Actress, dancer, activist and ‘Sports Illustrated’ swimsuit model Leyna Bloom brings back the Dazzler of the Day feature thanks to her beauty, talent, and power. All of that is on luminescent display in her turn as Wye in ‘Port Authority’, as well as in her extensive modeling work. Trailblazing, groundbreaking, and a superstar-in-the-making ~ watch her shine.
Like lilacs, the Chinese dogwood trees in our yard have big years of blooms, and smaller years of blooms. This is one of the smaller years, making the blooms a little more precious. The last two years have seen boffo bloom shows, absolutely covering their branches with the creamy white bracts (the actual flowers are small and inconspicuous).
I used to be downhearted on the off years, but I’ve come to appreciate them as a natural part of the ebb and flow of life. They also make the floriferous and showy years that much more impressive, and appreciated. More lessons from the garden…
Once upon a time I was anal and adamant about definitive dates when it came to things like the start of summer. Over the past few years, I’ve softened and become much more flexible, and the ease of summer has taught me that. This song kicks off our unofficial summer season here at ALANILAGAN.com, and I absolutely love its easy-going vibe.
Along with the easing of strict delineation comes an easing of the posting schedule, as well as the content of the posts themselves. I just don’t want to stay behind a computer screen when the outside calls. These are the better days.
Bridging the blooming periods (and genetics) of the tree peony and the herbaceous peony, this is the Itoh Peony. Its hybrid form combines elements of both, though outwardly it veers closer to its tree cousins. (The manner in which it dies down to the ground each year is where it shows, or doesn’t show, its herbaceous roots.)
These are also smaller in form than the typical tree peony, and they manage to stand upright without staking – an improvement on the herbaceous forms that often require support or cages. The only tree peony I grow is a variety that absolutely does not stand up on its own, and as such it’s hidden away in a side-garden nook. Love the blooms, don’t love the form. These have improved on that, proof that hybrids aren’t all bad.
I’ve planted two varieties – one yellow, one white and fuchsia – in the front yard, which is where the strongest sun lands. This is not without some drawbacks. While they love the sun, their blooms would enjoy some shade, which I found out as the white variety lasted about three days in the high heat we had this past week.
That’s ok – it makes me love them all the more. Also, their fine and handsome foliage stays mildew-free all season, even in the heat and humidity of an upstate New York summer.
While these originally sold for anywhere from $500 to $1000 (hello tulipmania), hybridizers have made them available for $50 to $75. Yes, a bit of an investment for a plant, but who can put a price on such beauty?
“It was hypnotism. I was beginning to see that Phineas could get away with anything. I couldn’t help envying him that a little, which was perfectly normal. There was no harm in envying even your best friend a little.” ~ John Knowles, ‘A Separate Peace’
In lucky seasons, there is a summer read so good that it haunts me, and even though it’s not yet officially summer, I just finished this year’s stunner. ‘A Separate Peace’ by John Knowles tells the story of a friendship between two boys during the arrival of World War II. While the conditions that paved the way for war back then seem eerily familiar in today’s social climate, it was the descriptions of the tenuous yet unbreakable bonds of friendship that spoke most resonantly to me. This is a summer read that seers itself into the soul.
“It was surprising how well we got along in these weeks. Sometimes I found it hard to remember his treachery, sometimes I discovered myself thoughtlessly slipping back into affection for him again. It was hard to remember when one summer day after another broke with a cool effulgence over us, and there was a breath of widening life in the morning air – something hard to describe – an oxygen intoxicant, a shining northern paganism, some odor, some feeling so hopelessly promising that I would fall back in my bed on guard against it. It was hard to remember in the heady and sensual clarity of these mornings; I forgot whom I hated and who hated me. I want to break out crying from stabs of hopeless joy, or intolerable promise, or because these mornings were too full of beauty for me, because I knew of too much hate to be contained in a world like this.” ~ John Knowles, ‘A Separate Peace’
These charming blooms belong to the Black-eyed Susan vine, Thunbergia alata. Our friend Carol grows these on her foot porch, and after seeing how glorious they performed there one summer I decided to try one out this year, and it’s already proven a spectacular success. These cheery flowers alone are worth putting in at least one pot somewhere where they can entwine and enchant with their vigorous vining arms.
