An alluring modernist

I stared at these for five minutes when I found them. There is something a little magical, over-the-top, and alluring about them. No wonder they are Italian. Here.

Southern House of Dreams

Funny the way home listings begin a dream process long before you ever come to
know a home in person.



Odd the way they please and let you down when you do finally put two feet inside the front door.

I am full of hope this one will not be one of those heartbreaking letdowns, but mindful that I can be hard to please. We are traveling back to Charleston this weekend to see this grand old girl. Keep your fingers crossed.

As a reminder, you can see homes like this and experience other wonderful southern things in Garden & Gun magazine (not having anything to do with guns at all) which is the giveaway this month. Enter here.

The second time around

I share Ina Garten's feeling on "tablescapes." They are not something in which I generally engage. There are many reasons. Foremost, they can create excessively cluttered tables, disorganized, over-stuffed pantry's, and they can take away from the best decor on any table: The flowers and china. That said, when my oldest Daughter turned two last week, I set a more cluttered table. I will share only a couple of these photos which were sadly taken indoors because it was sweltering 100 degrees that evening. Everything is melamine and unbreakable for the little hands of my M&M addict. I am disappointed that I overlooked taking pictures of both her balloons and cake (though my family has them - back in New York, now). I scattered her new toys and books throughout the dining room for a one-child scavenger hunt and small favorites of hers here and there: Bubbles, flowers, trains, seashells. It was a lovely evening, if a little bit misty for Mama.



Her alternating-pattern monogrammed plates are by Fontaine Maury for Mrs. Monogram, Bedford, New York.



This was her menu:

Cocktails/ Apple Juice
Safe Harbor Seafood (local) Shrimp dip (a household addiction)and Crackers

Surf and Turf:
Grilled Shrimp in Ancho Chile and Lime Rub
Filet Mignon with Bordelaise Sauce
Cuke and Heirloom Tomato Salad
Basil and Garlic Bread

Chocolate Cake with Swoopy Chocolate Frosting
Coffee

I believe in taking it easy, three dishes are enough. Otherwise no one will even remember the hostess was at a party.

*Do not forget to enter the Garden & Gun giveaway at Blushing Hostess Entertains or the Old Bay giveaway here at Blushing Hostess Cooks. Both are worth a second to leave your name.

Orrefors at Rue La La

And, on the butler's pantry front, the Orrefors private sale has opened at Rue La La, close to my heart, as Orrefors is the stemware choice of my Grace Kelly-esque oldest friend. Good shopping.

Beautifully shod hostess: Sigerson Morrison at Rue La La

The Sigerson Morrison private sale at Rue La La has opened, follow this link for shoes rising to art.

Outdoor aside: Tropical ground cover

One of the most tiresome landscape issues in the tropics is what very few landscape plant options one has in drought areas. It is always good, then, to see a bit of creativity exercised toward a clean, unexpected, but wholly practical treatment. I walked past this border along side a driveway on the beach road yesterday and I thought it was a great tropical-shade idea, river stones and dwarf grass over tiny pebbles and ground shell. Pretty.



And a reminder: Do not forget to enter the Garden & Gun giveaway at Blushing Hostess Entertains or the Old Bay giveaway at Blushing Hostess Cooks. Both are worth a second to leave your name.

Grace notes: Right neighborly

Every lifetime surely gets a mixed bag of neighbors. As you know, I have been largely spoiled with some of the best a person could hope for, the kind of fine people next door to whom the term "neighbor" means both proximity and commitment.

At the same time, I have talked to you about the tug of war in my head as we attempt to pin down a southern home. My first choice is the Carolina's. I will not get into the reasons because my bias would be too obvious, but secondarily we consider a few other spots as listings appear: Eastern North Carolina, Augusta, Georgia, Ponte Vedra, Florida, and so on. I have moments when I tell myself lies for weeks and convince myself I would be happy on .10 acre in an HOA sub-division which regulates the size of my dog, color of my roof, and how often my lawn gets cut (welcome to modern-day repressive Levittown, ya'll!). Then something will happen: The evening news van will pull up in front of the house to ask if I have any comments on the teacher down the way who was accused of molesting a student. Or more lightly but still irritating: The never-ending dog travails or those who live in close quarters.

