We threw a low-key 41st birthday pizza party for Suzie and the family, and seeing these smiling faces are just what this blog, and this week, needs right now. Happy memories, happy times, happy friends and family. This is how we feel. This is how we heal. This is how we find happiness. Let’s do it again next year.
This space and date is usually reserved for some ridiculous photo of Suzie Ko, given that it’s her birthday. This year I’m switching it up and keeping it brief and simple (and without that infamous wet shot of us walking a mile in our bathing suits). Of course a silly hat photo remains, but that’s the only kind of photo she really takes…
There’s no need to go into our lifelong history together – it’s been well-documented in ways both of us would likely like to forget, and if you’re a regular reader of my nonsense you know that she’s a prominent character in my cast of favorites.
As for what 41 will bring her, I hope it’s more of the same – health, happiness, and a fun-loving family that makes her one of the luckiest people I know.
Happy Birthday Suzie!! Pizza and cake forthcoming!
Afternoon Tea at The Plaza is the stuff of history and glamour, of Eloise and elegance. It conjures the ghosts of balls and galas that took place in the Palm Court. In the hallway leading to the Court, photos of Frank Sinatra and Mia Farrow from Truman Capote’s Black and White Ball hang directly across from a framed photo of Marilyn Monroe. These are the memories such storied walls hold. My mother and I slowly walk around, imagining the rustling of fancy skirts and the clinking of crystal.
It is my belated Mother’s Day gift to her, and as we are seated in a comfortable corner nook we nestle in to the surroundings with grateful ease. There is lots of walking to be done in New York, and never enough time for rest, but for the moment we pause and take in the breathtaking scene at hand.
We were both expecting a couple of high-priced petit fours and some fancy tea, but this was a full-bodied meal, presented on a three-tiered wheel that carries all the bang that its hefty buck commands.
The bottom layer was breads and pastries – a delightful scone and muffin combination. The second tier was all dainty sandwiches, and all quite different from one another. Scoff if you must at a finger-sandwich – when there are seven, and each one is a work-of-art in its own right, that’s a lot of damn good food.
At the very top was this gorgeous rendering of decadent desserts. If this was my daily existence, I could stomach living here, right next to Eloise, roaming the hallways, hiding behind velvet curtains, surreptitiously sneaking a bite-sized confection and gleefully enjoying a world of whimsy.
The entire ceremony was a lesson in refinement and taste, and by the end we were both more than satiated. All worries of it being an exercise in restraint and not enough food were more than put to rest.
Our weekend in New York had come to a close, and it felt like we had only just begun. That’s the spell the city manages to cast upon many of us. As much as I want to write it off, I simply can’t. In fact, I’m already looking forward to next year. (And maybe a high summer weekend with Suzie or Chris before then.) Whether it was the food or the shows or the warm comfort of being with my Mom, I’m ready to do it all over again.
New York, New York! I’ve made it no secret that I’m not the biggest fan of the Big Apple, but you can’t find the number and variety of Broadway and Off-Broadway shows anywhere else, so to that end New York is a necessary evil. Fortunately, there are enchantments and pockets of magnificence to counter the sinking-humanity feeling I get when pushing my way through the idiot-infested crowds of Times Square, and the chance to spend some time with my Mom was just a bonus.
In previous years we’ve done three shows in two days, which can be a daunting schedule to keep. This time around we narrowed it to two, with some buffers for shopping and simple decompressing. Oh, and some very extravagant meals – probably the most extravagant I’ll ever have the fortune of enjoying – and we certainly did that.
It began at La Grenouille – sometimes billed as New York’s most beautiful restaurant. It certainly cornered the floral market – walking into the entry one was pleasantly overcome by the unmistakable scent of a florist. Though powerful, it was never overpowering, and if you love flowers as much as I do it was an absolute revelation. Two grand bouquets rose to the ceiling, while each table was given its own special bouquet. These were not paltry carnations or Alstroemeria either – these were filled with peonies and roses and lilies and even dried fiddleheads.
It was sublime. Flattering soft lighting, red velvet banquettes, and tuxedo-clad waitstaff who were never snooty or arrogant (and after bringing a twist in my martini instead of an olive, and oddly following up with a plate of olives, they had no reason to be) it made for an impressive (and costly) dining experience.
And it was an experience I’ll not soon forget. As much as I might whine about New York, you can’t find this sort of thing anywhere else. On every corner and behind every door there is the possibility for magic that doesn’t exist in other places. The city is vast and varied in that way, and just when you think you might have a grasp or handle on it, it unfurls further expanses and delights.
(Even the bathroom had this glorious bouquet of hyacinths on the sink.)
