Seven Hills

Sunday Morning at the Museum

2010-03-11T20:12:00.003-05:00

On weekends we trade off who gets up early with Henry, so both parents get at least one morning to sleep in. My early day is usually Sunday, and it can be a long haul when you're up before six and nothing in the neighborhood opens for many hours.

But ever since I learned that the Harvard Museum of Natural History is free to Massachusetts residents on Sunday mornings from 9 until 12, I've discovered where the toddlers of Cambridge and Somerville hang out during this otherwise dead stretch of time. The museum is crawling (sometimes literally) with tiny children scampering through the dimly lit hallways and glass cases full of exotic creatures and prehistoric fossils. It's quite a scene.

The museum really feels like a place from another time, especially the large mammal hall, which could be a set from an Indiana Jones movie. And I've learned about a few new creatures, myself, trotting after Henry as he dashes along greeting the various taxidermied souls.

flying squirrel

things that hop

English ferret and vulpine thing

Valentine

2010-02-14T11:48:00.004-05:00

Origami hearts in the place where our lead-paint-encrusted fireplace mantel used to be.

Shaping these truffles by hand made me feel like Juliette Binoche (always a good thing) in Chocolat.

Happy Valentine's Day, friends!

Ocean Side

2009-09-03T20:17:00.005-04:00

It's always hard for me to decide which beaches to choose when we're visiting Cape Cod: bay side or ocean side. Bay side is warmer, more swimmable, but potentially funky smelling at low tide, and while great for wading then, way too shallow for swimming. Ocean side has dramatic dunes, waves, and sometimes visiting seals, but colder water and strong currents.

Today we tried ocean side.

We stopped at a Truro beach at the bottom of a high backing dune. It was a bit of a steep walk down.

No one in sight.

Sun sinking behind the dunes.

Looking out to sea.

Ocean side wins.

Wollaston

2009-05-08T19:50:00.005-04:00

Who knew there was such a nice beach so close to Boston? Well, I'm sure lots of people know, but for me the charms of Wollaston Beach in Quincy were a fresh revelation. Boston doesn't always showcase its waterfront location as much as it could, but here were beautiful ocean views, a nice stretch of sand, and at least four seafood stands to choose between for your lobster, clam, and ice cream needs.

I took a stroll there today with a friend who lives south of "Boston proper," and is thus more familiar than I with the ins and outs over there. This shot shows how close we were to the city. The sun was really hot, especially considering that just a few nights ago it was cold enough to turn on our heater, and the water was as smooth as glass.

After a sweaty walk along the water, who's up for a hearty meal of fried seafood? I am, I am! We chose Tony's Clam Shop, a 40+-year-old family business.

Tony's ran like a well-oiled machine. Lobster-shaped beepers lit up and vibrated when our orders were ready.

In spite of these lobster totems, I did not order a lobster roll, although I was as tempted as I am anytime one is on the menu. They looked generous and yummy, too. However, today I was in the mood for the (slightly) more economical fried clam roll, which also turned out to be generous and yummy. And the fries were notably crunchy and crispy.

A grand day out by the sea, almost without leaving town.

Open Studios

2009-05-03T18:23:00.002-04:00

Henry and I spent part of this weekend visiting the Somerville Open Studios in our neighborhood, and it made me wish the event happened every weekend, since it turned our usually aimless, baby-soothing walks into an exciting quest, hunting down the bunch of orange balloons that indicated each studio. For example, who would have guessed that the beautiful work of Seven Hills Bindery is produced within this rather ominous and abandoned-looking building next to Union Square?

With an afternoon nap looming yesterday we didn't make it very far, but we had a great time visiting the home of artist and crafter Egg-a-Go-Go, just down the road from our house.

It can be a little intimidating marching into a stranger's abode, even one that is adorned with orange balloons, but this cute sign made us feel welcome, and the carton of Dunkin Donuts munchkins upstairs didn't hurt, either.

We admired artist Sarah Coyne's paintings (and charming home decor), and left, full of good cheer, with this adorable "button collector" pillow, a textile collage of silkscreen, embroidery and colorful buttons.

Today I needed to return some books at the library up on the hill by Somerville City Hall, so we stopped by two artists' buildings in that area, Pearl Street and Mad Oyster Studios, where we stepped out on a roof deck in the drizzling rain to admire a nearby park.

And the best art of the day: a cloud of fragrant blooming trees in front of the Somerville Library.

Handmade Spoils

2009-02-01T11:06:00.000-05:00

It's so long since I've written anything here, but I've been sitting on some pictures I wanted to share of some lovely little handmade things I picked up over the holidays, although Christmas has long since come and gone. I went to the Bazaar Bizarre in Boston in early December with the intention of doing some holiday shopping for others, but as it happened, everything that caught my eye was just perfect for me, me, me, so Santa visited me a little early.

Because I am always blowing my nose (mild cat allergies? bad habit?), a little mini tissue holder in a mermaid-girl print from (I think!) Wonderland Q.

Scuba girl! Well, I don't know who she is, but I liked her intrepid (if a tad perplexed) adventuress look. The artist, illustrator and comics artist George Pfromm II, had a tableful of pen-and-ink characters, original art from his recent Honolulu Dogfight show. It was hard to decide which one to choose.

I love, love, love this mug from Hijacked Ceramics, so much so that I think I need to buy one more so my heart doesn't break if something happens to this one. Wait, let me go take care of that right now, before someone else snatches up the one I have my eye on ... okay, there, it's ordered. The mug is a nice, generous size with a big handle, feels good to hold, and has a beautiful, sanded-down texture that makes me think of time-worn painted tiles in faraway places like Morocco and Spain. Yes, I expect quite a lot from my morning cup of coffee.

I've still found it difficult to carve out time for making things, myself, with Baby H now in the picture, so I've been settling for micro-projects (and things like knitting that can be picked up and put down at will). Here's a paper garland I made from kimono-print origami paper (which now has a second life decorating the window in the baby's room). Originally I thought I would use it to decorate the tree, but I liked it so much I gave it pride of place over our fake fireplace.

So, until next time -- hopefully not another four months -- happy Groundhog Day! I love how ever since the Bill Murray movie, I think of it (and am sure I'm not alone in this) as a day that keeps happening over and over, instead of a peculiar holiday involving a small animal, shadows, and the promise of spring.

The Lovely World of Egg Coddlers

2008-09-27T10:39:00.005-04:00

I may not have had the time or attention span for crafting in recent weeks, but I can still show off the charming work of others. My friend Christina gave us a pair of china egg coddlers as a wedding gift, and along with it, a beautifully collaged little booklet, part instruction manual, part celebration of the art of egg coddling.

The inspiration ...

... which then becomes Egg Coddlers, the Book. Can a movie adaptation be far behind? I love the way the fruit motif of the paper perfectly echoes the design of the original china, without being an exact copy. How did she do that?

Admire the real wax paper wrapper layer on that stick of butter!

Helpful suggestions to make your coddled egg even tastier.

Bubbly textured white paper bubbles out of a pot of simmering water. I love the way the brown paper works as a background for this project.

Lovely coddled eggs are made even lovelier with the addition of toast and coffee.

The end! Yum.

What I Did on My Summer Vacation

2008-09-25T12:48:00.004-04:00

There hasn't been much time for crafts, travels, or even lobster rolls lately, as I've been focusing on the development and sustenance of one major project since early August.

Please welcome the littlest Somervillain, Henry Leo, age six-and-a-half weeks. Here he models the last knitting project I was able to complete, a raglan pullover in Rowan "Calmer" yarn from a pattern by Debbie Bliss. This is a great sweater for a newborn -- a nice wide neck that easily slips over the head, and very soft, stretchy, and comfortable. I customized the pattern slightly, making the body and sleeves a little shorter than instructed, so it would fit him as early as possible.

I've made tons of sweaters for friends' babies in the past, trying out different nubbly wools and tweedy yarns, but once I was making something for my own child, I saw all those old favorite fibers with new eyes, looking at them from the perspective of the little person soon to wear them, rather than my own aesthetic preferences as a knitter. That Donegal tweed might be gorgeous to work with, but surely it would be far too scratchy for tender newborn skin of my precious infant. So, even though I realized I was probably being a little overcautious, I went for a cotton-microfiber blend. He was a summer baby, after all--anything heavier would have been too warm to wear.

And to any parent who ever received a little cardigan from me made from scouring-pad-harsh Aran wool, still bristling with twigs from the sheep meadow, please accept my apologies.

Lobster Roll Diaries: PJ's Family Restaurant

2008-07-24T17:20:00.000-04:00

If you are a restaurateur who wants to serve good seafood, the best place to start might be to name your restaurant PJ's. One of my favorite places to go out for oysters and fish in San Francisco was PJ's Oyster Bed, and one of the best places I've gone for lobster rolls on Cape Cod is PJ's Family Restaurant in Wellfleet. (I am also quite fond of the happy dancing foodstuffs pictured on the back of their official t-shirt, pictured above.)

Unlike a lot of other places, PJ's has both an indoor eat-in area as well as a sheltered picnic table patio outside by the take-out window. While its roadside ambiance doesn't boast any particular charms (I think Cobie's in Brewster is still the best place on the Cape in that category), the lobster roll itself is everything I look for in the genre: buttered and toasted hot dog bun, generous chunks of flavorful lobster, and just the right amount of mayonnaise. My friend and I also ordered a side of fried clams, which were very good, as well.

PJ's also offers ice cream and frappes, which are always nice to have available when one is gorging on fried and mayonnaised summer seafood, even if in reality you end up being too stuffed and ill-feeling when the meal is done to actually be able to contemplate dessert. I think the solution must be to order a frappe along with the meal, before that reality has a chance to sink in.

Oxford Revisited

2008-07-19T18:31:00.000-04:00

Hmm, so what was I saying would be "next up" about that trip to England we took more than six weeks ago? Without further ado, let's finish that thought with the aid of many pictures plus a few words ...

The shopping scene in Oxford is evolving, slowly but surely. My favorite new (to me) store was Northlight on the High Street, which specializes in bright Scandinavian home items and sported this happy, bicycle-centric window display.

I also enjoyed a quick stop in Port Meadow Design on Walton Street, a boutique with some nice yarns and textiles, as well as jewelry made by local designers. And, while it doesn't have an actual storefront, I came across the web site for an Oxford-based, one-woman natural yarn-dyeing business aptly named Oxford Kitchen Yarns. Her blog provides a delightful peek into the crafty life in Oxford.

One place I'd always heard about but never visited is the Cherwell Boathouse, a restaurant on the Cherwell River that also rents punts. Our landlady told us how to get there, so one afternoon we got some sandwiches and made our way up through North Oxford, past a game of cricket at the Dragon School (its real name), and down a narrow lane to this bucolic scene:

It was getting a little late in the day by that point, so we decided not to take to the river ourselves this time around, but we did find our way through the grounds of neighboring Wolfson College and across that arching bridge pictured above to an ancient meadow across the water, and still more riverside footpaths -- Oxford is a great place for riverside footpaths.

Walking back into town, we cut through University Parks and ended up at a place I've seen referenced in many an Oxford guidebook, Parson's Pleasure, once a popular retreat for men's skinny dipping. But no more ... now it was rather flooded and quite abandoned, except for a perilous amount of duck scat in the grass and two young Middle Eastern women in veils, running around taking photos of each other and giggling.

From Parson's Pleasure we passed the island path with the scholarly name of "Mesopotamia," then came to yet another meadow path, this one ornamented with incongruent wrought-iron lampposts, which put me in mind of a similar scene in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, perhaps already in my thoughts because of C.S. Lewis's connection to Oxford.

After all that tramping, we took a load off at The Star pub in East Oxford on Rectory Road, a place that looks much like any other traditional English pub from the street, but which, once inside, had a refreshingly laid-back atmosphere: not quite a student pub, nor a fusty historical watering hole, but a punkish (but not pretentiously so) neighborhood place that seemed well suited to the bohemian aesthetic of this side of Oxford. Even better, it had a large beer garden out back.

Finally, I know you've been dying to know the answer to the question I asked so many weeks ago: What IS an alternative tuck shop? In Oxford's case, it is the Alternative Tuck Shop, a little corner food store on Holywell Street where one might "tuck in" to snack cakes with intriguing (at least to American ears) names like "tiffin" and "millionaire shortbread," as well as Cornish pasty pies and delicious curried things. It is presumably an "alternative" to the much less enticing-looking (mainly because it lacks the window display of baked goods), non-alternative Tuck Shop just down the street.

I've made a bunch of visits to Oxford over the years, and while it's really not that big, somehow there's always something left to discover there. Unsuspected worlds and enchanted pathways open up in the most unlikely places; whimsical goings-on abound. When I first read a line in "Brideshead Revisited" describing, of an unnamed Oxford, a quest for "that low door in the wall ... which opened on an enclosed and enchanted garden, which was somewhere, not overlooked by any window, in that heart of that grey city," I knew exactly what the author meant.

While the low doors in the wall that we found on this particular visit weren't anything others hadn't discovered many times in the past, for us they were, as each time before, all unexpected delights.

Leafy

2008-07-19T15:57:00.003-04:00

Our neighbor's porch across the way makes me think of a tree house. I love that spinning wooden thing they've hung as their only decoration. And thank you, neighbors, for choosing a silent alternative to the dreaded wind chime.

Somerville is a good town for porches.

British Dispatch

2008-06-03T11:30:00.000-04:00

We took a last-minute anniversary trip to England last week, planned so hastily in fact that it was hard to believe we were really there when we alit last Sunday night at Heathrow. However, soon we were toodling off in our rented Vauxhall on the left side of the road, my valiant husband bravely behind the wheel, and then it felt real enough (and only a little scary).

We spent the entire week in Oxford, making a few afternoon trips to places like the Cotswolds and Henley-on-Thames, but mostly just enjoying the local pubs, riverside walks, and free access to such homely comforts as an electric kettle, strong tea, way too many scones, and a giant tub of clotted cream, so generous that even an unrepentant dairy-lover such as myself could not work through it over the course of a week, despite my most gallant efforts.

Rashers of bacon with sultana scones, clotted cream from the Bottomless Tub, and jam

We stayed on the east side of town, a terminally shabby bohemian, multi-cultural area that is very different from the stately scholarliness of the city center's fabled dreaming spires. I was a visiting student at the university in the early (very early) '90s, and this was the part of town where I lived, so it was fun to be back in the neighborhood, shopping for groceries once again at the Tesco Metro and picking up a late-night meal from Bodrum Kebab House on Cowley Road.

Cowley Road in front of Tesco's supermarket

We were able to luxuriate in the domestic pleasures of frying up our own breakfast bacon (both real and veggie) and keeping four kinds of locally brewed cider chilled in the fridge owing to the lovely apartment rental we found, a place off the Iffley Road at 7 Bannister Close.

Before we booked it I searched around in vain for reviews or comments from previous guests, and so as a service to others who may be considering a stay there, here is one contented customer who found the accommodations very comfortable. The apartment is clean, spacious, and notably well-stocked, with a pretty patio out back, and is only a 15 minute stroll into town. The proprietress, the charming Irene, lives upstairs, and struck the perfect balance of being friendly and available if we needed anything, while still giving us all the privacy and autonomy of a more independent arrangement. The apartment also has a wireless connection (not currently mentioned among its amenities on the web site), which allowed us to take care of some work while we were away.

Irene's patio at 7 Bannister Close

Also, compared to the prices of Oxford hotels (particularly with the dismal dollar-to-pound exchange rate for us hapless Americans), it was a really good deal, especially considering the space and the facilities.

Next up: a punk pub, a river ramble, and Parson's Pleasure, located at last. Also, what is an alternative tuck shop?

Let Them Eat Nutella

2008-05-10T15:39:00.005-04:00

When I was in San Francisco last week, I met up with a friend one afternoon at Boulange Hayes, the Hayes Valley branch of Bay Bread's lovely boulangeries. Some phrases (usually delivered with a genuine French accent) that have been overheard to describe these bakeries include "just like in France -- there is no difference" and "be very excited." And indeed, the breads and pastries one finds there give one reason to be very, very excited.

I found another reason to be excited upon stepping into Boulange Hayes: up at the condiments counter, along with forks and napkins and bowls of sugar, a big jar of communal Nutella set out from which all customers might liberally slather their bread or croissant. A stroke of brillance.

Of course I had to do just that. My croissant was already sweetened with a cheese filling, but I couldn't say no to the noisette threat.

Many other tasty sweets were also on offer:

Now if these Bay Bread people could just find a reason to open a sister store in Boston, my happiness would be complete. In the absence of that development, Clear Flour Bread in Brookline is very good ... but it would be a lot better if they left an open jar of Nutella on the counter.

Wedding Clothespins

2008-05-06T12:46:00.009-04:00

This weekend I attended a terrific wedding in San Francisco and had the honor of making a pair of bride-and-groom clothespin doll cake toppers modeled after the happy couple. This was actually something I'd thought of doing for my own wedding but ultimately "deprioritized" the idea, so it was fun to get the chance to undertake the project for my friends.

As depicted in effigy, the real bride indeed wore a white flower in her hair and carried a bouquet of apple-green blossoms, and the detailing of her gown involved lots of horizontal pleats, which I mimicked with layered ribbon. As for the groom, art imitated life in that all I had to do was put him in a suit and a color-appropriate tie next to a lovely lady and he would look handsome and distinguished.

In lieu of a traditional cake, these guys went the cupcake route -- a stylized tier of them decorated in lemon drops and yellow polka-dot icing, i.e., the most adorable wedding cake display I've ever seen.

The event was held in a loft-like art gallery with the ceremony and dinner in an outdoor courtyard and a leisurely reception afterwards inside the gallery, complete with a pool table, foosball, and a photobooth. That apple green color was carried throughout the space using flowers, paper lanterns ... even the bride's polka-dot clutch.

And did I mention that the photobooth was really awesome?

Fat-Free Treat

2008-04-08T19:56:00.007-04:00

When I received my invitation to a friend's recent bridal shower, I knew right away that I wanted to get her the cupcake carrier off her registry. I thought it would be fun to also give her a cloth or knitted cupcake from an Etsy vendor, but when I saw that the various available faux-cakes were all rather pricey, I decided it would be worth trying my hand at one myself.

After experimenting with a few free patterns, my cupcake consultant and I decided this one looked the most convincing. We especially liked the way the ribbing mimics the classic pleated cupcake paper, and the way the wavy flourish around the edge of the "frosting" seems to sit on the edge of the cup. A smattering of iridescent bugle bead sprinkles sewn on top are the finishing touch.

I used a cotton yarn (and organic, at that!) for this one, but wonder if a heavier wool would help the cupcake to hold its shape better - when it came time to stuff the cupcake, I found I had to leave it quite soft and smooshy to keep from distorting it. I am a complete novice when it comes to crocheting and making stuffed toys, so there may be some basic tricks I'm missing here.

Anyway, smooshable though it was, the cupcake was finished in time for the shower and presentable enough to top the main gift, tied to a ribbon. It was lots of fun to make -- quite addictive, in fact -- so I foresee more evenings of cupcake-crocheting while watching TV in my future. The shower was fun, too: held at a classic New England inn, overflowing with finger sandwiches, scones, and cookies, and lit up with bright spring bouquets. No cupcakes on the menu though ... for those we'll have to wait for the wedding.

Thumbs Up

2008-04-04T12:31:00.009-04:00

Last weekend I made a quick getaway to Atlanta to visit my cousin, who recently moved there. It was my first time there and I knew next to nothing about it, other than associating it with Martin Luther King, as well as a former coworker who grew up there, and once taught me how to combat an alligator, should I ever find myself in such a scenario.

If I'd had to guess, I would have said Atlanta would consist of a bland, sleepy downtown area with a few modest skyscrapers, and then miles of subdivisions surrounding it as far as the eye could see. Instead I was greeted by a rather swanky and glittery city center, with elegant old tree-filled neighborhoods of single-family houses and rolling hills running right up to the feet of these shiny new high-rises. It was surreal to see the two areas existing side by side. My cousin lives in one of these peaceful leafy areas, and I was shocked when after winding through a few remote-feeling suburban blocks, we suddenly burst out onto a four-lane commercial strip where one could take one's pick between chicken and waffles, New Orleans beignets, or sushi.

