tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38762816366576454442024-03-18T03:01:49.850-04:00The Blushing Hostess EntertainsNotes from the butler's pantry on inviting, throwing, setting, manners, and productsThe Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.comBlogger728125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876281636657645444.post-87494424381545543582019-09-13T11:19:00.003-04:002019-09-13T11:19:34.471-04:00Best plantations near Charleston, South Carolina to tour and visit<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://draytonhall.org/visit/" target="_blank">Charleston plantations tours - Drayton Hall</a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15pt;">Charleston’s plantations, located just outside the city of
Charleston, SC are the most important places to see when you visit, especially <a href="http://www.draytonhall.org/visit/" target="_blank">Drayton Hall</a>. <a href="http://www.draytonhall.org/visit/" target="_blank">Drayton Hall </a>is the oldest and most authentic plantation you can tour in
Charleston. The house, c. 1738 has not been restored and the museums are best
plantation museum visits in Charleston.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15pt;">Prior to the Civil War, plantations surrounded Charleston but many
were burned or critically damaged in the war. <a href="http://www.draytonhall.org/the-estate/" target="_blank">Drayton Hall</a> has survived both
the Revolutionary War and the Civil War and it is the only plantation tour in
Charleston to have survived both wars. <a href="http://www.draytonhall.org/the-estate/estate-map/" target="_blank">Drayton Hall</a> was occupied by warring
armies in both conflicts and the museum galleries at Drayton Hall detail both
the pre-Civil War and post-Civil War time periods and the role Drayton Hall
played in the history of Charleston. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15pt;">The post-Civil War economy in
Charleston caused many plantations to stop operations if the plantations has
survived. In the following years, many Charleston plantations were sold off for
acreage. The Drayton family considered selling the bricks of the house to
ensure the ownership of the land but phosphate was discovered on the former
plantation at <a href="http://www.draytonhall.org/" target="_blank">Drayton Hall</a>. The plantation property of Drayton Hall being
leased for phosphate (calcium for fertilizer) saved the house from being
dismantled. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15pt;"><a href="http://www.draytonhall.org/" target="_blank">Drayton Hall</a> is one of four plantations open to the public in
Charleston, it is the best plantation tour in Charleston. Magnolia and
Middleton Place’s plantation houses did not survive the Civil War. Boone Hall
was built much later – in the 20<sup>th</sup> century! Even McLeod Plantation
is more than 100 years younger than Drayton Hall. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15pt;">The plantation visit to <a href="http://www.draytonhall.org/" target="_blank">Drayton Hall</a> includes the house tour of
Drayton Hall, a grounds and galleries pass, two museum galleries and an
interactive presentation offered four times daily called Port to Plantation on
the enslaved persons at Drayton Hall and slavery in the Lowcountry and
Charleston on the whole. It is worth the investment, better than any other tour on offer in Charleston, to see all that Drayton Hall has to offer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15pt;"><a href="http://www.draytonhall.org/" target="_blank">Drayton Hall</a> also houses the only known slave brand in North
America dating to the 18th century. The brand can be viewed in the new Gates
Gallery at Drayton Hall plantation. Unlike other plantations and plantations
homes in Charleston which you can tour, only Drayton Hall has been preserved
and offers the most value as museums and tourist attractions go in Charleston.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15pt;">A visit to Drayton Hall will take three hours and is the most
important thing you will see and should visit and experience when you go to
Charleston, SC. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />The Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876281636657645444.post-90501003122522374132018-04-09T12:54:00.003-04:002018-04-09T12:55:00.706-04:00The Biscuit: A Comprehensive Guide to Biscuit Making (aka Why Aunt Madge's Biscuit Recipe Seems Incomplete)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There are, as Louis Osteen noted, some foods which will be there always; the food of your life, he called it. Here in Charleston, the buttermilk biscuit has been present and will be at every moment, every turn. It is with us at church coffees, funeral teas, holiday parties, and of course, mornings at home. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There is an old tradition as old as the biscuit itself, perhaps, that the cook or baker of any beloved thing will leave out an ingredient or a step. In that way, they will always be the keeper of the perfect biscuit, caramel cake, or praline. I've never subscibed to putting my name on a substandard product, so here is everything I know about the biscuit. You'll find it in the over, in some form,twice a week at least. It is the great cameleon of every table if well understood to the baker and hostess. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So, now. With biscuit recipes, the omission is always in the condition of the ingredients: It does, absolutely, matter that the fats are cold as can be. Butter, creams, and buttermilk - for biscuits or scones - has to be as cold as possibleto create flaky layers in the crumb. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">You can take that to the bank. Great fortunes have been built on far less.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Blushing's Cheddar Biscuits</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Makes 9</b></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #231f20; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">2 cups self-rising flour, more for dusting the bench</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #231f20; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">5 tablespoons butter: 4 tablespoons cut in small cubes abd very cold, 1 tablespoon melted (microwave it for 15 seconds)</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #231f20; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">¼ cup cream cheese, cold and cut into small cubes best you can</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #231f20; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">¾ cup buttermilk</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #231f20; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">1/2 cup sharp cheddar cheese, shredded and kept cold</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #231f20; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">1 teaspoon garlic powder</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">1. Preheat the oven to 450 degrees. <br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />2. Measure the flour into a large bowl. Incorporate the cubed butter, then the cream cheese into the flour, using your fingers to “cut in” the butter and creamcheese until the mixture resembles cottage cheese. Add the cheddar and garlic powder, incorporate quickly and completely. It will be chunky with some loose flour at the bottom of the bowl.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />3. Add the buttermilk. incorporate with a spoon or spatula. <br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />4. Flour your bench well. Turn the dough out on to your floured surpace and just pat it down gently with your hand until it's even. Be quick! You want about 1 1/2 inchesin height. Don't roll it out. Don't handle it any more than that - you are trying to keep the fats cold. <br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />5. Flour a biscuit cutter or glass. Cut straight through the dough with the cutter, to maximize the number of biscuits cut from this first pat out. Re-incorporate pat out the excess dough after the biscuits are cut and cut out more biscuits. Put the biscuits in a cast-iron pan shoulder to shoulder, they help each other to rise. <br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />6. Place the pan in the oven and bake 15 minutes, until light brown. Remove from the oven and brush the biscuit tops with the melted butter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Tips for making great biscuits:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">1. Remember: Cold butter, cheese, and buttermilk are key. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">2. Cast iron pans make the best baking surface.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">3. It doesn't matter so much what brand of self-rising flour you use, but it makes all the difference that it is new flour. The baking powder and salt wll loose effectiveness over time. Try to keep up with its age in the pantry. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">4. The recipe above is my favorite with ham and bacon. The same recipe with just a bit of chopped rosemary and gruyere instead of cheddar and garlic is also delicious. And finally, a rosemary biscuit with butter and peach preserves is what I know about indulgent, incredible biscuit combinations.</span></div>
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The Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876281636657645444.post-11968999507909319232017-11-16T10:53:00.004-05:002017-11-16T10:53:53.572-05:00YoohooThere is a not truly a stranger nor an elapsed time too long for the Hostess.<div>
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Though, <i>there is</i> a place too far, sadly - to understand one another, that is. If you were to say you had started down the road of Hollister tank tops in your middle days and called from Dunkin' Dounuts (Crikey. How does one spell it anyway?); then, I'd know we had gone to different neighborhoods quite literally. And, that you'd suffered a bit in the in-between times. Not to worry, pals, I'm here to judge. <div>
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Your quiet slips in judgments and neighborhoods are safe with the Hostess, and the Internet. </div>
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All right. What's happened, then? What hasn't. I've moved three times within Charleston bringing the new total of homes to a number so great that I am more put off by it than my age. I have not reordered embossed stationery because I might up and move at any moment still (but if I did, obviously <a href="https://www.dempseyandcarroll.com/stationery-collections/schumacher-chiang-mai-dragon" target="_blank">this</a>). Tell me one thing: How do gypsies do it? Their stationery, I mean; I am quite familiar with the rest of their gig. </div>
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I am raising two little wonders. And by little, I mean, in age alone. They are both quite tall, rangy, beautiful muses. They move like pumas and think like foxes. They regard manners as I did my Mother's career in opera; A thing to run from, at top speed, while screeching, into hiding. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOIoJP7sH1Mz0SWbzn7vo-tlIKT7i_2tn1sx42f82-osL47outhOIw_kgQmzSbz1CkvHxpwGUc-6JlcdX7Y_38tWG0Nyrphk5b5PQReUln8cqNg0bnJtFVqHnK689brr-ptoyR8ThNitU/s1600/20170930_153010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Manners Charleston Bedford Entertaining Authority" border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOIoJP7sH1Mz0SWbzn7vo-tlIKT7i_2tn1sx42f82-osL47outhOIw_kgQmzSbz1CkvHxpwGUc-6JlcdX7Y_38tWG0Nyrphk5b5PQReUln8cqNg0bnJtFVqHnK689brr-ptoyR8ThNitU/s320/20170930_153010.jpg" title="The Blushing Hostess Charleston Bedford" width="240" /></a></div>
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I say brilliant things to them nearly all the time. I have been collecting these Top Life Phrases (TLP's) since consciousness. Among them:</div>
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"Your hair is your crown." Thank you to Lois' Mom for this TLP, firstly. I utter these words and before I can finish, one little darling will nearly always tug on her wispy, side-fallen pony tail and openly scoff. </div>
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"Please use a napkin and not your collar." This, I remember to say only after the collar is thoroughly grimed and no longer passes uniform standards.</div>
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"You should always wear socks and underwear." Because I am still a believer. But after "Netflix and chill" was explained to me, I am no longer sure anything is what it seems. </div>
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I've had a ton of clients for digital purposes, where the Hostess veil is traded for others, and their voices both created and assumed for purposes of selling all manner of thing in all manner of channels. I can write the paint off a wall, I think I've established that. So, I do a good bit of tapping away. I alternate other business hours arguing about ad costs, drafting graphics, grousing about millennials, and harassing Yelp cold callers. It's a very full life. Full. Full. Full. </div>
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As I write for you now, I am ducked behind the screen. I am certain the family silver (now a bit purple-black in shade, truth be known) can see me and is as disappointed as my Dad is in me (God rest his weary soul).</div>
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There is a story in every piece of that silver. I am not going to tell any of them. I am going to tell new ones, about guests, fiends, and mongrels. But not thespians, never thespians. </div>
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How would that be? </div>
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Good night from Charleston - with Bedford ever on my mind. </div>
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The Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876281636657645444.post-26188095593836236692012-06-04T10:50:00.001-04:002012-06-04T10:52:01.144-04:00Keepers of the flame<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I logged in and approved more than a hundred comments. I missed you too. I adored them, every single one and, I'm blushing.</div>
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Don't worry! I am the same: Fearing scalding explosions and small spaces, revering good men and linen napkins, and still willing go thirty rounds with a Hatfield or fine tequila - provided you've that good man and he knows something about a fireman's carry.</div>
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Very much the girl you came to know (like <a href="http://blushinghostessentertains.blogspot.com/2009/11/contradictions.html">here</a>, and also <i>very much and really</i> <a href="http://blushinghostessentertains.blogspot.com/2010/11/dont-bend.html">here</a> and <a href="http://blushinghostessentertains.blogspot.com/2009/10/blue-jean-mama.html">here</a>). </div>
