tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33040531701450477632024-02-19T06:50:51.909+01:00Plated StoriesPlated Stories is a creative collaboration between photographer Ilva Beretta and writer Jamie Schler where they explore and celebrate food in thematic posts.Ilva&Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10381507454155136702noreply@blogger.comBlogger103125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304053170145047763.post-65663293283671623842019-06-05T17:50:00.000+02:002019-06-05T17:50:27.204+02:00(FOOD) PHOTO & WRITING WORKSHOP WITH ILVA BERETTA & JAMIE SCHLER - finding your creative power
(FOOD) PHOTO & WRITING WORKSHOP WITH ILVA BERETTA & JAMIE SCHLER
finding your creative power
Date: November 6 – 10, 2019
Venue: Hôtel Diderot, Chinon, France
Cost (in euros): €1750*
Invest in your future
Writer or photographer, blogger or professional, beginner or seasoned, whether oriented towards food, travel or another Ilva&Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10381507454155136702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304053170145047763.post-89738293945643519602015-09-21T09:26:00.000+02:002015-09-21T09:29:24.544+02:00B
He took me to a place under brilliant blue skies, surrounded by deep blue waters. We spent mornings wandering the streets of old villages under a blazing sun, burning stone streets, burnished stone reflecting centuries of unchanging traditions. We picked our way through meandering back streets, barren of life, admiring tumbles of earthenware, terra cotta crudely shaped, rough, matte Ilva&Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10381507454155136702noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304053170145047763.post-13071368325941793892015-09-07T09:50:00.000+02:002015-09-07T15:00:24.388+02:00A Plated Stories has always been about inspiration, creativity, experimenting with the interplay between text and image, with food as muse. After a summer hiatus, we take off in a new direction: up until this post, the texts and the photographs had been conceived and created independently, with no interaction before posting, only inspired by the same theme, a way to see how one theme inspiresIlva&Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10381507454155136702noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304053170145047763.post-49295769346803812342015-05-25T15:17:00.001+02:002015-05-25T15:17:24.721+02:00Still
Still Life
The afternoons here are dead still, silent except for the chirping of the fat blackbirds, the constant drone of the dryer filtering through the open laundry room door, muffled and distant, white noise in this still afternoon. Sometimes the chatter of school children breaks the stillness and then dies away again as they scurry through town. I sit on the terrace, Ilva&Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10381507454155136702noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304053170145047763.post-14892348641030379362015-05-11T18:21:00.000+02:002015-05-11T18:21:22.959+02:00Two
Table for Two
He always said that I was enough for him. No, to be precise what he said was that the two of us was enough for him. “I’ve led a pretty wild life; I’ve done everything imaginable and now I am ready to settle down. I’d like to do that with you.” Being newly two, it was all very exciting, very romantic, extremely time consuming and fulfilling and I needed little more than Ilva&Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10381507454155136702noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304053170145047763.post-5236137736188281352015-04-27T09:40:00.000+02:002015-05-01T17:00:46.455+02:00Inspiration
How does one find inspiration in the ho hum of everyday? Cooking, creating, living, I often find my brain as blank as the slate in front of me, the white sheet of paper, the expanse of kitchen counter, the depths of the refrigerator. I search for what will motivate me to write. Or cook. Something to ignite a spark, an idea like the flash of a bulb over my head aha! Eureka!
Oooh Ilva&Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10381507454155136702noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304053170145047763.post-42873318831179198972015-04-06T13:38:00.001+02:002015-04-06T13:38:11.631+02:00Green
Think Green
No, not Saint Patrick’s Day, although that is what you are thinking. I have never been one to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, no green beer, no green food, no parades for me. Although when I was in fourth grade I wore my Girl Scout’s uniform to school, green head to toe, on March 17 simply because it was the only green clothing I owned, simply to avoid spending the day being Ilva&Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10381507454155136702noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304053170145047763.post-87274352169263008832015-03-23T09:30:00.000+01:002015-03-23T09:30:30.693+01:00Piping
Pied Piper
I have always dreamed of being a master piper. Pied Piper. Although I inherited my father’s piping tools, the pastry bag, now yellowed and stiff, and the many tips, somewhat tarnished and dented, I have never had the patience or the steady hand to pipe as he did. Swirls and squiggles, elegant roses or one’s very own name piped across the surface of a cake, pink or red or Ilva&Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10381507454155136702noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304053170145047763.post-68719191991318638452015-03-16T11:21:00.002+01:002015-03-16T11:21:52.280+01:00Water
Flooded
Rinse the vegetables under cool running water. Pat dry. Add water to the pot to just cover the meat. Bring to the boil. Flick water from your fingertips into the oil in the skillet to discover if it is hot enough. Wait for the sizzle. Add just enough water to thin. Add just enough water to bring the flour mixture together into a scraggly dough and scrape together.
