Fallen Leaves, Fallen Countenance

For many years, fall was the season of doomed romances for me. They blossomed, mostly in my head, from the simplest and smallest of gestures, then grew – fed by desperation, an insatiable need for love, and a desire for companionship – before erupting in raging flame, burning those closest to me, singeing those in furthest proximity. Like the season itself, their beginnings were beautiful and kind, cozy and warm, but they soon turned cold and bare, empty and barren, as hollow and destitute as a faded, rotten jack-o-lantern.

When I was very young, long before I knew the heartbreaks that would unfold for me, I used to walk in the forest in the fall. The smell of leaves – still fresh, not quite wet with decay or rot – was invigorating, the crunch of them, enmeshed with coppery-hued pine needles, a happy accompaniment to a solitary journey. Dappled sunlight, brilliantly illuminating the flaming tree leaves still held aloft, lent the woods a lighter feeling than the dim green of deep summer.

That false lightness, however, is deceptive. When the fall day turns, sooner than it does in summer, the forest changes. It happens quicker than you expect, too, falling with sudden grace, but not quickly enough for you to notice right away. It’s a more insidious way of lowering the shades – not enough to eradicate the light, not until it’s too late.

This is when the ghosts of Hester Prynne and the Headless Horseman come to my mind. The breaking of a twig, the rustling of leaves, and any change in the wind signals danger. Fall adds the impending weight of winter to any load, no matter how far off it may be.

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Fall Bye OGT

Our time in Ogunquit was over much too quickly, as is always the case, but the end of the fall trip is always the sadder of our two departures. In spring, there is the promise of a return at the close of the season, along with the whole of summer in-between. In fall, there is nothing but the long trudge to and through winter to which we can look ahead. That’s trying enough with the lengthy half-year time period until we meet the Maine shore again, made doubly so by the wretched weather that will occupy much of that stretch. Still, there is beauty in a goodbye, no matter how sad it might be.

There is also beauty in a New England fall, as seen in the accompanying photographs here. While I’ve never been a fan of chrysanthemums for my own yard or garden, I do enjoy seeing the rainbow of colors being produced by hybridizers these days. The dahlias are another highlight that I have yet to grow in my garden – they will go like fireworks until the harder frosts strike them down. It would be too heartbreaking to see a show like that felled by the onslaught of freezing temperatures, but in other gardens I can admire and appreciate them without having to witness their demise.

Throughout it all, there will be gourds and winter squash, heaped upon one another in piles of textured, colorful flesh that hides the kind of goodness that lies in wait to be roasted. Along with soups, roasted winter vegetables will be filling our toasty kitchen this fall, the kind of cozy comfort food that warms the home and the soul. It makes departing Maine only slightly more bearable. We will return… with the spring.

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Ogunquit Haiku

Along the Marginal Way, the breeze is biting but the sun is warm. We walk along this well-traversed stretch of shoreline, pausing to admire the rocky coastline, waiting to absorb the beauty of the day. A couple of seagulls fly overhead, while other water birds float in the distance. On the sea, shards of sunlight bounce off the tips of waves – the effect is of some sparkling blanket, undulating in the darkest of blues.

There is a sense of grounding whenever I find myself on the crux of land and ocean, and upon planting my feet and feeling the power of the place, I look up into the sky and beam at the soaring of the gulls.

In the midst of our annual fall trip here, our Marginal Way walk, en route to lunch in Perkins Cove, is a calm highlight in a long weekend of calming moments. If you stand there for a while, listening to the waves lull with their lullaby-like dirge, you will feel the spell the sea casts on all who pause to hear it. It’s a spell that the land echoes, with its rocky soil that affords only the hardiest of roses a foothold to unfurl their rugged beauty. Even at this late stage of the season, a few Rosa rugosa blooms manage to perfume the salty air.

By the time we round the juniper-shaded corner to Perkins Cove, my stomach is ready for a warm bowl of chowder, and maybe a fish fry. The cove is quiet today, the water relatively still, mirroring the sky and begging for a haiku.