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I had babies, as you remember. Two tiny girls, beautiful smart wily things, I am watching them like a hawk. I have been warned, by than no less than all of you, that these moments will disappear in the blink of an eye. </div>
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And, I've been working - at everything. Harder than I ever did in those sixteen hour apparel days at 1700 Broadway, but with just as fine a view.</div>
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I want to tell you something very critical, to me, anyway. I have had eleven addresses in fifteen years. From many of those places, I went even farther afield; finding myself in any third-world nation on any given Tuesday. </div>
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That almost feels like a confession. </div>
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Some of it was the Navy life, more of it was a gypsy wander lust and the sheer power of being able to cut ties and move on whenever I wanted to do something else, <i>see</i> something else. Make no mistake, there is a lot of adrenaline tied up with thinking of the next thing and then doing it in some new, exciting, challenging place. I have never been good with the same old thing, but very good with moving on. </div>
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My Mother considers that "moving on" thing a character flaw. I consider that I have become very good at every sort of goodbye; seen em' all. I don't think I have missed one sentiment, except perhaps remorse. Like I said, I am <i>very good</i> at this concept. </div>
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But, for many reasons, that is all done. It's time to throw the suitcase out and put down roots, even though just typing those words caused me to shudder. Meet my new home as of July: Just slightly north of Broad, Charleston, South Carolina. </div>
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Or, more correctly: Meet my new money pit. In flood zone F: Which is where you are just sure to die if you stand there, I think, because the hurricane insurance is insane. But, worth it, to be right there, downtown and able to hit <a href="http://mccradysrestaurant.com/">McCrady's</a> with a 7 iron. </div>
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For the first time since leaving my parents home at 18, I can have an address engraved on my stationery. And that is a big, <i>big</i> step. </div>
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<br />The Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876281636657645444.post-41896250438140757552011-03-15T06:54:00.005-04:002011-03-15T07:53:11.039-04:00Ringing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinP4aDWrR7HmvJSSEMf0s6fO1zce_BEjSKp8S2XQinzrwBv5RV4knPAKOpAsWRHBHCTM5X2pNRT2OWKXf8acyI18978qjO76RiMX9LSOAZ7PVkgwbfJgUktpk1FraAXAMF8D2DlaRr0Do/s1600/1a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinP4aDWrR7HmvJSSEMf0s6fO1zce_BEjSKp8S2XQinzrwBv5RV4knPAKOpAsWRHBHCTM5X2pNRT2OWKXf8acyI18978qjO76RiMX9LSOAZ7PVkgwbfJgUktpk1FraAXAMF8D2DlaRr0Do/s400/1a.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584272478707603954" /></a><br /><br />Darlings. These are for you. I've missed you too. Thank you for your notes and letters. There are no excuses. I should have written to you more often. But, sit with me for a minute, will you? You have your coffee or cuppa? Okay then, let's visit.<br /><div><br /></div><div>I've noticed recently, there are several things which wake one from a dead sleep: real or figurative. </div><div><br /></div><div>A phone which rings at nine at night when your baby is horrendously sick and you have finally managed to get the torrent to slow enough so that she can sleep for a minute next to you, is one of those things. Even if she were well, I hate the time I have the children cuddled in their short little-hood to be infringed upon. Who doesn't? They will only be babies for about five minutes, the next thing you know they are deeming certain forks at the table, "inappropriate." </div><div><br /></div><div>As life has progressed, I have had all those late night calls that somewhere the world was on fire and someone needed informed: In graduate school on a paramedic unit the sound of a phone ringing in the blackness of night likely meant <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">someone's</span> future literally was ablaze, and in my career when bombings or acts of nature occurred and it involved colleagues or our partners, then the phone would ring and ring. </div><div><br /></div><div>The call that woke my tiny girl and I that night was not an emergency though, at least not any of the sort I've known. But it hammered the silence in a house that had struggled for it, deserved it. And it hammered a lot of other things too. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes a call is not just a call. Sometimes it is a wake up call: Your baby is sick. You choose the important thing now; take that call and allow the day to overtake the night and the sanctity of a home. Or you take your stand for the world you have made outside your work. </div><div><br /></div><div>All of a sudden, you realize, only in theory, why the famous line in the sand was drawn at the Alamo, and you know just where yours is located. </div><div><br /></div><div>My line is at seven pm in the evening. After that, the caller risks waking me in more than one way. </div><div><br /></div><div>That is to say, gorgeous ones, I'm back. </div>The Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876281636657645444.post-56614475725764550832011-02-20T08:24:00.001-05:002011-02-20T08:28:13.314-05:00Commanded by the Queen<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiwYsi01hvEBWCQ0NpCSvU9s0Y3uq8MLGoisU1nvjtvEikuYR4JxXXFcXYQ9wZ_cRXAevCCDuUIT3Gm7gkdweQTQz4jWpJ_2GAJs-GqPV2c7iWMLuqxd9LKH8oOZycpJxWtJR5dOQ_PXw/s1600/prince-william-invitation-320.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiwYsi01hvEBWCQ0NpCSvU9s0Y3uq8MLGoisU1nvjtvEikuYR4JxXXFcXYQ9wZ_cRXAevCCDuUIT3Gm7gkdweQTQz4jWpJ_2GAJs-GqPV2c7iWMLuqxd9LKH8oOZycpJxWtJR5dOQ_PXw/s400/prince-william-invitation-320.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575762426406440930" /></a><br /><div>Fascinating. In the sense that the word "commanded" does seem to make the word "invite" a misnomer of sorts, no?</div>The Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876281636657645444.post-13426407426730357122011-01-20T05:24:00.000-05:002011-01-24T17:47:56.415-05:00By request: Contradictions (revisited)<div><span class="Apple-style-span">Originally published on Blushing Hostess Entertains on November 3, 2009 and republished now by request, <span style="font-style: italic; ">Contradictions</span>. To the long-time reader who asked for it once again - my pleasure, I am humbled.</span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrlkg6WLFPvJcMuxtZZAnMoKRh49PV-bsigJNloTAQGSqCiinTw5E7fgbxbFzT-NmCkf3Hh4-yZcGf-4LVz8fXOMrcDm66jH9M2AryfQDDSqAh59ZMjPxCq4u1bYRdLkxk-uBN75fzUig/s1600-h/1.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 288px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399098136366188386" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrlkg6WLFPvJcMuxtZZAnMoKRh49PV-bsigJNloTAQGSqCiinTw5E7fgbxbFzT-NmCkf3Hh4-yZcGf-4LVz8fXOMrcDm66jH9M2AryfQDDSqAh59ZMjPxCq4u1bYRdLkxk-uBN75fzUig/s400/1.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br />When I think of what we have been through, you and I: All those things we endured although we quietly appeared on this page and read about God knows what besides who we really were and what was really going on in our lives: Centerpieces, sterling. It is remarkable how much of ourselves remains uncovered on both sides of the monitor.<br /><br />At times, those things I am compelled to cover because they are part of my niche, sometimes make me want to bounce off the walls with boredom. Because life is so much bigger than this and there is so much more to you and I.<br /><br />Have you read Martha Stewart's work? She never diverges. Once in awhile she will give an interview and there is a sign that she is deeper and greater than the sum of all her irons, garden trowels, and cakes; none of that appears on the headers of Omnimedia. When she admits to being a cougar there is an outcry because she is assumed to be one-dimensional. But she is decidedly not.<br /><br />There must be a misconception, generally, about women who keep well-appointed homes and are skilled domestically. Now, I will grant that I am young and consequently having the mantle of grand dame and task master hurled upon my shoulders is not appealing for the overtones of moth balls and wool crepe I sense in the accusation. Intentionally, I have walked a fine line here and the content is geared to keep my mind away from the campor because the "hostess" subject matter is inherently mined with the stuff, only it is pleasantly tagged as "tradition". I have lived at least long enough to know a lot of this skill is what a person has been taught or picked up and has little to do with gender or social strata. Furthermore, the fact that one knows how to polish glassware and get stains out of damask does not alone make her a dyed-in-the-wool church lady.<br /><br />Between myself and the twenty-somethings reading though, there is a decided gap. If they are single, they can make the mistake of thinking they are a long way from where I stand today. A well appointed life has no boundaries: Genderless, ageless, timeless. Just because we were getting away with things in our college house does not mean we were less obligated. Ours at <a href="http://www.providence.edu/">Providence</a> had everything it should have, only it was slapped together; obviously more geared to affording to go out than to be at home among our stuff.<br /><br />Nonetheless; good girls, from good homes, and had you come to dinner, you would have been well served. <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Even then</span>. In a house where, mysteriously, every time my roommate went out at night, she came home missing a shoe (and we were grateful that was all). If you knew her, you would be nodding right now at her contradictions too. She, not unlike others in that house, is a cocktail of a girl: Polished, confident, sharp-tonged, fiercely bright, well put together, and privately, one of the edgiest people I know. All the good ones are.<br /><br />The other day, when I talked you <a href="http://blushinghostessentertains.blogspot.com/2009/10/rebellion-remembered.html">about tattoos</a>, were there ever emails (and just a reminder to those souls: <a href="http://dooce.com/hate/">Hate is monetized</a>, so keep it coming). Then I happened to be over at blog-friend LPC's page reading about her <a href="http://amidlifeofprivilege.blogspot.com/2009/08/monograms-and-doc-martens.html">Doc Martens</a>. And it occurred to me that there must be a misconception that we should write from a one-dimensional perspective and accept an if-then relationship with our subject matter: If I know about china patterns and centerpieces, then, I must be a starched grand-old girl? If I married a Naval officer of an old tradition, then I must be a girl who wears twinsets and pearls and never asks for too much for herself in this itinerant life of his?<br /><br />Nothing and no one is a straight line but sometimes the shade from blog trees overhead might lead some to believe the writers here might be as easily explained-away as their general subject matter. The depth, layers, and scars of the person before us have always seemed so much more worthy of investigation than their dust jackets, for me.<br /><br />Moreover, if you are going to read a blogger or a magablog for any period of time, chances are you need them to have had as many lives as a cat, ridden high and crashed and burned mightily, and known a few characters who made them, broke them, loved them, and hated them. Who could stand it if they just went on and on about china day in and day out without any color whatsoever?<br /><br />The people in this world of mine are good and dangerous. They live amongst these missives. <em>Willingly.</em> Their choice is to be heralded and infamous on these pages by virtue of having decided not to miss out on this one life, and in turn, this one page. In a sense, now that we have you, all have agreed to the shadowy explanation that is Blushing. To put perfect clarity to the thing that is me, or her, or it, would cause us all to live in the blinding light of a less than perfect reality. You did not sign up for that, neither did we or they, in many ways. So we must agree: Parts of me, us, her, belong to you. The rest is in the air somewhere.<br /><br />In parts, all here kind of know Blushing. But the truth is, "she" is a little something we tolerate when keeping it real might be too out of character for the readership's tolerence. But we are all coming about.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Here, let me explain for the fifteenth time that this is both hand painted and - excitingly! - dishwasher safe!</span> I care about it, because I need to serve food, but I am not living and dying by it. No, no. I save that drama for grilled shrimp at Safe Harbor, which I would lay down my life to protect.<br /><br />Before we go any further, then, it is best for all concerned to understand that this still-young life has been lived at a furious and sometimes wild pace. Unapologetically.<br /><br />Contradictions within a person are what make the ride with them worth the time, and in the end, worth the fall. Martha Stewart is no less an authority on table setting because she sleeps with young guys, LPC is no less the high wasp for her <a href="http://amidlifeofprivilege.blogspot.com/2009/08/monograms-and-doc-martens.html">Doc Martens</a>, and I too am no less this hostess because I was <a href="http://blushinghostessentertains.blogspot.com/2009/10/rebellion-remembered.html">inked when I was 22</a>.<br /><br />If I told you I was anything less than green with jealousy that our men's colleagues can own up to their experiences with vigor, acceptance (in most cases), and pride, I would be a bold faced liar (as I have told them ad nausea). At the same time, I like a woman's cloak of mystery, and when it comes to letting mine slip occasionally here so that we might know one another better, it is not my favorite sensation, admittedly.<br /><br />I have not a clue where the balance is but I am also not losing sleep over placing it on this page accurately.<br /><br />If you judged me for classically educated of a fine home, conservative, and reverent then you have me safely right on one count.<br /><br />Welcome to The Blushing Hostess. Be advised, she is a real live girl.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt_GgTvCFKGVi9eLJypSxNv4N9z39BfJpEyKv5f6IlRB6apq4ZcUP6sOxPQLWh4PcpMsrWTT7N13DNfJ0uXlXcCpsDoQwPJKvVFx-zh7RiFQNrpv9sz7qjiavp67QA_f5zh3WHFEYfmAw/s1600-h/1.