New this year: Sweet Autumn Clematis has set up residence in the bush/bustled in the hedgerow that is right up against the outdoor shower house at the beach house (a.k.a.: the only place with power in all of Virginia after Irene). These gorgeous, simple, and— yes sweet— white flowers smell like honeysuckle crossed with jasmine and maybe just a bit of earthy beet pollen (is this what Jitterbug Perfume actually smells like??). There might not be anything more divine than showering in the dark on a full moon night with a bit of honey on the breeze. Seriously.
Author: loiseaufait
Little by little the bird feathers its nest, and object by heart burnished object we surround ourselves with lovely necessities of memory and function. It is these things that make a silly Apartment a Home or a silly Wednesday an Occasion.
Whether my nest is an old farmhouse, a sixth floor tenement walk up, or a brownstone basement... whether I share it with family, vagabonds, women of heart and mind, or a little brown cat and a sweet ginger banjo, my principal joy is filling it with light and laughter (and corralling).
Hear Us Roar!
While I count my blessings and dimes to consider if actually buying this amazing real tiger’s claw necklace is in the cards (probable verdict: quite dubious, potentially crazy, maybe just crazy enough to work??), I just had to share. Here is some info on this British Raj-era Tiger’s Claw necklace from the awesome description the girls that run this amazing shop put up:
During the Raj, European and American jewelry markets were populated with accessories that made use of India’s dense and exotic wildlife population – elephants, tigers, lions, and other fearsome beasts, and the animals’ deadly-ass claws usually were usually the centerpiece… Since the pieces were usually made when a British officer would slay a tiger or lion for sport, we’ve seen claw jewelry engraved with information about when and where – and by whom – the animal was killed. If the fact that this piece is made from a 150-year-old endangered animal does not wow you, get ready for this – it’s also vinaigrette, which is the Victorian name for little perfume lockets that women would carry around to protect themselves from unladylike smells. They were usually perforated and contained smelling salts or tiny pieces of cloth soaked in something aromatic. The designer of this particular piece hollowed out the claw and fitted it with a hinged gold screen in order to vent the fragrance inside. There is an equally ornate lid that hides the screen, should the wearer want to keep the pendant’s function a secret. Insane, right?
Since I frequently find myself in the presence of unladylike smells and I love colonialism, I’m smitten like a tiger kitten.
I also just wanted to say that I LOVE the Erica Weiner store (and the site). This badass tiger’s claw is indicative of the crazy-fabulous vintage stuff they get, but they also have totally affordable pieces (I wear this feather bracelet pretty much every day)- the new storefront is in SoHo… and the best part? It’s run by ladies. Hear them roar!
I want a new Jug
After hosting a recent michelada party on the heels of visiting the divine Miss Esser, I realized how woefully inadequate my pitcher selection is. Seriously.
So, Huey, I want a new jug. These caught my eye…
Covetous pitchers from Zinnia Cottage, VintageAbbey2, Blue Flower Vintage, Tom Laurus, and NostalgieEurope.
“Irene Blows”- church sign on Virginia’s Eastern Shore
As I fled Irene-frenzied-New-York like a wine drunk carpetbagger, my hometown was getting thoroughly pummeled. Trees as big around as sewing circles crashed through living rooms and flipped Volvos, taking out power and phone lines like so many cobwebs. My family (much like we did when we heard the Civil War was coming) retreated. To meet them in exile, I found myself cruising down the verdant Eastern Shore down to the Southside via the bay bridge tunnel (drive: recommended). To give succor in times of trouble, I turned to the bounty of my fair Virginia, via a sweet farmstand with a handsome farmer, fresh sweet corn, luscious peaches, and (ohmygodohmygodohmygod) just caught Virginia Blue Crabs.
And, of course, if you’re going to have Chesapeake Bay Blue crabs you also must have Old Bay, a big peppery pot, and plenty of old newspaper.
Put a Bird on it.