Just fyi, those of you with personal freedoms in your homes: Move to an HOA in Florida and that canine better be 50 pounds or less and not deemed an "aggressive breed" or any mix thereof otherwise you cannot live there nor will you be able to get home owner's insurance (still, somehow, legal in Florida. But you can carry as big a gun as you can heft.). Once you have managed those hurdles, you will need to keep your dog on a leash.

On my way home this morning, a tiny Yorkie (dressed similar to the one above in 95 degree heat and looking just as pleased) was loose and headed down the road into the wheel of the car. I stopped, picked her up, cooed at her, ascertained the owner, returned her safely, and introduced myself, "Yes... New York... rarely here, but nice to meet you... well, here she is..." and went on my way, up the drive and into the house.

Fifteen minutes later, the bell rang and it was the loose-dog neighbor. "Did you see my dog leash and harness (really a jacket)? It was right there where you returned the dog?" And he pointed to the street at the end of my drive. I hadn't and frankly, the common rooms of my home are at the rear so I do not see what goes on in the street and I am busy these days.

"Sorry, no. But let me help you look." I said, tripping over a stack of new phone books/ tree abuse on my walkway as I moved to the street and motioned for both my Corgi and Daughter to stay up at the house.

We went on this way for a few minutes. Me, trying to help him while not getting to far from the house where my new baby is sick and trying to keep a busy two year old at bay, and he - I think - accusing me of stealing the Yorkie's harness thing. Although quite obviously, someone had just been in all of the yards delivering phone books. Have I mentioned I am not a small dog person? No, more like an Akita and 50-pound Corgi person. Both have the strength of five men. What on earth would I want a Yorkie's harness for? I mean, do not even get me started.

Anyway, I would love to do more for you today but I am very tied up with my two tiny children, my two big dogs, and the oncoming hours of MLS searches which will now revise to, "Greek revival, 10 acres +, rural southern country home." Pass the bourbon, Neighbors.



Photos: Ralph Lauren Pups

Lastly, some housekeeping: Do not forget to enter the Garden & Gun giveaway at Blushing Hostess Entertains or the Old Bay giveaway here at Blushing Hostess Cooks. Both are worth a second to leave your name.

Reader giveaway: Garden and Gun

Some bloggers know exactly how long they have been at this game. To the day. Right down to the last adjective. Me? I barely know my own name as I wipe high-grade allergy formula from my formerly pretty t-shirt marveling at how much dry cleaning one tiny little gas bag can manufacture. Ah, our precious girl, Skipper, how tired I am... but I digress. Since I have no idea how long you and I have been together and can only be thankful that we still are, I should give you something. I should make you happy - ier.

So, let me, won't you? We'll call it the anniversary of yesterday. How's this? Subscriptions for two readers to perhaps the most thoughtful magazine on the planet these days, Garden and Gun?

Leave me a comment and I will let you know who gets the goods say, on or about July 15th. One entry for a comment, two if you post this giveaway to your own blog and leave me your link below. Three if you can can do so and guess my shoe size.

* And do not forget to head over to Blushing Hostess Cooks to enter the Old Bay giveaway too.

Girls in Trucks

This girl, this Katie Crouch, she wrote a book about young debutantes in South Carolina; one in particular who has a taste for cigarettes, bourbon, cruel men, and New York City. Her sex life is a travesty and her future non-existent. At the very least, she had Cotillion Training School where she made a handful of reliable though thin, Charleston friendships. If it sounds as though she is telling stories about an age long gone by, thing again, cotillion training is very much alive (as mercifully, are the shag and the rumba).