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 355px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399095509474579970" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt_GgTvCFKGVi9eLJypSxNv4N9z39BfJpEyKv5f6IlRB6apq4ZcUP6sOxPQLWh4PcpMsrWTT7N13DNfJ0uXlXcCpsDoQwPJKvVFx-zh7RiFQNrpv9sz7qjiavp67QA_f5zh3WHFEYfmAw/s400/1.jpg" /></a><br />Photos: Temporary quarters at Jacksonville, 2009.The Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876281636657645444.post-45255961046241154872011-01-17T15:08:00.005-05:002011-01-17T15:39:23.568-05:00Glamour and elegance: The mutually exclusive age ends<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7uy2ULZjHSDBlKSr_H9mS3Pin0mGYDxxu-912pO0U0XN30aYgKJj4oJiJORbCciZ8cNiKbqZQuV69N1aH0ULMBnCVADa5sMt-gfPQz_TJglOxzCZxRWn4zUtpKCPgWeCRJ1kd2PeMnSU/s1600/1+veranda+cover.aspx"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 303px; height: 393px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7uy2ULZjHSDBlKSr_H9mS3Pin0mGYDxxu-912pO0U0XN30aYgKJj4oJiJORbCciZ8cNiKbqZQuV69N1aH0ULMBnCVADa5sMt-gfPQz_TJglOxzCZxRWn4zUtpKCPgWeCRJ1kd2PeMnSU/s400/1+veranda+cover.aspx" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563249739160467298" /></a><br /><div>If you catch me in a super market, I am asleep. Fair warning. You could gently remove that duck breast from my basket and take one solid whack at my head and there is a chance I might not flinch. It's become <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><i>raaaawther</i></span> mundane. Not unlike the chart-topping bore that is my dining room.</div><div><br /></div><div>Look. I am in good company here, a lot of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">brilliant</span> interior types, among them, long time friend of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Blushing,</span> Mrs. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Blanding's</span> for one; find that room a challenge. If not the worst kind. "The national disaster that is my dining room,"<span class="Apple-style-span" > is how she bravely referred to her own dining room, but just as easily to mine (only, more bravely, she published the photos).</span></div><div><br /></div><div>Mine is in that category because it lacks imagination and the small swooshes of color and depth of texture it deserves and I prefer. It is, after all, housing the Fort Knox of porcelain, it should be treated with some reverence. <i>Some glamour</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>While that notion has been the battering ram my mind takes to that room whenever I find myself there, it was going no where. I was not in love, conceptually, with the modern notion of glamour although I knew the inspiration headed in that direction. And the old notion of glamour will only put bright rouge lipstick on an 1880 farmhouse. Mirrored tables and the like; <i>just everywhere </i>I look. And enough already; okay, okay, <i>I got it</i>. It does not spell glamour for me, and it is a toll call from there to elegance.<br /><br />No apologies. I read all the interiors ink; I'm informed. Just because it is trend, no one expects me to love it. Only to tolerate seeing it all over and wishing the owners had a come-to-Jesus regarding fingerprints and Windex. Pay to play, I say.</div><div><br /></div><div>I digress.<br /><br />But then, like a raw duck breast to the temple, something elegantly masculine-come-glamour knocked me over.<br /><br />The Veranda, 2011 cover is that duck breast. Dining room: consider yourself warned.</div>The Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876281636657645444.post-35845643427628697852011-01-07T20:34:00.000-05:002011-01-09T09:55:18.341-05:00Heuriger: New excuse for a lawn party<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px; "><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS2hoBAW2shvgSRWIPRVUJ5mQFo-ca4Ld6lyl_hq4ydu1OF2cO1932cuRBiuqBHGxp9-nOMry92lCdUwWzurTM5ROhUKTdyaOEkuGyDjNsQcXP6o-wWBCD5kljFwOf61CkvcJeN6vi1Gw/s1600/1+heuriger+7.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 169px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS2hoBAW2shvgSRWIPRVUJ5mQFo-ca4Ld6lyl_hq4ydu1OF2cO1932cuRBiuqBHGxp9-nOMry92lCdUwWzurTM5ROhUKTdyaOEkuGyDjNsQcXP6o-wWBCD5kljFwOf61CkvcJeN6vi1Gw/s400/1+heuriger+7.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560179627486509538" /></a></span></div><br /><br />First off, you will know it by the pine bow above the door. There may never be any additional indicator. Remember that, it is critical. It is an old world signal, maybe a touch 007, a carefully guarded centuries-old remnant in part of this world. Neon signs be damned.<br /><br />When you go to Vienna, and by all means, <i>you should</i>, you will have a great deal to do and little time to do it. You will have to pull yourself away from great music and architecture - not to mention Sacher tortes - to get loose of the city and make your way into the suburbs.<br /><br />And (not that I wish to write your adventure for you), if you are sharp, you will turn up there on or after November 11th of each year and either stay for 300 days or some part thereof, and commit to getting yourself off the beaten path. Tip: If you are on a tour bus, you are already not living the dream... You will<i> and should</i> get lost. You need to come to terms with right this instant.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px; "><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgggy74Ve4MJi57i6EDw1KNmfZRbCEq1PJY5zXMgNL3TIAtT2RmJTEmVWhqiP0ZsZxzVJ4Er9qMGhhTTdtTT_Z8F6jaIO-HdSEakvTOBUiRkVDJ10Nbr6rPMrHdhVOb2V9t1hTaF5-7lPI/s1600/1+heuriger+2.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 257px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgggy74Ve4MJi57i6EDw1KNmfZRbCEq1PJY5zXMgNL3TIAtT2RmJTEmVWhqiP0ZsZxzVJ4Er9qMGhhTTdtTT_Z8F6jaIO-HdSEakvTOBUiRkVDJ10Nbr6rPMrHdhVOb2V9t1hTaF5-7lPI/s400/1+heuriger+2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560188076188719986" /></a></span></div><br /><br />Now then. On those lightly beaten path's, truly known well only to locals, you will find heurigers; The vineyard houses belonging to wine producers where new wines are served in the year of their birth. Vienna, until recently when Madrid horned in, was the only metropolitan city that was also a wine growing region. Consequently, when oggling in downtown Vienna, you are never that far from the vine.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px; "><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ciPbPvSpRS7KTTeKYFFafXPisQntklJeqWwLAgrdEpwfjOE4YDvsm4a-jnDXujPFRe3LhzzWvnDF1EnAta1If9PbxNxfXchq4BC7XHu3e20sHyr1xHGGAPkvdVUyFI-z7JKq2aB-4iI/s1600/1+Heuriger+3.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 313px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ciPbPvSpRS7KTTeKYFFafXPisQntklJeqWwLAgrdEpwfjOE4YDvsm4a-jnDXujPFRe3LhzzWvnDF1EnAta1If9PbxNxfXchq4BC7XHu3e20sHyr1xHGGAPkvdVUyFI-z7JKq2aB-4iI/s400/1+Heuriger+3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560186436354701330" /></a></span></div><br /><br />There is a great deal of imperial-law stickiness involved with heurigers but let's leave it at this: Vienna (Wein) producers may sell wines of the current vintage (For example: Grapes harvested in the fall of 2010 may first be served on November 11, 2010 or anytime for 300 days thereafter and still meet the criteria for "new" in Wein) directly from the vineyard houses, unbottled. An authentic heuriger will likely not use stemware but very average table water glasses or the like. Nothing about a heuriger is precious, so conquer your inner glassware princess before you pull up a picnic bench.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px; "><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl0BWZBW1LlXFADiUTU7ROkxxiYytoluxDazdPBdK-pO5Y0Ukdlf3N9XcLH3LL5pcfkEgl61xl6f9D-o2essKRF6enEMMsgZB_RlNicwrS_C-3NuuRRVXo3jpLc02BgLSflVSHfYEsKIQ/s1600/1+heuriger+5.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl0BWZBW1LlXFADiUTU7ROkxxiYytoluxDazdPBdK-pO5Y0Ukdlf3N9XcLH3LL5pcfkEgl61xl6f9D-o2essKRF6enEMMsgZB_RlNicwrS_C-3NuuRRVXo3jpLc02BgLSflVSHfYEsKIQ/s400/1+heuriger+5.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560183992576410402" /></a></span></div><br /><br />These establishments are not licensed as restaurants and in many ways were grandfathered into the Austrian equivalent of the food service governing bureau - gratefully.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHTvbJgj9nctZz5FSGnhT9MxlJ1MhvWFUSW-sDOEKIcLwU5nJqPlxoDVbsxqFJ1AuGAdznUNNvpuhYn9IULztClialuEZjCQ2JNY-EcgOoTM1XBj0VXGkVu7m1DpCmsjsFq9X26hS2rKI/s1600/1+heuriger+8+buffet.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 204px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHTvbJgj9nctZz5FSGnhT9MxlJ1MhvWFUSW-sDOEKIcLwU5nJqPlxoDVbsxqFJ1AuGAdznUNNvpuhYn9IULztClialuEZjCQ2JNY-EcgOoTM1XBj0VXGkVu7m1DpCmsjsFq9X26hS2rKI/s400/1+heuriger+8+buffet.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560190059173106834" /></a><br /><br />They serve from a "communal table" or buffet, by law.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT9hKBVCr5LmhZ7K0qK4Pgy7Y9ETApv1hlS7bxOBXRi3bY8wdtTT9y_OnoyAHg38aC1JzqDKAm-CporqLboMZoUkMv8z0ks-Cvlb0GiI2-tdoswXFGW10yNxkKJEL_KjRMxkKRzbDIub0/s1600/1+heuriger+8+buffet2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT9hKBVCr5LmhZ7K0qK4Pgy7Y9ETApv1hlS7bxOBXRi3bY8wdtTT9y_OnoyAHg38aC1JzqDKAm-CporqLboMZoUkMv8z0ks-Cvlb0GiI2-tdoswXFGW10yNxkKJEL_KjRMxkKRzbDIub0/s400/1+heuriger+8+buffet2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560190846086968434" /></a><br />Initially, one had to provide their own food, heuringers in the modern age provide great buffets of local cuisine.<br /><br />In my research I discovered the menu that follows. It's not health food, but look, if you do stay for 300 days, go easy on the meat drippings but remember, you only get one shot at life; balance. Chances are, this menu is incredibly appealing in its home and cooked by experienced hands: I'm in.<br /><br /><i>Geselchtes<br />Smoked bacon and other pork parts cut thickly and served with crusty bread.<br /><br />Heurigenplatte<br />Sausage; cold, sliced pickled meat, cheese, chopped onions, sour pickles and a Laberl (bread roll).<br /><br />Liptauer<br />Soft cheese generously spiced with paprika.<br /><br />Quargel<br />Small cheese with chopped onions.<br /><br />Saumeise<br />Ground meat smoked and boiled in a pig's net.<br /><br />Saure Blunzen<br />Slice of blood sausage marinated in vinegar.<br /><br />Schmalzbrot<br />Crusty bread spread with meat drippings.<br /><br />Schweinebraten<br />Cold, sliced pork with bread.<br /><br />Surbraten<br />Meat that has been pickled three weeks and then cooked and eaten warm.<br /><br />Verhackerts<br />A spread made of minced sausage and meat.<br /><br />- <a href="http://www.globalgourmet.com/destinations/austria/austsnack.html#axzz1AXw6BchP">Global Gourmet</a></i><br /><br />Locals will say the new wines always taste better under an open sky but their DNA has been refining its sensitivity to heuriger since the Middle Ages. I will take it indoors or out although the romanticism of drinking a new wine next to its vines is not lost on me either.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 18px; "><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNXXLODtjEK-K-nFHCYorKH2re6_-Pfvxa3iZL6tnK0oyxaaVIXWRwMzxC_j6pxzPL208f-qLuGuvJ3cYvn40IN0CYIRtB_VqAszMCftaKD-kwB2GIn8BX6yUC09cMqbO7xNl4W6N9o0Q/s1600/1+heuriger+4.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNXXLODtjEK-K-nFHCYorKH2re6_-Pfvxa3iZL6tnK0oyxaaVIXWRwMzxC_j6pxzPL208f-qLuGuvJ3cYvn40IN0CYIRtB_VqAszMCftaKD-kwB2GIn8BX6yUC09cMqbO7xNl4W6N9o0Q/s400/1+heuriger+4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560187716287908722" /></a></span></div><br /><br />Austrian wines, in any environment, are glorious creatures, though I suspect they sparkle just a little more on the palate in a heuriger tasting. Roughly one-third of the regions' wines are blended, both red and white. Nearly all of it is consumed within Wein so you will likely need to go in person if you mean to taste them. The vast majority are whites which you may recognize: Gruner Veltliner, Muller-Thurgau, Reisling, Silvaner, Sauvignon Blanc, Pinot Gris, and Chardonnay (though these varietals are labelled with their local names). Reds are just as familiar: Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot.<br /><br />There is a 300 day "new" period for wines of each vintage as some wines are aged for a period and take months for release versus some of their un-aged counterparts. Conceivably, throughout the newness time frame, you may find yourself back at a heuriger on several occasions to taste new releases of different blends and varietals. Obviously then, like an vineyard or winery, the time not to visit is during harvest and press: September through early November.<br /><br />Although there is a heuriger in the United States - just one by name, it is far closer to a restaurant than the heuriger's I've described here you should really just go or...<br /><br />Create a heuriger on the lawn when spring arrives and serve a pile of gorgeous new local vintages and have a heaping, gorgeous buffet? Once again, not being to precious about anything, which is patently against both the concept and everything Blushing is, anyhow.<br /><br />Put a pine bow on the invitation and one over the door, <i>don't forget. </i>The Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876281636657645444.post-31424813070276940622010-12-13T06:45:00.012-05:002010-12-13T08:39:42.371-05:00Santa's new rig (aka Entertaining mythical non-entities and transients)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4FTaqL1TFOTKv7aP6cJy-sMepQ7BcXhWp12kTOw4McAkdnApk0ZqHJLPiqIXdhnOXSRwzuyCyeikxKY-Z-iLP7P2NeqCMOK_XUkHKyJL1pdbc6cm0u5LO6osx7YfMwDW5qcaxCTpmEag/s1600/1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4FTaqL1TFOTKv7aP6cJy-sMepQ7BcXhWp12kTOw4McAkdnApk0ZqHJLPiqIXdhnOXSRwzuyCyeikxKY-Z-iLP7P2NeqCMOK_XUkHKyJL1pdbc6cm0u5LO6osx7YfMwDW5qcaxCTpmEag/s400/1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550134506913008018" /></a><br /><br />I've put some thought into entertaining Santa this year.<br /><br />This began innocently enough, with my Daughter remarking on the lit fireplace, "Be careful! You're going to burn Santa's boots!" <i>Right on, Kid, it wouldn't hurt to light a fire under his ass.</i><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Look, if everything said about the elf is true: He's no gentleman. I think he is the kind of guy who leaves the seat up and chews with his mouth open. I know this because one year when I was little, I suspect he did both those things judging by the trail of evidence in the house. These habits being altogether otherwordly in my Mother's mannerly kingdom, I think you'll agree, there remains no way I was wrong about the guy: He's a mess.</div><br />Further to my theory: One year he left the Barbie Dream House unassembled. He knew very well I could not follow an eight page manual partially written in French. I mean, <span style="font-style:italic;">really</span>, guy?