Spring in Atlanta is a good month or so ahead of Boston, which was a huge treat for me. The redbud trees were covered in tiny purple blooms, and the wisteria vines, which seem to be everywhere, were just starting to flower. On Saturday we made a rainy visit to the Atlanta Botanical Garden, where I was fortunate to spy some Atlanta bluebells:

When I arrived on Friday night, the air was balmy enough to feel like early summer. Everyone was out enjoying the weather, filling up the outdoor restaurant patios. After dinner we headed over to the Virginia Highland neighborhood for a dessert of delicious gelato, courtesy of this wacky Italian:

My cousin's home was truly envy-inducing, a townhouse that manages to be both adorable and huge, and also happens to be more affordable than the one-bedroom apartment in the Michigan college town where she used to live. She had to work both mornings I was there, but I was happy to relax and drink a cup of tea while I waited for her, admiring her pretty decor and reading her copy of "Eat, Pray, Love." ( I didn't get very far, but so far my favorite thing about that book is still the word "eat" spelled in macaroni on the cover. Ah, the power of good cover design!)

Saturday afternoon we spent with our other Atlanta cousin visiting her parents who've also relocated to the area, where we were plied with gooey white chocolate chip brownies as we gossiped about my cousin's wedding plans. Then we met up with some Cambridge friends, who also happened to be in town, for a quick tour of Atlanta nightlife. It was by far one of the most social weekends I've had in awhile, and all in this place I would never have imagined having reason to visit until a few years ago.

Our Sunday ended up being mostly devoted to waiting for and consuming brunch at the Thumbs Up Diner on Edgewood Avenue in the Fourth Ward, and boy was it worth it. It wasn't that there were any fancy or unusual ingredients in the dishes - the food just tasted really, really good. We both got eggs and pecan pancakes (which come with a mini bottle of maple syrup), and shared a side of cheese grits over which I am still obsessing. I wish I could go back right now. Even in early afternoon, the dining room was packed with waiting customers, but renowned hostess Kavinique ruled the chaos with an amazing blend of steely control and unflappable good humor. I have worked the hungry weekend brunch crowd in my waitressing past, and it's not for the faint of heart.

So here's to the ATL! Somerville gives you a thumbs up.

Send in the Leprechauns

2008-03-17T18:48:00.001-04:00

I bought these green carnations at the supermarket on a whim the other day, and as soon as I smelled them was whisked back to St. Patrick's Day in Chicago, circa 1978. The details are hazy, but for some reason an uncle from the emphatically Irish branch of my family had decided it would be a grand idea to rent a big bus - for the afternoon? the whole day? - in which family and friends would tour the city, singing songs, admiring the parade, and I can't really imagine what else. Someday I'll have to ask one of the adults what that was all about.

Whatever the inspiration, the plan was made, and we all convened in the parking lot of a local athletic club. Once aboard the bus, I was helped by my Great Aunt Betty, the fun-loving Catholic nun (they do exist!), to pin a big green carnation to my shirt with a pearly-topped hat pin. Ah, that spicy-fresh carnation scent.

Were there cocktails on the bus? One imagines yes, but obviously not for us kids. I sat with my two boy cousins, they with the emphatically Irish last name, me without, and when questioned, innocently told them I thought my name was German, which led them to declare me a Nazi. (Of course, later that day my mom filled me in that we all shared the same German great-grandmother, but I guess that, unlike me, they had not been regularly taken by Auntie Max, of the emphatically German side of the family, for schnitzel and magic tricks at Schulien's restaurant, a relic of Old World German Chicago, and were thus less in touch with their Teutonic side.)

How long could we have spent on this bus? The day seemed to go on and on. We crossed the Chicago River, dyed, like our carnations, emerald green in honor of the holiday, and continued on to the South Side to revisit old haunts in the neighborhood where my mom and her sister and cousins had grown up.

Sometime around dusk we approached our final destination (a restaurant somewhere? that part of the memory's faded, too), and the adults struck up a rousing chorus of "When the Saints Go Marching In," a song that, in the moment, seemed perfectly right for the occasion - perhaps because it was Saint Patrick's Day - but in retrospect, of course, had nothing to do with anything at all. Did anyone even know any of the verses, or did we just sing the chorus again and again? However we scraped by, we all sang it lustily together, this Dixieland funeral march, careening along on the family bus, from Great Aunt Betty to the moms and dads, about the same age then that I am now, to us kids, bewildered by the events of this very strange day but very much enjoying the ride.

For a long time after that, when I thought of St. Patrick's Day, that was how I thought it ought to be celebrated. Turkey was for Thanksgiving, presents and a tree for Christmas, candy and costumes for Halloween, and for St. Patrick's Day, everyone in your family wearing a green carnation, riding around town together on a big bus singing "When the Saints Go Marching In." Oh how I want to be in that number!

First Flowers

2008-03-15T18:36:00.005-04:00

I haven't seen any blooms poking out of the ground anywhere else, but there's one particular house on Cambridge Street that has a front yard crowded with flowers all summer long, and over there the crocuses are coming up.

Also these dainty lovelies. Though it's probably still a little early to get too excited about spring, as we had a sleety "wintry mix" just this morning. Maybe that's why they call these flowers snowdrops.

Watching the Storm

2008-02-22T13:40:00.003-05:00

Snowflakes are like cat toys from the sky.

Spring Thinking

2008-02-21T14:30:00.000-05:00

I'm incredibly antsy for spring this year, even though I know we have lots of time left to go and I'm only torturing myself. (As everyone in Boston loves to remind you, it can still snow here in May.) The trees around our house have fat buds on their branches all ready to go, but they are just teasing us. April may be the cruelest month, but there's nothing like drab, icy, depressing February in New England. I remember in college a couple of my roommates, Californians quickly fading in the New England winter, collaborated on a mix tape entitled "February," which consisted of all the saddest songs they could think of.

It's of course still way too cold for anything but winter wear, but I've been trying to sneak some spring color into my wardrobe as a little pick-me-up, shades like deep pink and that weird acid-yellow "citron" that J. Crew is peddling right now, that reminds me of the color of the earliest spring leaves.

The picture above is a watercolor my dad did after I gave him a set of paints for his birthday. Every year when the weather got nice in Chicago, he and my mom would go down to the local flower shop and buy potted primroses to put in this particular twig basket, which would then go on the dining room table. My dad, especially, took a lot of pleasure in this ritual, and for me it meant that spring had officially arrived. (That, and going to Michigan to celebrate an egg-dyeing, basket-hunting, chocolate-bunny-gnawing Easter extravaganza with my cousins.)

Beyond shopping for spring clothes (not the most meaningful of traditions), when the weather finally starts to brighten each year, I like to make spring soups, as inspired by this SF Gate article a friend sent me awhile back. The asparagus soup is especially savory and delicious.

What do you like to do to get ready for spring?

Kicking Ass and Taking Cakes

2008-02-20T16:30:00.000-05:00

Ah, the cupcake trend has reached sleepy Somerville at last. I stopped in Kickass Cupcakes (open since September - I've been dragging) in Davis Square today and was charmed by the cheery staff and the scent of vanilla frosting permeating the air.

I've always liked cupcakes, but I have to admit I haven't quite gotten all the fuss over them in recent years. Sure, they are cute, and yes, I like cake, but aren't cupcakes just ... small cakes? When Katie Holmes declared that her only pregnancy craving was cupcakes, I thought, Oh please! How precious can you be? You just wanted cake, like any other ravenous, sweet-craving pregnant woman. Calling it "cupcakes" doesn't make you any daintier. (This is just one of many instances in which Katie bugs, of course.)

But stepping into Kickass Cupcakes opened my eyes to something beyond the celebrity cupcake hype. When a cake is shrunk down to munchkin size, it gives both the baker and the cupcake consumer the license to try something different, something that might be too much in a full-sized confection, but is a temptingly sweet diversion when limited to two bites. Kickass Cupcakes embraces this opportunity. Care to sample, for instance ... the Mojito Cupcake, perchance?

The Lucky Cupcake plays on the individual serving size of the cupcake, with a paper fortune strip curling out of each frosting top.

The Berry Crumbly isn't really a cupcake at all, but a shrunken-down version of the berry crumble.

And taking cupcake whimsy to new heights, they even offer "petcakes" (my name), with a biscuit-topped carob cupcake for dogs:

and catnip-and-cheese for kitty, topped with a goldfish cracker:

I walked into Kickass Cupcakes feeling cynical. (Yes, cynical about cupcakes. What's my problem?) But true to its sassy name (I was ready to be annoyed by that, too), this little bakery totally won me over with its creativity and sense of humor. I walked out with a sampler of four different cupcake flavors.

The Kickass block of Highland Ave. is turning into a mini baking district, too, with a storefront for the Maine-based sourdough bread bakery When Pigs Fly just two doors down.

The Wild Leeches of Mansfield Park

2008-01-30T10:34:00.001-05:00

Hmm, what to say about Sunday's "Mansfield Park" on PBS? Like the other week's presentation of "Persuasion," the story felt rather rushed and hectic, perhaps inevitable in a 90-minute production. But it also helped clear up a few plot points for me - this is an Austen book I haven't read, so my familiarity with the story comes entirely from the 1999 film with Frances O'Connor as Fanny Price. That version took significant liberties with the story, once again "sexing it up" (what's with that trend?), with a bi-curious Mary Crawford, among other raunchy bits, so I was interested to see which elements disappeared and which remained in this feature. I'm sure other important elements were also left out of this tele-film, so I guess I will eventually just have to do the honorable thing and read the book itself to get the definitive answers.

So, other than a more faithful storyline, I'm sorry to say that the things that stood out to me most about this "Mansfield Park" were probably not elements the producers of the program had in mind.

Firstly, there were some very lively leeches in a sickroom scene, curling and mugging for the camera in their pretty glass jar. They enjoyed a surprising amount of screentime. Also quite distracting: our mournfully handsome Edmund Bertram looked for all the world like Davy Jones in Beatle boots, preparing to serenade his lady with "Daydream Believer." And in every scene featuring heroine Fanny, played by actress Billie Piper, the screen was in danger of being entirely overtaken by her enormous choppers. Those things were blinding! I would not have been surprised had the rest of the cast been equipped with protective sunglasses.

A bright spot was Jemma Redgrave as a pug-obsessed Lady Bertram, plausibly evolving from chilly to doting in her attitude towards Fanny (not sure if that's true to the book, but I liked it here). I'd last seen Redgrave as the brisk Evie Wilcox in "Howards End," and it was intriguing to see her play this role so differently. It's such a joy to observe the work of actors who, unlike so many one-note Hollywood stars, are actually able to portray a variety of distinct individuals, instead of always being, oh, say, "the Julia Roberts" character, in a given movie.

Up next Sunday is "Miss Austen Regrets," something I will look forward to no matter how good or bad it turns out to be, solely because it stars my beloved Miss Cross. I only hope there's enough time to scurry home from our Sunday Super Bowl party to catch the opening moments. If we miss Gillian Anderson's droning introduction and bordello-red backdrop, that'll be okay.

Hair Diaries: The Unwanted Haircut

2008-01-25T13:25:00.000-05:00

Katie and others may be embracing the Posh Spice bob, but when I went to the hairdresser's yesterday this was the last thing I wanted.

When I told my stylist I'd like something a little different, I was thinking a few more layers around my face, at most. I should have known we were going to have a poor communication day, however, when she made a suggestion prefaced with - "you're probably not going to want to do this." She then went on to describe a deeply angled, short-at-the back cut.

Never once did she utter the "p" word, but it had to have been her inspiration. Inside I was thinking, this is the best she can come up with? I mean, we're talking about a lady who has a daughter in high school and can still pull off a tartan micro-mini with black tights and motorcycle boots. You wouldn't think she'd go near a hairstyle trend launched by a perma-tan Spice Girl. It's part of the reason I like her.

Anyway, as gently yet firmly as possible, I let her know that while I appreciated her suggestion, I really, really didn't want that haircut. And speaking of this, why is it necessary to tread so carefully with hairdressers' feelings? Sure, it's their idea, but it's your head. Do they need to take it so personally if you don't want them to express themselves on it? I understand that it might get boring to do the same haircut time after time, but we do tend to go away for many weeks before we come back and ask for it again. Aren't there lots of other styles and colors to attend to in the interim? That's where the variety should come from, in my opinion. So I told her, let's keep the length (a little past the shoulders) and do some long layers. And yes, angle it a bit towards the front, since the back grows out so quickly.

I think that's where I made my mistake. "Angle it a bit towards the front" became "angle it dramatically," and somehow through free-association, "keep the length" became "chin length." I don't know about you, but I see the shoulders as a major line of demarcation when it comes to hair, a Mason-Dixon line of coiffure aesthetics. Both can look good, but once the hair clears the shoulders, the sum total of the effect is more than the matter of a few inches, because it means the difference between the hair resting on something and the hair hanging in space. If I know my hair will be hanging in space, I will make special requests regarding the way it is cut. It always bugs me when a stylist tries to shame me about minding that it's "too short," when the fact is, it makes a difference. It's all too easy for this miscommunication to occur because they usually start cutting at the back, so you can't really see how much they're taking off until they get around to the front, by which point it's too late.

Now, I don't have anything against the classic bob, or even the Posh bob (the "Pob," I guess we're calling it). I have even asked for such a look on many occasions. But for some reason it has also been foisted upon me against my will, more than once. Why, why? Can they not see from the back how much neck they are exposing with their carefree snip-snipping? Do they feel it is their stylist duty to give some sort of definition and shape to my pin-straight, baby-fine hair, even if the only style truly suited to it is the one I have forbidden theme to create? Is the bob simply my destiny, one that all of us are powerless to resist? I don't understand.

My first, and worst, bob assault happened when I was just out of college, working as a waitress in Cambridge. I was strolling down Newbury Street one afternoon when a young woman stopped me and asked if I'd like to get a $10 haircut at Vidal Sassoon as a hair model. Money was tight, so this offer appealed to me. She flattered me, telling me I had the perfect hair for it (baby fine and pin straight, that is), and promised I could have any style I wanted. "Great," I said. "Just as long as I don't have to get a bob."

"Oh," she responded, "I wouldn't give you a bob anyway. It wouldn't look good on you."

Well guess what happened - the day I went in for my discount haircut, the students were practicing a very special style at Vidal Sassoon, the one on which the whole baby-fine, pin-straight Sassoon look was built. The classic bob! When I expressed concern, my young stylist told me she would just do the cut longer. Unfortunately, each time her terrifying teacher swept by to check on her progress, she would screech at us, "Shorter! The classic bob is much, much shorter! Up, up, right at the nape!" I gathered my courage (this lady was really scary) and piped up, "But I told her I didn't want a bob." I might as well have been Oliver Twist asking for gruel, such was her outrage that I dared express an opinion. "You are the hair model! You are here for her to practice. You are here for her to learn THE CLASSIC BOB."

At this point I tried to just leave, hair half finished, but the student begged me to stay, hissing pitiably, "I'll get in trouble!" Grrr. I grudgingly let her snip at my shorn tresses a little longer, my fury welling uncontrollably. One thing I forgot to mention here is that I had just days before been in a bicycle accident and broken a bone in my hand. I had a big cast, the break was still throbbing, and it was my right hand so I struggled to accomplish the most basic tasks. This didn't do anything to enhance my patience, and made me feel even more powerless sitting under the nylon cape with sharp scissors pointed at my head. I told the student that unless she wanted me to lose it, I needed to leave, immediately. She quickly unsnapped the back of my cape.

I hurried off to the coat room, but that horrible teacher followed me, and actually had the gall to try to chew me out for shirking my sacred duty as a hair model, standing in the doorway of the closet, shouting. But I had reached my limit with the Sassoon fascists. It might have been the pain medication talking, or maybe it was just pure hair rage, but I found myself raising my cast like a club, then whacked it soundly against the door frame, right in front of her face. It got her attention -- she stopped yelling. "She promised me I wouldn't get a bob," I said. "I'm leaving now." And I made my way past her to the door.

But before I got there, the teacher caught up with me one final time, and without a word, she handed me my ten dollars.

You can see why I might have developed an aversion to this particular hair style. As for my experience yesterday, nobody bullied or berated me, no casts were thumped, and when I expressed dismay at the completed look, the stylist did attempt to make some adjustments, though she also tried to persuade me this was exactly what I'd asked for, was in fact the same haircut I always get, at which point I started to wonder if she'd gotten me confused with another client.

She also made one other gaffe, and colored my hair a shade darker than I'd wanted. The result is an overall look that bears a lot of similarity to none other than Katie Holmes.

And perhaps here I've found my answer. Maybe my stylist isn't distracted, bob-obsessed, or anything else. Maybe she's just following higher orders. Maybe she's ... a Scientologist!

Bonnet Fever

2008-01-21T19:50:00.000-05:00

Last night's installment of PBS's "Sweet Jane" series (okay, not really called that, but they've been playing that promo so much it's seeped into my brain) was "Northanger Abbey," and while I was looking forward to it, my hopes weren't too high after last Sunday's disappointment. The book was never among my favorites, either, so I admit I sat down to watch primarily with an eye to the clothing and bonnets my friend Natalie so lovingly previewed in her blog the other day. (She also did a review of the movie for PBS, complete with a fantastic play-by-play "bonnet watch" countdown of her favorite "Northanger" headgear.) The one pictured above is my favorite, incidentally. Pretty simple in design, but I just can't resist the rich texture of that ribbon trim.

There's something to be said for setting one's expectations, because I was very pleasantly surprised. The story was well-paced and funny, with dashes of tension and even a rather shocking seduction that I certainly do not remember from the novel, and wonder if Austen could even have hinted at something so disgraceful. (Must have been an example of screenwriter Andrew Davies putting "burlesque into bonnets," much as he popped Colin Firth into a wet shirt to sex up "Pride and Prejudice.")

The film offered many pleasures, but I think my favorite moment was when the two little sisters of our heroine, Catherine, see her suitor approaching across the lawn - Henry Tilney, a man they have heard is quite dashing, but have not yet met - and grasp each other gleefully, chanting, "Mr. Tilney, Mr. Tilney!" It might as well be Christmas morning for them.

And let's be honest, isn't that how every costume drama addict feels when a new one of these things rolls around? "Jane Austen, Jane Austen!" At least when it's the kind of adaptation, however familiar we may already be with the story, that succeeds in charming us all over again.

Not a Pretty Persuasion

2008-01-16T10:57:00.001-05:00

Just a note to say Sunday's "Persuasion" adaptation on PBS was all kinds of let-down to me. Even though it was only about ten minutes shorter than the terrific 1995 version, it felt like they galloped through the story on fast-forward. The director also employed the annoying technique of having Anne Elliot gaze into the camera anytime something significant happened, and sometimes, apparently, just for the hell of it. If this trick had been used once or twice it may have carried some punch, but as it was, it kind of looked like the actress was forgetting her lines and looking desperately our way, hoping for a cue.

Poor Sally Hawkins was made even more unattractive than Anne Elliot needs to be, with her hair scraped into a little knob atop her head, the severity only broken by a few stringy ringlets. As for the supposedly redeeming quality of her excellent character, undervalued and suppressed by her overbearing family, she came across as not so much dominated by her inferiors as too feeble-minded to puzzle out what any alternatives to their demands might be.

The movie's worst moment was also the subject of the funniest observation I saw about it, from an SFGate review, describing the triumphant moment when, after running halfway across Bath and back, Anne leans in, open-mouthed and runny-nosed, to share a kiss with her beloved. "Her mouth twitches like a bass zeroing in on a tasty side order of plankton as her face moves slowly toward its target." So romantic!

It all left such a fishy taste in my mouth that, even though it was late, the only way to cleanse my palette was to dig out my old, staticky VHS recording of Amanda Root and Ciaran Hinds doing the story justice, and watch the whole tale through again.

For an Excellent Bath ...

2008-01-16T10:40:00.000-05:00

... try these enhancements:

a Deep Water bath overflow cover enables a nice, full tub, as opposed to a wimpy halfway-up water level with annoying drain-gurgling sounds.

if your home water heater cannot get that deep-water bath scalding enough, turn on the kettle while the bath is running, then add hot water as needed. (Be careful to keep the hot kettle away from bare skin though! This may seem obvious, but it's a mistake that is easy to make, and one you will never forget.)

once I had a dream that I took a bath in a tub full of pink grapefruit, and for that reason this pink grapefruit shower gel makes a nice bubble bath. Add it near the end of the bath to avoid excessive bubbling, unless you like that sort of thing. Lots of bubbles look pretty, but I think they get in the way.

if you can get a clawfoot tub, they sure are nice.

Jane Austen, Ahead of Her Time?

2008-01-13T21:01:00.000-05:00

Eagerly anticipating tonight's new adaptation of "Persuasion" on PBS, I checked the listing online to see if they would show the whole story at once, or break it into several episodes.

Imagine my surprise, when clicking "more info," to read of this unexpected twist in the Elliott family's fortunes in Yahoo TV's brief synopsis:

"Martin's gay father moves in; with Kevin McCarthy, Paul Dooley."