Katie Crouch is blushingly talented and a true native. But, as much as I wanted her to make John's Island come alive in my mind's eye, I am not willing to be depressed as a trade off - I have no taste for accepting universally ugly truths, if indeed this book is one. The girls in the white dresses in Charleston, well, they turned out to be messes according to this book. I know a few, and I believe them to be in far better shape than these girls. Structure does not always result in rebellion, rebellion does not always result in failure, and failure does not always court those in trailer parks: Check. Got it. It is an old message and maybe not the most scintillating.

So... you were raised in a box and the walls were forged of manners, dancing, grace, and friendship. Oh, does it ever piss me off when rebellion is so very obvious a response. I want to nudge the character: Hey, you are okay. This failure and rebellion thing is such a bore though, can we move on? Tell me about the boys on John's Island. I want to know all the Ravanel secrets, man, that family is diverse and eccentric - huh?

It is a story, an okay one written magnificently. But I wanted more of those summer nights, more of the steps at society hall, more of that ball. Less, drugs, cigarettes, and booze because we all know about those things.

Charleston is one of those beautiful, eccentric, mysterious cities. Conversations about the town and the locals will cause people far and wide to stop all other chatter and listen carefully. Perhaps not realizing that Charlestonians are a fiercely protective bunch and they would never spill the recipe for the chicken salad (I am talking to you, Miss Jane) or explain to you how it was Danny left town for a few years and only came back to hand his Daddy his gun.

Katie Crouch, tell me another story, this time, about Charleston and I promise you, it will be on the guest room night stand for all time.

On the memo tablet: Order peonies

Various nurseries send me tickler emails and the result is either that I am annoyed I am not in New York to plant or that it is close to useless to plant anything but jasmine and gardenia in this part of Florida. Doesn't matter this year, does it? As I mentioned, in October Josh is headed to the Pentagon and I will have time to ground the peonies there that I so adore and discussed with you here, and see them bloom before we move on once again.

And so it is that time, for ordering peonies. I can remember my Aunt seated at the kitchen table with the garden catalogs each fall, and her beer. Dichotomy, like I said.

Here are my notes on what I am considering this year, and here is where you can find them. At the moment, all orders over $50 get $25 off . Keep in mind, however, that you are getting on line, the bulbs ship in the fall, and because they are guaranteed; no sooner than you should expect to plant them for optimal results.

La Tendresse

< The Kansas Peony

<
The Taki Peony

Lanvin giveaway

Maybe you would not wear one, though I cannot arrive at a reason you would not but even so, who would not want a Lanvin handbag for a gift?

At ideeli, enter/ pre-register here.

Bridge of broken dreams

Wisteria fears in Britain as reported by the Telegraph here remind me I have been meaning to research these cultivars because of a photo spread in Veranda from the August, 2008 issue, of Monet's Garden at Giverny, with particular focus on the Japanese bridge in wild bloom with lavender-hued pendant wisteria. What I have done with the issue in which it was featured is a great and controversial discussion in my addled mind but I must move on it nonetheless as this bug has me concerned. So, for your pleasure the bridge, another photo, also very nice:

It is perhaps the most famous wisteria-cloaked structure in the world (information on Claude Monet's work is indexed here), easily recognizable to anyone who has ever been in a cheesy poster shop or survived cursory art history work in high school. It captured my attention long ago and I have a small print of one of Monet's bridge works near my bed. I hesitate to tell you this because in design circles, these prints are perhaps the most over played record in the juke but, I love it, and I do not care who finds it tiresome. Now and then I contrive hazy plans to achieve a wisteria-covered arch not unlike this one.

I take issue with those yawn-inducing museum-standard issue benches, however. My intention is to spend time under the vines; sometimes with others but largely alone. Having others around would interrupt my work counting and tracing vines and excising my inner sheba. The benches lack an eye toward perfection and balance. And concrete is not the most welcoming lounge chair. On the whole, this is still no place I would linger with my champagne just a-tracing old world flower vines. It can be improved. That notion is in my head also as I drive myself into neurotic hypertension determining just which old deteriorating Southern home is best for us.

