A boy I once liked very much said this was one of his favorite buildings in Boston. It was after our first and only date, and he had parked right in front. There was no good-night kiss, and no interest from his part. Of course I fell in love with him right on the spot.
Now I only find it pretty in certain light. And hindsight.
When I was in grade school, our general music classes took place in the basement/bomb shelter of the building. As a kid, its mustiness and fluorescent interior did not bother me in the least, nor did its painted cinder-block walls and dank corners. If anything, it was an escape, not solely for the topic at hand, but for the excursion into the recesses of a building we mostly knew from above.
Our music teacher, a blonde woman whose hair changed styles from year to year (there was an especially-iffy perm circa 1986 that I remember to this day) was a piano-playing soprano who endeared herself to me with her annual presentation of ‘Peter and the Wolf’ – still a remarkable introduction for kids to the world of classical music. She doted on me in return – my boyhood voice was pretty soprano as well. I sat in the front row with a few girl friends and she would sometimes use us as an example of how to sing something in tune or in rhythm. (Yeah, I was that kid – and loved it.)
Somewhere during our seven years together at McNulty school, she started to receive bouquets of roses – once every week or so. She’d place them on the corner of her desk, and on those days her step had a brighter bounce to it, her countenance a cheerier aspect. Even her sometimes-questionable hair looked better when that bouquet stood at happy sentinel by her side. When she sang on those days, her voice soared, as if trying to match the heights of beauty that those flowers exemplified. As much as I was struck by their beauty, I was equally enthralled with the effect they had.
A bouquet of flowers changes the atmosphere.
It shifts the balance of a room.
In the case of a dark, fetid basement, it brought in an airiness that was just as good as opening a window.
In the case of a party, it is the mark of a friend.
Always, it is a work of art.
A bouquet of flowers can be as simple or as elaborate as one wishes, limited only by the imagination of the arranger. In the stunning case presented here, a rich landscape of flowers and foliage results in a fresh and vibrant pocket of paradise, a portable glimpse into a miniature world of beauty.
Comprised of a magnificent array of orchids and exquisitely-ruffled tulips that could pass as fancy roses, it is backed by feathery greens, and thrillingly accented by a pair of poppy seed pods that lend it an exotic and other-worldly splendor.
Our friend Courtney made this extraordinary bouquet, as a gracious gift of thanks for hosting JoAnn’s birthday party. I have to confess, I’ve secretly been longing for a Courtney bouquet since I sat at a table that held one of her creations a few years ago. It had sprays of mimosa in it and entranced me with its perfume and delicately designed beauty. When I saw this one, it felt like a dream come true.
A crazy perfume called Lou-Lou stands in plastic turquoise salute. It reminds me of holidays and bears named Felix from Filene’s.
Folds of colorful silk lie like pools of tranquil water, in vermillion, coral, and Granny Smith green.
Fragrance, texture, color and sentiment combine in a wave of nostalgia, yet in that moment a new memory is created. The memory of a memory.
Time is marked in outfits and pieces of clothing as much as it is marked in scent.
Summer is signaled by a floral jacket as much as the sweet neroli beneath its cuff, but there are diversions from the seasonally expected too.
Who else would wear sequins and flip flops and aviators by the pool, or to a parade for that matter?
Who would wear a kimono to a black-tie affair?
You may not be remembered for what you wore, but I’ll be damned if I don’t try.
There are different delusions that see us through the day.
They need not be dark or destructive to effect change.
They need not be disturbing or devastating to make a mark.
Some delusions are grand in other ways – in their prettiness, silliness, or frivolity.
Some delusions exist only for the moment.
Some delusions are merely…fashion.
That doesn’t make them any less powerful.
Quite the contrary…
Can a shoe change the world?
Can a piece of pretty silk make a difference in a life?
Depends on the life.
When faced with a nightmarish medley of wallpaper and carpet patterns, the only thing to do is don an equally-ghastly pair of briefs and strike a pose. Fortunately for you, I’m not the only guy who appears here in his tighty-not-so-whities. Check out these guys, who like their junk snug and secure.
