Continuing on the poached egg kick, this was a breakfast sandwich I made using an English muffin, some smoked salmon, roasted asparagus, and a poached egg. When the ingredients are good, you don’t always need a fancy sauce to cover things up. A little salt and pepper, perhaps a pat of butter on the muffin, and you’re good to go.
Tom Ford claims that whenever he is down he puts on his fanciest tuxedo and he instantly feels better. While this is far from a Tom Ford tuxedo, a jacket, dress shirt, and bow-tie can go quite a distance in repairing frayed nerves and insecure moments. Something happens when you dress up, even if you’ve been doing it all your life. You carry yourself differently, you feel a little better, and it translates to everything else around you. People sometimes ask why I bother getting decked out on days when I only have to go into work. Well, it comes with being named the Best Dressed Man in the Capital Region (even if it was back in 2008 – and until they crown another I’m holding onto the title with cold, dead hands), but I’d do it anyway as it’s always given me the extra push it sometimes takes to walk out of the house. It’s not always easy to be me, just as I’m sure there are days when it’s tough to be you – and occasionally it takes a little more than I have to live up to all of that. On those days, a bow tie and jacket are the necessary talismans to ward off the weariness.
Style is not the man; it is something better. It is a dizzy, dazzling structure that he erects about himself, using as building materials selected elements from his own character. Style is the way in which man can, by taking thought, add to his stature. It is the only way… Style is not fashion; style is not wealth; style is not learning; style is not beauty. ~ Quentin Crisp
I’m talking about flair, style, élan. Even the most wretched of us can do something about them. ~ Terrence McNally
Saying good-bye to friends, even friends whom I’m intending to see in a few weeks, is always a sad time. Especially when it’s at the end of one of those weekends that comes together so perfectly. Such was the case when JoAnn, Peaches, Kim, and Ali left us last Sunday. As is tradition, JoAnn made a nice brunch spread of eggs and bacon, while I roasted some potatoes. Ali brought the sweet breads, Kim did a few dishes, and Peaches taught me a killer Bloody Mary mix.
As much as I love a decent dinner, brunch has always been where it’s at. But even better than brunch is the gathering of friends old and new, on a summer weekend in early August, when all seems right with the world. Those moments don’t come along often enough.
Luckily, there will be more – here, and in Boston, and on the Cape – and the best part of having good friends is that they’re always present somehow.
Last weekend we had some friends from Cape Cod up for a little summer gathering. It began with a batch of lavender cocktails, moved into a decent ros̩, and ended up with a bunch of daisy chains. We went easy on the first night Рwhich may have been a first for us (some are still reeling from an Amber Jewel evening where we never quite moved beyond the living room for seven hours of emotional roller-coasters). This was a far cry from that, and a nice entry into the weekend.
Summer days with good friends – is there a more perfect balm upon any wound? JoAnn and Ali have been in our circle for years, and whenever they visit it’s like time spent with long-lost family. It’s easy and it clicks.
As dinner was done, and the day gave way to night, the backyard patio glowed with candlelight. Early August sometimes gets lost in the summer shuffle. We embraced the evening, the time together, and talked of things old and new.
The last full month of summer was upon us. It was in the air. A shimmering beauty drifted among the flickering candles, a night breeze carried over the pool. Colorful curtains billowed gently, offering hints of the garden growing dimmer.
We held onto it for as long as we could, before the mosquitoes pushed us inside and the night went black.
Until last week I had never poached an egg in my life. I’ve certainly enjoyed them in quantity, but never personally done the whole poaching thing myself. I’d heard tales of what a pain it was to do correctly, how sometimes it was nothing short of disastrous, but nothing terrible befell me on my virgin attempt. I wanted it to top a radish and avocado salad – a light little summer dish that, with the egg, could double as an entree. (And to appease the impatient part of me, a plate of radishes and salt with a baguette until the assembly and poaching was complete.)
