Forsythia chez Cavanaugh backlights the red-leaf maple (not yet in leaf) and hides the porch from the sidewalk and passersby. Both of which make LittleBird Stephanie happy (though, 38 years after they bought their home, she wishes she and The Prince had planted hydrangeas instead). / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh. / Photo on front: iStock.

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

Spring has certainly sprung. Overnight, it seems the forsythia went from straggly stems with a frizzle of yellow to a full blaze, topping the front porch railings and visible from the living room, framed by the front windows.

In a week or so, depending on how chill the air remains, it will go from yellow to green and be again a bone of contention between me and My Prince, a fuss that will continue through fall, when the leaves drop off and the plant returns to twigdom.* 

He likes plants restrained or contained. Constipated, I call it, muttering to myself. The forsythias are the chief offenders. When he sits on the porch, he can’t see past them to the street. 

This is a good thing, I think. 

This is a bad thing, he thinks. He likes to hulloooo to the passersby, I prefer to lurk.

The forsythia was planted in a flurry of energy 38 years ago, when we bought this modest row house. Also installed were a patch of ivy mixed with pachysandra, a pink dogwood and a collection of tulips and daffodils offered cheap by American Express. This seemed an easy way to just . . . be done. 

In the beginning, the entire front garden was a thatch of some kind of grass, probably having strayed from a neighboring patch. We didn’t do much of anything to improve the soil before performing our makeover. No double-digging and fertilizing and so forth—the “soil” was 70-some years of compacted crap, for god’s sake. I had better things to do (though what those things were I can’t recall). 

I wish now we’d thought this through just a wee bit more. Thought: What if we’re still sitting here a few decades more than anticipated? What a sight a pair of hydrangeas would be by now, for instance. But I didn’t care for hydrangea then. Old lady flowers, I thought. Well, my years have now caught up with that thought. 

Except for the dogwood, which struggled with diseases for many seasons before we yanked it in disgust and replaced it with a red-leaf maple, and the pachysandra, which long ago was overrun by the ivy (which he also hates—buggy, you know), the front garden has managed to carry on—still not improved, scarcely supplemented, except for many layers of mulch and a lethargic scattering of Osmocote a couple of times each season. An ass-backward way of creating a richer top layer.

But I kept expecting to not still be here in our starter home. By now, I thought, surely, I’d have a living room large enough to jump rope in, should I have that urge. But a bigger place was always just out of reach, around here anyway.

We bought this house for $102,000 when grand homes a few blocks away cost $125,000, an impossible-seeming sum that now sounds laughable. For an extra $23,000 we could have been jumping double Dutch. 

Adding the expense of Baby and the gasping rise of house prices, the gap between what we had and what we wanted never grew narrower, so we considered moving out of the city. Neither of us being government people, being in Washington DC made questionable sense. 

For decades we toyed with the idea of Florida, closer to my sisters, one in Juno Beach and the other in West Palm Beach. Key West would suit, I thought. A bohemian air, excellent food. Maybe Miami, which also has areas of funky sophistication and great food. Both far enough away to get us closer to family but not too close, if you get where I’m coming from.

The years passed in daydreaming, and the front garden straggled along. It had decent curb appeal . . . for when we sell. 

Baby grew up, went to Oxford, Buenos Aires, Austin (we won’t discuss Alabama) and then Raleigh, where she now lives with her Personal Prince Pete and Baby Wesley, with his big blue eyes and bigger grin. 

We mulled a move to North Carolina. Good thing we didn’t. Now they’re planning to move to the wilds of northern Virginia, to be closer to free babysitting.

So we’re going nowhere and have no need for room to jump rope. A sofa long enough to flop on will do. 

I’m still looking at the forsythia and wishing they were hydrangeas, while also trying to kill the damn daffodils, hating their foliage once the flowers fade, managing them being a Sisyphean task. Admire them in someone else’s yard, I say. If you must have them, they go for a buck a bunch at the grocery. If you must have them in the garden, stick them in those little water holders with the pointy bottoms and jab them into the foliage. When they fade, yank them out.   

That’s my gardening tip of the day.

*Twigdom: Not a word but should be. 

LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” does, in fact, love her Capitol Hill home, which is as full of quirks and personality as she is. 

MyLittleBird often includes links to products we write about. Our editorial choices are made independently; nonetheless, a purchase made through such a link can sometimes result in MyLittleBird receiving a commission on the sale. We are also an  Amazon Associate.

Tablescape and photo created by Stephanie Cavanaugh and Monica Weddle (a/k/a Baby) with flowers from the garden—and Trader Joe’s. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

I THOUGHT I was done preparing seders. I ceded this to Baby several years ago, when she and her Personal Prince Pete bought their first house in Raleigh and she was ready to give it a go, which she did—and brilliantly. 

I had painstakingly written out the instructions, a quasi-kosher meal (leave out the butter and leavened bread), that went from chopped liver  to matzoh-ball soup to gefilte fish to brisket, asparagus, applesauce and potato pancakes/latkes (because, what don’t latkes go with?). Desserts are a mixed bag, usually disappointing: See the absence, above, of butter (because in kosher homes it is verboten to mix dairy products and meat). Macaroons, a really sad sponge cake, chocolate and strawberries, or some such fruit, are the stand-ins. 

That was my mother’s meal, replicated: The only thing missing was an Aunt Ruthie, who always passed out midway from an overabundance of wine. She’d fall asleep on my parents’ bed, snoring until Uncle Al rousted her to go home. Our friends hold their wine better—but it could also be better wine.

This year Baby is here with her Baby Wes, and resuming her role as sous chef. What a joy. Maybe Pete will join us;  that’s a little unclear. And because of the plague (wow! A real plague for Passover! Far out!) there will be only six of us, all vaccinated so theoretically safe from one another.  

Passover means several things. The Jews fleeing slavery in Egypt, but also overcoming oppression so many times since—so we celebrate freedom. We do this with more food, of course. Bitter herbs (horseradish) and wine-sweetened nuts and matzoh (unleavened bread). 

In brief, we say, after recalling these events:  They tried to kill us, we survived, let’s eat. Jews do have a sense of humor, thank god. 

Passover is also a celebration of family. So it’s pleasurable to make the meal my mama made and which was made by generations before her, laden with heart-clogging fat and washed down with cup after cup of wine. That we survive the meal is in itself a triumph. 

Jews also have strong stomachs. 

Passover is also, at root, a celebration of spring, of renewal, of bounty. So it pleases me as much to set the table as it is to serve the meal. It should look abundant, as heavy with adornment as it is with food. 

The Haggadahs—the prayer books that guide us, that I grew up with—are trotted out, stained with decades of wine. This is the “revised edition,” dated 1945, so the echoes of horrors are particularly vivid. The linen and lace tablecloth that my parents brought back 50 years or so ago from Spain, covers the table, stretched to its limit with three boards. There are gold-bordered plates with flowery centers, the silver is polished, the crystal sparkles, and the centerpiece is a fantasy. 

Greens are piled the length of the table with flowers in profusion (those little rubber-capped flower holders for water come in handy, though floral foam will also work). The garden usually has what I need: tulips and daffodils, grape hyacinth and wisteria, cherry blossoms, pansies and dandelions (did you know these last are related to sunflowers?).  The festival comes early this year, so many of the flowers are not yet out and I’ll need to cheat. Trader Joe’s will assist in this.*  

Tucked into the greenery are figurines, family treasures. Dancing putti, small animals, little vases—things that live through the year, ignored, in the curio cabinet, come out for this occasion to play. In the center is a French incense burner, lit with a votive candle. The holiday candles are at either end. And the prophet Elijah’s cup, such heavy-cut crystal, sits waiting . . .

For the eldest unmarried woman at the table to open the door at the proper moment and let Elijah in—where did that custom come from, I wonder. Do you do that too?  

