The Petite Sophisticate

2011-08-09T17:46:00.001-07:00

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’" - Fred Rogers

Fanfare

2011-08-07T18:23:00.000-07:00

As some of you may know, I'm generally engaged to somebody or other. And as you may also know, this means I have a wedding dress in reserve. (I'm being flippant because it's all very fraught and serious and full of heartbreak and happiness, really.) Anyway, the dress is a stunner and was made by Mary Adams. I'm ashamed to admit that I totally missed the book she did with Amy Sedaris (whose whimsical frocks she makes) last fall, The Party Dress. I have ordered it. I doubt I can sew anything as gorgeous as all that, but even if it's just to learn more about this fascinating, indomitable lady and her story it'll be money well spent.

Dolls and Men at Yale

2011-08-06T18:54:00.000-07:00

Growing up, Rumer Godden's sad, sinister, wonderfully detailed doll stories were some of my favorite children's books. What luck to find this (peculiar) 1980s TV adaptation on YouTube!

The Petite Sophisticate Gets Dressed

2011-07-31T10:19:00.001-07:00

So a friend of mine just suggested I share a few of my work-clothes resources. While I am by no means an expert, I have worked out a system that -- so far! -- has served me well.

First things first: I identified a basic silhouette/aesthetic to which I'd adhere, and ruthlessly threw away everything in my closet that didn't. Well, I didn't throw it away -- I gave it to friends. Working with my age/figure/hair, it seemed pretty clear I'd want to go retro -- but more minimalist and less Mad Men, if that makes sense. I decided to stick to a limited palette and keep lines simple and unadorned. Here's where I've gotten most things:

Shoes:
I splurged on a few pair of good, basic pumps, but I still got them on sale -- I made Google alerts for the styles I wanted and the word "Sale" and struck when they became available (I'd already tried them on for size in person.) I have one rosy nude pair from Rupert Sanderson and a taupe pair from Barneys Co-Op. I have my eye on a gray set from Common Projects, but it needs to come way down. I don't care for black shoes in summer.

Bag:
I am not a bag person -- I usually just carry my TPR tote nowadays -- but I invested in a neutral clutch I can slip into my briefcase or tote and take out when I run to lunch or am doing something after work. (Again: Google alerts are your friend!)

Dresses Etc.:

My uniform is a linen pencil dress -- or pencil skirt and blouse. I got lucky on Etsy with a few vintage scores (which I then had altered at either Nelson Tailors or Seoul Tailor) but as we all know that's a crap-shoot, and I'm much more inclined to go for vintage-style, without the retro seaming or fabrication.

ASOS.com has been a lifesaver: specifically their linen pencil dress. I got these in a few colors, reinforced the hems, and am good to go.

Heartmycloset.com is an amazing Etsy site on which the seller works from vintage patterns to make custom dresses. Reasonable, beautiful quality, and unique!

J.Crew -- hey, if it's not broke. Their No.2 pencil skirt is flattering, basic, and comes in petite sizes. I also swear by their white blouses.

Dressy:
When I need to go a bit dressier, I tend to go for Stop Staring, Trashy Diva, or my beloved Betsey Johnson rose-printed seersucker, a birthday splurge I have not regretted once! For cocktail affairs, I get a lot of wear out of this BB Dakota number, which I got for a song at the late, lamented Inven.Tory.

(I am still on the lookout for the perfect belted jacket in my price range...)

Fall will of course be a whole 'nother ballgame, but I do have my eye on this:

Just sayin

2011-05-07T07:23:00.000-07:00

My sofa is really ready to be put out to pasture. I'd say we got out $75 worth, but still melancholy. Especially since I'm apparently at the point in my life where I'm drawn to furniture from Anthropologie.

Happy Returns

2011-05-05T07:02:00.000-07:00

Wonderful, lovely birthday. Slim, being the consummate good sport, allowed himself to be dragged to not only the McQueen show at the Costume Institute, but to Beautiful Darling at IFC. (Look, it was raining.) Add to this cake with friends and steak with the family and you have the recipe for a great 30th.

But unquestionably, this was the highlight.

We had emerged at West 4th Street (for breakfast at Joseph Leonard) and unfurled our umbrellas when a middle-aged Indian man approached us and asked us wheedlingly, in turn, if we'd give him our umbrellas -- never mind that he looked perfectly capable of obtaining his own. We said no.

"But I'm the baby!" he said, oddly. "You have to take care of the baby!"

Happy birthday to me.

Showtime: Or, On The Town With The Petite Sophisticate

2011-04-30T06:29:00.000-07:00

There are so many good shows up in NYC right now: "VIENNA 1900: STYLE AND IDENTITY" at the Neue is unmissable -- a mix of art, design, multimedia that gives a general sense of the city's vitality at that time -- just for starters. Last weekend, we caught a really interesting exhibition at the Cooper Hewitt Design Museum (worth a visit for the building alone, as it's housed in Carnegie's mansion): "Color Moves: Art and Fashion by Sonia Delaunay." I didn't know much about this artist prior to the show (save that she was married to Robert) but she was a prolific painter in her own right and an even more prolific designer of textiles and avant-garde clothing created along the principles of "Simultanaiety." (Her Paris showroom was even called "Atelier Simultané.")

The designs are energetic, exciting, intellectually engaging.

Would I have worn them? Probably not -- it's not as though I go around swathed in Rei Kawakubo now. But in both cases, I can appreciate the artistry! If you can't make it to New York, this slideshow is pretty amazing!

Unmentionables

2011-04-21T11:17:00.001-07:00

When Slim and I were in San Francisco a few weeks ago, I stumbled upon the lingerie shop of my dreams: "Dollhouse Bettie," which specializes in vintage and retro-style underthings and swimsuits. Normally I like having destination spots outside of NYC, but in this case I'm merely wildly envious! Luckily, they have a very good website.

Inspiration

2011-04-21T08:55:00.000-07:00

Over the weekend, I visited the B's outside of Boston. They have the most delectable, delightful baby imaginable and while -- between Amtrak and the Boston Marathon -- the visit was all too brief, it was full of good conversation, delicious meals and one particularly lovely walk through the Harvard Arboretum. While flipping through a copy of Miss Dahl's Voluptuous delights (which we both agreed was a bit much), I was struck by one dress, in which Miss Dahl concocts a smoothie of some description. Ciara was kind enough to scan the image for me and I'm seriously considering having it copied, if I can find the same subtle shade of blue cotton.

2011-04-19T05:50:00.001-07:00

It is a truth universally acknowledged -- and if it isn't it should be -- that if you go out looking your worst, you'll run into the last person you'd wish to see. Yesterday I was feeling feverish and lethargic and had spent the day in my Metropolitan Opera sweatshirt and a pair of moccasins (and, yes, pants) and when I decided to venture out, made no move to ameliorate the situation. I'd not walked a block when I relaized the arrogant folly of what I was doing: I turned around, went home, put on a little mascara and a respectable jacket, and as a result ran into no one but my friend Lily, which was a happy outcome all around. Lily is in the happy position of going to one of the city's most elegant and fashionable balls next month -- granted in a professional capacity, but still close enough to the action to determine exactly how short all the male stars are in real life. Last week I went over to her perfect bachelorette pad and we had a powwow: she's much taller than I but we wear the same dress size, so I offered up all my swankest duds and she's currently deciding between two -- a 70's-inflected black bias-cut with an asymmetrical ruffle shoulder, and a full-skirted 1950s chiffon number in pine green. Both look super.

I'd gone out in the hopes of tempting myself into appetite, and did indeed get the fixings for a dainty single-lady meal. But though I duly prepared a nice salmon filet and a little gem-lettuce salad, I wasn't very hungry and very much fear this is a real bout of something. Just as well Slim's on the coast, en famille.

Speaking of! Charlie and Maeve are coming out for my birthday. About the latter: I was feeling just fine about it until yesterday, when the Monday crossword offered up the following clue: "Person approaching middle-age." The answer? "Thirtysomething."

Paris Was Yesterday

2011-04-17T07:22:00.000-07:00

There was a time when, for a taste of France, one had only to go to West 4th Street. Up until a few years ago, the infamous Claude ruled the roost at his eponymous patisserie, and buying one of his ungainly croissants was a minor gallic ordeal. Claude was unfailingly unpleasant, the coffee unfailingly terrible, the place lacking air-conditioning in the summer. But the croissants were good, and it was always entertaining to see people attempt to ingratiate themselves with the proprietor, invariably rebuffed. When Claude retired, he sold his business to a hard-working and kindly employee and things go on much as before, save that now the customer service is more or less normal and it's not the adventure it used to be. I happened to stop in for a pain aux raisins and one of those awful coffees the first day they reopened, just by chance, and the experience was fascinating. One fellow bellied up to the counter and said in a confidential fashion,

"Man, am I glad to see you. Claude was a piece of work. Came here every day for 10 years and couldn't get a friendly word out of him."

He was clearly looking for commiseration, but got only a noncommittal smile from the new owner, and went away with his desired status as "beloved regular" still very much in question. No sooner had he left when another man, who'd overheard, approached the counter with an equally confidential air.

"I heard what that guy said," he said, "and frankly, I never understood people like that. Claude liked anyone reasonable. You just had to act like a human being. I mean, he and I got along great."

He also was rewarded only with a vague smile, and it seemed clear that, despite the change in demeanor, the place's general no-favorites policy was in no danger.

(Personally, I like anonymity; I've been known to give places a wide berth if I feel my privacy might be compromised, and I hate anyone to feel compelled to give me special treatment. There was a gourmet takeout shop near the store where I used to stop for a jelly donut maybe once a week. The same young guy waited on me each time and one day, said, all jocular, "If this keeps up, we're going to have to roll you out of here one of these days!" Give me Claude's indiscriminate hostility any day.)

But for the true French 4th experience, you need to continue up the block to Ludivine, where everything is neutral and terribly Parisian and exorbitantly expensive. I buy my Nuxe products there, and lately have been stalking a pair of rosy-hued heels that the salesman and I agree are perfection, but whose price strains credulity.

All and none of which is to say, speaking of Paris, I'll be an editor of some description at the Paris Review come late May. After three years at a job I love, it was time for a change. I hope my friends from Jezebel will drop by. Although I'll, of course, still be here.

Precious Moments

2011-01-25T14:47:00.000-08:00

I made notes of some of my goings-on today.

10:02 am. Mom calls to ask where she should buy chocolates.

10:35 BD sends amusing flow chart; fwd to a few people and make Gchat status.

11:13 Rachel writes that she has found someone to match up with Wynn.

11:15 Write Wynn, tell him we have found him someone.

1:07 Make plans to see Fritz Lang film with Ramona.

2:30 Email discussion of future excursion to Brighton Beach nightclub.

3:03 Facebook with Jaime about Faithfull.

4:30 Email discussion of whether we should go to Russian baths while in Brighton Beach, decide we should.

5:02 Send image of dress I think she'd like to LD.

A Few Favorites

2011-01-21T06:50:00.001-08:00

I'll admit it: I love any feature or blog post where people list their favorite products. I'm an absolute sucker for them. So, just for fun and not because anyone asked and mostly because I wanted to use that graphic, here are a few of mine!

Face: I use Nuxe products, which I recommend highly and not least because (as I learned at a recent beauty party) most of what we used is absolutely crammed with mineral oil -- aging AND unhealthy! -- and this line is not. Plus, the prices are fine, it smells good, it's pleasantly French, and the packaging doesn't bother me.

Perfume: I have worn Frederic Malle's "En Passant" for about 8 years now, with "Lys Mediterannee" for dressy occasions. What Malle did is get top parfumeurs to design scents to please themselves. In their boutiques, you smell the perfumes in these little chambers. They're exquisite, and there's something for every taste. The clerks are also remarkably knowledgeable.

Lingerie: I am very serious about my underpinnings and my favorite brand is Princesse Tam-Tam, although it's increasingly hard to find stateside. The best boutique, bar none, is Winkworth in Red Hook. They're nice and fun and low-pressure and passionate about lingerie. I also like Brooklyn Fox in Williamsburg.

Stockings: Wolford, of course! Their stay-ups really stay up!

Hair: I like the cuts at High Horse and I use Devachan, having curly hair.

Update

2011-01-10T13:05:00.000-08:00

A little better! "Faithfull" just arrived in the mail, which hurts not at all...

2 funny things -- well, maybe not, we're all kindred spirits here -- but one of you mentioned Elizabeth Taylor, a STACK of whose novels, by chance, I'd just liberated from my parents' house. Meanwhile, as my friends can attest, I have been on a North and South binge for the past month, absolutely slavering over Mr. Thornton in the most undignified way!

I will report as the recs roll in!

Solicitation

2011-01-03T15:10:00.001-08:00

It's that time of month when things get a little rough for me and, socially speaking, I have to pretty much go hermit, since it takes all my energy to get through the day and do my work and I become easily overwhelmed and despairing. Although I am inactive -- besides periodic walks and making myself dance every couple of hours (seriously!) by the end of the day I am drained...although like many people I have difficulty sleeping during depressive episodes.

Here is what I was wondering: I can't seem to find a book or movie to hold my interest, which might be my restless state, but I'd love to hear some good recommendations for things I can sink my teeth into. My friends here have never steered me wrong! Music, too, while we're at it...I have been finding Artie Shaw good for perking me up, and have been re-reading Separate Lives, which is of course good, but I'd love something a bit more immersive. No incest, please, I am not of the frame of mind for grit. Well, I guess if it were in a lurid, 13th Tale-like context perhaps I could handle it.

Don't think this is the fault of New Year's, which was quiet, or the weekend, which was filled with friends and good talk and a couple of nice meals. I was just due for a blue period. I find it comforting to write here; it does not require the effort of real contact nor does it worry anyone as does talking to my parents, who are good about not reading here since I explained to them I needed a private space for thoughts etc.

I have chicken marbella in the oven as I hoped the smell would be appetizing. Might try and go out tonight and hear some music but probably overly ambitious and would hate to be a drain on M. We'll see.

Uniform Alert!

2010-12-21T12:09:00.000-08:00

Matt was just home and in the airport saw a bunch of flight attendants for South Korea's Asiana Airlines! They looked so nifty that he was moved to alert me, and, well, you'll see why. Here are their current uniforms, Summer and Winter. "They knew how awesome they looked," he reported.