After stuffing ourselves with an amazing meal, we walked over to see ‘Fun Home’. Our return Broadway engagement was off to a rollicking start…
Parents who know fashion have children who know fashion.
My Mom was the first person who taught me how to put an outfit together. Whether it was matching the shoes to the belt, or the shirt collar to a color in a sweater, she instilled a basic knowledge of what worked and what didn’t, and it was on that foundation upon which I relied until I could find my own way. (When you know the rules, you can break them.)
She took her cues from Jackie O, style pontiff of that period, and carried herself with a grace and an unintentional air of aloofness that got passed down directly to her first-born son. What I didn’t learn directly from the outfits she pre-selected for me and my brother I learned through watching her own style evolution, and the way she set about crafting an ensemble with her jewelry and accessories.
A number of years ago, I came into possession of the dress pictured here – a fancy evening gown straight out of the sixties (literally) with gold metallic threading that lent it a shimmer and glow that was a daring departure for my Mom’s usually conservative yet elegant taste. From the moment I first saw it, I was entranced by its beautiful pattern, its use of peacock-like color, and the texture and movement of its unique fabric. (I was also impressed because it was like nothing else my mother owned, and I couldn’t picture her in such a head-turner.)
For many years I’ve been wondering how to make use of it, to showcase and re-envision its purpose to impress, and I think I finally came up with something (without having to remove several ribs, a stomach, and most of a thigh in order to simply slip into it). The new version retains the integrity of the fabric without cutting it to pieces, while entirely revising its function and form. One of the most important things I learned from my Mom’s style was to embrace classic simplicity. (I may not employ it very often, but I appreciate it.) And in situations such as this, when it would be easy to take this dress and turn it into something unrecognizable, I made judicious use of restraint, keeping the fabric largely intact and whole.
The intricately excessive colors and patterns and textures are more than enough to hold visual interest, though a few golden adornments may be a possible addition. For some celebrations, more is more is more…
Such was the refrain that my brother and I recorded over and over on a ‘Stop Smoking’ audio tape we made for our Uncle when we were just kids. It was our attempt at getting him to do something healthy, and we made it as much for our amusement as for our underlying fear that he’d die from all those cigarettes. We didn’t know any better then – we thought people could change that quickly and easily. I think that’s the part of childhood I miss the most – that sense of infinite possibility, and the ability to believe in anything. We need more of that now.
As for smoking, I never really got into it. I dabbled over the years – trying cloves and bidis before Marlboro lights – but for some reason I was lucky enough never to get hooked. It was a social thing at first, to get an extra break at work when my friends were going out, or a photo prop, done for effect and accessory over any real enjoyment or addiction.
It’s strange – part of me wanted to get addicted to something, playing up the attraction to a darker side – but it was never really true. Why I felt the need to appear as such, I’ll never know, but that’s another post for the denouement of the Delusional Grandeur Tour.
Light ’em up.
Rustic elegance.
Woodsy sophistication.
If you’re looking for something couture and personally customized for your home, look no further than Dead Wood Field & Furniture. (Damn, I should do this for a living.) This is a promotional post for my brother, because in addition to hooking him up with a magnificent webmaster and taking some decent photos of his goods and wares, I’m now pimping out prime space here to direct you to his new website. (Most of which is populated by my photos.) I’m still waiting for him to me help out with some brick work, but I digress… (And I’m not actually waiting anymore as I finally had to do it myself. He can owe me another time.)
As for Dead Wood Field & Furniture, it’s a pretty impressive endeavor, and based on the early popularity of his pieces, my brother can craft and sell an item that places like Restoration Hardware could only dream of. Since much of his work is customized, it has an artisanal slant that’s all the rage right now. If you’re looking for something specific, or something out of the ordinary that you envision (or have seen elsewhere), get in touch with him.
He’s done pieces as small as miniature coat racks for kids all the way to dining room tables that could fit about a dozen. His style is rustic and wood-heavy, substantial and unpretentious. It’s not my style, but it has its own sort of beauty. (My style has never been popular with the mainstream anyway.)
In addition to the furniture work, he offers a number of fun “field†accessories to accent the forest-inspired motif, and they’re available at his Ballston Spa location. Rustic metallic fixtures, leather-bound books, and even baseball caps with the Dead Wood logo come together to create an atmosphere of kindred coziness. His store on Front Street brackets a bustling little bit of Ballston Spa that was a revelation to me when I first visited. Stores and restaurants lined the throwback-to-another-era, and there was even a spa and hotel nearby. Definitely worth a weekend trip to check it out.
