December 2016
Behold the Manhattan.
Though I prefer most of my cocktails on the less-sweet side of things, I do indulge in a Maker’s Mark Manhattan now and then. It’s not technically winter yet, but at 30 degrees it certainly feels like it, so I say let Manhattan season begin. This is my favorite warming drink. As cold as it is, the whiskey just warms the soul from the inside out.
It was a quiet Thanksgiving, but sometimes those are the best. And quite frankly, we probably won’t see a really quiet Thanksgiving until the twins gain about ten years. In the meantime, there is joyful noise and running around, and somewhere in the middle of it all a moment to sit down, give thanks, and enjoy a home-cooked meal.
PS – Keep your eyes peeled for a Special Guest Appearance by the OG Ko Jello Salad!
It’s the stuff of cartoons and claymation, daydreams and childhood fantasies. As a kid, we had various toys of stuffed or wooden animals, and a few pieces of forest items to provide cover for them. A cloth log, rough and plain on the outside, opened up to reveal a hidden world of retreat for a family of chipmunks. A roaring fire was in the center of it all, and there was even a table where the family would have its dinner. In my mind, all of this was plausible, all of it was rife with cozy possibility.
The imagination can make a hearth in the middle of a winter forest. I wanted to believe that they felt the same comfort and warmth that we did. I longed to think that a chipmunk family could come together at the end of the day, put on their little nightcaps, and snuggle into their sleeping compartments until the sun peeked in the next day. Kids can will such happenings into existence. That’s the magic of childhood. The magic of Christmas.
Truth be told: there’s nothing all that wondrous about this recap. I’m just suspicious that I’ve used the ‘Mid-December Recap’ posting title before, and I needed something to differentiate this one. You can never do the same thing twice, no matter how fierce. That said, let’s re-tread some familiar waters before we start another week of holiday madness.
A naked Adam Levine provided happy memories of December 5.
A happy holiday commercial. And one more for good measure.
Elliott Wright had all the right (and shirtless) moves.
A pampered weekend at the spa.
Once I touched the gold.
Garrett Clayton starred in ‘Hairspray’ live, but also had his first official turn as Hunk of the Day.
There is magic in Boston, by way of Japan.
Madonna gave one of the best Carpool Karaoke episodes ever.
The Rebel Heart Tour premiered on Showtime, just in time for holiday inspiration.
In the giving spirit of the season, I took my shoes off.
And then I took it all off (except for a pair of Tom Ford sunglasses).
We are rich in Christmas wonder.
There’s always room for jello.
I love this commercial on so many levels and in so many ways that I’m posting it here for your early afternoon break. Lots of messages, lots of feels, and I simply adore a British accent.
Very few holiday traditions have remained intact from our childhood days at Suzie’s Victorian house on Locust Avenue. Thanksgiving and Christmas were always spent in that towering black and white home, while New Year’s Day was always at our house. In the last forty years, families have splintered, people have passed, and our holiday celebrations bear scant resemblance to those happier days. Still, there is one tradition I am hell-bent on keeping: the Ko Strawberry Jello Salad.
It begins, obviously, with that staple of American cuisine: JELLO. Unlike some kids, we never had much jello growing up. Every once in a while Mom would put together a bowl of the stuff, and we’d peer into the fridge as the gelatinous alchemy worked its semi-solidifying magic. But jello was mostly the stuff of school lunches, and since we brought our own we always missed out (not unhappily) on those little plastic cups of green, orange or red squares.
At holiday time, however, jello insidiously snuck into our Thanksgiving and Christmas traditions. It took the place of that other tradition – cranberries – in our amalgamation of American habits. (We also had ‘Green Beans Exotic’ in place of the more common green beans and onion dish.) It was a more adult version of jello salad, with some fruit suspended in it, and cut through with a layer of sour cream that lent it a fancy decorative kick, while also toning down the sweetness. I have to admit: it was never my favorite dish. But it was always there, and I always took a small spoonful of it out of obligation and habit. The striking red of it was the perfect accent to any proper holiday plate.
One year, in the early 2000’s, after Suzie’s Mom had moved out of the Victorian, we had a holiday gathering and there was no jello salad. The outcry was swift and vicious, and never again would we be without it. (I probably made the biggest stink, because in a world of change I was flailing, and doing my best to hang onto whatever little scraps of my more-or-less happy childhood I could.) The next year it was back, and would continue to be part of our holiday dinners until Elaine started spending the holidays in Florida. Therefore, we’ve been without it for a couple of years, but before giving it up, she gifted me a jello mold, and this was the year I tried my hand at crafting that most festive and garish of dishes.
Along with strawberry jello, there are fresh bananas and pineapple in it, which adds some texture and bite, and while it won’t be winning any gourmet awards in the near or far future, I’ve actually come to enjoy the taste (in limited doses). That layer of sour cream makes all the difference in the world.