One would think, having made this meal and decorated the table the same way for 30-odd years that there would be one photo. There is not—chalk it up to the tumult of guests and food and drink—so Baby and I have brought out the essentials: dishes, crystal, flowers and putti, days before the event to give you a taste.

This year, maybe I’ll finally remember to take a photo before the meal. After would be fine too: There’s charm, and a new memory, in the dishabille.

L’chaim! To life.  

*Toss in a couple of Easter eggs and this tablescape works for that celebration as well.

LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” celebrates with flowers—and tchotchkes—anytime she can.

There are several versions of Elsa Peretti’s Bone Cuff: different materials, different sizes, different . . . well, different bones. Inspired, Peretti said, by the monks’ bones she saw in a 17th-century church while growing up. / Original designs copyrighted by Elsa Peretti. © Tiffany & Company.

By Nancy McKeon

IT WAS 1974, and girls of a certain age had to somehow get their parents or their boyfriend to give them a “Bean” pendant by Elsa Peretti. It was just that simple.

Well, not so simple. Peretti’s sensuous, organic sterling-silver lima bean was part of her debut collection for Tiffany & Company, which had just recently embraced the designer and her use of the “lesser” material silver. The collection had sold out on the first day and, going forward, gave Tiffany access to a younger customer, who could afford silver and might grow up into gold and serious gems. It also gave the older customer a way to wear the more-youthful metal that didn’t skew  Southwestern and involve large chunks of  turquoise and a fringed suede jacket (although I’m in the market for one of those right now).

This is the little Bean that created a new era of understated but still statusy jewelry. A tiny sterling silver bean on a 16-inch chain is now $175; slightly larger and in 18-karat gold, it is $1,400. (My 1976-1977 Tiffany catalogue shows a small bean in 18-karat gold on a 14-inch chain for $375!) Over the decades, the bean motif has been rendered in jade and lacquered wood, and has morphed into minaudières, leather tabletop trinket boxes, paperweights and more. / Original designs copyrighted by Elsa Peretti. © Tiffany & Company.

According to the New York Times and other sources, the Fifth Avenue jeweler hadn’t at that point sold silver jewelry in at least 25 years. (By the time of my 1976-1977 Tiffany catalogue, in addition to the 12 pages devoted to Peretti designs, there is another, separate dozen pages of silver chain necklaces, link bracelets, earrings and pendants.) In some of the years that followed her debut, Peretti pieces could account for as much as 8 or 10 percent of Tiffany’s sales.

By the time of Peretti’s death at age 80 on Friday, March 19, Tiffany had given her a 45-year-long ride—and vice versa—but it’s not where she started. She famously arrived in New York as a model, estranged from her wealthy Italian family (modeling and carousing at Studio 54 will do that, but she and her father had reconciled by the time of his death in 1977, according to the Times).

Here Elsa Peretti wears her original Bottle pendant and a Bone Cuff. A silver Bottle Pendant with a turquoise stopper is currently on offer at Tiffany on a 28-inch chain for $900. An 18-karat-gold Open Bottle (no stopper) is $3,500. / Original designs copyrighted by Elsa Peretti. © Tiffany & Company.

Her first piece—a small silver bud-vase pendant worn on a long leather cord, found its moment in a Giorgio di Sant’Angelo runway show, even set against his riot of color and voluminous skirts. When she began her association with Halston, his absolutely minimal lines and absence of decoration made the perfect setting for her off-center Open Heart pendant and belt buckle, and the impressively sized, rigid Bone Cuff. They were noticed—and so was she.

I never did get my Bean. Or an Open Heart. Or any Diamonds by the Yard. But I have enough Peretti to serve as reminders of her particular genius: a Padova Parmesan knife, a small red-enamel ballpoint pen, a Thumbprint bowl or two.

The Open Heart is a pendant, a ring, a key ring, the handle of a baby spoon. It is silver, it is gold, it is turquoise, it is jade. It has diamonds on it . . . or not. / Original designs copyrighted by Elsa Peretti. © Tiffany & Company.

The simplicity of Peretti ‘s designs can obscure the intellectual rigor behind them. The Shaker song says, ” ‘Tis the gift to be simple.” “Simple” was also lucrative. According to the Washington Post, the new 20-year contract Peretti signed in 2012 with Tiffany, now owned by the luxury conglomerate LVMH, gave her an outright payment of more than $47 million, plus $450,000 per year and a 5% royalty on net sales of her designs. In 2019, Tiffany estimated that its stores around the world sold an object designed by Peretti once every minute.

Padova, named for Padua, the Italian city where this style is crafted, is salad servers, a bread knife, a pasta server and more (even an ice cream scoop and a $165 pizza cutter). / Original designs copyrighted by Elsa Peretti. © Tiffany & Company.

A Thumbprint Bowl by Peretti. Like her other designs, it can become, it seems, just about anything. / Original designs copyrighted by Elsa Peretti. © Tiffany & Company.

Another Peretti inspiration: a scattering of bezel-mounted diamonds for everyday wear–Diamonds by the Yard. The style can be one tiny diamond set in sterling silver ($350) or 15 set in platinum (total weight almost 3 carats, $20,000). / Original designs copyrighted by Elsa Peretti. © Tiffany & Company.

Tower 2 of the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC is dedicated to Alexander Calder’s mobiles and stabiles, even a couple of works on canvas and his “drawing in air” (iwire works). Playful but serious, as usual, the works reflect the sculptor’s imagination as well as his technical competence and training. The Gallery commissioned Calder to create a monumental mobile to hang in the central court of I.M. Pei’s new East Building. It was completed and installed after the artist’s death in 1976. / National Gallery of Art, nga.org.

By Nancy McKeon

WHEN YOU STOP to consider what most of us know of the sculptor Alexander Calder—his colorful mobiles bobbing balletically in the air, the monumental stabiles that anchor so many public spaces worldwide, the playful shapes and images—it shouldn’t be a surprise to learn, if you didn’t already know, that his parents were artists who encouraged him to make things, that he had a strong sense of play, that he never stopped learning, never stopped creating.

Add in his competencies—a degree in mechanical engineering from Stevens Institute of Technology, then studies at New York’s Art Students League and art school in Paris—and his 50 years of success (toys, oil portraiture, abstract paintings, wire sculpture, which he basically invented, even jewelry) would seem foreordained.

The Calder Foundation, based in New York and founded by his grandson Alexander S.C. Rower and the Calder family in 1987, is now allowing us to see even more. They have spent their first decades assembling and preserving more than 22,000 documents and artworks; now they have opened some of their treasure in an online research archive (the archive itself is not open to the public).

The online presence is deep. Family pictures, even pictures of early projects, go way, way back—and then way, way forward, not stopped even by Calder’s sudden death from a heart attack at age 78 in 1976.

These photos (and information) culled from the foundation website give an idea of the richness of the artist’s life and work—way, way beyond the artist we think we know.

Promise of things to come: In 1909, at age 11, Calder presented his parents with Christmas presents that included a 4½-inch dog made of bent sheet metal. / © Calder Foundation, New York / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.

Calder’s other 1909 holiday gift to his parents was this 4½-inch duck, which rocks back and forth when tapped. / © Calder Foundation, New York / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.

That same winter, Calder created this Animal Zoo Puzzle for his father’s birthday. The challenge was to move the animals from their pens without having two in one pen at the same time. The game, one of many Calder would create during his lifetime, measures 4 by 6 inches and is in the collection of the UC Berkeley Art Museum. / © Calder Foundation, New York / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.

While still attending the Art Students League, Calder was an illustrator for the National Police Gazette in 1925. The paper, based in NYC, sent him to the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus—for two weeks(!) to “cover” the happenings there. This seems to have ignited his lifelong fascination with the mechanics and thrills of the circus. He even created his own. / © Calder Foundation, New York / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.