Best Breakfast, No. 2

2008-01-12T15:37:00.001-05:00

If you can't have the best oatmeal granola in the world, this is a nice substitute: some crunchy cereal flakes, a few dollops of thick Greek yogurt, a sprinkling of sugar (the yogurt is unsweetened), and mango chunks, plus some milk. It helps if you have it in a bright blue latte bowl, on a sunny morning.

The yogurt reminds me of something I ate on my first trip to France, when I was about 20. I actually wasn't even in France yet, but my friend and I were on our way there, flying from London to Paris for New Year's Eve. The time we saved by flying seemed worth the expense, but we had to compensate for our extravagance by eating nothing but bread and cheese once we arrived.

On our way there, however, as short a flight as it was, they served us a beautiful little lunch, and the dessert was a container of this thick, creamy yogurty stuff with a paper straw full of sugar to sprinkle over it. I later learned from my housemate's French girlfriend that it was a kind of fresh cheese called fromage blanc. It was one of the best things I'd ever tasted, in a way only the things you experience in the midst of the exciting and new can be. When the French gentleman sitting in our row observed our ecstasy, he graciously offered us his untouched portion. "You two will clearly appreciate this more than I ever could," his eyes seemed to say.

The associations some foods carry matters almost as much as the way they taste; in this case, it's telling that I prefer to serve this concoction in a French latte bowl, n'est ce pas? The Greek yogurt I use (the brand is Fage, and seems to be cropping up in all our local markets now) isn't exactly the same as that original fromage blanc, but it comes close enough to conjure up the mood of a holiday adventure with my friend, the first sublime taste of a simple new food, and the kindness of a stranger. Which is not too shabby of an accomplishment, for breakfast.

Le Style du Scaphandre

2008-01-09T16:04:00.001-05:00

Earlier this week we saw "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly," such a beautiful film. It captures the flickering interplay of memory, imagination, and perception like nothing I've ever seen.

There's much in the movie by which to be dazzled, but in the spirit of its protagonist's onetime position as editor of French Elle, I found myself particularly charmed by the style of the female characters (the hospital therapists, various mistresses, etc.). Beautifully groomed brows, tissue-thin blouses in polka dots and plaid, fluttery cotton dresses, and simple crosses around their necks. All this against the backdrop of an austere French seaside or a Paris balcony.

Even the numerous hospital scenes have a dreamy beauty, with the filtered coastal light through the windows and seafoam and robin's egg-painted walls. It's like an Anthropologie catalog come to life, and with redeeming cultural value, too. So I'm already looking forward to spring, when my style of choice will be French institutional chic.

Seriously though, brilliant movie. I highly recommend.

The Royal Tannenbaum

2008-01-06T13:18:00.000-05:00

Oh, I know Christmas is over. Some of our neighbors have already thrown their dried-out trees out on the sidewalk with the trash. But in our household, some years we've kept our tree around until February. I just keep plugging in those lights and vacuuming up the needles.

We got this tree from Ricky's Flower Market over in Union Square. When we picked it out and the guy came over to trim the trunk, he paused to admire it, congratulating us for our selection as though we'd actually known what we were doing. "Aw, now that's a good tree. A nice little Nova Scotia balsam. Good job." I don't often have a piece of Nova Scotia in my living room, unless it's on a bagel. It's hard to let it go.

This sparkly little mushroom was new this year. I picked it out during a feverish Christmas shopping frenzy at Black Ink, a quirky little gift shop in Harvard Square. It spoke to my "enchanted woodland holiday" aesthetic.

Fat Baby was modeled many years ago by my mom, before I was born, when she and my dad were trying to fill the branches of one of their first Christmas trees. Fat Baby is surprisingly heavy, the way some babies are. I love the way he (she?) dangles from that slender thread like a yellow-haired little blimp. There's something ever so slightly menacing about that baby.

This charming composition was intended to be, believe it or not, the face of a beautiful ballerina. And it was rendered quite successfully, in the opinion of my three-year-old self. See the classic ballerina bun on top of her head? She used to have an entire body, too, but that snapped off and disappeared long ago. She was made out of homemade flour-and-water play dough, and baked and lovingly shellacked for me by my mom.

I begged to buy this pompon ice cream soda at one of the annual Holiday Bazaar fundraisers my grade school put on in the school gymnasium. The event was one of the highlights of the school year, with the locker room, usually a chamber of pre-gym-class dread, transformed into a cotton-swathed Winter Wonderland, and boys to be chased giddily amongst the craft tables. (The boys school was in a different part of the building, so on the rare occasions that we saw them, things got a little out of hand.) I also got an awesome crocheted Oreo cookie ornament from there one year.

There's no story behind this little teapot - I just love it. A family friend gave it to me one year. I love how it's almost a typical blown-glass ball ... except with a few extra flourishes, it became a teapot.

Help, I've been baked in a pie! Who says it's a merry Christmas??

Sexy Bambi lives on the mantle for the holidays. She is teal colored, and flocked with an appealing velvety texture. She has great legs.

Oh, and Happy New Year, too!

Ballet Shoes

2007-12-22T18:38:00.000-05:00

It's children's books day today with the Somervillain ... another one I've been thinking about recently is "Ballet Shoes," by Noel Streatfeild. This one is set in 1930s London and follows the fortunes of three foundling girls, the Fossil sisters, as they make their way in the world.

As with Betsy, Tacy, and Tib, all three major hair colors are represented. Pauline, the eldest, is platinum tressed, a gifted young actress, and was rescued as an infant from a shipwreck that sounds suspiciously like that of the Titanic (icebergs were involved). Brunette Petrova likes cars and airplanes, and only puts up with the family stage-training scheme to help out with household expenses. Littlest Posy, a ballet prodigy, has red curls and is, frankly, a bit of a brat, no matter how much the authorial voice tries to tell us we can't really hold it against her because that's just Posy. Sorry, Posy, hold it against you I do.

It's a strange story, with endless descriptions of the clothing the girls wear for dancing (lots of velvet and muslin, satin rompers, and something called tarlatan), along with highly detailed agendas of their daily activities -- in addition to dance lessons, there are morning lessons in the nursery, a brisk walk to the Victoria & Albert and back (all nicely brought-up children must have a daily walk, Nana says), and, of course, tea.

Finding the money to pay for things is a major theme, and all expenses are parsed in terms of complex combinations of shillings and pence, quite baffling to the non-British, contemporary mind.

None of this sounds particularly compelling, and yet when I recently reread the book, I found I couldn't put the darn thing down.

Part of its appeal has to do with its honesty about the heartless competition in the show business world, and the importance it puts on appearance. Petrova frets she won't get a part because of an unfortunate sty that's appeared on her eye ("Don't look at her sty more than you can help," Pauline urges the director), and at one point the sisters come to the aid of the hapless Winifred, the best student at their school, but so poor and overburdened at home that she keeps showing up late to auditions in a rumpled mess. Unlike the Fossils, Winifred doesn't have magic-seamstress Nana, who just happens to know where to buy good material for cheap, and manages to whip up new outfits for her girls in a single evening.

The story doesn't shy away from taking its protagonists down a peg, either. Pauline gets a big head when she stars as Alice in Wonderland in a professional theater production ("Pauline Learns a Lesson"), with consequences humbling enough to make a reader cringe. Lucky for her, Nana is there with solace ... in the form of a big bowl of bread and milk. Apparently, this is a great treat.

Next week -- on Boxing Day -- lucky Britain gets to enjoy a new television adaptation of the story, featuring Emma Watson as Pauline, in her first role since that of Hermione Granger. (Some devotees of the book are annoyed by the less-than-platinum tone of Watson's hair, as though that were the most important thing about the portrayal of the character. As I've said, hair color is very important in stories for girls.)

Watch the trailer and it becomes clear the production is basically a costume drama gateway drug for young girls. They'll never be able to just say no to "Pride and Prejudice" now. As for me, it's already far too late -- all I can do is hope I don't have to wait too long for "Ballet Shoes: The Miniseries" to make it stateside.

Deep Valley Girls

2007-12-22T14:31:00.000-05:00

The fictional town of Deep Valley, Minnesota, that is. Meet Betsy, Tacy, and Tib, best friends and stars of the Betsy-Tacy books, a series based on author Maud Hart Lovelace's own childhood in turn-of-century Mankato, Minnesota.

These stories were favorites of mine growing up, and last year I had the pleasure of sharing the first book with my goddaughter, Roxy, then six years old, who ended up loving the characters, too. This spring she came to Boston with her mom for our wedding, and during a grownups-only brunch at our house she wisely retired to my office, where we later found her sprawled on the floor reading: she'd located my old copy of "Betsy, Tacy, and Tib," the second book in the series, and was eagerly gobbling it up.

So these dolls were part of her Christmas present this year: that's Betsy with the perky brown braids, Tacy with the long red ringlets, and Tib with the fluffy yellow curls. (So much in books for girls depends on hair, doesn't it?) This illustration from the book, glued to the top of the box where I stored the dolls, shows each girl with her differentiating hair look.

If you're the sort of person who's not ashamed to read children's books, I highly recommend these. The early ones are written simply, but explore surprisingly complex emotions in their gentle way, and later on when the girls reach high school you get the fun of house parties, pompadours, and hearts won and lost on the skating pond (this is Minnesota, after all).

Take it from Roxy and me: it's never too late to have a happy Deep Valley childhood.

Wrapped Up

2007-12-14T15:41:00.000-05:00

Does wrestling with piles of gift wrap, ribbon, tape, and scissors at holiday time make you feel like an unwieldy octopus with tangled tentacles and a Santa hat?

Wipe away your tears, gentle elves, for I am your humble authority on Perfectly Wrapped Presents.

Turns out there actually are a few tricks to make things easier ... and if you use light blue paper and white ribbon like I did for the photos in this article, you get the added benefit of pretending everything you're wrapping came from Tiffany's, too!

City Holiday

2007-12-12T11:45:00.000-05:00

Dashing through the snow in a one-horse open sleigh is all very well, but nothing gets my holiday started quite like the twinkly lights and window displays of a downtown shopping district. Call me consumerist, but for me it's an inevitable byproduct of having grown up in a big city.

We needed to go to New York for a couple days last week, and I got to spend an afternoon wandering up Fifth Avenue admiring all the commercially produced cheer. That's Saks, above, with its big sparkly snowflakes. Lord & Taylor had a sort of international holiday theme going: this window was its Parisian patisserie. I especially like that pyramid of croissants in the background. The big fluffy poodle is pretty terrific, too.

The downtown department stores in Boston are kind of sad and deserted, but the New York Lord & Taylor was positively bustling, and had big tables laid out with vaguely archaic goods, like opera-length leather gloves. Most of the women milling around the cosmetics and accessories floor wore real, structured hats and long wool coats, with nary a sneaker in sight. No distressed low-riders and teenybopper tees here. For such a modern, frenetic, moving-and-shaking city, New York sometimes feels as though it inhabits a bygone era.

Rockefeller Center was a madhouse, even on this prematurely dusky December weekday. Here are the skaters gleefully whizzing through the gloom.

Before I headed home I continued up Fifth to the bottom of Central Park to see the Plaza, as I like to do when I'm in this part of New York (my parents got married there). Flags were flapping along the avenue, the sun was going down, and the smell of hotdogs, pretzels, and roasted chestnuts wafted through the jostling crowds. It all looked exactly like the cover of a 1950s issue of the "New Yorker," a place where you might still need to wear a real hat and a pair of leather gloves, though perhaps not opera-length ones.

Cotton Candy at the Acropolis

2007-12-01T14:25:00.000-05:00

We had a good time attending the opening of our friend Becky's graduate thesis show over at the Tufts art gallery the other night. Her installation used the subject of the Parthenon to explore ideas about travel and authenticity (among other things), and was indeed quite "monumental," even while the little fellow pictured above threatened more than once to knock over the columns she'd so arduously constructed.

These postcards reproduced images of the artist visiting the Parthenon in Greece, its replica in Nashville, and the Elgin Marbles taken from it and housed at the British Museum in London. Each is printed in one of the primary inks used in color printing, and visitors were encouraged to take a postcard themselves as a way of participating in the project.

Spectators were not encouraged to pick up and shake the gold-glitter snow globes that formed the centerpiece of the installation, but unfortunately many of us could not resist the impulse. Charmingly, part of the artist's opening night attire included a sparkly gold turtleneck that echoed these tempting art tchotchkes.

The strangest thing about this show was the scent of cotton candy that hung in the air as we entered the building. Was this a new thing at show openings, along with the wine and cheese? It wasn't long before we discovered its source ...

Okay, that giant pile of fuzz wasn't real cotton candy, but at the entrance of the installation the artist was indeed spinning woolly puffs of it, making her exhibit quite popular with art-viewers young and old.

A video portion of the project depicted the artist herself in a room full of cotton candy, bouncing and twirling amidst flying strands of the spun sugar, her body covered with sticky pink floss. It was a giddy spectacle, and I got a big kick out of it.

Elsewhere other antics were playing out, as in an installation involving a wrestling match with the self-styled "best artist in the world." You could also buy his clothes.

We may not have understood exactly what it was all supposed to mean, but it all had a lot of energy and humor, and was more fun than any art show I'd been to in quite awhile. The art kids are all right!

Best Breakfast

2007-11-30T12:11:00.001-05:00

We found time for another brief Playa del Carmen escape for a nontraditional Thanksgiving this year, and true to form, the majority of the vacation followed this pattern: breakfast at Cueva del Chango, beach, afternoon guacamole and cocktails. Sometimes the secret to happiness is just finding what you like to do and doing it every single day.

In the past I'd never been able to get past la Cueva's glorious egg dishes on the breakfast menu, but this time a touch of gastric distress inspired me to order what turned out to be the most fascinating oatmeal I've ever eaten. Yes, you heard me right: fascinating oatmeal!

Oatmeal was really the least of it -- on top of that humble base were heaped generous helpings of kiwi, melon, banana, and pineapple, plus a bunch of other fruits I could not identify, then darkly toasted homemade granola, some kind of grain that may have been quinoa -- or maybe millet? -- and finally, the creamiest, most subtly, heavenly sweet yogurt on earth. While it didn't actually end up curing my tummy troubles, in the moments that I was eating it, it felt like it would, and like it might just make any other of life's various problems melt away, as well.

A young woman eating the same thing at a table near us was overheard to say, "I wish I could have this breakfast every day." Me too, sister, me too.

This little friend patrolled the patio during most of our Cueva sessions, but despite appearances, that industrious pink tongue had nothing to do with any hand-outs from us. We had a feeling he might have better luck with the nighttime menu though, which generally featured a nice tuna tostada.

Cabled

2007-11-16T20:00:00.001-05:00

Do you ever start a project just because it's difficult? Like deciding to cook a souffle for the first time, or, on a more timely note, an entire Thanksgiving dinner? That's how I felt about the Debbie Bliss cabled hoodie, the most challenging pattern in a book of baby knits, and by far the yummiest. Something about the combination of that all-over twisting texture, the soft cashmerino yarn, the faded lavender color and the pearly buttons: luscious.

If there's a lesson to be learned from knitting, it's how intricate a creation you can build out of one basic stitch. As long as you know how to read knitting instructions and have a good dictionary of pattern abbreviations by your side, you can make anything, once you know how to knit a single stitch. I recently listened to an interview on NPR with the artist Chuck Close (creator of giant photorealist and pointillist portraits), and was struck by his description of his work style as akin to things like the needle arts, "women's work," things you can work on for awhile, put down, then come back to without worry of having lost your place. (I think this is something writers can relate to, and he likens it to writing, a process where you have to keep the whole in mind, but focus on one particular piece at a time.) He said he works on one grid of a painting per day, so he doesn't have to reinvent the wheel each day, and so he feels a sense of accomplishment as he completes each segment.

So, this sweater took a long time, picking it up while watching television, riding in the car, flying on a plane, putting it down for weeks at a time. Although its intended recipient was born before I finished it, at least she hadn't outgrown it by the time I finally got to meet her.

Turns out, in addition to its many other appealing qualities, it tastes great, too!

Cider Hill

2007-10-26T19:31:00.000-04:00

A funny thing about being back in a traditional, four-season climate is the pressure I feel to make the most of each season. Must go leaf-peeping/snow-shoeing/swimming before it's toooo late! I don't remember my parents worrying much about this stuff when I was growing up - did we go to a pumpkin patch, ever? The parking lot of the local Osco-Jewel was the only pumpkin patch we knew (well, except for Gene the Pumpkin Man's farm, if we happened to be in Michigan). Still, this seize-the-season compulsion motivated us last weekend to go apple picking, and our research led us to Amesbury's Cider Hill Farm.

The place looked like quite a zoo as we pulled up, almost theme-parkish, with lots of cars in the parking field - it was a warm, blue-skied day, after all, perfect for outdoor family activities - but once we headed into the orchard the crowds sort of melted away.

I haven't been apple picking many times. I remember going once when I was really little, when we lived in Connecticut, and my godfather climbing the trees to get the best apples. When I went at Nashoba Valley Winery just after college, they gave us each a long pole with a little basket on the end, for reaching into the upper branches to snag our fruit.

By contrast, the trees at Cider Hill seemed quite small. I'm assuming they're deliberately pruned to keep them at a manageable picking height. Whatever they're doing, it doesn't seem to be hurting the trees. Even rather late in the season, the trees were bountifully laden, almost ridiculously so. Too many apples!

So many apples, there was even accidental applesauce on the ground.

The wasps were benefitting from the sweet plenty, as well.

That name Cider Hill is no mere marketing ploy. The orchard really is up on a hill, and a rather steep one. As we sorted through the many rows of trees, trying to decide between Northern Spies and Cortlands, the occasional apple came bounding toward us with the speed of a rogue fast ball, as though pitched by some sneaky, apple-pickin' hooligan. But it wasn't, at least I don't think so, just an amplified effect of Newton's Second Law.

It truly was a great day to make the most of the season. The blazing leaves alone were worth the expedition.

Now what are we going to do with all these apples?

Shiny New Coffee

2007-10-25T16:49:00.000-04:00

I stopped by the new cafe Bloc 11 over in Union Square this weekend (just moments before its Grand Opening party, as it happened). This might not be big news in another neighborhood, but in sleepy Union Square it was quite the event. It's also the sister establishment of the very popular Diesel Cafe in Davis Square, which is another reason to be excited.

Like the Diesel, Bloc 11 has a clean, industrial aesthetic, but the overall atmosphere felt less hipster-edgy: no bright colors on the walls, no pool table, and lots of plants. The building is a former bank, and the cafe even utilizes the old vault as a slightly claustrophobic reading room.

The afternoon was sunny and warm, the front windows were wide open, the tomato bisque soup was tasty, and the staff was friendly. All in all a very pleasant experience.

Though as some have pointed out, the name's similarity to the prison building at Auschwitz I is more than a little unfortunate.

Shopping with the Stars

2007-10-18T17:00:00.000-04:00

When I go to New York I always look up a few places I've been meaning to visit, stores or restaurants I've read about, stuff like that. This time I spent an afternoon in Soho checking out the knitting shop Purl, and also Global Table, a kitchen and tableware shop that seems to be referenced in every issue of every home design magazine I've ever read.

Both turned out to be small, appealing, packed with carefully selected goods ... and a little disappointing. Perhaps a bit like seeing a beloved celebrity in person and discovering them to be a lot smaller and normal-looking than they appeared on the silver screen. Each of these places is name-dropped so often by the style cognoscenti, my expectations had been built up for something more.

True, the Purl storefront glowed like a happy rainbow on the gloomy, rain-spattered afternoon that I stopped by, and the fibers filling its cubby-lined walls were brilliantly colored and exquisitely textured to the last skein, but I can think of three or four other knitting shops off the top of my head that offer an equally scrumptious selection of yarn, with more to choose from, more inspiring books and gadgets, and a more comfortable setting. There was nothing wrong with Purl, but I don't know that it deserves all the special attention it gets.

As for Global Table, while it does bring a lot of interesting items together in one place, it felt kind of cluttered and messy, and didn't have much that I hadn't already seen elsewhere. Though it's possible it was just spoiled for me from having seen all the goods before in those endless "what we want NOW" magazine spreads.

I think the bottom line is that the people who work for these magazines mostly live in New York, and they've got to dredge up ideas for their stories the same as any journalist. At the end of the day, it's easiest to scout for merchandise within walking distance. And while these two stores (along with the rest of the editorial darlings) may be perfectly good, or even great, it's always going to be difficult to live up to the hype created by all that shiny editorial language. You know, kind of like when you read that a store "glowed like a happy rainbow."

