I Heart Food

Just back from New York where I gave a reading at the International Center of Photography. I spent the weekend in Carroll Gardens where I was borrowing my friend Robin's fabulous apartment.

How I do love that neighborhood.

I walked around, stopping into the yummy boutiques. I tried on a fabulous Corey Lynn Calter dress (--at Dear Fieldbinder. If you love dresses you should go there. Seriously. No one's paying me to write these things.--) and I almost cried when it did not fit me perfectly. Anyway, now I've decided my writing project must include an essay on closets... something that touches on my love for dresses and shoes and being seriously high femme. More work for me.

I also ate my way through the neighborhood.

Loved sitting in the garden at Frankie's eating antipasto and drinking a bellini and reading The Poetics of Space.

Loved sitting in the open windows at Panino'teca scarfing devilled eggs with caviar (so simple; so delicious!)



Loved my breakfast of crepes au sucre at Provence en Boite. That morning the owner's little girl's class was having an end of the school year party. I love the sound of children. (I guess I'll have to write about that, and, specifically, the sound of the kids in the park across the street from my house, later too. More work for me.)


Loved (despite the terrible, weepy, vicious hormonal night I was having) tea and pastries at Sweet Melissa.

But the most spectacular food moment was my lunch at Jill's. On the menu, and the specials board, and on the website, there's this quote from Thich Nhat Hanh: "In this food I clearly see the presence of the entire universe supporting my existence." Are you eye-rolling? Well, guess what? In that food I clearly saw the presence of the entire universe supporting my existence. I sat there, precariously perched on that too hip, wobbly little stool, and thanked Jesus for my life after eating that food. Then I demanded the chef to come out from behind the counter and I kissed him. (On the cheek, honey!) Then I took Robin there for lunch the next day.

How I wish I had a digital camera (gotta do that, H.I.) so I could show you pictures of that food. Besides being delicious, it was aesthetically perfect: beautiful little purple micro greens against the bright backdrop of the green curry sauce for my rice paper spring vegetable ravioli. Steam rising from the white teapot where those gorgeous sprigs of mint steeped. God is good.

Now I'm back. My kitchen (wholly un-renovated, and in need, in my admittedly embarrassingly "bourgie" opinion, of a refurbished 1954 O'Keefe and Merrit Stove and a Summit undercounter refrigerator and freezer) should be put to good use tomorrow. A friend is coming over to make Ethiopian food. God is good.

Someone else's cool tile

Yesterday was so lovely. I walked to the corner coffee shop and read and wrote , then meandered around the neighborhood--to the drug store and grocery store--enjoying the cool air.

Ok, so, today it's 90 degrees. So much for dreams of winter.

This is not a picture of my house. It's from my ideas file. I'd love to do something like this for the floor of my downstairs bathroom.

I Heart Pitchers

Yesterday I woke up to weather in the 50s, a lovely cool breeze, the grey sky I've strangely come to love. Though, perhaps not so strangely. I've always loved heather grey as a color for clothes--cashmere turtlenecks and ribbed tights and over-sized sweatshirts. I just never payed attention before moving here to the way grey makes other colors pop. (Thus, my choice of background colors for this blog.)

I still feel like a Southerner. My southernness is integral to my identity in ways I find difficult to tease out. Yet, since moving here, I find myself wistful for winter in the middle of spring. I recently bought this cocoa pitcher from an antiques vendor at one of those random little tables full o' junk that sprout up in the center of the mall. I can hardly wait for a true chill to put it to good use. I'll fill it with steaming white hot chocolate, served with marshmallows and a little sprinkle of cinnamon, perhaps a nip of some fabulous liqueur. So many months to wait....

The Need for Blinds Ruins One

As my partner likes to say, having a house is like having a high maintenance girlfriend who is never satisfied. Looking from my desk out into the living room, at first I'm pleased with the view. Even though the paint job in there (like the one in the green room) reflects my learning curve in terms of edges, when to pull the blue tape off, etc., I love the color. (Martha again; Miso Red.)

But then the nagging starts... When are you going to finish those blinds?

Don't get me wrong. I'm happy about my decision to make the window treatments myself. (Have you seen what it costs to have blinds made? It's highway robbery!) It's just, I work very slowly. I haven't been sewing all my life and I'm really fussy--probably too fussy--about the measuring. I should probably not admit this, but it took me all day to make that blind above that (Salvation Army steal) wing chair. Now there's the bay window off to the left, hands on hips, harumphing, and me, three years in, stammering, "I'll get to it tomorrow, I swear."

Disposable Digital

I am one of those people who doesn't have a cell phone. No ipod. No cable tv. What am I doing with a blog?

I blame these peonies.

They came into full bloom day before yesterday, hot pink and stunning. It was one of those wretchedly sticky hot days. Hot like Florida. Hot like, How is this possible? Here? And I'm from Florida. How have I so quickly become someone who writes descriptions like "wretchedly sticky hot?" Anyway, the peonies... they looked so beautiful from the green room window. Then the heat broke and the rain came and beat them to the ground. So, yesterday, I cut them and put them in a vase in the green room, but immediately wanted to share them with everyone I know. (I did give two to friends who happened by when I was out in the garden, but the feeling didn't go away.)

So, today I ran to CVS to grab a disposable digital. (You didn't think I owned a digital camera, did you?) But here's the thing: I'm so in love with my endless project of a house that I did not stop with the peonies. A writing project about my house was already in the works. I've managed, for now, to convince myself to see this blog as an extension (yeah, that's it, an extension) of that project and not the time suck black hole of procrastination I'm afraid it could become.

Writing space: view from my desk, blue daybed

Writing space: detail of blinds I made with my mother-outlaw

Writing space: detail of bookshelf, my beautiful mama

Sleeping in the Green Room

The green room is painted a color Martha Stewart calls Creeping Jenny. If memory serves, it is the first room I painted when I bought the house. How describe it?—It is an almost chartreuse, a green potentially too bright, the kind of color folks are quick to label, either delight or disaster. Three years ago, I had not yet perfected my painting technique, nor discovered the proper tool for corners and edging, so near the ceiling it has an uneven, color-washed look that used to bother me but now I’ve come to like. The ceiling itself, still, as yet, unpainted, has four or five messy splotches of Creeping Jenny where my roller brush slipped. The trim remains the dingy cream color I initially found in all but one of the rooms at purchase. (That room, the master bedroom, was painted half blue, half purple--in shades not even I could love--with a floral paper border between. Eek!) Three years later, I have yet to make blinds for the windows. (Where does the time go?) Though it is not the master, I've recently taken to sleeping here like a loungey B&B guest in my own home.