May 2013
In honor of his recent retirement announcement, this is a gratuitously shirtless post of David Beckham in his underwear. Hopefully this will afford him the time and opportunities to concentrate on more important matters, like posing in and out of underwear.
Since it is one of my favorite plants, the spread of this Sweet Woodruff (Galium odoratum) is not an unwelcome bit of invasiveness, at least at this point. Started from a few small clumps gleaned from my parents’ backyard (where it has also made a decent-sized mat), it has spread and formed a lovely groundcover in two areas. I may transplants a few divisions and let it take over some of our unkept area on the side of the house (where it will hopefully choke out some of the more annoying weeds).
I’ve read that some people use the leaves of Sweet Woodruff to make May wine. Personally, I prefer my wine at every month of the year, and without the wait of fermentation and such, so there will be no wine from this green carpet, only the white blooms currently in their glory.
Meet the Ostrich fern (Matteuccia struthiopteris). With my propensity for ostrich feathers, it should come as no surprise that I love an Ostrich fern. At the house where I grew up, there was a stand of these in the woods behind the neighbor’s home. When their house was being sold, I moved a few to the wooded area behind our house in a questionably immoral decision. (Technically, they were semi-wild, and didn’t look to have been planted by anyone, and I didn’t take enough to make a dent in their stand of them.) Ours were in somewhat more amended soil, and took off, even treading numerous feet into one of the proper beds (where they retain a sizable, and threatening, hold).
Andy’s home was surrounded by these ferns as well, where they even escaped into the lawn. When we first moved into our home ten years ago we brought a few over in the spring. Today, there is the sizable grouping of them you see here, and a smaller patch in another corner. Contrary to popular belief, not all ferns require heavy shade and pampering. These monsters (they can get up to five feet tall in the right conditions) can do quite well in full sun provided they have plenty of water and a moisture retentive soil. The ones in these photos get strong sunlight for the majority of the day, with just a slight break in the late afternoon. They do require water to remain fresh in the summer, but it’s a small price to pay for such dramatic beauty.
This is one of the crown-forming ferns (as opposed to mat-forming) ~ they will form a central crown from which the fiddleheads emerge (these are the ones that you eat in the fancier restaurants) and send out black-hued sharp-ended runners that travel a few feet from the parent plant, eventually establishing a new crown of their own. I like the way they spread, in that they can managed by judiciously pruning these shoots, or allowing them to come up if you have the room.
These have been captured at the tail-end of my favorite stage – just as they first unfurl. You can still get a sense of their fiddlehead origins at the curled tips of the fronds. It’s a deceptively delicate pose from such a tenacious trooper, the feathery frills belying its stalwart nature. Little Edie of ‘Grey Gardens’ might be able to relate.
S-T-A-U-N-C-H. But how were they to know?…
Because some musical memories have not yet been written, or are in the very act of being written, and we do not yet know the outcome. Aside from the possible, but more rare, exception of scent, music is probably the most powerful trigger of a memory for me. All kinds have the capacity to rekindle a moment – from moody midnight music for the city to the modern day Muse, from songs that make you want to get into the Groove (Armada) to those that just make you want to ride a motorcycle with a mannequin strapped to your back. There are songs for saying good-bye when you’re not quite ready, songs for a flaming September, and songs for growing up and letting go.
Songs of warped vanity obviously tickle my fancy, but songs reminding me of my friends were just as powerful. From the slightly country-tinged sounds of Patsy to the hair bands of the 80’s, from a simple pair of waltzes to Whitney Houston to Madonna, Madonna, Madonna… (and Madonna).
There is a song for every moment, whether that encompasses leaving on a jet plane, falling in love, living to tell, dancing the night away, a hazy shade of winter, or… Christmas – and songs for every season ~ fall, winter, spring, summer, more summer, and back to fall again.