They rightfully bring focus to our backyard patio, where all the summer action is at, and why there will be the usual lighter posting schedule in these parts. It’s June, and I don’t want to miss a minute of this beautiful time of the year. The month of summer is at hand, brilliantly reflected in the sunny smile of these flowers…
Innkeeping is an art form. It takes talent, timing, and an intuitive understanding of people – and the infinite variety of them. For almost two decades, Andy and I made the Ogunquit Beach Inn our home-away-from-home whenever we stayed in Ogunquit. Greg and Mike started off as innkeepers and became friends through the years, so when they sold their place and completed their inn keeping journey, we skipped going to Ogunquit for a few years. Then Covid hit, life events got in the way, and soon it had been half a decade since we’d been to the Beautiful Place By the Sea. After missing the calm and enchantment that always formed the core of our Ogunquit trips, we decided to return, and I reached out to Greg who recommended the Scotch Hill Inn, promising that Innkeeper Anthony would take good care of us. As is often the case in Greg’s Ogunquit advice, this was a resoundingly happy success.
Originally built in 1898, the building became an inn in 1908 and since then has had several renovations, including a new porch that went in a few years ago and now grandly looks out over Main Street. We saw the sign from the street, accented by a brilliant lemon-hued azalea in full bloom, all of it resplendent against the blue sky. Beds of bearded Iris in gold and purple signaled the arrival of the transition from spring to summer.
Inside the house, delights of music and art quietly spread their charm – a dulcimer sat beside a screen of birds and flowers, mirrored by hanging glasswork in the windows. A charming woman named Rita greeted us and brought us around inside, explaining how breakfast worked each day then letting us make our way to Room #3.
There, a high four-poster king bed took center stage in a beautiful room filled with light and windows. A spacious bathroom was bright with white tiles accented by black, and one could look down Main Street toward town. The setting was idyllic on this sunny late-spring day, and marked a happy return to our favorite vacation place. Any trepidation I may have had about trying out a new inn dissipated the moment we set our bags down; this was a place of calm and respite, just as Ogunquit had always been to us on a grander scale, and we instantly felt at home.
Breakfast at the Scotch Hill Inn is served daily from 8:30 to 9:30, and this is where the real enchantment is conjured. Innkeeper Anthony is a chef with a quarter of a century of experience, and it shows from the first course of honey roasted pears with yogurt and granola. If this dish alone was all one ever got, it would be worth extolling its virtues. As it was, this was merely the preamble to the hearty dishes available. Each day brought one savory and one sweet, which was ideal for Andy and I as I usually went savory and he always went sweet. These breakfasts would come to be our favorite part of this trip, a delicious start to the day that made lunch all but obsolete and unnecessary, fortifying the hours to come with sensational offerings. There were eggs, roasted vegetables, pancakes of almond and banana, a wondrous breakfast casserole/soufflé (seen below), pecan waffles, slow-cooked beef hash, pancakes of lemon and blueberry, and a finale of Eggs Benedict with a homemade hollandaise. Yes, the Scotch Hill Inn should be on your list of places to stay for the breakfast alone.
If it’s relaxation and comfort you’re seeking, there are places to indulge in whatever passion or practice you are looking to enjoy. A pair of tables for dining or chatting inhabit the inside rooms, while more tables and rocking chairs line the front and side porch. This proved the perfect place for passing a sunny afternoon, and I set up shop reading and sipping tea on our last Sunday there. A garden path leads to a fire pit space, and a pair of Adirondack chairs in the front. Aquilegia, viburnum, and several species of ferns lent their grace and elegance to the surroundings, giving a sense of bucolic charm and beauty. Maine again reaffirmed its place as the way life should be.
Anthony and Rita provided guidance when needed, masterfully navigating the whims and wishes of each guest, and they clearly know how to run an inn and make everyone comfortable. As sad as we were to say goodbye to the inn at which we previously stayed, this no longer felt like a substitute, but a lovely destination, and a new home-away-from-home in its own right. Credit Anthony’s years in the hospitality and restaurant business for the knowledge and experience to back up such charm and ease.