<br /><br />Finally, he's no saint; keeps a reindeer up all night slogging all over creation in a blinding snowstorm and apparently is useless with operation of the front door.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPise2ixHM2rSBpd0IFDHpDyJrNuSFz0t41jPCTU-9Np4KSyrh6d9E6WBzGpzHR8cZBCF-yViAn_70Jg4R4ODBmyLFnTtmvV_gH5T27V3Hn_7PLLgcQeVd2tStYH5OTuTp7neotWfMB-4/s1600/IMG_2249.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPise2ixHM2rSBpd0IFDHpDyJrNuSFz0t41jPCTU-9Np4KSyrh6d9E6WBzGpzHR8cZBCF-yViAn_70Jg4R4ODBmyLFnTtmvV_gH5T27V3Hn_7PLLgcQeVd2tStYH5OTuTp7neotWfMB-4/s400/IMG_2249.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550138960376900722" /></a></div><br />Now, you remember last year around here, of course. The whole thing right and orderly: Jolly Old comes - chimney, what have you and then - cookie - good, scribble a little note, throw some gifts everywhere - then beat it next door.<br /><br />And thank you very much.<br /><br />But this house is full of girls. The women here, beginning with the one most closely in touch with the elf, feel he needs an image adjustment - er, correction perhaps. Firstly, without casting further aspirsions on Santa, we are not agreed he is a boy. We like to think he is above gender.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMS1uB0o2_rYtzBVsurqTDNHaSBpQaTq_RPDpOl5clNySC1aOqXbDolJc8j_lmTvgfhBPOj4454P5b6GXAC0-v3miOPGFbDYkfUgluyyGwjwa2sAKbdMk0LPX1YAdblZR1fdTMNjEmuhU/s1600/IMAG0236.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 238px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMS1uB0o2_rYtzBVsurqTDNHaSBpQaTq_RPDpOl5clNySC1aOqXbDolJc8j_lmTvgfhBPOj4454P5b6GXAC0-v3miOPGFbDYkfUgluyyGwjwa2sAKbdMk0LPX1YAdblZR1fdTMNjEmuhU/s400/IMAG0236.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550156944442602770" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">But if not, he is most likely a she and has refined taste in the boots that whoosh down the chimney; they are no one's buckled fire boots.</div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjitz65JMCoQ2I_38P_ipRywUgtftkLxzyN69yn-FFBwBmUaBL9AiwCrtKBcIGDJiKyfWjbJvl6BgyBZvCddEXmk_FeERlIspsGlNdry1i8UrloO3TPIT1ifw0E2cV0ow503mIMu84D5OI/s1600/IMAG0131.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 238px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjitz65JMCoQ2I_38P_ipRywUgtftkLxzyN69yn-FFBwBmUaBL9AiwCrtKBcIGDJiKyfWjbJvl6BgyBZvCddEXmk_FeERlIspsGlNdry1i8UrloO3TPIT1ifw0E2cV0ow503mIMu84D5OI/s400/IMAG0131.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550137274394896562" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Secondly, Santa loves a note. Also, design-related books and scented glossy mags and could use a break to just kick back and flip through a few pages, you know? So, if you don't mind, could she have a bit of reading materials along with only a glass of water (she's not much of a milk drinker and she's driving). I think you note her car key here; of Scandinavian make for speed and turns in frigid cold. She doesn't believe in reindeer abuse; the modern sled has all wheel drive and Rudolph, always in shot-gun, is one hell of a navigator. </div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFPZRDcYlPp-fGyyasBcuB_D_dhJAzU7iUR-XoDjwBoYuShIeisX-avUop1t3zHKU_nKyeDuF44YS_wQtMAOq5shWHxqKd0M8qbbVJO1MtSZ5PTC8II3AxpS3SWnEkJie1eB3xPq2MvPo/s1600/IMG_1953.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFPZRDcYlPp-fGyyasBcuB_D_dhJAzU7iUR-XoDjwBoYuShIeisX-avUop1t3zHKU_nKyeDuF44YS_wQtMAOq5shWHxqKd0M8qbbVJO1MtSZ5PTC8II3AxpS3SWnEkJie1eB3xPq2MvPo/s400/IMG_1953.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550147636615341762" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">It has long been suspected that Rudolph carries the alias Pumpkin on any day but Christmas and is, in truth, a bit too porky to be alighting skyward between snowflakes.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Finally, that last myth with regards to the man: Santa has pretty thick skin but I'd be careful with the term <i>right jolly old elf </i>if you want anything out of the chimney arrangement this year.</div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Because, <span style="font-style:italic;">jolly</span> might be pushing the issue when toys with a million pieces are involved. Maybe this elf sees a little devilish charm in this once-nightly festival of big wheels and dream houses. But <i>jolly</i> might be a misnomer of epic proportions. Safe to say at least, Santa can laugh at the consumer crisis that is Christmas still and the inexplicable line at Brookstone. Certainly Santa keeps amused, if not jolly.</div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaJT3vRk-nCUNi6IAgQl-SgJUtqyo4fblUGGqdsjJDJFysi5BM2XjPMiacC2DOzlnLljtzEj3oG5_3Bv19D6IUQfJ05r-DGuGDwRtTy4aSi-J0_KYkdMR9Kma-4B-GN7BuDryvNaOm0E0/s1600/2.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaJT3vRk-nCUNi6IAgQl-SgJUtqyo4fblUGGqdsjJDJFysi5BM2XjPMiacC2DOzlnLljtzEj3oG5_3Bv19D6IUQfJ05r-DGuGDwRtTy4aSi-J0_KYkdMR9Kma-4B-GN7BuDryvNaOm0E0/s400/2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550151770562057650" /></a></div><br /><br />And I don't know who you're calling <span style="font-style:italic;">old.</span> But I assure you, Santa is not.</div></div></div>The Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876281636657645444.post-1923773470284741302010-12-09T05:55:00.002-05:002010-12-09T06:00:55.881-05:00Three little wordsI know what you're thinkin'. But I don't write ballads, you know me better than that by now.<div><br /></div><div>I was up on the hill behind the house today. A fiercly cold breeze made my nose tingle. I dug my hands deep into my pockets. It is undeniably that time; when those three words start to define what I know about life and family. Or at least, they do around here, on this hill, and on a few others atop which I've perched.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9l7imWLq2JomHz2jOuAJy6TsaZNcSUbJs_bYw8E0gAXDOiluZqzlyVaTeg03exLfOgOA-0CAKATNs2bau2Et4DQI09IzVkPlFOELW1b9W6F_QiucJuWLg5AV7Ljijy5Vi8YwpAhWtXKk/s1600/1+stratton.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9l7imWLq2JomHz2jOuAJy6TsaZNcSUbJs_bYw8E0gAXDOiluZqzlyVaTeg03exLfOgOA-0CAKATNs2bau2Et4DQI09IzVkPlFOELW1b9W6F_QiucJuWLg5AV7Ljijy5Vi8YwpAhWtXKk/s400/1+stratton.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548427468870253026" /></a><br /></div><div>Emotion seems at times to be balanced on three little words. I'm not here to judge whose words are right and whose are wrong. All I know - which I have clearly established here is little and fleeting - is that there are about a million words and a lot of intonation all of this centering on the indefatiguable and highest pedstal of human wordiness - <i>I love you.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>High school is with me so vivdly in many ways. It was there I learned that a girl walking across E-Wing with a tall kid in a lettered-leather sleeve jacket, her smile seemingly the width of the span of a bridge, had heard the happy side of three words. Another girl, arms crossed at her chest, eyes to the floor, and back to the lockers in K-Wing was on the wrong side of three-word paradise. I watched the smallest things make and break; speak to your soul, define your memories, make you resolute. It still awes me what three words uttered thoughtfully or carelessly can do: Change a life, move a mountain. Or just not.</div><div><br /></div><div>The words that those high school couples surely passed, while throwing around the optional fourth verbs -the dredded 'don't' or reassuring 'do' - can't all be wrong. After all, I have come to define a million moments with my own girls in the same terms: <i>I love you. </i>Certainly those three are powerful and moving, but they are anything but alone in meaning or synonyms.</div><div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimVbGKdSiLIF8TwCoUOAOZH01tB7DzFVL5F34p7ZkuSQ8hSG0MBxb3sGxhh_cETbXM8Ea-h05gyaaa9Qb5MJWXGuk1GZ2wWXzVFPYtQ873W8XT98FdJWBBKIPvAoxM3kOrXlshuthj_3o/s1600/1+chris+and+i.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimVbGKdSiLIF8TwCoUOAOZH01tB7DzFVL5F34p7ZkuSQ8hSG0MBxb3sGxhh_cETbXM8Ea-h05gyaaa9Qb5MJWXGuk1GZ2wWXzVFPYtQ873W8XT98FdJWBBKIPvAoxM3kOrXlshuthj_3o/s400/1+chris+and+i.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548421716775723986" /></a><br /></div><div>This is my kid brother, who I love and because of this I know there are three words just as powerful; equally as defining and irresistible. There is no truth to "I love you," being the most moving phrase encountered by the human heart. After all, it depends on the heart.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know about you, but as the family ski holiday over New Year's approaches, I know there is a phrase just as likely to cause us to move too far too fast, blaze inadviseable out-of-bound routes, carry on loudly, saying things we shouldn't, landing in a wreck of twisted humanity on our Mama's doorstep begging for help, her hot chocolate, and sympathy, all the while still arguing our rightness and swearing to even up the score as soon as we're healed.</div><div><br /></div><div>Those three words, completely irresistible to the human heart in our world are not <i>I love you</i>. But they move us just the same, and as I think about it now, they are a familial translation of the same sentiment. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Race you home.</i></div><div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbVLNy_8St1RV2pP-u9RSGuLftbzUscwYuIDZr8Zz3vQWuHAsbzas9j3Wayv3sGgfOnWiAFjkjsxYWpLkl_yturEzcruYP_D97ByRcNjVP1J7WPlNbezdmD_6Cq_lgWlRBCfc71QpOyZE/s1600/Getting_ready_to_ski_in_front_of_home.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 331px; height: 338px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbVLNy_8St1RV2pP-u9RSGuLftbzUscwYuIDZr8Zz3vQWuHAsbzas9j3Wayv3sGgfOnWiAFjkjsxYWpLkl_yturEzcruYP_D97ByRcNjVP1J7WPlNbezdmD_6Cq_lgWlRBCfc71QpOyZE/s400/Getting_ready_to_ski_in_front_of_home.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548633974212052322" /></a><br /><br /></div><div>I have yet to meet the human heart that can resist it's appeal.</div><div><br /></div><div>Here's hoping you are raced to the pile on the doorstep this season. I will meet you there in spirit.</div>The Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876281636657645444.post-91843228167639558352010-11-15T07:13:00.014-05:002010-11-15T10:17:46.063-05:00Blushing letters: Workhorses and Bad Girls<span style="font-style:italic;">Blushing,<br /><br />I need the workhorse dress for the season. Will you show me?<br /><br />Much love,<br />Stephanie</span><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Dallas</span><br /><br />Stephanie,<br /><br />So many workhorses for so many women; with luck yours is in here. If it is the last, I will toast you tonight.<br /><br />Wishing you great parties!<br /><br />Warmly,<br />Catherine<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi7uTOkqMTBBq4pNJ2CU_p_ce4YIvld2m0oNd-n96FXM91GdPdLeNnInM8-z6nO4cYQA4KGGA8l31aefe6e4swAWj4rfMAqOra0sPXk9qncZoLNCmvlt10bLrLcHnfbZiH8TVFKETSAdY/s1600/1+dior.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 296px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi7uTOkqMTBBq4pNJ2CU_p_ce4YIvld2m0oNd-n96FXM91GdPdLeNnInM8-z6nO4cYQA4KGGA8l31aefe6e4swAWj4rfMAqOra0sPXk9qncZoLNCmvlt10bLrLcHnfbZiH8TVFKETSAdY/s400/1+dior.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539762931292895986" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.neimanmarcus.com/store/catalog/prod.jhtml?itemId=prod112720020&eItemId=prod112720020&cmCat=search&searchType=MAIN&parentId=&icid=&rte=search.jhtml%253FNo%253D0%2526Ntt%253Ddress%2526_requestid%253D4463%2526N%253D0%2526pageSize%253D160">Dior</a></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiHcZHlyYKR3sosvnQirsaU4BSg8MTn74kZa6YxeCl73ty6NRQH-QdA4bgJNG-Rlg8D_u2PuURXd9IOXfkPScdYzGmEy83St1iWbpoZYW20OqqXw71tDAKZDsczkfISdIOjrwr4nm3_qI/s1600/Dk.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 237px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiHcZHlyYKR3sosvnQirsaU4BSg8MTn74kZa6YxeCl73ty6NRQH-QdA4bgJNG-Rlg8D_u2PuURXd9IOXfkPScdYzGmEy83St1iWbpoZYW20OqqXw71tDAKZDsczkfISdIOjrwr4nm3_qI/s400/Dk.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539761994244987122" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.neimanmarcus.com/store/catalog/prod.jhtml?itemId=prod113310001&eItemId=prod113310001&cmCat=search&searchType=MAIN&parentId=&icid=&rte=search.jhtml%253FNo%253D0%2526Ntt%253Ddress%2526_requestid%253D4463%2526N%253D0%2526pageSize%253D160">Donna Karan Collection</a></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfbjkARUTZT6eBVYyF0l88eELa5yg8GBHfUiCy_hRaexSt1KQ29BX2dzzLhBCe3nQfenK2DANGTGzgK40XxBDd7H-3RCdmFrVxTz32ntKRqsPWe3L1M7j3aZCAF62wu35fFqi_QN-bP1k/s1600/1+narisco.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 316px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfbjkARUTZT6eBVYyF0l88eELa5yg8GBHfUiCy_hRaexSt1KQ29BX2dzzLhBCe3nQfenK2DANGTGzgK40XxBDd7H-3RCdmFrVxTz32ntKRqsPWe3L1M7j3aZCAF62wu35fFqi_QN-bP1k/s400/1+narisco.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539760635255928354" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.neimanmarcus.com/store/catalog/prod.jhtml?itemId=prod107550020&eItemId=prod107550020&cmCat=search&searchType=MAIN&parentId=&icid=&rte=search.jhtml%253FN%253D0%2526Ntt%253Ddress%2526_requestid%253D4463">Narciso Rodriguez</a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsstZBfFsKyCxRmjXZdY4LiBjEQPDRIxQH6r68gbymHeMSlw_4xaXIkO5eeIBqOyC51-zAqFZPAgPNz4cLTRD3zUiby2Foz-3da16h09gTzp93DdQF48iT4equbgP90d8uvV_mjQjYsHE/s1600/Untitled.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 306px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsstZBfFsKyCxRmjXZdY4LiBjEQPDRIxQH6r68gbymHeMSlw_4xaXIkO5eeIBqOyC51-zAqFZPAgPNz4cLTRD3zUiby2Foz-3da16h09gTzp93DdQF48iT4equbgP90d8uvV_mjQjYsHE/s400/Untitled.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539759014860464722" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.neimanmarcus.com/store/catalog/prod.jhtml?itemId=prod111370008&parentId=cat25820731&masterId=cat000019&index=3&cmCat=cat000000cat000">Andy & Debb</a></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVi3iHTtbW469fnhNr1R8_oUoGI-_Ru1_4M4rm18kRMn8crTNXSREC5FTk40R0HiinnXaeeOI7RFCeJaJhlLyQgGTt89DgNxmUAjXqK3r7B2k52tjDw48FGCZq-mX09rXbMrsyhI87Ps4/s1600/1+halston.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 319px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVi3iHTtbW469fnhNr1R8_oUoGI-_Ru1_4M4rm18kRMn8crTNXSREC5FTk40R0HiinnXaeeOI7RFCeJaJhlLyQgGTt89DgNxmUAjXqK3r7B2k52tjDw48FGCZq-mX09rXbMrsyhI87Ps4/s400/1+halston.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539752116105693122" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www1.bloomingdales.com/catalog/product/index.ognc?ID=510345&CategoryID=20486">Halston</a></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYqMtoRIVdEY3d3ARGbGO3JAsjRkVleVmq6GU7ifjsLsRiVVNzrYzoeItDN0Cg5iIN0JdHrPmJGPqZtJUULfYekTMLf59tcraGZcMNg8JGWZ2jGWNTHrrla6vh8LssBiBkBVe3vJ6TDXQ/s1600/1+dvf.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 319px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYqMtoRIVdEY3d3ARGbGO3JAsjRkVleVmq6GU7ifjsLsRiVVNzrYzoeItDN0Cg5iIN0JdHrPmJGPqZtJUULfYekTMLf59tcraGZcMNg8JGWZ2jGWNTHrrla6vh8LssBiBkBVe3vJ6TDXQ/s400/1+dvf.