Pink of Perfection

My, does it feel good to be home. But it always feels a little awkward coming back: walking through your own front door to a strangely quiet house, reappearing at work, resurfacing on your own blog. (Hi! I missed you!) I was away longer than expected. Hurricane Irene wreaked airport havoc just as we should have been boarding our flight home, and we couldn’t get home for another week. That was certainly an exercise in letting go.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. We went to Washington to attend a wedding, the kind that takes place in a 1930s summer, where you’re greeted with an ice cream social and the groom processes to the alter with his ecstatic trombone leading a ragtag marching band. We arrived a week early to drive up to the San Juan Islands and settle ourselves into a cottage on a bay. You know how whipped into a fever life can get right before a vacation? You’re aching for a break, but there are nine thousand details to attend to before you can even head to the airport.

As soon as we walked into this tiny little cottage and I sat down, looked out past the birds in the front yard and onto the water, those tight-fisted stress knots in my shoulders and brain loosened and dissolved. Salt air can do that. I read in the mornings and did yoga on the front deck. I hiked steep mountain paths through the woods, and bought dungeness crabs, clams, and oysters from the seafood operation down the road. They kept a very gorgeous red rooster strutting around the front yard and a bouquet of dahlias on the counter. In the evenings, the hot tub, a glass of wine, and my very juicy Ava Gardner biography awaited. We cooked on the grill and ate outside, and I fell asleep in the sunshine. Even a rainy day felt right. We sat by the fire and ate chocolate chip cookies with our books on our laps, a ukulele and a guitar at our feet.

All that relaxing set the stage to ride the ferry back to the mainland and point our car toward the wedding. We sat in an arc of chairs in front of the water on a day bright with sunshine and expectation. We listened as two dear friends and very kind, special people shared the most honest, thoughtful vows I’ve ever heard. Wedding ceremonies so often get caught up in promises hard to visualize. What does what you’re saying look like in real life, like, on a crappy Tuesday when it’s raining and you don’t have any clean socks? These vows were as much about love and support as living a life that meant something together––starting now. They spoke about the everyday and their promise to show up each morning––to make it fun, to work hard, to keep being curious, to be creative, to cook. I wanted to say, I do, too. Instead, I cried behind my sunglasses and squeezed Sebastian’s hands, and thought of all the ways I wanted to keep showing up in my own life. I realized with a bitter pang, one of those knots reappearing in my throat, just how absent I had been.

The wonderful thing about weddings is how often they encourage everyone present to make their own commitments. When a couple is brave enough to take a giant leap together into the unknown, and you are witness to their nervous smiles, their cracking voices––it always makes me want to love better. But this wedding made me want to live better. I came to vacation worn-down, exhausted, barely myself. My friends stood in front of their family and friends looking so excited. They reminded me of the adventure of life, especially in its most quiet, quotidian moments. There’s magic there, if we make it. On that incredible day, we all ate and laughed and danced to Michael Jackson into the night. But I knew part of them couldn’t wait to get back to their kitchen table, the desks, their garden out front. I couldn’t either.

The first time I had St. Germain was on a renegade vacation. We were due to stay in our vintage-y Napa motor lodge another night, but at the last moment we decided to check out. We threw our bags in the car, and drove on a steep, winding rode through dense wooks to Glen Ellen. There, we ate a greasy spoon breakfast, a prelude to the main event: I spied M.F.K. Fisher’s Last House from across a two-lane highway and at the little memorial to her in town, had my picture snapped next to a portrait of her at a typewriter. My ultimate fan girl moment.

Then we drove on to Sonoma, where the midday sun was beating down hot in the town square. Down a side street, I fell in love with a charming, busting airy restaurant, sat at the bar and ordered a drink. It contained St. Germain, a delicate elderflower liqueur, poured from the most glamorously tall, art deco bottle. There was also some gin, a cucumber spear, and maybe a splash of Lillet or champagne, though the specifics are hazy now. I just remember being so happy there, surrounded by dapper, quick-footed waiters, air-conditioning, the spirit of adventure that came from casting our plans to the wind, and, oh, the smell of cheese.

This is my bare bones attempt to recreate what I think is one of the most cool, crisp, refreshing and ladylike of summer cocktails. Drink this in your garden, when the gals come over to knock croquet balls in their spectator heels and talk about the rakish men they adore. I didn’t really drink this garnished with edible flowers as illustrated in the picture, though wouldn’t that be grand?

Continue reading “Happy Hour at Home: Simplest Gin and St. Germain Cocktail” »

We’re on day five of super hot summer days here in New York, and we have yet to see the worst of it. I’m so scared about the crazy heat wave coming this weekend, you’d think it was the apocalypse. To mitigate my fear of what’s coming, I’m keeping a pretty glass carafe of water in the fridge (fancy!), my Wednesday night swimming lessons couldn’t have had better timing, and there may be a trip to Rockaway Beach in the weekend cards. Still, I’m a wimp. So while I hope this list might offer you a gem or two, it is mostly to keep me from freaking out. How have you been cooling off this summer?