{Dead Wood Field & Furniture has its own website as well as a FaceBook page. The store is open most weekends, but call ahead to confirm hours – (518) 605-1276.}
A late-in-the-day post dedicated to my Mom on this special day. We’ll be belatedly celebrating on our semi-somewhat-annual Broadway trip to New York in a couple of weeks, but for now a bookmark of thanks for being such a great Mom and grandmother.
In many ways, I am who I am today because of her. She’s the one who first taught me how to put together an outfit, the one who showed me the fun and joy in shopping, and the one who instilled a love of traveling, with her impeccably-planned summer vacations. She kept the family together when three men were consistently at odds with one another, and formed the pillar of our home when my brother’s and my growing pains threatened to tear it all down. Because of her, our family remains a family to this day. Throughout it all, she maintained a sense of style and class that inspired me to carry myself a certain way, no matter how I might be feeling on the inside, a grace that is a continual reminder to keep going whenever I feel like giving up.
Happy Mother’s Day to the greatest Mom in the world – and to all the Moms out there. It’s the hardest job anyone can do, but it’s never gone unnoticed.
Today marks the 6th Birthday for my niece and my nephew. I still remember the rainy day on which they came into this world, and how tiny and cute they were. They’re still a little of both, and they are just beginning to come into their own and develop their own personality quirks. We celebrated with a gathering at the Saratoga Children’s Museum (after which I insisted on a dinner at Sperry’s – because we all need a little light at the end of the kids’ party tunnel.)
I’d been told by friends who have children that this was a great spot. I guess they were talking about the children, as I found nothing of interest here. However, with those who have retained a child-like imagination, who remain entranced by a bit of make-believe, I can see the allure and the fun in the space. In fact, if I were six again, I’d have loved this place, so watching them run around and play their little games was amusing, and made me glad they were still kids.
The birthday boy and girl enjoyed the various rooms and set-ups, stocking up in the pantry…
And answering the phone at the reception desk.
As always, Andy enjoyed playing with the balls and surveying transportation replicas.
There were farm animals on hand too, in plastic form so as not to make a mess of things.
My favorite part, however, may have been in capturing the following series of shots wherein the twins are enjoying their birthday pizza and cake, with my brother unintentionally mugging in the background.
This group of photos is crying out for captions beyond which I’m willing to give – so I’ll let them speak for themselves.
As I’ve seen at many of these things, much of the time finds the men (and women) standing around awkwardly, which is about all a supportive Dad can do. (And a supportive pair of Uncles.) Our work finished, we headed to Sperry’s. We’ll catch up with the twins to give them our gifts at a quieter time. For now, we wish them a Happy 6th Birthday!
Our Easter Holiday was spent with the Ilagan family, such as we are these days, but one of the tribe – Noah – was out sick and spent the majority of the day napping. (Until he woke up and started running around immediately, at which point it was time for us to go.)
Noah’s sister Emi, however, was very much awake and in (thankfully) rare form – as evidenced by the photos below (which are the best ones of the lot, so you can imagine.)
As is most often the case, the day was all about the food for me, and the traditional ham-centered dinner was served with some delicious glazed carrots and creamy potatoes as made by my Mom.
I’m just glad that the time for bunnies is over for another year.
The family-friendly trend of posts that started over Easter weekend continues with this one about my brother’s birthday. It was belated when it happened, and belated to be posted, but it’s here now and that’s all that matters. One of his gifts, the one that he’s trying on in the photo below, is a re-gifting of a coat he’d given me way back in 1995. I wore it to the infamous New Year’s Eve gathering in which one of my so-called-friends berated me for the crazy things I wore. As such, it holds a special place in my heart.
Anyway, my brother had given it to me because he didn’t like or want it, and it quickly became a favorite for its warm furry lining and cold-blocking hood. I hadn’t thought much about it until this past winter when he asked if I still had it because he wanted it back. Not to be outdone in dickery, I gave it back. As a birthday present. Happy happy!!
When you reach a certain age, you need a little help in blowing out all the candles.
The more help, the merrier, as demonstrated by Noah and Milo.
There’s only one Easter egg hunt that I recall with some detail. It was at the old Nichols store on Route 30 in Amsterdam. In a storage area with high unfinished ceilings, and a cement floor strewn with straw, a bunch of kids were let loose to find a golden egg. The one who found said egg would win a prize – in this case an enormous chocolate rabbit from Fariello’s. My lactose-intolerant ass was largely uninterested in that much chocolate, but it would be nice to find such a special egg among all the cheap plastic pastel bullshit that kept turning up as I waded through the smelly straw. I was in it to win it, and I scrambled with the rest of the kids, including my brother, as we searched and sought out the elusive golden egg.
