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?

Make no assumptions

You may be assuming we are at the place in this next photo? The Breakers, in Palm Beach? But we are not.



No, indeed. We are at Hotel de Nacional, Havana, Cuba. Once it was said to have rivaled places like The Breakers at roughly the same time when Havana was so worldly and cultured a city that it was frequently compared to Paris and New York. Oh yes, it had those days. And the Nacional: It was an alternately art-deco moorish marvel built in pre-revolution Cuba of 1930 and temporary quarters to all manner of luminary. Since then, luxury as we know it left Cuba on a raft.

The Breakers went on to be a lovely hostess. Hotel Nacional went on to become a poorly renovated and cared for conference center, at best. I find it surreal that they can be confused for one another as it seems they could not be more different. The Breakers is big league luxe, a veritable shrine to the trappings of unbridled and unregulated capitalism. The Nacionale, a sad historic hand-me-down from a grand and more flush era of freedom. The pictures are staggeringly disconcerting, but give me a second on that...

The Nacional is not the only thing in Cuba which needs saving; it is probably the least of it. But over the years it has been something of a landmark in my soul: A place the heart knows only from a distance but longs to meet and in that way is not unlike other impossibilities like Jackie O and Ernest Hemingway. They are gone. They cannot shake hands with my wonderment, but that does not stop me from wishing I could know the sound of their voice or to see them in person.

On a more tangible plane, our dollars could do a lot of good there. Since some will spend their money off shore rather than on even in times like this, for a multitude of reasons, many of them humane, it would be wonderful that some reach the people (that part is key) of this island nation. I can only hope it is finally freed and reopened as, in the years I went easily around the world, unlike my colleagues, I declined to enter Cuba through Canada. Though I desperately wanted to, curiosity is no reason to break the law. I remain hopeful that I will see it wholly legally and with its freedoms returned in my lifetime. But I will wait a bit if the gates open, I am hoping some part of its glory days return.

Because you see, this is not Cuba's historic hotel the way I want to see her:

The New York Times Magazine explained modern Havana thoroughly, and photos of this now- defunct historic landmark are as much of a comparison as I can stand to note here but I hope you will read their piece as it is relevent to our times as we consider what doors to open with Castro's Cuba. The agony and pronounced differences between the western world and Cuba (not unlike much of the real Caribbean) are stark and quite frankly, wholly unimaginable on the north side of Key West. Unmistakeable and a little heart-breaking.

I hope you will take the photo tour of both the Nacional and the Breakers above and wonder, as I do, what might have been for Havana, for Cuba, and for the humanity there if only everything had been different.

“If it is true that every Cuban knows how to read and write, it is likewise true that every Cuban has nothing to read and must be very cautious about what he writes”
-Jacobo Timmerman

Pattern Spotlight: Puebla

The Hostess is a shameless lover of Spanish and Mexican pottery when it comes to collecting. Not so much when it comes to displaying it. Tell you the truth: Pottery was a four letter word in our home growing up and I have not overcome. I bring the pieces out for outdoor dinners and parties but otherwise I still feel some trepidation: An Aesthete's Lament has only recently convinced me not to be self-conscious about slip covers, we are a long way from pottery on the mantle! Nonetheless, this pattern, Puebla by Pottery Barn, is pretty for summer and I love it against that bowl of purples and fuchsias behind.

Up, up, and away

A suggestion for brides planning weddings in the Southeast during hurricane season:
Be sure you have a contingency plan.

We came upon this scene while walking on the beach the other night. Vows were said in a mad dash and everyone rushed away. This couple was lucky, but this scenario is too much of a dice-roll for me and to have to move indoors would be disappointing and nerve-wracking down to the wire. Just something to consider; from my observations to your wedding planners, I hope.

Love: Not war

Dragging before you now photo exhibit #1 (below), which I am also submitting to you now as prosecutory evidence of a long fought underground war to destroy the planet with bad taste and plastics sprinkled in landfills. As you can tell, I have adjudicated the stylists' case in my head already. I found he or she quite guilty of crimes against my progeny. So, what I tell you now is only instructive and prescriptive. Call it lessons in love and war: You can love barbecue without causing same to wage war on terra fira. And you can face the host-dawn: Food purveyors large and small are a huge source of landfill abuse. Oh, if I could get a hold of this stylists ear.

Behold.

There I was, just now, my afternoon was rolling along: Offspring-related tasks. Kitchen conquests. Refinishing a bookcase for the Washington nursery, drinking cold, old coffee from a pleasant-enough cup to make the experience passable, stumbling upon an article entitled, "How I Learned to Appreciate Cat Naps," and snickering to to myself as I hit the "Next!" button and chugged the rest of my (seriously inadvisable) caffeine requirement. That key stroke yielded the photo now in evidence.