A friend advised the use of an egg poacher, but I was not about to get any additional kitchen paraphernalia (we have way too much stuff – the apple peeler-corer-slicer has not been seen in years). Luckily people have been poaching eggs without professional poachers for years. The directions I used called for softly boiling water – just barely bubbling – and a tablespoon or so of cider vinegar. I’m a big fan of vinegar, so the warnings of it affecting the flavor did not matter to me, and if it was going to help keep the egg together I was all for it. I swirled the water around a bit, cracked the egg into a small bowl, and then carefully deposited it in the center of the pot. It stayed pretty much put, and I spooned some water over it to help cook the top. After three minutes, I removed it with a slotted spoon and placed it carefully upon the salad.
Once cut, the yolk ran golden yellow and gooey, coating the salad and avocado with rich cholesterol. I don’t often have instantly successful kitchen stories (ask Andy about the pancakes sometime) but every now and then it all comes together like a perfectly poached egg.
And for those three minutes of poaching/lollygagging, don’t forget the baguette.
Voici venir les temps où vibrant sur sa tige
Chaque fleur s’évapore ainsi qu’un encensoir;
Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l’air du soir;
Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!
Chaque fleur s’évapore ainsi qu’un encensoir;
Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu’on afflige;
Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!
Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir.
Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu’on afflige,
Un coeur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir!
Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir;
Le soleil s’est noyé dans son sang qui se fige.
Un coeur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir,
Du passé lumineux recueille tout vestige!
Le soleil s’est noyé dans son sang qui se fige…
Ton souvenir en moi luit comme un ostensoir!
— Charles Baudelaire
Last year we had the Summer Olympics and that parade of Speedos to keep us entertained in the month of August. This year all we have is Tom Daley, and a few brief appearances by Ryan Lochte. So rather than bemoaning the lack of Olympic-caliber skin, let’s revisit some of those classic Speedo moments.
Before Tom Daley was even a glimpse in someone’s eye, there was Michael Phelps. His long lean torso dazzled at the past three Olympic games, and he even showered in his Speedo.
Alongside Mr. Phelps was the slightly more handsome, if less rewarded, Ryan Lochte. One of the favorite posts ever was this one, featuring Mr. Lochte pulling his already-low-slung swimsuit down even further. Even when he went to Las Vegas, he stripped to a skimpy white Speedo, forgoing the dull board shorts that other straight guys favor.
The gay Olympians were represented by Matthew Mitcham, who donned his Speedo while diving for the gold. He looked just as good in his funky trunks, and got to hug Tom Daley in this amazing shot of double-Speedo hotness.
As mentioned, the reigning Speedo-clad stud is Tom Daley. He was first featured here in July of last year, but has since come up in the ranks to be a featured performer, with a category all his own. Whether it’s his butt or his bulge that captivates you, Daley delivers on all fronts, even selling books in his Speedo. He was crowned the Hunk of the Day not once, but twice. As one of the younger guys featured on this site, all I can say is this: baby got back.
I know she loathes them, but I happen to adore hydrangeas. Unfortunately, thanks to our soil and climate, we don’t get the gang-buster colors that those grown on Cape Cod are afforded. My pal JoAnn always brings some from her Mom’s garden when she visits, so this past weekend she came up for a small gathering and brought this beautiful bouquet of flowers. They put our pale pink and light blue shades to shame. No matter how much sulphuric acid or rusty nails or coffee grounds you use up here, we can never match the gorgeousness produced on the Cape. And maybe that’s for the best. It makes these moments that much more valuable.
It’s already August, so hopefully you’ve been saving up for the end of the month -Â August 24Â is, after all, my birthday. Rather than have you all wracking your brains trying to guess and predict what would most appease the beast and keep me quiet for another year (or at least until Christmas), here are a few gift ideas. Yes, these are on the higher end of the spectrum, but so am I. SPECTRUM!