This latest was recently recommended to me. I’m not sure what sort of memory it may one day invoke, what events may or may not transpire or be remembered at a later date – it’s all too soon to tell. But for the first time, you may be catching the chameleon in motion, in the midst of transformation, in the middle of the night…
Andy makes his gin and tonics using Dorothy Parker gin, Fevertree tonic, and a slice of lemon. Personally, I’m not that picky, as long as it’s a double, but I’ve come around to his style, and the last time we were in Boston I had some Fevertree on hand, and a bottle of Plymouth (which will do in a pinch) so he whipped one up for me. It’s a refreshing change of pace to have someone else make a cocktail, and I savored this one as hints of summer started making their appearance.
It began with the cries of a hawk in the pines across the street from our home. High up in the lofty boughs, the sounds brought back the early summer of last year, and all its requisite drama. I wasn’t quite ready for it. Let’s enjoy a slow spring, I thought, even if it meant a few frost warnings past the supposed-frost-free date. Ghosts of previous sunny days also came back, seemingly out of nowhere. I was in a store studying a woman who looked familiar, trying to figure out if she was someone I once worked with, when I finally realized that she was one of the security guards at the courthouse where I had jury duty. The memories of that trial – almost a year ago – came back in disturbing fragments – things I thought I had buried long ago. Still there, still smoldering. How many memories do we carry that threaten to bring us down should they be jarred into view again?
There is a new season at hand, however. And like Mrs. Peacock I am determined to enjoy myself, threatening hawks and resurfacing memories be damned.
Storming into my cocktail lexicon is the Aviation. It’s been appearing on menus in a number of Boston restaurants this year. This particular one was ordered at Lucca (in the Back Bay location, not the North End, where my reservation apparently ended up). I like its delicate hue (made more yellow here from the back-lighting), and its mellowed-out gin feel. It goes down easy enough for those unaccustomed to stronger libations, but has enough kick to satisfy those of us who need it. It’s always good to see a classic cocktail on the menu, and not the pseudo-martinis and sugary-shit-concoctions that comprise too many drink selections today.
After several months of teasing (and being turned away at the door), Restoration Hardware (or ‘RH’ as they seem to have branded themselves) was finally open the last time I was in Boston. Having received their humongous catalog in the mail for a few years, I knew what to expect, and was suitably impressed with the three-floor-showroom at hand. I don’t know if you can actually walk out with any merchandise (it didn’t look like it, and I didn’t feel like addressing any of the numerous tablet-holding staff who somewhat uncomfortably outnumbered customers three-to-one), but the point of this store is to see what you like in the best possible light, even if you can’t really replicate what you see.
I’d heard the horror stories of an (almost)-opening night party that had gone dismally awry, but I knew that with that space there would be little way to go wrong, so the display rooms are suitably spectacular, in the subtle, rustic style of over-priced furniture that RH has made their trademark. On the numerous occasions (after the opening party) on which I tried to visit this place, I was turned away at the door by a friendly staffer, saying that the city had not yet granted them the building permits they needed to open. They offered me a 20% off coupon (several of them over the weeks) to make up for the inconvenience. I took them graciously, though I never any intention of buying. The beds that they were offering for $2500 and up were nice, but there’s no need to pay that for something an excellent upholsterer can do for a much more reasonable price-point.
Still, the idea here is not to purchase everything and recreate it (well, for the feeble-minded and rich who can’t think enough for themselves, that may be the idea) but rather to get inspired and see things that you might incorporate or add as part of a greater scheme. To that end, it achieves its goal (and I did see a chair that I would love to have in our home – this one). But I’m not fooled into thinking that by buying a piece or two, my home will instantly be transformed into one of these beauties. That’s just nonsense. Nonsense designed to sell overpriced burlap to hapless buyers who never had a clue. In that respect they may make a killing…
That was the question I was asking myself as I entered the Palace Theatre surrounded by what at first glance appeared to be dozens of munchkins. It turns out they were just kids, like my niece and nephew – the only reasons I was attending a live performance of the ‘Super Why’ PBS show. Friends had advised against it (“They don’t serve wine at kids’ events, you know”), but I didn’t heed the warnings. “What are they going to be doing?” I asked defiantly, “Changing the kids on the floor?!”