The whole idea of the circus stayed with Calder, and he created his own “Cirque Calder” in Paris in 1926-31, creating functioning wood and tin and wire figures that, in the end, would fill five suitcases as he traveled around to show it off. A 1927 movie clip shows Calder demonstrating his troupe of kinetic sculptures, a kind of performance art. / © Calder Foundation, New York / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.

No one can say the man didn’t love a project. Anticipating World War II, in 1933 Calder and wife Louisa left Paris and bought this dilapidated 18th-century farmhouse in Roxbury, Connecticut. The icehouse became Calder’s studio. / © Calder Foundation, New York / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.

Calder’s “Romulus and Remus” dates from 1928. (The young “Romans” are hard to see in this vintage photo.) The wire-and-wood piece is in the collection of the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum in NYC. / © Calder Foundation, New York / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.

This wire work, “Vache” (Cow), dates from circa 1929 and is owned by the Calder Foundation. After his important and productive stay with Louisa in France, Calder gave all of his works French titles, no matter where he made them. / © Calder Foundation, New York / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.

The stabile “Elephant Walking” by Calder is the symbol of The Ellies, the awards for editorial excellence handed out each year by the American Society of Magazine Editors.

Calder reviewing the installation of “.125,” commissioned for Idlewild Airport (now John F. Kennedy International Airport), 1957. / © Calder Foundation, New York / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York

“Floating Clouds,” a monumental 1953 work by Calder, was originally conceived as an outdoor art piece for the University of Caracas in Venezuela. But the project was rethought and the laminated-wood panels were installed inside the Aula Magna, the school’s auditorium, to improve the acoustics. Result: The hall, according to Wiki, has some of the best acoustics in the world. “Floating Clouds” (sometimes called “Flying Saucers” by the artist) were mentioned specifically by UNESCO in declaring the campus a World Heritage Site.

An interactive map on the Calder Foundation site lets visitors locate the artist’s far-flung work. / © Calder Foundation, New York / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.

Who says folding chairs have to bore the pants off your guests? Quilted unicorns, peacocks and other birds all come to the party as Jimena Terai folding chairs, $228 each, from Anthropologie, online only. There’s also a Berber-inspired zigzag textured black-ivory Suren Striped Terai in the group. The frame on all the chairs is Indian rosewood with a whitewashed finish.

By Nancy McKeon

FEAR OF COLOR is everywhere in furniture these days. Arm chairs in ivory crouch warily next to cool taupe, both cringing at the bold approach of . . . medium gray! Next to those guys, navy blue looks kinda edgy. Teal velvet across the salesroom floor? Totally over the top. Over there in the midcentury-modern wing of the Internet we see an occasional burst of burnt orange, but things calm down soon enough.

Until you enter the new fun zone. Not talking about kitschy stuff like the Rotary Hero Giant Food Stool in the shape of an ear of corn ($210) or Pizza Beanbag Chair ($60) over at Urban Outfitters. I’m talking about crewel embroidery set on fire, blossoms magnified and appliquéed to tight-back arm chairs. Chairs that make you say, Wha??? And then, just possibly, Wow!

Now, of course, anyone can have any chair upholstered in almost any fabric, as long as you have an eye for design and a reliable upholsterer, or a designer who has both, and in the latter case you’re probably shopping to-the-trade showrooms for $4,000 chairs, not online retail sites for three-digit pieces. (Quick question: Which one requires more gumption? Your answer is your answer; there’s no right or wrong.)

Mah Jong by Roche Bobois and Kenzo Takada.

The mother ship of boho, pattern-on-pattern pieces is probably the French stalwart Roche Bobois and its let’s-go-sit-on-a-mattress-on-the-floor Mah Jong collection of modular pieces. Mah Jong began life in 1971 as a very plain-Jane form-driven idea by the painter/designer Hans Hopfer and is now a dizzying spectacle of colors and stripes and who-knows-what-else by such designers as the late Kenzo Takada, Jean Paul Gaultier and Missoni. It’s possibly a bit too much fun for something whose basic floor-cushion module costs several thousand (each piece is hand-made) and still requires you to be able to get up from the floor. (I just spotted a vintage six-piece corner sectional, 18 cushions in all, by Kenzo for a little under $26,000 on the resale site Pamono.com.)

Elements of Roche Bobois’s Bombom collection by Joana Vasconcelos.

Close enough, to the floor at least, is Roche Bobois’s Bombom collection by Joana Vasconcelos, introduced last year. Everything is highly customizable, but according to Fast Company, prices start at $6,705 per lozenge-shaped piece.

Ellie Tamsin Dining Chairs are rubberwood with bentwood construction, $118 each, at Anthropologie.

Back down here on Earth, Anthropologie, the older sister of the very youthful Urban Outfitters, seems to be having the most fun with furniture. The Ellie Tamsin Dining Chairs are one example, the Flowerbed Tamsin ($118), below left, Adenia Tamsin ($108) are two others.

Flowerbed and Adenia Ellie Tamsin Dining Chairs are from Anthropologie. There are more than half a dozen other prints in the collection.

Anthropologie’s fizzy approach to furniture runs to upholstered chairs as well.

The Izzy Petite Accent Chair from Anthropologie is certainly light of heart but has serious spring seat construction and a melange of fabrics–cotton linen, velvet and voile–that enables its appliqué patterns to pop. It’s a compact 30 inches high with a 26-inch-wide seat and is available only online at anthropologie.com. starting April 13, 2021. It’s $698.

But there are other players in the world of less-expensive home goods. Cost Plus World Market has a few surprising offerings.

From Cost Plus World Market comes the Layla Chair, $699.99.

The Layla Upholstered Armchair, shown above, is $699.99 and comes in two more traditional, subdued prints (but where’s the fun in that?).

At left, the ivory and blush Davenport Armchair, $299.99 on sale. The Noemi Dash Print Chair is at right, $349.99.

Two offerings from Cost Plus World Market are more conventional, but each hits its style mark. At left, the ivory and blush Davenport Armchair, $299.99 on sale, features those cherry blossoms we’re longing to see. The Noemi Dash Print Chair in charcoal gray and ivory at right, $349.99, has the midcentury profile that appeals to young households. Both at Cost Plus World Market.

The Astrid, left, and Cecelia Embroidered Armchairs are $499 each from the Grandin Road catalogue.

The Frontgate catalogue’s younger sister, Grandin Road, has two worthy entries into this let’s-break-the-living-room category of furniture, the Astrid and Cecelia Embroidered Armchairs. Each features exploded crewel embroidery on cotton linen, is $499 and has a compact (15 inches in diameter) matching ottoman, $169.

The Liam Barrel Chair in Cowboy Black (left) and the Ronda Barrel Chair can both be found on the Wayfair site.

Since the Wayfair site seems to sell everything, it shouldn’t be a surprise that there are some less-conventional offerings there. Less boho and more Diana Vreeland (at least the one on the right) are the Liam Barrel Chair in Cowboy Black, by Zipcode Design, $181.99, and the Ronda Barrel Chair, by Bloomsbury Market, on sale for $169.99. Note that both frames are partially “manufactured wood,” a/k/a polystyrene plastic. Both can be found on the Wayfair site.

The Kenway Upholstered Loveseat in Piñata Tuxedo from Cost Plus World Market.

The Kenway Upholstered Loveseat in Piñata Tuxedo claims Mexican folklore as its inspiration (there are two other prints available). It’s 51 inches wide and midcentury in silhouette. It’s $1,099.99 at Cost Plus World Market.

Roche Bobois’s Bubble pivoting armchair, about $4,840.

If your living room needs a real jolt of color, you could always opt for Roche Bobois’s Bubble pivoting armchair, designed by Sacha Lakic and available, for starters, in this topaz green, jade green, cedar yellow, orange, ruby red, fuchsia, mauve and more, around $4,840. Entirely handmade, it required the development of a fabric—Techno 3D, black jersey topped by a honeycomb wool—that could stretch in all directions.