Indigo ocean

beneath playful sky hosting

non-threatening clouds.

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Ogunquit Riches

Some people think spring is where you’ll get a riot of color, but when it comes to richness of shades, I’ve always known that autumn brings saturation like you’ve never seen in the early cool days of the growing season. It’s as if the removal of such direct sunlight allows colors to develop more fully, with far less fading. Flowers just glow more brilliantly at this time of the year. Here, a few of the floral sights in Ogunquit in the golden hour of the gardening calendar. I find them just as striking as the first blooms of spring.

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Whimsical OGT

The quick, photo-heavy posts of our latest jaunt to Ogunquit begin here, with some lovely shots of one of my favorite stores in that fair town: Spoiled Rotten. It’s one of those neat retail establishments that comprise almost an entire house, where tiny rooms open onto others, creating a jewel-box-like enchantment that is matched only by the exquisiteness of the gifts on display. The entry way opens immediately to a stair-case that leads to rooms filled with candles and kitchen accoutrements, artistic works in glass and ceramic, stationary, potpourri, colorful quilted bags, and all sorts of gorgeous wreckage that collectively casts a most pleasant spell.

For someone who’s done his retail time, the mere thought of doing an inventory in such a packed place both exhausts and impresses me. Godspeed, good people. In the meantime, the rest of us will reap beautiful enjoyment from the sights, scents, and sounds on the scene.

The locality plays a major role in the items and merchandise on display, and much of it ties into Ogunquit or Maine, or the sultry seasonal fare of New England. To that end, something is always changing and evolving in the store, and every time we visit there are new delights to be discovered.

Echoes of the sea, refractions of the light, and every conceivable charm of the season find expression here.

From the outside porch that spills over with gourds and squash and fall amusement, to the innermost room that hides the most gorgeous velvet pumpkin, Spoiled Rotten glimmers with the whimsical rustic charm that marks the best of Ogunquit.

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The Last Recap of October?

When next we recap things, it will be November. If that’s not enough to set a chill into your time-stopping hearts, I don’t know what is. Where did the days go? Where did the time fly? Where was I in the last five days? Let’s re-examine what went on here.

It was a week of Hunk requests, and Roman Reigns reigned as the week’s first Hunk of the Day.

Some of us celebrated Andy’s birthday (I gave him the gift of time – in an hourglass).

The Liberal Party swept through Canada, riding on the sexy coat-tails of newly-elected Prime Minister Justin Trudeau. Everyone keeps saying that he is the sexiest PM, but I have ask: what exactly is the competition? I mean, can anyone name one other sexy PM?

Sex. Just Sex. (Ok, and Erotica.)

Requested Hunks like Tyler Posey make me feel old.

Knee-deep into fall, the turn has been made. The past is in the past.

Austin Armacost had his second crowning as Hunk of the Day.

Never one to let another guy get all the ass-glory, David Beckham put his best bottom forward.

But when it comes to banging butts, the edge has got to go to Kayne Lawton. Sorry David.

Hotel primping.

I’ve already declared this The Year of the Soup.

Soup it up, baby. We have a long road ahead, and we need all the inner-warmth we can find.

Another request for a Hunk was honored in the appearance of Teddy Sears as Hunk of the Day.

Coming up this week is a quick recap of our latest Ogunquit jaunt, and a few other surprises for the Halloween season… until then, one more shot of Kayne Lawton.

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A Very Savory Soup

My newly-kindled love affair with soup is in full-effect with this entry. I’ve declared my obsession with Lidia Bastianich from the Create Public Television station (don’t get me started on one man’s unhealthy fixation on JoAnn Weir) and one of her Italian cookbooks features a section on soups that has transfigured the entire notion of that liquid love.