Of course, knowing it's all marketing and spin won't stop me from hunting down the little hot-list boutiques, any more than it will prevent me from keeping my eyes peeled for famous folk, however small or ordinary they may appear in the flesh. It seems that as long as you pay attention, and particularly if you visit one of the trendier neighborhoods, you're sure to see somebody, though there's no guarantee it will be someone you care about. I enjoy how random this is - unlike a movie, where you know going in whether it will be peopled with stars from the A, B, or D list, the New York streets are not delineated by velvet ropes ... at least not yet. Everyone's just out there milling around and doing their thing, just like you or me (but with more money).

I suppose I should try to be blase about it, but I can't help it: I'm totally star-struck. I haven't run up to talk to anyone (so far), but I do tend to sidle around looking out of the corners of my eyes in a really obvious way, trying to take in the presence of the mythical celebrity beast in my own humdrum reality.

My cousin and I saw Anna Paquin shopping in Nolita last fall, and this summer Daniel and I passed Jimmy Fallon walking along with his head down and a "please don't notice me" expression on his face, but my most random and amusing "star" sighting was this last visit, and was the best because it was such a non-event: I noticed Ken Burns at the J. Crew in Soho, into which I had ducked to get out of the rain. Now, I am aware of the work of Ken Burns, respect what he does, and even watched a good bit of "The Civil War" many years ago, but I am by no means a devoted fan, so mainly I just found it funny that I recognized him at all, much less instantly. Also, because as he walked through the menswear department he gazed at the chinos and sweaters with the same slightly creepy, wide-eyed intensity you see when he appears on PBS, and pointed out various articles of clothing to the people he was with as though they were researching a documentary on the history of preppy clothiers in America. And who knows, perhaps that is his next project.

It's unfortunate that there isn't some way to sign up in advance for celebrity sightings, perhaps via Gawker Stalker, so the person glimpsing the celeb fully appreciates the experience. (No offense, Jimmy Fallon, but while I was excited to recognize you, you were otherwise wasted on me.) Maybe we could somehow barter them, à la craigslist ... let's see, on the day I saw Ken Burns, I could have swapped him for a Kristin Davis or a Jennifer Garner (with Violet) sighting. Though the mere fact that I consider Ken Burns a "celebrity" probably indicates I was the right person for the job.

Pizza Chronicles: Lombardi's

2007-10-15T14:00:00.000-04:00

After our gastronomically happy experience last winter at Grimaldi's Pizzeria in Brooklyn, we thought we'd try out another old-time coal-fired pizza oven place, this time the Little Italy establishment Lombardi's. It's described in somewhat equivocating fashion as the country's first "full-fledged" pizzeria, and was recommended to me awhile back by a friend and former New Yorker.

On the night we visited, we walked right in and got a table, but we could tell the place is used to dealing with crowds. The hostess greeted us with rapid-fire efficiency, then spoke into a headset like Madonna of the pizza ovens, summoning a runner from the back of the restaurant to guide us through a warren of dining rooms and food staging areas to our properly checker-clothed table in a narrow, brick-walled room. The service continued with swift proficiency, but with so little personality and face-time, it almost felt as though we were ordering food out of thin air.

All this streamlining had me a little worried that the quality of the pizza might be compromised in the name of efficiency, as well, but the simple cheese pie we ordered manifested itself with the same humble honesty of any non-famous old-time pizzeria, and we made it disappear with an efficiency to rival that of Lombardi's staff, though in our case aided by many diminutive glasses of house red.

I was interested to see that Lombardi's, like Grimaldi's, uses fresh mozzarella as its all-purpose cheese base. Maybe that's a common thing for traditional New York pizza, but for me it's a novelty (and one I enjoy). If memory serves I think I liked Grimaldi's a bit better, but Lombardi's crust stood out as particularly crisp and flavorful. If I go back, I'd probably order it with extra mozzarella to maximize the potential of all those lonely patches of sauce. Each one is a lost opportunity!

Clawfoot

2007-10-14T14:04:00.001-04:00

When it comes to quality drinking water, apparently nothing compares to what pools in the worn spots of our ancient bathtub. A certain feline has recently taken to galloping into the room following each shower, then leaping into the tub to avidly lap up the precious drops.

Sky Watch

2007-10-03T13:13:00.001-04:00

This weekend my cousin paid us an impromptu visit, and to make the most of her brief stay we decided we'd take a day trip up to New Hampshire and hike Pack Monadnock (little brother to the Mount Monadnock I climbed last summer). When we reached the summit we were surprised to find a naturalist poised at the edge of a rocky outcropping, scanning the skies with single-minded concentration.

It turned out he was a graduate student working for the New Hampshire Audubon, monitoring this particular spot on the southward journey migrating raptors. How often would he be at his post? "Every day until Halloween," he said, with an expression of contented bliss.

We were impressed to see he'd already counted four bald eagles that day, and he told us he'd recently seen a passing flock of some type of hawk (broad winged? I can't remember) numbering about 500 birds. Though on our way up we saw a single red-tailed hawk kiting above us, suspended motionless in the air, and that in itself was pretty spectacular, too.

Pizza Chronicles: Lou Malnati's

2007-09-28T21:25:00.000-04:00

The final note on our trip to Chicago has to be about pizza. It wouldn't be a trip to Chicago without deep-dish pizza, and we managed two rounds of it in just four days, a fact to which the straining waistband of my jeans can still testify.

I thought I knew it all about Chicago pizza, but even though its recipe dates back to 1943, somehow I had never heard about Lou Malnati's. Uno's, Due's, Gino's, Giordano's, Leona's, Bacino's, Edwardo's ... yes. Lou Malnati's, no.

So for the first night of our visit, we headed to the Lincoln Park branch for dinner. It was a quiet evening at Lou's ... we waited about ten minutes for a table, yet once we were seated there were only a few other parties in the dining room. The atmosphere of the restaurant was nothing to write home about - it kind of felt like someone's recently renovated rec room, brightly lit with a big sofa and TV screen smack in the middle of the room, but we enjoyed looking at the framed magazine covers of Chicago sports figures decorating the walls, mainly because it was fun to look at the names of various managers and employees on the address labels still stuck to the covers.

We ordered a plain cheese, deep-dish pizza with a butter crust - an option I had not encountered before at a pizza restaurant, but the menu said it was "Lou's favorite," plus I'm never one to argue with butter. It turned out this was our favorite thing about the pizza: crisp, crunchy, lightly butter-flavored. I found the tomato sauce a little bland, but it did taste very fresh. As for the cheese, I'm used to a bit more of it on my Chicago-style pizza, but that's really more the realm of the stuffed pie (my favorite of which would be Giordano's, our choice for Chicago Pizza Night #2).

All in all it was very tasty, but still didn't quite measure up (strike me down for saying so) to the similar style of pizza at San Francisco's Little Star. I don't know, I'll have to try it again next time I'm in the Bay Area and see if it's really as superior as I remember it, or if it had just been so long since I'd had the genuine Chicago article that any version would taste sublime. It's an experiment I will be happy to repeat as many times as necessary.

You'd think I would have gotten the Malnati's recommendation from a Chicago friend or relative, but in fact I read about it first on the blog of an L.A.-based Chicago native personally unknown to me, something I found because this blogger is also the brother-in-law of Jeff Tweedy, frontman of Wilco, a favorite band of mine. (The blog itself is quite good beyond its Wilco-related content, though that portion of Danny Miller's posts are very interesting, too, and part of a common, Los Angeles-influenced theme about the everyday lives of public figures.)

After that, I stumbled across an interview in which Jeff Tweedy listed his favorite Chicago eateries, prominently featuring Lou Malnati's (as well as the downtown diner Lou Mitchell's), and after that I was determined we would go. Yes, I like this band (and its singer's extended family) so much, I even had to try their favorite pizza. We also got to see them play on our last night in town at the spectacular Pritzker Pavilion, with the lit-up Chicago skyline all around. The perfect finale to a long weekend enjoying the many simple pleasures, cheese-laden and otherwise, of my favorite hometown.

Dear Phlebotomist,

2007-09-28T17:00:00.000-04:00

I like to think I'm not a whole lot more squeamish than the next person, but the truth is that I can get a little light-headed when I have blood drawn. I realize this problem may be "psychological," as so many of you have been kind enough to let me know, but as relaxed as I try to be about it, the fact remains that it still happens, and has ever since the time in high school when I went to donate blood, but couldn't make it past the point where the nurse practically wrung out my fingertip, trying to get a big enough drop to check my blood type. Ah, the sweet perfume of smelling salts!

I try to be brave, but when you complain about my "thin veins," then smack at my arm, ask to see the other arm, then doubtfully palpate the tourniquet-bound arm some more, it doesn't exactly inspire confidence that you know what you are doing. And after you've successfully located your vein and I've waited out the procedure, grimly staring at a little watercolor landscape postcard, absurdly repeating the artist's name to myself to maintain my distraction - "Prendergast, Prendergast, Prendergast" - if, after that, I tell you I'm a little light-headed and need to lean over and lower my head for a minute, please don't laugh at my cowardliness and tell me to stand up, go in the next room, figure out by myself how to make the big padded chair in there recline, and lie down ... even if you really need the chair where I am currently sitting.

Because as inconvenient as it might be for me to sit there for another 60 seconds with my head between my knees, it will slow you down even more when, on the way to that little room, I pass out cold on your floor. And who'll be laughing then?

Thanks much,
Somervillain

My Kind of Sole

2007-09-26T21:00:00.000-04:00

It's years since I lived in Chicago, but in all the other cities I've visited I still haven't found a shoe store I love as much as Lori's, "The Sole of Chicago." Every time I go back I try to steal at least a half hour there, whether I really need new shoes or not.

The store stocks quite a range of shoe styles, from cheap and trendy to luxe leather designer, and that's what makes it great, but the reason I truly love it is this: all the sizes are right there on the floor, available for shoppers to try on at will.

It really bugs me to have to ask a clerk to go get my size when I'm shopping for shoes. You try a few pairs, they don't fit or look bad once they're on -- how many times can you send the poor person back to the stockroom? Once, as a teenager, I tried on nearly every shoe at the Parkway Slipper Box on Diversey, and I'll never forget the look of exhaustion and defeat on the face of the poor man who helped me, knowing long before I did that it was a lost battle. At some point, you have to stop trying stuff on, even if you're not done looking for your perfect shoe. At Lori's, you could try on shoes until the cows come home, kick over the lantern, and burn down Mrs. O'Leary's shed, and then try on shoes some more.

I've only ever seen this set-up at places like Payless and shoe outlets, never at a store that carries new, stylish, well-made shoes. If there are other places like this please tell me, because I want to go to them.

Incidentally, Lori's is where I experienced my first credit card rejection. I was 18 or 19 and decided I'd use the family "emergency only" card to buy an expensive silver necklace. (I presume I planned to pay my parents back for it, but our records of this transaction have conveniently been mislaid.) The sale didn't go through, perhaps because the card had only ever been used to purchase my flights to and from college. I was visibly mortified, but my salesperson, Lori herself in those days, was the essence of reassuring breeziness, thus passing on to me the womanly art of rationalizing credit card debt and charging it in the name of style. "Oh, that happens all the time," she told me. "It doesn't mean anything. Do you have another card?"

Apparently I did have another card, because I still have the necklace. Lori's still has lots of great accessories in addition to all those shoes, by the way: this time I walked away with a new fall bag. And, reader? I charged it.

The store has several branches now, but I noticed Lori there in the original Armitage shop on this recent visit, talking business with one of her associates, and she looked pretty much exactly as I remember her back then. How does she do that? It must be something in the shoes.

Museum of Fluffy Chicks and Dollhouses

2007-09-20T21:04:00.000-04:00

Continuing our nostalgic tour of Chicago, Daniel and I made time to visit the Museum of Science and Industry one afternoon of our trip. It was a long, two-busride trip to the South Side, reminding me why I rarely got to go there when I was growing up (and why it was therefore my Holy Grail of most longed-for childhood outings).

It was also beloved by us kids for being the most interactive of Chicago's museums, with actual "rides": a crazy petroleum exhibit where you traveled slowly through a sort of crude oil Tunnel of Love, sitting in a space-age pod and learning about the life of hydrocarbons, as well as the Coal Mine, which counted as a ride because it involved a journey on a coal elevator. The lines for these attractions rivaled those at the most popular roller-coaster at an amusement park.

My memory of the place was as a massive palace of science, with level upon level of dazzling displays, more than could be explored in a week, much less an afternoon. Revisiting it, it still felt big, but we easily covered most of its square footage within a couple hours, and the overall science content was incredibly minimal. Its one standout technological feat, however, was as a time machine back to the early '70s. Very little, to my immense delight, had changed since my last visit. Let's begin our tour, shall we?

First up, the ever-popular chick hatchery!

Hello?!

Help, are these guys alive? Turned out they were just resting after the hard work of busting out of their shells. We saw a few feeble pecking motions from within still-unhatched eggs, but no actual hatching this time.

The giant heart was always a favorite on school field trips, but now I'm not quite sure why. It's just a giant heart that you can walk through, with a sonorous beating sound piped in. Perhaps the mere fact of its giantness was enough cause for delight.

And then there is the joy of the small: a model Chicago, with trains running through it.

Seattle was there, too.

Also my much beloved Fairy Castle, the dollhouse to end all dollhouses. As we were walking up to the museum doors, a little girl gazed up at me the way kids sometimes do, and in my own excitement I cornily asked her, "Are you going to see the dollhouse?" And she looked back at me like, "I have no idea what you're talking about, and please get away from me, crazy lady." Anyway, here's a dusky shot of the jewel-encrusted Princess's Bedroom. I hope the little girl did get to see it, though perhaps she's more interested in coal mines.

Yesterday's Main Street offers a convincing stroll through Old Chicago, also quite dusky ...

... and not a little spooky in its way.

And then there are the exhibits that aren't trying to be old, but have clearly reached their sell-by date, like this presentation having something to do with breakfast.

But that's part of what I love about this place. The building itself is a relic from the 1893 World Columbian Exposition, and so much inside it is a time capsule from a decade that I never would have dreamed would someday seem as long-ago and quaint as the era immortalized by the old-time Main Street facades.

Museum of Science and Industry, please don't ever change.

Threadless Central

2007-09-18T11:11:00.000-04:00

We felt pretty lucky on our Chicago visit, catching buses quickly, happening to visit the pricey Museum of Science and Industry on free day, stuff like that. Among our lucky moments was stumbling upon the new Threadless retail storefront, the first of its kind, on its opening morning (a few days before its Friday Grand Opening).

I didn't know a whole lot about this company other than hearing about it from time to time, but the clean, stylish, techo-savvy decor of the shop had me instantly smitten. Each T-shirt design was stacked beneath a sleek new flat-screen monitor displaying it on various models and in different shirt/hoodie styles.

The pièce de résistance would have to be the set-up that lets you photograph yourself inside the store, then run outside to see your face appear on a screen atop one of the T-shirts in the display window.

Not easy to see with the daylight reflection, but it was there!

On a more practical note, the store even has dressing rooms - kind of unusual for a place that only sells T-shirts, but such a good idea. At least for me, I would otherwise have chosen my shirt in the wrong size.

The staff was super friendly and understandably excited about the store's opening. (They gamely posed for the photo above, even after I told them it was for a blog that gets "as many as ten readers a day." Whoohoo, major press coverage!) They were handing out reusable Threadless shopping bags - bring it back next time, and you get a dollar off your purchase. If we'd still been in Chicago last Friday we also could have gotten free tickets to a concert at the Metro celebrating the grand opening.

So which shirt did I get? It was a lucky week, so I went with this one: the Luckiest T-Shirt Ever.

Windy City Interlude

2007-09-17T20:00:00.000-04:00

The last time I had a specific reason to go home to Chicago was five years ago for a cousin's wedding, and with no upcoming occasion in sight, it seemed time to go back for no reason at all. I guess I can't technically call Chicago "home" anymore, with my parents gone and not living there myself, but even so that's what it still feels like. We got into town fairly early on Sunday morning, though when you hop the train from the airport the CTA terminal feels like eternal midnight in some movie like "Blade Runner" or "Tron."

I did my high school speech class "informative speech" on the pretty sherbet-colored glass-wall construction at O'Hare, brand-new at the time, and chosen as my topic mainly because I liked the pretty sherbet colors. Daniel, my patient traveling companion, was treated to fun facts such as these throughout our visit. "That's where I went to camp, the one where all we did was play Red Rover all day! And this is the camp is where I was a camp counselor. This is the bad school my father threatened to send me to when I was being bratty. That's where Woolworth's used to be." And so on.

Is anything more tedious than the memory tour of someone else's town? Yet in spite of all the minutia I couldn't help but share, there was so much I kept to myself. The place where my babysitter took me after camp, where I had my first taste of frozen yogurt (chocolate, and with a strong yogurty taste that's so different from the bland soft serve of today). The stretch of Lake Shore Drive near where we lived at Melrose Street, which turns up as a recurring setting in my dreams, vast and deserted. Places where nothing of note ever happened at all, but seeing them again after so long triggered the memory of past feelings, the general mood of being twelve and coming home from school, the same way a smell memory transports you with such immediacy.

We had quite a few hours to kill before we could check in to our condo rental, and so, bags on shoulders, we trudged around the city, packing a week's worth of sightseeing into one day.

First a visit to Wicker Park, because the Blue Line of the L was stopping there due to construction. The first time I visited this neighborhood, about 15 years ago, it was still sketchy enough that my cab driver refused to drop me off at the intersection I requested, and instead turned off the meter, drove me around until we found the exact address where I was going, and waited until I went in the door. Not anymore - it's still super hip, but is crammed with glossy loft buildings and market-appropriate chain stores like American Apparel. I'm used to the upscalification of urban American neighborhoods, but it still felt strange and wrong to see women teetering by in expensive high heels clutching their status bags. At least for that morning it was to our benefit though - we had a fantastic breakfast of huevos rancheros at a loungy place called Rodan before hoisting up our bags and continuing on to kill some more time.

We took a bus towards the lake and spent a few minutes resting at North Avenue Beach (first fudgisicle, starting point of high school's annual fund-raiser walkathon along the lakefront) and then moved on to Lincoln Park Zoo, selected in part because we'd be able to sit down with our bags while we watched the seals. The seal habitat was a lot nicer since the last time I'd seen it, but I can't say the same for the Lion House, a sad hall of small enclosures in which paced large, frustrated felines, one to a cage.

Maybe there is more to these enclosures than I realize - time in an outdoor space for each big cat, or a feeling of security in the limited area - but to the uneducated eye it doesn't look good. The back wall of each exhibit area is decorated with a scenic vista designed to make the space look like the boundless reaches of the great outdoors, but they aren't fooling anyone. Just as we were leaving, the male African lion entered his den (at least he has a large outdoor area to share with some lady friends), stood facing the crowd that quickly gathered before him, and roared and roared. It didn't seem brave or majestic though, just really sad, especially with the faded '70s jungle backdrop behind him. I know that, given a chance, the beast could rip my head off, but at that moment all I saw was the helplessness of his plight. As the people all stood around pointing and exclaiming, swinging their children onto their shoulders to get a better look, Daniel commented, "I bet none of these animals ever thought they'd end up being captured by the monkeys."

(Unspoken Lincoln Park Zoo memory: at the end of my first day of school, being taken there by my dad, having my picture taken astride a glossy statue of a lion, and thinking school was great because it meant Dad would pick me up afterwards and take me to the zoo every single day.)

At last it was time to catch a bus up to the apartment where we'd be staying, the 151 Sheridan Devon, iconic in my youth because I took it back and forth to school every day for eight years (and if you read the Yelp reviews, yes, lots of crazy people rode it back then, too). A quick ride through the park and up the drive, and we were at the vacation rental building, an address I'd chosen in part because it was right in my old neighborhood, across from a nice part of the park, and with a gorgeous lake view as a bonus.

But what I didn't realize was that the view from our apartment would look right smack out at the last building my parents lived in before they moved away to New York. Even though I'd left for college by then, I still had my own bedroom (Mom and Dad were sweethearts), so it felt like I'd more or less lived there myself, too.

Sometimes you can go home again.

Back to School

2007-09-06T18:14:00.000-04:00

My school days may be forever behind me now, but when September rolls around I can still watch "Freaks and Geeks" and it's just like being back in high school. The same excruciating pain, but a whole lot funnier.

Actually, the school in "Freaks and Geeks" isn't much like the one I went to. Mine was a private Catholic school, and comparatively small, and as I told my husband while we were watching an episode the other night, "we had subtler forms of social humiliation." But although subtle, they were no less effective. I guess I shouldn't complain - for most of my four years I had a nice, small group of friends, and nothing really truly bad ever happened to me - but we all have our battle scars. (Hiding in the bathroom to furtively eat your lunch, anyone? Oh the memories.)