My Blue Heaven

2010-12-16T05:25:00.000-08:00

Here are some shots from Key West! Mostly El, as she is a much better photographer with a proper camera. Here am I, with a rental bike.

A characteristic Old Town cottage.

A typical residence in Old Town. Can you imagine a better place to finish a book?

All the gingerbread on the old Cigar-makers' cottages in Old Town corresponded to the people within. Wonder what this meant!

How often do you get to shout "Tin ROOF! Rusted" in unison? Not enough. Am thinking of buying this place, obviously.

"Breakfast with the roosters" at Blue Heaven restaurant. Seriously, the wild chickens are everywhere!

Banana bread (with the roosters) at Blue Heaven!

Hemingway House!

A six-toed cat at the Hemingway House. They're everywhere: even on Hemingway's bed.

Hemingway's Study (I refuse to call him "Papa.")

The sunset is a Big Deal in KW. Every night, everyone congregates at some bar (with obligatory guitar-strumming dude) to drink cocktails and celebrate the end of another day. Despite this, there was a shocking lack of good sunset-overlooking bars. And the "tiki bar" we found had not the faintest hint of a paper umbrella! Still, very pretty.

Original Sponge Man!

This guy was in the garden of the Audubon House. The guide was very apologetic about the fact that Audubon had to shoot the birds in order to paint them, despite our reassurances that A) It was the 19th Century B) They were hardly endangered and C) It was for science. Made me worry about the caliber of the average tourist.

Pepe's, the oldest restaurant in Key West.

This is an Ibis we saw on our tropical fruit bike tour (in which, yes, we did sample several novel fruits growing wild. We were the only members of the tour. The guide played "My Way" on a conch shell.)

The Southernmost point in the USA!

I know E will forgive my running a pic of her, since it is so neat! This tree, needless to say, is ancient! If we ever release a quirky album that gets play on Trouble's FMU show, this will be the cover art.

Two Creepy Things From Key West

2010-12-16T04:59:00.000-08:00

So, in the month plus since I've been in touch, El. and I went to Key West! This was a sort of impromptu trip, but somewhere I've wanted to go ever since I read about Elizabeth Bishop's living there...even though of course we knew all about the Parrot Head-Margaritaville-honky-tonk aspect of it. For the most part, we managed to steer clear of this (and the mini Bourbon St. that is Duval) although not all the sun-bleached Buffet manques of a certain age eager to be guides to two unescorted gals! Everyone was very friendly, the town certainly neighborly, but it can't be denied that it's one of those places where ambition goes to die!

That said, we were enchanted by the Old Town architecture, the tropical beauty, and the ghost stories! Two were especially fascinating.

In the 1920's, Carl Tanzler (later known as Carl von Cosel) emigrated from Germany to the the Florida Keys, in the United States, leaving behind a wife and two young daughters. Von cosel had worked as an x-ray technician and inventor, barely making enough to get by, but claimed to be a former submarine skipper and owner of nine college degrees. In 1934, he found employment at a Key West hospital in the tuberculosis ward. Shortly after bring his family to join him in Florida, he and his wife, Doris, separated.

A recent author of the story, Ben Harrison, describes Tanzler at this stage of his life as; "fifty years old - an imaginative, impractical inventor, scientist, electrical wizard and sometimes ingenious liar" who had "already begun to mix fact and fantasy in the search for his dream lover." Von Cosel became a lonely man and his lonliness was transformed when he fixated when a new patient arrived at the hospital, suffering with the affliction.

A poor Hispanic 22-year-old young woman, Elena Hoyos, was universally acknowledged to be a great beauty and Von Cosel, then working as a ward technician, was soon captivated, despite her rebuffs of his advances. He quickly became determined to help Elena, even cure her, using unconventional methods. There is was never any evidence of a romance between the young hispanic beauty and Von Cosel, but in his mind and will, he intended to rid her of the disease, with the ultimate aim of forming a lasting love attachment.

Her desperate family, knowing the severity of her illness, gave Von Cosel permission to try his unusual methods in an attempt to cure her. The hospital staff was dubious but with his nine 'degrees' and ocassional eccentric brilliance, they let him try his approach on Elena, knowing they could do nothing themselves to sabe her. Using an odd mix of chemicals, herbs and even reportedly X-ray treatments, he attempted to stem the tide of her tuberculosis. It was sort of a an early attempt at chemotherapy, but with untried methods.

Despite his efforts, Elena Hoyos died leaving Von Cosel despondent and once again, alone. Von Cosel got permission from her family to build her a mausoleum. There, Von Cosel used formaldehyde and other chemicals and spices to preserve the body, secretly visiting it nightly. He had a key made that no one but her sister knew about. The Hoyos's trusted Von Cosel and since he seemed to love her in life (even though it was an unrequited love), they were understanding of his fondness for visiting her grave. They did not know he was inside attempting to preserve Elena. Von Cosel paid for and built an above-ground burial vault which included a telephone so that he could communicate with her and a strange airship whose function he refused to state. During these nightly visits, he would talk to Elena's corpse and said later that one night he saw her ghost in the mausoleum. He claimed she appeared to him from that time after every night and they would have long conversations and she expressed her love for him. These nocturmal visitations continuted for two years until he lost his job at the hospital and moved to a remote shack. But he wasn't alone in his shack, for he had stolen Elena's body from the mausoleum!

There he placed her body on a large bed, enough to sleep two, curtained with a cloth veil. He continued his work on her decaying body as the chemicals could only delay her body from mouldering for so long. He rubbed her entire body with strange oils and chemicals and then later had to reconstruct parts of her face with morticians wax to reform her features. He later admitted to spending long pleasant nights talking to her and professing his love.

Not seeing Von Cosel outside Elena's tomb for over seven years, her sister began to suspect something was amiss. She notified the authorities and they searched her mausoleum only to find it empty. Elena's sister instantly knew who had taken her sister's body and found Von Cosel's shack and confronted him. He kindly invited her inside, and to her horror, she saw what appeared be a wax dummy in the likeness of Elena laying on the bed. He told her that he and Elena were happy and in love and invited her to come back again and visit. The sister was livid and horrified and went to the police.

They came and took what they assumed to be a dummy to the local morgue to be autopsied. The "dummy" was actually the long decayed corpse of Elena Hoyos; her bones held together with piano wire, her skin had been treated with wax, her eye sockets filled with glass replacements, and she'd been perfumed to mask the odor of decomposition. This was terrible enough, but what the investigators found next was truly repulsive.

Von cosel had reconstructed many parts of her body, her eyes, nose, and most disturbingly, her vagina to which he added a tube that permitted sexual intercourse. He had been having sexual intercourse with the corpse of Elena Hoyos for as many as eight years!

The case eventually went to trial where amazingly the majority of the public, especially women, were firmly behind Carl, seeing him as a man who loved a woman so much that he was unable to let her go. In his confession he stated that he had planned to use the airship to take the both of them "high into the stratosphere, so that radiation from outer space could penetrate elena's tissues and restore life to her somnolent form." many people sympathized with von cosel after hearing his story and a latin love song was even composed based on the subject. Von cosel was only imprisoned for a short time and elena's body was buried in a metal cube which was buried in a secret location.

Before the burial there was another bizarre incident. So much attention had been given in newpapers, press accounts and court records that the authorities thought it would be best to show the people Elena's body before her secret burial. They placed her body, still grossly decayed and with a silken, waxy face, in a trailer cart and allowed the curious throngs to view her before her second burial. One ten-year-old boy, now in his 60's, said,

"I've never been able to forget that sight. It didn't even look like a human anymore. So much reconstrution and decay....it was the scariest thing I've ever seen. Her face was an odd white-ish color that looked more like a wax dummy than a womans face. And she had horrible, black, staring, glass eyes. I still dream about that sight."

It seems that the press did not divulge the details of the necrophilia before showing her corpse and had the general public known about that aspect there probably would have been less sympathy for Von Cosel. Declared sane, Von Cosel was not charged with a crime because the statute of limitations on grave robbing had expired. Elena Hoyos was eventually buried at a secret location. Von Cosel, separated from his love, used a death mask to create a life-sized dummy of her, and lived with it until his death in 1952.

Robert the Doll

Robert, sometimes known as Robert the Doll, is a doll that was once owned by Key West painter and author Robert Eugene Otto. The doll, which is allegedly cursed, has become a fixture of ghost tours in the Key West area since it was inducted into the Fort East Martello Museum. Aesthetically, Robert resembles an early 20th century American Naval officer. Contrary to popular belief, however, the doll's hair is not made of human hair, but rather, it consists of a synthetic material resembling wool yarn.

Eugene was given the doll in 1904 by a servant who, according to legend, was skilled in black magic and voodoo and was displeased with the family. Soon afterward it became clear that there was something eerie about the doll. Eugene's parents said they often heard him talking to the doll and that the doll appeared to be talking back. Although at first they assumed that Eugene was simply answering himself in a changed voice, they later believed that the doll was actually speaking.

Neighbors claimed to see the doll moving from window to window when the family was out. The Otto family swore that sometimes the doll would emit a terrifying giggle and that they caught glimpses of it running from room to room. In the night Eugene would scream, and when his parents ran to the room they would find furniture knocked over and Eugene in bed, looking incredibly scared, telling them that "Robert did it!".

When Eugene died in 1974, the doll was left in the attic until the house was bought again. The new family included a ten year old girl, who became Robert's new owner. It was not long before the girl began screaming out in the night, claiming that Robert moved about the room and even attempted to attack her on multiple occasions. More than thirty years later, she still tells interviewers that the doll was alive and wanted to kill her.

The doll is annually rotated to the Old Post Office and Customhouse in October, with museum staff claiming that strange activity in the museum increases during such times.
Individuals who desire to visit Robert in the Fort East Martello Museum and wish to take a picture of him, according to legend, the person must ask the doll politely, and if he does not agree (by tipping his head to one side) and the individual takes a picture anyway, then the doll will curse the person and their family.

Holidaze

2010-12-16T04:41:00.001-08:00

I am embarrassed to have been away so long! Suffice it to say, I've been having ups and downs better not lived out in public view, since both are tiresome in their own way! Have also been overwhelmed by Christmas! To date, have tree and wreath up; most cards out; about half my fudge made; and am maybe 1/3 done on presents!

2010-11-07T13:28:00.000-08:00

It is a funny thing -- or maybe it's not -- but every time someone close to me has died, I have had an overpowering desire to watch ghost movies. As you know, I like Gothic themes any time -- and it being Halloween season doesn't hurt -- but at such times nothing else will do. I am especially drawn to those set in the 1970s, in which everyone is seemingly punished for the naivete of belonging to a happy family (just as a decade later one would be punished for being a teen girl.) In the past week I watched two I liked a lot: Burnt Offerings and, especially, Audrey Rose. Both feature amazing architecture as well as more than usual chills and genuinely surprising denouments.

A publicist sent me a book I ended up loving: Haunted Houses, by the photographer Corinne May Botz. The book's made up of carefully-culled images and first-person accounts by residents of haunted spaces. There are a number of spine-tinglers, and the combination of subtly evocative visuals and frank narration is highly effective. But there was one part that stood out especially for me, and not just because it concerns St. Barnabas Episcopal Church, not far from where I grew up (and site of an excellent annual rummage sale.) The former minister testifies to the many instances of hauntings in the church and then says,

"I don't know how you scientifically deal with that. I'm sure there are ways of saying that it was a bad dream or a projection, but it happens and it's not surprising believing in the communion of saints as I do. I think, "Yeah so? What's so surprising about it?" There's a fine line between the next world and this. It's all one reality and we can't divide it up, reality is reality. We know a little bit from Einstein about time, relativity and space, and that one interacts with the other. Time is a human construct anyway... who says there's a great division about past, present and future? Who says we can't visit those places in the so-called past? Now is all we have."

I love that. And when I read it, I sat up, struck by the simplicity of the idea. Because things are not uncanny unless they are breaking rules -- and rules are arbitrary. It seems to me great arrogance to always let logic supercede intuition, anyway.

2010-10-31T15:00:00.000-07:00

I want to talk about something I don't often write about and that something is Matthew. But first I need to tell you that I was in a bad way yesterday. You see, I'd gone off my medication because -- wait for it -- I am neurotically afraid of the pharmacist yelling at me (don't ask -- my brother, when told, described this as "irrational but logical.") And I had run out of both my medications, the one that keeps me happy and the one that keeps me stable. Anyway, I was fine, and then yesterday I crashed spectacularly and locked Matthew out, then realized I didn't have any sleeping pills either so I'd have to go get those anyway, then was intercepted by Matthew who was lurking outside and who forcibly filled the prescription and made me take my pills and held me and rocked me and sat with me until the calmer-downer one had worked and put me to sleep. He also called my brother. (There was also a period of my sitting on the sidewalk sobbing piteously and making a spectacle of myself in front of various neighbors plus the mailman, Derek and, now that I'm not dead, I sort of regret that part.)

Matthew takes wonderful care of me. (I should mention that my old boyfriend was also very adept at managing my black moods.) Matthew, meanwhile, would surely deny that he does anything save love me and he'd say something kind about how it's a small price to pay, which isn't true. When I get low he'll take me to look at puppies in the window of the pet store on 6th Avenue if things are really acute, or present me with a sweet taste. Or wordlessly bring me a cookbook, or a Betsy-Tacy, or Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.

Matthew is the kindest person I know -- the first to approach someone who's shy or retiring, and the last to begrudge anyone success. He's without schadenfruede. His intelligence is penetrating and specific, and he admits that he doesn't know the other things, even when that isn't done. You shouldn't underestimate him, but he won't hold it against you when you do, because he's like that. He makes me feel attractive for the first time. He also makes me feel I can succeed at anything -- but that he'll love me just the same if I don't.

He also bears a striking resemblance to Laurence Harvey.

2010-10-29T07:12:00.000-07:00

He would have loved that funeral. It was funny, and it was touching, and it was a full house, which he would definitely have appreciated. Various collaborators of his performed numbers from their shows, and a bunch of us spoke, and there was a lot of laughter.

I held it together until yesterday. They dimmed all lights on Broadway in his honor, and Grandpa Joe would have loved that so much: he lived for his work and truly loved the theatre. Anyway, something about that, in combination with leaving the apartment and saying goodbye to the doorman, just made me lose it, and I cried and cried.