A real-time update of The Delusional Grandeur Tour: this weekend finds me and my Mom on our semi-annual Broadway visit to New York. We’ll be seeing ‘The Humans’ and ‘Fun Home’ – and so far I’ve reserved a dinner at La Grenouille (rumor has it they have lots of flowers). As we’re in the midst of the ‘Cologne Glamour Fashion’ portion of the tour, a visit to NYC seems of opportune timing, and perhaps a Sunday brunch at the plaza followed by shopping at Bergdorf Goodman is in order.
In an effort to curb exorbitant ticket prices, and allow for some breathing room, we’ve pared it down from the trio of shows we sometimes see to just two. (Maybe we’ll return in the fall, as we so often promise to do but never quite manage.) Previous outings have included stops at Kinky Boots, Mothers & Sons, Hedwig & The Angry Inch, The Bridges of Madison County, and Pippin. I’ve chosen a low-key musical and a straight play, something we haven’t done much, but ‘The Humans’ has gotten such raves that it should rival any toe-tapping dance extravaganza out there. Stand by for a couple of reviews… and welcome back to Broadway, baby.
My dear friend JoAnn just celebrated her birthday, and for the occasion I threw a gathering in Boston for her chosen Cape Crew. The guest list was all girls (as per request) but I’ve never shied away from female company. I’ve known most of these lovely ladies for years, so in some respects it felt like a reunion of sorts, and a very happy one at that. There’s a long history there, and I felt honored to be a small part of it.
There was a slight daisy theme running through the proceedings, in honor of one of JoAnn’s favorite flowers. A lemongrass ginger cocktail was on hand, because a single cocktail is easier than setting up a full bar. This particular cocktail is as easy as they come: 2 parts vodka or gin, ½ part lemongrass-ginger simple syrup, then top with seltzer to your liking. Garnish with a stick of lemongrass. (I saved a bunch from last season’s garden, frozen in a zip-lock freezer bag.)
As already explained, the wardrobe was a simple one, and the only fanciness was to be found in this selection of whimsical straws.
Kira had arrived the evening before to help put things in order, and we toasted our friends en route.
It was, as always, the people who made the party, and JoAnn has a great group of friends in her life. She’s always been good at that. People grow and leave, lives change, and sometimes you have to let go whether you want to or not, but that’s the ebb and flow of life and friendship. Such fluidity keeps things interesting.
Sarah made this amazing cake – a carrot cake with extra pizzazz, and I mean it: this thing was packed with moist, rich flavor and a cream cheese frosting to-die-for. (I’m not ashamed to say I had some for breakfast the next day.)
In the end, it was the guests that mattered, and the fun that transpired whenever JoAnn’s friends get together. Let’s do it again!
Some parties are smaller affairs, designed for the enjoyment and interaction of guests. Less attention is paid to details like wardrobe and decorations, less emphasis is placed on surroundings, and the simple gathering of good friends is more than ample entertainment. Far from the sprawling excess and outrageous ensembles of holiday and summer parties, these little get-togethers call for something quieter, where the only thing that raises its voice – and then only slightly – is the color of the pants and maybe a matching choker. And when you find the latter for $5 at an H&M bargain bin, you know you’re golden.
The sad truth is that the classic daisy carries no fragrance. Anyone who brings their nose to the bright blooms expecting some sort of cheerful scent to match their petal-framed faces will be sorely disappointed. Thankfully, we have Marc Jacobs to fill that fragrance-free void. His ‘Daisy’ scent was the accent these flowers so badly needed, and though I’m not the biggest fan of florals, Jacobs manages to keep the sickly-sweet components at bay.
Being that there is no true daisy scent, he goes for the essence of bright and fresh, wisely veering away from any single flower fragrance (rose, gardenia, tuberose) or cloying heaviness. Somehow it works, even if the lighter touch doesn’t lend it much staying power. More like a body spray than anything approaching a perfume, it’s a decent match-up for warmer weather, when potent scents tend to overwhelm.