I was thinking about how in many ways the defining theme of the show is how much Lindsay, the smart "good girl," has to learn from the bad kids she so wants to be accepted by. She might be a "mathlete," but there's a whole realm of human nature she doesn't understand, everything a sheltered good girl with nice parents doesn't learn until she starts hanging out with the streetwise "freaks." I myself didn't have much of a desire to hang out with "the bad kids" in high school (that came later), but I can relate to having felt desperate to fit in and hopelessly lost about how to do it.

I came across the blog of one of my high school classmates the other day - the only one I've ever found, actually. I was led there by Facebook, another school deja vu (I feel like half the people I know popped up on it all in the last week - Facebook, you're on fire!) and as I browsed through the blog's archives, full of interesting, expressive posts about her creative life and her young family, it made me happy to see what a nice life this woman seems to have. I remember her as very eccentric, rather extravagantly so, and occasionally paying the price for so unabashedly being herself. We were pretty friendly with each other, but I know I still gave her a hard time once or twice, and for what? Wearing a bindi on her forehead one day? And this was decades before Madonna did it. The girl had vision!

I don't know that she was particularly unhappy at the time - she had a group of friends of her own, and her own thing going on - but let's just say neither of us would have been elected Homecoming Queen if our school had such a thing. (Wait, did we? It's telling that I can't remember.) I guess I just felt good to know that being set free in the great big world had given her unique peculiarities the room they needed to unfold. High school just isn't big enough for some personalities - they need a bigger field in which to grow.

So high school classmate, I salute you. Remember the day you wore a veil draped over your face, and our history teacher made a crack about journeying in the Sahara? I do. You had a lot more nerve than most of us.

Down Cape

2007-08-23T19:52:00.000-04:00

In summers past, Daniel and I have always ended up staying in Orleans when we've visited Cape Cod. This year, after my oh-so-pleasant experience last month in Wellfleet, we drove a little further along Route 6 and stayed there instead. I think the siren call of the National Seashore is part of what lured me.

The path to Marconi Beach.

Surfers paddling together like seals, hoping to catch a rogue wave in the placid sea.

Steep cliffs behind us, and the sun about to slip behind them.

Downtown Wellfleet was awfully cute, too, rife with little galleries, but not overly artsy-touristy feeling. We were most impressed by the Wellfleet Marketplace, a small grocery/bakery/general store/post office. It seemed like everyone in town was stopping by for something.

In our case, it was the fantastic self-serve coffee bar and exquisite selection of buttery muffins, with a $2 coffee + muffin special.

They also stock some shelves of puzzles and games to remedy the rainy-day vacation blues, as illustrated here in a painted window display.

Our motel had a tomato patch out back. This little chipmunk was snacking on a cherry tomato on the back steps until I scared him away with the click of my camera.

Low tide, folks foraging for shellfish at Mayo Beach.

My seafood tally over two days consisted of one lobster roll, six oysters on the half shell, one cup of clam chowder, lobster and shrimp on garlic linguine, and lobster and scallops in lobster cream sauce, again on linguine. For once, I had more than my fill of shellfish on a Cape Cod vacation - for this week at least, I am sticking solely to foodstuffs from above sea level.

Recraft

2007-08-18T20:56:00.001-04:00

Today was a beautiful, crisp, almost fall-like (say it ain't so!) day, so we headed over to Union Square's Reduce, Reuse, Recycle ... Recraft craft fair, hosted by the good folks of Magpie and the Somerville Arts Council.

These guys were playing when we arrived - I think perhaps they were The Blind King? Apologies if I'm wrong. Whoever you are, you provided us with some good tunes for browsing recrafted items.

This little guy came running up mid-set, wrestling with a shirt or something. I'm not sure quite what was going on, but he was feeling it.

I wasn't in much of a shopping mood, but it was nice to be out amidst a throng of the young and indie-minded. Things that caught my eye were letterpress notecards from Albertine Press, cute little bags by Applecart, surprisingly polished-looking glasses made out of old SOL cerveza bottles from Greenward, and the wise sphinx creatures of Fern Animals. I think those transfixed me the most - little embroidered birds and lions - the things I yearned for most and needed least.

I love the idea of crafting from recycled materials, and find myself leaning towards such work myself (vintage clothespins, painting on grocery bag paper), but I think you have to work extra hard to make a finished product that's polished and professional. Just being recycled isn't enough - we can all figure out how to make bottle cap refrigerator magnets. That's the complaint I've heard most often about this kind of craft fair - "I see all the stuff and think I could buy it, or just make it myself." The trick is reusing these materials to create something with an original spark of its own, constructed with enough skill to set it apart from the creations of your average kindergartener.

Mmm, Beer

2007-08-05T20:02:00.000-04:00

I guess it's already old news, but last night I discovered for myself that the already awesome Somerville Theatre in Davis Square now sells beer and wine to go along with your popcorn and movie.

That's enough to now put the Somerville Theatre experience on par with our beloved Parkway Theater in Oakland. The Somerville may not have pizza and couches like the Parkway, but they do use real butter on their popcorn, and the screening rooms smell a lot better than the Parkway, too.

Appropriately enough, I learned of this development while attending a screening of "The Simpsons Movie." Man, some people sure were excited about this movie. I mean, I enjoyed it a lot, but a guy behind us was clapping and barking like a trained seal at even the dumbest of the jokes. Maybe that was Homer himself back there.

The Secret Language of Cats

2007-08-04T14:38:00.000-04:00

Cat hieroglyphics interpreted:

Sign of the woolly caterpillar.

Please stop bothering me.

Oops, I swallowed a Slinky.

Roman Holiday

2007-08-03T11:43:00.000-04:00

The Olivia doll has been sent off to her rightful owner in California, but before she went in the mailbox I couldn't resist taking a few more photos. I think it's those curls - they are so scrumptious. These scenes were inspired by the real-life Olivia's Italian tour a few years back.

Here she awaits her date (Skip, naturally), passing the time with a glass of Prosecco (a signature Olivia refreshment).

That little blob on the dress is a cluster of beads and sequins meant to be a corsage or brooch. I love this yellow silk dress - like lemon custard.

Here she is with the other man in her life, Gary, whiling away the afternoon at a Tuscan villa.

Ah, la dolce vita.

Cape Coddities

2007-07-29T23:30:00.000-04:00

Last week I had the good fortune to be invited to join a friend at her mom's rental cottage in Wellfleet on outer Cape Cod, so I eagerly packed my overnight bag and headed out the door bright and early to catch the 8 a.m. high-speed ferry to Provincetown.

It felt strange and exciting to be down by Boston's World Trade Center and Fish Pier - a rather remote, industrial area - so early in the morning. A bagpiper was playing outside the entrance to one of the convention hotels nearby, the white outlines of jellyfish bobbed in the harbor, and funny little water taxis putted by.

I had really been looking forward to the hour-and-a-half-long ferry ride, and scoffed at the "Rough Seas" sign by the ticket window, but about halfway through the ride I wasn't laughing anymore, and neither were most of my fellow passengers. Let's just say I was green enough around the gills not to be even remotely tempted to crack open my fresh copy of "The Deathly Hallows," and all the children who were initially perched on the luggage racks by the ferry's front window, observing the voyage with enthusiasm, were soon stretched out solemnly on the long cabin benches. Seasickness: it's not for sissies.

I did, however, manage to keep my breakfast down for the duration of the journey, and was rewarded once docking with a fortifying brunch on the veranda of a wharf-side Provincetown hotel. Another hour or so reading Harry Potter back at my friend's mom's charmingly musty knotty pine abode and I was good as new.

Wellfleet is pretty far out on the Cape, so it feels a lot quieter - more deserted - than the more populated, villagey towns closer to mainland Massachusetts. Among other cultural attractions, it boasts the Cape's only drive-in movie theater. It has a scant 2,000-something year-round population, and something like 20,000 in summer.

The path from the cottage to the beach, a walk along a salt marsh and Wellfleet harbor, was strewn with the contents of a veritable nature's curiosity cabinet.

Everywhere we looked, it seemed, were prehistorically armored horseshoe crabs.

The marsh grass was flattened in an undulating pattern of ocean waves.

We came upon the decapitated carcass of some sort of fish or sea mammal - it was hard to know what. Just as we'd concluded from its size and bony flippers that it must be a seal, we stumbled upon another one, very similar in body shape, but very toothy and much more fish-like.

And then, yet another skeleton, this one with a creepily hominid domed skull, lovingly laid out on the grass like tomorrow's school clothes.

In the end, yet one more skeleton connecting domed skull with long beak, along with the presence near several of the carcasses of the distinctive narrow, pointy lower jaw, led us to believe that we might be looking at a number of small beached whales. One had a tagged flipper, so this seems to be a likely if sad possibility.

Leaving this scrimshaw graveyard behind, we walked on to Indian Neck beach, a jutting shore on the cusp of Wellfleet harbor looking out onto the narrow peninsula of Great Island.

I've seen plenty of Atlantic beach shells during my years in the Boston area, but here in Wellfleet I was stunned to encounter dozens of live oysters nestled in the sand.

I mean, I know they have to come from somewhere, but I didn't expect to see them just hanging out there by the shoreline. It was very "Walrus and the Carpenter." I am aware of the strict shellfishing regulations around such things, but all I can say is it's lucky I wasn't packing an oyster knife.

I have to admit, we'd already had our fill the previous day, first with some oysters and wine as an afternoon snack, and then with still more pre-dinner at the Bookstore & Restaurant. Wellfleet oysters: enough to make a lobster roll addict forget herself.

Owl Post Special Delivery

2007-07-19T20:18:00.000-04:00

You might say I'm getting a little excited about the release of the final Harry Potter book. I decided to go with Amazon pre-order, to cut down on hassle. I don't remember the last time I so anticipated the arrival of a package.

What is slippery Severus Snape brewing up for our hero?

Hermione is so clever with books ...

That Fleur is such a show-off ... just like a veela.

Can you transfigure a kitten ...

... into a mousetrap?

"Wotcher, Harry!"

Ginny Weasley sure is fast on the Quidditch field.

One day left to wait ...

San Francisco Girl

2007-07-15T19:56:00.000-04:00

Today's clothespin series is inspired by a certain curly-headed friend of mine, the consummate San Francisco girl (even if she lives in Oakland now), stylish and fun-loving. Here she is strolling up to North Beach for an espresso at Caffe Trieste and a bit of shopping on upper Grant.

Making friends in Chinatown as the Muni buses rumble below ...

And shopping at the Ferry Building farmers market. Did I mention she's a bit of a foodie?

How To: Curls

If you're a real person, you can only be born with curls as great as these (and trust me, they are stupendous). But if you are a clothespin, this is how you get them:

1) Starting with 3- or 4-ply yarn in your chosen color, unravel the end slightly to separate out the end of one of the strands.

2) Holding onto one strand, scrunch the remaining strands down the yarn, forming tightly bunched bundle of yarn.

3) You might want to make a couple of these, to have plenty of curly yarn to choose from. The bunches usually end up being two or three inches long, since the pulling strand often gets stretched out and breaks off at a certain point.

4) Now hold a hot, steamy iron just above the yarn bundles for about a minute. Don't press the iron against them, as that will flatten the curl.

5) Let the yarn cool down and dry out, then release the bunched fibers, either by pulling out the center strand, or gently loosening the bunched strands until they spring free.

Curls! Trim and glue into place as desired.

Sense of fun and San Francisco-style sold separately.

Call the Grammar Police

2007-07-15T13:04:00.000-04:00

According to an article in today's Boston Globe, Somerville has its own resident Grammar Vandal, a vigilante who takes it upon herself to correct public grammar errors.

This young lady gets particularly ruffled over missing punctuation in signage, not just apostrophes and hyphens, but commas and periods, too. While I also cringe over the ubiquitous "its" vs. "it's," and the even more horrifying apostrophe-"s" used as blanket remedy for puzzling pluralization scenarios (acronyms like "CDs" seem to cause particular confusion, as well as words ending in vowels), I pretty much tune out all other niceties of usage when it comes to advertising copy. But not the Grammar Vandal: she really means it.

You go (comma) girl!

Buckingham

2007-07-13T11:13:00.000-04:00

Summertime often makes me homesick for Chicago, a condition that's only been heightened by my current project of sifting through old family photos from the '70s, rife with snapshots from summer vacations of yore.

This little tableau illustrates what I thought was THE place to be during the city summers of my childhood: the Buckingham Fountain. I'm not sure where I got this idea, but I often fervently wished my family would trek down to Grant Park, particularly at night, when the water and light show commenced, so we, too, could be part of the action, the place where everything was happening, where one could feel truly alive.

The fountain is indeed a grand old Chicago monument, its design inspired by the Latona Basin at Versailles. It's meant to symbolize Lake Michigan, which it overlooks, and the four states that touch the lake. It was dedicated on my birthday, August 26th, in 1927, which gave me a certain sense of kinship with it. Lord knows where I picked up this bit of trivia - my mom must have told me. (She was very good with dates, almost savant-like in that way.)

I did get to visit the fountain plenty of times during the day, usually when we were taking out-of-town visitors to one of the various museums that dot the perimeter of the park. We must have gone once at night when I was very little, and ever after that experience remained my gold standard of nighttime summer family fun. I think that was the only time though. We drove by the light show every now and then on the way back from weekends in Michigan, but even those glimpses were rare, as my dad liked to beat the Lake Shore Drive traffic by sticking to the west-side highways (forgive my generalizations - I never drove in Chicago, so my knowledge of the major roadways is incredibly vague).

The July 4th fireworks took place along the lake in Grant Park, too, but we were usually in Michigan then, and anyway my parents never would have wanted to deal with those crowds. I went one year in high school with some friends, and it was true, the crush of people down there was horrendous. The idea of fireworks over the lake alongside those awesome Midwest skyscrapers is pretty great though. The girl's outfit in this picture is inspired by a red-white-and-blue fireworks extravaganza.

Even if I did see that after-dark fountain show one time only, once may have been enough. It sure lives on in my memory as a thing of glowing wonder.

Lobster Roll Diaries: Best Yet

2007-07-12T14:30:00.000-04:00

I went with a friend for a late lunch at Neptune Oyster in the North End the other day, and all I can say is wow. What a great little place.

As you can guess from the marble tabletop and silver cutlery in the picture to the left, Neptune Oyster is no casual seafood shack, but in terms of upscale lobster rolls, this one was sublime. A generous helping of nice, big chunks of fresh, really lobstery-tasting lobster on a toasted brioche roll, which was also quite yummy in its own right. You can order the lobster served hot with butter or cold with mayo, a nice choice to have. We went with mayo, as that's how we both like our rolls in general, and it was a really muggy day so cold seemed best anyway. It wasn't cheap, but if you make a meal of it and start with a few briny Wellfleet oysters apiece (we did), I think you get your money's worth.

We practically had the place to ourselves, so it's hard to judge what the service would be like on a busier day at such a small, popular restaurant, but our waiter couldn't have been nicer, and happily spent lots of time describing his favorite oysters to us, and debating the merits of butter vs. mayonnaise. (Basically, for him it came down to this: "I like mine in butter ... because I like butter!" Well said.)

There's still no substitute for the charm of a ramshackle seafood place, but if I had an out-of-town guest who wanted to go somewhere nice but unpretentious for some fresh lobster and bivalves, I'd take them to Neptune Oyster in a heartbeat.

The North End is also always fun to stroll around, even on a hot, soupy day such as this one. We stopped into some of the little clothing boutiques that have sprung up in the area recently, and while we weren't exactly blown away by the merchandise, it's still nice that they're there. (It was too hot to be trying on clothes, anyway.)

Apparently the neighborhood's become kind of yuppified, and it's obviously very touristy, but I don't know, those old dudes leaning out their windows in undershirts looked pretty authentic to me. I don't think they let yuppies into places like this, either:

Also still going strong is Pizzeria Regina, much better known than our beloved Santarpio's, but still in the same league as the object of fiercely loyal local pizza allegiance. The parents of a friend of ours had their first date there many years ago, and it doesn't seem like it's changed much since.

Perhaps I'll get around to giving the full Regina rundown another day. It is surely deserving. But for now, I only have eyes for lobster. I might have to cook one for myself tonight, now that my seasonal mania has been ignited.

Swimming Lessons

2007-07-06T11:44:00.000-04:00

We made our first swimming visit of the year to Walden Pond last week after a couple of 90 degree scorchers that begged for a watery cool-off. I tend to think it's not really possible to go swimming until July, that lakes and ocean waters will still be too cold before that, but I realize that's kind of an arbitrary start-date. The temperature of the pond was perfectly refreshing, a bit chilly going in but nowhere near the bone-cold I remember tolerating in Lake Michigan through much of the summer.

I learned to swim in a lake - not Lake Michigan, but a small one like Walden Pond. Previous to that I'd been fearful of the water, one of those side-clutching children you see at swimming pools, rigid with anxiety as I inched my way around the circumference, terrified that I would plummet instantly to the bottom if I dared let go of that concrete lip. (And, since I didn't yet know how to swim, I assume that's exactly what would have happened.) I spent a year or two taking after-school lessons in downtown Chicago at the stuffy/swanky old Women's Athletic Club, a.k.a "the WAC," quite the incongruent place to troop through as an unaccompanied uniformed schoolgirl, laden with grubby backpack. There were only a few other children in the class, and all I remember is splashing aimlessly with kickboards in the grand old swimming pool, pictured above. We didn't make much progress.

Perhaps there was some discussion of this between my parents and my aunt and uncle, because it was arranged that the next summer I would visit them in Michigan to attend swimming lessons along with my cousins. Every day for two weeks we would go to a place called Gourdneck Lake in the Kalamazoo area for our lessons, and afterwards, my cousins told me with great anticipation, we would stop at the Dairy King (not Queen) on the way home for a dip cone. Ice cream cones every single day. That clinched it: I was officially excited about learning how to swim.

It turned out those ice cream cones were not a treat, but necessity. The daily hour of hard swimming made us ravenous. Before they'd even have a chance to drip we'd have inhaled our cones (chocolate-vanilla twist dipped in chocolate was the favorite, though sometimes an adventurous soul would go for butterscotch dip), and at night we slept like the dead. It's a running joke now between me and my husband that if I so much as dip a toe into the water I'll collapse into sleep that night, but back then it was merited.

The lessons were run by a nice man named Mr. Marfia, perhaps in his 50s, with a sun-weathered face and always wearing, as I remember it, a sort of safari hat. The story was (I don't know if it's true) that he had a son who had drowned, and that's why he taught children to swim. His house was right on the lakeshore, with a wide lawn and a sandy beach out front, and a system of docks where the lessons were conducted. He would stride about the area with gusto, an expression of happy satisfaction on his face, keeping an eye on things and making sure all was running smoothly. Once, mid-lesson, a water snake appeared, gliding across the water from the middle of the lake towards the diving area, and before any of the kids even had time to get upset, Mr. Marfia had hopped in a little boat, zipped over to the snake, and whacked it smartly with a stick. That was the end of the snake. You got the feeling he was a remarkably competent person and constantly on the lookout for everyone's well-being.

Kids were allowed to go in the house to use the downstairs bathroom, which was also pretty nice, considering how many of us there were and that this was Mr. Marfia's private home. We would tiptoe across the linoleum, smelling the musty lake house smell and leaving a trail of wet footprints behind us. There was a player piano in the rec room, and we would pause in front of it to gaze in wonder at its mechanical workings and peer at the song canisters piled on a nearby shelf.

Mr. Marfia worked with the very youngest children, who started their education lying on their tummies in the sand and kicking in the shallows, so I never had him as a teacher. We older kids gathered waist- and shoulder-deep farther out in the water, "Intermediates" midway down the dock, "Swimmers" at the end near the diving area. The class would line up in the water at the edge of the dock, craning our necks up at the teacher standing above us, demonstrating the various strokes in the air before we all swam back and forth practicing them.

My first year, which I started in Intermediates on the strength of my WAC kickboard training, I got the dreaded Mrs. Cush as my teacher. She wasn't actually all that bad, but had a blunt manner and a way of putting kids on the spot, which apparently was enough to make her reputation. She was a large, portly woman, and we liked to speculate whether that would make her sink or float - we never saw our teachers actually get in the water, after all - and called her "Mrs. Cushion" when safely out of earshot. The big gossip of the summer was the rumor that her name was not "Mrs. Cush" at all, but rather "Mrs. Cusher," a name we decided was dangerously close to "cushion," and must be the reason she had shortened it, solely to avoid our inevitable mocking. (This reminds me of the terrible gossip at my summer camp one year that the art teacher, Roberta, was bald under her head scarf. In retrospect I'm sure it was true, whether from chemotherapy or some sort of disorder, but nobody ever spoke to us about it - we just whispered and stared, and Roberta acted uncomfortable and looked at us like she hated us. I wish someone in authority had somehow defused the situation.)