I can't say enough how very kind my friends are. The night we came home from the funeral, after a long and exhausting day, I found a pot of daisies on my doorstep, from LD. In the mailbox was a package from my friend Virginia, containing Winnie the Pooh and The House at Pooh Corner. In the words of that bear of very little brains, "A little Consideration, a little Thought for Others, makes all the difference."

And although we have another three days of formal mourning allowed, he always said everything runs too long, so.

2010-10-26T12:00:00.001-07:00

Some of you know that my grandpa has been very ill for much of the past year, and this past Sunday, after suffering what the obit called "complications from a fall," he died swiftly and peacefully. As if it needs saying, we were lucky to have him around for 98 remarkably healthy years (I wasn't there for all 98 of them but, y'know, the world) and as my friend David put it, "laughing all the way."

People are so kind. Friends have been calling and emailing and it's so appreciated. This morning the doorbell rang -- and Dan had sent a care package from Russ and Daughters!!! I didn't know whether to cry or immediately eat a bagel and lox. (I did both.)

My dad has done all the stuff like dealing with Riverside and identifying the body, closing out accounts and all the real business of dying. I have very little to do myself, and even those few things are proving challenging. 1: I am preparing my "remarks" which is tricky for all the obvious reasons. But on a more mundane level, I can't find anything to wear! I don't know what I expected -- that I could just waltz down Broadway and find some classic LBD. It seems the high street doesn't truck in these. I tried J.Crew, Banana Republic, Gap, Zara, H&M, Bloomingdales, Club Monaco, even Top Shop -- and after wandering in and out of stores like a zombie for 2 hours, listlessly trying on a series of embellished tops and things that didn't fit and that couldn't be ordered or altered in time, I called it a day. I hate having to think about such nonsense, but there you have it. As one person wrote me yesterday, "It's like Tolstoy said - somehow daily life goes on, even in impossible circumstances." The death of someone who's lived a long, happy life, at 98, is never a tragedy -- more a time for reflection and celebration. Not least because Grandpa Joe was, quite literally, the happiest person any of us has ever known.

Now, if only I could somehow communicate that in a few paragraphs...

2010-10-19T17:56:00.001-07:00

Something I am excited about: Chock Full 'o Nuts has opened a full-service cafe on 23rd Street! This may not seem like much of a big deal, but I have been into Chock ever since I read about its history. You see, having experienced antisemitism, founder William Black was sensitive to discrimination, and he made a point of hiring integrated staff, whom he paid a living wage and benefits. Later, Jackie Robinson was brand spokesman and after his retirement, Vice President of the company. In addition, the chain was known for high quality and uncompromising hygiene.

But I wouldn't be so excited if the menu wasn't totally retro and awesome: chicken croquettes, cream cheese on date-nut, and the "Chock Special" of "nutted cheese" on raisin bread! How I wish I still worked in the Flatiron! What a fab alternative to Eisenberg's Sandwich!

Sweet dreams!

S

Best. Weekend. Ever.

2010-09-20T04:51:00.000-07:00

Why? Well, try a show on Victorian post-mortem photography at the Merchant House Museum; tea with Mady at Podunk; dinner with the gang at Grand Sichuan; wine and gougeres with the girls; corn-bacon panna cotta at the Basis food fest; a housewarming at I.'s, and PAVEMENT at the Williamsburg waterfront! And just to give you an idea of the glory of that show, they opened with "Cut Your Hair," did a 15-song set that included "Father to a Sister of Thought," then played, like, a six-song encore that started with "Spit on a Stranger," seemed like it was over and instead went into "Gold Sounds" and ended with "Kennel District." Plus, despite being really old, still reminded me of why people become groupies. Yeah, I cried, so what?

Ugh

2010-09-19T05:33:00.000-07:00

Last time we went to Staten Island, to visit Killmeyer's Old Bavaria Inn, we stopped at the Snug Harbor museum. Snug Harbor was designed as a retirement home for merchant seamen -- a sort of Les Invalides for men who might otherwise have ended up with nowhere to go. The museum is beautifully done and worth a visit, and the sample room they have done up with the original furniture is actually beautiful. (Indeed, all the furniture was Stickley.) I was shocked to read that the whole place was nearly the victim of developers only ten years ago, and was only saved by the volunteer efforts of some very dedicated locals. I got to talking with the (rather eccentric) volunteer working the gift shop, who told me that before they intervened, the developers had managed to toss all the original Stickley into a dumpster -- a few enterprising people managed to rescue a few pieces before the garbage trucks came.

I was shocked and asked if this was common (I'd heard about the destruction of Dorothy Day's Spanish Town.) By way of example, he said that as we spoke, a developer was destroying the first free-black community in America: a hamlet settled by oystermen in the 17th Century! He explained that the borough is so mobbed up, and the developers so corrupt and insensitive, that things go on all the time that would appall folks just across the bridge.

So it was dismaying to see this week's Village Voice cover story, (by the terrific Foster Kamer) about the destruction of Cedar Grove Beach Club. Read the story, but here's the gist: for the past 40 years, a group of 41 families has leased this Staten Island beach from the city and had a summer community which is now the last remaining bungalow village in NYC. (Moses did away with the rest.) They've kept the beach in beautiful condition. Now the Parks Department, seemingly rather arbitrarily and vindictively, is reclaiming it and evicting them all, with the stated intent of tearing down all the (darling) bungalows and making the beach public space. Okay, except they have no plan, no budget and the adjoining beach -- from which they evicted everyone 40 years ago -- is filthy and neglected. This beach is only nice because it's been privately maintained. You don't need to have finished The Power Broker (seriously, has anyone?) to be wary of Parks Department muscle, and after my visit to Snug Harbor, I have a dim view indeed of SI's regard for history.

North by

2010-09-18T12:13:00.000-07:00

Wanted to mention that I was in Seattle, for a wedding (which was lovely), along with my ex (who has seemingly taken to living his life as an endless episode of "Between Two Ferns"), for the first time. We did all the tourist stuff: bought smoked salmon and chocolate-covered cherries at Pike Place, gawked at the view from the Space Needle, and were underwhelmed by the original Starbucks when we passed it.

But what I really wanted to tell you about was the hotel, the Panama Hotel, which, although it's featured in the novel The Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet, I chanced upon. It's on the National Register of Historic Places, and rightly so: designed in 1910 by the Japanese-American architect Sabro Ozasa, it's beautifully preserved. Each room has brass beds and the original small sinks and there are shared clawfoot tubs and there's a wonderful feel of the past to everything; the owner, Jan, has clearly made it a labor of love. Even better, the building contains the sole and remaining Japanese bathhouse (sento) in America -- which, while unused, is also remarkably preserved, and which you can see if Jan's around to show you. Downstairs is a lovely period tearoom where guests can have pastry and coffee or, of course, any of their teas hot or iced. Wonderful, and I urge all of you to try it if you're in Seattle: it's the kind of eccentric spot I love, but also just a charming and affordable place to stay in the center of the International District.

Dolly and I

2010-09-15T20:58:00.001-07:00

I think I can say in all honesty that I have never done this, but am going to go ahead and link to this piece I did for Jezebel!

Poland Dispatches

2010-09-01T12:04:00.000-07:00

I just ran across the journal I kept on my trip to Poland with my dad, and thought I'd share some of it with you.

Poland Journal, Part 2

In our house, we’d play “Concentration Camp,” which was a variation on “Titanic.” Both involved picturing various people we knew in historical situations and imagining how they would react and always involved Alan Gold, a nemesis of my dad’s who, despite his thriving career, was an opportunist and a sell-out of the worst kind, being cast as a kapo or dressing as a woman to nab a spot in the lifeboat. “I don’t know what I’d do,” Papa would always say, thoughtfully. “I like to think I’d do the right thing, but I might be a coward. Of course, now, I wouldn’t pass the initial inspection.” We also agreed that Mama would try to be heroic, screw it up, and end up getting herself and other people killed in the process – a scenario that also applied to her hiding Jews in occupied Europe. Invariably, these conversations ended with her storming upstairs in hurt indignation and slamming the door dramatically. There’d be a moment of silence and we’d all snicker.

Krakow had been disastrous so far: cold and rainy, and we’d promptly been cheated by a cab driver. It was beautiful, of course. But the restaurant we sought out, and which I’d marked with the complex iconography that I favor in guidebook situations, no longer existed, and we got some fast-food pierogis at a 24-hour spot geared towards tourists with ersatz peasant décor. Then we learned that the hotel, which was supposed to be in the center of town, was in fact in the suburbs somewhere and grotesque to boot. Papa was white-lipped with rage. The girl who worked there was beautiful but implacable and wouldn’t so much as consider a partial refund. I was extra-conciliatory to make up for his curt fury, and in the end no one was happy. “I was very rude to her,” said Papa later, and when he placed his wake-up call, apologized.

I got up about 7 and investigated the buffet, which was standard continental and had individual jams. I helped myself to coffee with milk, a peach yogurt and a roll with jam and butter, plus thought to pocket a banana for later, since I imagined the day would be a grueling one. I’d brought the book but kept an ear on the party of Americans instead – loud, nice, middle-aged, with Minnesota accents. Maybe a choir group, I thought. They smiled at me but I think the Euro-drag, of which I was wearing my most somber iteration, deterred them from speaking to me.

“They’re probably all incredibly nice people,” said Papa later. “And probably headed to Auschwitz.”

The guide-service was sending a car to pick us up – no mean feat since our hotel was a good 20 minutes outside the city center in a stretch of suburbia that knew no nationality. But as a result, we were able to take the front seats of the van. As we reached Krakow, despite the pristine beauty now revealed by a cold sun, I noticed Papa’s spirits were flagging and flagged anew every time we passed another hotel. The city center, of course, was full of them: old and quaint, or expensive and discreet, and occasionally modern. “Look at that one,” he said grimly. I was looking; there was an ornate carving of what looked like a medieval guildsman of some sort over the door, and the pretty stylized building numbers typical of the area. This was not what he had meant. “Or that one. It’s right here. Imagine how convenient that would have been.”

“Probably expensive,” I said comfortingly. I secretly sort of liked the horrible remote Best Western, which had an enormous pattern of peacock plumes on its façade, like a Florence Broadhurst print adapted by giants, and faced a Holiday Inn.

We made several stops. First, the guide – who had hennaed hair, a nose ring and, evidently, a bad cold, got in. “Hello!” greeted Papa, seemingly cheered by this tangible prospect of Auschwitz. Then we made the rounds of three more centrally located hotels, which got him down again. There was a father and son, British, both beefy and earringed; some Germans who apparently spoke excellent English, and an American couple, both of whom had curious hair. “How’s your hotel?” Papa asked each of them in turn, and looked grim when they replied that it was fine, or good, or very nice.

“Are you excited, doll?” Papa asked me as we got under way. The rest of the van was silent, whether because of the hour or the occasion I didn’t know.
“I’m apprehensive,” I said. “It’s gonna be harrowing. Bad”
“’Bad?’ It’s quite literally the worst place in the world.”
“Are you nervous?”
“No! I’m excited!” he said.
“I’m glad to do it,” I tried to explain. “It’s something we have to do, and if you’re doing it, this is the one to see.”
“Yeah, we can cross that off our bucket lists.”
“Don’t use that expression, I beg of you.”
“You ‘beg’ of me?”
“Yes, I beg of you. Can I tell you, though –“ I lowered my voice. “I’m concerned about being…inoculated. To the horror.”
“Of the holocaust? You mean because we’ve been so overexposed?” asked my father loudly.
“Well, it’s just that, I remember the horror of learning about it – that visceral horror, when I was little. And now we’re used to the horror. We’ve seen the piles of shoes at the Holocaust Museum, and heard that story about the woman who met her husband the G.I., and they both quoted the Schiller poem – you know what I mean – and it’s hard to still feel that shock. So I’m worried about that.”

“Well,” he said, “I’m just hoping it’s all in tact.”

I wanted to talk about Reform Judaism and Holocaust fetishization, but not within hearing distance of the sick guide, the Germans or the couple with strange hair.

The guide put on videotape that showed footage of the Russians liberating the camps. Plus plenty of information about selection, Mengele, torture, lethal injections, the Wall of Death, gas chambers, crematoria, sadism, starvation, and, of course, corpses. I started to giggle when my eyes met Papa’s.

“They seem,” said Papa loudly, “to assume total ignorance about the Holocaust.”

“Well, it’s good to hear the Russian perspective,” I offered lamely in an undertone.

“Ha! That’s the pot calling the kettle black,” he said.

I ate the banana.

“That was good thinking,” said Papa. “I also have an apple for you.”

“Should I eat at the camp? Maybe it’s…disrespectful.”

“This apple would have been such a feast at Auschwitz,” said Papa.

“I have some nuts too, those nuts Mama packed for us.”

“Oh, excellent. Give me a handful. Are you covering your face with the scarf because of her coughing?” he asked loudly.

“No,” I muttered, although in fact I was. I didn’t want to offend the guide. “I’m…keeping my nose warm.”

After we’d arrived, and merged with another few Anglophone groups, and received electronic headsets, and looked in wonderment at the hundreds of visitors, things got serious. We spent two hours at Auschwitz itself. “It’s really like a little village,” said Papa. He was disappointed, though, by the fact that most of the buildings were given over to exhibits and informational placards explaining the purpose of the Final Solution and the varying numbers of victims of different races.
“I think,” I said in an undertone, “that some people really didn’t know this stuff. That woman over there seemed really shocked that Hitler wanted to wipe out Jews.”
I tried to stick close to this woman after that, but she didn’t say much else – she was too overcome with shock and emotion.

“What was the guide saying in there, I couldn’t hear,” said Papa as we left one of the rooms, which explained “daily life.”
“Oh, they had models of the food the prisoners ate: a bowl of coffee – some kind of coffee substitute, actually, and no milk – then vegetable water for lunch and a piece of bread for dinner.”

“Three meals a day,” observed Papa. “No wonder you were listening so attentively to that part,”

Our tour group was grave and respectful. The guide, as Papa said, was really sad for someone who had to give the same tour multiple times per day. But a party of Israeli teenagers, identifiable by white sweatshirts bearing stars of David and a few large Israeli flags that teachers brandished to keep the group together, were laughing and joking loudly. “I guess they got it in the cradle,” I remarked. One of the boys, who was roughhousing, dropped the flag he’d had wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. A shocked tourist from another party retrieved it and ran after the oblivious teenager.