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539749601744171986" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www1.bloomingdales.com/catalog/product/index.ognc?ID=498846&CategoryID=21291">DVF</a></div><br /><br /><br />Disclaimer: The dress that follows has no business being here. It is no workhorse.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin5oqySxJh0R0ciQfGs2uJMBZxn3BwencHaFprAZ2CWUHDDbFENUg60KJxHb-b9IrkHlyQE4tUWub2Jsdp1p-bSitsDuUSX38z6w3oAPCVCi_JW2KHFUtIMJDoXIVwreyjCchRX33Todk/s1600/1+DVF+leather.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 290px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin5oqySxJh0R0ciQfGs2uJMBZxn3BwencHaFprAZ2CWUHDDbFENUg60KJxHb-b9IrkHlyQE4tUWub2Jsdp1p-bSitsDuUSX38z6w3oAPCVCi_JW2KHFUtIMJDoXIVwreyjCchRX33Todk/s400/1+DVF+leather.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539765557200632498" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.neimanmarcus.com/store/catalog/prod.jhtml?itemId=prod109870083&eItemId=prod109870083&cmCat=search&searchType=MAIN&parentId=&icid=&rte=search.jhtml%253FNo%253D640%2526Ntt%253Ddress%2526_requestid%253D4463%2526N%253D0%2526pageSize%253D160">DVF</a></div></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">It took me a second to process it on paper because it was at once so fearlessly right and so categorically wrong: The softest black lamb skins tanned to be millimeters thin and trained into feminine movement grabbed me. Then so did the obvious presence of the closet renegade in the studio. That designer who took the country-club party dress notion and slapped it square across the face; Riotously cranking up all that baby soft leather in blackest-black, laser cutting it to shreds, and (sometime long after over-driving the fifth gear of childhood madras dress resentment) stitched it all up into something haltingly feminine but overtly bad girl. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">(Note to the closet renegade: That must've felt good, huh? 'Cuz: <i>damn</i>.)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It is that last part which, when this dress steps into the predictably Tory Burch/ Nanette Lepore clad party it is headed to, will tip the balance between got-a-nice-dress and this-girl-needs-no-introductions. If a dress could be a good girl gone bad and come (tenuously at best) back, all the while fearlessly owning up to her scars and tendencies, this is her. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The girl in this dress prefers you not labor under misconceptions. At the split second her chin rose when the zipper reached the top of this dress, and she wiggled her hips gently to set the seams on her curves, she defined herself with perfect clarity. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">While it may be no workhorse, the juxtaposition it declares for the woman in the dress is the unavoidable workhorse in her character - the "And Model of Identity" as it were - as coined unforgettably on these pages by <a href="http://amidprivilege.com/">LPC</a> (right <a href="http://blushinghostessentertains.blogspot.com/2009/11/contradictions.html">here</a>). The girl in this dress came from conservative turf but she has taken it on the chin a couple of times. She has definitive texture and not just in her dress. She's packing an unburied hatchet in all that soft skin. Proceed with caution. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">She can come sit next to me. </div>The Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876281636657645444.post-45198973167328099442010-11-06T05:22:00.009-04:002010-11-06T06:51:58.050-04:00Don't bend<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8M3pcnwZ5bZTWLuMvSjvrSzxXidm2lw-9L8IIBTJn22lq2Z3dGEIGjVi3w6x41Qkmj6qyqtgWEysWPiW7v08wDFzJXCgjkpoJUjBu6xMRWVurZAErkraENxDhECWMHD9fcQV12btLcMo/s1600/1+m+and+j.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 241px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8M3pcnwZ5bZTWLuMvSjvrSzxXidm2lw-9L8IIBTJn22lq2Z3dGEIGjVi3w6x41Qkmj6qyqtgWEysWPiW7v08wDFzJXCgjkpoJUjBu6xMRWVurZAErkraENxDhECWMHD9fcQV12btLcMo/s400/1+m+and+j.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536374384771981058" /></a><br /><br />It is one of the most commented upon articles in New York Times online history. And it is no coincidence that the pen was long time friend and supporter of Blushing Hostess, New York Times contributor, author of <i><a href="http://www.slowlovelife.com/">Slow Love Life</a></i>, and former House and Garden editor, Dominique Browning. Those who read Dominique, as I hope you do, know her grace is as fearless and meaningful as her pen. <div><br /></div><div>When, on October 21, 2010, this byline - <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/10/24/fashion/24Mirror.html?_r=1">Fear of Flying a Long Flag of Rebellio</a>n - was published it seemed clear a storm was coming. It is the great unsaid thing among women: You will cut your hair as you age. It has something to do with seriousness and how whimsy is expected to appear on novelty sweaters from Talbots with honking big appliqued apples, but not, on your head.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj1Na5ybjyfkEcvyVZJJFbDKs9Ke1ip3m__-twk-Yo7_OY_58hTOxPBkLySrON-dsaIX2BZx622iqyDsGdfafBF4KsYwlDECvii_SXsqoNThW37QXt8-JC7nHlj9N-wl_qWUdkcYVZ2-M/s1600/1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj1Na5ybjyfkEcvyVZJJFbDKs9Ke1ip3m__-twk-Yo7_OY_58hTOxPBkLySrON-dsaIX2BZx622iqyDsGdfafBF4KsYwlDECvii_SXsqoNThW37QXt8-JC7nHlj9N-wl_qWUdkcYVZ2-M/s400/1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536374972267134706" /></a><br /><br />I was thirty-four when, for reasons I had honed for a solid two days, I had my hair cut madly short, for me, anyhow. I had new babies. I was exhausted. It was summer in Florida. I was thirty-four for God's sake and practically dead or so the part-partum illogical thought pattern went. Anyway, Stevie - who always sported a bleached or blue pixie, took it off in long strands - just blond wisps everywhere. I watched it hit the floor with no emotion. It was time. But if, at any other time in my life I had seen my hair about me in hacked piles, I would have swooned.<br /><br />It wasn't me. It was a mistake. I also am not honey medium brown in hair color and I don't care for curls. Also not me. But I have had to learn all that on the way to this place.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhObyfXOe0E8KtR07v3kRk9Z8T6xD4G5H6RRh6eg7s1JsOLK6Q_KiKsshYEhkQPzPPXMZ0sbOzHY0ZT679Qa18OWgRgBCWxDUO3VoCu7vBmcDKl_F1EGBSRdauHS3grI51QIdL1W1uiXcY/s1600/IMG_4046.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhObyfXOe0E8KtR07v3kRk9Z8T6xD4G5H6RRh6eg7s1JsOLK6Q_KiKsshYEhkQPzPPXMZ0sbOzHY0ZT679Qa18OWgRgBCWxDUO3VoCu7vBmcDKl_F1EGBSRdauHS3grI51QIdL1W1uiXcY/s400/IMG_4046.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536377215284815874" /></a><br /><br />Once it was gone, other signs of my <a href="http://blushinghostessentertains.blogspot.com/2009/11/contradictions.html">multi-faceted identity</a> remained because you cannot hide from who you really are with the help of a shear.<br /><br />Above is my hair as it was this summer when Nick revised my <a href="http://blushinghostessentertains.blogspot.com/2009/10/rebellion-remembered.html">tattoo</a> (calm down, haters). One small piece of ink, but that too figures into me - and an identity I adore. It is not at all an identity that was dictated and doesn't mean (to reiterate) that I don't know how to set a table, iron linens, or where the guest of honor's wife can pull up a chair at dinner, okay? They are just puzzle pieces, they don't mean I don't pray.<br /><br />Life is so much more complicated than hair and ink, but it all builds a spectacular and singular whole. If you can just get up the nerve and time to go with it...<br /><br />A month before I had my hair cut off, I sat in that same chair before Stevie and we listened to the woman in her mid-forties next to me explain that she needed to have hair like Kate Hudson's in color. She also couldn't cut it because her husband liked her best and was most affectionate towards her when it was long. Stevie and I both cringed: <i>If he loves you, then he loves you. Who cares about your hair?</i><br /><br /><i>Screw him</i>, we said to each other over a glass of wine later on. Because we - however unrealistic this may be in truth in some lives - believe that love sees no hair color or cut. And that we choose the style. Because, look, it will always inherently tie back to the woman herself, and consequently, to the girl he fell in love with, no? </div><div><br /></div><div>So, I pick the poison. I'm platinum, and it is long and a little edgy at times. Not just because that is how I like to keep my hair but also because that's what you get. I don't like my hair to tell lies for me. I'm not sporting a bob and headbands, I want to keep it real. It's far more comfortable.</div><div><br /></div><div>Dominique, by the same token, is doing the same at fifty-five years old. I am proud of her, but this is only one small reason. She took her stand, in the New York Times no less. </div><div><br /></div><div>I capitulated to whatever sense society and exhaustion could be mashed together to make to settle on a decision about my hair while a child kept me up all night and our world took some pretty fast and harrowing turns. I've been on the mend ever since.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZnIudY-zScyzxxLLAxOIw9nXkJMP-WvXlXYXGgzjS58GGPnQA52hn93_CiPMPtaLTvU3hAQ83XxJyts6esZcg_bS1QklibyC0l3iklEMAYXISQULxsAu-sTMMhG5HktSLPqSI44YRfkY/s1600/1+hostess.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZnIudY-zScyzxxLLAxOIw9nXkJMP-WvXlXYXGgzjS58GGPnQA52hn93_CiPMPtaLTvU3hAQ83XxJyts6esZcg_bS1QklibyC0l3iklEMAYXISQULxsAu-sTMMhG5HktSLPqSI44YRfkY/s400/1+hostess.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536379150088645842" /></a><br /><br />More or less, as you can see now, I'm there. I am also still kind of exhausted as you also note, but that is another thing altogether.<br /><br />I'm keeping longish hair. </div><div><br /></div><div>I've got your back, be fearless. Cut if you want to, but not because social <i>more</i>'s flattened your resolve to maintain it. And not because someone else prefers it another way. Do it because you want to see someone you recognize in the mirror. And because she is beautiful that way.</div><div><br /></div>The Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876281636657645444.post-71369222899432794842010-11-04T04:48:00.000-04:002010-11-06T06:40:32.003-04:00I Tweet. Therefore, I read.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirTlbR2waZpewMNjfMeeDShc245iNePWjl1QUYAIS5cApbb8TijxsKaUY50Vscmh_57rnrWOdOx5cbG5fdj6CzI_f_YdG5_MtrupGzQVnoYzdnKEsZb4w_l5KwidgPAl2uTxnBcMYywDo/s1600/1a+fledg.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirTlbR2waZpewMNjfMeeDShc245iNePWjl1QUYAIS5cApbb8TijxsKaUY50Vscmh_57rnrWOdOx5cbG5fdj6CzI_f_YdG5_MtrupGzQVnoYzdnKEsZb4w_l5KwidgPAl2uTxnBcMYywDo/s400/1a+fledg.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536359029861220162" /></a><br />No joke.<br /><br />The other day I was an unwilling victim to a man who insisted on explaining that "real men don't Tweet."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy5NwY9WxIeWzajCntiNoXZk1fBz0CR-fmuphlO0wgbO7afZDFUdSqqJZ6spAvw3KIo4vgcJgtX_7YuqKKMuT1X52bK1ygfnek7wT_7qD2bL-cQPl2zTv_sALRndTszTUKTauw40m9b1s/s1600/1a+fledge+3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 198px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy5NwY9WxIeWzajCntiNoXZk1fBz0CR-fmuphlO0wgbO7afZDFUdSqqJZ6spAvw3KIo4vgcJgtX_7YuqKKMuT1X52bK1ygfnek7wT_7qD2bL-cQPl2zTv_sALRndTszTUKTauw40m9b1s/s400/1a+fledge+3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536359156452836498" /></a><br /><br />In that case - and following that <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">unimpeachable</span> logic down its weedy and dark path - it might be of some use to point out, especially to those giving gifts to the kings and queens of the social media game this year, that indeed, not only do real men Tweet, they also read. And promote literacy.<br /><br />The Chardonnay and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Pinot</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Noir</span> made by <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Crushpad</span> for Biz and Ev, founders of Twitter, Inc. under the <a href="http://www.fledglingwine.com/">Fledgling label</a> made their way into my home this week as Blushing gifts. 100% of the cases sold will promote literacy. <i>100%.</i><br /><br />These Hostess gifts are among the greatest I have known: In a class with the highway I was gifted, and the bottles of Absolute Boston for the Charles River Conservancy Charity.<br /><br />I don't know what's in the bottles and I don't care. 1. I would serve it shamelessly to a table of hideous wine snobs and glare at them with daggers in my eyes if they chose to remark on its quality (although, knowing what I do, I can assume it is delicious). 2. I don't care if Biz mixed Concord grape juice and vanilla extract together and called it a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Pinot</span> - because it is the <i>right thing to do</i>.<br /><br />It's on my bottle list now so don't come by if you're a real man who doesn't Tweet.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhosvG3aE0ZnZ44mxg6t_Mi3LIEO1cn4_VIc9CAMIfJxrcRNWK1r5DK1BCtkCf3UIHpD2NAmAckHjBa_XwXDAk-4A4EpxSnTlFeebEtRcZhCcve2ctwjZxmD2dfl4aHvtKvAVNFE7NU-qI/s1600/1a+fledge+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 224px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhosvG3aE0ZnZ44mxg6t_Mi3LIEO1cn4_VIc9CAMIfJxrcRNWK1r5DK1BCtkCf3UIHpD2NAmAckHjBa_XwXDAk-4A4EpxSnTlFeebEtRcZhCcve2ctwjZxmD2dfl4aHvtKvAVNFE7NU-qI/s400/1a+fledge+2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536359609134647458" /></a><br /><br />To you, Biz and Ev; real men who Tweet. Well done.<br /><div><br /></div><div>Order it <a href="http://www.fledglingwine.com/">here</a>, by the palate.</div>The Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876281636657645444.post-7210080322453688852010-10-26T04:15:00.000-04:002010-10-26T04:15:00.359-04:00I've adopted<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi54Wuf3dHe1SL4IIefQk8hLrM00dFvvI9lZWl-i1MgdnL0Wbw9ak9ORyYcdpcHMjsC7jMvRf1HY5kh7fp3R6F_vvxyddBzhJXkotQKElIfny6g9kBHPVCpsqkQvK1BqUZ5Pl7H6p7nZjs/s1600/1+bh+highway.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi54Wuf3dHe1SL4IIefQk8hLrM00dFvvI9lZWl-i1MgdnL0Wbw9ak9ORyYcdpcHMjsC7jMvRf1HY5kh7fp3R6F_vvxyddBzhJXkotQKElIfny6g9kBHPVCpsqkQvK1BqUZ5Pl7H6p7nZjs/s400/1+bh+highway.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529468117262584946" /></a><br /><br />This 2.7 mile stretch of Zulla Road in Middleburg, Virginia on John Mosby's Historic Trail is now clean, mannerly, and soon to be decorated with abandon.<br /><br />You don't think the homeowners will mind, do you? Surely not.<br /><br />It was literally a perfect hostess gift. I love it more than any other, ever.