Would that pocketbooks could do the same.

MyLittleBird often includes links to products we write about. Our editorial choices are made independently; nonetheless, a purchase made through such a link can sometimes result in MyLittleBird receiving a commission on the sale. We are also an  Amazon Associate.

While LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” waits for her allium bulbs to spring to life, she teases herself, and us, with an image of a neighbor’s garden from last year. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

‘TIS THE SEASON for ants in the pants.

This immediately precedes the season of ants on the kitchen counter. 

I don’t think I’ve thought of that phrase, which my mother regularly employed throughout my childhood, since . . . my childhood. I don’t think I’ve ever said it to Baby. But then she wasn’t a hurried child. Her favorite position was supine. And her rush was . . . never. She’s an artist, her teachers would say when she was late, again, for school—my herculean efforts to roust her as usual having failed.  

“She’s an artist. . . . You can’t rush her,” they’d say, their eyes glowing in that expensive private school teacher way. “Pfft,” said I. “Can’t you just help me to wake her up?” All of that is beside the point.

I have, to return to the subject at hand, ants in the pants for spring. 

The daffodils are just beginning to emerge in the back garden, as are the tulips. Dozens of pink and purple bulbs bought for this spring from Colorblends, a company earning rave reviews. They grow about an inch per day. This is fascinating stuff, sitting and watching plants grow; turn your back for a minute and poof! they’re taller.  

The top branches of the Kwanzan cherry, which tickle the windows of my second-floor sun room/bird chamber/greenhouse are budded. Suddenly the climbing roses are green and leafy. 

If I had a chart of what’s what perhaps I would not have bought two elephant ear bulbs at Costco last week. So happy I was frolicking in the aisles, bulbs the size of cantaloupes, guaranteed to grow to six feet. Am I out of my mind? Where are these supposed to go? I already have six or seven or eight elephant ears, somewhere out back. The six-foot banana and a 10-foot bird of paradise are in the greenhouse, waiting to be placed, along with many, many lower-growing tropicals. I laugh. 

And just where do I expect to put the bags of begonia and caladium bulbs? Sigh. I could not resist. 

There are all sorts of new things in the front garden, If I can just remember  . . .  This is such a mistake, relying on my memory. A couple of decades ago, when Baby was sleeping in, I kept notebooks. Sitting on the back porch with my coffee as the sun rose, I’d jot down what is, and what was, and what went wrong, and what needed to be moved, filled in, tossed out. Each new spring I’d pull out the book from the previous season and know what I was doing, or what I was attempting to do.

Why did I stop?  It would have been particularly useful this spring, as last year I finally did something new with the front garden, essentially a staid bed of ivy and vinca, a well-placed red-leaf maple, two tubs of boring Knockout roses, two never-flowering peonies and a couple of forsythias to screen the front the porch, so I can hide unassaulted by passersby. 

To this, I added iris and calla lilies (I think) and lavender, and am planting lots and lots of allium, 30 (I think), and lunaria, the silver dollar plant that start with billows of purple flowers that become seed pods with skins that peel back to reveal translucent circlets resembling capiz shells. A Carolina jasmine appears to be doing what it’s supposed to do, a scented dance atop the ground cover. Maybe the cosmos and purple poppy seeds I tossed about will happen. Clearly, a notebook would have been handy. 

Last summer I longed for a riot of flowers out front, the only place we possess with sufficient sun. This year that might actually happen. Though, you know, I’ve said that before.  

I’m itching to see what comes up. In the meantime, I’ll clip some branches of the cherry, plunk them in water and watch the glorious double pink flowers bloom a few weeks before their time. 

—Stephanie Cavanaugh

LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” always has high hopes for spring, bless her.

MyLittleBird often includes links to products we write about. Our editorial choices are made independently; nonetheless, a purchase made through such a link can sometimes result in MyLittleBird receiving a commission on the sale. We are also an  Amazon Associate.

“The Miyajima Shrine in Snow” is a 20th-century image by Kawase Hasui. In reviving the landscape tradition, the goal was to capture not only the physical beauty of Japan but also the weather and the mood of the time and place. Woodcut printing by S. Watanabe, in Tokyo. / Photo © Japan House Los Angeles.

By Nancy McKeon

I’VE LONG enjoyed looking at the occasional Japanese woodblock print, but only superficially, not knowing what I was looking at or for. This evening I found my way in.

A wonderful hour spent listening to Meher McArthur, an Asian art scholar, was the key. The occasion: an exhibit she curated at Japan House Los Angeles, Nature/Supernature—Visions of This World and Beyond in Japanese Woodblock Prints. The interactive exhibit is mounted in the gallery but is virtual while the museum is closed.

“Whirlpools and Waves at Naruto, Awa Province,” from the series “Views of Famous Places in the Sixty-Odd Provinces,” by Utagawa Hiroshige, circa 1853. / Photo © Japan House Los Angeles.

Woodblock print arrived in Japan from China and Korea in the seventh century along with Buddhism and was a rudimentary vehicle for dispersing Buddhist images and teachings. Only in the mid-17th century did it begin to enjoy secular application, with images controlled not by Buddhist priests but by commercial publishers in Edo, Japan’s political capital and today’s Tokyo. Pulling from the extensive woodblock-print collection at Scripps College in Claremont, California, where McArthur recently taught, Japan House’s show focuses on even more recent times, the century from about 1830 to 1930.

The “Nature” part of the show homes in on the Japanese reverence for their islands’ landscape and their enthusiasm for traveling to experience it. For the privileged, a series by Utagawa Hiroshige, “The Fifty-Three Stations of the Tōkaidō,” could almost be called a travel guide or souvenir for the famous route between the shogun’s capital, Edo, and the imperial capital, Kyoto. For those not able to travel, the prints could serve as armchair travel, collected in albums and shared with friends. The “stars” of the images are the mountains in the background, the lakes, the little bridges; but there is also the human element, small and sometimes humorous: pilgrims getting pummeled by rain, servants rubbing their feet, tired of carrying a rich traveler in his palanquin, etc.

The show’s “Supernature” counterpart is the more fantastical and the one exploring Japanese folklore, with its stories of mischievous beings, such as those inhabiting foxes, who guard the rice crop (catching the rats that would otherwise eat it), and more diabolical ones, such as ghosts seeking revenge on evil humans. Knowing the players and their attributes deepens understanding of the images, just as knowing why, for instance, St. Agatha proffers her severed breasts on a plate; but, similarly, not knowing Christian iconography or Japanese folk stories doesn’t get in the way of immersing yourself in the color and energy of the images.

“Cherry Blossom Viewing at Mount Goten” by Utagawa Hiroshige, c. 1832-1855. Clearly Washington DC is not the only place obsessed with its cherry blossoms, which were, famously, a gift of Japan to the US. / Photo © Japan House Los Angeles.

What struck this “visitor” to the Japan House LA show was the serenity of the landscapes and the traditional images of geishas and other characters from Edo’s worldly entertainment district and the contrast with the animation and sometimes violence of the supernatural images. The Japanese spirit world has spirit in spades!

Humans clearly have to watch out for the Nekomata (monster cat) Bridge over the Nekomata River at Sugamo, shown in this 1864 print by Utagawa Kunisada. Yokai, or supernatural monster animals, and tricksters are some of the elements of Japanese folklore. This yokai can quite obviously cause fires, as seen from the red tongues of flame emanating from that frightening mouth. / Photo © Japan House Los Angeles.

“Famous Sights of Nikko Hannya and Hōtō Waterfalls” by Yōshu Chikanobu, 1891, depicts Japanese as appreciative tourists in their own country.  But in this print the glorious detail of the fabrics in the foreground compete fiercely for attention with the landscape at hand (and could be said to have won the day). / Photo © Japan House Los Angeles.