Outside of class, waiting for my older cousin to finish his Swimmers lesson, I trooped around with the two cousins closest to my age, who were in the same class as me. We played in the water off to the side of the rectangle of docks, or else hid underneath them, breathing in the shallow air space between the surface of the water and the wooden slats above, spying on the people walking over us. If we felt too waterlogged we'd run up to the parking lot to sit in the hot station wagon with all the windows rolled up, baking in our private sauna and eating soupy peanut butter on Saltine crackers.

During class we must have been lined up alphabetically, with me near the beginning of the alphabet and my cousins at the end, so my swimming lessons pal was a boy named Hans who was placed next to me in line. Hans was friendly and quiet, and used the strategy, when teased about his name by other boys - "Hands?" - of smiling and saying, "Yup, two!" and holding them up cheerfully. He must have been used to that one. We talked in undertones together, I don't remember what about, probably just swimming lesson things like strokes and diving, as we bobbed at the edge of the dock waiting for our turn at the next exercise. But it was frequent enough that one day one of the other boys (those taunting boys!) asked him loudly, "Is that your girlfriend?" Hans looked mortified and awkwardly dodged the accusation, but it didn't stop him from talking to me, for which I was grateful.

Many days of swimming lessons were spent learning survival techniques. If we fell overboard, we were told, the first order of business was to get our shoes and clothes off. This was conveyed with great urgency, as though those items were lead weights that would instantly drag us down to the bottom of the ocean. And I don't know, perhaps they would. I would picture myself tumbling off the side of some enormous, Titanic-like vessel, and wondered how taking off my shoes would help me if I were bobbing alone in the middle of the ocean. We spent much longer than seemed necessary learning the jellyfish float (huddling in a little ball face-down in the water), and were shown how to tie off the legs of our pants to make them into inflated floats (by far the coolest part of the lesson). Then, one exciting day, were told to bring in a full outfit of clothing which we would wear while jumping into the water and then remove while jellyfish-floating, all timed by a stopwatch. That night, my cousins and I worried a lot about forgetting to put our bathing suits on underneath our clothes the next day, and practiced the jellyfish float as best we could on the family room carpet.

The next day all went well at first. Nobody forgot their under-layer of swimsuit, and we all jumped off the side of the dock in our clothes, feeling them grow heavily waterlogged, indeed fairly lead-like. I floated in my jellyfish pose and successfully got my shoes off, knotting them together, but when it came time to remove my shirt I made a crucial error and flipped it back over my head, thus pinning my arms behind my body. Suddenly the whistle was blowing and Mrs. Cush was hauling me up onto the dock, an example to all of what not to do.

"This girl!" she bellowed, "this girl ..." and she went on, but I don't remember anything else she said, only that ringing "this girl" and that I had to stand up there on the dock in my dripping clothes, my arms still pinned behind my back while Mrs. Cush went on and on about my mistake, prodding at me and turning me around to show off my sodden shackles to best advantage. When I was finally allowed to slip back into the water, my cousins and my buddy Hans may have tried to throw me a consoling look, but it was my turn to be mortified, and I felt far too disgraced to meet anyone's eyes.

In spite of the "this girl" incident, I was promoted out of Intermediates in just one year, something of a coup since most kids spent two seasons at that level, but I ended up spending two summers in Swimmers, since that was when we focused on diving and I had trouble surrendering myself to the perils of the diving board. This meant I had to undertake the ultimate "Swimmers" test two years in a row: swimming across the lake and back. Compared to this, jumping into the lake in our clothes was nothing. No dock to hold onto if we got tired, no sandy bottom where we could put our feet down, everyone watching if we failed, and who knew what lurked in the depths in the middle of the lake. There might be snapping turtles, and that water snake had come from there, hadn't it?

The first year I found the challenge surprisingly easy. We all headed off across the lake in a pack, and it seemed we reached the opposite shore in no time, staggering up through the cattails on the muddy beach like shipwreck survivors and admiring the strange view of Mr. Marfia's place from so far away, then crashing back into the water for the return swim.

The next year, for whatever reason, was much harder for me. Maybe I just had a bad day. I got really tired, and though I made it across and didn't lag too much, I remember struggling to keep up with everyone else. My mom took a picture of me just after I'd climbed back onto the dock, and the expression on my face is priceless: completely shattered, an embarrassed smile at having my picture taken mixed with the look of someone about to break into exhausted tears. And then, stumbling back down the dock towards the beach and the parking lot, a final celebratory dip cone in my immediate future, I wove a little too far to the right and fell right off the dock into the water with a big splash.

I was too tired to bother feeling mortified this time, and anyway, I'd scraped my leg pretty badly on the way down. And apparently all that mattered was getting across the lake, not what happened afterwards. The Swimmers instructor still passed me - she was much nicer than Mrs. Cush, and even bothered to learn our names, I remember, though of course now I can only recall the mean teacher's name, not hers.

So, in addition to the breast stroke and the crawl and the jellyfish float, that's the main thing I learned from swimming lessons: try not to be too mortified when you embarrass yourself in front of everyone. Kicking off your shoes and turning your pants into water wings won't help anything, and there's not much else you can do about it but smile and make a joke ("Hands? Yup, two!"). If you're lucky you still might get a dip cone on the way home at the Dairy King.

Also that it's okay to swim in lakes: chances are there's nothing in there that's going to bite you. And if there is, jump in your boat, fast, and try to hit it with a stick.

Favorite Summer Shoe

2007-06-22T13:01:00.000-04:00

Summer shoes are problematic for me - do you find that, too? Flip flops and sandals are great for wandering around, but on long walks they start to chafe, and sometimes it's just too hot to consider socks and sneakers. What do you do about those really epic-walk days, when you still want something cool and breezy?

My solution is Fernand Footwear. They're not the most stylish shoe out there, but I live just over the border from crunchy Cambridge, after all. I first saw my friend Devon wearing them, many years ago, and she told me she got them in Northern Michigan - they're handmade there, in the town of Benzonia. This was before the advent of global Internet shopping, so I forgot about them for another many years until it occurred to me that this local artisan shoemaker might have put together a web site.

While some of the styles are incredibly dorky, I think the simpler ones like "the Chinese" Mary-Jane, "the West Indian" T-strap, and "the Floridian" slide are all pretty cute, in their earthy boho way, and I like that woven detail around the back of the ankle on the buckle styles. The leather is really soft, especially the insole, and after awhile the shoe molds to your foot in a unique-to-you fit. If you're not quite sure which size you take you can send in a tracing of your foot at no extra charge and they'll match you up to the closest fit. At $100+ per pair they're not the cheapest, but mine have lasted through three years of heavy wear, and I just noticed you can send your shoes back for resoling and conditioning for a pretty reasonable fee. These shoes are meant to last until the leather gives out.

So, for all these reasons, I go with my Fernands to get me through the dog days of summer. But probably most of all, the way it often is with favorite clothes, because each time I put them on I get to think of my friend.

Twiggy

2007-06-20T14:55:00.000-04:00

Before the inspiration could fade, I decided to take a stab at constructing those twig teepees to support our new tomato plants, as an alternative to the circular cages you get at the hardware store. The first step was sorting through the raw material: this heap of yard waste moldering in the small lot behind our house.

I used pruning shears to trim off protruding branches, and brought a bundle of different lengths and thicknesses back up to the porch.

Once I started working with them, it was clear that the thinner branches were best for my purposes -- easier to trim, more flexible, and sufficiently sturdy to support the plant (I hope). Forming the tent shape was trickier than I expected, as even the slight curve of the branches affected the way they all came together at the top.

Crazy ballooning "teepee":

I used some copper wire I had lying around to fasten the twigs at the top, for a decorative touch:

Twine wrapped around the branches to help support the growing plant:

We'll see how they work. I can't decide if the finished effect is more "rustic cottage garden" or "Blair Witch II: Haunted Porch." It would probably look better with three teepees instead of two, the same way a bouquet of flowers looks best with an odd number of blooms. Perhaps a good excuse to add one more tomato variety to the mix.

In other gardening news, the morning glory tendrils have already found their way around the nearest guiding length of twine. How do they know how to do that? The sweet peas were not quite as enterprising, and needed another nudge in the right direction this morning.

Plant Attack

2007-06-19T20:28:00.000-04:00

It seems like I blinked and suddenly summer was well underway: balmy nights and the smell of neighbors' barbecues in the air, and me with winter coats and hats still piled in our front hall, and the bulky feather duvet taking up valuable real estate on a chair in the bedroom.

That stuff all still needs to be dealt with, but today I hauled myself over to the garden center and ended up buying twice as many plants as I'd intended to. That must happen to everyone, right? It's so tempting ... like all those different varieties of heirloom tomatoes, with their descriptions as over-the-top and escapist as any clothing catalog copy. "Sun-kissed, deep-golden fruit bursts with tropical flavor" -- about a tomato! And yes, I came home with two heirloom varieties, that sun-kissed tropical one, and also "Brandywine Red," which I probably chose because it reminded me of "The Hobbit." Also some basil, part of my original plan, tarragon (nice with fingerling potatoes from the farmers market), and a trio of interesting-looking lettuces.

Unfortunately our rascally porch squirrel will probably dig everything up and make short work of it all by sunrise tomorrow. I found a couple of nuts buried in the old lettuce planter, a storeroom he evidently forgot to raid once winter set in. I'm hoping, perhaps naively, that because I got larger plants this time (last year I tried seedlings) he won't be able to do as much damage.

I'm thinking of attempting to craft some twig teepees for the tomatoes, in an effort to create "vertical interest" for our "garden." I've got some sweet pea and morning glory vines (more impulse buys) started by the porch railing as well.

And for a last stab at atmosphere, a pot of lavender and some miniature daisies (not their real name, but their identification tag is all the way out on the porch) for some South of France je ne sais quois. The lavender just happens to perfectly match our awesome and cheap new chairs from Target, though their color looked more navy then purple under the fluorescents in the store. But ca ne fait rien: turns out it was all part of a grander scheme.

Lobster Roll Diaries: Barking Crab

2007-06-17T15:01:00.001-04:00

Yesterday some friends treated me to a great lunch at the Barking Crab, a seafood place on Fort Point Channel in Boston. They had been curious to try a lobster roll, so that was the purpose of our expedition.

The Barking Crab can be a little tricky to find, tucked down behind a bridge on a side of town that most people, I would guess, don't often have reason to visit. Once you get there though, the location is hard to beat, right on the water and looking up at the buildings of the financial district. In a city so famous for its harbor (remember the Boston Tea Party?), it's surprisingly easy to let months go by without glimpsing any waterway but the Charles River (which, granted, is very nice in itself), so that makes this place extra special.

It also has a fun atmosphere, with lobster traps (or crab traps? I don't know) filled with twinkly lights, and a tented, open-air side (rather carnival-like) for summer, and a cozier enclosed dining room with a wood stove for winter. We sat at picnic tables under the tent this time.

As for the roll itself, well I'll tell you, it wasn't downright bad, but we weren't wowed. The lobster meat just didn't have much flavor, but I'm not sure if that's due to the time of year, the way it's cooked, or the luck of the draw. Whatever the reason, the end result was a dominant flavor of mayonnaise and parsley. I also prefer my lobster salad in larger chunks, but that might be a matter of taste.

The use of a baguette instead of a hot dog bun worked surprisingly well, in particular because the crust wasn't too hard. The fries and coleslaw that came with the sandwich were great (it's nice to have side orders to munch on, to make the lobster roll last longer), and we also ordered some fried Ipswich clams, which were perfect.

I like the Barking Crab overall. The food is fresh and simply prepared, and it would be a good place to take out-of-town visitors. Yet, although I had no trouble finishing everything on my plate, I probably wouldn't order their lobster roll again, except in the case of a true lobster roll emergency. Never say never.

Clothespin Doll Tutorial

2007-06-07T16:39:00.000-04:00

A lot of people find this site by searching for "clothespin dolls," and I started to feel sort of bad that I didn't have more practical information for them once they got here. (As an aside, if you have a blog, do you ever find yourself influenced by the search terms that bring people to your site? I can't, or won't, do much for those searching for "transparent leotards," but I sometimes feel I should at least have included a basic recipe for all those desperately looking for the perfect "carrucho" dish.)

It's pretty easy to figure out how to make a clothespin doll on your own, and one of the neat things about them is how many different ways you can go with the same foundation materials. But there are a few tricks I've learned along the way to get the best results, so here it is: my process for making clothespin dolls, along with more musings on the art of the clothespin doll than seems reasonable for something so small and uncomplicated. Be careful what you search for!

Materials:
- Round wooden slotted clothespins
- Craft glue (I am loyal to Elmer's)
- Scissors
- Yarn or embroidery floss
- Paint and fine brushes, or fine-tipped markers
- Lightweight fabric
- Felt

Clothespins: There are lots of types of clothespins out there, but unless you're making an alligator, you want the round slotted wooden kind. I prefer the shorter style, though the tall ones can yield appealing results as well.

The quality of new clothespins unfortunately just isn't that good anymore. Even those that are still made from American hardwood are now assembled in China, and you can really see the difference in the product. Compare the clothespin on the right (an old-school model) with the other two in the photo. The new clothespins are crudely carved, the wood lacks the same pleasing grain, and both styles have a weird forked notch at the end of the slot. Be forewarned. I look for vintage clothespins on eBay. If I'd known this supply, so inexpensive and readily available until quite recently, was was going to disappear, I would have stocked up.

You'll also find clothespins marketed as "doll pins" at craft supply stores. These suffer from the same poor wood quality and coarse finishing, and usually have squared-off legs, rather than the tapered "foot" of the traditional shape. This makes it easier to stand them on their own, but I think they look stumpy, kind of like the difference in effect between a nice heel vs. an orthopedic clodhopper. However, you can also buy simple wooden stands along with these craft pins, which are useful for displaying your finished doll.

Hair: I like to glue on the hair before I draw the doll's face. I find it easier to paint in the face after I can see how the hair will frame it. Yarn or embroidery floss are good materials, or you can paint it on if you want a short, sleek look. Four or five strands of yarn are enough to cover the top of the head.

Fill in the back of the head with another four or five shorter strands of yarn (more for finer fibers).

This character is getting bangs for some added personality.

Face: Once the hair has dried, it's time to paint the face (just like getting ready for work in the morning). I think paint yields a more durable and appealing finished product, but marker can be easier to control and is also fine, especially if you're doing this project with kids.

Whether you're using a brush or a pen, you want a fine-tipped point. The tiniest speck of pigment can make a world of difference to the expressions on these minimalist faces - with the slip of a pen, your saintly princess doll can become an evil-browed villainess.

Along the same lines, every girl feels better with a fresh haircut and a touch of mascara, even girls made out of laundry accessories. Whether you're using paint or marker, you want to let the eyes dry before you add anything like lashes or eyeglasses, or the black pigment will bleed.

Clothes: I find when you're working with small scraps of fabric the edges have a tendency to fray, so even though sewing seems theoretically nicer, I glue these garments together. It helps prevent the fraying and also gives the garments a bit of structure, sort of like a whalebone corset.

I prefer not to glue the clothes directly to the doll, because of course the fun of clothes is to have lots of cute outfits. My only exception is when I'm making a doll for a young child, since you know the outfit will disappear in an instant if it's not glued firmly in place (though they'll still probably rip the arms and hair off within five minutes).

If you're choosing a printed fabric, go for something in a small enough scale to translate to the size of the doll. Some fabric stores sell bundles of remnants, which can be a good source of material for multiple small items.

Dress how-to: For a basic A-line dress, you'll need a few scant inches of lightweight fabric, and about two square inches of felt for arms (anyway, that's my solution for the problem of arms). Cut out one strip about an inch wide, and long enough to wrap around the doll's body with a half inch to spare. Cut a wider, longer strip to make the skirt. To help prevent fraying, you can use the selvage of the cloth as the top and bottom edges of the dress, or fold the edge over and iron it. Or just cut out your squares and let the fringe fall where it may - this is a folk art, after all.

Top: Wrap the narrower strip tightly around the doll and glue down the edge, being careful not to get glue on the doll itself or let the glue bleed through the fabric. Let dry. This will be the top of the dress.

Skirt: Dab a little glue along the front of the waist, and wrap the larger piece of cloth around the waist, angling the ends to form a cone shape. Dab a little glue at the sides of the waist and where the flaps of cloth overlap. You can glue the whole piece of fabric down for a wrap-around look (very Diane von Furstenberg), or just lay a line of glue straight down the back of the skirt and trim off the excess fabric after the glue dries. Once everything is dry, trim the skirt to the length you want. An edging of decorative trim can help prevent the hem from fraying.

Arms: When I was a kid, I never bothered with clothespin doll arms. The pipe cleaner arms on clothespin dolls at craft fairs (usually Christmas tree ornaments) always bugged me - they were furry and sharp and not fooling anyone - and I didn't need the dolls to be able to hold anything, anyway. We'd just sort of use our own fingers in place of the missing arms if a given character really needed actual, functional arms. Now as an adult I'm a bit more literal, yet acknowledge that this is still just a small doll made out of a wooden peg, so stiff little "L" shapes of felt are my compromise, doing the job of signifying "arm" without slowing me down too much. Feel free to follow my innovation, or develop one of your own.

Details: Sequins and seed beads make nice buttons, narrow ribbons are good for sashes, and lace and rick rack add a flourish at the neck or hem. I don't worry too much about whether these additions are in perfect scale to the size of the doll, because in general they won't be. I am also fond of layering on lace hem tape for a lingerie look.

Shoes: I find these problematic, and as I used to with arms (and still do with noses), tend to ignore them. Occasionally I will paint on a little goes-with-anything pair of black ballerina flats, but to be honest they look more like hooves. A pair of painted brown button boots can work if your doll is Victorian, or knee-high black ones if she is a dominatrix or a New Yorker, but how comfortable will those be when she wants to hit the beach in July? I have crafted removable black boots out of electrical tape, but they were crudely shaped at best and required powerful imagination to be seen as anything other than stubby black bandages. Because of all this, I say add shoes at your own risk.

Done. And here's the finished result, shoeless, but still dressed up a bit with rick rack trim on her skirt (sewn rather than glued, since the weight of the rick rack is rather heavy) and a purse made from a scrap of Tyrolean jacquard.

Transformed from a dreary clothesline peg into a fabulous girl-about-town, all in just a few simple steps.

What Could be Sadder ...

2007-06-02T20:39:00.001-04:00

... than an ice cream truck idling outside the house, at dusk, playing "Send in the Clowns"? Over and over, for, like, 20 minutes.

By the time it finally pulled away I was about to break down in tears.

Bejeweled

2007-05-29T12:53:00.000-04:00

One of the most purely fun parts of the wedding-planning process for me was picking out gifts for my "attending" girlfriends. I knew right away that I wanted to get them something from Kris Nations Jewels, so the only hard part was deciding what to choose.

Kris Nations is a San Francisco-based designer who makes gorgeous pieces ranging from earthy to delicate to edgy. The quality of her materials is always really nice, and she pays attention to the finishing details like clasps and other hardware that separate the dilettantes from the pros. I'm acquainted with her through our mutual friend Natalie (who recently wrote about Kris and her sister Kim on the Craftzine blog), and in addition to being a talented designer, she's also just a really nice person (and effortlessly stylish, too). My jewelry box is full of her stuff.

While she does have a special bridal accessories collection, I had fun looking through everything on the site, and then ordering with abandon. For my bridesmaids (they wore chiffon dresses in "espresso" - thanks, J. Crew!) I ended up going with the smoky quartz corsage bracelets, made with two chunky strands of freshwater pearls and a detachable flower pin, and for my maid of honor I chose the quartz brooch, a flower with bigger, clear quartz "petals" and a freshwater pearl center, which looked amazing against her peacock blue silk.

I think the girls really liked their new jewels, and I loved being able to introduce them to the world of Kris Nations. Everything looked fantastic on them, and it felt good knowing we were supporting an independent designer and friend ... an easy proposition when it means you get to wear great jewelry in the process!

Lobster Roll Diaries: An Inland Lobster Roll

2007-05-28T13:45:00.000-04:00

Last week we made our first trip out to Walden Pond; too early to swim yet, but we took some visiting friends on a walk around its perimeter, and bought our annual parking pass in preparation for the summer.

On our way home we stopped at Dairy Joy, an ice cream stand we'd recently noticed in the town of Weston, quite close to Concord and Walden Pond. Along with soft-serve ice cream they also offer hamburgers and hot dogs, and, this being New England, fried clams and lobster rolls. Once I saw the menu I was helpless: there was no question of what I would order.