Let’s begin with a big-ticket item. Failing the $5100 Louis Vuitton train case I’ve been eyeing for ten years (I’ve finally admitted that such a thing is largely impractical, given that I ride the train maybe three times a year), it’s time instead for a new camera. The bulky (albeit good) one I’ve had for a few years has seen better days, and though the Canon Elph that I carry when out and about is serviceable, it has its limits when trying to get high-quality shots. This model offers a perfect mesh of the two – all the bells and whistles in a more compact version: the Canon EOS Rebel SL1. One review called it a dSLR for dainty hands. There are no daintier hands than mine.
I realize that’s a bit of a stretch, as everyone (particularly in my home) is under some financial duress, so I’m putting out a few cologne selections. I’ve already espoused about the genius of the Tom Ford Private Blend line, and seeing as how he’s got four new fragrances out now, surely one of these will appeal to my selective sniffing. (I’ll be trying them this weekend in Boston.)
In addition to these, and in the more affordable price-point range, are a pair of new Hermès fragrances: Eau de Narcisse Bleu and Eau de Mandarine Ambrée. I’ve been on an Hermès kick of late, bathing in Un Jardin après la Mousson, so I’m looking forward to trying out the two new ones. They’re not yet in Sephora (and may not be) so I’ll have to step into the Boylston Hermès store to give them a whirl (always a dangerous endeavor, and one that Andy refuses to do anymore).
Finally, if someone’s going to force a massage package on me from the Mandarin Oriental, I wouldn’t turn it down.
There, see how easy that is? These choices may cost a little more, but they take all the guess-work out of it. Surely that’s worth a bottle of Tom Ford?
Two years ago this month, I had made my way to Boston in search of something. That is, once I arrived in that fair city, I felt certain I was about to find something. I wasn’t sure what it was, or what it would turn out to be, but it was the first time I felt an almost physical push towards something, a force stronger than suspicion, more focused than a gut feeling, and it impelled me to seek something out.
Would this be a person, or a place, or an object? I couldn’t tell. Would this lead me to something that unlocked a mystery from the past, the opening of a memory gate I couldn’t access before? Or would it simply be the beginning of a journey, the start of something brand new? I did not know. All I felt was that I was supposed to be there, at that moment in time, and I was supposed to find something. It remains one of the most pronounced premonitions I’ve ever had, even if it was so abstract and unclear.
Being that I’m headed back to Boston this weekend, I was reminded of that time two years ago. I also got around to adding the tales to the archives, and you can find the strange, if ultimately fruitless, adventures in the following posts:
1. Remembering the First Man in My Life, Circa 1994
This weekend I have more concrete plans and goals than I did two years ago: sampling the new Tom Ford Private Blends and a pair of new Hermès fragrances, and meeting up with my dear friend Kira, whom I haven’t seen in many months. Oh, and it’s a tax-free holiday weekend for clothing and shoes. That has more significance than any whimsical premonition ever could.
Stop what is going through your head right now. Do not do the math. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Somehow, it was my 20th High School reunion last weekend, and though I couldn’t make the actual sit-down dinner on Saturday, we did manage to make it to the Friday night cocktail hour meet-and-greet at the Recovery Room in Amsterdam, NY. (And let’s face it, I’m more of the cocktail hour guy than the buffet dude.)
Two of my best friends from high school – who remain so to this day – stopped by my parents’ home, where we said hello and did some pre-gaming. Ann and Suzie joined Andy and I, along with my parents, my brother, and the twins for some reminiscing before we made our way to the Recovery Room.
Once there, I saw faces familiar and forgotten. FaceBook has made it slightly less surreal to see old schoolmates from two decades ago, but it’s still strange. In so many ways, I thought I would always feel like the kid I was in high school, and at our tenth reunion I felt that way a bit, but no more. The last ten years, which were in large part much more stable than the ten years before that, have changed me in ways that resonate more deeply when compared with my high school self. In the past, I cared a lot more what others thought (even if it wasn’t much, it was still more). This time around I simply enjoyed the moment, listening to what people were doing in their lives, laughing at what we had once done in the past, and discussing where we still wanted to go.
