Lizzie replied with her most cheerful tone. “Very traditional. Bit of a British classic.”

Mrs. Pickens blinked. “Well isn’t that… refined.” She said it like one might say “off-brand” or “too many cats.”

The women mingled. The pimento cheese was worshipped. Someone sang a hymn while slicing lemon squares. Lizzie stood by her cake like a debutante at her first ball, smiling politely while everyone walked straight past her sponge in favor of things topped with crushed pecans or suspicious gelatin.

Then a small hand reached up.

“I want that one,” said Betsy Lou, age five, dressed in head-to-toe prep and a tutu.

She took one bite, froze dramatically, and shouted, “IT’S LIKE EATING A CLOUD FILLED WITH LOVE!”

You could’ve heard a deviled egg drop.

Soon, forks flew. Slices vanished. The sponge was declared “delicate, yet sassy” by one lady who had never before said anything kind about European desserts.

Mrs. Pickens took a dainty bite, nodded once, and said, “Well. That’ll do.”

Which, in Southern, was a standing ovation.

And from that day on, Lizzie was no longer the British girl who brought that pale cake. She was Miss Victoria Sponge. (Betsy Lou called her Queen Victoria!)

And honey, you better believe she was invited to every picnic after that.

ORDER ‘Victorian Sponge’ fine art print here.

Moongirl Cake

Moongirl wasn’t her given name, but folks hadn’t called her Lillian Mae since the last year of high school. The nickname started the summer her hair turned white at seventeen — not gray, mind you, white — and it curled like it had someplace to be. Her best friend Marlene said it made her look like the moon glowing through a lace curtain, and the name stuck quicker than a June bug on a screen door.

It was the early 1960s, and Moongirl had two babies at her feet — a curious little girl named Birdie who insisted on wearing her Sunday shoes in the sandbox, and a baby boy named Bobby who mostly just stared at the ceiling fan like it owed him money.

Her husband, Charlie, was what the other husbands called “involved in the community,” which meant he was rarely home and always smelled faintly of aftershave, cigars, and those clubhouse meatballs nobody really liked but always ate. Golf on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Lodge on Wednesdays. Arts & Letters on Mondays. Fridays? Well, Fridays were hers.

Moongirl claimed Friday the way a hungry neighbour claims a potluck casserole — firm and unapologetic. Every week, while Bobby napped and Birdie narrated her imaginary radio show from the porch, Moongirl would tie on her pineapple-printed apron, tune the kitchen radio to Patsy Cline, and bake her signature cake: Pineapple Upside Down.

It wasn’t fancy, but it was famous. The kind of cake that made grown men loosen their belts and widows blush. Caramelized pineapple rings so glossy you could check your lipstick in ‘em, a buttery golden sponge that held together like good family gossip, and cherries dropped right in the center of each pineapple like punctuation.

“You put a cherry in the middle,” Birdie would whisper reverently each time, like she hadn’t watched her mama do it thirty-five Fridays in a row.

“I surely do,” Moongirl would say, pressing it in like sealing a promise.

Once the cake was flipped (cleanly, always — Moongirl said broken cakes brought bad luck and lukewarm coffee), she’d cut two little slices: one for Birdie, one for herself. Bobby didn’t have teeth yet, but he’d gum the edge of a crust with mighty determination.

The rest of the cake went to whomever needed it most that week — Miss Martha down the road whose son still hadn’t written home from basic training, the exhausted mailman who Moongirl suspected hated his job but loved pineapple, or the checker at Dominion who once called Birdie a “bright little spark.” That got her two weeks’ worth of cake.

Charlie would come home around eight, whistling through his teeth, asking, “Did we have cake today?”

“We surely did,” Moongirl would say, sipping milky tea and rocking Bobby with one bare foot, “but the moon doesn’t rise twice.”

And he’d smile, kiss her hair, and go heat up leftovers. Because everyone knew — even Charlie — that Fridays belonged to Moongirl, her cake, and the quiet kind of magic only a woman with babies on her hip and sugar in her soul could make.

ORDER 'Moongirl Cake' fine art print here.

Thursday, June 5, 2025

Carrot Cake: The Cure For Everything

The Cure for Everything

Mallory Finch considered herself a writer by trade, temperament, and tragedy. By trade, because she was paid (albeit occasionally and not extravagantly). By temperament, because she liked to eavesdrop, embellish, and overthink. And by tragedy, because some days, her words fled like guilty children and left her alone with nothing but a yellow legal pad and a headache.

She lived in a village so small it didn’t have a stoplight, but it did have a coffeehouse that smelled like cinnamon and possibility. It was called The Sugar Window, named by the original owner’s grandmother, who once said that “every day needs a little sweetness to see through.” Mallory believed in that more than she believed in her own plotlines.

Her desk at home — with its antique lamp and view of the hydrangeas — was beautiful but cursed. When writer’s block struck, as it often did between the hours of 9 and forever, she grabbed her tote bag, her favorite pen, and a dog-eared yellow pad and marched two blocks to the coffeehouse like it was a church and she was the only congregant in need of saving.

Inside, the air was cool, the lights soft, and the carrot cake sat under glass like a crown jewel.

“Bad day?” asked Dottie, the barista with gray hair showcased static electricity and an apron dusted in powdered sugar.

“Third act problems,” Mallory sighed. “Characters behaving like toddlers.”

Dottie slid a generous slice across the counter. The kind of slice that leaned a little, like it had been in a fight with gravity and won. The icing was thick, unapologetically so, like it had ambitions of being a dessert all its own.

Mallory took her seat at the window — always the same one, second table from the left, where the light was kind and the plants thrived like they believed in her. She opened her legal pad and stared at her scrawl: He turned to face her, eyes wild with— and then nothing. A full page of potential, frozen by indecision.

So she ate.

The cake was perfect. Not precious. No pineapple nonsense, no raisin ambush. Just moist, spiced cake with flecks of real carrot and a frosting so rich it might’ve gone to private school. With every bite, her shoulders dropped, her brain unclenched, and her protagonist started talking again.

By the time her fork hit plate, Mallory had written three pages. And not just filler — the good stuff. Dialogue that crackled. A twist that surprised even her. She chuckled under her breath and licked a bit of icing off her thumb like a woman reborn.

Dottie passed by with a dish towel. “That cake fixes everything but broken marriages.”

“Give it time,” Mallory said, scribbling furiously.

Outside, the village moved on — dogs pulling owners, shopkeepers adjusting chalkboard signs. But inside The Sugar Window, Mallory was back in the saddle, her characters bickering like old friends, her story alive again.

And so it went: when her words wandered, she followed the scent of cinnamon and cream cheese icing, straight to the only cure she needed.

ORDER a fine art print of the carrot cake here.