Be sure to check out the Scotch Hill Inn’s website for room and reservation info, and make this one of your vacation destinations. It perfectly complements the relaxing escape that has always been Ogunquit to us.
It often happens when we go on vacation over Memorial Day weekend: the peonies wait and wait and wait with their tightly coiled buds until we are gone, then they open up splendidly and we miss half their show. It’s been years since we’ve gone away for Memorial Day, but the peonies sensed this, and did it again. Luckily, we caught them just at the start of their act, and there are more to come.
Peonies have long held a special place in my heart, from happy childhood memories, to happy wedding day remembrances, and their perfume instantly calms the heart and head. A couple of years ago I divided some decades-old clumps in our front yard, and they have come back in glorious form – the reward well-worth the back-ache.
There are about three different varieties here – I don’t know the names they were part of some White Flower Farm old-fashioned collection sent without individual labels. The older I get, the less concerned I am with logistics like names. It goes against everything I’ve ever known or espoused, and happily I just don’t care. When the sight is as sweet as this, and the scent as gorgeous, it’s the experience and the emotional resonance that matters, for after all what is in a name?
Kicking off the unofficial start to the summer season with a recap feels like a fittingly retro move while Mercury is in retrograde, so without wasting any more time on the new, let’s look back over the old of the past week. Also, enjoy these peony flowers as seen at the Mandarin Oriental Boston.
Wearing reading glasses because I’m old…er.
These are just three of my favorite things.
A chartreuse reminder of the fleeting moment at hand.
Windflowers for a dramatic pause.
Another Boston adventure with Kira begins.
A witch in Boston passes our way.
The darker the night, the brighter the day. Our midnight return home felt very far away the next morning, when we woke to sunshine and the brightness of a new day. All around, the flowers were in bloom, transitioning into the bearded iris and roses and snowdrop anemones that put forth their own enchantment. As dark as the previous night had been, I never once felt afraid, thanks to the company of Kira. A good friend can do that – inspire confidence and courage when the world should by all accounts be a frightening place. At my best, I hope I can offer a little of the same in return. Our time together in Boston has been a comfort for all these years because I think it makes us both feel a little less alone.
Whether it be run-ins with witches, bedeviled roundabouts to dinner, or a midnight rush to beat the bad spirits, we survive by relying on each other. All bewitching, no bewilderment.
Every time we share a weekend like this, I feel a little better about everything. Good friends have such restorative powers. That makes a Sunday departure somewhat of a sadder affair, even as the sun casts its own spell in the petals and beard of an iris.
The stage has been set for the summer to come. I’ve invited Kira for a weekend by the pool, and we shall return to Boston when we get another chance. Little glimmers of hope to make our goodbye less bitter and more sweet.
He’s a fool and don’t I know it,
But a fool can have his charms…
When a brush with a witch occurs, I think you carry a bit of that magic with you. Whether a protective talisman, a charm of safe passage, or some dark bit of pixie dust that keeps others at bay, this magic works in different ways. As we sought out a place for a late dinner – one that was getting later by the hour – we followed another woman up a bridge and down into the depths of Lolita.
We started under the rainbow, a fitting turn of events that tumbled us upside down and left us disoriented and turned all around. There was no more pretending it wasn’t dark out, but as is the case at this point in these sorts of stories, we didn’t feel afraid. It was an adventure, and in the dark environs of Lolita we had some sparkling water and regained our composure.
Refreshed and hydrated, we crossed another bridge and made our way to Nebo, which had available tables outside, so we took one and ordered our long-awaited dinner. An opener of octopus made it more than worth the wait – and the walk – as did the lasagna. Perhaps a little too satiated, we began the long walk home on feet that were too old to be walking that much, but I insisted we try burning some of the meal off.
Our path brought us back along the Boston Public Garden, a place of comfort and peace even (and sometimes especially) in the evening. We paused at the angel, as bewitching and beguiling as any other entity in the city. If there was magic here, may it rub off on us. We need the help.
It was approaching midnight, and we took cover for the rest of the way home along the Commonwealth Mall. The cover of trees led us back to the condo, where I rushed in just as midnight began its dozen rings. Collapsing like Cinderella, Kira’s feet were done in from the walk and the sandals, so I heated a bucket of water and added some essential oils and Aveda soap for a soak while I took a quick shower. We would sleep well, under the spell of a magical day in Boston.