Of course with a support system like Ann and Suzie, it’s impossible not to have a good time. And for the next milestone number that rolls around we may just ditch the formal festivities and do our own reunion small and sweet. That’s all it’s really about anyway.
As for my classmates, most of them have only improved with age (or the ones that didn’t never made it to the meet and greet). Until the 25th, go Rams!
And in a pinch, Jim Beam simply will not do. At least not for this drink. The cocktail was the Ginger Bourbon Fizz. It sounded like a lovely summer drink – something a bit different from the mint juleps and mojitos and G&T’s that dominate the season. Give me some fresh ginger and I can usually be appeased – add some bourbon to it and I’m happy as a clam. Except in this case. On paper, it sounded thrilling – bourbon, and a simple syrup that had been steeped with fresh ginger coins and peppercorns. Just enough to balance the sweetness – then topped by club soda to add the fizz. But not all bourbons are equal, and I should have known not to skimp on the key ingredient.
Maker’s Mark is my preferred way to go, but the liquor store next door was out of it (such is the sorry state of affairs in my neighborhood). They were also out of Knob Creek, which a friend had suggested as a decent substitute. Not knowing much beyond that (my preference has always been for the clear stuff, especially in summer) I pulled out the bottle of Jim Beam and hoped for the best. It was just so-so, and soon enough the Ginger Bourbon Fizz had fizzled out, so much so that I could only stomach one. (That almost never happens.) I may try it again with a proper bourbon, but for now the fizz is flat, and I don’t feel like wasting a cocktail hour on this until the fall.
For someone as admittedly-obsessed by Madonna as me, it’s odd that I haven’t dreamt of her more often. Last night was only the third or fourth time she has deigned to appear in my dreams. This time around we were in front of someone’s house, and she was in the midst of a concert. Her hair was similar to the style seen here, an updated twist and hue of her Breathless Mahoney/Vogue vixen look. She and her dancers sat on the steps talking, and she looked at me and asked my name. I looked around to be sure she was talking to me and told her.
“Hi Alan,” she said back to me.
“Hi… Madonna,” I said, beaming. Madonna had just said my name. To me. I couldn’t stop smiling. She smiled back playfully.
Then, as dreams are wont to do, the scene shifted inside. Andy and I were waiting for the next part of the concert to begin, but she came into the room, alone, and no one seemed to be bothering her. She started talking to me again. Part of me wanted to request a photo with her, but I thought she’d get mad or leave. Like some rare butterfly you happen upon in the garden, she seemed too pretty and elusive to dare risk frightening away, so I stood there and took in the moment. She waited for me to say something. I looked down at her shorts, similar to the ones she wore in the ‘Music’ section of the Sticky and Sweet Tour, only in bright yellow. “I like your shorts,” I mumbled, instantly regretting the lameness of the bland-as-milquetoast comment. She caught it immediately.
“Thanks, Gloria… Estefan,” she said with a little roll of her eyes, calling out the dull innocuousness of my words. Madonna had just zingered me. I threw my head back with a laugh. I could die a happy man now. Her face was close to mine, barely a foot away, and we said a few more things. At the end, I wondered if I should ask Andy to try to get a picture, but decided against it. Then the dream ended.
We’re accustomed to seeing Tom Daley in his barely-there Speedos, so an underwear shot – in boxer-briefs no less – should come as no big thrill. But when a Speedo is your work-wear, an underwear shot is somehow more sexy, more sensual, more privately erotic. For those who have come to appreciate Mr. Daley, this one’s for you. (Personally, he’s still a bit too young.) These are reportedly from his 2014 calendar. The cover shot is a bit too precious for my liking, am I wrong?
