One of my major idols, Eleanor Josaphine Medill "Cissy" Patterson--the country's first major female newspaper publisher and a sybarite of the first order--used to entertain at her Dupont Circle home in elaborate silk pajamas. I thought of her recently after moving from a 400 square foot apartment--where we regularly entertained in what was essentially our bedroom (whether I wore real clothes or not) to a house with many rooms--one of which I intend to use as an office.

To be honest, a home office is a novel concept for me. I've always thought of bed as the ultimate workspace: good for reading, aesthetically pleasing, the perfect place to drink coffee and look out the window. In college I even had the desk removed from my dorm room to make way for a nice, feather-cushioned loveseat. But someone has given me a hand-me-down computer (my first) and I finally reached my breaking point at the public library when a) I started to recognize everyone there (like the man who can't remove the paint from his eyebrows and is--from what I can tell--in the midst of refinancing his $800,000 home) and b) the woman coughing and typing next to me was obviously going to give me TB.

Not wanting to get too attached to the home office concept--I may, after all, end up back in a 400 sq ft place or miss the DSM-IV charms of the library--I didn't want to invest too heavily in the set-up. So I repurposed this $9 child's table and the $6 Braniff-era Steelcase office chair as my desk. This time, I tried not to use spray paint--at least on the fabric--but it was so slow-going (especially after the Law & Order marathon ran its course) that I ignored the advice of the man at the hardware store (he thought I needed "flexible" paint) and went at it with water-based latex spray paint. (P.S. For those of you who are curious about the metallic and glitter varieties, Michaels is running a $1.99 sale right now on Krylon paints.)

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This free skull font would make any invitations simultaneously design-y and frightening!

These little pumpkins, ghosts, and candy corns are way too cute to be scary. Buy the pattern and lots more softies here.

Did you buy a cheap can of coffee in a pinch? Turn it into a pumpkin to decorate a window or to haul your tricks and treats.

Not Martha makes her jack o' lanterns fretful.

Sewing Stars gives us a jaunty little skeleton paper doll template we can download.

The endlessly clever folks at Stencil 1 bring us ghoulishly scary stencils.

Mia at One Hour Craft gives us a quick tutorial for creepy, crawly spiders.

The best costumes ever.

The best spooky cooking video ever.

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To truly be considered a card-carrying Francophile you probably have to, you know, be able to speak the language. I can barely trill my r's in the simplest je voudrais, but I do know there is something about French culture that speaks to me, even if I can't speak to it.

The best non-fiction book I've read in the past year would have to be the glimpse afforded in On Rue Tatin of an American-who-loves-food-living-in-France (my favorite genre). In it, Susan Herrmann Loomis, my current life model, writes (in addition to her love of swimming and the smell of bread emanating from her town's bakeries in the mornings) about her friendship with Patricia Wells and their mutual love of food. The fact that these two women who are so cool and so lovely and so French-by-association are friends kind of blows my mind.

So of course I also love Patricia Wells' newest cookbook, Vegetable Harvest. It's not vegetarian, as I originally thought (which is good cause it's got fabulous looking recipes for lamb and tuna tartare, oh my!) but it is filled with the sort of easy-elegant recipes that make you want to pack your bags and head for Dijon immediately. Her recipes let vegetables shine, which really, they do so well if given the chance. In this Elastic Waist video we're using up the last of the season's tomatoes, and you can find the recipes here.

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This is a story about diamonds in the rough (and this would be diamonds of the peach-colored splatter-painted, needlepoint-embellished variety).

I like old stuff. I like finding weights in the hems of vintage dresses and thoughtful little details like toggle-snaps that marshal bra straps. I like craftsmanship and pintucking and punch bowls. A friend of mine asked recently, "Do any of your clothes come from an actual store?"

It must be said, however, that I treasure a bargain. And my heart literally soars at the thought of a high-quality rummage sale. What's more: there's nothing more gratifying than having a dignified 85-year-old woman look over the vases/silverware/monogrammed napkins you've picked out and nod with approval.

But what about the rummage sale rejects (is that redundant?). After the Golden Girls bamboo furniture gets carted away, the Eames wannabes go home with Rachel Zoe wannabes and what's left is truly hideous?

The pictures don't show how truly ugly this Cracker Barrel-esque tray-and-waitstand combo appeared in person. It was practically the last item standing. But I liked the shape and imagined it as useful.

So I snapped it up, attacked it with metallic silver spray paint, and laid a piece of metallic Indian fabric under the glass. I would have made the tableaux look more interesting, but I have much to learn on the styling front.