Shrouded in an evening fog that was just starting to lift by the time we got up and going on Saturday, Boston held its entrancing spell as Kira and I ventured forth in the morning. We were looking to find some plumbing parts for the kitchen sink pipe that was leaking. (Pause for reaction to me doing any sort of plumbing.)
Around us, Boston continued in full bloom, and the sun began to peek through the dissipating clouds. We found some pipe at the hardware store, then proceeded to Newbury Street to restore our shopping senses. Now that the initial thrill of the Levain Bakery has died down, we were able to try a couple of their cookies without waiting in line. The recipe I have does quite come close to the ones on offer here, so at $5.00 per cookie, it’s not exactly a bargain. Still, we indulged, and after walking quite a ways, with the heat on the rise and the humidity not that far behind, we wound up in the South End, resting at the former location of Francesca’s Cafe – a site that brings me back to Boston in the 90’s.
It’s a Caffe Nero now – one of many – but it provided this exquisite lemon coconut frulatto that absolutely made our afternoon. As the day’s heat reached its crescendo, we paused in the shaded nook of this cafe, watched the world pass by for a bit, then resumed our journey home. It was time for a siesta.
Somewhere on our journey home, we passed a woman with dark hair who gave us a mysterious smile that made it seem like she knew too much. I can’t explain why I felt it, but I immediately said to myself that we had just passed a witch. Now, I don’t mean that in a derogatory of negative way – in fact, I carry witches in high regard, and view them with a sort of reverence and respect. I tried explaining myself to Kira, but she wasn’t getting it, and maybe it was better that way. I just know what I felt, and I suddenly realized my view on people had changed, and I was seeing things in a way that opened up the possibility of magic and enchantment and a world I’d always shut off from lack of understanding or wanting to understand.
Back at the condo, I did a meditation while Kira took a quick nap on the couch. The afternoon light spilled into the bedroom, where I sat down lotus-style and slid into deep breathing and closed eyes. The beauty of meditation is that it can be done wherever you might be. It’s the best sort of travel companion.
Once the meditation was done, and Kira was up and about, we made motions to start the second half of the day. We set up a couple of drinks – a Paloma for Kira, and a calamansi mocktail for me – and brought them out to the front steps to watch the people peruse Braddock Park. A favorite past-time in favorable weather, we savored the minutes and the company.
The weather turned slightly, the winds picking up a bit, and I remembered our brush with the witch, and her smile. Was she a good witch or a bad witch? The world went a little quieter suddenly, and the day took its first turn onto dusk.
We finished out drinks and dressed for dinner. Unprepared with a plan, we decided to wing it with a stroll through the South End toward the seaport. A hex must have been placed, as we lost our bearings and our sense of where we were just as the sky went dim. I thought I might be losing it when I heard the opening chords of ‘Willkommen’ from ‘Cabaret’ in my head. It came out of nowhere, and I made Kira stop walking to find out if this was my long-waited and forecast break with reality.
In a little park surrounded by trees, I saw the ghostly flickering of a movie screen, and the menacing Emcee of Joel Grey peeking out from the reflection of a mirror. It could have been the stuff of horror, but instead struck me as a whimsical turn of events – finding an outside showing of ‘Cabaret’ for a small group of elderly folks set up with chairs and blankets. Our adventure continued…
“Leave your troubles outside. Life is disappointing? Forget it!” ~ ‘Cabaret’
When I arrived in Boston on a hazy and breezy Friday afternoon (following a hellacious drive where I witnessed an awful accident as it happened on the other side of the Mass Turnpike) there was the scent of sea on the air. Not everyone noticed it (Kira couldn’t find it when I asked her) but when you’ve been landlocked for weeks, you notice the shift. And you definitely notice the sea, which is something that I have always adored. When the breeze comes in from the water like that, it can make for interesting weather, not always nice, but in this case it was a recipe for the perfect stretch of days with some sun and light breezes, and the ocean buffer kept Boston in the low 80’s as opposed to the 95 degree nonsense of upstate New York. At this moment, there was a fog-like haze to the city, obscuring the tops of buildings, allowing for spirits to pass into the earthly realm.