At first, I thought; Fun! I love to be outdoors. Then I thought, it's cute, kids would love it and who cares if they wreck the joint, everything is impervious. But then, screeching tires, black smoke, music hits an off key and the sound of instruments falling to the cement could be heard; Whaaaaaat is that? I tell you, Amy Vanderbilt had no idea what truly makes a modern Hostess incredulous. Consider it a puzzle: Can you find all the visual assaults and environmental weapons in this photo?

In case you were not able to discern it in the first shot, there is also a close up of the offending scenario (exhibit #2):



The tabletop includes the stylists' suggestion that you color coordinate tonalities in your ironed napkins and then set them out with your plastic utensils and squeeze bottles. But, for those us who are not landfill-builders in our spare time and look to set a visually pleasing outdoor grill buffet without bottles, we could think creatively regarding the setting and squeezing. And please do not get me started on those utensils. I die. And not in a nice way. Look, a barbecue does not equal an invitation to wage open war on taste and the planet.

Those squeeze bottles, they need to be remedied. What about these?


Olive oil bottle, here.


Bee hive cruet, same as above.


A good option if you do not want glass outdoors. Here.

And the labels, there are so many pretty options if you feel you need them, though in my experience people recognize condiments in the same way they know green means go and red means stop. But, these people have about 100 options which wash off in the dishwasher for the next party, here are a couple of examples:


Place all the bottles in a clean beverage bin, copper bucket, or planter near the center of the table and if there are children around, this will keep the glass bottles corralled and out of their hands.

Now a word, or fifty, on grilled food garnishes: Below is a great option, normally used on the bar to keep the garnishes cold but use it for burger or grilled taco toppings instead:


Sur La Table

I did not select a condiment tray as I would indoors as it is not covered and cannot keep anything that needs it, like mayonnaise, cold. The drawback is that is not visually appealing. But you could drop it into a long, sided bread basket or a long (clean) planter. Like so.


Here.

Yes. A planter. I have one plenty wide enough and incidentally, it came as the base to a fruit and cheese basket from a vendor one Christmas, very useful. Mine is faux pewter or some other mutt but very pretty. Anything with the correct dimensions would be fine:



A little ingenuity is all it takes. Here is the condiment bar for your block party. Maybe you have been looking for other uses for Granny's planter? Be sure it is immaculately clean.



A little rustling around in the basement would no doubt yield any number of other, creative options to plastics that are visually more appealing and/or not environmental offenders, as would a restaurant supply store. I mean, get completely outside the box and help me save the planet, okay? I am only one Hostess.

Booze Bag

Tweety thought I was going to do a post on her, I bet. No, just pointing out this pretty wrapper which could wisely be used to bring this to the Hostess. Here.

Pattern Spotlight: Medard de Noblat Fidji

Yah. I know. The picture is maddening. I have only been able to locate this here in the U.S.; even my French source does not stock it. But it is tropically beautiful. A lei on a plate, really. It brought to mind this house below which I walk past each morning and their gazebo by the sea. Lovely place for it here in the tropics... Yes, that is the garden gate. Both plate and location are magnificent in my book and if I could afford to buy (and store) another set I would find a world of excuses as to why I need hot tropical notes on fine French porcelain...

Pattern Spotlight: Persimmon

If it's hot where you are, here is your plate. Unbelievable glaze. Persimmon. Here.

Pucci Dessert Bar

Yes. You read that correctly. From the ski slopes to the petit fours. One of the most talented event planners in the nation, Amy Atlas, put this together and for a little light-hearted celebration, it is adorable and inspired. Let's say, you wanted to host a killer pretty fete, Amy should be your first call, the folks at Celebrate Flowers, the second, if she is not available.

Wishing you great summer parties!

Chick magnet

The Hostess has an aversion to clutter of any kind starting with refrigerator magnets and the stuff under them. But with two small children around the place now thank goodness for Paper Source's contribution to the genre.

Greetings, always followed quickly, by goodbyes

Last night, my Husband and two colleagues hosted cocktails for the officers on their ship to celebrate their recent promotions. They held it below, under the curved arches on the right side of the veranda.



Since the children and I are largely in New York while Josh is deployed or in Jacksonville, I rarely get to meet the people with whom he serves. As you know, we are coming up on the end of his stay here and last night made me wish there had been more time with these good and dedicated people. That is the nature of deployments and station changes, everyone seems to be on the way to another place. Maybe you have experienced this same sensation in your own circumstances: This hope that you will indeed speak to these people again and have the opportunity to know and consider their perspectives and fascinating experiences. My own career path around the world left me with much the same feeling for those I met professionally in jobs from which I moved on.