“How Hitler would hate this,” said Papa. “All of these Jewish kids, so carefree, and with the symbol he hated more than anything in the world.”

After that part of the tour, which included the various torture cells and interrogation rooms and the Wall of Death, we were given a brief break before leaving for Birkenau, a mile away. Papa bought what they called a garlic bread but proved to be a length of baguette spread with some kind of seasoned dressing and a thick blanket of mild cheese. He bought a postcard on which he planned to scrawl “Wish You Were Here!” to a like-minded friend. “Obligatory, I guess,” I said. “Do you have a coin for the bathroom?”

I washed my hands and readjusted my hair in the bathroom. I looked hideous. I nodded and smiled at the woman who took coins. Papa was waiting at the top of the stairs. “Now, there’s a bad job,” he said in an undertone. “Madame Peepee at Auschwitz.”

On My Shelf

2010-08-31T13:35:00.000-07:00

Just finished A Novel Bookstore - which earlier, you'll recall, I was merely enjoying - and can now make my final recommendation, which is affirmative if somewhat qualified.

Do you know the premise? Two bibliophiles decide to put together a bookstore called "The Good Novel" in which they carry only wonderful fiction. They put together a top-secret panel of writers to choose the novels and create the most wonderful, well-edited store in the world. Then someone begins threatening the members of the secret committee...

Anyway, it's all terribly French and a thoroughly good read. I must say, though, that rather ironically, for a book explicitly against bad fiction, there were a touch of the Ayn Rands about it. Not the prose, but rather, the throngs of angry mediocrities who are threatened by intellectual purity and dead-set on subverting it at all costs who seem to populate the Objectivist universe. Oddly enough, I've never met a sinister, organized mediocrity in my life - or, at any rate, not such a self-aware one. But don't let that stop you; it was a real page-turner.

It got me thinking about "good" books, too. I recently bought that Robert Khan "Books" edition, which has a similar mission and has given me all kinds of good ideas. I'm always looking for recommendations and am excited to have been directed towards Mary Robinson's Why Did I Ever by one of the three people whose fiction recommendations I most trust.

If I had to make my own list, it might contain (besides some of the basics):

A Girl in Winter, Philip Larkin

The Summer Book, Tove Jansson

A Few Green Leaves, Barbara Pym

Up in the Old Hotel, Jospeh Mitchell

Here is New York, E.B. White

The Sea, The Sea, Iris Murdoch

The Rings of Saturn, W.G. Sebald

...and I'll think about more! (I can tell you what would NOT be on mine: The Dud Avocado, The Golden Notebook or The Ginger Man!) I hope this gives you a few ideas; may I have a few in turn?

Entertaining is Fun!

2010-08-31T05:21:00.000-07:00

My dearest El. just sent along some pics from our engagement party spread. The caterers did a terrific job; it turned out to be surprisingly hard to find exactly what I wanted! In the end, we tracked down the long-retired proprietor of a tea room that used to exist a few towns away: she made the egg salad sandwiches, the banana nut-bread with cream cheese, the radish butter and the watercress. Some young women in town who are starting a catering concern made the deviled ham, the smoked salmon, the fruit salad and the deviled eggs! (They also provided lemonade and iced tea.) Then, El and her mother contributed cheese pennies, and a lovely neighbor made crab dip. I brought the sweets up from One Girl. Our neighbor Nicole (the recipient of my HS wardrobe of 1940s housedresses, incidentally) tended bar and generally helped out. It was a nice farewell to the Hastings house and a lovely chance to see all my folks' friends. But let me tell you: it is apparently far easier to find pesto and tapenade than tea sandwiches! While I'd never force the lovely Barbara to come out of retirement again, I'd happily recommend that new catering company to anyone - they even humored me and made melon balls!

From My Dad

2010-08-30T12:34:00.001-07:00

Sades,
I forgot to ask how you like the typewriter. I thought it was the best in my collection; not just the most attractive, but the one with the most crispest action and, hardly to be underestimated, the most satisfying sound. In fact, all of this was confirmed by my just-concluded visit with the gentlemanly proprietor of Gramercy Office Equipment, apparently the last old time typewriter repair shop in the city. (I went to him with my Olivetti Valentine, a machine so gorgeous it is in MOMA's permanent collection, but one with a tendency to fall apart even when less harshly treated than was mine). In any case, he had two Royals like yours on display, only in brown and blue. I told the guy and his son (his only employee) that we had a green one and they were suitably impressed, going on about its merits. I also procured from them a ribbon for the machine, and they said that if you had any difficulty installing it, you should bring it by. You might wish ti do so anyway, because the place is the last of a dying breed, and should you be so inclined, they'll talk old typewriters forever. They're right across from you old stomping grounds at Holt at 174 Fifth Ave, between 22nd and 23rd, 4th floor.
Love,
P

And Another Thing...

2010-08-30T09:23:00.000-07:00

Also inspired by the L Magazine. There's some quiz on Brooklyn cred. And it's cute etc. etc. sure fine and I "had" it. But then there's this throwaway line about how "you almost never leave the borough, which is a good way to limit your worldview—and since someone from everywhere lives in Brooklyn, it is an excusable place in which to limit yourself thusly." Okay, this was joking and nothing against the author, who did a good job. But it is emblematic of the chauvinistic Brooklyn worldview I've come to find increasingly tiresome. People seem to regard it as a badge of honor never to go into Manhattan, and to this I say: unless you're, like, 5th generation Brooklyn and really do have your whole world here, or are severely physically handicapped or something...what's wrong with you? Why would you live in New York and smugly limit yourself? Sure, Brooklyn has some good restaurants and bars and lots of everyone's friends are here, but seriously? We don't have the Met (either one) or the MoMA, or...you know what, I'm not even descending to this level. It's idiotic. And I'll be damned if I visit a shrink outside of Manhattan and not just Manhattan but the Upper West Side, at that, because really, why limit your chauvinism? Anyway, I'm sick and I'm cranky and now's about the time when a little takeout wouldn't go amiss.

On Gentrification

2010-08-30T05:44:00.000-07:00

Henry Stewart has some interesting things to say in the latest L Magazine (about which I have mixed feelings, but that's for another time if at all. In a piece on the fight for the Domino factory he writes,

When people talk about the gentrification of Williamsburg, they don't talk about what it has created, but only about the "bad things" it has replaced. For the gentrifiers, the former landscape needs to be destroyed, or at least gussied up beyond recognition—the past needs to be razed so a new culture can be overlaid, a culture that then celebrates its own superiority. To claim that gentrification has improved the community, Farr tells me, is "preposterous." How did the boutiques on Bedford Avenue make life better for the Latino community? Gentrification is not about what's been achieved but about the illusion that achievement has occurred. The idea. The feeling.

Of course, that's a tad reductive: "gentrification" is more than Amarcord. It's something about which we think a lot, living where we do. First of all, sweeping statements like that run the risk of generalizing about communities that are themselves multilayered and complex. My block, for instance, is made up of homeowners who have, in some cases, owned more than 50 years. Many of them have a fraught relationship with the residents of the surrounding projects. Which one represents the "culture" we're preserving? When does mere existence become an aggressive "overlay?" Williamsburg simplifies this conversation with its extremes. There's also the basic question of, where can people live in New York without trampling on something else? What they're talking about, I guess, is those who steamroll in after a place is "habitable" and lay on this gloss.

When a new, Neapolitan pizzeria opened not far away, there was something off about it. Not the place itself which, with its salvaged decor and locally sourced ingredients and Italian staff, was ready for Avenue B. Rather, the transposition of something so wholly inorganic and fully-formed was discordant. Especially when you walked in (especially post - "25 and Under") and realized some car service was doing a very brisk business indeed from Park Slope, while the neighborhood's residents, apparently, went on eating just where they had been. And yet, we went - we go - all the time. And there's the rub.

I will discuss this with Mr. Smith, who lives next door. I talked about something similar with a woman named Ally who was in her 70s and using a cigarette holder and has lived all her life on Amity. We were seated in front of a new coffee shop in which everything is sustainable and baked goods come from Birdbath. "Now," she said, "suddenly I'm a freak."

Fall Wish List

2010-08-27T08:31:00.000-07:00

wish list by Pym's Cup on Polyvore.com

Craftsmanship Capelet - Anthropologie.com
$118 - anthropologie.com

Amazon.com: A CORNER OF THE VEIL: A Novel: Laurence Cosse: Books
$8.63 - amazon.com

This Bug's Life: Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word
thisbugslife-in-words.blogspot.com

Hot Cider
photobucket.com

Dear Fieldbinder: Lady Tie
dearfieldbinder.com

Pitchfork: Album Reviews: Bert Jansch: The Black Swan
pitchfork.com

I am in love.

2010-08-27T08:25:00.001-07:00

The other night, coming back from dinner at The Bicycle Restaurant, a black kitten crossed our paths. And it was bad luck - for me! Because the moment I stroked that kitten and felt it nuzzle my hand, and felt its purring against my leg, and lifted it feather-light in my arms and felt its ribs and its heart hammering, I was a goner. I felt a rush of such absolute love and tenderness that it brought sharp tears to my eyes. I sat and cuddled it for maybe 20 minutes, while Slim went at my behest and got some milk. Finally we had to leave; I was weeping.

Slim is so allergic that I stripped off my things downstairs so as not to bring any of the offending dander into the apartment, but he felt terrible about it. Especially since, in the days since, I have randomly started crying, or fallen into melancholy reverie, or ventured out secretly whenever possible to try and find the kitten that I have dubbed Raisin Stein. I haven't; I've found her siblings, and her rather disinterested mother, but Raisin has not reappeared. And neither has my heart. It's gotten to the point where Slim says we just ought to bring her home and he'll make do, but doing it would be another matter entirely.

A Little Fall Inspiration...

2010-08-27T07:35:00.001-07:00

Who wouldn't feel a back-to-school thrill looking at APC's fall line?

And these items from Etsy are proving seriously inspiring too:

A Few Recs

2010-08-26T17:23:00.000-07:00

I'm reading something I'm enjoying. That's all I can say, since I haven't yet finished it, but that's saying a lot, no? It's A Novel Bookstore by Laurence Cossé, translated from the French. Pleasant and absorbing.

Also very, very good: Brother's Keeper, a classic documentary which you may have already seen, but if not it's on Netflix Instant Watch. That's all I'll say, since talking too much about a film, if it's good, can only detract.

Also saw Eat, Pray, Love, and after all the pans found it surprisingly watchable - which is not to say good, but perfectly engaging. Which, after all, is also true of the book. My problem with the book was that the author seems to think just enough to give the impression of depth, and while I understand David Denby's point that humor and self-awareness are rare in a seeker, I'm not sure they're required, really. Anyway, it's very pretty and Javier is very overwhelming and I've certainly spent more unpleasant afternoons.

(Step Up: 3D is also excellent.)

And what do we think about the new Arcade Fire? I can't love it although of course there's some good stuff. But gosh, you know how I feel about "suburbia" cliches - that felt tired when Eric Bogosian did it...and that was in 1994.

Monday Monday

2010-08-09T05:21:00.000-07:00

I started my week with a solo dance party; I highly recommend it. This is the dance mix I've made and which I humbly submit as totally groovy.

2010-08-08T05:09:00.000-07:00

Am dealing with some major apartment ambilvalence. On the one hand, we want to move. A lot. On the other, we can't. And moving is awful (I have the unhappy example of my parents' daily calls to remind me of that.)

It would be nice to be closer to produce, to food, to friends. I saw a woman being choked on the street. You can't walk after dark.

But then too, we have friends living nearby now; there's a new CSA; a small farmer's market; lovely new neighbors and sweet neighborhood kids.

Recently, L.D. moved up here from North Carolina and lives nearby: I was worried about the transition from beautiful roots to impersonal concrete jungle. But of course she has a huge container garden growing at their house and is on a basis of mutual adoration with every child under 10 on her block. I am selfishly glad of course to have another friend in the neighborhood and opportunities for impromptu drinks and settles and clothing swaps. To say nothing of a partner in crime for cooking and the dressmaking and flower-arranging classes we are contemplating (hey, a subway buddy's no joke either in this kind of country!) Last night she and her boyfriend J. came by to observe the block party; we had beers and spicy chips (I used Food52's idea) and I showed her my new cheesecloth cafe curtains and the stained sweater I'd dyed with coffee grounds. Then we went to L&B Spumoni Gardens in Bensonhurst. Friday, there was an impromptu rooftop potluck at Marie's house; they brought a goose lamp onto the roof and there was paella. Ruby works only 2 blocks away and I was able to bring her a piece of peach cake as a workday treat. In short, it might just be okay. (Although I'm still haunting Craigslist.)

MORE Baking

2010-08-07T05:33:00.000-07:00

Today is our block party, and they are not playing: donations were solicited for a "bouncer" (read: bouncy castle.) Wowsers! (Technically, I suppose they are playing, but you know what I mean.)

Last year, I took the opportunity to essay a baroque and slightly vile mix-based pistachio-chocolate bundt, and it didn't exactly move. Now, since I feel my honor is on the line (and I really would like to contribute something people will like) I am going with the most tried of favorites: Rice Krispie Treats (even though I hate them) and chocolate cupcakes with ganache, weather permitting.

(As M said, "the hippies, in lieu of money or food, will probably be providing music.")

Recipe: Peach Cake

2010-08-05T07:59:00.000-07:00

I have been much more myself lately, seeinf friends and getting things done (indeed, some might argue that I've swung in the distinct direction of mania!) Among other recent projects, I made a cake from my new favorite cookbook, The Craft of Baking. The author, Karen DeMasco, is the pastry chef at Locanda Verde, and the sweets I had there were so scrumptious that I was moved to request her book for my birthday. While the cover features a "Lamington Cupcake" that would look appetizing only to an antipodean, the rest of the photographs are as mouth-watering as one could wish, and everything I've made has been delicious.

I had some ripe peaches rapidly attracting fruit-flies (yummy, I know) so I decided to adapt her recipe for Caramelized-Apple Skillet Cake. I used peaches (obviously) used brown rather than white sugar for a more traditional upside-down cake effect and, because I always want more of the topping and fruit no matter hjow delicious the cake, I doubled that and added a layer mid-batter. I don't want to sound like one of those jackasses on Epicurious who changes absolutely everything; rest assured, the cake is all hers and it was the cake that, in its moistness and flavor, was really revelatory!