There has always been something grandly beguiling about Boston in the spring – the way the flowers nod and scent the air with their loveliness, the way the nights warm just enough to provide a comfortable atmosphere for a stroll, or the way the denizens arise as if from a winter-long hibernation, refreshed and slightly groggy, ready to see the world all over again and partake in its beauty. It turns out there has been something bewitching at work too, a magic I’ve noticed peripherally in the last few years, something that hints at something more, but that has proven elusive and difficult to pin down.
The lure of the sea had been calling to me for years. One of the things I always loved about Boston was its proximity to the ocean – the salty water that offered exit to the rest of the world after the vast expanse of its body. While rarely venturing to the seaside, it was always a comfort to know it was there, gently buffering the hot weather or easing the sharpness of the cold, and sometimes making both worse and conjuring storms more devastating than anything inland might have to endure. Though I kept mostly away from the water, its presence was felt anytime there was water in the air – humidity, showers, snowstorms. You could smell it then, and it was a comfort, the way a home is made more cozy when battered by a winter storm. Proximity to danger somehow lends a safe place even more security. Humans are strange that way.
On this Friday, Boston was bewitching in its usual spring charm, and would prove to be doubly so in more literal hauntings. Kira arrived early – her shift in work hours was finally accepted and she wanted to surprise me, so we began our evening around 5. I was already in the process of setting up a light meal when she texted me that she had arrived, so we eased into dinner gradually, drawing out the process and enjoying the minutes more than we might otherwise have done. Time seemed to operate differently on this weekend as well, keeping us slightly off-balance, and perhaps more susceptible to shifts that would otherwise go unnoticed.
We made one foray into the evening air, for some dessert at the market, and the air was warm enough that we didn’t require jackets – the first time that’s happened on a visit to Boston this year, and a very happy sign of the season. We slept with the windows open, a sea breeze wafting all the way through the condo from the front to the back. The soothing sounds of the Braddock Park fountain mingled with the muffled tones of Les Baxter coming from the stereo. A Friday evening that fulfilled its promise of holding all hope…
Before I post about last weekend’s Boston adventures with Kira, I’m doing a gentle entry post with these charming windflowers that were in bloom when we were in town. They have colonized a small section of the Southwest Corridor Park, in the shade of some flowering trees, and they are just coming into the most lovely part of their growth cycle. These delicate white flowers dangle and nod in the slightest breeze, conjuring an aura of elegant and rustic beauty.
They are not extravagant or exceptionally showy – and their beauty depends largely on such restraint. In simplicity there is art; in what is sparse, there is what is vast. When a flower gives you just enough to leave you wanting more, when it demands that you fill in the blanks of what you think might be missing, it has succeeded in its purpose. That’s what this past weekend felt like in Boston. Just enough to want for more.
Suffering Madonna fatigue isn’t something to which I’m all that accustomed. For decades she has done little to no wrongs, but these last few years I’ve had issues with some of her choices, and, worse, I’ve found myself not even caring what she does. The world has indeed gone topsy-turvy in the midst of a pandemic, and all bets are off. Seismic shifts are now the norm, and things I once held as forever stable have melted away like the flimsiest of sandcastles.
Maybe I’ve just aged beyond the time when music makes the same strong impression it made in my youth. I’ve heard others describe similar circumstances, this loss of passion over a certain song and melody, the kind of obsession that once allowed me to play a song on repeat for hours and days and weeks on end. Very little stirs me that strongly these days, and part of me mourns that.
The latest upcoming release form Madonna – ‘Finally Enough Love‘ – 50 of her #1 dance hits remixed and compiled in a sprawling collection – doesn’t kickstart that passion either. Partly because it’s a rehashing of whats been done before – sounds like these are mixes most of her fans have already heard. Hoping for some new twist, but not expecting it. Her recent remixes of ‘Frozen‘ on Tik Tok have also left me largely unimpressed. Once upon a time Madonna operated in the mode of not bothering with something if wasn’t going to be epic. Those days are done.
And I’m oddly at peace with it.