<br /><br />Honk if you love the Hostess! I can hear you from here...The Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876281636657645444.post-36031144708418286792010-10-25T04:38:00.001-04:002010-10-25T05:46:37.189-04:00The Dark Bride<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijmokm-uIh5DPFnUmZCFbY5-MNOcbUUfOuFRMJ1LZ9kDXRbT_tA0x2lI0dOcUTOJdFCbZ7Eduxwyhdi_u0mBJDAY8AFASFxmHBkEGu5JIDK3J-VlA7vIneOLPk3xiUOtURi6hn8AePUog/s1600/1+adeathly-hallows-alternate-cover.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 305px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijmokm-uIh5DPFnUmZCFbY5-MNOcbUUfOuFRMJ1LZ9kDXRbT_tA0x2lI0dOcUTOJdFCbZ7Eduxwyhdi_u0mBJDAY8AFASFxmHBkEGu5JIDK3J-VlA7vIneOLPk3xiUOtURi6hn8AePUog/s400/1+adeathly-hallows-alternate-cover.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531236354296498898" /></a><br /><br />The movie <i>Harry Potter and</i> <i>The Deathly Hallows</i> will be released this fall. The wedding scene featured in this picture is the most closely guarded cinematic secret of the Halloween season. The Los Angeles Times danced around the moment with costume designer Jany <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Temime</span> <a href="http://herocomplex.latimes.com/2010/10/21/harry-potter-countdown-the-deathly-hallows-wedding-is-last-festive-moment-in-grim-finale/">here</a>, it is worth reading. You will also find the typically darkly <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">irresistible</span> and arresting movie trailer there.<br /><br /><div>I can't help but wonder what that cake must look like; the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">fantasy</span> of this series has been so accurate and compelling, what would do the dark trick there?<br /><br />I digress.<br /><br />Regarding <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Temime's</span> comments: I have to hope it is not too light and confectionery. I like my weddings a little more dark, with a little more edge.<br /><br />After all, I too was an October bride.</div>The Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876281636657645444.post-44314045898184469892010-10-21T04:27:00.006-04:002011-01-08T09:08:24.250-05:00Just a nuance, but it's there<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj68JWK8smY3Dt0vZoX4cz7BLwXBDQ1t2MJS5pG4x7ajgp86CXirTRmo9syohiJwJDSD3p-5IBk6ot5JxNIRC1xw-6G_a-6KNJ0K6Uki1p73owyeO0I5_phKh_lhrJYslDuuGw3MpLMNzQ/s1600/guestlist.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 340px; height: 352px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj68JWK8smY3Dt0vZoX4cz7BLwXBDQ1t2MJS5pG4x7ajgp86CXirTRmo9syohiJwJDSD3p-5IBk6ot5JxNIRC1xw-6G_a-6KNJ0K6Uki1p73owyeO0I5_phKh_lhrJYslDuuGw3MpLMNzQ/s400/guestlist.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530468140421562146" /></a><br /><br />One piece of paper will make all the difference at dinner. Written in long hand on personal stationary, tapped into a spread sheet, scribbled on a cocktail napkin with a bartenders borrowed pen: It looms largest in the host's consideration. It will be the document on which the greatest party music was written or the first shot fired at an evening which will go down in unmerciful and memorable flames. <div><br /></div><div>The guest list creates evenings we will never forget, and parties we try not to remember. I write from experience: I didn't get here because I do not have few scars from the great sport of Inviting. My engagement party, owning to the perfect lack of control of one person (who I well knew was careening party-train off course and pleading for a catastrophic drunken wreck), was, for my closest friends, an exercise in grace and meditation over cocktails. </div><div><br /></div><div>This was an error born of misguided magnanimousness on my part. She is the wife of a friend, and we had witnessed her in action before in a glazed-over state of startled speechlessness, I suppose. I was nervous about her from the start and should have followed my instincts.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the time that has passed, she is a persistent issue with regard to guest lists and chemistry. In perfect sobriety, she is one of the most deeply miserable individuals I have encountered. I have learned I cannot overcome her raging insults of other guests or her falling down drunkenness in the best of circumstances, but her grotesque bigotry and racism became apparent during that party as well, and she has never been invited back (to say the kindest thing I can of her, actually).</div><div><br /></div><div>We often say how much we miss her husband. He was one of those people my Brother and I knew first in life and one of the best. But, sadly, this is the way it has to be. <i>Please leave your wife at home</i> is just not an option at the foot of an invitation. And we are years beyond the<i> how did he end up with her?</i> conversation. I do not write his name on lists any longer, I am unhappy to tell you. But it would be better not to have people over than to subject them to this person.</div><div><br /></div><div>There are other names on guest lists when followed by other names, and still others, that present difficulties in creating a festive night for less obvious reasons than my example. The stories of how some names go together and then must be parted on a guest list are intriguing, fascinating, and sometimes emotionally horrific. By virtue of all that, many are glaringly obvious to the aware host if one gave it some thought. But some enormities of interpersonal conflict could easily be perceived as no greater than a nuance. </div><div><br /></div><div>Nuance is the key to everything between human beings. As J.M. Barrie noted so wisely in the original text of Peter Pan, "It's not that it didn't matter. It's that didn't make a <i>difference</i>." You have no way to judge how relevant an old story is to those parties now, best to yield a wide berth to a thing that happened, but does not outwardly seem to make a difference. </div><div><br /></div><div>For this reason, a good host has either the memory of an elephant or the record keeping ability of Thomas Jefferson. The host is the eternal keeper of old grudges and flames, dark facts, circumstances, controversies, occurrences, phenomenons, and statistics. Success at the party which manifests on an enchanted evening from the first scribbled nickname is determined by the grasp of history in the hand holding the pen. </div><div><br /></div><div>Those are not just names on paper or bodies in the living room; They are mortals. While they bring a world of talents, experiences, and jovial conversation to the mix, they also bring the facts of mere mortality and human nature. An astute host holds a guests' scars as closely as their own and knows the fatal social flaws of all the dinner guests. One misstep, one careless invitation, and the night is laid to waste.</div><div><br /></div><div>There are just a few people in this world whose hands I will not shake and across from whom I would not attempt to keep down a meal (aside, obviously, from war criminals, murders, savages and so on). I am reminded here of Pat Conroy's <i>Beach Music</i>, "I shook his hand, and I thought it would kill me." I know that ground so intimately. </div><div><br /></div><div>To have arrived at the conclusion that I would sooner chew tin foil in a locked closet than sit across from one of my known scoundrels, I would have known the reprobate well at some point. As a guest, I am counting on the host to know as much and not to get me into that position. There is an inherent and critical sensitivity to sorting out relationships which have not mended if an evening is to succeed. When these differences are not obvious and the host is innocently clueless is when a guest may quietly beg off on a stomach ache and disappear into the night. Not that it will save the evening, just the guest from an uncomfortable situation.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is not possible to know all the hot spots, but critical to try and recall that Kate is coming with her new boyfriend and consequently, it is unwise to also invite her ex and his new wife, and/or her gynecologist. If the party is smaller, no one has anywhere to go, conversation is guarded, and the night is a bust. <i>Bring on the grappa, it is sooooo over.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Once all the divorces, bad investments, infidelities, and lies are sorted: It is my opinion there should be an artist, a musician, a pol, a lawyer, a horse trader, an adventurer, a war horse, a dryly amusing Brit, and a siren. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, that's a party.</div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvqIo_zjT2jzJjCSDrFEyMR5Od5blrcitBypzuSGXDprtkB7C4qYSQjvVkceDgIv3WdeDP1JPr5ZxE_HQ1Z7dgwFCReiZW4GaJ8OeQZOlN4ESYThbZ3seiNXPePaMDmbLbQJcHiYQbbCA/s1600/plate-glass_300.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 357px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvqIo_zjT2jzJjCSDrFEyMR5Od5blrcitBypzuSGXDprtkB7C4qYSQjvVkceDgIv3WdeDP1JPr5ZxE_HQ1Z7dgwFCReiZW4GaJ8OeQZOlN4ESYThbZ3seiNXPePaMDmbLbQJcHiYQbbCA/s400/plate-glass_300.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530466890371956258" /></a>The Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876281636657645444.post-71114430383517698782010-10-20T05:00:00.002-04:002010-10-20T19:22:47.602-04:00Behind the music<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiujw6QH_KDZCgBmVT-9Y1WxxYBgMG2oaR7vMMZTrDqW9QFBI4OC8915ipL0ouPltDfSg2en_AD_sc79TJ6Kb8qDFcW90qXLwaERlANuQsJ_lJNAzHCwLYGdcBUphZtFutMO4SATTGeQSQ/s1600/1+Dorothy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 242px; height: 350px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiujw6QH_KDZCgBmVT-9Y1WxxYBgMG2oaR7vMMZTrDqW9QFBI4OC8915ipL0ouPltDfSg2en_AD_sc79TJ6Kb8qDFcW90qXLwaERlANuQsJ_lJNAzHCwLYGdcBUphZtFutMO4SATTGeQSQ/s400/1+Dorothy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529461025648122098" /></a><br /><i>"No matter how good the food or the wine or the music, if the people are dull, the party is a failure. And, when it comes to entertaining, beginning with a real liking for people is the best guarantee of success.</i><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>"If there is a single key, that is it.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>"Neysa </i><i><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">McMein</span></i><i> will always be thought of as a great hostess. But I can't remember anything I ever had to eat at her apartment. Food was a matter of tremendous unimportance to her and to us - when we were her guests. What mattered was her gift for filling the house with gay, amusing people... writers, and theater people, and artists. Her special kind of warmth (everything at Neysa's seemed to turn into a game) kindled more life and spirit in all of us than we ever had any place else.</i>"</div><div><br /></div><div>- Dorothy Rodgers, decorator and wife of Dick Rodgers (of Rodgers and Hammerstein, known for Broadway productions South Pacific, Carousel, and Oklahoma among hundreds of other scores and songs), in her musings in <i>My Favorite Things</i> (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Antheneum</span>, 1977)<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/gHRj_nKwcJ0?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/gHRj_nKwcJ0?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></div>The Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876281636657645444.post-77947378709552652022010-10-19T04:35:00.001-04:002010-10-19T04:35:00.135-04:00Live simply. Let others simply live.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdfa1Gn38aTer891_EVWQPyP39Q7f5OdRx3E6epCKWJf10IVkzRd7zWbVYTSN1QiSrT8Cguaaz8lzjoLbFngou6NqbZRg06lmCcFrzPFsV5s44Z4wxCfnYmGXQ30n56zrKRyAaam9Yoys/s1600/1+truffle+on+paper.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdfa1Gn38aTer891_EVWQPyP39Q7f5OdRx3E6epCKWJf10IVkzRd7zWbVYTSN1QiSrT8Cguaaz8lzjoLbFngou6NqbZRg06lmCcFrzPFsV5s44Z4wxCfnYmGXQ30n56zrKRyAaam9Yoys/s400/1+truffle+on+paper.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529473419484504450" /></a><br /><br /><i>Tuber melanosporum. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Translates to </span>sexy brown thing</i> in Latin and every other tounge.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLoUg0Pq5bzI8imEKiG2T1_tp_BV_ya15kv5LV9d3Zvxm4dtJ7RzQXv2uktqxZ7y7nIqWjSYv_E2UJiC9BCM2PbpAG3iJtXBnm09j5hBR3NyyFYym9CWIdWuUsXX_mJfBJxmmmlEbnQcw/s1600/1+truffle+dog.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLoUg0Pq5bzI8imEKiG2T1_tp_BV_ya15kv5LV9d3Zvxm4dtJ7RzQXv2uktqxZ7y7nIqWjSYv_E2UJiC9BCM2PbpAG3iJtXBnm09j5hBR3NyyFYym9CWIdWuUsXX_mJfBJxmmmlEbnQcw/s400/1+truffle+dog.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529474594114422642" /></a><br /><br />Sexy dog: He's going to go get the brown thing. Thanks, pal.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS53aWkoQbtzWMil-mXj7vXFZZMyHyxESrdkNo_X-ELRSbaqqSPTh9CiQoIQJcTnacUwQtPaHNj18U42iPvDik75fjJuW2I3ZG6YZ7dKWcIpN7cYlq3945Yg088j1FLAk3H4-LXhykSKg/s1600/1+truffle+dog+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 223px; height: 167px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS53aWkoQbtzWMil-mXj7vXFZZMyHyxESrdkNo_X-ELRSbaqqSPTh9CiQoIQJcTnacUwQtPaHNj18U42iPvDik75fjJuW2I3ZG6YZ7dKWcIpN7cYlq3945Yg088j1FLAk3H4-LXhykSKg/s400/1+truffle+dog+2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529474909897247794" /></a><br /><br />Sexy French dog owner/ possible poacher/ believeable sales person.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjcC_k5XnkqiaOLXBI4xY1xLjaY2dwxZjO_URkqOdyyGK90zJ8X2vqmImpTS8o5rIbpIslWjh1jejTZpBZpPHJLvxx-2xl7ZauEbhZs5d6h1EM-xAFRUho8hPGUXCCuLFITJWdVMphBtY/s1600/1+truffle.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjcC_k5XnkqiaOLXBI4xY1xLjaY2dwxZjO_URkqOdyyGK90zJ8X2vqmImpTS8o5rIbpIslWjh1jejTZpBZpPHJLvxx-2xl7ZauEbhZs5d6h1EM-xAFRUho8hPGUXCCuLFITJWdVMphBtY/s400/1+truffle.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529482358748357954" /></a><br /><br />Little more sexy now? <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir4b4rYGtE0b5akhC0Vz47thJ0zLqNTjxubrGzRF1D8lZPPflJsU3fiqI4QTAxyKVf4IpTuzjnPJa4gMgrrtSIHap3fploZzsTvOMMBF6b_DXc7i-jiR7ZcopTemRZnOF0xAeDYpbybeQ/s1600/1+tat.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir4b4rYGtE0b5akhC0Vz47thJ0zLqNTjxubrGzRF1D8lZPPflJsU3fiqI4QTAxyKVf4IpTuzjnPJa4gMgrrtSIHap3fploZzsTvOMMBF6b_DXc7i-jiR7ZcopTemRZnOF0xAeDYpbybeQ/s400/1+tat.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529477727290987314" /></a><br /><br />(Yeeeeeesssss, gimme those!)<br /><br />Champagne Taittinger, Comtes de Champagne Blanc de Blancs; I think you hear me knocking.<br /><br />Shaved truffle. Olive oil. Fleur de sel. Taittinger: Don't muck up dinner for two at nine with actual food.<br /><br /><i>Pant quietly</i>, Gorgeous Creatures.The Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876281636657645444.post-52750131756193323952010-10-18T05:56:00.004-04:002010-10-18T06:40:40.971-04:00The international incident<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGsWZJelI437PAXHnOonArOtgKpSX9Mf8HdUz2L9KbwtApEcJvVCQ6FzWxK1f7HltLxlSb3qP456j-SVzwY_mBcldnQBg42Vf9zQlu1LMq-c_JVSUKojwvyIjrFne-qVGdJ6yJIhL_Zto/s1600/1+salad.