I am heartened though by two things. Firstly, a friend whom I truly respect will accompany her husband here this week where he will take command of a ship. In military circles, this is a very important milestone. BH bids the Commander good luck and God speed. It is lovely to know people whom you genuinely liked may return to someday, no?

Secondly, I was struck by the wealth and breath of charm, culture, and intellect at
last night's gathering. So much so, that I want to report to you from the front line of military familyhood, that I believe we are in good, decent, thoughtful, and capable hands which have known remarkable sacrifice and shouldered it unfailingly on our collective behalf. There were so many memorable people navigating about the place last night, I was lucky to be there too.

I want to thank them for defending a nation in an attentive and cerebral fashion: Contemplative, exacting, and determined. I like to think Hero Crushes Frank X. Castellano and Richard Phillips, and all my readers, would be proud.

Lastly, though, have you noticed how very few people read web blogs still? Quite remarkable since there is so very much more we could learn from one another in this new world.

The Receiving Line

Receiving lines are intended to be the greeting of the guests by the hostess and guests of honor at an event. We see them most often at weddings these days where one can wait more than an hour not to be greeted by more than half the receivers because they do not know them personally and do not know how to manage the guests through the line.

The Hostess has been all for being rid of the receiving line, ever since, as a young guest at the Black and Gold at West Point, she stood in a receiving line of decorated military dignitaries for one and half hours in three inch heels. At least they knew the etiquette which is nothing short of a miracle in these times.

If you are considering a receiving line, there are a couple of things I want you to know:

It is your wedding, greet me casually if you like. A simple smile and nod and coming down the isle in between photos is enough. There is just no reason we need to stand in 100 degree heat for an hour to exchange the kiss of peace.

Secondly, a receiving line takes an awfully long time to complete so you will need to plan for it: 45 minutes for every 200 guests, that is if you are moving with infantry-like swiftness and your receivers know the drill well, no pun intended. The Hostess has been a victim of the 400 person line and is glad she lived to relate these tales to you.

Finally, best to have a drink or cocktail and a canape service if you plan to keep anyone lingering for an hour. At one memorable wedding, the Hostess nearly passed out in a sweltering Methodist camp in Oregon from a lack of hydration and the exhaustion from the around-the-world in a day journey to Corvalis. Be thoughtful, about the standing around and the air conditioning.

The drill then, is as follows:

No guest should be cold-shouldered or ignored because your Dad does not recognize him. The etiquette is that the hostess or host at a wedding, generally the Mother of the Bride, is the first in the receiving line. She greets the guests, being sure she has their name correct, turns to the receiver on her right and introduces the guest to the next person on the line by their complete name and affiliation. Each consecutive person introduces the guest in kind to the person on their right. Now everyone knows everyone else.

Do not bother getting too stuck on formality at a wedding over what order you stand in on line as the idea is that the guest will see everyone by the time they get to the end. It is painful enough, no reason to be any more tiresome with formality. And there is also no reason to have the entire wedding party stand in line too.

Think it over. No one will miss it if you forgo the line; you must get to every reception table regardless. The Hostess' two cents worth is that weddings should be fun: Bird seed and champagne cocktails. Save the line and hand off's for your next state reception.

Morning cocktails in the Orangerie

Orangaries: Glassed rooms originally used by swells in Europe to cultivate citrusin the age when large panes of glass first became available, would make the perfect addition to any structure, in my estimation. Even a tree house. What a perfect place to mix a mimosa and read the New York Times on a Sunday morning or to host a lovely winter brunch. Weather and seasons will matter only to the view. You can commune with the garden regardless of nature when it is at its most fierce.

Breathtaking.







Parish Conservatories.

Keeping Mama out of southern prisons

There is just an outside chance I am going to become one of those well dressed mothers who never fits in and is greeted at church with taught, wincing, forced grins. The one who should never be a Sunday school teacher and does not lecture her girls on the length of their skirts but the designers history, talents, and seam construction while sitting on the Left Bank when it is clearly a school day at home in Westchester.

Why, I have a friend whose Mom reminds me a lot of someone I know: She jollily calls Boboli the, "Top your own dinner night!" as she wanders off to the bath, is still referred to angrily in her (adopted) Catholic parish (because by upbringing she is Episcopal), for putting her own, "happy twist," on catechism training, and once declared her supreme goal to be becoming the assistant to a motivational speaker. Because being a motivational speaker was, "too much responsibility."