There’s ample time and space given to individual images in the show, but do take the time to set the table for yourself by watching McArthur’s video explanation of what you’re going to see. Perhaps it will open the door to this fascinating, and gorgeous, art form for you too.

Highly stylized, and therefore arguably unnatural, this image of famous waterfalls in the Nikko region of Japan manages to look like the roots of a tree or even blood vessels. It was created by the famed Hokusai (he of the “Great Wave of Kanagawa”) around 1830 and served as a vehicle for showcasing a wonderful new synthetic color, Prussian Blue, brought in from Europe. Another thing the image reflects is the passion of privileged Japanese for travel, as depicted by the tiny travelers at the very base of the waterfall, dwarfed and awed by its size and splendor. / Photo © Japan House Los Angeles.

Lincoln Park, in DC’s Capitol Hill neighborhood, bursts into blossom in spring. It is less heralded, and therefore less crowded, than the Tidal Basin area, site of DC’s cherry-blossom motherlode. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

WELL, THANKS to the plague, DC’s Cherry Blossom Festival is pfft! again this year.

Oh, you can watch the opening ceremony on TV. Billed as a tribute to our friendship with Japan and an artistic celebration with a star-studded cast, it will allow you to tilt back the Barcalounger, open a container of Cherry Garcia from Ben & Jerry’s and chill. You’re also invited to decorate your front porch and put on pink hats and ties and order carryout—it’s a little bit more elaborate than that, but you get the picture. 

Even visiting the cherries at the Tidal Basin is still up in the air—those stranger bodies, you know, or rather, don’t know.  (Here’s an idea that has nothing to do with cherry blossoms! Rename the body of water the Fanne Foxe Memorial Tidal Basin—there are few enough memorials to women in this city. That would be . . . frisky.)

In the event that the Basin is again off limits, there are other spots around DC with exceptional displays of cherry trees. The city has more than 3,700 of the trees, making it almost impossible not to find a fine view somewhere. And not just the delicate strum of the Yoshinos that fringe the Basin and peak on April 1st: There are varieties that will begin blooming next week and culminate mid-month with the brass-band magnificence of the Kwanzans.  

Cherry Hill is an area of Dumbarton Oaks Park, in DC’s Georgetown neighborhood, belonging to the Harvard-owned research library and museum and situated between its formal gardens and the natural landscape that takes over as you reach the lower levels of the estate property. / Photo from Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection.

Just a flurry from the Tidal Basin is East Potomac Park, where a wide variety of cherries mingles with gorgeous willows dripping their branches into the Potomac River. A great place to picnic—just beware the goose droppings, which are everywhere. It’s a popular spot, so parking can be a challenge. Grab a bike and go. 

Closed much of last year, the grounds of the National Arboretum are once again open to the public every day from 8am to 5pm. The 400-acre park has more than a thousand trees and more than 30 varieties of cherry, which begin blooming about now and continue through mid-April, when they meet up with the extraordinary display of azaleas, thousands of them climbing a hillside in clouds of surreal color.

The trees of Cherry Hill, a fine display on the fringe of the wanderland* that is the 16-acre garden at Georgetown’s Dumbarton Oaks,  may or may not be reopened in time to catch the blossoms—please may it reopen before the spring bulbs fade—check the website for updates. If Dumbarton Oaks is still closed at bloom time you can also enjoy the blossoms in the adjacent Montrose Park, which also has a lovely children’s play area, so if you’re toting kids you might catch a few moments to experience some serenity.

Famed for its waterlilies, so summer-bountiful, the Kenilworth Park & Aquatic Gardens has a spring offering: a flush of cherry trees—and fine bird-watching along the boardwalk, with a notable absence of bugs. Open daily from 8am to 4pm. 

Possibly the most peaceful viewing is at St. Anselm’s Abbey, where you can wander about and scarcely encounter a soul besides the robed Benedictine monks quietly tending the buildings and grounds. The fine display of cherry trees kicks off a spring and summer of blossom, glorious displays that include (you should pardon the expression) massed displays of spring bulbs and their justly famed beds of roses. It is located at 4501 South Dakota Avenue NE, and while there is an absurd number of websites for the abbey and the school, none of them has information about the gardens.

A cemetery isn’t the first place you think of to visit cherry trees in bloom, but Congressional Cemetery’s K9 Corps (dog owners who pay an annual fee to let their dogs off-leash on the grounds) makes it a rather festive spot. Not to mention gorgeous at cherry-blossom time.

The neighborhood of Capitol Hill has scattered pockets and parks filled with pink and white bloomers, but primo viewing is Lincoln Park, which is absolutely breathtaking. A happy place where toddlers run with the labradoodles and cockapoos, and bikini-clad locals sprawl under blossom-laden trees. This is the park with the controversial statue of Lincoln and a freed slave kneeling at his feet at one end—which is offset in some minds (like mine) by the grand statue of African American educator Mary McLeod Bethune.

Possibly the last place one would think of for cherry-blossom viewing is historic Congressional Cemetery, which one would think would vie with St. Anselm’s for peace and introspection. One would be wrong. The beautifully kempt grounds, and cherry-tree-lined paths,  are kept so in part by the donations of dog walkers, who are on a waiting list for the privilege of letting Fido loose among the mausoleums and headstones, possibly making it the most popular dog park in the city.

—Stephanie Cavanaugh

LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” is happy to share fleurs that are not hers, except in the most general sense.

*Wanderland is not a word, but certainly should be. 

Last fall, the Museum of Chinese in America, which remains Covid-closed, turned some of its sidewalk display windows into exhibits. “Windows for Chinatown” explores the history of Chinatown and anti-Asian racism. This 2020 cartoon by Vera Chow shows earnest immigrants, mostly of color, doing all the crucial Covid work while a white-bread American cheers on TV coverage calling for an end to immigration. The windows will remain in place through March 21, 2021. / From the Museum of Chinese in America.

MANY MUSEUMS, especially art museums, have a radiant quality, ablaze with their riches. They grant us visits with their collections, even suggesting that those of us who visit are the worthier for having passed through their portals. The Met, the Louvre, the Rijksmuseum, the National Gallery—these are the names that immediately come to my mind.

Museums of history have a different mission: Don’t forget what happened, they seem to command. It’s not a scold, exactly, but I always have the feeling that there will be a quiz at the exit and that I will be too dazed to pass. I’m thinking of the House of Terror in Budapest, Schindler’s Factory Museum in Krakow, the Ukrainian National Chernobyl Museum in Kiev, even the National Museum of African American History and Culture in DC. Pay attention!

The Museum of Chinese in America, located in New York City’s Chinatown, seems a bit different, its goals more specific. To start with, it seems to be speaking, with some urgency, to its own community, or rather to Chinese Americans spread across the US, whether in Chinatowns or deeply embedded in the American mainstream. Those are the people being urged not to forget.

To me it presents itself as more a family scrapbook than a curated collection set out with a greater public in mind. And therein lies its charm. Imagine that your great-grandmother left a trunk of ephemera—family pictures, flyers from the summer carnival, a Sears catalogue marked up with her fantasy purchases (remember it was called the Wish Book for a reason). You’ve discovered the trunk and now get to sift dreamily through the finds. Heaven, right?

You may not be Chinese or Chinese American, but you can share in the charm of a few pages dedicated to the Eight-Pound Livelihood. It’s pictures from the turn of the last century of Chinese workers in hand laundries, the classic Chinese American business since the 1850s.

And the term “Eight-Pound Livelihood”? I thought perhaps it referred to the weight of a load of laundry. Wrong. That was the weight of those heavy flat irons used to press out the wrinkles in the clothing of California families and rough-edged railway workers and hardscrabble gold miners.

While the museum’s website doesn’t offer any slick interactive exhibits, it does lay out images from its exhibits over the 40 years since its founding. As the Museum itself says, it is redefining the American narrative one story at a time.