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGsWZJelI437PAXHnOonArOtgKpSX9Mf8HdUz2L9KbwtApEcJvVCQ6FzWxK1f7HltLxlSb3qP456j-SVzwY_mBcldnQBg42Vf9zQlu1LMq-c_JVSUKojwvyIjrFne-qVGdJ6yJIhL_Zto/s400/1+salad.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529331579261559666" /></a><br />"... you're not going to believe this."<div><br /></div><div>"Tell me."</div><div><br /></div><div>"One of the guests put her finger in the dressing to taste it."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Wait. <i>Whaaaaat?</i> In the <i>actual</i> dressing bowl or was it on her plate? The one on the buffet?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes. The buffet. And it had a serving spoon." </div><div><br /></div><div>"What did you do?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"I said, 'Really?<i> Reaaaallly?</i>' What else can you do?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Not sure. Did she like it?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"I suppose so. She ate it, didn't she?"</div><div><br /></div><div>And that is what was said between a colleague and I after an event hosted for a group of international visitors recently. </div><div><br /></div><div>Once this happens, you would rightly pitch the whole dressing bowl and begin again because, frankly, <i>eeeeeeewwwwwwwww:</i> That about covers our collective thoughts. </div><div><br /></div><div>The trouble in this instance however, was that it was an off-site catered event and there was no replacing the entire untouched bowl of dressing. The caterer was already gone. This woman was at the head of the buffet line, and all the guests behind her witnessed this lunch hour treachery in horror.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, one could do any number of things after swooning and being revived (and then once again remembering what happened and naturally passing flat out a second time - but <i>anyway</i> assuming you do, at some point, recover). I have thought of some options, maybe you have some thoughts too?</div><div><br /></div><div>A. Pick up the spoon and stir up the fingertip germs and bacteria. When you are finished squeal with delight, "Yummmmm, <i>delish</i>!"</div><div><br /></div><div>B. Using the serving spoon as a sword, you engage the perpetrator in a duel, landing her in her seat safely away from the buffet and presumably preventing her from "testing" any of the other dishes she encounters, all the while growling, "Back! Get back! Away!."</div><div><br /></div><div>C. You pick up the dressing bowl walk it over to the trash and instruct your assistant to go decant some olive oil and vinegar ASAP.</div><div><br /></div><div>D. Throwing the dressing to the floor while awash in elephant tears and wailing, "You...<i> you</i>, animal. You've ruined it! My lunch! My life! <i>You filthy, filthy beast!</i>" While waiting for the ambulance to arrive and administer oxygen which you will refuse as you dramatically flee the building with tissues clutched in both fists, you fling as many insults in as many languages as you can manage and advise her she will be hearing from your lawyer and to expect some papers arriving to her cave shortly.</div><div><br /></div><div>Just loose thoughts of course...</div><div><br /></div>The Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876281636657645444.post-9010190349470923072010-10-11T23:17:00.001-04:002010-10-12T07:49:44.356-04:0050 and fabulous<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY7ULJmG4Y2FL6cRO5w3QlwNei_jmxFvh6h994ub4ZeNN5llY_ryVGnZ4r0wPPnvl2sn-ahh0h9BpP-aAAFd2zQ_TFJgWZglORHDXYry_kpZcPDplIWP_WeDX7ptMgjNtyKiohvfbTRkQ/s1600/1+more.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 80px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY7ULJmG4Y2FL6cRO5w3QlwNei_jmxFvh6h994ub4ZeNN5llY_ryVGnZ4r0wPPnvl2sn-ahh0h9BpP-aAAFd2zQ_TFJgWZglORHDXYry_kpZcPDplIWP_WeDX7ptMgjNtyKiohvfbTRkQ/s400/1+more.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527122806308335122" /></a><br /><br />A number of you wrote in asking for online resources for style tips for women in their 40's and 50's. I have read a number of sites now and I think these two have the best realistic handle on this demographic:<br /><br />More Magazine has both comprehensive beauty and fashion areas. Find it <a href="http://www.more.com/fashion">here</a>.<br /><br />Secondly, Real Simple does have a solid grip on real life women and the styles they are willing to carry, versus those <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">prescribed</span> by couture magazine stylists. Find the style section on line <a href="http://www.realsimple.com/beauty-fashion/index.html">here</a>.<br /><br />Both sites allow you to receive regular emails or use iPhone apps.<br /><br />Finally, in the way of advice, this relatively <a href="http://fashion.about.com/cs/tipsadvice/a/fashionover50.htm">generic about.com</a> tutorial is the most comprehensive I have found <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">regarding</span> achieving your best look or looking ridiculous - there are pit falls in fashion at every age...<br /><br />Finally, and I want to stress this: <i>tailor your clothing</i>.<br /><div><br /></div><div>I hope I have helped. </div>The Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876281636657645444.post-38346626386345089412010-10-11T07:23:00.011-04:002010-10-11T08:19:56.381-04:00You lost me<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1LmkbENtKAgMzp1GiEpffV5utFM1vTlnzO01Pb1aFYGoctS0NKC2dJQcsfvN4dIn5VK_C8Ubl2DWij69vBJixB2YzXIt-mlKwA51XvKqaWlnSqb6NIgliM1RIsQ7dNqTMnC9DxzmRvfU/s1600/1+rittz+full+front.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1LmkbENtKAgMzp1GiEpffV5utFM1vTlnzO01Pb1aFYGoctS0NKC2dJQcsfvN4dIn5VK_C8Ubl2DWij69vBJixB2YzXIt-mlKwA51XvKqaWlnSqb6NIgliM1RIsQ7dNqTMnC9DxzmRvfU/s400/1+rittz+full+front.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526755107745634674" /></a><br /><br />Lately I have been running headlong into the curious melodrama that is my generation making its values (or more often this week, lack of) known. For the record, I am proud of us on the whole. But a few are still discovering there is no entitlement in the real world. We make our own luck and determine our fortunes. You can blame karma all you want but it is a lot less other-worldly than that: One reaps what one sews.<br /><br />Decency and honest work: It seems to me there is not much more to it than that. Ultimately, this life-thing is not all that mystifying. If you're <span style="font-style:italic;">looking</span> for happiness, you're not working hard enough. Either you work like a dog every moment to do it all correctly, including just being a human being, or you try to skate and we all know where that ends. Stop looking; start workin'. At everything.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQr5jNuWbszESa5dstRW_BwMl9E-Y2_j01CtehxCIRBtn7-waaJCYkuUj_YfE5PfUDyee_HPQ3zzQAdLt3KV2f7779mfZepEXiTKqgYlkG9IVcc6Ud2R9PR-qiNtO3MI37h7s5pHkNqHc/s1600/1+ritz+lounge.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 296px; height: 350px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQr5jNuWbszESa5dstRW_BwMl9E-Y2_j01CtehxCIRBtn7-waaJCYkuUj_YfE5PfUDyee_HPQ3zzQAdLt3KV2f7779mfZepEXiTKqgYlkG9IVcc6Ud2R9PR-qiNtO3MI37h7s5pHkNqHc/s400/1+ritz+lounge.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526756637619832706" /></a><br /><br />In a week full of news reports about the misuse of Twitter and Youtube and young, unsteady lives lost over them, and the drama I have unwillingly watched unfold in my own life among adored souls in my my world, I did what I always know to do: I worked. Just kept my head down and concentrated. Quietly forming my own opinions and occasionally ferociously making them known, but on the whole, staying safely inside my work-is-the-only-course-of-action in all scenarios bubble.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC6JxgugpuHoVlG6Cbzk9kmRVrWlmLNmr7gG6bgqPkxCF6_rOtEXScfVjFmYkgRMn2E2Cs3p3TwfYZWqkgZ01-ayVRi2S7osAZZZjC6WvZ0LevDv1NPG5WfpGOGbY0wAF05VlGYtHkDII/s1600/1a+ritz+deck.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC6JxgugpuHoVlG6Cbzk9kmRVrWlmLNmr7gG6bgqPkxCF6_rOtEXScfVjFmYkgRMn2E2Cs3p3TwfYZWqkgZ01-ayVRi2S7osAZZZjC6WvZ0LevDv1NPG5WfpGOGbY0wAF05VlGYtHkDII/s400/1a+ritz+deck.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526760981502584786" /></a><br /><br />I assure you this has not endeared me to some. A lot of people want you to take sides, help them make someone love them, write a check big enough to solve all their problems... Actually, all that would only be the beginning of the end for people not laying the truth bare and owning up to who they are, and worse, what they need to work diligently to correct.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif5S1BUpItemePoqt5Oc_IrHNWancSjDrAIzwNfMKIBI6_c12vOWd5EvkkewQa5QDCF-r6ttj5cSZi37v5FjHbICWB4H5mnRB0OAQQrsEke_aDbbb_ppi4oizo9lYo8jGERuVxr0n4DKA/s1600/1a+ritz+coast+line.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif5S1BUpItemePoqt5Oc_IrHNWancSjDrAIzwNfMKIBI6_c12vOWd5EvkkewQa5QDCF-r6ttj5cSZi37v5FjHbICWB4H5mnRB0OAQQrsEke_aDbbb_ppi4oizo9lYo8jGERuVxr0n4DKA/s400/1a+ritz+coast+line.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526753957513484562" /></a><br /><br />What I am saying, perhaps in a clumsy maneuvering of veiled references, is that all that can be done to change one's fate is too <span style="font-style:italic;">work</span> to change it. Break your tail making fixes. Fall down: hard as you can. Get back up like a prize fighter. Accept your next scrape. Repeat doggedly. Never give up.<br /><br />You are on a horse in this life, ride it until broke and when the last day comes, slide into home and knock St. Peter over then grab a glass of wine and regale the heavens with tales of the battle wounds of a fearlessly lived life that worked until the second in made that final turn for home.<br /><br />Don't amble into the gates full of woes and might-have-beens. I won't have that for you or me.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Go0p8uqH5IPPp9ipDsV5nntRCH-vwGl7qC5WlEa-vbrb021pAONhzjSswKTZYK0-4vxA89OPgVyBBsSwm3-1i187efsOdxcvV3NQ-b2UHPZwCikSOR4fcepV_VCF8dXYnEwQYTyMRnk/s1600/1a+ritz+golf.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Go0p8uqH5IPPp9ipDsV5nntRCH-vwGl7qC5WlEa-vbrb021pAONhzjSswKTZYK0-4vxA89OPgVyBBsSwm3-1i187efsOdxcvV3NQ-b2UHPZwCikSOR4fcepV_VCF8dXYnEwQYTyMRnk/s400/1a+ritz+golf.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526753536930263794" /></a><br /><br />While all this bright luminous living is your life's work, the best I figure you can do by others then is to be cognizant of their feelings because they need to get back on the horse too, do the best you can to be fair, always give it to 'em straight, and above all else <i>exercise human decency</i>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQv2ayVLomq0H0SRgSJKJGDGv-Grej46R39jcyBsqfZpF7KyVUUblWdyrVuwRTjLfV1SsvE7KgXK9x0Aq2lqCfd_F74oMRNq5bUYuHNyTEbqodS-goy8W0RfMOD22Wixu6ChtDs1Uyg7U/s1600/1a+ritz+dining+room.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 322px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQv2ayVLomq0H0SRgSJKJGDGv-Grej46R39jcyBsqfZpF7KyVUUblWdyrVuwRTjLfV1SsvE7KgXK9x0Aq2lqCfd_F74oMRNq5bUYuHNyTEbqodS-goy8W0RfMOD22Wixu6ChtDs1Uyg7U/s400/1a+ritz+dining+room.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526754274182080402" /></a><br /><br />It is this last point that has me stumped as I write to you: We all get to times when the world we live in creates a momentous amount of exhaustion and you would just like to find a place to nap and listen to the roar of a big ocean. The sheer indecency of the world in this last week has me thinking that at times you have to work to rest too. A little escapism does not necessarily mean you are not working at overcoming something. So, that is my plan.<br /><br />In these pictures, you have been visiting my sanctuary: Half Moon Bay. With any luck, all of you gorgeous readers and I will converge there for a Blushing nap one day.<br /><br />Get to work on some rest on this holiday of ours, Gorgeous Creatures.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Q334_QINZKYJf6InH870b5fK9k0k4-URnUST4rFzEIWbpjzhDKF5Q74FX7MmIQPuy-wiAPxHpY5hNMaZZZc5cB7sAHJ9DlZk3M5kyJpd3TDZ2QLRQxxGHjAs49ve6Cufa0m9kyyUgAs/s1600/1a+ritz+fire+pit.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Q334_QINZKYJf6InH870b5fK9k0k4-URnUST4rFzEIWbpjzhDKF5Q74FX7MmIQPuy-wiAPxHpY5hNMaZZZc5cB7sAHJ9DlZk3M5kyJpd3TDZ2QLRQxxGHjAs49ve6Cufa0m9kyyUgAs/s400/1a+ritz+fire+pit.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526753305571736578" /></a>The Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876281636657645444.post-34031528677871038592010-10-05T03:55:00.022-04:002010-10-05T07:33:28.512-04:00Chic hostess: Nothing to wear<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3R2BQJG_YtDU5czkZE03ncNSfIRFgm7_TH793ONJ8GrqoNkiKWroEr8bZSI_oOSx_NDrEVRxj9QA9eQBk-e5sdQGISOXUvkXTIdczqt14-SWMPxlSF79s3CLRAI2wzsl6XkXlqrUJBC8/s1600/1+liz.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3R2BQJG_YtDU5czkZE03ncNSfIRFgm7_TH793ONJ8GrqoNkiKWroEr8bZSI_oOSx_NDrEVRxj9QA9eQBk-e5sdQGISOXUvkXTIdczqt14-SWMPxlSF79s3CLRAI2wzsl6XkXlqrUJBC8/s400/1+liz.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524503966900688866" /></a><br />Recently it came to my attention that not only can the clothing you have in your closet be unfulfilling for your parties and events, but even if you buy something new, you may not be leaving the store feeling you've accomplished what you set out to do: Look and feel your best. <div><br />Because it was both my career and my craft before media became my thing, I assure you: Clothing can be so moving and empowering when it is carefully considered. It disappoints me to find anyone unhappy with so much to choose from in this vast retail environment.<br /><br />I can only share what my time wearing clothes and working with them has taught me. I hope you find it useful.<br /><br />1. A little research, in every endeavor, is the best start.<br /><br />I follow a number of magazines on-line which are style and age appropriate (I am in my 30's, if I followed Cosmo's page I would look ridiculous). There is absolutely nothing worse than attempting to dress younger that you are: Grow old gracefully. Style is not only for twenty-something's but it does need to adapt. Unwillingness to adapt is inelegant and foolhardy: <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Your Abercrombie t-shirt will not turn back the clock, sister.</span><i><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">But if everything you purchase is well-thought out, then even in "throwing something on," you cannot take a left at the intersection of gorgeous and "does she own a mirror?"<br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij0j2AEgVQ-6nq85lcsfNBxn-9fyX5cUn2GJNd9fhOi4NHO7MGvgSTfell6KdwxXU2XxQk4ZBiBGiy8geOlhMMwhfgBLmCDuPlfN6Z_WGluJivuRC75dZSyAacQyQNCP8r6M9CqqLs6bI/s1600/1+charlieze.