So, we were out for "exercise" yesterday morning (or snooping around the neighbors at the beach). Anyway, funny the way gates and yards make little vignettes worth remembering. Funny that we noticed them while we were supposed to me at Mommy and Me... as if. This little class is something I like to call, "Mommy's Hedge Peeping Training." I will be sure they always know where we keep the bail money.

Disagreement and insults

When one is a celebrity, no time will be wasted by fashion media in commenting on your wears. Though, it is generally not some high-minded construction and balance kind of discussion and the review of Emma Watson's dress at Wednesday evening's Rodarte dinner hosted by Blushing fave Kate Bosworth (whose awesome Dad I worked for happily in apparel) at Harvey Nichols in London, is no exception. As soon as the paparazzi photos hit the internet, the Harry Potter actress was verbally assualted by even prison fashionistas. Unfair, I say.

It is important to consider that Rodarte is art, not just clothing. And like art, one does not relish every object in every museum. But hopefully one can see a masterpiece of seam construction and appreciate it for the 5000 needle turns it took to complete the garment. Or to realize that sometimes striking color off balance is as important as a pretty, but expected, juxtaposition.

Certainly, Kate's dress is neat, pretty, and complimentary. But Emma took a chance and while it may be no beauty queen of a garment, it is memorable for both what it is and what it is not. And the dinner was about the art of the Mullveany sisters who are the founders of Rodarte. It was not about throwing on something understated and munching chicken parm in a department store. Right?

Oh! right, the menu: Nettle soup. Sole. Strawberries three ways. Cucumber mint cocktails. Elderflower presse. Harvey Nichols pink champagne...

New York state of mind

My photos of the top of the hollow in our glorious horse country town of North Salem, New York taken of a warm May morning. You would never guess New York City is not far beyond, would you?

Pattern Spotlight: Charms by Monique Lhuillier

I want to revisit this post on Monique Lhuillier tabletop because this pattern, Charms, is sweet and original: The charm bracelet graces porcelain. For a light hearted table-setter, no doubt.

By request: Manners for Children

My children are very young, I have little experience in this field but I have a request for a children's etiquette text.

I can tell you that my oldest child, my two year old, says "please", "thank you," and "thanks." But more importantly, she says, "I love you too, Mama." And that's what really matters to me right now. We did not drill her on these first manners of hers, we all just try to respect one another and she acts in turn.

Down the road, I may need more help and by request I can tell you that I will consider these resources for manners; my first choice is not a book but rather the firm way on down south called Southern Protocol, which I wrote on previously. Secondly, the etiquette interactive seminars I mentioned previously, such as occur at the Don Cesar during family vaca's. Just a guess, but it is probably a lot more interesting to the child to be involved in activity-based learning with others their age...

Failing that, I could and in some cases, have, read the texts mentioned here.

When there is nothing left to buy

You will likely still be without one of these. A truffle serving tray with horn utensils. Here.

The Hostess goes to Washington

We have just received news regarding Josh's next post: He will be headed to Washington in the fall. I am thrilled. What an exciting time to serve in D.C., no? He is really looking forward to it, as am I.

Jim Thompson Magnifcat

The Jim Thompson Thai Silk Company has a brand new magnificent restaurant in Singapore. The Hostess has long carried the signature bags and cosmetic cases only available in the chicest venues in Asia, and now the expanding Thai and Sing empire is enchanting. Though, I will still forever be attached to the mini elephant silk prints...

Why are you still sitting there? Okay, at least go and see the photos.

Then buy the fabric and furniture

and live the dream.

Don't know who he is? Read about him in brief here.

Shoot up the flares, I'm lost again

Le sigh.

The Hostess is supposed to be over at Blushing Hostess giving the recipe for a Roasted Cippoline Rivera, a delish sauce to go with grilled summery meats and one thing led to another. I was over at Cote Sud ogling the Riviera maisons which are my destiny to occupy in my pre-planned stylish old-agedness, and then I landed in Monaco, again. It must be a predestiny of another sort: I should go there? Leave now don't pack, right? Oh, Dear. I promised myself I would not be one of those Mothers standing in front of the flight board with the children rubbing my chin and saying, "Hmmm. That sounds like fun and it leaves in..."





Photos: Hermitage Hotel, Principality of Monaco

Forty-footer

Amy Vanderbilt's fine text, The Amy Vanderbilt Complete Book of Etiquette, revised five times since her death is one of my most utilized texts; not only when I need advice but also when I need a good laugh.