WaterIlva&Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10381507454155136702noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304053170145047763.post-49082746414366471602015-03-09T12:16:00.001+01:002015-03-09T12:16:41.296+01:00Windows
Windows on the World
A habit cannot be tossed out the window; it must be coaxed down the stairs a step at a time.
- Mark Twain
My son always wonders why I don’t listen to music while I bake, the lilting strains of something jazzy or a bit of old rock-n-roll blasting from the radio sitting on the kitchen counter. My husband brings in his ipad and sets it up near my cutting board, near Ilva&Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10381507454155136702noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304053170145047763.post-72709897867637629212015-03-02T12:05:00.000+01:002015-03-02T12:05:21.299+01:00Fake
Be True to Oneself
Bogus. Fake jewelry, diamonds in paste, rubies in plastic, don’t care let’s call it costume jewelry and layer it on the more the merrier! Fake nails? Nope, never… well when we were kids we faked lipstick with chocolate pudding or mashed potatoes (pucker up!) and fake teeth with corn kernels and little green peas, and fake nails? With something or other, for when we Ilva&Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10381507454155136702noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304053170145047763.post-86277427103989563722015-02-23T12:44:00.000+01:002015-02-23T12:44:27.263+01:00Bulb
We now know a thousand ways not to build a light bulb. - Thomas Alva Edison
The lights flicker in the kitchen, dulling the dull brown of the cabinets, muddying the muddy yellow of the tiles in the dimness. A row of bulbs above the sink, stretching from refrigerator to stove along the top edge of the wall, just under the ceiling, are inconsistent things, not a bright bulb in the lot. Ilva&Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10381507454155136702noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304053170145047763.post-18447156008597310912015-02-16T14:07:00.001+01:002015-02-16T14:10:38.487+01:00Fat
Kill the Fatted Calf
Fat spitting angrily, bubbling and seething, hissing and spattering violently. No matter the fat, like a woman scorned, it begins cool, calm, and collected. Quite placid. Some fats (butter) smell oh-so sweetly, fresh as the morning dew. Cool to the touch, that fat invites tasting, allows being handled, rubbed into flour for crusts, crumbles, and biscuits. At room Ilva&Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10381507454155136702noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304053170145047763.post-84331159243162644742015-02-09T15:05:00.000+01:002015-02-09T15:05:17.316+01:00Toast
My hour for tea is half-past five, and my buttered toast waits for nobody. - Wilkie Collins, The Woman in White
I once read that it wasn’t the discovery of fire that differentiated man from beast, elevated man to a higher, more cultivated level (if I can say) but rather it was that man used fire to transform his food. Cook it. Roast it and toast it. Man stuck it on a stick and Ilva&Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10381507454155136702noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304053170145047763.post-75710781835854269982015-02-02T11:01:00.000+01:002015-02-02T11:01:13.644+01:00Flour
Flour Power
My great-grandfather milled flour. He lived in a small town in Russia where he owned two mills, one for flour, one for schnapps, both from grain, salt of the earth, manna from heaven. For who can live without flour and alcohol, bread and drink?
And this great-grandfather would travel from town to town, milling grain into flour, expert that he was. ButIlva&Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10381507454155136702noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304053170145047763.post-73492117634026733762015-01-26T09:29:00.002+01:002015-01-26T09:29:28.842+01:00Scales
On a Small Scale.
It’s time for our first jam session! he cried, clapping his hands together. I had never made a jar of confiture in my life yet he had such faith in me and my skills. He had been making jars and jars of the stuff, more than anyone would ever be able to count, in the dozen years he had owned and run the hotel, creating and building a reputation on those jams, upwards ofJamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18143167745985848048noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304053170145047763.post-76076509926727585142015-01-19T08:04:00.000+01:002015-01-19T11:34:03.180+01:00Plated Stories Food Photography & Writing Workshop/Retreat 'Inspiration'
When: 16 - 18 April 2015
Where: Chinon, France
Venue: Hôtel Diderot
Intensive Hands-On Food Photography/Styling & Food Writing Workshop/Retreat focusing on Inspiration & Creativity
The Plated Stories Workshop/Retreat 'Inspiration' will be held the weekend of 16 - 18 April 2015 (Thursday 16 April lunch through Saturday night with departure Sunday 19 April after Ilva&Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10381507454155136702noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304053170145047763.post-82959645221927640202015-01-12T11:10:00.000+01:002015-01-12T11:10:10.827+01:00Ladle
‘He scream'd out--'
Take the soup away!