1. Daytime trips to the movies: If you haven’t seen Bridesmaids yet, take the next blisteringly hot afternoon as a sign from Melissa McCarthy that you could be laughing really, really hard in powerful air-conditioning. Plus: fountain soda!
2. A picnic at the beach: Sand in your sandwich! Greasy sunscreen! Summer reading! And then, a dip in the water. Heaven.
3. Slurpees from 7-11: Pull the lever on a Slurpee machine (put your cup’s top on first for the neatest execution) are you’re nine again.
4. Icy cocktails: Also, if you can find it, Leinenkugel’s Summer Shandy. So delicious.
5. Homemade lemonade: Here are 21 different recipes to suit your fancy. But I’m loyal to this one.
6. Find an open fire hydrant: And if you’re really enterprising (and brave) fill up an empty trash can and dunk yourself in it like I saw a kid doing the other day on a street corner. My heart kind of went out to him (I mean, it was a trash can), but I admired his spunk.
7. A dip in the pool: Why are people so against public pools? Us city folk have no other option, and really, what’s so scary? Besides, I like to think I look very fetching in my required swim cap and goggles. (Oh, if this were true.)
8. A bowl of ice water in front of a fan: I always think of that episode of SATC where Carrie’s perched in a chair, drinking iced tea and reading a magazine in front of a fan when Aleksandr Petrovsky calls for the first time.
9. Close the curtains and turn on the TV: There’s something decadently subversive about staying inside on hot, sunny days. Have a marathon (may I suggest Party Down?) or watch cold, wintery movies (Think Dr. Zhivago).
10. Cucumber ice water: Cooling, and you feel like you’re at a spa. Double whammy.
11. Kiddie pools: Got a backyard? Then you really need to set up a kiddie pool. And then you need to invite over your friends who don’t have backyards.
12. Cool baths: When no one invites me to their kiddie pool and the Y feels too far away, I like to just run a cool bath. A little too desperate and depression-era? Not when you bring a delicious beverage and a stack of magazines in with you.
13. Root beer floats: Or a straight up beer float.
14. Refrigerate your face products: Masks, sprays, toner, eye cream––it all feels better cold.
15. Cold Watermelon: Quintessential.
16. Ice cream: Practically medicinal.
17. Homemade frozen yogurt: A friend of mine insists it’s easier than you think (and suggests adding a little vodka to keep it from getting an icy consistency. Kinda genius.)

There’s a bar a few blocks away from me that has kind of a weird vibe. I blame the inhospitable owner and the usual near-emptiness. But I keep going back there despite its handicaps. I’m seduced time and again by the white subway tile that lines the walls above the dark wooden booths-for-two, the bathtub planter in the garden, and the jukebox that, chances are, will play one of my all-time favorite songs. But most of all, I return for the creative cocktail inspiration. The bartender might not like me, but he sure makes a mean drink.

I met my friend there a few weeks ago on one of those thickly humid summer afternoons, the kind where a thunderstorm hovers like a sweet promise. We drank Monongahela mules: rye, ginger beer, a squeeze of lime and a garnish of crystallized ginger. We cooled off, they played my song, and it rained after all.

(That word is so intriguing, with its languorous, five-syllable waltz across your tongue, isn’t it? Here’s what I found out: Monongahela is a Native American word that means “falling banks,” like a landslide. The city of Monongahela is on Pennsylvania’s Allegheny Plateau, a few miles southeast of Pittsburgh on the Monongahela River that, when it meets with the Allegheny River, becomes the Ohio River. As for the mule––also known as a buck––it’s an old-timey term you might know that means a cocktail was made with ginger ale or ginger beer. But why the two came together, I just don’t know. Anyone?)

But here’s what you need to know about this drink, so that you will hopefully make one yourself. The ginger beer makes for a bracing cocktail. It’s spicy, and still a little sweet, and best consumed in the high, hot afternoon, preferably on a porch, with a guitar. It’s delicious with spicy, salty snacks, like these adobo peanuts or a pile of salty potato chips. Cheers!

Continue reading “Happy Hour at Home: Monongahela Mule” »

We are deep into the season of ice cream cones and fireflies! But, I confess, as unpopular a sentiment as it may be, sometime after July 4th we hit the patch of summer that begins to feel like a long slog to me. Vacation is far off in the distance, the air-conditioner is working overtime. It is, I imagine, how most people feel on January 3rd or February 15th. The air feels still; we’re treading water.

It’s not necessarily a seasonally-related thing, it’s a heart-centered thing, but for me, it always seems to hit in summer. Without warning or reason, life gets a heavy feeling. And it can be especially maddening when everything seems just fine. Life looks the same––hell, with the blue skies and lush geraniums and fresh herbs on the plate, it looks better than ever––but somehow it feels different.

