This would be another dream of mine, though in the original version it was a church that I’d renovate and move into, with Gothic architecture, soaring ceilings, and a few rows of uncomfortable but impressive pews. Check out the amazing work that one person did on this former cement factory in Barcelona, and marvel at how beauty can come from ruin.
I love stories like this.
As thanks for Andy watching over their home in the winter, our snowbird neighbors sent this very thoughtful gift to us around Valentine’s Day. It’s a box of chocolates from the Harbor Candy Shop in our favorite place: Ogunquit, Maine. A wonderful reminder of that magical spot, and a lovely gesture from two people we are lucky to have as neighbors.
Memories of Ogunquit are always happy, and having just received word of this season’s offerings at the Ogunquit Playhouse it’s been on my mind of late. We won’t be there for a few months, so this gift was a perfectly-timed bridge to see us through to then. Good neighbors send good chocolate!
Hope is in the air. We’ve had our 70-degree tease of spring, and though there are several weeks to go before we officially move out of winter, I sense a light at the end of the tunnel. This is my favorite part of anything anyway: the anticipation. Spring holds the bright possibility of being perfect, or at least better than last year. It’s an annual wish, and one that I’m always happy to make.
If you envision it, somehow it will manifest itself.
I’m in no rush, and neither is winter. We haven’t seen the last of the snow or ice or wind. We’ve still got a ways to go. Who knows how lion-like our entry into March will be, but we’re on the right track, baby.
Until then, the prettiness of life in a northern town.
It changes around this time of the year.
It slants differently across the snow.
Richer and more robust than in the gray of December.
It holds promise in this new stance.
The last light of February is upon us.
One day more.
We are gearing up for going in the next month like a lion, but there are a few more days of the shortest month of the year left to be had, so let’s recap the last bit of February here (and recuperate from the Academy Award mayhem).
A cocktail that leaves a bad taste in your mouth.
Joe Jonas in his underwear again.
The enchanting ‘Lily & the Octopus’ by Steven Rowley.
My brother’s 40th birthday. Now we are old.
Other February Hunks included Joe Putignano, Josh Ohl, Jonathan Guijarro & Tom Frelinghuysen.
Fairy tales of ice queens have fascinated and enthralled me since I was a child, while simultaneously terrifying with their hidden threat of danger. Such thrills are the bane and brilliance of winter at once. A sorceress of ice can chill the warmest heart. The crimson branches that once swayed in a warm breeze have been stilled by the wave of an icy wand. The world looks and feels frozen. In such perfect beauty there is an unforgiving coldness, a sense that no matter how much you try to chip away at it, the heart can never be discovered.
Yet even within the frigid confines of an icy prison, some vermillion stems still pulse with life, their cells preserved in a holding pattern until a thaw. It cannot be seen by the naked human eye, but life remains in a sort of sleep. We all want to rest in the winter.
One day, not too far away, the sun will once again conquer the ice. It will melt away and reveal the wet pulsating life that once seemed lost. The return of spring.
I sense it through the crystalline beauty.
Even in the midst of winter, the garden offers delights if you know when and where to look. In this instance, it’s the afternoon hour of a sunny day, beneath a wayward gutter which coated a coral bark maple in layers of ice, like some ridged chunk of Swarovski crystal. Icicles dangled precariously from its rigid limbs, and as pretty as it was, I worried what damage might be born to the beautiful bark.
There are some things you can’t control, however, and ice freezes are one of them. Last year we had a very late stretch of frigid weather that decimated the entire crop of lilac buds. We had wrapped the shrub in plastic in a last-ditch effort to keep the buds alive, all to no avail. Some years are like that, and there’s nothing to be done.
I’m not sure what effect this icing might have on the coral bark maple. Hopefully it will come out of it unscathed. At the very least, it’s going out with a bang of beauty. Winter casts its own spell.
Another woefully-underused fresh herb is the flat leaf Italian parsley. The curly kind has given it all sorts of bad ubiquitous names, but its unique flavor, especially when used as more than just a garnish, lends a brightness that too often gets ignored because the dried kind, and the restaurant abuse of the curly kind, has made it such a pariah in home cooking. Nobody remembers to use it, but it belongs in so many dishes, chopped fresh and sprinkled on at the last minute. Give it a green whirl again.
It happens the same way every year, and always at about this time.
A yearning, a longing, a memory of something that has yet to happen, but somehow has happened all before.
The dream of summer.