—Nancy McKeon

Not something most of us think about every day: How do you devise a typewriter or a computer keyboard for a language made up of thousands of characters? Two inventors at the beginning of the 20th century took on the challenge and came up with a machine that looks more like a Linotype machine than a standard typewriter. Today, Chinese computing is based on a 1947 experimental typewriter with incredible workarounds. The typewriter above was featured in MOCA’s 2019 exhibition on the development of the Chinese typewriter, “Radical Machines: Chinese in the Information Age.” / From the Museum of Chinese in America.

“Eight Pound Livelihood: Chinese Laundry Workers in the United States” was the Museum’s first exhibit. Through photos and first-hand stories, it explored how Chinese in California entered into the occupation and moved eastward, establishing laundries in cities and towns where they settled. / From Museum of Chinese in Ameirca.

In 2016, the Museum of Chinese in America mounted a retrospective of Ming Cho Lee, one of the most influential set designers of the 20th century, perhaps best known for his groundbreaking abstract sets in the 1960s and ’70s. The image above is from a 1964 Public Theater (NYC) production of “Electra,” which Mr. Lee described as his first “completely nonliteral abstract design.” Below is his set for a 1979 production of Molière’s “Don Juan” at Arena Stage (DC). Mr. Lee died in October 2020 at age 90. / Courtesy of Ming Cho Lee to the New York Times.

Doyers Street, a crooked little commercial street, is still the heart of New York’s Chinatown. The street signage is gaudier and more colorful today, but lift your eyes and you’ll see a bit of the past. / From the Museum of Chinese in America. Courtesy of Ernest Y. Ng.

Several fire tables on the patios of DC’s Capitol Hill restaurants are made by Canadian company Outland Living. This particular model costs about $700.

MY LAST, really my only, encounter with propane flames was a few years ago, when the usual miscommunication between My Prince and me led to the loss of my eyelashes and a nasty singe along my hairline. This was a gas BBQ on loan from Baby and her Personal Prince Pete. It was returned to them shortly thereafter.

But now I’m seeing fire tables springing up at sidewalk cafes. Often they’re wickerish numbers with matching wickerish chairs (and, often, lap robes. How clever. Like ski resorts). How happy are faces warmed by the flickering glow. Why didn’t it occur until now that these things can be bought, as in hand over my card to some merchant and take it home?

Maybe I could operate one, I’m thinking. Or have someone operate it for me.

A fire table at Boxcar Tavern on DC’s Capitol Hill. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

Ah, a place to gather ’round on the back porch, warmth drifting up as the glog is gulped and the fondue forked. Socially distanced and smugly outdoors.

Unlike a firepit, onto which you heap logs and roast s’mores and such, fire tables have propane tanks hidden in the table bases and, usually, glass rocks in a tray in the center. A rim around the edge of the pit lets you prop your wine glass—or even a dinner plate—on the edge, without fear that sparks will ignite the drifting sleeve of your Kamali kimono. They can safely be used on a covered porch and take the place of either a dining or coffee table—in the summer, most have an insert to create a solid surface.

Of course you can buy them at a vast range of prices, from a couple hundred bucks to several thousand. You can even make one yourself.

When the air is nippy, a fire table would be a pleasure even without the plague.

A few ideas . . .

Several fire tables around DC’s Capitol Hill are made by Canadian company Outland Living. This rectangular number has room for plates on the deep border. At 24 inches high, it’s lower than a dining table, but comfortable surrounded by deck chairs, which Outland also sells. If you’re setting up in the open, there’s an optional wind guard to keep the flames in check. At about $700, it’s handsome and well priced.

“Concrete” and “portable” seem contradictory, but this little table-top flamer from Arland & Co. does indeed have a concrete body. It requires a propane tank (separate) which is connected beneath any umbrella table, thanks to the umbrella hole. It’s modest in size (10 inches square, about eight inches high and a little less than 15 pounds) and an equally modest $137.99.

At $1,700, Anderer dining table is dining-table height and scaled for six, and has inserts for a BBQ grill plate or wine chiller, making it great for year-round entertaining. Made of woven aluminum, with a glass top, this baby can be safely set on a wooden deck.

Utterly chic and sleekly contemporary is the smooth concrete Cabo Linear fire pit from Fire Pit Oasis. At 66 by 38 inches and weighing 290 pounds, this one is coffeetable-height (16 inches) and big enough, and sturdy enough, to provide not only a serving surface but toasty seating. Handcrafted in the US, it’s on sale for $5,476.

Love concrete but shallow-pocketed? If you have an umbrella table, Arlmont makes a cool little concrete flamer that sits atop the table and screws through the hole the umbrella would fit through into a small propane tank that you hide beneath (purchased separately). Reviewers say it looks swell and is surprisingly toasty. At $137.99, it’s certainly a cheap thrill.

You won’t save much building your own firepit, though you will have bragging rights—and the variety of shapes and sizes of burners available is impressive—like this lotus-shaped model from WoodlandDirect.com for when you’re in the mood for ommmmmmmmmmm.

—Stephanie Cavanaugh

LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” finds ways to stay close to the garden even in colder temps.

MyLittleBird often includes links to products we write about. Our editorial choices are made independently; nonetheless, a purchase made through such a link can sometimes result in MyLittleBird receiving a commission on the sale. We are also an  Amazon Associate.

THE LAST TIME I was excited about Vincent Van Gogh was back in the Pleistocene, when I was a tween, a term that had yet to be coined and has been mercifully absent from my reading of late. There was a blockbuster Van Gogh exhibition in town, and Aunt Viola volunteered to take my sister, Pat, and me.

Detail of Van Gogh’s famous bedroom inArles. Part of the “Immersive Van Gogh Exhibit Chicago.” / Photo by Michael Brosilow.

Since then, of course, we’ve all seen a lot of Van Gogh—at the Met, at MoMA, at his own museums in The Netherlands, on shopping bags and cosmetic bags. But the show making the rounds of big American cities (and coming to New York in June) is a little different.

Back in the fall I wrote about immersive exhibits that wash famous art over you in dazzling fashion. That’s what is coming, to New York starting June 10, 2021 (other cities, other dates listed below). The creators of this starry, starry event, Lighthouse Immersive, launched the show in Paris; opened recently in Chicago and will open in San Francisco in March. The lineup could be called Vincent’s Biggest Hits: “Starry Night,” “The Potato Eaters,” “Sunflowers,” “The Bedroom,” self-portraits and more.

Sure, they’re familiar, but as LittleBird Janet points out, people like to see things they’ve seen before (why else watch re-runs of “Law & Order” or “Friends”?). And in the context of swimming through a sea of images, it’s good to have familiar landmarks so you don’t drown.

This is not a highbrow event, or high-touch (lotsa Covid restrictions in place). But it is inarguably a different way to view works of genius brought to a marketplace fairly starved at this point for something to appreciate.

—Nancy McKeon

Immersive Van Gogh. Timed tickets start at $39.99 off-peak, $49.99 peak (and go way up), plus fees.

Chicago, ongoing through September 6, 2021. vangoghchicago.com

Toronto, beginning March 9, 2021. https://vangoghexhibit.ca

San Francisco, beginning March 18, 2021. https://www.vangoghsf.com/?fbclid=IwAR3OXly-kw_gt_2UljecbCSBrc-xqbZ2P9JiRzDMa_71bWbrBkH3EKvfK6M

Los Angeles, beginning May 27, 2021. vangoghla.com

New York, beginning June 10, 2021. vangoghnyc.com

As details of paintings slide around and below, note the floor circles delineating safe Covid distances. Part of the “Immersive Van Gogh Exhibit Chicago.” / Photo by Michael Brosilow.

Paintings shift shape and seem to sway to music. Part of the “Immersive Van Gogh Exhibit Chicago.” / Photo by Michael Brosilow.