The lobster salad itself was very good, and the bun was grilled with a touch of butter, which is my favorite style of bun preparation. The portion was perhaps a little small compared to some of the lobster rolls I've had on Cape Cod, and lacking in the whole pieces of claw meat you sometimes get, but all in all, a roll with plenty of reason to feel good about itself.

Our veggie contingent appreciated the presence of a veggie burger on the menu, as well as a grilled cheese made with real sandwich bread (unlike the Ipswich Clam Box, where they use a hamburger bun), though the only available cheese was American, which did not score points.

But those details pale in significance when compared to the Dairy Joy's perfect location for a stop after a lazy day of lake-swimming, at a place whose only real disadvantage when compared to the beach, at least for this seafood-loving girl, was the absence of the classic seaside seafood shack. Paradise found.

Bluebell Honeymoon

2007-05-23T18:48:00.000-04:00

Long before the christening of Bluebell Halliwell, I developed a yen to see bluebell season in England. I'd I read about the phenomenon of the bluebell wood somewhere ... or maybe it was those dreamy scenes of the hapless Leonard Bast walking through the trees with swaths of bluebells underfoot in the movie of "Howards End."

Daniel and I have been to England together before, and both love it there. We decided the most relaxing honeymoon for us would be visiting a place we already know we like, and discovering more about it together. (Kind of like when you decide to marry someone you've already been liking and getting to know for five+ years, just as a random example.) So imagine my delight when I discovered we'd be there in time for bluebell season.

I was a little concerned about where to find them, exactly, as in England the bluebell often indicates the presence of an ancient woodland area, which is not necessarily something you can look up in a guide book. Happily, my research indicated that the fantastic Kew Gardens has its own bluebell grove on the grounds, so we made a journey out there on one of our days in London. Kew is pretty awesome in itself, with several Victorian conservatories and a towering pagoda, plus extensive gardens.

When I asked the ticket agent if the bluebells were still blooming and where to find them, he looked pained and told me regretfully that they'd started "quite early" this year and were past their prime, but he pointed out the area on the map for me all the same, and off we went. Along the way were rewarded by this rogue patch of stalwart indigo, our first bluebell sighting, complete with picturesque bicycle abandoned alongside it.

And then, wandering further, a full carpet of them, perhaps a little wilted and not as richly blue as at their peak, but for the bluebell novice, it was enough.

Yet England was generous with me, and though I said I was satisfied, she kept throwing more bluebells in my path throughout our visit. Up in York, so much farther north than London, they were freshly emerging and bloomin' everywhere.

Now that we're home again, I'm noticing Spanish bluebells all around our neighborhood. I've read that this variety is a threat to English bluebells in their native soil, but over here I think I can safely admire them. And just this morning as I finished up an issue of In Style left over from my airplane reading, what did I find but a mention of Penhaligon's bluebell fragrance. My eyes have been opened: everything's coming up bluebells.

Cat Sad

2007-05-02T17:24:00.000-04:00

One of our kitties had been flattening his right ear and squinting one eye for the past week, looking sort of like a grumpy stroke victim, so I finally took him in to the vet and determined that he has a mild infection.

As I was discussing treatment with the vet I felt the need to explain I would be getting married this weekend and afterwards would be away for a bit, wanting to find out if we could finish the course of ear drops before then. Once I said "wedding" the vet kept saying things like, "of course with a wedding going on the cat will take a back seat." I protested, but to no avail - he was convinced I'd be too busy stressing about napkin colors to take care of the cat. I mean, we'd like to still go on our honeymoon and everything, but I'm not going to skip the cat's antibiotics just because I'll be wearing a big white dress for a few hours this weekend. Some commitments are sacred, after all.

Anyway, it sounded like everything should be okay. As I was waiting at the front desk to pay, the receptionist got a phone call that was clearly taxing her patience. She kept rolling her eyes and saying things like, "Yes, that would be the normal course of the condition," and finally put the caller on hold. Then, as though against her better judgement, she burst out, "I don't know what to say to this woman anymore. There are these two sisters whose cat died, and after they buried it they dug it up three times. They're still not convinced it's really dead, and they keep calling to ask about it." She said they brought it in to confirm its condition ... after leaving it on their porch in a sealed Tupperware contained for a week. "Um, trust me, it's dead!" the girl said.

Meanwhile Bruno keeps moping around with his gimpy ear like a kid home sick from school, shaking his head madly as though that would get rid of whatever's hurting him. The twice-daily ear drops are the final indignity. They have to be kept refrigerated, and Bruno meows like we're doing something terrible to him when the cold liquid hits the ear.

The pain of pets: it's so heartbreaking.

May Day!

2007-05-02T00:26:00.000-04:00

Everyone was out celebrating and playing music in front of the YMCA (our gym) today. Even the trannies! Almost like San Francisco ...

Swanning In

2007-05-01T23:38:00.000-04:00

It's definitely spring in the Public Garden: the swan boats are out. My primary association with this local attraction is the Boston-area young adult author Lois Lowry's book "Taking Care of Terrific" (best take-away: the Boston Ritz has a great public restroom), but I am aware that beyond this reference the boats have a firm place in the Boston tourism firmament.

Our six-year-old flower girl is determined to visit them this weekend, so as I was walking through the park today I stopped to check on the operating hours. All systems go, apparently, as long as there are at least eight adults, "to weigh the boat down," as the attendant informed me.

It's nice to know this is one of those cases where the adults are essential to workaday operation, and not just embarrassing tag-alongs to child-specific entertainment.

Beribboned

2007-04-27T19:06:00.000-04:00

Last summer at a friend's wedding I remember overhearing her mom talking about finding "the perfect ribbon" for the decorating scheme of their reception. At the time I thought, wow, they really got into the details. But now I understand.

Wedding planning must bring out different obsessions in different people. For me, it's meant that I haunt Paper Source on a weekly basis, and that I have become a horder of ribbon. Blame it on too much Martha. Also the orange ribbons at that wedding last summer really were used to charming effect, laid like runners on the white tablecloths and punctuated with daisies ... Ack! See what I mean?

I was in New York a few weeks ago and hit M&J Trim for their polka dot ribbon selection, and then found some more from my best friends at Paper Source. Never in my life have I spent so much time thinking about ribbon. The last time I paid it any attention was when I was working on an article about handmade Christmas presents, and hit up San Francisco's Ribbonerie for supplies for the then-trendy ribbon belts. Before that, I guess it was when I was a little girl, when satin vs. grosgrain was an important decision when it came time to beribbon one's hair for Easter morning.

Speaking of "beribbon," it's a word I love, but one that I got wrong for many years. It isn't a word you come across that often in modern life, but in the world of old-fashioned girls' books it is a real work horse. Many things are beribboned there. One of my favorite books, "Heaven to Betsy," described Betsy and her sister wearing their "dressing sacques," which were always lacy and beribboned, as they gossiped and lounged in their bedrooms. I read this book multiple times, and each time I read "beribboned" I pronounced it "berry-bonned" in my head. I understood that ribbons were involved, but thought the word somehow also indicated the presence of decorative berries on said garment. I found this concept very pleasing, and was disappointed when I finally realized it was just a fancy word for bows. Still, my allegiance to "beribboned" remains.

Unfortunately, every time I think of berry-bonned now, it's hard not to be distracted by a certain unrelated contemporary homonym. And Major League Baseball is not exactly the look we're going for with our wedding decor.

Baby Squirrels

2007-04-23T18:49:00.000-04:00

Running in and out of their tree house on Inman Street:

That's all!

Bubbles, Bad Boys, and Burberry

2007-04-19T19:55:00.000-04:00

Isn't Kate Moss a naughty girl? She just keeps going back for more, no matter how bad it is for her.

I'm not sure how I feel about Pete Dougherty (and would never have heard of him in the first place if it weren't for Kate), but I loved this picture of the two of them together at a party, all glimmering in their masquerade finery, with Kate glugging the mini champagne.

I went back to look for some past Kate interviews and found an old gem about her and other supermodels demanding champagne before all shows, at all hours: "We're not going out without any champagne." That was a 1999 piece in connection with her new-found sobriety. And this photo is from Halloween 2006. Oops. (And oops on me for not double-checking the exact quote before I painted it on. That was sloppy.)

That rim of black glitter is in homage to her oh-so-trendy smoky-punk eyeliner. And below we see a nod to Kate's bread-and-butter, Burberry, as well as that unforgettable other bad boy of her past.

And inside, Kate again, drowning in a pool of champagne bubbles, ever lovely and stylish, despite her personal issues. You've got to give her props for that. She's a model, after all. Whatever else goes on, that's her job, and she's good at it.

Magnolia

2007-04-18T19:54:00.000-04:00

I hope you'll indulge me a few wedding-related posts: as the day draws nearer, there isn't room for much else in my mind.

I decided I didn't want to wear a veil for our wedding - I think they can be cute and/or elegant, but just wasn't feeling it - and I have to admit I may have been influenced by the picture of Penelope Cruz I mentioned earlier when I had the idea to wear my hair up with a large white silk flower at the back.

After fruitlessly searching around in local department stores and online fabric shops, I came across Late Bloomer, an L.A. boutique that specializes in really nice silk flowers to wear in your hair. I'm sure it would be possible to come up with something DIY and inexpensive that is equally lovely, but time was getting short and I wanted something that a) wouldn't fall apart and b) wouldn't slide out of my hair, which is very fine.

Anyway, while I admired the various gardenia clips, I ended up going with the magnolia, mainly because of its beaded center, which felt a little dressier (I got some bridesmaid advice on this one, too). It seemed like something special that I would want to keep. I also just like the word magnolia.

It arrived today, courtesy of our neighborhood UPS man, who's gotten very familiar with our house in recent weeks. The other day as he helped me with a pile of three or four big Crate & Barrel boxes, I confessed to him that I was getting married soon. "Yeah, I kinda figured that out," he said.

Usually he's quite taciturn, not even cracking a smile when I try to joke with him about the bad weather, but today as I was signing for this delivery, he asked, looking at the label on the box, "Are you wearing flowers in your hair?" And, when I said yes, told me, "My wife wore daisies in hers," and then gave me the nicest smile.

Wait

2007-04-15T14:33:00.000-04:00

I only really started delving into Etsy recently, and I imagine it could become very dangerous for somebody like me. There's so much beautiful stuff there, and many of the prices are temptingly within reach - it would be easy to get into trouble. But the flip side is that if one can maintain one's discipline, it's a great outlet for finding affordable art.

I have a lot of paintings that belonged to my parents, and while I love them and feel honored to own them, sometimes they feel a bit age-inappropriate for my current life, and for awhile now I've been wanting to add some things I chose myself to our walls.

This gorgeous little painting I bought on a recent Etsy spree just arrived in the mail, and I love it so much. The color palette, the beautiful retro lady, those Margaret Kilgallen-esque scallops along the top border. I have a weakness for fur-collared coats, too. The lady is a Soviet spy, and is fittingly rendered on a page from a Gorky play, in Russian.

I love the mood of this piece, its glamour and mystery. When I look at it I catch my breath for a second, as though, no matter how humdrum and ordinary the day may seem, something portentious might be about to happen. "Wait --"

The artist is Annie Galvin, a.k.a. Wexford Girl. I found my way to her online shop after admiring this cool painting of Sutro Tower.

While I was shopping, I also picked out this painting, "Linden," as a gift for a friend. It's part of the artist's "paint chip girls" series, in which a cut-out from a paint color sample is collaged into each picture. I think the names of paint colors can be so evocative (did anyone else ever want to be the person who names lipstick and nail polish colors?) and love the way these mini portraits play on that.

Happy Easter

2007-04-08T12:00:00.000-04:00

Whether or not one is a celebrator of Easter, I like to think the candy eggs and chocolate bunnies are things that can be enjoyed by all.

These sugar eggs came from Target, but one year when I was a kid my cousins and I made our own, with elaborate pastorals inside each sugar eggshell: a little yellow duck floating in a turquoise frosting lake, a big-eyed fawn poised at the edge of an icing meadow, etc.

When the holiday was over I got to bring my egg back home to Chicago where I played with it for many days, peering through the peephole and fervidly imagining the candyland where my little yellow duck lived. Eventually though, I lost my restraint, and nibbled off the dried-out pieces of frosting that decorated the outer shell. When they were gone I started chipping off chunks of the egg itself, gnawing at the pure sugar as I exposed the enclosed duck-pond world to the startling vastness of my bedroom, and finally polishing it off so there was nothing left but the inedible ceramic duck.

Come to think of it, I'm not sure the egg was intended to be eaten, either. But it was made of sugar, and I was seven years old: the outcome was inevitable.

Spring Tote

2007-04-07T14:45:00.000-04:00

My aunts and cousins in Michigan had a bridal shower for me last weekend, and among the many lovely gifts I received was this adorable canvas bag hand-painted by one of my aunts. I love the cherry motif (my secret rockabilly side loves things decorated with cherries) and the three flower buttons sewn across the top are so cute.

My aunt currently sells some of her things locally but I'm hoping she might someday consider learning the ways of Etsy or something similar. When I was describing it to her she got skeptical as soon as I said the word "computer," but once I mentioned the minimal commission they charge, her eyes lit up, like, "maybe I should figure out this computer stuff after all."

That's our cat Bruno drifting through the frame; I think he knew he would look good next to all that red and white.

Cave of the Monkey

2007-03-28T21:20:00.000-04:00

It's just barely starting to be spring here. I've seen a few crocuses popping up, but otherwise things are still pretty bleak, so I thought I'd post a few pictures from a trip we took to Playa del Carmen, Mexico, a few weeks ago. The vacation was all too short, just a few days, and I keep wishing we were still there.

Parts of the town are a little too touristy for our taste, and condos and hotels are being developed like mad, but there's still enough we love about the area to make it special. (This was our second trip there.) The turquoise-blue ocean and white-sand beach (we head north of town to escape the crowds) are otherworldly, the local people, in our experience, are really nice, and the local recipe for guacamole is divine.

The other thing to love about Playa del Carmen is La Cueva del Chango, a.k.a. Cave of the Monkey, a little open-air restaurant, best known for its breakfast, that specializes in natural food and local Mayan cuisine. It's one of my favorite places in the world. That picture above shows the colored glass bottles set into its concrete ceiling like stained glass. A small stream runs through a channel in the stone floor and out into the open garden patio out back. In the bathroom you wash your hands under a little stone waterfall, presumably channeled from the same underground spring. Fish swim in a little pond in the middle of the restaurant, and a tree grows through a hole in the roof. This sounds a bit like Swiss Family Robinson at Disney Land, but the overall effect is more rustic and natural, and supremely relaxing. And it's not just me; Jacques Pepin comes here, too. What more endorsement do you need?

Coffee is served in simple clay mugs, with brown sugar.

Fresh jugo de piña, por favor. There are all kinds of fresh juices on the menu.

Huevos rancheros à la Chango. That green stuff in the beans is chaya, a leafy Mayan vegetable.

A view from the front door.

The monkey over the entrance gate.

Awesome monkey mural in the bathroom.

La Cueva is excellent in its own right, but I must acknowledge it's hard not to love a place when this is your destination once the meal is done.

I mentioned guacamole among our top four reasons to love Playa, so here's a bonus for any who have read this far. We had an afternoon snack at a place called Palapa Hemingway, which is one of those places with the gimmick of making the guacamole at your table, kind of like a Mexican Benihana. I don't mind the gimmick though, because it means we got to spy on the simple ingredients that went into it, and it was the best guacamole of my life! That might have been due primarily to the freshness of the ingredients (and the two margaritas I'd already polished off), but nevertheless, here's the eye-witness recipe:

1 and 1/2 avocados

1/3 of a fresh lime

1 T each, chopped, of:
- tomato
- cilantro
- jalapeno
- onion

1 T light olive oil

salt

[That oil was the secret ingredient for us. Olive oil? Okay, I don't know if it was olive oil, but it was some kind of oil. Not extra-virgin olive oil, at any rate. A pale yellow kind. I wouldn't think that would be good in guacamole, but it was.]

Scoop the avocado flesh into a bowl with the other ingredients. Squeeze the 1/3 lime and add the juice. Shake salt liberally over everything. Mash everything together, and add more salt to taste.

Another place we like called Las Delicias sprinkles crumbled queso fresco on top. This is also extremely good.

Enjoy, then die of happiness.

Lobster Roll Diaries: J's Oyster

2007-03-14T20:12:00.000-04:00

I spent an afternoon in Portland, Maine, this weekend, and fans of J's Oyster will be happy to know my friend and I found time to stop there for lunch.

I was expecting your typical wharf-side seafood shack, so was surprised to find J's feels more like a divey bar, albeit an oyster bar. It was pretty crowded when we were there so we took the available table by the door, but if I went back I think I would choose to sit at the bar and order a beer and a bunch of seafood, as my friend said she'd done on her previous visit.

So what makes J's such a favorite? In addition to its singular salty-dog atmosphere, I would guess it's the portions and freshness. I ordered the lobster roll (naturally) and was very impressed with the generous helping of notably large pieces of lobster meat. The price was much lower than most Boston rolls, too, and at a place with table service! The bun was grilled (yum, even better than toasted), and mayonnaise was served on the side (not sure this is my favorite style, but I can see how some might prefer it).

I have to say I found this roll a little bland, but that could definitely be due to the season, and I was also starting to come down with a cold. I also ordered a half dozen oysters, which weren't very good, but again you couldn't beat the price, and it may have just been a bad oyster day. I would certainly give the place another chance on all counts.

Lobster iconography abounds in Portland:

After lunch we strolled around town a bit, and found it a totally cute and happening place, a small coastal city with lots of interesting shops and good restaurants. I haven't been in much of a shopping mood lately, but I still had trouble keeping my wallet closed. Portland inspired me to give it my money!

One of the places we visited was a little "modern crafts" shop a la Magpie in Somerville called Edith & Edna. I noticed the work of several familiar indie craft names among its wares, and finally tracked down the elusive "sad toast" by My Paper Crane that I've been keeping an eye out for in recent months. Here's a shot of a giant-sized sad toast (sad because it's burnt, of course!) with other, happier, friends in the store's window.

Eight-Armed Copilot

2007-03-14T12:11:00.000-04:00

At the age of 35 I'm a bit of a late blooming new driver, so when I acquired my first car late last year I wanted to find something friendly to hang from the rear-view mirror and keep me company. For whatever reason, a purple crocheted octopus was what I immediately envisioned, though I had never seen such a thing before, and figured it would be impossible to find, as with everything else when you're specifically shopping for it.

So imagine my sense of triumph when I found just that at December's Bazaar Bizarre in Boston. I mentioned this amazing coincidence to the crafter who made him as I paid for my purchase, but she just looked at me quizzically. Moments later I discovered why: there was another heap of crocheted octopi on a table right across the auditorium, and a quick search on Etsy confirms that the genre is anything but under-represented.

Still, mine is by Pepperberry Crochet, and to me he's the best crocheted purple octopus in the world.

My Gwynnie Issues

2007-03-12T18:01:00.000-04:00

Like many others, I have a love-hate relationship with Gwyneth Paltrow. A one-sided relationship, obviously. I'm not sure why I care so much - probably because she's about my age and has a similar background to mine in some ways (minus the Hollywood connections). As with Sofia Coppola, this makes it easy to overly identify with her and therefore resent her success, even when it is deserved.

I really loved her in "The Royal Tenenbaums," and have a guilty affection for the admittedly pretty silly "Sliding Doors" (the plot of which was memorably summed up by my friend Christina as "blonde hair fun life, brown hair awful life"). I don't think she was completely insane to name her daughter Apple, and she can be quite charming in some interviews. I freely admit I eagerly gobble up each fresh news item about her. And yet ...

What's up with the sanctimonious declarations she makes on so regular a basis? She's entitled to her opinion, but she has a way of expressing herself as though she knows what's best for everyone. Her lack of self-awareness and humility don't help, either. Such statements as "I'm an artist" and "I feel that I have a more European sensibility" come to mind. I mean, is she for real?

I was struck awhile back by some comments she made about loosening up her macrobiotic regimen, how she declared that she's "a lot less strict" than she was, and "now I eat what I want," and then went on to list exactly what she does eat and what she doesn't, "because it's not good for anyone."

That's how the Gwyneth Paltrow Food Issues box was born. As inspiration for its color palette I chose the "dinner with James" outfit from "Sliding Doors": the periwinkle Calvin Klein sweater and dark berry lipstick in which she fetchingly serves pasta (careful, Gwyneth, carbs!) while James dominates the conversation with yet another tiresome Monty Python soliloquy. Its lid features the quote: "I eat wheat and cheese. I don't have milk or butter because it's not good for anybody." Circling the base of the box is another quote - "I drink a glass of wine with dinner, occasionally beer and also Guinness. I can't drink vodka though" - along with pictures of various foods in which Paltrow does and does not indulge.