When there’s not a big problem to contend with, I actually take a little comfort in knowing that something small might set me right again, like a yoga class or a frozen yogurt date with a friend. In fact, the obvious struck me the other day: if life feels out of balance, I’m probably not getting enough of what really sustains me and brings real, meaningful pleasure to life. It seems like a big duh, but it’s a lesson I have to learn again and again.

But sometimes you crave more than just a little reminder of what you care about. You crave a reboot, a clean slate, a pressing of the restart button. And despite being someone who loves familiarity and routine––the ritual of coffee in the morning and pulling the sheets back at night––the desire for a fresh start sweeps in in a way that surprises me.

The craving for neat, tidy newness must in some way be a reaction to life’s messiness. When we are overwhelmed with the reality of what is––the constant email flow, the what’s for dinner question, the pile of mail on the desk––the prospect of what could be is enormously appealing. A fresh start, for sure, would make things more manageable, more organized, happier, lovelier. That’s the thing about the unknown: we always think it could be better.

I set out here today wanting to ask about the healthy, productive ways we can approximate a fresh start in the day-to-day. I wanted to ask how you give yourself that clear, clean sense of a new beginning when you’re feeling stuck. And I still want to know, for sure. But it occurs to me that a question as worthy of asking is how to make peace with the untied ends of the everyday, the discomfort of a bad mood or a bad day, the ebb and flow of our moods and our progress, and the broken asymmetry of what it means to be alive and human.

Country tunes have gotten me through the week, and the timing seems perfect: is there anything more American than a broken heart set to steel guitar? This would make a good soundtrack for backyard barbecues, a game of horseshoes, and a bottle of beer. But perhaps best of all: sitting on the porch at night surrounded by fireflies.

Continue reading “Mix Tape: Heartbreak Hayride” »

Clockwise from top-left: 1. picnic basket; 2. foldable picnic blanket; 3. Bass sandals; 4. rosé 5. Picardie glasses; 6. screen-printed napkins; 7. bocce set; 8. grill

Right after my 29th birthday in April, I was tempted to make one of those “30 before 30″ lists. I started to make one, but it was heavy with Big Life Things that started to send me into a panic. Sebastian suggested I lighten it up a little bit. So I added, “Stay in bed all day reading” (accomplished!) and spend an afternoon picnicking in the park.

My favorite picnics were the ones I had with my mom and little brother on the mossy banks of Turtle Creek with homemade deviled eggs and store-bought fried chicken. We rode bikes there, with my brother in one of those toddler-on-a-bike seats. It somehow felt cool down there, even on the hottest days, and I loved sitting in the shade and dipping my toes in the water.

And then there’s the reality of the thing. When my book club met for a picnic recently, I admit I huffed and puffed with annoyance on the way there. The subway was detoured, I took a wrong turn. A tourist asked me for directions and I may or may not have confused her. But as I was walking through the park, trying to find my blanket of lady friends, I saw a woman under a tree, the newspaper spread out in front of her sipping an iced coffee. I looked at her and something just suddenly made sense.

My weekend routine usually involves a large chunk of time spent reading in bed, a coffee delivery brought right to my bedside by a really sweet guy I married. But seeing this woman, toes in the grass, I saw that sometimes a bit of extra effort is worth it. I could get out of bed, I could put on clothes, I could walk up to the park. And it would be awesome. It might seem counterintuitive for lazy lovers of relaxation, but somehow, sometimes extending a little bit of effort actually enhances your enjoyment. Sounds obvious; felt like a revelation.

Which is why I have a new appreciation for picnics, and saying yes to adventures that might require a bit more effort. It seems like a pain in the ass to pack lunch up and figure out how to keep the drinks cold. But once you’re there, on mossy banks or in a city park or in your backyard–or even, as my friend and I did on a recent rainy Friday night–on the living room floor, it’s really one of life’s most simple pleasures.

Here’s hoping your weekend is filled with lots of those kinds of delights.

I have a memory of lying in the sunshine on a towel spread over the small patch of gritty, damp sand beside Square Lake, my wet hair dripping over my shoulders. I was reading a thick hardcover copy of Valley of the Dolls (no jacket) checked out from the library. I can remember other hot afternoons that summer whiled away in front of my bedroom window fan reading about El Morocco, cocktails, smart suits, and the scandals of young women in 1960s New York. It was heaven.

It’s been awhile since I read a summer book that utterly enveloped me. Right now I have a Buddhist text and a stack of New Yorkers on my bedside table, and neither of them are sweeping me away–out of my head, out of my life, and into another world entirely. Let’s put our heads together for a Pink of Perfection Ultimate Summer Reading List. What was the best summer book you read? We’re not talking trash (at least, not necessarily)–we’re talking compulsively readable, the kind of book that can occupy you for hours in a hammock or in the beach breeze so that you look up hours later and realize––well, look at that––it’s time for a gin and tonic.

I need one of those. (The book, I mean. Though the drink doesn’t sound too shabby, either.)