Did someone say “Sunflowers”? Part of the “Immersive Van Gogh Exhibit Chicago.” / Photo by Michael Brosilow.

Part of the “Immersive Van Gogh Exhibit Chicago.” / Photo by Michael Brosilow.

Mom’s cast-iron skillets are still making great latkes (potato pancakes) all these decades later. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

I MADE PEA SOUP last Sunday night. I do not grow peas. That’s the end of today’s gardening column. 

The soup burbled away on the stove top in my orange Le Creuset Dutch oven, which was my mother’s. It’s well over 50 years old and still in fine fettle; when they say these last a lifetime, they’re not kidding. I use it for soups and stews and sauces, as she did. 

Mom’s old ricer, shot atop an upside-down tin bread basket. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

I don’t grow spinach either, but use my mother’s ricer when I need to drain every speck of water from the leaves, for pasta or creamed spinach. Like her, I also use it for mashed potatoes and apple sauce (though sometimes I leave that last lumpy). The ricer once had red handles, but the color began to wear away a few decades ago. I caught my Prince sanding it one day and screamed. Those red bits are pieces of my childhood, it was as if he were  sanding away my mother. 

Mama envied me my starting-out kitchen, with all the shiny new cooking gear. “I wish mine would wear out,” she said one day with a sigh. No such luck, Ma. There’s not much left of my original batterie de cuisine, while her stuff keeps steaming along. 

I’m thinking of this today because Washington Post columnist John Kelly wrote about eggbeaters, which sent me down a trail. I’m wondering where the family egg beater went.  

Then, in the obituaries, was a notice of the February 6 death of Maria Guarnaschelli, who, among many other things, supervised revisions to the Joy of Cooking, which many regard as biblical. Out of the original 4,500 recipes, she left only 50 unchanged, eliminating such fascinating features as How to Skin a Squirrel, and how to prepare woodchuck, muskrat, porcupine, raccoon, bear (careful: The fat turns rancid very quickly) and turtle soup—from scratch. Not that I ever slaughtered and cooked

Mom’s garlic press open-jawed atop a vintage tin bread basket. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

any of these critters, but I read every word with fascination. Talk about erasing American history. Heresy!

Back to the future. The potato peeler is a bit bent from time in the garbage disposal, but still usable. I do have a new ergonomic number with fat cushioned handle; it’s fine but has no romance. I have her double-bladed hand chopper too, sitting in readiness in case the food processor breaks and I need to make chopped liver.

In better shape is the garlic press: It may have been shiny five decades ago, now it’s dull gray, but still so strong I think I could take a hammer to it without denting the metal. Dad used to press cloves through and rub them on these three-inch-thick porterhouse steaks he’d grill on the terrace, cancerously charred on the outside, red inside, eaten at the wrought-iron table that’s now on my back porch.  

I have her three cast-iron pans, nesting sizes. A few years after Dad died, Mama and I spent a week frying chicken in the largest one. 

That was in 1978. I was living in DC but commuting to New York for a week each month, staying with her as my job took me around to bookstores peddling extremely esoteric remainder books. (It was a true test of sales skill to unload a few hundred copies of Robin W. Doughty’s opus, Feather Fashions and Bird Preservation, which one can still find, used, on Amazon.)

Remember when peelers looked like this? / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

Anyway. I always thought that a proper dinner was a meat, a green veg and a starch. That’s what we ate every single night of my youth. It shocked me to my very core, that trip, when Mom cut up a small chicken on my first night home, and announced that we were going to teach ourselves to make fried chicken. Something so seemingly easy defied us both.

That’s all we ate. No salad, no potato, just fried chicken. When that attempt was not impressive, we tried again the next night, and the next. We tried it with the pan covered, uncovered, pieces crowded and spaced, various seasonings. Each attempt a near miss. A solid week of fried chicken, no sides.   

I was perfectly content—just shocked that she was too. 

Some months later she would stun me with her marijuana crop, lovingly nurtured on her south-facing terrace, but this was my first sight of her as an individual who just wanted to eat damn fried chicken, screw the veggies.

She was an amazing cook, no stranger to frying. Her latkes were sublime. But great fried chicken remained beyond her.

I prefer Popeyes.  

—Stephanie Cavanaugh

Seriously, this mezzaluna-style chopper must have been an antique when Stephanie’s mom was a girl./ Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” loves growing things, but she excels at cooking them up, according to a grateful guest at her table (ahem).

MyLittleBird often includes links to products we write about. Our editorial choices are made independently; nonetheless, a purchase made through such a link can sometimes result in MyLittleBird receiving a commission on the sale. We are also an  Amazon Associate.

. . . HOW MUCH are 2.8 million of them worth in dollars?

The answer is, Priceless, or maybe zero. At least that’s the implied price tag the Smithsonian Institution has placed on the 2.8 million images it released into the wild a year ago, telling teachers, corporations, artists, bloggers and us members of the rank-and-file to feel free to enjoy the images, learn from them, interpret them and, even better, to reproduce, manipulate and publish them.

The Smithsonian, famously America’s Attic, has far more than that in its cache, but 2.8 million available as part of its Open Access Media program constitute a phenomenal start. The images are of paintings, wallpaper, dinosaur bones, temple gongs, beer bottle openers and pandas—don’t forget the pandas! Anyway, you get the picture. And pictures are what we love, so we chose a sampling of them, and these are merely from the very first page of what the Smithsonian is sharing with us.

All of the images have been added to the Creative Commons Zero organization (often rendered CC0) trove, which contains works from just about everyone and everywhere, images that casual photographers, serious painters and enthusiasts of all stripes have donated to the goal of sharing the world’s artistic and even scientific output

Imagine America’s Attic is your family’s; in a way it is. Now go to the Smithsonian’s Digital Backgrounds opening page and start looking around. But keep going . . . and going. Who knows what you’ll find buried there?

—Nancy McKeon

From the Smithsonian Museum of American Art, “Scheherazade,” an oil on canvas by H. Lyman Saÿen, 1875-1918. / Smithsonian American Art Museum, Gift of H. Lyman Saÿen to his nation.

If you’ve ever wanted your Zoom environment to be a seriously lush salon, this may be your chance: “Harmony in Blue and Gold: The Peacock Room” by James McNeill Whistler, reconstructed at the Freer Gallery of Art and Arthur M. Sackler Gallery of the Smithsonian Institution. It was once the dining room of Frederick Richards Leyland, one of Britain’s largest shipowners, who commissioned Whistler to decorate the room on walls of leather (Leyland also commissioned paintings from other pre-Raphaelite artists, including a full-length Whistler portrait of his wife, Frances Leyland). / Gift of Charles Lang Freer.

Looking refreshingly modern, this block-printed wallpaper, “Willow,” was designed by William Morris (1834-1896) and is part of the wallcoverings holdings of the Cooper Hewitt, the Smithsonian’s Design Museum (in New York). / Gift of Cowtan & Tout, Inc.

“Rooftop and Clouds, Paris” is another painting by H. Lyman Saÿen, from the Smithsonian American Art Museum. Perhaps not an antidote to this dreary winter but it is, above all, Paris. / Gift of H. Lyman Saÿen to his nation.

Social distancing, 19th-century-style: “In the Garden,” an 1892-1894 oil on canvas by Thomas Wilmer Dewing. / Smithsonian American Art Museum, Gift of John Gellatly.

A 1934 abstract/geometric opaque watercolor painting by Russian-born Joseph Schillinger, called “Area Broken by Perpendiculars.” / Smithsonian American Art Museum, Gift of Mrs. Joseph Schillinger.

This “Wooded Landscape,” an oil on canvas by Samuel Isham, could reflect your computer mood on broodier days. / Smithsonian American Art Museum, Bequest of the artist.

IT TOOK SEVERAL years for my hair to adjust to DC’s swampy weather, but once it did, I found the climate here near perfect.