Peach Skillet Cake

Adapted from Karen DeMasco's "The Craft of Baking"

Ingredients:
1/2 cup brown sugar (I used light)
10 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, very soft
4 ripe peaches, peeled
3/4 cup white sugar
3/4 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
2 large eggs, separated
3/4 cup plus 3 tablespoons unbleached all-purpose flour
3 tablespoons coarse yellow cornmeal or fine polenta
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1/3 cup whole milk

Preheat the oven to 350 F.

In an 8-inch ovenproof skillet, preferably cast iron, combine brown sugar with 4 tablespoons water, stirring to make sure all of the sugar is damp.

Cook over high heat, stirring occasionally, until melted and bubbling. Remove the pan from the heat and whisk in 4 tablespoons of the butter. Pour half the brown sugar mixture into another bowl; reserve [if you don't want to do my second layer thing, just skip this step and halve the caramel.]

Slice the peaches and arrange half of them over the caramel in the pan.

In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, combine the remaining 3/4 cup sugar, the remaining 6 tablespoons butter, and the vanilla. Beat on medium speed until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Mix in the egg yolks, one at a time.

In another bowl, whisk together the flour, cornmeal, baking powder, and salt. In three additions, add the flour mixture, alternating with the milk, to the butter mixture. Using a rubber spatula, scrape the batter into a large bowl.

Clean and dry the bowl of the electric mixer well. Add the egg whites and, using the whisk attachment on medium speed, beat to soft peaks, about 4 minutes. In three additions, fold the whites into the batter.

Spread half the batter evenly over the peaches in the skillet. Add the rest of the fruit and the reserved brown sugar. Cover with remaining batter.

Bake, rotating the skillet halfway through, until the cake is golden brown and firm to the touch, 45 to 50 minutes. Place the skillet on a wire rack and let it cool just until the cake is warm, about 30 minutes. Then run a knife around the edge of the cake and invert it onto a plate. Serve warm or at room temperature.

The cake is best eaten the day it is baked but can be kept at room temperature, wrapped in plastic wrap, for up to 2 days.

Small, Good Things

2010-08-01T17:42:00.000-07:00

Why is life worth living? It's a very good question. Um...Well, There are certain things I guess that make it worthwhile. uh...Like what... okay...um...For me, uh... ooh... I would say ... what, Groucho Marx, to name one thing... uh...um... and Willie Mays... and um ... the 2nd movement of the Jupiter Symphony ... and um... Louis Armstrong, recording of Potato Head Blues ... um ... Swedish movies, naturally ... Sentimental Education by Flaubert ... uh... Marlon Brando, Frank Sinatra ... um ... those incredible Apples and Pears by Cezanne... uh...the crabs at Sam Wo's... uh... Tracy's face ..

.

Obviously, that's Manhattan.

A few: the smell of a new shower curtain; a crushed basil leaf at a farmer's market; the last page of The Great Gatsby; all of Pink Moon; October on Madison Avenue; sense memory especially smells; maple bars from Red's Donuts; Chopin's Etude in E Major; my grandparents' honeymoon photos.

To be continued...

2010-07-31T23:18:00.001-07:00

The last few days have been dominated by repeated consultations with my psychiatrists, pills, and lots and lots of professional and online advice for combating depression, none of which, curiously enough, involved staying up all night, watching the available episodes of Pillars of the Earth, listening repeatedly to "Some Enchanted Evening" and weeping at some unrealized vision of romance. Nevertheless, this is what I've prescribed. (And the last part makes especially little sense when Slim did, in fact, see me across a crowded room and decide I would be his wife which, however you slice it, is very romantic. And very sweet.)

Breaking: Best Tuna Sanwich In NYC?

2010-07-30T19:21:00.000-07:00

Well, certainly my favorite: the sandwich was consumed at the Iris Cafe. It was really a salade nicoise on French bread. Tuna, sliced egg, butter lettuce, green beans, balsamic. Everything fresh, local and perfect. My idea of absolute heaven. Try it!

NB: They also have the best sticky-bun in the city, although apparently unavailable weekdays at 3 pm, not surprisingly.

Costumes

2010-07-20T07:54:00.000-07:00

Not to put too fine a point on it, but sometimes I like to dress theatrically. Usually, in fact. And when I'm on a panel or anything, I think it's particularly important, since it both asserts and distracts from the fact that I'm a fraud.

Every summer (this will be the 3rd) I talk to the Columbia Publishing Course, and for some reason, I have always dressed with particular care for this occasion - maybe because I was in the course myself. The first time, I was coming from work, so was actually pretty staid. Just a jersey wrap-dress and some heels. Except this was in '05, right before the jersey wrap dress was ubiquitous, and for some reason this one had been very hard to find and quite expensive. Leaf green, with gathered shoulders. It was a darling frock, and a perfect canvas for the elaborate many-stranded art jewelry necklace I found at a particularly good yard sale and wore that day.

Then, last year, I wore my little suit. In fact, it was this day:

This year presents a challenge. I am seriously considering this early-40's rose lace dress, with white patent pumps and a Fendi-style pompadour. Too much? Should I do the suit again?

2010-07-20T06:04:00.000-07:00

I LOVE almost every version of this song, from the popular instrumental to the excellent Marty Robbins. But there's a reason this one won the Eurovision!

2010-07-19T15:49:00.001-07:00

"Friendship with oneself is all important, because without it one cannot be friends with anyone else in the world." -- Eleanor Roosevelt

2010-07-19T08:09:00.000-07:00

I was thinking the other night about appearances, specifically in reference to those we love. When we meet someone, they are as defined by a pimple or a haircut or a sweater as by anything else. When you come to know and love someone, it is as though a lens zooms in and these same things become merely ancillary to the person underneath. Then, when you are no longer so closely joined, thing begin to pan again: once again, you can make a moral determination on someone based on his hair or his clothes. We look for them in someone's ex girlfriend, or an old partner. Failures in this realm become a petty victory; you lose all the blindness - and focus - of love, even if you've reacquired it with someone else. Why can't we translate that property?

From My Dad

2010-07-18T19:13:00.000-07:00

Subject: ALERT!

BIG LEON HAS BEEN LOCATED. REPEAT: BIG LEON IS IN THE HOUSE.

(FOUND HIDING WITH YOUNG WOMAN WHO SELF IDENTIFIES AS "HINKA" -- NO LAST NAME AVAILABLE AT THIS TIME).

This is a relief. Big Leon is a baby doll with a sullen expression and a little penis that, when submerged in a bath, can urinate. For the past 26 years, he's sported a blue terry onesie of my brother's.

Here's to wretched weeks ending, and better ones beginning, yes? I was punched on the subway this week. Gramps went into the hosp. Lots and lots of other stuff. But! We're all still here and this too shall pass and here's a bunch of new chances to do the right thing - millions and millions of chances. On that note.

Thoughts On The Song "Janine"

2010-07-05T10:16:00.000-07:00

2 things about the song "Janine" by Soul Coughing.

Once, a group of friends and I went to hear M. Doughty play at the Knitting Factory when it was in Manhattan. (This would be, probably, summer of 2000.) He ended with "Janine", and one member of my party was so overcome that she cried, to no one in particular, "I'm going to name my daughter Janine!" This same girl is the only person I know who actually grew up in Williamsburg, once told me that dancing with your feet planted was called "New York Style," and is now a full-time professional Christian.

The other thing: around that same period, I once called my then-boyfriend and, on his answering machine, left the whole a cappella girl part from "Janine." He said he found this creepy.

New York State of Mind

2010-07-05T07:39:00.000-07:00

The other day, I locked myself out. While I waited for Slim to come and rescue me, I went to the library. As I've mentioned, our local branch is very peculiar: it has a sparse collection, but then you'll find, say, Hebrew for Dummies. And, in addition, Arthur Schwartz's New York City Food, one of my favorite books that I don't own. It's a wonderful compendium of recipes and histories of old New York institutions and iconic foodstuffs, but I can't own it because it makes me so melancholy. And, indeed, after half an hour with it, I was so depressed at the loss of Lundy's and Luchow's and Mary Elizabeth's and Child's and all the German coffeehouses in Yorkville - to say nothing of the Automat! - that I could hardly bear it.

(As my good friends know, I have a particular obsession with the Horn and Hardart Automats; on a videotape my dad made while she was dying, my grandmother, Sadie Stein I, rhapsodizes about the baked beans, so maybe that's what started it. Anyway, if I ever get patron-of-the-arts rich, the first thing I'll do is force either Museum of the City of New York or the New York Historical Society to install an authentic automat, with original recipes.)

I love old New York. If you've eaten out with me, you'll know that it's my mission to go to only those places that allow me to maintain the illusion that computers are still only used by NASA. Le Veau d'Or, Glaser's Bake Shop, Ferdinando's Foccaceria, Barney Greengrass - these are just the places where I feel most at home.

I've been despairing lately about NYC real estate prices and the near-impossibility of affording to raise a family here, and have been thinking seriously about leaving. And yet, the thought makes me unspeakably blue: after all, this happens to be where I'm from, and my dad before me, and his parents before him. It's not about making it or glamor, it's simply my hometown. I like having family nearby; being able to get a coffee and a buttered roll at any bodega; the sense of being in on the most obvious in-joke in the world.

I've been putting together a NYC mix for a pal who's moving here. She's apprehensive about the move - she's coming from somewhere rural and beautiful where all her family lives - and I am advising the liberal application of both Joseph Mitchell's collected works and Here is New York. As to the mix, I decided "Empire State of Mind" etc. were compulsory - nostalgia only goes so far!

Independence

2010-07-05T06:31:00.000-07:00

4th of July. I celebrated by being unable to kick some kind of flu bug and alternating between episodes of Inspector Lynley Mysteries, napping, and Joseph Mitchell's Up in the Old Hotel, which is probably one of my top 5 books, ever, and is compulsory reading for any New Yorker in my opinion. (Or, as people are prone to saying on the 'net, IMHO, as if anyone had reason to suspect them of prevarication on subjects like restaurant reviews.) Then we went up to the roof and ate Popeye's and could vaguely make out some varicolored lights. We could hear a lot, though: the neighborhood was full of illegal fireworks and sitting up there was like being in a gigantic bowl of Rice Krispies. Then that gave way to the inevitable whine of sirens - presumably firetrucks, hopefully not ambulances.

On the subject of cold cereal, here are a few combinations I like:

-Rice Krispies and bananas

-Cheerios and raisins

-Special K and blueberries

-Shredded Wheat and strawberries.

The second two are for Spring/Summer. Obviously.

Exchange with Dad

2010-07-03T15:14:00.000-07:00

stein1125 to me

show details Jul 2 (2 days ago)

Sades,
Any interst in a Coronation Souvenir tray, dated June, 1953, and bearing a likeness of young Queen Elizabeth and illustrations of six royal abodes?
Love,
P

Sadie
YES!

Jul 2 (2 days ago)

|
stein1125 to me

show details Jul 2 (2 days ago)

You got it -- added it to the stash in your room. I'll let you know as other items of potential interest in the basement lair reveal themselves. I'm presuming you don't want the wicker potty -- or do you? (I find it strangely attractive, and tough to part with, and believe any child of quality would be pleased to use it. But that's just me).

Too Darn Hot

2010-06-24T10:25:00.000-07:00

The hot weather has sent me into a peevish rage. This weekend, some of my dearest friends visited from out of town. And although she is pregnant and it was in the 90s, she was as patient and game and good-tempered as can be. I, on the other hand, was furious. First, it should be said that due to some roofing activity there has been a pervasive stench of tar in the apartment. But that's really no excuse. Everything's been infuriating me: blowhards at the restaurant soliloquizing inaccurately about "the Great schism," Tom Lehrer and Henry VIII; morons at the Met screaming about the hilarity of old-fashioned bathing-suits; know-it-alls in the gift shop misidentifying Babe Paley; our hippie neighbors; the woman on-line ahead of me at Whole Foods; the guy who starts talking on the street at 6 am; and 1/3 of the people on the Internet. I only lost my temper and yelled at two: teenagers taunting a dwarf near Union Square, and a guy playing a handheld video game on the J Train. Also, I smashed some crockery last night, which wasn't that cathartic.

A Thought

2010-06-21T13:07:00.000-07:00

So, for a brief while now, I've been half-heartedly keeping a food blog - not because I feel half-hearted about food, but because I feel like my attention ought to go other places and in general I get overwhelmed. I made the decision a long time ago not to make this one too "foodish" because otherwise I'd write about nothing else, and besides, I don't want to bore anyone. But I think the time's come to fold that one into this one and that, in general, that might be more true to myself anyway. I hope my few friends here won't find it too dull!

That said, I shouldn't think there will be too much food for a little while; it's hard to get very excited about cooking in 90 degree weather. I tend to eat like a baby - lots of purees. I had stewed gooseberries on yogurt for breakfast and then for lunch made my hot-weather usual, which is just a can of tomatoes, a garlic clove, a glug of olive oil and a little red wine vinegar - pureed in the blender. That's it. Well, I crumbled in a little goat cheese. Dinner? Some peas stewed with butter and onion and a scrap of prosciutto. As you see, this sort of thing does not a food blog make, so the changeover will be more ceremonial than not.

That said, some friends gave me three terrific cookbooks for my birthday: Claudia Roden, which I'm ashamed to say I didn't own, and then Joanne Harris's two French cookbooks, which are beautiful and basic and make you want to get to the market. And yes, since she is indeed the author of Chocolat (and half-French), that category is not underrepresented...I've been reading them before bed, and so have been going to bed ravenous and furious and overwhelmed by all the summer produce that I'll surely not take full advantage of...

My Grandpa Asked Me To Test His New Electronic Chair

2010-06-04T06:30:00.001-07:00

...and we said we'd send him a video! Here it is.

2010-06-03T14:18:00.001-07:00

Ok, I think I know what to do! Thank you so much, you're wonderful! I told Slim, "They know my writing best, I trust their judgment." And I do!

I can't wait to have something to show you...

Input Please

2010-06-02T13:41:00.000-07:00

Friends,

My psychiatrist is firmly of the opinion that I need to settle down with *one* project rather than flitting around amongst a whole bunch of different ones. He feels this will bring me focus and creative satisfaction. So here is an idea! Will you tell me which of these I should actually write/finish? Or which would interest you? (If any, gosh.)