So this work, it is rather hard. And could take all day. I would lay in a gauzy dress under that canopy of resplendent magnificents whiling away steamy summer afternoons with a glass of brut intending to read but never really being able to tear my thoughts from following each vines' path across the pergola. Even in lives of great purpose this pursuit is no less important than many of others referred to as "downtime" and "relaxation" occupations (the concept of both being abhorrent and possibly the worst prescriptions for human kind, which I am certain thrives on work). And this work is certainly worth a perfected environment or it could become pure wisteria-scented drudgery.

Sound like madness? All this talk of cat-like laying about, champagne drinking (not sipping, never sipping), and tracing? Sure, it is madness, just like laying in the vast fields of my native home counting stars on a warm summer evening. Mad, if you are person who never stopped and took a good look around nor focused to hard on aesthetic tributes to beauty. I cannot imagine that world, but I knew it once. And if Monet knew it, he did his best to avoid it. That is, in fact, my grander scheme: More meetings of the Tuesday Afternoon Julep Society and assessment of long hot southern days and the flora which accompanies them fewer days spent discussing traffic conditions which only interests be in the sense that it keeps me from grander, purer pursuits such as this wisteria thing.

Because these are my plans, I would like whatever plague has begun to strip Britain of magnificent wisteria to stay clear of my dreams and Monet's garden because I am still quite young and I have arches yet to conceive and gardens yet to visit, but in the meantime these are places from which to begin:

They will last approximately, forever, knocking over structures and overpowering villages and villagers if not properly cut back and pruned. Failing to do so will both wipe out large villas and cause bloom failure so one needs to pay careful attention to how to tame these luxuriant dense vines. After 400 years, I will likely be gone (or so my doctor insists I accept) but my wisteria will march on in moonlight and look, give or take, like this precious hand-me-down of a plant in Italy.

A wisteria is a hearty beast needing little water or fertilizer, basking in strong warming sun, and quickly making kindling of most flimsy pergolas and arches. When I build my arch, it will be construction grade and anchored in concrete or stone. Like so:

I will place where it will have both space and longevity: It will be no easy task for future generations to remove the plant were tastes to shift to other, less glorious, pergola guardians. When they note that she is an overpowering glory-hound and their inability to control or direct her, they make look skyward. I will smile upon them. Granny loves you, Chickens.

Hoping for the best for this blight in the UK as it is only ever moments before a fixed wing aircraft drops it to our soil. More information for those wishing to sip leisurely glasses of champagne from under vast canopies of perfumed floral pendants can find a bit of guidance here and here.

Sferra at Rue La La

The Sferra Fine Linens sale has opened at Rue La La with deep, frankly, extraordinary markdowns for this mighty level of luxe product. Register for this private shopping service here.

Product spotlight: Loto Acrylics

I got a little bit stuck on these gorgeous things this morning: The Diamond Loto acrylic trays, outdoor-serveware fabulousness.


Especially nice with these reuseable dish-washer safe resin plastic utensils.



With these.


And so on...







Here.

Pattern Spotlight: Blue Onion, Meissen

The Blue Onion pattern by Meissen (Dresden) turned 270 years old this year. Now, that is what it means to hand down a porcelain pattern.

Meissen is a curiosity: Beginning with the journey of the troubled first employee of Meissen, Johann Friedrich Böttger, who was jailed by Augustus the Strong, Elector of Saxony and King of Poland in current eastern Germany when his persistent attempts to turn lead into gold for the King failed repeatedly. His only remaining option was to find an alternate use for himself as a scientist in Augustus' court and finally he found success in making porcelain to rival the then prized Chinese porcelain. On his back the Royal Saxon Porcelain Manufactory in Meissen, Germany was founded. While he managed to perfect the hard clay kiln-fired process in 1708 (the first on the continent), Meissen was still years away from developing the hand painted patterns for which their tableware is known. Though, they were centuries ahead of their peers in other respects: Meissen dinnerware is, and by virtue of its 1450 degree firing, always has been, dishwasher safe.