Most of my former issues with soup revolved around the idea of it being rather insubstantial starter fluid, light of heft and lacking in anything fully filling. An ill-fated cabbage soup – made mostly of water and cabbage, and devoid of flavor or broth – did nothing to help my disdain for the dish. Yet there are ways to bulk up any watery concoction – from the simple amendments of noodles or rice, or more decadent additions of coconut milk or cream. When all else fails in thickening up a big pot of the stuff, simply boil it down for an hour or two – even the clearest of liquids will eventually condense into flavorful richness. Oh, and when even that doesn’t managed to turn it something good, drop in a few bay leaves – the greatest secret of many a cook.

Lidia suggests the making of a big batch of vegetable broth base, from which you can create virtually any kind of soup. Still holding onto a few strong threads of doubt as to how flavorful a soup could be made from water, potatoes, celery and carrots (not even an onion or clove of garlic!) – I forged ahead and did as instructed.

The most difficult part of this is the peeling and cubing of two pounds of potatoes – but this is the work that keeps one occupied on a cold day, the mundane routine of the kitchen that, when coupled with music and a glass of red wine, can turn into something wondrous instead of woeful. It’s the cozy preparation that lays the groundwork for a spectacular bowl of goodness that will warm the oncoming night. I’m getting ahead of myself. First, the recipe, from ‘Lidia’s Family Table’:

SAVORY POTATO BROTH

Ingredients:

  • -        ¼ cup extra virgin olive oil
  • -        2 ½ pounds russet potatoes, peeled and diced into ½ inch cubes (approx. 6 cups)
  • -        2 teaspoons salt
  • -        2 stalks celery, finely chopped (about 1 ½ cups)
  • -        2 medium carrots, peeled and grated (about 1 ½ cups)
  • -        3 tablespoons tomato paste
  • -        4 quarts water, heated to boiling
  • -        3 bay leaves
  • -        1 or 2 pieces outer rind of Parmigiano-Reggiano or Grana Padano cheese

Preparation:

In large cooking pot, heat oil to medium-hot, but not to the point of smoking. Add potatoes, sprinkle on 1 teaspoon of salt, and toss in oil. Cook until lightly crusted and caramelized (about 6 minutes). Lower heat to prevent burning, and stir so they don’t stick. As potatoes start to leave a crust at bottom of pan, add celery and carrots. Stir well, scrape up any potato crust, and raise heat until vegetables are hot and steaming. Push aside to clear a hot spot in center of pan and drop in tomato paste, cooking it a bit before integrating it into the vegetables.

Pour heated water into pan, drop in bay leaves and cheese rind, grind 1/2 teaspoon black pepper, add salt, and stir well. Cover pot and bring to a soft but steady boil for an hour, stirring occasionally.

Uncover pot and cook for another hour or so, still at low bubbling boil, until it has reduced to 4 quarts.

After an hour, remove the bay leaves and let cool. Divide as you wish, or use as a simple soup on its own. Oddly enough, I didn’t happen to have the outer rind of a big-ass block of cheese lying around, so I omitted it – though I can see how that would add another layer of richness to the affair, and may find a smaller piece in the future for just such a purpose.

This is the savory vegetable broth base from which I made two variations on a couple of Lidia’s recipes: a parsnip and fennel soup, and a bok choy and scallion soup. Basically I chopped up the additional ingredients and boiled them for 45 more minutes or so. The russet potatoes somehow remained solid enough and didn’t fall apart – not sure if this was due to the initial cooking in oil part, but whatever the reason, it’s a happy one.

Though it’s a simple recipe, it does take time – but that’s cooking time, not active preparation and work time, so once it begins you can sit around writing silly blog posts while the heat works its magic. You can also speed things along by upping the heat and boiling factor, but the slow nature of the cooking process is, for me, part of its cathartic empowerment. One of the best lessons of all is to be found in the making of soup: patience.

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Of Soups & Stews

One of the few saving graces of the arrival of the colder seasons is the opportunity for comfort foods. The downturn in temperature practically demands it, and it’s the one instance where I’m happy to oblige. This is the time of the year when I enjoy cooking. It’s cozy to be in a kitchen warmed by simmering stews and soups or a tray of winter vegetables roasting in the oven. I’ll attempt a chicken at some point in the coming months, but for now it’s just soup, as evidenced by the feature photo.