- Book in which I visit the world's dollhouses, discourse about miniatures etc. generally

- Book in which I gain all old-lady skills

- Children's novel re: Pied Piper of Hamelin

-Book in which I live for a year on Tangier Island, learn life lessons

- Book about my 4 great-grandmothers (that's my mom's idea)

- Something about food.

These are all wholly theoretical, except when I've written bits of them. Even so, help me narrow down! I am actually not kidding, because you know how I write, etc.

The Petite Sophisticate Goes to the Cinema

2010-06-02T04:48:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I walked out of a movie. But over the weekend, I did walk out on Sex and the City 2. It's not just that it was stupid (although it was), or boring (although it was.) I expected that. But the blithe amorality of the thing was actually offensive. I wish I could say that I walked out with icy dignity, but in fact I was enormously bratty: prostrating myself, rolling in the aisle, groaning, sighing audibly (don't worry, the place was so full of delighted guffawing that no one noticed), demanding a cigarette (no, I don't smoke) and staring accusingly at Slim who, having been forced to come, now didn't want to leave without seeing how they "represented the Abu Dhabi skyline." The rolling may seem excessive (not to mention unhygienic) but I assure you, it was totally involuntary, a manifestation of a physical discomfort the like of which I have not experienced since Garden State in 2004. (It was for this reason that I saw 500 Days of Summer alone and recused myself from Away We Go entirely.)

Just for the record, I liked Please Give. And Exit Through the Gift Shop.

R.I.P. John Benedict

2010-06-01T09:37:00.000-07:00

Over the weekend, my great-uncle John Benedict, my grandmother's Yumma*'s younger brother, died at 85. I wanted to post this picture of him, (taken at D.C.'s Union Station during the war) and also this, which his sister Margaret wrote me:

When Beany** called to say, "We lost Johnny this morning," on Saturday, the 29th, I was relieved to know that excruciating pain did not linger longer than a week. Beany had one word to describe him: "courageous." It applied to his whole life.

Johnny and Yumma were the two children who never needed to be punished for anything. It was as though they had come to earth having already graduated from something or other and their ability to appreciate people and life and bring comfort to them was far above that of most of us. In contrast, I spent many hours exiled to a linen closet and almost looked forward to curling up on a pile of sheets in the dark.

Johnny always met everyone with a great big smile and eyes sparkling as he listened intently to what anyone had to say to him. He had a childlike enjoyment of whatever he did and enhanced the participation of others with him.

She ended her note by saying, "I am glad that when you were looking around for a family to be born into, you chose the one you did. Good choice." She said it.

Deciding whether to head to D.C. for memorial with my mom...

*Ruth Mary
**Beany is my great-uncle Henry. Look, they're WASPs.

My Very Favorite Picture

2010-05-27T18:52:00.001-07:00

...of my grandparents. From their honeymoon!

"The Hunting of the Snark"

2010-05-27T18:45:00.000-07:00

No, that's really what it's called! This is an 1874 illustration of the Lewis Carroll poem by Henry Holiday, via the Steven Poke blog, which in turn was via the terrific "Turn of the Century" tumblr (and thanks to Jessica for the link!) Think Denby would get a kick out of it?

Out of the Blue

2010-05-27T18:31:00.000-07:00

Isn't it funny: just last week I mentioned the young man who'd introduced me to 84 Charing Cross Road. Who, then, should find me on Facebook not three days later! He writes,

Dear, dear Sadie: It's been a year and a day (and even that's an understatement) since we drank gimlets on Kimbank Avenue and went to see Elaine Stritch. I still remember what you said after the performance, that it is essential to take a taxi home from the theater--in case the reality of the subway pulls your spirit down!

Well, that certainly strikes me as the sort of asinine thing I might have said at 21, so I'll take his word for it. In any case, I'll certainly go see him perform at a piano bar one day soon.

In sweeping statements: my mom has defiantly declared the divinity of Christ a diminution of his message. Meanwhile, two friends told me they're over Brooklyn (neither has plans to move.)

My parents, speaking of them and of moving, sold their house. To their favorite couple of all, who have an adorable, well-mannered and bespectacled three-year-old boy and an 8-month little girl.

My friend Ruby gave me a wonderful birthday gift: a Mets pin from the 1960s.

And in other news, finally found "Mambo Italiano" on a karaoke machine, at Montero's on Atlantic. I sang it largely for the benefit of an old man at the bar, who seemed unimpressed, yet riveted.

Various

2010-05-27T18:26:00.000-07:00

People sometimes suggest to me that I know more than my share of characters, or else am exaggerating people's eccentricities. I swear, neither is true. But then other times I start to wonder.

The other night at an ironical prom, we met a young man, very dashing in regimentals, with whom we ended up going to a sinister and exclusive Weimar-esque club. We ended up having to leave without saying goodbye, and I wrote with my regrets, since he is now across the pond. Anyway, here's what I received:

Darling,

I'm the most dreadful cad for leaving you and your chap amidst the vespertine fray, but I'd managed to disgrace the queen's uniform by throwing up the best part of a sloppy joe in the stairwell, only to be asked back in by the manager and force fed tequila ad infinitum. Insensible with drinking on a now empty stomach I had to admit defeat without the good grace to say goodnight to the pair of you, or even locate my missing spur.

A Kitchen Essay

2010-05-24T20:43:00.000-07:00

Agnes Jekyll (1860-1937) was the daughter of William Graham, Liberal MP for Glasgow and patron of the Pre-Raphaelites; she had a literary and artistic childhood. After her marriage to Herbert Jekyll (soldier, public servant and wood-carver) she lived at Munstead House in Surrey, with her sister-in-law Gertrude Jekyll nearby at Munstead Wood. Agnes's gift for friendship and organisational skills made her an excellent hostess: Mary Lutyens described her house as 'the apogee of opulent comfort and order without grandeur, smelling of pot-pouri, furniture polish and wood smoke'; while Gertrude Jekyll's biographer remarked that if she 'was an artist-gardener, then Agnes was an artist-housekeeper.' Created DBE for her involvement in numerous good causes, Lady Jekyll (as she had also become) first published Kitchen Essays (1922) in The Times 'in which she was persuaded to pass on some of the wit and wisdom of her rare gift for clever and imaginative housekeeping.'

[via the ever-glorious Persephone Press]

More Inspiration

2010-05-24T14:39:00.000-07:00

Check out this Ziegfeld Follies performer, Ann Pennington, seen here in'18 with Will Rogers. I have been fiendishly scouring the net for fringed pants like this in order to make the scene, but can only find hideous 80s iterations that are not the same things AT ALL. If anyone has a source for vintage buckskins...?

Style Stuff

2010-05-24T14:38:00.000-07:00

This isn't my fam, but rather from the Sartorialist's "vintage photos contest." I've been seeing it all over the 'sphere, and it's easy to see why fashionistas are sweating Grandma Lois pretty hard!

2010-05-24T14:30:00.001-07:00

The Heir and Astaire from Metro Pictures on Vimeo.

Coast to Coast

2010-05-19T08:53:00.000-07:00

Last night, I called my brother in L.A.

"How are you spending your days?" I said.

"Well," he replied, "Maeve has been shopping the line at boutiques. And I'm wearing that vintage sweater you gave me with the horse on it."

"Sounds productive," I said.

"Highly."

The good news is, they received the box of Catholic caramels I sent for M's 25th.

"Have you gotten our birthday present yet?" Charlie asked.

"No!"

"Well, that's probably because we haven't sent it. Or bought it. Or thought about it before now. Wait, Maeve is saying that's not true. She was going to send you some See's candy. But she forgot."

I suggested that because it's the thought that counts, maybe I could just order some for myself. We agreed this was probably the most effective plan.

My great-aunt writes...

2010-05-16T07:23:00.000-07:00

"Dear Family, here is a picture of Stevan and Grandma Topsy Olds and Yumma Benedict and 4 Navy WAVES, 18 March 1945, in Woodside, MD not long before Yumma was his date graduation week at West Point. - Margaret/Sis"

Ruth Mary "Yumma" Benedict was my grandma; she's the one in front in the cardigan. May "Topsy" Olds was my great-great grandmother, Yumma's grandma. The dashing Stevan was her cousin.

-Sadie "Sadie" Stein

Gloomy Sunday

2010-05-13T18:47:00.001-07:00

Although it has the moniker the "Hungarian Suicide Song," and although the lyrics are pretty bleak, I've never found Rezső Seress's "Gloomy Sunday" anything but exhilarating. To tell you the truth, although I love the famous Billie Holiday version, I must admit that the one from Schindler's List is sort of my favorite and I don't know whose it is.

I also like this Paul Whiteman recording:

And, of course, Artie Shaw!

(The composer, of course, jumped to his death.)

Books And Ephemera

2010-05-10T14:04:00.000-07:00

It may seem strange, but up until last night, I had never seen 84 Charing Cross Road. I'd read the book in college(it was introduced to me by a rather eccentric young man with a love of cabaret music. We saw Stritch together) but for some reason hadn't gotten around to viewing it, even thought Netflix was always pushing it on me under any number of guises. Well, last night, I broke down and watched it, and what a treat.

For those of you who don't know the premise, it's about the (real-life) 30-year correspondence between an anglophilic New York woman and an antiquarian book dealer in London. Because of the story's time-span, tehre's obviously some aging awkwardness, and it's hard to say which is goofier, casting up as they did here or, young, as in Brokeback Mountain. I think it's safe to say that both are ridiculous in their own ways. But what a cast! Anne Bancroft, Anthony Hopkins and Judi Dench?! Gosh.

It's a really sweet story - I'd also suggest the book to anyone who wants a cozy read - but as much as the testament to friendship and letters, it's a really heartening portrait of a happy, independent, single woman with a rich and full life. (I like to think that if I end up a solo New Yorker, I can strike a balance between Helene Hanff and Dare Wright. Emphasis on the former, of course, but with a few dolls and photo-shoots.) I also like these friendships that can endure purely through letters, even when friends don't meet. Makes me doubly-eager to get to know some of you. That said, if ever there was a character who could have thrived in the blog age, it's Hanff: her breezy tone and open frankness would have made her a natural!

Been feeling Anglo-philey myself lately. Have been re-reading Barbara Pym, which I recommend to anyone in need of spiritual bolstering. I've also been contemplating actually trying the Barbara Pym Cookbook, although it's obviously imprudent. Am compromising by making a dish of "cauliflower cheese" for our dinner. For my birthday, my mother gave me a book I'd really been coveting: Agnes Jekyll's Kitchen Essays. These were written in the 1920s and have titles like "Luncheon for a Motor Excursion in Winter" and "A Supper After the Play." (I have not yet read "For the Too Fat.") A few examples of the author's prose:

Too much effort given to material things entails neglect of spiritual ones, too little induces loss of temper, money, and health. Some rare spirits there are who may discipline themselves into indifference of creature comforts, who may write magical poetry on lumpy porridge, paint glorious pictures on indifferent eggs, lead armies to victory on bully beef - we salute them and pass on! But with those who, whilst lifting reverential eyes to the stars, yet know and love this kind, warm earth, we would take counsel awhile.

And,

A blue-blooded and conservative marquis may be forgiven his temporary loss of self-control when the newly-engaged cook sent on its gay career round a decorous dinner-party of county neighbors a transparent and highly-decorated pink ice pudding concealing within inmost recesses a fairy light and a musical box playing the "Battle of Prague."*

Even by the standards of sketchy 1920s recipes, and even for one who by any standard has cooked a lot from said canon, Lady Jekyll's are inscrutable. But as far as reading goes, this is obviously a literary gem. And who am I kidding? Slim gave me an antique aspic spoon for my birthday.

*"A popular piece of music during the late 18th and 19th centuries" by Frantisek Kotzwara. I couldn't find a recording!

Further Proof That My Friends Are Fantastic:

2010-05-10T07:28:00.000-07:00

Within minutes of my sending out a black walnut-cracking SOS, Lindsay from Asheville had texted me the following: "For the black walnuts: I use tongs and a hammer on a stump. Tell me if you decide to do this and I will ask [my Brooklyn boyfriend] to deliver a stump from the back yard."

I should also note that I only knew about the challenge of black-walnut shells (one of the hardest known organic substances!) due to a book Lindsay gave me, the endlessly fascinating Smokehouse Ham, Spoon Bread & Scuppernong Wine: The Folklore and Art of Southern Appalachian Cooking. I highly recommend it!

(Am also curious to hit up my Arkansas kin-folk on the subject of black walnuts, since apparently they're pretty thick in the Ozarks. Not that my particular branch seems to have gone in much for foraging or cooking; they were too busy being in the Bin.)

Oh, and while they're at it, in addition to the stump, they can bring the tongs! And the manpower! I am, however, soaking the nuts for 2 days in water, per the book's instructions, to soften the shells.

I have Big Plans for these nuts, if we ever do manage to shell them and extract any meat from the pile of shards. Don't look now, but it involves brittle...

In Other News...

2010-05-09T19:30:00.000-07:00

I think Netflix imagines my tastes to be more rareified than they are.

Does anyone else ever feel embarrassed to admit you are "not interested" in whatever worthy foreign film they've suggested, so that it continues to pop up every time you click on "Movies You'll <3 ?"

No?

Circle of Friends

2010-05-09T18:50:00.001-07:00

Y'know, this may seem strange but, any of you who read this, I feel like we're pals. So please do go ahead and friend me on FB, if you'd like. Because sometimes it feels like it's all folks I don't know and, ideally, it can actually be a good way to get to know people. Yes? No? Maybe?

I am inspired to say so because once, back when I didn't really understand how Facebook worked, I went ahead and "friended" a couple of strangers just because they were the only other folks who'd listed "The Pastels" as a musical favorite, and I sorta thought that's what one was supposed to do. Anyway, this was a few years ago now, but the other night, at the estimable Clean show at the Bell House, one of these gents approached me on the strength of our musical FB friendship, and he was utterly nifty in reality, and now I have a new sorta-friend, and none of this would have been possible without the good works of messrs Zuckerberg and Moskovitz. And in short I have a new appreciation for its benign capabiities, connectivity-wise.

And besides, I'd like to know you!

Mother's Day etc.