I walked in to the theater to find someone in the corner, changing their kid on the floor.
Another friend had said that I should be prepared to engage and possibly dance with some of the performers. When I said that one look from me would be enough for them to know not to engage, they laughed and said that it wouldn’t dissuade anyone. “Would me screaming the word ‘cunt’ at the top of my lungs work?” Yeah, I thought as much. Fortunately for me, and the kids, it never came to that.
The show itself was impressive enough for Noah and Emi, who stood for most of it, excited to see their favorite characters come to life on stage. They actually behaved as well as anyone else there (and, compared with the screeching, crying thing behind me, often better). There were the minor annoyances that attend all children’s events (they did not take kindly to sharing soda) – and I swear that someone (not my niece or nephew) peed on my leg like a dog, but all in all it was a good time.
(And for those concerned that I was left alone with these kids, my Mom was present to see that things progressed safely and without incident. I never even had to make an emergency martini stop at McGeary’s that formed the back-up plan should the heat from the large number of kids get to be too much.)
This exquisite tray was made by my artist friend Eileen. (She has her own blog at http://eileensfoodforthought.blogspot.com, which offers excellent insight into her health issues, and helpful hints and recipes that have worked for her over the years.) She is one of the people who understands the creative fire and passion that drives some of us to do what we do. In her case, it finds fanciful fruition in pieces like this. Designed as a sushi tray, it can (and will) be put to other uses, as it’s too pretty not to use at every possible opportunity. Made by her own hands, the designs were imprinted by a shell or object from the ocean in Ogunquit, a favorite destination for both of us. Because of that, this piece is even more special to Andy and myself.
Eileen had been kind enough to grace us with another of her items a while ago, a beautiful vase that I’ll feature again, and this new addition is a wonderful complementary piece.
It’s also a work of art on its own, and I chose to photograph it surrounded by a plush blanket, because I liked the juxtaposition of the rigid clay against the soft fibers.
The tray itself is a glorious riot of texture and color ~ the polished finish of the top, the rough unfinished earthen texture of the bottom ~ the imprints of shells and objects that hold such soft, sea-inspired color. I hope it’s not too New-Agey of me to say that when holding it I feel a little of her energy transported, the goodness and kindness of a kindred heart, and our shared love for a day beside the beach.
She and her husband were scheduled to spend a night with us on their way to Ogunquit, but a surgery she needed to have prevented them from making that trip. I know that she’s been unable to make it to that beautiful place by the sea a few times now due to health set-backs, so the last time we were there we collected some sand, bottled it up, and sent it along. I wanted a little bit of the beach to find its way to her. Given her severe immobility, it’s amazing that she’s been able to create what she has, but the creative fire is not easily put out. Thank you, Eileen, for sending some of your beauty our way. It will be treasured every bit as much as your friendship. (And one day soon we hope to see you and Raph in Ogunquit again.)
In an effort to curb my ever-expanding waist, I’ve taken to eating one healthy meal a week. (Hey, it’s better than none!) So the other evening I stopped at Fresh Market and picked up a couple of salads – seaweed and sesame noodle. With a middle of rice, it made for a decent dinner meal, a rare meat-free selection that somehow filled me up.
Finished off with a few pieces of candied ginger – which is no joke – it was a nice spring collection, with hints of the Eurocentric-named Far East, and whispers of the sea.
Aside from my rather minor obsession with Tom Ford’s Private Blends, I do most of my day-to-day cologne shopping at Sephora. (Mr. Ford’s Blends are only found at the hoity-toity spots like Neiman Marcus and Saks Fifth Avenue.) So when seeking out a new spring fragrance, I perused the offerings of Hermés while at Sephora, and came upon their Eau de gentiane blanche. It was similar to Frederic Malle’s Angéliques Sous La Pluie, with slightly longer staying power, and though I thought long and hard over the Eau de pamplemousse rose, (I do love grapefruit), I decided this was a little more unique.