This one is a bowl of Won Ton soup, procured at a Malaysian restaurant in Chinatown. Suzie and I ducked in just before closing time on a late September evening a little before midnight. The winds were starting to bite, and we were only about half-way back to the condo, so we took refuge in the almost-empty restaurant. A relative novice to the Asian noodle scene, I vowed to make this the fall and winter in which I sustain myself with their heat-miser magnificence. I chose one of the first soup entries on the menu – something with pork dumplings and scallions that sounded plain enough to enjoy as an entry-way to more extreme bowls down the line. It was amazing.

The broth was light but flavorful, and the pouches of pork dumplings were like pungent little pillows, providing their spicy protein in puffs of perfectly-puckered pulchritude. Scattered with scallions, the soup was layered with several levels of flavor, even as the main broth was relatively clear. The noodles were just the right amount to sustain without overfilling, and substantial enough to be more than satisfying for a full meal. Up until recently, I’ve always considered soup to be s starter or an accent, not the main course, but I’ve changed my mind. With noodles and/or rice, a soup can be a hefty dinner unto itself, and this fall I’m making it a staple dish in the seasonal repertoire.

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Hotel Primping

A bottle of Byredo Parfums stands sentry on the vanity.

A white robe hangs on the wall, white towels litter the tile floor.

A soapy mist, cut by a bit of cologne, peeks out of the bathroom.

This is the art of getting ready, a significant moment in time that many of us too quickly discard. For me, it is everything. All the hope and possibility of the evening is there in that jewel of time. It is always better than anything can ever truly be, and I’ve always prized it for precisely that reason.

While on tour, these are the moments that matter. The in-between magic that happens in hotel rooms, the preparation for a night on the town, the act of dressing up for an event – all of it is imbued with something extra, some additional sprinkling of fairy dust that lends it a sparkle I miss when not on tour.

The simple act of taking a shower – so mundane and commonplace – can be made into an indulgent act of pampering when given the proper respect and attention to detail. (Granted, an extravagant hotel suite helps, but how often do any of us get to experience that?) It’s far better to bring something special into a daily way of life – the happiness and joy spilling into otherwise routine behavior – than to reserve it solely for those rare occasions.

Then, in the mirror, a sudden contemplative flash of self-examination in the midst of the conjuring of glamour. Bereft of any sartorial armor, save a towel or pair of underwear, there is no hiding from yourself. How many times do we look at ourselves in the mirror and truly see the person staring back? We study the lines, the wrinkles, and the gray hair, and we pick apart our faults and flaws and fuck-ups.

We then do our best to hide them, whether that’s literally covering up in a flashy jacket or simply accentuating our strengths. How much of our lives are spent in such masks? How many minutes and hours have we devoted to such preparation? How much have we loved it? 

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David Beckham’s Bum

While not solely devoted to David Beckham’s backside, this post does have several fine examples of said bottom. I’m not going to waste your time, and mine, by espousing rhapsodically on Mr. Beckham’s remarkable assets – too many words have been spent drooling over his attributes, and I’m growing tired of all these mixed metaphors. On with the David Beckham ass show for a Friday.

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The Incontrovertible Turn

The snow was not necessary to let us know that the turn into fall had been executed a while ago. It flickers and fades in the memory, receding further into the past. No longer is it possible to pretend that it hasn’t yet happened. There are a few more warm days to come, I hope, but the chill has set in, and the heat that the earth holds through early autumn has just about dissipated. Once it goes, it’s very difficult to get it back again, and we likely won’t have that all-enveloping warmth until next June. That feels like a long way off.

On Sunday, when the first few snowflakes fell, I’d made a tour of the yard. It had been a couple of weeks since I was last out. The fallen annuals and desiccated, brown ferns depressed me too much. In addition, I’d been sick, and traipsing around in the cooler weather did not seem like a good idea. Besides, I’d already seen the devastation that the arrival of fall inflicts on a garden. It starts with the ostrich ferns, particularly in such a dry hot summer. They were on their way out months ago. Now, they are long gone.