2010-05-09T15:52:00.000-07:00

I once read somewhere (I say as if I don't know full well it was the American Spiritualism Society's web site) that a penchant for seasonal allergies can be an indication of psychic ability. If this is true, all I can say is half of New York City must be clairvoyant this week. "They" say it's a bad year for allergies (isn't it always?) and certainly an al fresco dinner the other night left my eyes streaming and my nose twitching. No hint of a sign from the other side, alas.

While I may not have communicated with the Beyond, I did see the Costume Institute at the Met, which is terrific, and marred only by the constant repetition of Lenny Kravitz's "American Woman" in the final room, which is wholly audible in the gift shop. Entertained brief fantasies of dressing like a Gibson Girl for 2010-11; decided I'm too old. Even more fascinating than the Costume Institute, I thought, was the show "Playing with Pictures: the Art of Victorian Photocollage." (Yes, these are images from the show.) It was apparently fairly commonplace to make collages of original drawing and watercolor with photographs - early scrap-booking, but far more whimsical and ornate and impressive than this implies. An outlet, one supposes, for all sorts of artistic talent - after all, every lady of the era could paint and draw, or at least was schooled in it.

In case you're wondering, yes, I did see these shows with my mother, following a lovely early brunch at Cafe Sabarsky and the receipt of a (very modest) tin of (American) caviar.

Things to think about: how do I shell the black walnuts I bought yesterday? And, what's the deal with Harmony Korinne's new film?

2010-05-05T08:31:00.000-07:00

I am being assigned a new senior "friend." Provided my latest background check comes up clean and my references don't reveal a hitherto unsuspected penchant for elder-abuse, by this time next week I will have met an elderly woman in the East 50's with a distaste for conservative politicians and a love of modern art and 19th century opera. I don't yet know her name, but have a sneaking suspicion that in terms of Jewishness and vintage it won't be too dissimilar to my own.

I sort of pity this unnamed woman for the weight of expectation already resting on her frail shoulders. She think she's signing on for an hour of conversation a week; little does she know I have her pegged as my Salvation.

After Anthony (my last friendly-visiting friend) died, I hesitated to ask for another. Not merely because it seemed disrespectful, but also because I thought it would be unfair to form a connection with someone and then kill myself, which was what I had ever-present in mind at the time.

I'm as low these days as I've ever been, but fighting it's much better. And I have great hopes of gaining Perspective and Wisdom and Friendship from someone who's Lived Life. And it's all very unfair and quite preposterous.

I should also know better. Anthony was a lovely person, but Tuesdays with Morrie this was not. My total ignorance of cars was a constant disappointment to him, even though he was very polite about it and listened to my stumbling readings from Car and Driver with good grace. (He'd been an automotive inspector.) Mostly, we watched TV. Sometimes we listened to the Andrea Bocelli CDs I gave him. I don't know how much he enjoyed it, actually.

The social worker says that this lady and I will be "a perfect match." I feel like a lousy ambassador for youth, but if we both moderate our expectations, maybe it'll work out. I'm learning that this may be a big part of being in the world. So she, at any rate, will probably already know that.

Happy All the Time

2010-05-04T12:21:00.000-07:00

Birthday! I was all down about it...why?! It's a beautiful day, my friends and acquaintances are amazing, and there's a whole 'nother year to begin. I mean, ask me again in an hour, but as of 3:23, the year is just fine. "Surprise location" for dinner, I'll let you know.

2010-04-27T19:25:00.000-07:00

When I worked at the boutique, there was one regular customer whom I adored. Well, we all did; it was hard not to. Her name was Lucie; she was French-Canadian and spoke with a distinct, lilting accent. She was the sunniest person I've ever met, bubbling over with energy and friendliness. She also had a lot of style: she always wore high-waisted trousers, which she then cropped to her ankle and wore with Repetto ballet flats. Although she was short, somehow this looked marvelous on her. She also had a casual disregard for size, and would routinely and refreshingly buy things much too big and then make them look perfectly casual and chic. Often she'd wave and smile to us as she rode past on her bicycle - sometimes with, I swear, a baguette or a bunch of radishes or some tulips in the basket. She was an architect. She loved to cook for friends on Sunday afternoons. We'd all laugh and speculate about how magical her life must be and sometimes we'd all say we wished we were living it. We didn't really want to be her, though - we just wanted her to be her, and to sometimes come in and bring a little sunshine and fantasy with her.

I remember, distinctly, deciding that she would be a role model for me. Not stylistically - I don't think anyone else could have pulled off her look - but in the way she treated people, in the way she brightened our lives with her genuine interest and small acts of consideration and the way that, as a result, she had an aesthetic of living that was tangible and appealing.

I don't know why I'm talking about her like she's dead or something when I'm sure she's very well and probably right now wearing cropped trousers and Repettos and, whatever the facts of her life, being a positive influence on those who don't really know her. I hope to run into her some time, and deliver a strange, intense speech of gratitude. I thought of her today, for the first time in a long time, simply because my pants were hemmed a little shorter than I wanted. Now, I'm not even sorry they were. I wore them out with vintage Ferragamo flats and a tee shirt and a sweater jacket and actually felt pretty sharp.

So: I've been trying like the dickens lately to be mindful and not get caught up in thoughts and generally fight the Black Dog in various vague ways (because it's boring and I hate to be bored) but one thing is getting in my way. (Two, if you count the mouse holocaust I've been responsible for this week. There's one left. Like Vito Corleone, I've murdered his entire family and now he's on the run, alone. Probably plotting my death. I can hardly blame him. Revenge, as we know, is a dish best served cold - possibly colder than a mouse's lifespan will allow for.) Anyway: I have been very depressed about my birthday, which is a week from today. What a cliche, I know! And irrational, too. And yet, I feel cold dread whenever I think of it. The idea of making anyone assemble for my benefit mortifies me. But doing nothing is a little sad, too. When I was 25, a bunch of friends and I went to the National in Brighton Beach and it was fantastic - but now I blush at my audacity in asking them to do that.

So, here is what we do. I am taking the precautionary measure of ordering myself, as a birthday gift, a box of pralines - my favorite treat. I am also going to order myself flowers. Knowing these are on the way takes a great deal of the pressure off, somehow - as if I can check the box that says "birthday." I asked my parents to get me a new pair of slippers, and I have a sneaking suspicion I will be getting them. Anyway, as my grandfather says, a few generations ago, people didn't even have birthdays. Or, as he put it, "in the Old Country, who knew from birthdays?"

For my part, I've taken of late to sending my loved ones birthday boxes of candy from a southern abbey I read about online. I'd heard that the candy was delicious and liked the idea that the industry helped the abbey stay self-supporting. But I've never, personally, received any, and maybe it's a good general rule to do some sort of test run with these things. I had my first suspicions when I sent a box, via the website, to my dearest friend El. in Baltimore. She emailed me that the caramels I'd sent were yummy and the "accompanying booklet, fantastic." Hmm. Then, my godmother sent me her thank-you note: "The caramels are delicious, as is the insert of the joyous nuns, working away in their twee little aprons - so unique, and so you." Anything being "me" generally means, "odd," and I was becoming distinctly alarmed at the thought that I'd already dispatched a box to Slim's mother in California. He happens to be out there for work and so I asked for a report on the candy. He wrote: "The accompanying booklet includes such gems as "my heart and flesh cry out for the living God, happy are that who dwell in [his] house" with a picture of a nun in an apron laying out caramels."

Happy birthday, indeed!

2010-04-25T15:31:00.000-07:00

Now, one person's perfect cream cardigan is not another's. But I have, after long and fruitless and rather dilatory search, found mine! (FWIW, as we say in the trade.) Etsy, in case you were wondering.

Check Out My Ridiculous Miniature Tam O' Shanter!

2010-04-22T15:19:00.000-07:00

Came in the mail yesterday! That's not Birnam Wood, but rather a couple of vases of greenery from the local park.

A Small Thing

2010-04-20T19:20:00.000-07:00

Okay. I know no one else is going to be half as delighted as I was by this, but check out these muffin papers! The gay, retro plaid! And I just picked them up at the supermarket! (Yes, these are blueberry muffins.)

Weekender

2010-04-17T11:41:00.000-07:00

Weekend!

Started with mishigas, I'm afraid.

My parents met my train from Philly (more on that trip shortly) and, after I'd unloaded various sweetrolls and loaves of cinnamon-swirled, Mennonite-made baked goods upon them, we determined that we'd head for far Brooklyn, where they're (vaguely) considering living since my mother fancies being "near the water."

Having established that they do not, in fact, want to live in Far Rockaway (even though I thought all the bungalows were pretty neat) and after several hours of bickering and back-seat driving and sniping that made my shoulders tense, I suggested by way of distraction that we try a famous, venerable red-sauce seafood restaurant in Coney
Island.

Having gotten lost a few times, bickering a lot, deciding that they may, in fact, wish to live in Brighton Beach and being told to "just follow" some Italian motorist who then sped up and lost us, we arrived at the early-bird hour of 5:30 and settled in for baked clams, linguine with clam sauce and a glass of Chianti. There were tables of oldsters celebrating birthdays nearby, a tuxedoed waiter with a Russian accent, and comforting food, and we all relaxed and had a very nice time. And then.

It seems it's the custom of this restaurant to let every table try its luck with Pachango. With the check, the waiter produced a black bag and instructed us to choose a number between 1 and 90. If the number he drew from the bag matched our pick, the meal would be on the house.

"42," said my decisive father instantly.

"56," I said.

"Choose one," said the waiter.

"Your choice, Priscilla," said my dad, turning to my mother.

"Okay...42," she said.

The waiter shook the bag and produced tile.

56.

A gasp went up.

"PRISCILLA!" shouted my father accusingly. "WHY DID YOU DO THAT?"

"HOW IS THIS MY FAULT?" she screamed back. "I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN I'D BE BLAMED."

"I'll pay," I said nervously, just as the waiter interjected that "it often happens that way."

"DAMMIT," said my dad, as my mother's defensive screams rose to hysteric proportions.

"Please don't make a scene," I hissed as their escalating shouts began to attract the notice of the elderly diners. "It wasn't meant to be!"

"But it was," said my father grimly. "That's the point, it was." He waved off my offer of payment and, still grimly, proffered his card.

"Well, I think we're losing sight of the main point," I said brightly as they stared at each other with smoldering rage. "My miraculous psychic ability and the fact that I'm never wrong."

We filed out to the car, where someone had left a folded piece of notebook paper under the windshield. "Sorry I lost you," it read. "Glad you found it. - The Guy You Were Following to the Restaurant."

My father maintained a morose silence all the way to my house. The rain began to pound. My mother thought we'd gotten lost about ten times and became angry and hysterical. I was very glad to get home, put on PJs and watch Criminal Minds with some knitting.

This morning, I called them with some trepidation.

"Hi, darling!" said my mother gaily. "We're at a tag sale!"

"Wait, I thought you were 'divesting' before the move," I said, momentarily diverted.

"Oh, well, yes, but we need to be on the lookout for treasures."

"Well," I began, "I just wanted to make sure everything was okay...you seemed really upset about...the Pachango game."

She laughed happily. "Oh, we forgot all about that," she said.

Anyway. This morning donned gray and chilly and British. I donned the brightly-colored skirt I like for this weather and went to the Essex Street Market for groceries. Then I walked over to Granddaisy Bakery on Sullivan and had a delicious sandwich of goat's cheese, marinated beets and arugula. Next door to that is the Yoghurt Place, so I bought some of their homemade Greek yogurt and a small container of compote. Then, over to the far West Side for a little cider donut at Locanda Verde, and another mile or so back to the subway. Just my kind of Saturday: a morning of aggressive walking and exploring and treats and an evening of friends - in this case to see a lecture at the Center for Fiction in the late afternoon and later a drink with an out-of-town friend at Milk and Honey.

Bicycle Diaries

2010-04-14T19:41:00.001-07:00

This evening rode to Saraghina and had an eggplant saltimbucca with Slim. I thought I'd share with you the bicycle-riding playlist I've been listening to lately even though, yes, that's technically dangerous and irresponsible especially when listened to without a helmet like some of us.

2010-04-14T13:46:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned, my folks are selling their house. I just found the listing online and it gave me a funny feeling. This was my room! I hope someone nice - ideally a child - ends up with it. The light is very good if you suffer from migraines, although the ghost of Ty Cobb does live in the closet.

We've Been Asked...

2010-04-13T20:51:00.000-07:00

...to submit pictures of ourselves to tech for a "new layout." I don't photograph very well, so I guess I'll use this one, since it was taken by a real photographer. I've been told that it doesn't much look like me, but I think it captures the barely-checked hysteria of my more manic moods, which I like!

And Another Thing...

2010-04-13T19:23:00.000-07:00

I'll be in Philly come Thurs to talk on a thing somewhere. That's me in two days. Hit me with your tips! I don't know Philly! (I am staying at a B&B somewhere highly historical that serves muffins. And I have to talk on the thing. But other than that, am free as proverbial bird as the crow flies and want to see stuff! And do stuff! I mean besides the obvious stuff that I've done! Fine: I mean pastries, vintage stores and medical oddities.)

Nerd Alert!

2010-04-13T18:58:00.000-07:00

I am going to let you in on a secret - although I guess it's not one to anybody who's viewed my profile. For the past few weeks, I've been compiling my tips and recommendations into one place! Here it is. I personally love peoples' recommendations when I visit a place, and I love New York so dearly that it always pains me for someone to "waste" a meal here - even me! So I hoped to help folks I know narrow it down. However, the compendium has gotten so sprawling that I fear it'll be just as off-putting as any guidebook! Oh, well...

It is very much a work in progress! I am adding to it all the time...

Inadequacies

2010-04-13T16:44:00.000-07:00

For the last 2 hours, have been torturing myself by going down the whimsical, lovely rabbit-hole of design-and-vintage blogs. You know the ones. All these beautiful girls with amazing vintage wardrobes who are either terribly hip and live in an amazingly ingenious apartment in Brooklyn or terribly romantic and live somewhere bucolic down south, all of whom seem able to craft and make anything, have beautiful, well-ordered lives and etsy stores and beautiful blogs into the bargain.

Ugh. I feel inadequate.

However! I have noticed it always adds a touch of class to post a vintage pic on one's blog. So. I give you my grandfather, Moe, with his girlfriend Anne. Before my grandmother.