Oh! How I love thee, effortlessly floaty fine feathered seaglass silk chiffon dressing gown with little oiseaus all over it! Need. Want. Must Have. The entire Beautiful Bottoms line is gorgeous (and available at Journelle, natch).
Put a bird on it.
Last days of summer….
I came to simultaneous epiphanies the other day:
Summer is almost over! I haven’t had a lobster roll yet! AGHHHH!
No, this just won’t do. I’m a grown ass woman, master of my own destiny. So:
Thankfully, sweetheart and I had already planned to head up to Connecticut to see Bruce and Bela so we decided to make a day of it, take the slow road, and have what may be one of our last adventures of the summer. Le sigh. Lobster rolls from crookedy old Lobster Landing- Connecticut style of course (meaning hot in a griddled bun and doused in butter- after all, this was the Friday before Hurricane Mothra/Irene was coming to destroy New York, so we had better have our last hurrah and make it count). Then on to a curvy route north and inland that had us cruising by scenic (and perhaps magical/gypsy headquarters) Lake Zoar for hand dipped chocolate ice cream (for sweetheart) and (for moi) all-time-summer-favorite-and-somewhat-hard-to-find, a peach milkshake. Ahhhh, summer.
Here are some Lobster Roll Rules for those of you who, like me, enjoy rules exclusively governing sandwiches.
Now what…?
I’m worried that this is going to happen to me soon. Maybe this afternoon.
ps. I love Anne Emond. Sometimes I feel like she is inside my brain: picking outfits predicated on horizontal stripes and skinny jeans (by necessity), singing the praises of buttered toast, and anthropomorphizing cheese. Love.
Paris in Brooklyn
How much do you love this Parisian-looking manse on Clinton avenue in Clinton Hill?? I expect a tousle headed woman wearing a silk dressing gown to be leaning out of the window smoking a cigarette every time I pass.
Our Valley
Our Valley
We don’t see the ocean, not ever, but in July and August
when the worst heat seems to rise from the hard clay
of this valley, you could be walking through a fig orchard
when suddenly the wind cools and for a moment
you get a whiff of salt, and in that moment you can almost
believe something is waiting beyond the Pacheco Pass,
something massive, irrational, and so powerful even
the mountains that rise east of here have no word for it.
You probably think I’m nuts saying the mountains
have no word for ocean, but if you live here
you begin to believe they know everything.
They maintain that huge silence we think of as divine,
a silence that grows in autumn when snow falls
slowly between the pines and the wind dies
to less than a whisper and you can barely catch
your breath because you’re thrilled and terrified.
You have to remember this isn’t your land.
It belongs to no one, like the sea you once lived beside
and thought was yours. Remember the small boats
that bobbed out as the waves rode in, and the men
who carved a living from it only to find themselves
carved down to nothing. Now you say this is home,
so go ahead, worship the mountains as they dissolve in dust,
wait on the wind, catch a scent of salt, call it our life.
Philip Levine
from Meags, who I do love so very much, and who I wish I was having adventures with, constantly.
The Big Dig
What is the Rockaway Beach Big Dig, you ask? Well, to put it simply, every summer the men who were once boys who once rode beach cruisers with no hands (a slice in one hand and an orange soda in the other, of course) walk the beach blocks from their homes carrying gloves and shovels to band together with might and brawn and… dig a big hole. It starts simply enough, a few shovelfuls, maybe enough depth to bury someone… but by mid-day, fueled by many shave ices and the salty, sandy toil of men, women, and children, the hole is higher than a man’s head, with steps and shelves and maybe a WBFP. It’s such a simple set of pleasures, old friends come from far distances, mothers prepare the same foods they prepared last year (and every year before that), and from the absence that is the hole, the presence of something pretty American takes shape. Something majestically futile, perhaps, or something joyous simply for the sake of joy. Of course, at the end of the day, we fill it back in.
Feather By Feather 