When Andy and I were making our anniversary stroll across the street at the Public Garden, I made sure to take the Boylston way home and stop in the Hermés store to see if they offered the gentiane blanche. They did, and for the same cost as the bottle at Sephora. We also saw a horse’s saddle for $6700, but without a horse it seemed a terrible waste. A lime green suit jacket would have been perfect, but when I saw that the accompanying sweater was going for a cool $1950, I didn’t bother asking about the jacket. I’d be lucky to wrangle the cologne off as an anniversary gift. And lucky I was. Thank you, Andy!
Within the Sound, along the shore, he felt cradled. He went there first – before unloading the truck, before unlocking the house – and he went there last – after the end of a romance, after the death of a friend. In the Sound he had his craved-for quiet. The boats didn’t bother him, the rustling of the trees was not disruptive. The rain rocked him gently; it was not very heavy here. He sat on the shore in rubber boots and a well-worn canvas coat, his hood stiff against the wind. In his pockets he clenched his fists slightly – the only sign that not all of him was calm. He told himself it was to keep his fingers warm, alternating his thumb from the inside to the outside of his hand.
Water lapped gently upon the shore stones – a hypnotic, undulating rhythm, enough to quell the cries of his unborn babies. Dead roots stood between the sea and the forest, bleached by the sand and sun. On dry days a crystalline coating of powdered salt covered the smooth wood, catching bits of a bright gray sky in the East. He remembered licking a piece of driftwood once, tasting of salty seaweed, then spitting out a bit of gritty sand. That was in the summer, when she was still here and he was hungry for more of life and more of what she could never give.
She had stayed the longest, lasting through the moody idiosyncrasies, the unapproachable silence of days, weeks with nothing said. An uneasy but accustomed averting of the eyes – what was he afraid to see in her? After six years she finally left. He came home and found her packing. He nodded solemnly, and at that moment she wanted to hit him, even if he was right, even if there was nothing to say.
No one could erase the emptiness or make him full again. He was always honest about that, with himself and with them, all of them. Most took it as a challenge, willingly suspending rational thought, dreamily succumbing to the unattainable and wanting it all the more. He did tell them, at the beginning, and they pretended to listen. He reminded them, not only directly, but in actions: forgotten gestures, apathetic absences, the casual dismissal of something whose importance he simply couldn’t grasp. Only the last one gave him the slightest pause. She was different. Even if she wasn’t.
He waited for the day to warm, for the fog to dissipate, but the opposite occurred. Rolling in with the waves was a cold front, and more rain. He pulled his body further into itself. His fingers remained clenched around his thumbs. His head scrunched down into his neck, as much like a turtle as he could muster. He even felt his nuts retract, trying to return to their origin of warmth. It struck him that that was the goal of his life, to return to the womb. All the women he’d been with had merely been vessels, passage-ways through which he struggled to win back the safety and protection lost upon his birth. Maybe that’s why he never minded when they took another from him, dangling the threat of it all like something he might mind. It was something he probably should mind, so he let the assumptions of hurt and loss work to heal them. Allow them the pleasure of his pain, that’s all he could offer. This last time, though, he could not pretend. That may have been what hurt her most of all.
He was always trying to find his way back to a time before death touched him. That’s why he sought out the Sound, with its unmitigated fury, its sense of time immemorial, the idea of having come before humans. On days when it was empty, when the boats weren’t sailing through and the beachcombers were chased away by the weather, he was drawn there. He imagined himself as the first and the last inhabitant. It never upset him. He didn’t feel lonely. They never understood that. No one understood that. He smiled.