Ladies Who Brunch

2010-04-10T14:45:00.000-07:00

Hosted a brunch today for my colleagues.

I wanted a daytime event so's no one would have to make the schlep after dark, despite the shabbiness of stealing a Saturday.

I served:

-A new fritatta of my own invention containing smoked salmon, cream cheese and caramelized onions

-Roasted asparagus

-Croissants and Pains au chocolat from Ceci-Cela, which one can buy, frozen, then proof and bake at home for maximum good smell (Butter, jams)

-A fruit salad of pineapple, mango, strawberries, blackberries and a little papaya and kiwi for color

-Yogurt and granola for an egg-frowner, although no one ate them

-Cofee and tea (the guests brought the fixings for bellinis and mimosas)

Someone joked that our get-togethers are exactly what someone might imagine: in the course of four hours, periods, lingerie, purses, politics and dolls were all discussed, and I produced for inspection a doll (it has real hair and we needed to demonstrate something), a pair of sandals (they'd just arrived in the post), and a polka-dot brassiere (the latter to show that TopShop underthings are perfectly okay.) I really do have the best coworkers - and job! - imaginable. (Jenna wore the most spiffing jumpsuit you can imagine, too.) Then I kicked everyone out so I could go somewhere.

A special thanks to Slim for doing a ton of cleaning last night in prep. And this after I was especially babyish yesterday while running tax-related errands at the bank, fidgeting and sulking and only snapping out of it when, by the hand of divine providence, the Treats Truck appeared and I was able to buy a brown-butter sandwich cookie. The house looks beautiful (or at least does until I start looking at pictures of apartments like this!) and, with the exception of some curious yowling of indeterminate human-or-animal origin, the neighborhood was on its best behavior too.

2010-04-08T18:19:00.001-07:00

This gentleman is, apparently, an 8th cousin once removed. Having spent an evening with his blog, I am pleased to call him a relative, and wish him best of luck in the upcoming general election, in which he's running as an Independent candidate in Cambridgeshire. I also, in the grand tradition of shirttail relatives, do believe I'll descend upon him and his wife and pay them a prolonged visit - their area looks very beautiful! In return, they're of course more than welcome to holiday in Bed-Stuy.

2010-04-08T14:47:00.000-07:00

If I have been a bit quiet lately, it's because it's been unseasonably hot, and in hot weather, I Go Strange. Going Strange (a phrase from the Arkansas branch, all of whom went strange with some regularity) for me involves not eating, not sleeping, getting furtive and peculiar and chuckling to myself, and odd notions. You can see, I think, why it's wiser to abstain from the written word during these periods.

But! A few good things have happened!

- The Girl Scout cookies arrived. (Largely thanks to the efforts of Willa, who was relentless in her pursuit of Thin Mints.) We are hoarding them, due to the shortage of 2010.

- Because they knew I was feeling low, my dear friends G and C surprised me with the most gorgeous bouquet of orchids, which is making me very happy (when not Being Strange.)

- Last night, the ghost abruptly started the antique alarm clock going - which, given that we haven't used it in months, means he had to wind it! And it's still going strong, 18 hours later...

-Had a lovely exchange with a reader in London named Becky whom I very much hope to meet when I next make it over there.

- On Easter Sunday, dragged myself from bed to attend the Easter Parade briefly in navy suit and bonnet. Bill Cunningham snapped me! (Although I don't guess I'll make it in with all the superior flamboyance on display!) I pretended to be oblivious, which is, I think, the done thing.

- Some guy was kind of stalking me on FB, being very peculiar and crude in very poor English. So I blocked him. (Oh, that wasn't actually one of the good things.)

-Just got the best card in the mail from the dear Lindsay D of Asheville, who always has the best cards, generally. They come from a terrific local letterpress.

-The other day, I took a long bike ride and ended up in Carroll Gardens, where I happened to meet the most charming person, Lauren, with terrific style and lots of Personality. Anyway, we got to talking and it turned out she was a fan of the website, always lovely to hear. Indeed, it was so lovely to hear that I was emboldened to write a mash note to a fashion blogger whom I've long admired. She was kind enough to write me back, and it made me think that I ought to reach out that way more often! If someone's work brightens your life, why not tell them. New resolution.

-Karaoke tomorrow - am thinking of breaking out "Wuthering Heights." Would go with my semi-Strange mood.

On My Shelf

2010-03-31T19:33:00.000-07:00

Just finished something I'd recommend: The True Deceiver, by Tove Jansson. To anyone who's read the iconic Moomintroll series, or The Summer Book, it'll come as no surprise that this novel too is spare, atmospheric, unsettling, and bleakly lovely.

Here's hoping NYR brings out her other translated works in English, both because it's like coming upon a jewel (or a really good hot-cross bun, in my parlance) and because they did a particularly beautiful job with this edition. (Yes, that's the author's original cover art.)

In brief, it's the story of a small Finnish fishing village in the dead of winter, and the relationship between a reclusive aging children's-book author and a pragmatic outsider. If that makes it sound fuzzy, well, it's quite the opposite. It's very nearly cruel. But it sticks with you and sheds a lot of light on casual moral equivocations and that's all I'll say about that.

Braced for the cruelest month, kiddos? Me neither. But maybe it'll help to know that the figurine is actually titled "Kewpie Lawyers."

2010-03-26T21:18:00.000-07:00

Friday: Lovely, lazy evening after a middling week: internet was on the fritz (or at least being used by half the hood - we can't lock it) and I had to work, kneeling, in the front hallway of our building, where the jack is. Some kinks to work out!

Since it's been grayish, I've been plying the "sun-box" my parents sent me, and I must say, I am feeling pretty jolly!

In addition, the week involved: two visits to Pies and Thighs, far too much time spent on Polyvore, a lovely takeout Indian dinner with friends and their baby, the sweetest 16-month-old in the whole world and, last night, The Nose at the Met.

The Nose is Shostakovitch's first opera, written when he was only 22, and based on Gogol's short story of the same name. Basically, a man wakes up without his nose. The nose is at large, running around the city and impersonating an officer. It's all very absurdist and, it must be said, extremely gruckimish! The production was very whimsical and busy, with Surrealist animations cut with Societe-era propaganda films and text and images and, of course, the silhouette of the giant nose cutting capers. I've been listening to the score all day which, as Slim says, wasn't even that atonal!

2010-03-22T14:02:00.000-07:00

I hope everyone in the northeast enjoyed the weekend's weather as much as did we! I was euphoric, giddy, and couldn't stop grinning at everyone, although looking back I got next to nothing done in terms of either chores or culture or even the exploration of new restaurants and walks.

Oh, and I got a doozy of a migraine! I guess I wasn't quite prepared for Saturday's heat - and in any case I have a sort of aversion to rushing the season, both because I won't let nature play me for a fool and because I want my summer things to retain their specialness, what with for every thing there is a season etc. etc. In any case, I guess my denim shirtdress and red cotton cardi were a bit heavy, or I didn't drink enough water, but by the time I'd successfully received a haircut (with Bardot-ish blowout)and gone to meet M at the Strand, things were beginning to go bad. And by the time we'd finished a really great dinner at Bar Jamon (pan con tomate; skirt steak with onion marmalada and romesco; marinated brussels sprouts) it had sort of set it. Nevertheless, it seemed a good idea, rather than sleeping it off as usual, to get to the root of the problem, and so we repaired to Chinatown for a cheap back-rub. We found a respectable-looking spot full of tourists getting foot-rubs and I was led to a bed between two curtains and told to undress, which made me uneasy(although it soon became clear that the massuese was all business and there would be no suggestion of happy endings - despite the odd, Doughboy-like giggling of the southern-accented tourist in the next alcove.) I dutifully put face in hole, but despite a soundtrack that went from "Doe, A Deer" to "Bringing in the Sheaves" it wasn't terribly relaxing as my masseuse was forever shouting things to her colleagues and occasionally giggling to herself, which I might have minded more had I not been wearing a brand-new set of underthings, had freshly washed hair and known my hygiene to be beyond reproach. Maybe it was the band-aids on my feet? Whatever, I was in too much pain to care.

By the time we left, I was in a bad way and let me just say that if your migraines benefit from the smells of fish and festering garbage, of shouting frat-boys and squalling babies, of tweens who can express the thrill of being in a stretch limo only by sticking their heads out the windows and screeching "You Belong With Me" - then, my friend, get yourself to Chinatown. I, instead, threw up a lot and then went home to bed, aided and physically supported by the tirless and heroic Slim.

3 Packages

2010-03-18T09:21:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a red-letter day, for not one, not two, but three packages were delivered to my door.

The first was an eagerly-anticipated shrunken-schoolboy blazer that, in the magical way of certain eBay purchases, fit just right.

The second was one of those UV lamps, courtesy of my dad. Now, you may wonder why he'd send this to me on the first 60-degree week of the year, but you must udnerstand that it was only this past Sunday that my folks saw a segment about SAD on CBS, and determined that it was the cause of all my problems. Very dear, of course, and as soon as I drag myself away from the real thing, I plan to bask regularly, even though I'm told the glare renders computers screens invisible.

The third was the oddest and requires a bit of dull background. Perhaps you'll recall that a few years ago, when we first started dating, Slim and I had a Big Misunderstanding. In essence, I thought it was tacitly understood that we were "exclusive," and he hadn't gotten the memo (ugh, two phrases I hate in one sentence!) It precipitated a break and much kowtowing and my lifetime supply of donuts from Peter Pan. Anyway, at the time, a couple of his friends were aware that he was seeing both me and the incredibly glamorous and stunning British fashion designer of whose existence I was not aware. Indeed, they hung out with her! They thought, like him, that I was "cool" with it, although anyone who knew me at all would have known I've never been cool with anything in my life, less that. As a result, after the fact, I've always found seeing these two friends of his about the most humiliating thing in the world, and they evoke a very unpleasant time for me and an irrational part of my mind always thinks they're snickering at me, even though that's silly. Which, in a way, is too bad, since we twice had a good time, once involving lard bread and once involving dancing at Home Sweet Home.

Apparently one of them, the one who works for a sock company, asked Slim, last week, why it is that I never come on their outings or join them for dinner. Slim, being an ass, told them frankly that it reminds me of being cuckholded and that I find the very sight of them humiliating. (This level of neurosis should really be classified information, except for the fact that I'm writing about it here.) So then, yesterday, arrived in the mail, with no explanation or note, a large box of women's socks. Which, presumably, is supposed to make me less uncomfortable. It kind of does the exact opposite. But don't get me wrong, I can use the socks.

2010-03-09T14:16:00.000-08:00

My annual hot cross bun roundup!

Purty

2010-03-09T08:21:00.000-08:00

Via BoingBoing

2010-03-08T18:11:00.000-08:00

My parents are selling their house. I went up there over the weekend to choose some things I'd like to have - mostly books, and a few kitchen implements - as my brother is (allegedly) going to sell the remainder on eBay.

While the fact of losing that home-base will surely hit home after the house is in the charge of some enterprising young family, I am excited for my parents to start a new chapter, even if the timing is not what they would have chosen. The truth is, the house was never exactly to my tastes, even at 3, and in some ways (yes, over 25 years) we never really settled in. My folks are many things, but homemakers is not one. Although the center of many wonderful family gatherings, it was not, in itself, the stuff of family lore.

By contrast, take my grandmother's legendary family home in Silver Spring, which words to this day are still spoken in hushed tones rendered rosy with nostalgia and quite at odds with that suburb's realities. My great-aunt, the family historian, just sent around some of the sorts of recollections to which I refer.

The James E. Benedict property, from the time the house was built in 1893?, was almost half of the block between Highland Drive and Grace Church Road, with the Henry Olds house built to its north, and the Edson B. Olds house on the diagnonally opposite corner of the block.
In addition to crabapples, plums, peaches, chestnuts, and other trees, and gooseberries, currants, black and red raspberries, grapes, strawberries, and other fruits, there were many plants and flowers. There were narcissus and daffodils lining the sidewalk to the front door, hydrangea, mock-orange, fragrant shrub, rose bushes, forsythia, and many other bushes. Grandad had a large vegetable garden.
The lawn, east of the house, was open to the street, from which everyone could view its north border of lilac trees. In front of the lilacs and curving to the east border next to the west side of the circular driveway to the garage, was the flower bed known as "Aunt Bess's," with almost every summer-blooming plant, lasting until the frost time.
Behind the lilac border, and sloping away to The Hollow, was an access road for oil tankers and a path along the south side of the two-story shop in which Charles J. Benedict, Sr.,, had his printing business. Between the access road and the path, was a trianguar-shaped garden tended by Aunt Ruth, fenced in and with a green carpet of grass. It contained a variety of rose bushes, and over the gate was an arbor of red rambler roses. The gate had a lock and the children were allowed in only when supervised by Aunt Ruth. It was like a private, little fairyland. In late winter there might be a crocus or snowdrop pushing through the snow.
When we moved across the intersection of Highland Drive and First Avenue, to the Leighton Place (which we called Old Oaks), we had hickory nuts, walnuts, and Concord grapes, the various berry bushes, and an apple orchard, as well as Dad's vegetable garden.
The north side of the property, on Highland Drive, extended from First to Second Avenues. It was unshaded and Dr. Clifford Waller, across the street, asked if he could plant dahlias along the fence. He was assistant US Surgeon General and often had important visitors who enjoyed sharing the sight of his prize-winning beauties. Dr. Waller reminded us that the flowers were to be admired, not touched, and in all our growing years, we never did touch them. He had faith that we would not and we did not.
Dad had his circular plot of bulb plants, including tulips and hyacinths, and along the driveway his favorite pansies. We never tired of looking at the faces of the pansies and comparing them with each other and they bloomed from early spring until October. There were lillies-of-the-valley just north of the front door. Dad spent his spare time working around the yard and welcomed our company as we trotted alongside him. There is a snapshot of Ruth Mary with him, as the inspiration for his poem, "Followin' Daddy 'Round."
MaMa (Elizabeth Junken Benedict), our grandmother, had many indoor plants in the bay window facing west in their parlor, and each summer moved them to the front porch, where she tended them with care.
Aunt Ruth also loved natural plants and went into the woods to find them for the area from the front porch of their house to the street, west of the sidewalk. There were ferns and Indian pipes, partridge berries, and many other plants, setting off the bird bath in the shade of the tree there.
All our relatives enjoyed Nature's contributions to our surroundings.