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij0j2AEgVQ-6nq85lcsfNBxn-9fyX5cUn2GJNd9fhOi4NHO7MGvgSTfell6KdwxXU2XxQk4ZBiBGiy8geOlhMMwhfgBLmCDuPlfN6Z_WGluJivuRC75dZSyAacQyQNCP8r6M9CqqLs6bI/s400/1+charlieze.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524483367428660498" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br /><br />I follow resources which represent style, color trends, and stylist picks. I want a cross-section of information at the start of each season; Once I have all that, I know what is carrying over in my closest from previous seasons and years.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkMOqo-2vjzXlUgI5PGYxhpNlmJ3NtSzVtSlmnad3KQZXXX7TBfw9Yccn8skC7gJtf0DB07sUpGZNUrOta9EzX0AvC5SJE3-3fS75pndCvb6WXM8yjvEUX33MyxgkCl5WLzrkR01pf9fM/s1600/1+olivia.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkMOqo-2vjzXlUgI5PGYxhpNlmJ3NtSzVtSlmnad3KQZXXX7TBfw9Yccn8skC7gJtf0DB07sUpGZNUrOta9EzX0AvC5SJE3-3fS75pndCvb6WXM8yjvEUX33MyxgkCl5WLzrkR01pf9fM/s400/1+olivia.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524482684227641458" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br /><br />I follow a few brands which have done well by me, but not many. Fickle is admirable if you want to find the best options; see everything, raise your horizon line to the limit. I want to know about new brands: Not sales. Look, if it is ready-to-wear or off-the-rack, it will always go on sale. I am after the right pieces at the right times. I keep some of this intel in my back pocket for events. I like to know who has what dresses if I need them long before the moment arrives.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGdN1vDK52pMGUMENwCYmVfldQEE0rG3q8i1WwHC3zgS524Wzq0bP8jftfmBE0CJUDCV6AYjrZaQKVhZ66d1cPT1Xml592-Kq205evBIHS9GnckHBtwDsbo_4CY0fxvWJZGGC958HKO8o/s1600/1+elizabeth-hurley.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 192px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGdN1vDK52pMGUMENwCYmVfldQEE0rG3q8i1WwHC3zgS524Wzq0bP8jftfmBE0CJUDCV6AYjrZaQKVhZ66d1cPT1Xml592-Kq205evBIHS9GnckHBtwDsbo_4CY0fxvWJZGGC958HKO8o/s400/1+elizabeth-hurley.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524480948576749138" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br /><br />Two nights ago, I was advised I should appear for work at an event at the Governor's mansion. My boss and I might have had a thirty second conversation about clothing: I had the right dress in my closet. If not, I know who had the one for the job, follow? For those of you who, like me, work in the event arena, it is critical to take care of the clothing issue well in advance and deal with a season at once; Breakfast, lunch, dinner, cocktails, and black tie all in the bull pen.<br /><br />2. I flip through a few things.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgARmvABSqVmLJuZ4okdnN-udMysOKGk3POj9A6uHSJ5dZlQS0uj5lhFzELY4HW45RbB0EkOL1ciLyQFnRJUl5MvKUVPPqeU7I8WZXSPxDT4VWO7E5LJSYQYbjWUFFcHaq4w81kLB-0Z_I/s1600/1+kelly.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgARmvABSqVmLJuZ4okdnN-udMysOKGk3POj9A6uHSJ5dZlQS0uj5lhFzELY4HW45RbB0EkOL1ciLyQFnRJUl5MvKUVPPqeU7I8WZXSPxDT4VWO7E5LJSYQYbjWUFFcHaq4w81kLB-0Z_I/s400/1+kelly.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524484108145439586" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br /><br />I gather for a season or two at a time. Once the recon in the closet is complete, I flip through a couple of realistic fashion mags (I read Vogue for inspiration, I read inStyle for my actual clothing at this stage in my life), whatever appeals to you - but, again, age appropriate.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPrg5VbcjU2YRjhkFuqtK-R8WwNuVO1Ic-XJ_QO7j5bLmIIZ4x6Po-7Htjf7yJJL76mCTOzE1gu_T00CYnlYueYPi8LKz-1xC0x1Fk3P0DjaCqv3xXM6Ji97vBplbOxzL5WGvXi0pCPfc/s1600/1+halle.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPrg5VbcjU2YRjhkFuqtK-R8WwNuVO1Ic-XJ_QO7j5bLmIIZ4x6Po-7Htjf7yJJL76mCTOzE1gu_T00CYnlYueYPi8LKz-1xC0x1Fk3P0DjaCqv3xXM6Ji97vBplbOxzL5WGvXi0pCPfc/s400/1+halle.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524481496019486594" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br /><br />Catalogs: I hate 'em. Aside from the tree sacrifice, each book is too stylistically narrow. I just want a larger selection. Nordstrom.com, eDressme.com, and sites like them go right across the board for all types of product, find the one you like and bookmark it.<br /><br />3. I look carefully at mannequins in stores.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLc0gHc0-05AleKOrgF789AVHOD38Z8BCEryqnS1r91wOvSKY8rXAaolRMiqQLusJ-He0wEsk0UrFoO6Qk__L588g4suLXaZcDJXXVEMGWnU8QMuedhtv4JsV_JzofGOCXsa9B_eS49OA/s1600/1+holt.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 393px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLc0gHc0-05AleKOrgF789AVHOD38Z8BCEryqnS1r91wOvSKY8rXAaolRMiqQLusJ-He0wEsk0UrFoO6Qk__L588g4suLXaZcDJXXVEMGWnU8QMuedhtv4JsV_JzofGOCXsa9B_eS49OA/s400/1+holt.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524496966751498642" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br /><br />A stylist whose only job was to track trends and represent them correctly for the retailer agonized over the mannequins you see: This is not a store manager's decision. At a corporate level, all of this is styled by the real pros of the game alongside the designers, and then literal books, maps, and guidelines are sent to every store to tell them exactly which scarf and just how jaunty it is to be. Look at their work, and if you can put nothing together on your own, buy the outfit on the mannequin. Let the stylist do the creative work for you.<br /><br />4. Ugh, vintage (aka pretty girls gone grannie)<br /><br />Fact: If one does not have a great flair for fashion styling, this often looks more found-in-attic/ hidden-with-good-reason than glam, ok?<br /><br />I know someone who, without fail, will turn up in a piece of "vintage" and whatever sneaker she deems hippest that day (Chanel jackets and Converse - </span>please <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">hand over the Valium. </span>I die<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">, and </span>not<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> in a good way). It's just bad. It is not stylish (see point 1 above: research).<br /><br />A lot of things have to be consciously jammed into place to get vintage working for you: The piece will likely need tailored. Your hair needs to be set or up (unless you want an unintended sartorial revisit to Woodstock from the neck up). Your make up should be correct in color, coverage, and there should be enough of it.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha1ANhzztrR77xiC4tBhOMe4Wp6A9OUSA-DmW0FcqWtCjXVngwQYne2olbuAm7Ta1eAkY1Mj6rQFT2pe4vdSBpFxGfT1NR8a3zZI6njbcAeOGmSO0Tx1l-JPySMB73BnwxJjNvKOBfSNo/s1600/1+reese.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 216px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha1ANhzztrR77xiC4tBhOMe4Wp6A9OUSA-DmW0FcqWtCjXVngwQYne2olbuAm7Ta1eAkY1Mj6rQFT2pe4vdSBpFxGfT1NR8a3zZI6njbcAeOGmSO0Tx1l-JPySMB73BnwxJjNvKOBfSNo/s400/1+reese.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524494134350946050" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br /><br />Too often, vintage is used as an excuse to look relaxed. However, these girls who are rockin' boho chic are coiffed, make no mistake. I mean, set and styled within 1 millimeter of their scalps, so, please, do not mistake older clothing or even vintage-inspired apparel for something relaxed. Keep in mind, we are the most casual society of any that came before and their clothing was meant for more high-maintenance looks, generally.<br /><br />In moderation: If you really have a talent with styling.<br /><br />5. Make sure it <i>actually</i> fits, not generally fits.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd0gC_4vv224m0OvZB4KbS9pWQk7cLe0TDzAUWqQSBXKHkOASh1MX2mWH6uYlTl-q0sCpcYwd4xdUcwSmeN0pWbMKVW1AJ9yGavk9d1_mutrpMgbz48DIp3Qtb0-TzGgnlyuHQcveu5Ik/s1600/jennifer.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd0gC_4vv224m0OvZB4KbS9pWQk7cLe0TDzAUWqQSBXKHkOASh1MX2mWH6uYlTl-q0sCpcYwd4xdUcwSmeN0pWbMKVW1AJ9yGavk9d1_mutrpMgbz48DIp3Qtb0-TzGgnlyuHQcveu5Ik/s400/jennifer.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524484592877216498" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br /><br />6. Buy quality over quantity.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjMVgWQ2MmMSxM8j_hwkL3Wk-i1gOcaf8zcmkoWk-GpOd2hNtXwtL2z2MErWwzHSbMBIdIvkvqeqSAHR0FAgGZQ_yg4kIn48L6pc0acjU1eFTeXphVYkYhu8sj4BPnHTHRacY28Rma7QY/s1600/1+eva.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjMVgWQ2MmMSxM8j_hwkL3Wk-i1gOcaf8zcmkoWk-GpOd2hNtXwtL2z2MErWwzHSbMBIdIvkvqeqSAHR0FAgGZQ_yg4kIn48L6pc0acjU1eFTeXphVYkYhu8sj4BPnHTHRacY28Rma7QY/s400/1+eva.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524492036757440130" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br /><br />7. If you can have only one very good thing and it is going to be a basic or a pivot point for a whole season, color black will have the most longevity.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibvGXkSkjXUTkmYLlUyDxlekFUc5K80MYbRP51LVJ5hVp56dRCPjckrErFcMHbPziJTDj9xQ8EQAda9vSpwyPpuk8Vx8vnpHE5P6dbiJL6E4DfyzgYpsIZa2U65zbxuK4wJtPNFGlfmU4/s1600/1+eva+l.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibvGXkSkjXUTkmYLlUyDxlekFUc5K80MYbRP51LVJ5hVp56dRCPjckrErFcMHbPziJTDj9xQ8EQAda9vSpwyPpuk8Vx8vnpHE5P6dbiJL6E4DfyzgYpsIZa2U65zbxuK4wJtPNFGlfmU4/s400/1+eva+l.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524491550730496066" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br /><br />To sum up then: Feeling fantastic in your clothing is possible but like anything else, it takes work and research. You will need to purge, and it will be hard to part with the old stand-by's, but getting it absolutely right is far better than maintaining a storage closest for useless (albeit well-loved) pieces.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgauiNnWBLOdlm0I-humchE7A0EJOVGh8iqOWIjQwyRzOGoRBosc-Lz_wV74ftwyc-qb7Ugnxp4PnrmV8sGNiKgGC61WMh5a8Mkopz_XounRdUnXrZyTGnGwJYvNXEjMfNORZaU5V9AuqQ/s1600/1+mary.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgauiNnWBLOdlm0I-humchE7A0EJOVGh8iqOWIjQwyRzOGoRBosc-Lz_wV74ftwyc-qb7Ugnxp4PnrmV8sGNiKgGC61WMh5a8Mkopz_XounRdUnXrZyTGnGwJYvNXEjMfNORZaU5V9AuqQ/s400/1+mary.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524484986617219666" /></a></i></i></div>The Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876281636657645444.post-86505624622582642752010-09-28T11:21:00.000-04:002010-09-28T11:21:00.660-04:00Your advice. I need it.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi40skU3RYhV18KNz5LID3QSCLJYtrwanv_V4WEYI_3ji3O04YVlxbJIz3eNHGjEKKXs7lYCrkz5beKIh6Uaor6MP4TyB9MZV01Dz3DHoqg03hAKqrsYAL-UyLSDRQ4QffEnZZWTJ_flYA/s1600/1+pott.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi40skU3RYhV18KNz5LID3QSCLJYtrwanv_V4WEYI_3ji3O04YVlxbJIz3eNHGjEKKXs7lYCrkz5beKIh6Uaor6MP4TyB9MZV01Dz3DHoqg03hAKqrsYAL-UyLSDRQ4QffEnZZWTJ_flYA/s400/1+pott.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519388536572637266" /></a><br /><br />The above is just an example. Maybe not the best. It is only to say, I have a real issue with holiday decor. I get a buy at this time of year in that most of the fall work is done by a garden and land which is, no pun intended, giving up the ghost at this time of year. Dried corn stalks and gourds, pumpkins, hay bales from forgotten corners of unused paddocks. All this is fine by me, what came from the earth, I eventually turn back into it in one way or another: The pumpkins will be stolen by the foxes, the corn will compost, the hay will cover the garden through snow.<br /><br />Once in a while though, I see these happy commercial seasonal items which, if I were not more careful and guilt-riddled, would leap thoughtlessly into the canning-overstuffed pantry or butlers closets. And there they would sit the remnants of fun from last year, useless for all but three weeks per annum. I caution myself with the words of Suze Orman to some poor soul in front of her on a check out line, "No wonder you're in debt! Do you need all that crap?!"<br /><br />But once in a great while, especially where babies and fun holidays are concerned, my resolve becomes less steeled. I almost allow myself a retreat from the effort to minimize the clear waste that any sort of storage is...<br /><br />I don't know, Gorgeous Souls, tell me how you balance it all, and by it - I mean - the stuff in the closets?<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Photo: </i></span><a href="http://www.potterybarn.com/shop/holiday-decor/halloween-holiday/?cm_src=b1"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Pottery Barn</i></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>, Blushing Hostess sponsor</i></span>The Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3876281636657645444.post-62594302604348165682010-09-25T06:03:00.005-04:002010-09-25T06:03:00.493-04:00The ghost, revisited<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnrOfIJQfJDqvriLojIbmnHEobvfuaaI-BNZ4EM45_yQWri-33WCap_kEBGgAb-aNEBo34fcCVv3TjDKQx1Ax2UEOFykw76Wz88eSqRpYJQ-6ZLMEVrtG0sPFm-bnwRgxgx-X05f7abI4/s1600/IMG_7799.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnrOfIJQfJDqvriLojIbmnHEobvfuaaI-BNZ4EM45_yQWri-33WCap_kEBGgAb-aNEBo34fcCVv3TjDKQx1Ax2UEOFykw76Wz88eSqRpYJQ-6ZLMEVrtG0sPFm-bnwRgxgx-X05f7abI4/s400/IMG_7799.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520509808587023250" /></a><br /><br /><div>The thoughtful gardener who planted <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Merryvale</span> surely went on to his paradise long ago. Initially, it was hard to say just how long but once fall arrived the copses of trees began to give up his secrets. </div><div><br /></div><div>Twenty and thirty foot chestnut and English walnut trees in deliberate patterns have begun to nod to the ghosts age. Two, maybe three generations before I was born he lived here. His name was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Snowden</span> and this was his family's place. Today, I live in the home that had been his family's farmhouse. One day, in his fifties, he up and left for California, selling the place to the people who eventually built the abandon nursery on the southeast corner of the property. </div><div><br /></div><div>I do what I can to keep up with his hand-me-down projects. The tiny twinkle-toed girls and I harvested the chestnuts and complained viciously to the family of squirrels who left not one walnut for anyone else let alone enough to make even one measly banana walnut pancake. </div><div><br /></div><div>When surely I would stop for a minute to take stock, rest, or feel the unavoidable emotion of everyday life, his ghostly thirst for earthly endeavor never allows for a moment of reflection. Reflection generally being an intellectual past-time I suspect of creating a waste of working time anyway: Idle hands...</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't honestly know anymore if I chose his place, or if it chose me. </div>The Blushing Hostesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16303502206261407536noreply@blogger.com1