The leaves of the coral bark Japanese maple tree are just beginning to light up, and as soon as they turn yellow the brackets of their red bark will form a magnificent pairing. The traditional Japanese maples will burst into a brighter scarlet, and when they catch the dying sunlight they will burn like the most glorious fire.

The lady ferns have held on, and will slowly go a ghostly pale-cream shade, much like the lighter leaves of the Solomon’s seal have already done. This year the leaves of the hydrangeas have gone straight to burgundy, an interesting combination with their pink umbrels which continue the show. I cut them off and brought them inside before the hard frost.

Northern sea oats are in their seed-headed glory, nodding their dangling architecture in the slightest breeze, swaying and gently shimmering in whatever light the day affords. They’ve gone an earthy tan color, but even that will glow in afternoon sunlight. One of the best, and most surprising, color shifts occurs on the feathery leaves of the weeping larch. It looks so convincingly like an evergreen that the switch to a bright copper hue is startling, and always a shock. A beautiful, fiery, final clarion that will have to be enough to ignite the memory until its soft wintergreen starbursts signal the arrival of another spring.

The garden breathes slower now, preparing for its annual slumber. The days sigh, giving way to the nights. There will be other ways to find warmth now.

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A Sexual Day of Reckoning

The release of any Madonna album carries great import, but in 1992 it meant something even more, as her first book ‘Sex’ was released at the same time (actually, a day in advance). It was a heady moment in Madonna history, and it imprinted itself on my memory for a number of reasons. The cover stories of ‘Vanity Fair’ and ‘Vogue’ had primed my anticipation (with two of her best features in each, and scorching photo shoots by Steven Meisel to accompany them) and the entire world had heard about the ‘Sex’ book. All I really cared about was the music, and the ‘Erotica’ album more than delivered on the aural satisfaction front.

The scratching of a record needle opened the main event, then the dark bassline – sinister and seductive – lured the listener into a delicious dungeon of sexual threats and erotic promises. Her throaty whispers and the convincing assimilation of the Dita persona ushered in a new level of sexual boundary-pushing, while the gritty house music was interlaced with the sampled horns of ‘Jungle Boogie’. The song rode to number 3 on the Billboard charts, thanks less to its own merits and more to the outrageous hype that surrounded its release.

My own sexual awakening was on the verge of happening, and the ‘Erotica’ album would accompany it in ways I’m not quite ready to divulge. The male supporting cast of ‘Sex’ fueled more fantasies than all of Madonna’s naughty bits, but I wasn’t prepared to admit it. Instead I focused on her, on her naked body, trying to force myself into liking it because I thought that’s what I was supposed to like. In truth, it was less the nudity of her person that struck me, it was the poses of vulnerability that turned me on most. It was also the guys at the Gaiety – the former male strip-club that was once plopped right in the midst of Times Square, across the street from the Marriott Marquis, where I would pay a pittance for Ann and Suzie to join me in the audience to watch guys get into their birthday suits and dance a bit before heading backstage, fluffing up, and coming back out in blood-filled form. Ahh, the good old days of New York.

The best part of that experience was the waiting room/lobby area, where stills from ‘Sex’ were framed on the wall. Far more thrilling than hard naked cock in our faces was the idea that a year or two prior Madonna had stood in that very space, posing with those very naked strippers, and crafting the book that would stand in infamy forever after.

Yet for all the supposed seediness of the scene, there was something rather quaint about it. The whole thing was artifice. I could see that then, and appreciate it as such. There was no danger for me here. The simple word ‘No’ could accomplish a great deal, preventatively speaking. It would be much more terrifying, and harmful, to fall in love than to watch a guy get hard and naked on stage. The same proved true for my experience with ‘Sex’. I took the images for what they were – some artful, some trashy, some moving, some silly – and I understood that this was a presentation, inviting the viewer to conjure their own thoughts and fantasies, to pick out what moved us, and what didn’t, and perhaps wonder why our own sexual proclivities were such as they were. It didn’t lead me down any path into danger – my heart would do that on its own.

