NOTE: You can send gardening questions to LittleBird Stephanie by putting them in a Comment to this column.

THIS IS my 12th column about the damn raccoon.  

The first was in September of 2017, when the loathsome marauder eviscerated the fat, juicy pond frog on the white porch sofa cushions, leaving filthy pawprints among the entrails. The Prince and I sometimes sit on that sofa when dining outside, too. It is most comfy.   

For a while this spring the raccoon seemed to be gone. Our little fishy friends frolicked in the pond.

He’s back. 

Illustration here and below by Edward Huse / www.edhuse.com.

It may not be the same raccoon. How long do they live, anyway? Ah, says Wikipedia: “Captive raccoons have been known to live for more than 20 years. However, the species’ life expectancy in the wild is only 1.8 to 3.1 years.” Are there white sofas in the wild? And how precise these life-expectancy measurements are—wonderful, isn’t it?

Let’s assume this is the same miscreant, and let’s call him Rocky, what else? (Given his rude disposition, let’s also assume he is male.) 

Did you know that raccoons are the largest of the procyonids (yeah, never heard of them either) and can weigh up to 57 pounds? Ponder that: 57 pounds. 

Pause.

They’re also sometimes called Trash Pandas. 

Illustration here and above by Edward Huse / www.edhuse.com.

Nocturnal (which is why we never catch the wily bastard), they ‘ll eat anything but have a particular taste for invertebrates, meaning fish, which—as you will see—is why there have been 12 columns, more than any column about any single plant or flower in this ostensible gardening column, though the wisteria might be close.

The fish are My Prince’s pets. They are not fancy, as Rocky finished off the koi early on and replacing them was a pricey proposition.  These are what are crudely called “feeder fish.” If you go into Petco or whatnot and ask for feeder fish, they’ll take you to a crowded tank full of a motley assortment of what look like puny goldfish but somehow aren’t, though many are gold. Someone decided that these little fish are good for nothing but feeding your pet snakes, and they’re sold for about a buck for 10 or a dozen. 

The Prince interrupts to say the price has gone up to 15 cents per. Okay.

My Prince loves them, despite their lack of refined provenance. He sits by the pond each evening with a glass of Merlot, tossing them crumbs of the finest fish food. They scurry up to the surface, swishing their little tails and hoovering up dinner. Sometimes they make it through the summer, getting fatter, dashing this way and that, glinting in the bits of late-day sun.

More often, there’s a tragedy or several. Morning comes and the border stones rimming the pond are in disarray; there may be bits of fern afloat—the salad course—and the fish are gone, or mostly. 

There have been various attempts at foiling the beast. These were underwater at first, therefore not offensive to the eye: ledges and crags and nooks for the fish to escape to. In fact, the ledges  hid the filter, which is not very attractive. As each scheme failed, more elaborate—and unattractive—foils were devised. 

By last September, when we left this story, The Prince had layered window screens over the pond weighted down with rocks, an unsightly heap that resembled “his” garage. Each evening he’d remove the barriers and settle in, happy and bloated with heroic pride, to feed his fish. 

Try as he might, Rocky couldn’t budge the fortress, and after some months of peace it appeared he’d departed for happier hunting grounds. Figuring he’d finally won this war (there are many little battles being fought around here—see also mice, ants and postal persons), My Prince disassembled his battlements and settled down to enjoy the pretty pond. My, how the ferns have grown, the moss so greenly bright on the base of the artfully broken statue that serves as a fountain.  A tiny sylvan setting. Sigh. 

Then Rocky returned. What a nose he has; or was he just lurking, watching, laughing.  Raccoons, says Wikipedia again, “are noted for their intelligence.”

Fish. Ferns. Eat. Prince. Laugh.

Yet again the fish were gone. Gone.

The current “solution” in the ongoing Battle of Rocky the Raccoon. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

Now we have the penultimate barrier in place: a lattice screen, weighted all around, and lifted during the day like a pup tent to give the fish a few paltry rays of light. Most of the time, you know there’s a pond only because the statue continues to pour water through one of the gaps in the lattice.

Here’s the “pup tent” in action, allowing the poor little fishies a few rays of light during the day. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

It’s more attractive than the rubbish barrier, I suppose. 

The ultimate, of course, would be for My Prince to fill in the damn pond and thumb his fine, slender Irish nose at Rocky. 

I‘m not sure who the winner would be in that case. 

Fish. Ferns. Eat. Prince. Laugh.

—Stephanie Cavanaugh

LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” likes dogs, cats, birds and fish. She does NOT like this raccoon.

LEFT: Carrie Mae Weems’s “After Manet” is a photograph that puts African American figures into a Manet setting. It dates from 2002. / Carrie Mae Weems, “After Manet,” 2002 (printed 2015), Chromogenic print, courtesy of the artist and Jack Shainman Gallery, New York, © Carrie Mae Weems.  
RIGHT: Several artists in the Phillips exhibition riff on Manet’s famous, and quite scandalous, “Dejeuner sur l’Herbe.” This 2017 work by Ayana V. Jackson populates the well-known forest glen with strong female characters replacing Manet’s naked white women. It is called “Judgment of Paris” because the Manet painting is itself a riff on an earlier work, a 16th-century engraving in which the mythological Paris has to judge which goddess is most beautiful (hint: he chooses Venus). / Ayana V. Jackson, “Judgment of Paris,”  2018, Archival pigment print on German etching paper, courtesy of the artist and Mariana Ibrahim Gallery, Chicago.