The receipt:
$15 for the table
$4 spray paint

Debating with my husband over whether or not spray paint would leech toxins into the air long after it dried? Obviously the highlight of my weekend.



PS Today is Katy's birthday. Let's all head to the comments to tell her just how happy we are she was born! -Sarah

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I've been nervous for over a week now. Since Shauna asked me if I would be part of her virtual book tour I've been shaking in my boots. It's like when the yoga instructor asks you to demonstrate a headstand, and you're like, "me? show you?"

And then the book arrived and it sat, looking glorious, on a kitchen chair for a couple of days. You must understand: I've been in awe of Shauna pretty much since I knew she existed. She lives and writes with the sort of open-armed gratitude that renders me speechless and brings tears to my eyes. I know, I know, corny. But how else are you supposed to react when someone honors the holiness of the mundane? She is the person who could never let a good cup of coffee, a sunny day, or an egg pass without mention and thanks. And when huge, big, amazing things like book deals happen to people who so appreciate the small stuff of life? That's what brings the tears.

But Shauna's not precious or holier-than-thou about living gluten-free, or really, about anything. I hate to sink to the potty jokes because the book is much more than that -- honest, educational, and eye-opening -- but this had me cracking up during the evening commute home after a long and, well, shitty day:

"Whole grains help you poop.

Whole grains and other sources of dietary fiber do not break down in the bowels the way other foods do, since they are insoluble. That means they cannot be dissolved by water, which is also floating around in there. Some part of that fiber is left, undigested. As the fiber moves through the system, it pulls water and other foods with it, like a pied piper of poop. This is how your body creates a cohesive bowel movement, that kind that leaves you feeling satisfied and healthy.

There's no way around it--everybody poops. But we're afraid to talk about that bodily function in this country. We have been trained to believe it's rude. Some of you may have been shocked to read the previous paragraph. But is a fact that we need to poop, and poop well. "

And given that, could you believe that this woman can also write about her first artichoke in a way that makes you think of M.F.K. Fisher eating her first oyster? To a seventh grader in Southern California, that threatening-looking vegetable tasted like "early mornings, after a long hard rain."

Shauna writes about all her vegetables (and olive oils and grains and fruits and cheese, oh, the cheese,) like this, with the most sensuous awe. She writes about her farmer's market with utmost reverence. And I guess that's what happens when you're sent to the farthest edge of illness, hunched over with pain and in total body shut-down for months. When someone finally tells you something about yourself that you never knew: you have celiac disease, you don't waste one moment thinking about what you're missing. If you're Shauna, bless her, you just climb right aboard and make it back to the other side of heath, exuberant, grateful, and gluten-free.

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When you spend your mornings trudging up and down gritty city streets, squeezing yourself into over-crowded subway cars, and coming home in the dark, there is something utterly transforming about spending a weekend here:



My brother lives on a farm where the tomatoes are right now still heavy on the vine, black walnuts dangle high in the trees, and zinnias are hanging on next to the pumpkins and acorn squash. The old house creaks when you slide across the wide chestnut floors in bare feet. The windows in the upstairs bedrooms are as small as the rooms are cozy. And when a house is that old, when it rocks with its own history, isn't it difficult not to imagine children a century ago in their bedclothes saying their prayers? In fact, I think the upstairs bedroom is filled with benevolent spirits. I had my happiest dream ever in there (a baby, basked in light, happily gurgling on my chest while I sang -- hormones much?). Ghosts or no ghosts, I loved it.

Just as I loved sitting with my brother by the kitchen window and drinking blueberry coffee (sounds vile, I know, but it's not!), and taking a run together on Sunday, while he pretended that a slow crawl of a pace suited him just fine. Just as I also loved standing at the sink upstairs brushing my teeth with a breeze rustling past the pines and blowing straight through the window and onto my back. Later, we walked the property together checking for "mushy spots" before driving down the road and buying some eggs.

It's no secret I love Brooklyn, no unknown tidbit that I swoon for deftly-made artistic cappuccinos and late night Thai delivery. But there was something so completely restorative about surrendering to the rhythms and quietude of the country. I breathed all that open space right into my hunched lungs, swooned on the flagstone patio looking up at huge, quick-footed clouds. And up in the magical bedroom, I turned off the light and made my way to the little twin bed, tripping over furniture. There are some places in the world, far away from parking lot flood lights, where you remember why things are said to be black as night.

And on Sunday afternoon I settled into the kitchen (with a never-been-used Viking oven!) to make these cookies in the shape of pumpkins, bats, and cats, which I carried back to my dirty city in a paper bag filled with pine cones.