Cheese: she eats it.

Milk: not good for anybody.

Croissant: qualifies as "wheat"?

Wine: just a glass, with dinner.

And finally, safely nestled inside the box, most favored Gwyneth food of all:

The apple. Not for eating though!

No Perfume

2007-02-26T19:07:00.000-05:00

Watching the Oscars last night inspired me to do a show-and-tell of a Hollywood-related craft project I've been putting some time into lately: the celebrity snark box.

I'm an unabashed star watcher, which is why I enjoy things like the Academy Awards and Us Weekly so much. But I am also - more abashedly so - intrigued by the inane things celebrities say at awards shows and in publications such as these. Occasionally they are also witty and smart (Cate Blanchett comes to mind), but ... usually not.

A few years ago a friend of mine had the flu while traveling in South America, and while she was stuck in her hotel room she got obsessed with a foreign gossip magazine she'd happened to find on her trip - I think it was from Australia, and hence included a lot of items related to Nicole Kidman. One story in particular gripped her imagination. This was when Tom Cruise was still dating Penelope Cruz, and the story said that Tom had (quite insensitively, I think) bought a case of Chanel No. 5, "Nic's" signature scent, to give as gifts to all his female assistants for Christmas that year. (Who knew Scientologists observed Christmas?) Penelope, however, was having none of it, and allegedly threw all the perfume away, storming, "No perfume for anyone!"

Now, who knows if this story is true, but if it is I say good for Penelope, and I hope those bottles of Chanel broke all over Tom's pressed blue jeans. In celebration of this treasured bit of celebrity schadenfreude I made a keepsake for my friend, using images from the magazine she had so generously bequeathed to me.

I just love that triumphant look on Penelope's face. She was not going to let a case of emotionally loaded designer scent come between her and her man, no way! Nevertheless, inside the box lurks the flower of her secret:

I went for a sort of Almodovar-inspired color scheme, turquoises and reds, with silver lace on the sides and a dash of glitter.

So, that's the Penelope Cruz "no perfume" box. Many other celebrities beckon me with their tabloid sagas, with Brad and Angie probably highest on my list.

But first, the Gwyneth Paltrow "food issues" box. Until next time ...

First Weather

2007-02-15T20:04:00.000-05:00

We've hardly gotten any snow in Boston this winter, but yesterday it:

- snowed
- sleeted
- rained
- melted

... and then froze again.

Now the sidewalks around town are like a giant luge course.

Skateaway

2007-02-13T18:35:00.000-05:00

After talking about it all winter, today we made use of our flexible weekday schedules and headed down to the Boston Common for a chilly afternoon of skating on Frog Pond, an area of the park that I believe in the summertime is a sort of wading pool with sprinklers where little children can play.

The rink is artificial, and we were a little disappointed when we saw it in person, as we had the romantic notion that we would be skating on a natural frozen pond. This idea was bolstered for me by an article by Roger Angell several years back in which he recalled skating with his stepfather, E.B. White, on the pond in the Public Garden (the name of the other half of the park) where you can ride the Swan Boats in the summer, and White's shoes being stolen from where he'd hidden them under a bush, thus causing him to walk back up Beacon Hill first in his hockey skates, then in stockinged feet, in the snow.

This was not a risk for us, as there are storage lockers at the Frog Pond skating facility. On our way downtown, my companion, who seemed inordinately nervous about our impending activity, revealed that he had only ever been skating once before in his life, so I worried that the falling and bruising of bottoms might be our risk instead, but both of us managed to stay upright, only clinging to the railing every now and then. We weren't alone in that.

When we first got on the ice, a waifish preteen boy commented to us, "I'm glad I'm not the only beginner here!" as he skidded by in a knock-kneed pose. Meanwhile, the rink was filling up with older kids, mostly Asian, who expertly bombarded each other on lightning blades, crashing into the walls of the rink like bumper cars. A petite young man with a bleached-out Howard Jones hairdo and acid-washed jeans spun and danced on the middle of the ice to the song "I Need a Hero." The music had clearly been chosen with great care: "Word Up," "Glamorous Life," Prince's "Kiss." It was Friday Night Videos on Ice.

Our path home led past the Swan Boat pond, where it turned out there was skating after all, but only for those with their own skates and the courage to test the strength of nature's own ice.

These hardy folk were all playing hockey; we might want to practice a few more times on the "baby" rink before venturing over here with the big boys, where we'd have to dodge skittering pucks, along with the peril of rough, un-Zambonied ice, with, as Angell says, "frozen ripples here and there to trip you up."

But we have one advantage the hockey players don't - we know not to leave our shoes unattended. Not unless we want a long, chilly walk back to the T station.

Candlepin!

2007-01-28T14:08:00.000-05:00

Last night we went to the Milky Way in Jamaica Plain for some candlepin bowling, known in these parts, according to my Boston area-born friend, as "normal bowling" ... because that's what people play around here! Others have described the finer distinctions between candlepin and tenpin (i.e. what everyone else thinks of as "normal") elsewhere, so I won't get into that here, other than to say that in candlepin the ball is much smaller and lacks finger holes, and the shape of the pins is narrow and cylindrical rather than curvy.

When I lived in Boston as a college student I remember noticing candlepin bowling signs around town, and, never having heard of this variation, I assumed it was something like "starlight bowling," lanes open only at night, and perhaps illuminated romantically by candlelight. When someone finally explained to me (with great economy) that it was like regular bowling, "only smaller," I pictured a sort of miniature golf version of bowling: mini pins, mini balls, with big, hulking Boston dudes hunched over it all, struggling not to fumble as they tiptoed down the petite lanes. I guess it really is like this in a way, though without the hunching and tiptoeing.

My main issue with bowling is that the ball is too heavy for my weakling arm, so the first time I tried candlepin I thought I would have an easier time with it, but the lack of curves on those pins makes it a lot harder to knock down multiples (at least for me), and the ball seems even more likely to career into the gutters than normally happens.

Speaking of heavy bowling balls, I went bowling at the Yerba Buena bowling alley in San Francisco a few years back, the first time I'd been in many years, and the adult-size balls were just killing me, especially since I had wrist problems from too much computer use, so I tried switching to the bright pink five-pounder kiddie balls. The finger holes were a little snug, but they worked all right for awhile, until after one particularly emphatic pitch I noticed my thumb was unusually warm, wet, and - ack, covered in blood!

For a moment I thought some renegade bowler was furtively sharing my ball while sporting a freely bleeding wound, but it soon became clear that I was the renegade. I'd managed to leave behind a key bit of thumb in the too-small hole - gross! Anyway that's the story of my bowling injury, and should serve as a cautionary tale to me and anyone like me to stick to the smaller, lighter, hole-free balls of candlepin ... even if playing it makes you feel like the worst bowler who ever lived.

Crystalline

2007-01-27T17:47:00.000-05:00

Jack Frost painted our windows this morning. I love the tiny little five-pointed star floating all on its own near the left side of the pane.

It finally feels like winter here, and I have to say, I'm glad ... at least for the moment, while I don't have to go anywhere.

Under the Bridge: Pizza Chronicles

2007-01-23T16:00:00.000-05:00

We made a journey to Grimaldi's Pizzeria (the Zagat Guide's "best pizza in New York") in Brooklyn Heights this weekend, continuing our extended tour of some of the East Coast's most storied pizza places.

It is charmingly located pretty much directly under the Brooklyn Bridge, and while from the outside it looks like a charmless by-the-slice sort of place, inside it was bustling with activity (this was Saturday lunch) and made cozy by the requisite pizzeria red-checked table coverings, and lots and lots of pictures of Frank Sinatra on the walls.

I'll say up front this wasn't my favorite thin-crust pizza ever - I think that honor still has to go to the magical first slice of Santarpio's pizza I had last spring. Where Grimaldi's blows away the competition on crispness of crust and freshness of ingredients, it lacked, for me, a certain intensity of flavor. Maybe they just don't overdo it on the salt, and I'm betraying my palate's lack of sophistication; who knows. However, this is not to say I wouldn't happily consume a Grimaldi's pie every week for the rest of my life if it were in my neighborhood. Here's what sets it apart:

They only use fresh mozzarella, which we read they make there.
Their brick oven is coal-fired, which is apparently unusual these days because some cities don't allow new ones to be built. (Grimaldi's founder Patsy Grimaldi describes the superiority of the coal oven-fired pizza in this article if you're interested.)
The dough and all the ingredients are super fresh. I could certainly taste that difference. It was like a little farmer's market on my pizza slice.

You can only get whole pizzas (also calzones) here, no slices, so if you go be prepared to eat. We handily consumed a large cheese pie between the two of us. "Let's get the large and have leftovers," we said when we ordered it. Ha!

Big, Bad World

2007-01-22T19:25:00.000-05:00

I was just browsing through an old journal and read something that made me crack up, a little anecdote I'd completely forgotten about. I guess that's one thing journals are good for.

Talked to Mom today ... she reminded me of something that made me laugh till I cried - we were driving down Rush St. (slightly seedy street with clubs and bars in Chicago) when I was six or seven and had just learned to read.

From a sign I read aloud with delight: "The Candy Store"!

And then, in total puzzlement, "Live nude dancers?"

How Did I Miss This?

2007-01-06T14:40:00.000-05:00

You might have guessed from my previous post, in which I quoted an entire paragraph from "Bridget Jones's Diary," that I am a bit of a fan. Not an ironic, so-bad-it's-good fan, either - I really love that book.

I happened to be visiting in England when the original columns were first running, and I think that has something to do with my devotion. She didn't come across as such a scatterbrained, man-obsessed ninny in that incarnation, more a girl-about-town who couldn't quite keep her life together.

This probably had a lot to do with the gorgeous silhouette that ran with the column. (From the article linked above: "If Bridget Jones became an icon, that undeniably sexy, evocative, silhouette - a half-filled glass, a stray lock of hair and a swirl of cigarette smoke - became the image that helped define the icon.") The picture was used as the cover of U.K. editions of the book but replaced by those wigged-out eyes on U.S. editions, and later, of course, by the befuddled visage of Renee Zellweger. I also think the way the columns were edited to streamline the plot for the first book stripped out a lot of the material that made Bridget seem more real.

Anyway, I was so hungry for another installment that I even went to the trouble of digging up all those old columns online, pasting them into a Word document, and reading them again. I had plans to make some kind of booklet for friends (not for sale or profit, scary literary lawyer police!), but got bogged down in endless Virgoesque copyediting. (Lots of weird typos in those scanned free-article databases.)

So how could it be that just as I was slavishly copy-and-pasting those tired old columns into my sad Word doc, a whole new series was being freshly produced in the London Independent, and I knew nothing of it? How could some news of this development not come my way? Bridget, knocked up by one of her exes, and I don't hear about it until six months after the baby has been fictitiously birthed?

Thankfully, there are plenty of other weird Bridget fans out there. If you're one of them, and of the ill-informed variety like me, you can find all the new articles lovingly assembled here. Or come over to my house, and I'll let you read the new Word document I just put together ...

Calendar Days

2006-12-30T14:35:00.000-05:00

One of my favorite parts of the holidays has always been these dead days between Christmas and New Year's. If you're a student or are fortunate enough to have the time off from work, there's nothing much to do but sleep late and sit around enjoying the spoils of the season.

When I was growing up we would usually stay with my cousins in Michigan from Christmas night through New Year's, all a pleasant, leisurely blur of building snow forts, playing board games, going to movies at Maple Hill Mall, and, one memorable year, obsessively reading my Christmas copy of "Anne of Green Gables" by the big stone fireplace, then wowing my cousin while playing Barbies by using a storyline ripped off from the book.

During one winter break in college, my roommate Susanna and I both got back to school a few days ahead of our other roommates and had a great time acting goofy together (I recall her mimicking a gasping fish, flopping around on our dorm room floor for my amusement) and bumming around the nearly deserted campus. She told me her brother used to call days like these calendar days, those blank squares that fill out the grid of each month, in-between, unaccounted-for days that are so off the radar they don't even get a number.

I find this concept immensely relaxing, as though time can stop, or simply cease to exist, for just a few days, and for once I'm allowed to stop worrying about getting things done. In recent years I've spent most of my holiday calendar days plopped on the couch watching movies like "Love Actually" over and over and eating with abandon the various chocolate truffles and candies people have given us. If I do anything productive, it's something I feel I can't ever find time for on normal days, like completely scrubbing down the toaster oven, or making a personalized storybook for a friend's January birthday.

Re-reading "Anne of Green Gables" sounds pretty good right about now, but not until I'm finished with "Bridget Jones's Diary," a favorite bit of delectable fluff I like to revisit at this time of year. Bridget knows just what I'm talking about, by the way:

"Cannot face thought of going to work ... Desire only to sit on cushion eating chocolate and watching Xmas specials. It seems wrong and unfair that Christmas, with its stressful and unmanageable financial and emotional challenges, should first be forced upon one wholly against one's will, then rudely snatched away just when one is starting to get into it. Was really beginning to enjoy the feeling that normal service was suspended and it was OK to lie in bed as long as you want, put anything you fancy into your mouth, and drink alcohol whenever it should chance to pass your way, even in the mornings. Now suddenly we are all supposed to snap into self-discipline like lean teenage greyhounds."

She doesn't want the calendar days to be over, either.

Seasons Greetings

2006-12-17T20:53:00.000-05:00

From all of us here at Somervillain and Co., have yourselves a merry little holiday!

My First Mousetrap

2006-12-11T19:58:00.000-05:00

The Somervillain is most definitely a city mouse. I grew up in urban Chicago, and first started taking the public bus alone at the age of seven. (When I was six, an older girl was paid 25 cents a ride to accompany me to and from school every day.) Cockroaches I am familiar with. Silverfish, yes. But household pests of flesh and blood are new terrain for me.

During the last few years my father lived in rural New York, and after he died this year I became responsible for his house. Just recently we finally felt ready to put it on the market. While we were elated by how quickly it sold, that also meant we were immediately plunged into the process of getting ready to vacate, i.e., many hours spent in a country hamlet three hours from the seven hills of Somerville.

I knew my dad had some trouble with mice in the fall and winter (he liked to tell me tales of "Joe vs. the Mice," kind of like "Joe vs. the Volcano," but much, much smaller), and my understanding is that this is pretty much par for the course when you live in the sticks. Still, I was hoping we might "squeak" by without any trouble from the vermin before the closing.

Things were going pretty well for awhile, but then the signs of furry company began to appear. A paper bag of flour gnawed to pieces in the pantry, little rice-like grains of turd along the baseboards in the kitchen. We got rid of all the foodstuffs not safely armored in cans and felt pretty proud of ourselves, until one weekend I left a cast-iron skillet on the stovetop overnight. It was still sticky with deglazed steak au poivre when I went to bed that night, and in the morning it was thoroughly peppered with tiny poops. Who knew mice pooped so much? Do the poops rain down with every morsel that passes their little mousey lips, or is it even more constant than that, a Hansel-and-Gretel trail following them where ever they roam?

Now that it's finally gotten colder out here, I suspect that Friend Mouse is staying inside even more. It seems that even if I only leave the kitchen for five minutes, when I return there is new evidence that he/she has paid me a visit. A solitary turd in the pan under the dish rack. A scattering behind the wine bottle. A fresh one laid saucily in the Kleenex I thoughtlessly left on the counter just moments ago.

Still, in spite of all this, we hadn't actually seen the mouse itself until today. (I like to think there is only one Mouse, and not Mice.) Today was apparently Mouse Sighting Day, at least for my stalwart boyfriend (who is equally if not more unhappy about the presence of small critters in the home). First, while I was on the phone in the kitchen, he walked in, stopped short, and said, simply, "Whoa." Kind of like you might say "whoa" as you watched a comet crashing into earth, and found all other words had escaped you. Friend Mouse had just made its debut, zipping behind the refrigerator.

Then later in the afternoon he took my dad's old car, the one that's been sitting unused in the driveway for several months, down to the gas station for some attention. When he returned he told me I would be happy to know my "new car" came with an extra feature - another mouse! It had been driven out of the car's innards by the unfamiliar experience of a running engine and skittered around on the passenger side before disappearing again.

A family friend stopped by tonight, and when I mentioned the car had a resident he told me I should put a trap in it. As it happened I had just thrown away my dad's reusable mousetrap earlier in the day, thinking the mouse wasn't going to be my problem for much longer, but now, chastened, I dug it out of the trash again. It was covered in coffee grounds. Our friend had offered to set it for me, but then other people dropped by and he got distracted and drove off, leaving the grim task to me. Luckily there was still an unopened jar of peanut butter in the pantry. The only thing I know about mice is that they really like peanut butter.

I know the trap is effective - it already went off once when I set it on the roof of the car while I opened the door. I reset the spring, then placed it invitingly on the floor, at an angle. I feel sad for the mouse, but better that it dies this way than taking us both down in a fiery crash after startling me in heavy traffic on the Mass Pike. And now that I've gotten past my initial resistance to setting the trap, slathering on the peanut butter, and above all making a pointed effort to snuff out a little rodent, I'm sort of curious to know what's happening out there. Did the trap catch it yet? Is that the snap of hinges I hear, or just someone slamming a door? Is it working? And if so, did the mouse get one sweet taste of peanut butter before the fanged jaws sprang shut?

I find I'm looking forward to going out to check on the car tomorrow almost as though it were Christmas morning. What will I find there, under the tree? "Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house ..."

The Other Frankenturkey

2006-11-30T13:19:00.000-05:00

Tofurky roast!

It looked more appetizing once it came out of the oven.

Frankenturkey

2006-11-21T23:14:00.000-05:00

I will be the only meat eater at our little Thanksgiving dinner this year, but I still would like to have some turkey, so I planned to pick up a few turkey pieces, rather than a whole bird.

The only problem is that, while each store I've gone to has some sort of turkey part, everywhere is either poorly stocked or already picked over. So I have turkey thighs from Savenor's, the very expensive specialty grocery and butcher where Julia Child used to shop, turkey wings from the large Whole Foods on River Street in Cambridge, and tomorrow I hope to add a turkey breast from the mini Whole Foods on Prospect Street in Cambridge to my collection. I saw some there the other day, but who knows, they may be gone by now.

I guess if I buy separate turkey pieces at the same store they're very likely from different birds, too, but if I buy three different types of cuts from three different stores, I'm pretty much guaranteed that the birds have never even met. Is that wrong?

Lobster Roll Diaries: One to Go

2006-11-08T18:45:00.000-05:00

Even though beach season is over, I still frequently get hit by a lobster roll craving. Most of the places I know to get them in the city are sit-down restaurants though, which is fine if you're looking to Go Out to Lunch, but doesn't help when you want a quick bite. Plus, lobster rolls cost enough from the seafood shack - I'd rather not pay double for linen napkins and table service.

The other afternoon I was walking a visiting friend over to South Station to catch her bus back to New York when she voiced a sentiment I've heard from other out-of-town friends (mostly ones who've been brainwashed by the lobster-obsessed lunacy of this blog): "I wanted to try a lobster roll while I was here - is there anyplace nearby where I could get one?"

I was doubtful. You can get them at the Boston Chowda Co. chain, which is frequently found in Boston food courts, but there isn't one at South Station, and anyway, I find their lobster salad a little bland and watery. I know there are also a bunch of places on the piers by the harbor, not far from where we were, but I wasn't quite sure how to get over there, and with minutes to spare before my friend's bus left even that might be too far.

So just as I'd told her I couldn't think of anything close enough, we walked past James Hook & Co. Lobsters. I'd passed this place many times before and looked at it longingly, but I assumed it was only in the wholesale business. This time though, I noticed a discreet "Retail" sign with an arrow pointing around the corner. The storefront window looked dim, deserted, and hardly open for business, but having a friend in tow (and one with a serious lobster jones) gave me courage, so up we marched to check it out.

I've since done a little research so I realize this is hardly the discovery of the century - plenty of others have commented on the quality and value of this Boston standby. But hey, I didn't know, so maybe others don't, either. You can get a great, basic, $10 (as of November '06) lobster roll with plenty of fresh meat, as well as live lobsters, cooked ones, shelled meat by the pound and helpfully sorted by type (knuckle, tail, etc.), plus a bunch of other fish and shellfish. Looming behind the counter is the big, dim warehouse area, sloshing with tanks full of scrambling crustaceans. But even though we were clearly walking into a working seafood distribution plant, the man who helped us was as pleasant and helpful as could be. The retail counter didn't feel like an afterthought or an intrusion.

The next time I need a brown-bag lunch for the long bus ride down to New York, I know where I'm stopping first.