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…?
Hidden among the branches and leaves of its structure, quince is a plant that shyly hides its blooms. That’s no easy task given the striking shades of color the blossoms produce – they all but scream out to be noticed and adored – and who are we to ignore such a demand? Though I don’t like that form for my own garden, I will stop and pause for color this super-saturated and gorgeous. It also affords a vantage point for these photos, in which little nooks of beauty are sheltered from the elements and the larger population. Worlds of prettiness and delicate light float in semi-hidden recesses, and there’s always something secret about spring.
In the lofty boughs of fruit trees, I remember climbing away from a well-tread path and hiding as passers-by ambled along beneath me, unaware of my presence. Obscured with bright blooms and filtered sunlight, I sat in sweet-smelling serenity, unbothered by others, perfectly content in secret revelry and silent solitude. As I peek into the protected haunts of these quince blossoms, I am reminded of that moment.
It feels like anything but May – March or November or even January of this past season – but such is the price of our non-winter. Had I known it would be like this now, I’d have taken the bitterness then. We don’t have such choices. And now we recap, no matter what.
The mighty have fallen, as they always do, every year.
Justin Timberlake threw in his fedora for the Song of the Summer.
No one can say his name, but Dimitrije Sreckovic made a smashing Hunk of the Day.
The enchanting tea route.
Midday macaron madness.
I hope the right dressing gown… well, I hope it does something.
Let’s start wth the Asarum.
It’s official: I’m an octopus fiend.
Hanging out in my underwear, as one does.
Boston bloomers. Take two.
To finish up a day of delicate blooms, this is the Korean spice viburnum, one of the most exquisitely perfumed shrubs of the spring landscape (and with the lilacs and fruit trees in fragrant bloom, that is quite an accomplishment.) This often goes unheralded, as the blooms are largely inconspicuous unless singled out by the camera lens. It flies under the radar that way, detectable mostly on still nights when their perfume is at its most potent.
It’s a marvelous ending to this tranquil but pretty day of flowers, and if one day they manage to make scent a part of the online experience, let this be a post to exemplify that. Until then, get out and find yourself one of these bushes.
Small things can make quite an impact when placed, presented, and lit correctly. All conspired to show off this trio of Narcissus. Not the common trumpet variety, these are miniature species, most likely ‘Tete-a-Tete’, but their tiny stature doesn’t stop them from putting on a spectacular show, especially for those who take the time and effort to talk to them on their level.
I have to admit, their size has always put me off (and I am not a size queen, I swear) but there is something to be said for the little things that bloom at such an early time of the year. Especially when they are in such a cheerful shade of yellow. Against a dull brick façade, and accented by blue muscari, they glow in the afternoon sunlight, tiny fireworks of exploding petals and ruffled perianths.
But spring is not limited to the blazing hue of the sun – there are softer shades, cooler colors, and they temper the bold jonquil with their own gracious beauty.
In many a collection there is an interloper. This one should be obvious, but no less whimsical.
Spring was busting out all over Boston the last time I was in town, so this day is going to celebrate that glorious arrival with a couple of floral posts. It’s one of my favorite times to be in the city, made more-so by the fleeting aspect of such beauty. If you blink, you could miss it – and I don’t want to miss a thing.
Nestled along most blocks are these pockets of beauty. A nook of a garden, even in the most concrete-bound of places, can make a magnificent difference. These blooms were all in the vicinity of South Station, a location I hadn’t really frequented until the last two years or so, but as the city extends its charms to the Seaport section, it’s a nifty linking place.
While none of the blooms depicted here are gigantic or earth-shattering on their own, taken together and en masse, they make quite the statement of color and beauty. They demand a closer inspection, a pause in the rush of where we’re headed – and to command such power in such a place is impressive.
A cup of tea stands steeping in the sunlight.
My morning ablutions are less about cleansing and more about awareness.
Replenishing fluids that I’ve released in the first piss of the day, the body adjusts itself to the light and the upright. There’s no reason not to be a decent morning person, especially when the sun is streaming in so brilliantly. Such light is poetry, and the dust particles floating in and out of it are punctuation.
Words and letters give order and structure to the day.
The camera can capture things too, later conveying them in another sort of order.
The order of image and chronology.
The cadence of time.
The shifting gaze.
We sip from the lips of cups,
captive liquid held aloft,
and only the sun sees as it happens.
Watched by the light,
we turn the day over again.
In the middle of the day, on the edge of entering the Seaport, a few restaurants and hotels line the little harbor area, and Kira and I slip into Trade for a little lunch. It’s one of those pockets of time that I will later come to treasure, the unplanned but perfectly-landed respite that acts as its own oasis and siesta in one. A glass of rosé and an octopus salad – no better way to begin.
With a zesty citrus dressing and cacophony of fresh herbs and fennel, the salad was a bright and brilliant blend of flavor and texture.
Trade is better known for its flatbreads, so we ordered two to share. First up was this Prosciutto with peppers and pickled onions. Those onions, and their briny preparation, made this one for me, though it was a close-call with the bacon and artichoke concoction below. With its generous helping of fresh herbs, it held its own with the pungent pickled perfection of its table mate. This was a delicious battle I didn’t mind fighting in the least.
It was on the back cover of the first White Flower Farm catalog that arrived at our house, and I was immediately smitten. There, next to a stand of Ostrich Plume astilbe, was the most beautiful foliage plant I’d ever seen. Deceptively presented, it looked much larger than it was in real life, and the leaves were mottled in a less-glossy version than what is seen here, but the beauty of European ginger was apparent at any size or finish. I was just beginning my garden education, and this was one of the first Latin names I stored in the back of my head: Asarum europaeum. It was also one of the first purchases I begged my Mom to make.