O take the nasty soup away!
I won't have any soup to-day.'
- Heinrich Hoffmann, Der Struwwelpeter
Ladle as noun: a long-handled utensil with a cup-shaped bowl for dipping, conveying and serving liquids.
Ladle as verb: to dip, convey or serve with or as if with a ladle; to lift out or serve with a long-handled spoon.
Potage, bisque, Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18143167745985848048noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304053170145047763.post-85962660966769337532015-01-06T12:43:00.002+01:002015-01-06T12:43:26.586+01:00Zest
"True happiness comes from the joy of deeds well done, the zest of creating things new."
– Antoine de Saint-Exupery
Spices lend zest to a dish, a mad dash of chipotle, a defiant dusting of cumin and coriander, a generous helping of harissa, an assertive grinding of pepper, a brazen dollop of wasabi, a determined squirt of lemon juice. A shaving of zest. North African, Thai, Chinese, Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18143167745985848048noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304053170145047763.post-14603301936664211662014-12-22T12:35:00.000+01:002014-12-22T12:35:29.062+01:00Bubbles
Cheers!
Baubles are hung on the Christmas tree, pretty glass orbs reflecting the lights filtering in through the windows shooting colors across the room like prisms, baubles buried into the green among the drapes of shimmering tinsel and popcorn garlands. Baubles and trinkets tucked into tissue paper, wrapped and beribboned, rings to be slipped on my finger; baubles offered, he Ilva&Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10381507454155136702noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304053170145047763.post-53475430457301395782014-12-15T10:54:00.000+01:002014-12-15T10:54:58.659+01:00Date
Dates and Figs
Long, narrow boats of Styrofoam holding dates packed in like sardines, head to toe, back to back, side by side squished into place leaving nary a breath between them. Plastic pulled tightly over them all, stuffed in. There was always a boatful of pretty little dates in my parents’ refrigerator. Dates and dried figs. While the figs, dried and withered, the color of Ilva&Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10381507454155136702noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304053170145047763.post-61953558475371194582014-12-09T09:14:00.000+01:002014-12-09T09:14:13.735+01:00Black
Little Black Dress
My friend once dreamed of a black garden, black velvet woven through the green foliage. She planted roses and tulips, irises and dahlias in shades of black the color of eggplants, aubergines of a violet so deep and dark they shimmer like caviar, the color of licorice whips and black pudding, boudin noir. Spring, summer and well into autumn, she waded in black until Ilva&Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10381507454155136702noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304053170145047763.post-85913234797113767502014-12-01T11:49:00.002+01:002014-12-01T11:49:53.221+01:00Cut
Mrs. White in the Kitchen with the Knife
Just a tiny nick, a slice, a cut. One drop and two, a bead pearling on white porcelain, a droplet of red.
A rush of cool water, a swirl of red, beet red, cherry red, pomegranate.
Serrated, butcher, paring, cleaver, anyway you slice it; cut against the grain.
Cut flowers fresh from the garden, yellow roses, pink roses, fat Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18143167745985848048noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304053170145047763.post-63565038860069389812014-11-24T11:54:00.000+01:002014-11-24T11:54:25.161+01:00Dairy
I love the cow. The cow gives us milk. And butter. And cheese. The cow goes moo.
An old bowl of sturdy plastic, the words in a never-ending ring around the rim, round and round, letters and childish drawings covering the bowl in bright primary colors, blue, red, green, black. I love the cow. It was once part of a set, the chunky mug cracked and discarded years ago, when our son Ilva&Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10381507454155136702noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3304053170145047763.post-75179540024740965352014-11-17T10:01:00.000+01:002014-11-17T10:01:35.016+01:00Wet
Wet Behind the Ears
I arrived in France thirty years ago, the decision to leave one life behind and begin a new one impulsive, impetuous. Unprepared, my ideas of Paris, of the country and the culture, were formulated from images in a tattered old high school French textbook, an American fantasy of a culture idealized, idolized. I was wet behind the ears.
French food, I imagined, Ilva&Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10381507454155136702noreply@blogger.com1