When the snow gets all dirty and grimy, and a few nights tease with the promise of a thaw, I think of summer and make tentative plans in my head. Right now, I’m envisioning a background of terra-cotta, with accents of colorful tiles, and plantings of penstemon to attract the hummingbirds and butterflies that make a backyard so enchanting.
The flower catalogs will begin arriving soon, further whetting the appetite and stoking the stuff of dreams. It’s not too early to indulge in such anticipation. It’s all coming.
A happy scene is achieved with a few floating cyclamen, and this sight never fails to rouse me from the winter doldrums. It is small consolation for the memory of them in their natural habitat, but any consolation, no matter how small, is a welcome one at this time of the year. We are on the right track, however, as only one more month of winter officially remains. The rotten weather may linger, but that too will eventually be wiped away. It always is.
This is my Monday after a long-weekend away, so forgive me if I’m not quit as plucky as usual. Better yet, don’t bother me at all today because I just need to catch up in peace. To that end, I just want to point you to this linky post of previous moments of tranquility that have given me great joy over the years. We need more calm in this tumultuous internet zone.
Those of us wishing for another tale of Harry Potter were somewhat appeased by the release of a play billed as ‘The Eighth Story. Nineteen Years Later’. It picks up with the children of Harry Potter, along with all the main players of the original books, some of whom show up in memory, or in those magical picture frames where the dead still seem to live out some fragmented version of life. J.K. Rowling’s magical world was always one in which loss was inevitable and irreversible. She taught that tough lesson in as kind a way as possible. Harry’s hurt was always palpable and present even as he triumphed and gained the love and loyalty of a group of friends who became his family. The latest play, ‘Harry Potter and The Cursed Child’ is a tribute to all of that, and Rowling, Jack Horne and John Tiffany manage to recapture the enchantment, bringing our favorite characters back to thrilling life.
“Harry, there is never a perfect answer in this messy, emotional world. Perfection is beyond the reach of humankind, beyond the reach of magic. In every shining moment of happiness is that drop of poison: the knowledge that pain will come again. Be honest to those you love, show your pain. To suffer is as human as to breathe.’ ~ Dumbledore
Forget that treasonous clown who used Russia to steal the last election and focus on the recap at work here. We broke the hump of February, and we are on our last full week of the wretched month. Here’s what went down over the week of love.
Andy Cohen’s latest book ‘Superficial’ was a super-fun romp through celebrity glitz.
Keeping things simple on Valentine’s Day.
Andy in his youth. (And younger.)
Love is pain and pain is art: Madonna’s ‘Graffiti Heart’.
A tour, back in full bloom.
Another blooming installment here, and here, and here.
Nick Jonas, as hot as ever.
A super-hot Hunk of the Day run included Josh Moore, Mauricio Plastina, Keegan Whicker & Andy Cohen.
Who knows whether the snow will have stopped falling by the time this post goes up and I have to ride into work. My office doesn’t close for snow. Never has and never will. [Sigh.] On with the recap, because on Monday mornings like this one, all I want to do is rewind. Just to Friday…
It all began with a bang: Zac Efron in a Speedo.
Not quite hiding my family jewels.
A Queen fails to live up to her name.
My ass got the glorious Cheesecake treatment here.
Hunks of the Day included Matt Lister, Dev Patel, Marcus Balliette, James Gao, Paul Richmond, Spencer Rahal & Arad Winwin.
The Suite for Flute & Jazz Piano Trio Jean as performed by Pierre Rampal & Claude Bolling (and written by Bolling himself) plays on the stereo. The living room is flooded with white light – from the snow, not the sun – and through the green branches of a Norfolk Island Pine I watch it fall down, heavier and heavier.
On the stove, a batch of Sausage, Kale and Potato soup is simmering. This one uses the chorizo sausage called for in the original recipe, and already that has made a difference. Not that that first attempt wasn’t good – I just wanted to see how it was meant to be. The chorizo rendered so much more delicious fat too – the lovely paprika-hued kind that soaked so gorgeously into the pale potatoes and translucent onions. Once again I was struck by how a simple tablespoon of Balsamic vinegar can have a profound effect on a pot of soup.
The music plays on, and more snow falls down. I move onto the conversation couch, and open up the Harry Potter play – billed as the 8th story, told nineteen years later. In one sitting, I devoured the first half. (You can too – it’s very much a traditional play, and moves as quickly on the page.) Harry Potter, a snowstorm, and soup simmering in the kitchen. Hello to a perfect Sunday.
And still, the snow falls.