Far more than the taste, however, is the collection of memories associated with this simple dish. It’s an arsenal of happiness I keep close to my heart, of days when Suzie and my brother and I would roam the expansive floors of her home, dodging admonishing adults and troublesome older brothers, free from adult concerns and responsibilities. We never knew how wonderful we had it. Childhood comes with its own perils, I remember those well, but it also comes with a carefree freedom that we don’t realize until it’s long past.
That little dollop of red jello on my Thanksgiving plate reminds me of those times. And that’s why, even if 95% of it goes untouched, it’s still important for that jello mold to be there. Maybe one day far in the future, when I finally give up and give out on making it, they will miss it, stage their own rebellion, and take up the mantle of tradition.
Dazzling, the disco ball spins its seductive spell over the dance floor.
Sparkling, it shatters spotlights and faces into a thousand visions.
They roam from floor to ceiling, wall to wall.
A throbbing, moving mass of sultry bodies sings hallelujah to the disco gods.
For some, this is the closest they will get to a religious experience.
It was dusk when I arrived at the edge of the forest. A blanket of snow had lent a deceptive light to the lateness of the day, and I’d lost my way. Unlike Hansel and Gretel, I’d neglected to leave a trial of breadcrumbs, or even Swarovski crystals in my wake. (Do not try to make sense of this. It was a dream or a wish or some strange bit of holiday trickery.)
The warmth of the cottage windows was a pleasing visage, but such things were not to be trusted. For all I knew a witch was just waiting to devour me, and it was so cold and so late that I might have leapt gratefully into the oven. Still, some sense prevailed, even in a dream, even in the darkness. I hesitated at the front walk. Two enormous holly bushes threatened with their thorny leaves and seductive red berry carriage. The wind whipped around, rushing off the charming eaves and swirling leaves and snow before the front door. Looking back over the path, I saw my footprints fade away in the diminishing illumination of the day. Either that or the wind-driven snow was obscuring them.
A bay window stuck out to the right of the door, and I stepped closer to peer into the cozy-looking scene. Diamond-shaped window panels allowed a broken view of a Christmas tree, and it seemed as if each little frame was created for one specific ornament. A red one dangled closest to me, catching the warm light and sending it into the outside. Behind and above me, the sky deepened to a dark indigo.
Beyond the tree, wooden walls glowed with the flickering shadows of a fire. I backed away and traced the trajectory of the fireplace up to the chimney. A small plume of smoke rose into the darkness, gray against the firmament. Slowly it transformed into a golden hue, and the wisps coalesced into bits of golden glitter, sparkling and twinkling in the sky. They whirled and spun themselves into an assembly of an angel, with wings and flowing robes, but a disturbingly headless body.
This golden angel, with golden feathers and a golden robe of gracefully ephemeral gauze, fluttered about the roof of the cottage, almost alighting on a corner like some wayward pigeon, before disappearing into the air above the forest. Bits of angel dust floated down like golden snowflakes on my nose and eyelashes. They spun wildly in the air around me, suspended in surreal flight, until I could see that they were little disco balls of mirrored light.
It is the season of sparkle and shine.
Walking back into the woods, as this was not my home, I look back once but can no longer make out the cottage. A curtain of evergreen boughs closes behind me. The night does its best to confuse, but there is snow to light the way, and a rising moon to see us through to the morning.
Shoes and a hand bag.
Madonna once claimed that that’s all a girl needed to go anywhere.
This girl begs to differ.
All I need is a pair of Tom Ford sunglasses.
Ford has always had a 70’s porn aesthetic simmering right below the surface of most of what he does.
And this spread is nothing if not a cheap redux of some 70’s porn scene. Bow-chicka-bow-wow.
We wear our sunglasses at night.
Because the night time is the right time.
Barry White time.
A hint of leg, a tip of the toe.
A hint of heel, a slip of the sole.
For all the foot fetishists out there, this is your Christmas gift come early this year.
Let it never be said that I’m not a giver.
I’ll give you the shirt off my back and the shoes off my feet.
All I ask is that you leave a delicious blanket behind.
Something to cover the naughty bits.
Madonna’s Rebel Heart Tour gets its premiere on Showtime tonight, and we’ll be watching the grand spectacle unfold from the comfort of the couch. This was one of the more enjoyable tours she’s put on of late, so I’ll be interested to see how it translates to television viewing. My review of her performance in Boston is here, and there have been a number of Madonna Timelines that came from the Rebel Heart album, as seen below.
For those who were unlucky enough to have missed out on seeing the Rebel Heart Tour, this is your chance. It’s a good one – one of her warmest tours ever – so hunker down and let our lady of perpetual provocation do her thing. No one does it better.
Finally, it happened.
And it was worth the wait.
Classics and new classics.
(‘Papa Don’t Preach‘, ‘Music‘, ‘Bitch I’m Madonna‘ and more.)
There was humor, there were laughs, and only one or two thuds.