Now to the historical pattern notes: You may be interested to know there is not one onion in the pattern, rather pomegranates and peaches modelled on an ancient Chinese pattern called "Three Blessed Fruits" which are pomegranate, peach, and lemon. In the Meissen pattern revision. the lemon and pomegranate were merged and were so often mistaken for onions, the name eventually stuck. Have a closer look.



Meissen now makes more than 750 different items in this pattern now nearly three centuries old. This will assure those buying or registering for the pattern now that there will be no shortage of replacements if a dinner plate breaks, and no shortage of gifts for those buying you pieces as gifts in future years.

Oscar de la Renta Custom Couture Giveaway

Nine days until ideeli gives away an Oscar custom couture piece. Enter here. Mrs. Blanding's, I think you know what I'm thinking.

For fathers and Brits

On Friday evening, Josh and I were lucky enough to have attended a cocktail party hosted by the officers of a British Naval vessel visiting this port. I was struck by the contrast evident with the officers with whom Josh serves and the British group. I dare say, and here is where it will be really great if Josh forgets to read a few posts; these British they are charming, social, (dare I say it?) fun, and not the least bit self-conscious regards their own social graces which are (and you could say I am a tough judge) notably perfect anyway.

For a sparkling moment here or there, I was reminded of my own Grandfather, Harold "Red" Turnbull; a master of our spoken language in a formal way with a far more broad vocabulary than I have found conversationally elsewhere, even in graduate school. He was a comfortable, warm person whose voice never belied a mite of nervousness in dealing with his fellow man. He was the kind of man you wanted to know: A gentleman, yes. A friend, always. But a Brit, you see, through and through and in my experience, different than the American assumptions of both those terms. He was, as they say, comfortable in his own skin in way many are not. Why? I only wish I knew. But I hung about with Grandpa, and visited the UK with him, and I can tell you assuredly, there were more like him there. I have found none like him here until this group.

With Grandpa, one had the sense everyone, including him, was absolutely certain he was okay, just pitched right with world. He always looked swell, and never thought very much about it because swell was his natural way. He smoked, he drank a little but not with any interest or real commitment. And he sang or hummed virtually constantly, he was a remarkable musician naturally, a gift my Mom surely inherited to have become an opera singer. I mean: He was a charming man. He smiled, even when he was burdened: He never laid it on your plate with even a shadow of a frown.

He was the sort unafraid to talk to a powerful person, a beautiful woman, or a scoundrel and he took the same, "Very pleased to meet you" tone with one and all. He had a British accent but beyond that, no affectation (which I have always thought was glaring terror rearing its head, anyhow). When you called Grandpa Turnbull and asked something of him, no effort would be spared to be at your side in a time of need. He was a good man. The kind who never would say he had something he had to do, wonder what was in it for him, or had to stop to change his clothes thinking maybe he could look better. He just came: With his broad, handsome smile, earnest handshake, old tweeds, and without judgment and he lent a hand to human beings equally: He and my Mother have always been known for this quality, this open kindness, humanitarianism, understanding, decency. Call it whatever you like: In most parts of the world, they just call them good.

I loved him. He was my best friend for all the years we both lived. When he was leaving us, I flew home from Charleston. It was a cold spring day and his exit took grace, elegance, and shimmer from my days in ways I still uncover and which cause my heart to stall in a bit of agony with no less fierceness or regularity in all the years transpired since that gray March day. I would go back if I could. Yes. I would leave all of this here, knowing perfectly well you will tell me I am a poor Wife and Mother for saying so. But I would, though I will know you are right for admonishing me regards this fairy tale nonsense. But you see, as my own children arrive, I very much need him. I am lesser without him. For them. And indeed for you. Selfish, only in a distant way. I feel foolish for explaining this as one would very much have to have known him. But once they did, we would never quibble again over whether or not one of us should get to him, with a camera and notebook and not miss one syllable.