There’s about a month of winter, which we’re experiencing as I write. There’s just enough cold to make you (meaning me) appreciate the balmy springs, which frequently last for months. 

. . . flowers . . . / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

Then follows summer, a month or two of stifling heat (actually less than we—meaning you—complain of). Fall often lasts almost too long, with sweater weather bumping up against jingle bells and eggnog, making it difficult to get into the spirit. 

I once spent Christmas in Barbados and found the measly strings of colored lights between palm trees a sad spectacle, though the palms and jungle growth would be historically accurate. That was an aside.

Getting back to now. Mid-February is usually the time for itchy anticipation of the Philadelphia Flower Show.  Normally held in March, a month before it’s safe to plant anything in the garden, around here anyway, it’s a pleasurable torment. Gardening S & M. 

Last year, the nation’s largest and longest-running horticultural event, brainchild of the Pennsylvania Horticultural Society, was held as usual. This year it will be held for the first time in June. Instead of the cavernous convention center, the show has been moved outdoors to Franklin Delano Roosevelt Park, where existing plantings and trees and the lake will be incorporated into the overall design. 

Then! We can all run home positively blossoming with ideas—or collapsing in a puddle at the futility of our annual gardening efforts, moaning that September will yet again arrive and a review of a season in the soil will reveal another without zinnias, a joyous flower always considered child’s play to grow, yet for some adults always managing to fizzle. That would be me. 

. . . and even more flowers . . . / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

Anyway. The FDR Park setting offers 15 acres of display space, and we can expect the usual over-the-top landscape and floral design fantasies, competitions, educational sessions and plenty of booths with plants and seeds for purchase, and garden-related tchotchkes.

“Habitat: Nature’s Masterpiece,” the theme of this year’s show, will run June 5 through June 13. Social distancing and so forth will be strictly expected (no mask and someone will chase you with a rake—or worse). On the upside, there shouldn’t be the usual crush and press of bodies struggling for up close and personal views of the vignettes.

No word yet of what will happen should there be a monsoon.

Guests must reserve a date and time of visit (morning or afternoon entry) when purchasing tickets. Tickets are limited. To get your preferred choice of day and time, guests are encouraged to purchase their tickets early.

—Stephanie Cavanaugh

The Philadelphia Flower Show, June 5 through 13; FDR Park, 1500 Pattison Avenue and South Broad Street, 
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19145; phone 215-988-8800. Admission: Adults: $45; Young Friend (18-29): $30; Child (5-17): $20. Admission for children ages 4 and under is free. Young Friends tickets are available for weekday afternoons. For more information and tickets visit https://phsonline.org/the-flower-show.

LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” loves everyone’s flowers, not only her own.

Ta-dah! These are so darn cute, and easy to make. Even mistakes like mine (random-size ramekins, seized chocolate) didn’t ruin them. / MyLittleBird photo.

A major rule in the old days of food photos on film: Don’t eat the props before you know if the pictures came out okay. No, I didn’t dig into this souffle–it’s a stock photo. And not for nothing, you can see by the top photo that mine rose a lot more than these, so there. / iStock photo.

WHY SAY IT with flowers when chocolate tastes so much better!? (Not to mention—and here I am mentioning it—often cheaper.)

There’s the box ‘o chocolates, of course, which is what he gives you. That says, No, honey, you don’t look fat in those pants—don’t even think about it.

Peonies (above) and pink roses, perfect to send to your best girlfriend. Oh, hell, anyone would be thrilled to receive such a floral tribute, if you can find the precious stems. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

LOVE.

So you think saying it with flowers couldn’t be easier. You’re wrong. There are plenty of potential pratfalls in posies.  

Red roses mean love, this I think we know, but dark red—think Chanel’s Vamp nail polish—signifies mourning. One would think yellow roses would always be cheery, but in flower-speak they shout infidelity. White roses are for purity, innocence—something I trust none of us share—but can also mean starting over fresh. 

Say you’ve strayed and you’re sorry: Just hand your lover a white rose. How easy!

Roses aren’t the only flowers that have hidden meanings; most do. This Valentine’s day, consider making bouquets that speak.

Let’s start with love, shall we?

Red roses are not the only symbols of amour. For a floral combination offering a cacophony of divine scent and color, toss in some asters, lily-of-the-valley, red chrysanthemums, white carnations, white jasmine and yarrow. All speak of love, love, love.  

If you’ve really got the hots, up the passion with red tulips. Add a touch of fern, just to prove you’re sincere. 

For your best girlfriend: Happiness is a bunch of pink roses and peonies.

Daisies are lovely for a child. Innocence and hope is their meaning—mix with yellow tulips for sunshine, and lilac for youthful joy. 

Just friends? You may not even have to visit a florist for this one. Take a few branches of green arborvitae (steal from a neighbor if you don’t have any in your garden), mix with geraniums (any color will do) and add a dribble of ivy, which means friendship. 

When you wish you were more than friends, express that secret devotion with a base of pure white gardenias, then accent with camellias: the red ones if you’re champing at the bit; pink ones if you’re simply longing; and white if you adore them. Clover says, Think of me. 

Feeling more meh than affectionate? There are good wishes in basil; chives say you’re useful, and hyssop means cleanliness. A bouquet that says you’re useful and clean—best wishes! Ouch. But! You’ve been so thoughtful.  

If you’re ready for a break-up, butterfly weed says Let me go, lover. 

But if you’ve been dumped for another, the passive-aggressive approach might be a combo of yellow roses and hyacinths in purple for sorrow (and yellow if you’re jealous). Red carnations say your heart aches, anemones read forsaken, and marigolds express your grief. Forget-me-nots are self-explanatory. 

If you’re feeling a bit hostile about it, add some black-eyed Susans, which say you’re hoping for Justice. 

Cursing with flowers can also be great fun. 

For a bitch of a boss, tansy is lousy with hostility, and a symbol of war. Add yellow carnations to show your disdain, and crabapple blossoms . . . well, you can guess. To ensure the sentiments don’t come back to bite you, a few sprigs of dill are powerful against evil.

Send the Mother-in-Law From Hell a clutch of daylilies. True to their name, these last a day, then shrivel. Again! So thoughtful of you. 

My Agatha Christie Collection is for your darkest thoughts. Start with a base of rhododendron leaves: The flowering shrub howls Danger ahead. Add begonias—oh so pretty, yet they indicate dark thoughts. And belladonna? This pretty poison says: silence. Sure does.  Just ask Lucretia Borgia.  

Happy arranging!

—Stephanie Cavanaugh

LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” clearly has a lot of things to say and a lotta ways to say them.

NOW, DON’T GO all judge-y on me. The 17.2 inches of snow and the doggie duties (from left, Bailey, Sadie Lou and the sainted Jeremiah) got to me the other day. And this is the result.*

Walkin’ Those Dogs

Pups gotta poop, pups gotta pee
I gotta be where I don’t ALWAYS wanna be
Can’t help walking those dogs of mine.

It may be snowy, rainy or sleet
I cover up, my head to my feet
Don’t ALWAYS love walking those dogs of mine.

Although they may NOT be the dogs
People think of as pretty
To me, they are what they should be.
 Oh, go pee . . .

Jeremiah was 14, Bailey was 9,
All of age 10 Sadie Lou became mine.
Don’t DARE STOP walking those dogs of mine.

I take the old ones, kinda like me.
Jeremiah, Bailey and Sadie made three.
I LOVE walking those dogs of mine.

—Nancy McKeon

Apologies to Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein, fans of “Showboat” everywhere and, at the bridge (for some reason), George and Ira Gershwin from “Someone to Watch Over Me.”

*MLB Art Director LittleBird Kathy encouraged this silliness. When I told her all the elements were in place, her reaction was, “Great! Just in time for Grammy nominations!”

It’s hard to overestimate the amount of ridiculous pleasure we take in weirdness around here . . .