Back then, the White Flower Farm catalog was the standard against which most gardening catalogs were judged, starting with its five-dollar price-tag (an exorbitant amount for something that was usually sent out for free). That sum was recouped on the first order, which included a small 3-inch pot of European ginger. I had grand visions of this plant multiplying and filling in the nooks of my newly-created woodland garden, but when I placed in in that rugged, rough, untilled and unamended soil, it barely survived its first winter.
I hadn’t yet realized the importance of proper soil preparation, and placement. Just because I wanted something to grow in a specific spot did not mean that it would. Beneath the heavy shade of pine and oak that resulted in an almost impenetrable canopy, much would refuse to grow, until I “moved†(ok, stole) a few ostrich ferns from a neighbor’s forgotten stand. (In my defense, the new neighbors didn’t even realize there was a fern garden that far back, so no one was really the wiser. Besides, this species of fern does so well it was only a matter of a few years before the original stand was back to where it started from.)
These took off in ways that my sorry Asarum could never manage. It gave up after the second year. Another lesson of listening to what the garden tells you: thirty years later, some of those ferns still remain, while the Asarum remains something I admire from afar (and in other gardens, from where these photos were snapped).
The semi-tragic story of the American dogwood always upsets me. A few years ago, dogwood anthracnose was spreading madly among this native species, and any tree that had so much as a nick on it was soon invaded and destroyed. I’ve seen a number of trees succumb to this, and I didn’t look into whether it’s still decimating the population. For my part, I avoided planting them, preferring the hardier Chinese dogwood. Yet there’s something magical about the American version that makes me wish there was better news for its battle.
There are still some specimens that remain untouched by the disease, including the ones you see here in Boston. Hallmarks of the Southwest Corridor Park, they showed off the enchanting effect that sets them apart from other dogwoods: the blooms (technically bracts) appear before the foliage leafs out, lending a butterfly-like effect that is the stuff of poetry and painting.
Their Chinese counterpart blooms later, after the leaves are out, which is a different kind of magic, and for years I preferred the later bloom time and lush backdrop to better show off the white or pink petal. As the American version becomes more rare, however, I have come to appreciate its own majesty.
It’s happened to the best of us: morning wood. And often at the moment when you most need to pee. Here’s a pictorial tutorial on how best to deal with the penile predicament. (And for the record I’ve only ever attempted two of these. I’m not telling which – but it most definitely wasn’t the blow dryer.)
The interface of a background of black and a background of white cuts the dressing gown down the middle. An absurd impulse purchase while on the way back to the Boston condo, it was really a long dress, but with its button-up style could easily pass as a dressing gown. I couldn’t resist its playful pattern and striking color composition. Somewhere between Iris Apfel and Diana Vreeland, and there’s no space I’d rather occupy. It needs some big-ass costume jewelry and then it will be completely ready for its close-up.
Impulse buy or not, it’s been on my bed taking up space but making me smile whenever my eye finds it. Even if it never touches my body (and of course it already has) it would have been worth it. Happiness for some is a baseball game or pint of beer. For others it’s a stroll in the garden or a ride in an antique car. For me, it’s a colorful dressing gown laid out on the bed, ready for preparation and anticipation of some special evening. Or some average evening. Any evening will do when you have a gown like this.
A hostess is a dowager for a night.
The ensemble sets the tone.
There is a wink inherent in this one.
If you laugh at yourself, the world laughs with you.
If you don’t, it laughs at you.
And we have no shame in our game here.
Making a splash for the summer season, this is Rob Gronkowski‘s new GQ spread, in which he poses like a peacock in a Speedo and just a towel. It certainly plays up his bad-boy/frat-boy/party-boy image (eventually I had to give up on cropping out all the gratuitous bikini gals) and re-establishes his status as football-fun-guy. He’s been a little more naked here before, and has no problem with doffing his clothes for photos, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.
A wisteria can be wonderful and wicked, blooming beautifully while wrecking structures with its unwieldly branches and gnarly trunk. There are only two ways to keep such wildness in check: a ruthless pair of pruning shears and a lack of hesitancy in cutting everything back. It’s the only way I’ve kept our single wisteria under control. One has to be willing to destroy.
This has been a topsy-turvy year for the lilacs in our yard. Last summer I coddled and pampered our small stand of them, amending their home with fertilizer and some lime to keep the soil on the basic side. I watered them through the dry spells, careful not to wet the leaves or encourage mildew, and this winter their buds swelled and enlarged with the promise of bountiful blooms. They were just turning that dark purple to signify they were on the way when we had a night or two of deep-freeze weather. We wrapped them in plastic for the worst of it, but it was still not enough – the majority of buds were killed in the late hard frost. Strangely enough, the old-fashioned version that I’d pampered was the variety that suffered most of the kill-back, while the newer double ‘Miss Kim’ hybrid’s buds remained intact. I guess hybrids are sometimes hardier.
The lilacs seen here were the first of the season, and they appeared in Boston a few weeks ago. I pulled the branch on which they floated down to my face and breathed in the familiar, comforting scent of spring. The scent of hope and happiness, and all the returning good of the sun.
This summer I’ll pamper them again, because another spring will be back before we know it, and I’m hell-bent on bringing the blooms. Another lesson in gardening is in not giving up, no matter what. There are good years, and bad years, and everything in-between.