Judging from its myriad offshoots, ‘Daisy’ must have been a hit for Mr. Jacobs. There are a number of variations on it currently out there, some supposedly even fresher than the oh-so-fresh original.
The trend for sister fragrances is not one of which I’m particularly enamored. Tom Ford has been doing that with all of his Neroli Portofino cousins, and as much as I love a twist on neroli, I’d rather he try something different. His Oud line is slightly more varied, but even that seems to have reached its limit. Still, I’d rather give his side-shoots a whirl over another Daisy.
Sometimes a single Daisy is more than enough.
The bottle comes adorned with classic Marc Jacobs flair – in this case a piece of daisy pop-art that doubles as a cover. It’s a lovely embodiment of a fun fragrance that finally gives the daisy a scent of its own.
“Behold
the azure sea in front of you,
the turquoise sky above you,
the amber mountain beneath your feet,
and the golden daisy in your hands.
How are you not the richest person on earth?â€
― Khang Kijarro Nguyen
These interesting little mums are a different take on the daisy, and as such I had to include them in a vase for a daisy-themed get-together for my friend JoAnn. I like the way they collectively create such star-shooting movement. The rays of their white petals, the yellow radial form of their central orb, and the linear structure of their stems combine in thrilling fashion to conjure an effect much larger than expected. When dealing with simpler blooms, sometimes less is more. What would be lost as filler in grander schemes manages to steal the show on such a singular stage.
Confession: I usually enjoy the night before a party better than the night of a party. It’s not something that has been particularly helpful for living in the moment, and my main goal in life has become having fun at the event rather than during the preparation, but there are far worse afflictions to have. There’s also something to be said about being able to enjoy the days of anticipation instead of the mere fleeting hours of a party, so I guess collectively I’m probably having a lot more fun than most people.
Usually the reason for such a skewed view is the fact that for most parties a guest or two will arrive the night before – either because they’re traveling or just want to extend their stay or are being gracious and good enough to help out in preparation. These friends are the close ones who form my inner circle, and sharing a pre-party dinner or sleep-over with them restores my heart.
On a recent weekend in Boston, my friend Kira arrived on Friday night to help set up for a gathering on Saturday. We went out to dinner then picked up the daisies you see here. A midnight flower-arranging session was exactly what I needed to kick off spring in fine fashion, and in the amber glow of the condo all was warm and well with the world.
A cocktail to the first person who gets the obscure musical reference.
My mind works in lyrical snippets, and it’s rarely a good thing.
There are a lot of hidden gems on my hard drive, items that I copy then forget about until a scavenger hunt reveals something like these scrumptious shots of a distant dinner at Harvest. The trek to Harvard Square in the middle of winter is not exactly my idea of a good time, but when the journey’s destination is a place as wondrous as Harvest, it’s worth it.
When they had uni on the menu, it was proof that the stars had truly aligned. The first time I tried uni was a few years ago at O Ya in Boston – and if there’s one place where your first uni experience should be, that’s the one. Since then, I’ve had it a few times, but only this preparation and presentation has come close to that initial taste of heaven in a spiky shell.
About the only thing that could follow and top such a spectacular sea urchin start is this bowl of buttery Scituate lobster. With its combination of spaghetti squash and potatoes, coupled with an assortment of fresh herbs and microgreens, it made for a feast to please the stomach and the eye.
This was a decadent and elegant dish of comfort, elevated to an art form and energized with bright flavor. Colorful of palette, to taste and sight, it appealed on every level. This is the sort of dish I dream about during the day.
Maybe you’ll dream about it too.
While not an official Hunk of the Day (those slots have been filled for yesterday and today), this collection of photos of Sergey Lazarev are just a bonus for the loyal among you who have visited tonight. Mr. Lazarev, recent competitor on Eurovision, is currently embroiled in a minor controversy for some soft-porn pics from his past. Yawn. Who isn’t…?