Our baskets filled with the colorful also-rans, and I soon grew anxious that others were going to find it first. Part of me also slowed, not wanting to accept the notoriety and attention in which finding that golden egg would result. My shyness was almost crippling as a child. I hesitated and paused, going through the motions but not actively pursuing paths others hadn’t yet taken. Luckily, someone else found it first, which ended any dilemma of stumbling upon the pretty oblong object and dealing with all that attention. And it just happened to be my brother.
The prize was almost as tall as he was (though it ended up being hollow, much to our collective disappointment) and I think the local newspaper took a photo of him beside it. We ended up eating chocolate for months, even if it upset my stomach. One doesn’t look a gift bunny in the mouth.
We heard the cry of the cock before we saw it atop its cage. Filling the greenhouses with his trademark ‘cock-a-doodle-do’, the cries echoed along the cement floor as we made our way into the collection of animals on display for a Palm Sunday treat at Faddegon’s Nursery. The twins were happy to say hello to the chickens and the mules (a cross between a horse and a pony, apparently) as well as the baby goats. I was just happy to find a bench that didn’t have goat turds all over it. Those things have no shame when it comes to shitting in public. No manners.
After a quick greeting of farm animals, Noah and Emi settled into the imagination station, beginning with a bit of coloring. As goats tried to eat their work, they crafted a couple of drawings and I helped them color in some pre-drawn scenes of spring fun.
The exhaustion of coloring things required the fortification of cookies and punch, both of which were eagerly snapped up by these little sugar-addicts. Hey, I wasn’t watching them after this, so the more they wanted to have, the more they did have.
I must not have paid enough attention to the complete list of activities, because I was NOT expecting to see the frightening creature that rounded a corner and made straight for me like an owl hones in on its cute and cuddly prey. Now, I’ve had a bad run-in with an Easter Bunny, as everyone so fondly remembers, and that horror-show had on a collar of purple tulle. Just like the one that was closing in on me in a greenhouse stocked with axes and saws.
Somehow, I maintained my composure and stood in line with the twins until they had a turn for a hug and some candy. I snapped these photos from afar, relieved when it was all over. They proved braver than me, approaching without trepidation. (Of course, they didn’t deign to sit on this creature’s lap, as I’d had to do… but my painful memories digress. We don’t abuse kids like that anymore.)
Anyway, what I’m trying to say in this post is, ‘Happy Easter!’
Easter memories have become more and more faded over the years. Unlike the more hyped and heralded arrival of Christmas, this particular Catholic holiday doesn’t enjoy as much mainstream appeal, and as such its memories haven’t held as steadfastly. For someone growing up in the strict religious world of St. Mary’s, however, I understood that these were the real high holidays of the year, and the resurrection of Jesus Christ was the miracle of all miracles.
As for those faded memories, mostly they involve trips to Hoosick Falls to visit my grandma, who would cook a ham dinner, and have big beautiful Easter baskets filled with chocolate bunnies and sugary eggs and lots of pastel Easter grass. These were formal occasions that required a stiff and starchy suit – not exactly the preferred mode of dress for a boy, even a fashion-forward boy such as myself.
But it was all worth it for the moment to see our Gram, and pose with our Easter baskets. Somehow we even managed to sit still for the sugar-fueled, hour-long ride home. Eventually, when Gram was unable to accommodate us, we made other Easter plans. A few years we had lunch at home in Amsterdam, with a visit to Suzie’s back when she was still on Locust Avenue. I remember posing in a sea of Scilla siberica and making her take a whole roll of photos.
More recently, we took to Boston, exorcising previous bunny traumas and enjoying quiet Easter brunches where someone else was responsible for the cooking and serving. Coupled with a morning viewing of ‘Easter Parade’ it was a low-key but just as satisfying way to celebrate the recently risen.
In a few weeks (give or take, as there doesn’t seem to be a set schedule or hard opening), my brother will set up shop for his furniture-making business: Dead Wood Field & Furniture. He does rustic pieces, made from raw and sometimes reclaimed wood, with occasional metal accents and a vaguely country/barn slant that was the style of his first house. It’s a popular style, lending itself to industrial spaces that need an injection of warmth, or a more traditional home in need of something raw and hefty and grounded in wood.
Pictured as the featured shot (and below) is a birthday gift from him – it’s a shelf stand that will hold a few plants for our outside patio. This is his style, and it’s simple, substantial, strong and clean. There’s a shabby-chic raw edge to it as well, but it works well in the right setting. He’s also open to creating pieces per the customer’s specifications and requests. Check out the Dead Wood Field & Furniture FaceBook page here (and while there wish my baby bro a happy birthday). Store details forthcoming…