Yes. Your suspicions are correct. He was our king. We worshipped him. We ache still as if it were just this day we lost him at a young ninety-two. But you'd have done, you'd have done too, I promise you. I know you a little, and the reasons you come here each day. That is all about him.

This past Friday, I had a conversation with a British officer hailing from not far away from where Harold Turnbull began his life in Hartlepool, England and I caught mesmerizing glimpses of him in the accent, the easy certain elegance, and the even handedness of a British officer we are now lucky to know. How I miss our man and the sound of his voice. But how lucky I was to get to speak with Dave. I thought it such a gift to meet him, especially on this Father's Day weekend.

Rather ghostly coincidence, is it not?

An elegant, shimmering, good Father's Day for you all.

Comments and Reader: The life blood of a blog

I have a couple of emails here from readers mentioning they do not know how to leave comments. As you know, I am always pleased to read your thoughts and lucky that blog pal Valerie at *Visual Vamp* has already generously discussed this topic here.

Secondly, you may not yet be aware of, or yet be comfortable using, the Google Reader function. There is a video tutorial here, and your initial set up will take you all twelve seconds once you begin a Google account. Reader will allow you to follow blogs as a subscriber by a feeder and will condense all the blog updates into one page for your easy perusal. I encourage you to use it as you would a table of contents to your favorite magazine or newspaper. If you wonder how the blog community manages to read and track one another seemingly up-to-the-minute, Google Reader is the tool of the trade: Leave it open in a tab on your browser (Explorer, Firefox, what have you) and it will update all the posts from your subscriptions immediately.

Looking forward to hearing from you.

Pandora's cake box

Tomorrow is my oldest Daughter's second birthday. Like every child she was such a gift, arriving just after the end of a deployment to her first summer season, she was a joy through all the exhausted days we squeaked out on our own while Josh was living in Texas. I cling to those times when the two-year-old version of her occasionally rains down tempestuous discontent on our family. This will only be a moment, a golden-curled flash in time. Before you know, we'll be holding her mortar board and cheering. We know that, too.

My family is here to celebrate her, this first child and Grandchild, and as I contemplated their visit it seemed one should order a cake. Perhaps on the same day, I was thumbing through a copy of Edna Lewis' Taste of Southern Cooking and the forward by Alice Waters, another legendary revolutionary, noted of Ms. Lewis, "For her, always, pleasure flowed unstoppably out of doing. She saw clearly that a store-bought cake never brought any satisfaction..." Right on. She knew everything about tables that truly matters in the end: Did you put yourself into it?

I struggle in life, even when it comes to the most simple of gestures for my child, not to produce something perfect. But that is not the essence of the thing, is it? She is two. She does not care that the icing is uneven. But she will come to care that I did this for her rather than farmed it out to a stranger, I bet. Both my Mother-in-Law and I made cakes for her first birthday and we were on the right path, I conclude.

Maybe it seems like a small thing? Just order a cake. What difference does it make, perhaps?

I know this: My Grandmother made my first cake, a 1-2-3 with white icing and a pansy on top. She made other cakes too. Some went to her son in Vietnam. Pieces of her love went to war with her son and celebrated birthdays at home on rainy days. Besides the crumb, they had in common that it meant something to him to get those cakes the mail, much the way it does to me to see the photo of that first cake at my Mom's: It means someone loved me enough to put all that time and effort into a thing. I cannot tell you how lucky I am: I had a Mom and Grandmother who baked for me.

This cake will be perfectly hers. And should she ever face a war of any kind, I will send her this cake and she will know we are there: The might of generations who pack things into cakes made with our own hands that help her to face whatever may come. I believe this gesture will reach her soul, hold her, and sustain her when I cannot be there. I know, because someone did this for me. And I know, because I made my Dad's cakes before he went and died on me; because I loved him. He was a golden with real lemon filling and swoopy chocolate frosting. I miss that cake come February.

My two little girls, whatever else we are as a family, know this: We are a people who make birthday cakes from scratch. Your Mom is a hardened corporate infighter and black-sheathed fashionista with a mountain of revenue generation behind her who is always in a great pair of heels: But she also makes your cakes. Dichotomy exists in every person.

