Thumbs Up

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

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

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.

Spring Thinking

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?

Bluebell Honeymoon

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.

Baby Squirrels

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








That's all!

Happy Easter

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

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.

Lilac Crimes

It's been lilac season around here for the last few weeks, and people have lilac fever. Every time I go out I see someone walking along with a bunch of the flowers sticking out of the top of a purse or the basket of a bicycle.

The other night on the T, I noticed a guy with one of those wheelie bags, clearly heading for the airport, with a huge bunch of sweet purple flowers popping out of the top zippered edge.

I must confess that, though I, too, have procured some fresh lilacs this month, I am neither lilac owner nor lucky recipient, but a lilac thief. I held back for a few weeks, thinking how horrible it would be if everyone acted on their lilac lust, stripping the buds from the streetside branches. But then one warm night after a few glasses of wine and a massive lobster dinner at Legal Seafoods with my cousin, I gave in and snitched a few low-hanging blooms. The warmth in the air really brought out the scent, you know, and it was too much to resist.

Anyway, that particularly grapey, dark purple variety got me thinking about a knitting project I had long ago laid aside, a little short-sleeved spring sweater in that exact shade. That was the problem though: it wasn't little at all. It was wide enough for Aunt Millie and her pet hippopotamus to set up camp. I didn't do a test swatch first, because I never do, but as it came out unusually short in the torso, I don't think that was necessarily the problem. But either way, I didn't realize how massive the thing was until after laboring at it - tiny, tiny stitches, with an allover lattice-texture pattern - for well over a year. In fits and starts, of course. That much purple starts to make you crazy after awhile, and you need a break.

I should never start projects like this, but I get seduced by books such as the devilishly charming "Vintage Knits," by Sarah Dallas (a.k.a. "The Bible," as our crafty friend Dolin calls it).


It really does have some lovely designs, but I suspect what really hooks me is the dreamy photographs of models lounging in whitewashed, bare-wood floor Notting Hill flats (the book is English). These models are usually in their underwear. I'm not sure what that has to do with knitting, but it definitely helps to differentiate the book from grandma knitting. It is knitting porn, for those of us who yearn for a simpler time of vintage cardigan designs, sun-dappled Sundays spent with a bowl of cafe au lait, and boy-short panties sans cellulite.

See what I mean?


Now first, we must ask, what is she doing perched on that little stool in her handknit sweater and skivvies? Second, where did she get those undies, they are so cute! Probably at some freaking British store. But wait a minute, could there be more to that pose than mere artfulness? Notice how her arms are folded across her chest in both photos. A friend of mine took a knitting pattern-making workshop awhile back, and her instructor warned them about patterns where the model is somehow obstructing the view of the garment: it's often because there's a problem with the fit.

Nevertheless, I made the sweater, it turned out badly, and then sat in a box until just the other week, when the stolen lilacs gave me courage. I remembered a sock-knitting class I had taken at Atelier Yarns in San Francisco (the way I first learned how to read knitting patterns), and how another woman in the class had described crocheting a new edge into a knitted piece that had come out wrong, fixing herself "a big drink," and then cutting off the excess. I remember Grace, the nice owner, saying, "Well, if it worked, then great!" Cutting into knitting is scary, and kind of a no-no, because if you don't adequately anchor everything it could unravel. It's also less stretchy and elastic with a rigid seam. But there wasn't any alternative, so I decided to take the plunge.

The crocheted seam:


The big drink:


The (gasp) scary cut, with lacy hemming tape stitched over the raw edges:


The finished piece:


Still a little wide, maybe, but good enough. This sweater was supposed to have sleeves, but the shoulders came out so wide I just left them off and improvised a ribbed edge. Amazingly, they came out like intentional capped sleeves. In fact, the whole sweater came out surprisingly well - this may actually be the first sweater I've made for myself that I will actually wear.

Incidentally, how sad is that? I have a feeling it's not that uncommon.

Spring Goeth All in Pink

For a long time I had this poster in my office (I love British transport posters, both new and vintage). And while the poem declares that spring "goeth all in white," around here she seems to be favoring a rather rosier wardrobe.

I've been feeling pity for my waterlogged Bay Area friends and all the rain they've had to endure, and after reading this lament for the absence of spring's "pink-flowered glory," I thought I would share a few vicarious April thrills.

This tulip magnolia just about knocked my socks off as I walked to the hardware store a few days ago.


The clouds might decend here, too, but they can't dampen the spirits of this avenue of pink ladies.


A pink azalea with bursting yellow forsythias.


This little tabby wasn't pink, but her name was Lily.


Best springtime illustration award? William Steig's "The Amazing Bone."