As for the ‘Erotica’ album, it fashioned its own journey along a spectacular soundscape filled with hooks and harmonies and choruses that underlined the fact that Madonna, almost a decade into her career at that point, was a pop music master who knew her way around a concept album. Sex may have been at the forefront of songs like ‘Erotica’ and ‘Where Life Begins’ but love was the driving force behind it all, as evidenced by the vast majority of cuts (‘Fever’, ‘Deeper and Deeper’, ‘Waiting’, ‘In This Life’, ‘Why’s It So Hard’, ‘Secret Garden’and ‘Rainâ’). The accusations of Madonna being vapid and vacuous in this period must have been made by those who hadn’t listened to the album in its entirety.

I listened to it non-stop that fall. As the leaves fell from the trees, and I shook off any vestiges of childhood from my body, the emergence of a young man gripped me physically, casting off innocence even if I hadn’t really done anything, even if knowledge was often misconstrued as guilt.

ONCE YOU PUT YOUR HAND IN THE FLAME, IT CAN NEVER BE THE SAME

THERE’S A CERTAIN SATISFACTION IN A LITTLE BIT OF PAIN.

I CAN SEE YOU UNDERSTAND ME…

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It’s Andy’s Birthday!

While a dinner at dp and an evening with Wanda Sykes were Andy’s main birthday presents, we’ll also be taking him out to one of his favorite restaurants this evening, Bongiorno’s. Seeing as how today is his actual birthday, one must mark the event accordingly. Andy is pretty low-maintenance when it comes to most things, birthdays included. (Though my birthday celebrations may seem more extravagant, I’m the person solely responsible for planning and reserving and making it all happen, so it you’re going to characterize me as high maintenance, I’m only high maintenance for myself – no one else had to lift a finger.)

I made a much bigger surprise bally-hoo for his 50th birthday (which we spent in Ogunquit for a few additional days). This time around will be far less impressive, but hopefully no less enjoyable. He’s already getting great fun out of my parents’ gift to him – a canister vacuum that he loved instantly. It was a request from the birthday boy himself – and cost way more than any Tom Ford Private Blend, so once again my extravagance is an assumption over actuality.

At any rate, he deserves a very special day (and dinner) for being such a great guy. Happy Birthday, Drew – I love you. (And many happy returns of the day!)

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An Almost Snowy Recap

Yes, it snowed here yesterday, Ho hum, hum-drum, pa-rum-pum-pum-pum. Too early for that kind of nonsense. Way too early. Thus, we do our best to keep things hot just a little bit longer.

Today is Monday, but the real blues hit tomorrow.

Ben Todd was incendiary in full-color, and black-and-white. 

Stal and vamp, vamp and stall.

Simon Dunn had his second crowning as Hunk of the Day.

Show us your tackle, indeed.

This will never be a political blog, unless it involves hunky politicians like Martin O’Malley.

Madonna: at close range (at least, the closest that I’ve ever been).

By request, Randy Orton was another Hunk of the Day.

Eat here at your first opportunity.

One of the more polarizing Hunks of the Day in recent memory is Frankie Grande.

This Speedo Trio was a triple-threat of sexiness.

Separately, they were pretty hot too.

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Speedo Close-Up

On this snowy Sunday (yes, snow in mid-October, because upstate New York sucks that way) here’s a second Speedo post to keep you warm. With this one, we are taking a closer examination on each of the guys featured on this Speedo Trio post.

First up is Jack Laugher, the blondest of the three, whose swimsuit barely seems to contain his backside. Pop it like it’s hot, because it’s freezing here today.

Second is Speedo All-Star Tom Daley, who gave us his all in myriad posts over the years.

Finally, on this day of threes, the third specimen we take on his own is Chris Mears, rounding out his colorful Speedo and soaking up the rays on a beach that is most decidedly warmer than anything in these parts. Calgon take me away.

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