Whenever I am congratulating myself for not having capitulated to paper napkins, and some terrifying bin in which they reside on the table permanently, not to mention paper plates, this book always has a way of reeling me in: It instructs and deconstructs the Hostess so that one never gets to comfortable: The book is always there, watching me, and all the while whispering, "There is still more to be done here." The thing has obsequious gaze.

This one phrase regarding dining tables in private homes in Letitia Baldridge's second revision always gets me: "Even the table has changed. Plastic mats and polyester no-iron mats are seen everywhere. If a young hostess today were to be shown a forty-foot long white damask banquet cloth, she would probably say incredulously, 'What's that?'"


I seriously laugh for a good five minutes every time I read that phrase in the chapter entitled, Household Management in a Serventless Society (aka, from the tone of the chapter: What's to Become of Us?!).

Where they so common, ever, that hostesses looked up from their inviting desks and made a note to do something about the cloth that is roughly three building stories long? And following a regular table seating expectation for a two sided dinner setting, would have comfortably seated fifty? You know, because so many people had dining rooms that big, tables that long, or ambitious plans to invite hordes to enjoy pistou and daube with them ever so regularly?

Roughly, the room would look like this:

This is the White House State Banquet Hall, ca. 1904, as expanded sixty percent to seat 100 persons for dining in a number of seating arrangements including two long tables.

Amy (RIP), Letitia: If one had the capacity, it is indeed unlikely they were going to take to the presses themselves to see to it the wrinkles were out of the cloth. And while the text is decidedly aspirational it was indeed intended, even originally, by purchase for the masses, causing the Hostess to believe we are not the first generation to have snickered at phrases such as these. Nonetheless, on countless other points the book is indispensable so I in no way wish to discredit.

Locally, there are any number of grand homes dating from the colonial period forward, (rebuilding largely begun just after the Revolutionary War, which saw the burning of Bedford by British troops, concluded). I dare say, then, and in every period since, in a community which could have managed, a dining room of this stature was rare. Furthermore, when the places did exist many were modified to reduce the dining spaces. Everyone knows and can imagine these sort of places, why, you can tour them: The Breakers, Rosecliff.

A privately held local example, Linden Farm, erected in 1928 and at nearly 14,000 square feet, has plenty of room for everything. You can have this estate and renovate to get the length of dining room, for $28 million. So the table cloth then, will not be a problem, right?


I like to think many hostesses of many era's including my own would see a damask forty-footer, know exactly what it was, and how to conquer it (by cutting it up for drapes a la Carol Burnette as Scarlett O'Hara). Come on. This is what you get when a White House social secretary revises an etiquette text. Honestly, the 50th Anniversary Edition, revised by Nancy Tuckerman, is a mite more effective and useful, possibly than Letitia's two revisions ever were.

Even then (the original text was completed in 1951, so let's assume for argument that Amy refers to the first half of the 20th century), I certainly believe people valued realism, and surely the book would have sold more copies if it had indeed addressed the lives of good, but not Astor-esque hostesses and household managers with something other than disdain.

No word of a lie, I just Googled this and the first forty eight entries referred to plastic banquet cloths or something that comes in a roll. Indeed it seems we have slipped at least on the fabric portion of the large tablecloth. Likely, you would need to commission a damask one now or live with that hideous polyester fabrication hotels use.

While the message is derived of a distaste for what these social hall monitors deemed a failure of our civilization's hostesses to maintain taste, care, and decorum, the message is none the less valuable: Old standards are good standards for entertaining, but they are harder, and in these times, probably as in all, the roads less taken.

Pattern Spotlight: Jardins de Florence, Philippe Deshoulieres

Garden inspired and modern without edginess. Jardins de Florence, Philippe Deshoulieres. Here.

This old thing?: Paris Trend, The Godesses

Once again and finally, the female form was treated as she always should be: Like a goddess.

I am grateful every time this fabric-devouring trend reappears: Curves deserve a lush, flowing sash or ten. The instinct to cloak in this fashion may be primal and anthropological but it is also accurate and alarmingly complementary to most body types.

The Hostess only wishes the palates were not so painfully subdued. In hard times, I always love a riot of vibrant color which nods to resilience rather than (what is this below, greige?) neutrals which whisper apologetically that you have a drop dead gorgeous dress.

Come on. As Marc Cohn noted, these girls should be burning in the bedroom in an evening gown. What is with the (what is that, taupe?) sobriety, here?

Ah! Thank goodness you're here, Cleopatra, the colored-down fear mongers almost got us again...

Photos in order of appearance from Sp'09: Versace. Ferragamo. Max Azria. Elie Saab. Andrew Gn.