There was even a ‘Don’t Cry For Me Argentina‘ duet.
Best of all, Madonna goes earnestly with the flow.
“You’re not gonna get me with red flannel, baby.”
Thus it was spoken.
The door was locked, but the vision behind the glass was too pretty not to try it. A rack of silk kimono hung tantalizingly just out of reach, while ancient wooden furniture and a ceiling-high sculpture of bears rose in the background. A sign indicated to “Please Ring Bell†for admittance, and though there is an unsaid understanding that in doing so you are making some sort of commitment that goes beyond that of mere casual visitor, the call of beauty was too great to resist.
A woman graciously opened the door, then silently disappeared into the sweetly-scented air. Somewhere deeper in the store, sticks of Japanese incense were burning. In the still and quiet atmosphere, the smoke hung like an abstract mountain range, rising wisps outlining temporary topographical features. Instantly, I was enveloped in another world, another continent, another century. The wind that had been raging outside was suddenly silent. The roving clouds dissipated. Light streamed in through the smoky air, illuminating the beautiful artifacts on display.
A stone pagoda stood above a stream of stones. A fountain of bright green foliage threw stunning contrast against dry wood that had seen a century of time. The garish Tanuki figures carried various creatures on their shoulders – squid, fish, and other odd accoutrements. Doll faces and doll parts, disembodied heads and limbs, and other disturbing collections filled trays and bags. Whether they were meant to scare or protect, I could not tell, but there is beauty in the grotesque too, and broadening the notion of what’s pretty is often a welcome challenge.
Paintbrushes and parchment fanned out in pretty arrays, while fans and woodblocks stood erect and rigid. The cumulative effect was one of perfect harmony, and it was almost as if the incense was intoxicating with its own seductive sense of peace.
Complex scenes of beauty sometimes rely upon strange and occasionally off-kilter elements to add accents and tension, altering a linear narrative into something much more interesting and challenging.
Here, I felt jarringly at peace. There’s that tension again, the way that something could be peaceful in a jarring way.
Life is about balance. The trick is in finding that. Amid the smoky air, I teeter on the cusp of the beautiful and the grotesque. I cross a stone stream and a mountain of incense crumbles in my wake. Stationary eyes dart about me, motionless and still. We watch one another.
Baubles and bangles all spangled in gold.
Cuffs and collars of metallic glory.
A necklace. A bracelet. A ring.
The multifaceted glass beads that make up a string of beauty.
In part or in whole, there is something pretty to all of it.
A sense of glamour, a whisper of decadence, the merest hint of luxury.
These trinkets trample upon the most downtrodden aspects of my spirit.
A brave and idiotic balm for a world of hurt.
Still we sparkle.
Still we shine.
Turning down several holiday invitations and Victorian Strolls, I spent last weekend in Boston, taking a badly-needed pre-holiday mini-vacation in a last-ditch effort to prevent a complete loss of my mind due to work and holiday stress. I’d been saving a gift certificate to the Mandarin Oriental Spa for just such a weekend, and had scheduled a session on Friday afternoon. The thought of their vitality pool was enough to see me through the work-week, and as I walked through a chilly but sunny Boston afternoon, I began to drop my shoulders, to let go of the regular seasonal stress, and to finally relax.
Everything was as I remembered it, and the Mandarin doesn’t mess around when it comes to client care and the utmost in professional service. A warm cup of tea paired with an orchid and a hot washcloth greeted me at the spa, as I undid my shoes and slid into a pair of slippers.
Inside the spa, the light was soft. Soothing music blended into the peaceful environs, and the hush of the setting was exactly what I’d been craving. It was the hush of gratitude and peace. The antidote and the real reason for the season. The slow and deliberate cadence of meditative quiet took some adjustment, but soon I was back in the serene groove.
A quick shower in the deliciously-fragrant Quintessence body wash and shampoo was followed by a deep soak in the vitality pool, where hot water bubbled and pulsed away all the worries of the world. Across the expanse, a steam room glowed warmly, its immense corner crystal emitting whatever peace could possibly come from a crystal, while the steam pulled out toxins and poisons, eliciting a deeper sense of relaxation. By the time of my massage appointment, I was already enjoying the bliss of physical ease and contentment, and the windy chill of Boston was but a distant memory.
In the relaxation room I reclined in a fluffy robe. A selection of fruit and teas stood in the corner. Curtains surrounded each spot of repose, giving privacy and seclusion to the meditative mode on hand. When my massage time arrived, the stage of tranquility had been set.
I’m relatively new to getting massages, but they are now one of my most favorite things in the world (so if you’re looking for any last minute gift ideas, please take note). It’s like yoga without having to exert any effort whatsoever. (My favorite part of yoga is that last ten minutes of repose anyway.)
Many thanks to the wonderful staff at the Mandarin Oriental in Boston for a luxurious afternoon of bliss.