Seagulls called to each other overhead, rushing into the wind, their feathers oblivious to the rain. Looking up, he squinted into the wet sky, trying to follow their flight. Perhaps it was time to move again. By now he knew it wouldn’t solve anything, but it was still something to do, at the very least a distraction. He could return to the East Coast. He’d never gone back before, and didn’t know how that would be. It wouldn’t be the same, but maybe that’s what he needed.
Beneath him, the stone stayed cold. Sand drifted around his sneakers. If he stayed still long enough he would become part of the landscape. His skin would tighten in the wind and sun, his clothing would erode in the rain, and his body would soon be buried by the sea. He pictured himself enmeshed with the driftwood and seaweed, caught in such a primitive dream-catcher, tumbling along with the tide. Still his body fought against it, shivering in the cold, impelling him to move, to stand, to walk away from the undertow.
Is that what it felt like? Is that what all his losses were? Was it simply like being sucked out to sea, violently or not-so-violently culled from warm darkness into cold darkness? He couldn’t remember what it was like growing inside his mother. No one could. The earliest he could muster was three or four years of age: the fallen dresser he had tried to climb, the stairs growing smaller and dimmer as someone carried him to bed, a dilapidated paper honeycomb Easter bunny he held onto longer than anyone could understand. He wondered if he would have minded being taken out of life earlier, before cognizance. And then he wondered about after. And now.
For someone who seemed to care so much for others – for those he did not even know – he seemed so reckless with himself, and his supposed loved ones. A number of them said that. How could he explain that he shouldn’t have to doubt those he loved? How to make them realize it was a testament to them, without sounding like a complete prick, like the very thing they were accusing him of being?
This was why he came here, to think things out. He allowed the thoughts to come and go, presenting themselves as problematic, turning them over in his head, and then letting them pass. He didn’t solve them, not in any concrete way, not usually, but he faced them, confronted them, and sent them on their way. It was his own form of meditation, and it always worked, leaving his head clear. Once that happened he stayed to enjoy the empty bliss. Until today.
He thought of her expression as she came in to pick up her final bag. The sad, crumpled tote sagged on the floor by the front door, its worn handles limp at its side. He remembered seeing that bad on a sunny beach, in another part of the world, and another part of his life. It came back to him then, the laughter and the happiness – for he had to have been happy then, hadn’t he? He had to have been happy once. He hoped she was, and that she would be again. It was the closest he came to love, perhaps. She didn’t speak. For every inch of his silent retreat, she had fought back with words. For her final defeat, she looked at him, lowered her head, and walked quietly out, not quite closing the door behind her. Those few seconds of silence stung more than all the years of yelling.
Behind him, a vast stand of evergreens drooped with water. The sea approached. A salty spray, driven by wind, coated his face with a blanket of pinpricks. The thought of leaving returned to him as a boat came vaguely into view. He rocked back a bit, lifting his feet from their sandy trappings. Another thought: she had left the door open a crack. He didn’t realize it at the time. He must have shut it after she left, or maybe it was still ajar, wavering in the wind. The thought of an empty house was more frightening than the solitude of the Sound. He would stay there a little longer.
It was a week for the romantic at heart. Our third wedding anniversary was marked by a return to Boston. The city was in full bloom, like the cherries we left behind here, here, and here. It was also a good time to see the city at night, with some friends old and new.
Continuing the romantic theme, it was a week dominated by the film version of ‘The Great Gatsby‘ (and why I loved the book so much), also marked by a shift in perspective, in the best way that great books open up to us long after we think we know them.
Madonna once again conquered and reigned at the Met Gala.
What would FaceBook have looked like in the 1990’s? Or, more accurately, how badly would I have embarrassed myself then?
The gardens were springing into full-effect, thanks to the Judas tree, and some pretty pastels.
Hunks were in short supply, but his turn in ‘The Great Gatsby’ put Leonardo DiCaprio on the map, and a few new shirtless photos of Zac Efron made up for missing eye candy.
We closed the week with a pair of Mother’s Day posts here and here (and a tulip memory for good measure.)