In some ways, whether or not you make the cake is all I need to know about a person.

Perfume from the faucet

" A woman who doesn't wear perfume has no future."
- Coco Chanel

Recently, I was reading this post over at An Aesthete's Lament on the home of William and Isabell Clow. It took me a moment to picture and recover from the idea of having faucets in my home which run with perfume. Multiple faucets. Good thing, I thought, how could I be expected to commit to one on behalf of myself and my house guests?

When I think about committing to a fragrance, I know the risk I would over-do or be too wishy-washy or sentimental to pick only a few, or the best, is sky high. But that post caused me to run though a few in my mind. And already, look how muddled things become:

Pomegrante Noir, Jo Malone. Heavy, dark, makes my nose wiggle a touch. One of my favorite fragrances in the world. Before it was released, I was privy to an advanced sample and knocked on doors over at Saks Boston until they would get a waiting list going. The day it became available, I went to work late. That's the fashion game for you, Folks.

By the same token, her Lime Basil Mandarin and Black Vervyter could be in the mix too.

Definitely, Fleur de Laine, by L'Artesian, this fragrance is a world-rocker but not for everyone. It is the kind of thing worn by adventurous women about to set sail on an expedition. Or Katharine Hepburn in African Queen.



Certainly, L'eau D'Issey by Issey Miyake, would be a consideration as I believe it hits every light, enchanting scent one fragrance could while never becoming cloying or overbearing.



What if someone comes over? The kind of swank, sophisticated girl who has never waited for anyone or been on time in her life because her plane is forever delayed from mysterious places never mentioned by name and seems always to need a stiff drink and dark glasses? The sort where her drama is always on her sleeve but never has a face or a name. She'd wear this, and I would want her to get some rest and feel, if only for a moment, that she was comfortable before she was wheels-up again. Iris Nobile, Acqua di Parma.




When I feel dark, I wear Cannibis Rose, by Fresh. But not always...



Sometimes I feel rigorously dark and twisted. Then this the first bottle I grab: Love in Black, Creed. According to Creed's website Jackie Kennedy's black eyes inspired this fragrance. I would have to agree it is haunting,

Incidentally, when I feel that dark, this is the second bottle I grab.

I did hard time on the corporate account deep in ugly parts of Mexico. This won't make you smell nice just fyi, but I know a lot of people who would not be upset if it ran from faucets.

Joy, Jean Patou, will always remind me of the time I spent in Paris while in college, and L'Air d' Temps of my Mom returning home from Paris when I was sixteen. In this same way Tresor will always remind me of Key West and those fishing trips with Liz. I still do not have the faintest idea how to fish and that is the reason I smile whenever that scent gallops by.





Shalimar will always always remind me of my Godmother, Margaret. And Auperge of my Grandmother.

There remains the men's fragrances too, an equally important part of these imaginary faucets; it was the subject of this recent post at The Trad blog, which also contributed to bringing this subject to mind. At a sensory level, that is too much for me at this hour and it is probably best left to the boys to debate.

But still, the fragrance I would most long for, in my life of long haul flights to everywhere, relationships forged in airport lounges, and complete geographic upheaval every two years, is the one I have yet to find: Have they bottled the fragrance of lying on the freshly cut ninth at Bedford Golf and Tennis with your closest pals, just after a light June rain, when the lushness of New York in early summer is still a possibility and not even a fact? Before school lets out for good but after the katydids come back? When we crack up over another secondhand water-fowl story and the faint, but forever sophisticated breeze of roses mixed with patchouli, my best friend's scent, washes past us? And in that bottle is there the rear notes of heady peony and pipe smoke? Because those things were familiar and beloved too? Can you bottle those idyllic evenings in a small perfect suburban enclave from before we knew the realities of these grown up days and get them to me? If you can, I will put in a faucet...

What will you put in your fragrance faucets?