Basic Sugar Cookies
adapted from Everyday Food

2 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for rolling
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, room temperature
1 cup granulated sugar
1 large egg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

In medium-sized bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, and salt. In another large bowl or the bowl of an electric, cream butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Beat in egg and vanilla. With mixer on low, gradually add flour mixture and beat until combined. Divide dough in half, and flatten into disks. Wrap each disk in plastic and freeze until firm, about 20 minutes.

Preheat oven to 325 degrees F, and line two baking sheets with parchment paper. Remove one dough disk from the freezer and let stand 5 to 10 minutes. Roll out to 1/8 inch thickness between two sheets of floured parchment. Now for the fun part: pull out your cookie cutters and start cutting shapes. Using a spatula to transfer to prepared baking sheets. If while you're working the dough gets too soft, stick it back in the freezer for a few minutes. Bring the scraps into another disc and return to freezer for about 10 minutes. Let stand for 5 minutes before rolling out again and cutting more shapes. Repeat with second disc of dough.

Bake, rotating halfway through, until edges are golden, 10 to 18 minutes (depending on size of cookies). About 5 minutes before the cookies are done, sprinkle with sugar. Remove from oven and let cool.

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Our older brother--a jambalaya-, football-, and philosophy-loving man of 6'4" who grows his own tomatoes and Habanero peppers--has a list of five things to do to improve his mood. It reads like a modified version of Maslow's hierarchy of needs:

Eat Something
Drink Something
Take a Nap
Take a Shower
Exercise

It's a simple list--much more practical than mine: get in bed; watch the opening montage of the Devil Wears Prada; leave town, etc.

Last night when I hopped from the train to the platform in my threadbare satin shoes at 11:45 p.m., bed loomed like a concession, though, not a luxury. Sometimes commuting feels nice--sexy, even--in the way it bookends a day with crowded solitude. But last night it was awful. And I'd left the Kathryn Chetkovich essay I'd intended to read on the train--a 21 page printout about the envy she feels for her boyfriend, Jonathan Franzen--in the tray of a communal printer at work.

At the risk of sounding like a complete misery-guts, I washed my hair at home and wondered, can this day be saved?



I ate a honey crisp apple. I padded into the living room. Then I grabbed the candlesticks I bought for last week's dinner party (I made beef bourguignon. It was almost as good as beef stroganoff.) and set them onto a mirrored side table. These weren't mere votives or wacky, tacky and cloying Yankee candle affairs. They were beautiful, drippy sticks and their light bent into rainbows on the glass. This must be what it feels like to light a devotional in church, I marveled.

In any case, I perked right up--partly because I so enjoyed taking this picture. My brother would totally gag, but for me--and perhaps, for you--a moment of good lighting, a pair of pajamas, and (who am I kidding) a cup of wine can indeed save the day. (Especially if you know that when you wake up tomorrow, you won't be drinking your coffee in the shadow of a man. )

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It's always nice to have simple tricks, quick flicks of the wrist that take an outfit or a meal or a moment from the realm of ho-hum to something truly special. Headbands do this, as do winks, pom-poms on your athletic socks, and -- you know what I'm about to tell you -- compound butters, in which butter, so perfect to begin with, gets an added flourish.

There was a cold night one recent winter when my dining companion and I finally stepped inside the neighborhood restaurant with a sexy redhead painted on the brick wall facing the side street and heavy draperies hanging in the windows. Inside, it felt like a Swiss ski lodge (not that I've ever been in a Swiss ski lodge), creaky with dark wood and cozy. I ordered the steak frites because, well, it's always hard for me to pass up a pile of fries and a bloody steak. When the waiter brought our plates, my steak was topped with a pat of butter, green-flecked with herbs and garlicky. Who knew that steak could become more delicious by topping it with butter? Who thinks of these extravagances? Whoever you are, I love you.

The next time you are having a go-to sort of no-frills steak and chops dinner, I suggest you plop on a pat of compound butter. You can add herbs and garlic like my neighborhood restaurant (a good way to use up the last of summer's potted herbs), anchovies, orange zest, or my personal fave, Maytag blue cheese. Mix one part blue cheese into two parts butter. Turn out onto a piece of plastic wrap and roll into a log if you'd like to to slice off neat rounds. And if you're not so much into the fineries of presentation, just put your compound butter into a teacup and keep covered in the fridge until a warm pork chop or bloody steak comes your way.

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"Flowers," says Lottie's husband in Enchanted April (shortly before she has an affair with a man who tells her she has "the face of a disappointed Madonna") "are a luxury of the most blatant kind." How true. They are an expensive and short-lived shorthand for a gracious life that, tragically, usually end up parked next to the computer monitors that anchor our days instead of by our bedsides.

But they are so very pretty and, of course, alive. Meghan Daum, in the New Yorker essay "My Misspent Youth," wrote about packing up and moving to Nebraska because she'd become a fresh-flower-buying, $45-drinks-and-satay-consuming New Yorker--who, as a result, was facing crushing debt. The logic is irregular, but that essay launched the second phase of her career. So, in a sense, she was both made and undone by extravagances of the most blatant kind. How's that for instructive?

Personally, I think weeds and stolen branches from flowering trees are the middle ground between beauty and the poor house. They may lack the smell and sculptural beauty of orchids and gardenias, but hell, they're free. The most exciting arrangement I ever had in my college dorm room was an armful of yellow forsythia I clipped from somewhere.

Climb Aboard:

1. In the right container, any flora can look cool. If your clippings don't fill up the whole neck of the vase, though, I've found that they look nicest tied together with a little string or ribbon and inserted into the vase at an angle.

2. Use what you got. I find that since I started scooping up handsome weeds by the side of the road, I look at plain-old evergreen needles, trees, shrubs, autumn leaves, mysterious red berries, and the weird chestnuts that pelt me on the shoulder when I walk under trees with new interest. I have even thought about snipping some of those red berries off shrubs in municipal parking lots late at night. Perhaps the compromise there is to seize clippings from neighbors who have just finished doing yard work. (City kids: the secret to branch grabs is stealth.)

3. Finally, don't go out foraging bare-or empty-handed. For one thing, you'll need scissors—unless you have really strong teeth. What's more, you'll want to protect your palms from thorns and sap spills. Besides, when you're picking up things by the roadside, you're less likely to be taken for a prostitute if you're wearing work gloves.

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Part of fall's magic might be its brevity; if you blink, you'll miss it and some of its best activities.

Quinces, the fruit that some claim was what actually tempted Eve, are here! Be tempted, and perhaps sinful, with this recipe for quince liqueur.

Having just discovered that the New Yorker is not the pretentious, name-drop fest I always assumed (preconceived notions be damned!), there are now few activities I find more relaxing than a soak in a fragrant tub with a long, investigative piece about counterfeit bottles of wine.

Don a vintage plaid scarf and head out on a crisp, sunny day to pick your own pumpkins and apples.

Fall is ideal museum weather. Browse fashion icons, Dutch masters, or whatever local attractions might be in your town's museum while wearing corduroy. Sometimes we overlook what's right under our nose thinking it's just for out-of-towners.

Dahlias, those fall stunners, are in season through the first frost. Pick some up at a market and carry them home in your bicycle basket for instant happiness.

Cool October nights are the best for slipping under the sheets early, turning out the lights and listening to a terrifying, Gothic classic on tape. May I suggest Rebecca? Or, if 15 hours of listening to a British narrator in the dark isn't your thing, check out Hitchcock's version.

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I have a soft spot for people who live with passion, going after want they know will make them happy, and living out their dreams, no matter what conventional roadblocks may stand in their way. Erin McKenna, the owner of BabyCakes, is like this. In fact, my favorite part of shooting with her didn't even end up on camera. It was the times when we were "off-topic", at least in Elastic Waist terms. Erin was telling me about the early days of starting her business, how most people, even her friends, seemed to think she was slightly daft but stayed politely quiet. She begged and borrowed to pay for spelt flour and was working harder than she ever had in her life, staying up till all hours baking and accounting and trying to figure out how ends would meet. And in the beginning, they didn't, and she was poorer than she'd ever been.

But when you do what you truly love, and you put something out into the world that is a part of you, something that you believe in, and something that is good, I fervently believe that it works out. Perhaps that sounds naive, but it has to. What, otherwise, would be the point of working hard to make our dreams come true? And it did work for Erin: Built by Wendy designs the uniforms, Martha Stewart is a huge fan of her allergen-free treats, and soon she will have her own cookbook.

Stories like this make me glow inside. Standing side by side next to Erin, both of us apron-clad in her feminine and charming bakery making biscuits, her spirit was rubbing off on me. And nothing makes me happier than seeing someone do what they love. Nothing, perhaps, than the day I get to do it myself.

If you feel like sharing, tell the comments what your absolute dream life looks like. Be wild and expansive about it -- why the hell not?

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