MANY SCHOLARLY words have been written about how much modern art owes to African sculpture, visible in flattened forms and the human face expressed in abstract simplicity. But the “Riffs and Reflections” exhibition at the Phillips Collection in Washington DC looks in the other direction, at modern African American artists who embraced the modern idioms of Impressionism, then abstraction, and tried to become part of the evolving art scene in Europe.

The fact is, though, that the names William H. Johnson and Hale Woodruff don’t ring bells as loudly as Matisse, Manet and Monet. But the Black artists persisted, endeavoring to put African Americans in the picture, literally. albeit often abstractly. And while the European appropriation of African forms went largely unacknowledged, more recent African American artists have addressed the European works directly, riffing on them with verve and bold color and a healthy dose of politics.

The contemporary artist Titus Kaphar created “Pushing Back the Light,” left, in 2012 as a commentary on Monet’s “Woman With a Parasol,” right, from 1875. Black tar surrounding the female figure (actually Mme Monet) literally sends the luminous Impressionist light to the edges of the canvas, the artist’s response to the fact that while Impressionists in Europe were capturing idyllic scenes of daily life, the African continent was being carved up by European nations into colonies with natural and human resources to exploit. / Left, Titus Kaphar, “Pushing Back the Light,” 2012, Oil and tar on canvas, courtesy of the artist and the photographer, Christopher Gardner. Right, Claude Monet, “Woman with a Parasol–Madame Monet and Her Son,” 1875, Oil on canvas, National Gallery of Art, Washington DC, Collection of Mr. and Mrs. Paul Mellon.

The Phillips exhibit, originally intended to end May 24, will be extended through January 3, 2021. Perhaps by then we will be able to see the show in person, but for the moment the Phillips remains closed and the offerings on its website will have to suffice.

And they do! The sheer delight of discovering these works outweighs the social distancing of the moment.

—Nancy McKeon

Riffs and Relations: African American Artists and the European Modernist Tradition, phillipscollection.org. The Riffs and Relations catalogue, written by the exhibit’s curator, Adrienne L. Childs, is $50 ($45 for members) and can be ordered through museumshop@phillipscollection.org or through Amazon. 

Another riff is by Hank Willis Thomas’s 2016 “Icarus,” left, which directly quotes from Matisse’s “Icarus,” right. But Thomas created this quilt using sports-team logos and jerseys (also, the Thomas quilt is meant to be horizontal). / Left, Hank Willis Thomas, “Icarus,” 2016, Quilt, Collection of Debbie and Mitchell Rechler, © Hank Willis Thomas, Courtesy of the artist and Jack Shainman Gallery. Right, Henri Matisse, “Icarus,” plate VIII from the illustrated book “Jazz 1947,” The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of Lila Acheson Wallace, 1983.

“The Card Players” by Hale Woodruff, from 1930, has all the dramatic distortion of planes and faces that European artists were experimenting with. / Hale Woodruff, “The Card Players,” 1930, Oil on canvas, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, George A. Hearn Fund, 2015.

Exposure to Cezanne, Van Gogh and Soutine during his Paris years led South Carolina-born William H. Johnson to move beyond his academic training and experiment with movement in form. His later work, after he returned to the United States, shifted once again–simpler, flattened characters more in the spirit of Jacob Lawrence. / William H. Johnson, “Cagnes-sur-Mer,” 1928–29, Oil on canvas mounted on board, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, The John Axelrod Collection—Frank B. Bemis Fund, Charles H. Bayley Fund, and The Heritage Fund for a Diverse Collection.

—

Bold form and color marked later work by William H. Johnson. / William H. Johnson, “Nude,” 1939, Oil on burlap, Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC, Gift of the Harmon Foundation.

Mixed media meld painting and traditional craft in “And She Was Born,” by Janet Taylor Pickett. / Janet Taylor Pickett, “And She Was Born,” 2017, Acrylic on canvas with collage, courtesy of the artist.

Tale of a rose: once so promising, now tragically compromised. / MyLittleBird photos.

WHY ANYONE would ask me questions about gardening, I don’t know. Have you noticed that I ditch any horticultural adventure that appears to be failing? Often, my best advice is for you to do so as well.

So I am startled to have received not one, not two, but three queries to respond to! 

Dear “Stephanie Gardens”: 

This spring I bought a Princesse Charlene de Monaco tea rose. I promptly planted the bare-root canes on my east-facing enclosed balcony, which I like to think of as my greenhouse, and the plant eventually rewarded me with two gorgeous roses. And then a few more started appearing. And then, and then . . . some of the leaves started to turn a weird mottled tan (I first thought it was too much sun), and soon what I’ve identified as spider mites had made webs around the buds and the surrounding leaves. They continue to spread. (I”m enclosing an admittedly lousy photo.)

My question: Should I cut the diseased branches off and try to rescue the main body of the plant, or should I toss the whole thing and chalk it up to learning?

Your friend in horticulture,
Flora Bunda

Dear Flora:

That is one helluva sad-looking rosa—which is Latin for rose. 

Personally? I’d throw it out and buy another; you sure don’t want it around other plants in your greenhouse as the bloody bugs will just romp over to something else. 

After an intense Internet search, I find that spider mites (Tetranychidae) are polyphagous herbivores, meaning they devour plants. That the name includes the word “mite” is misleading, referring only to the size of the bugs. They are arachnids, spiders, not mites, and just like their larger, hairier relatives have eight creepy legs. If that doesn’t make you itch to burn the plant I don’t know what will.

That said, the stems of your once-lovely rose look healthy and green, so you might prune it back hard, and then pray.  That sometimes works for me.  If, by chance, new leaves emerge and the mites reappear, you could try suffocating them with a spritz of dish detergent mixed with water.  Or, if you insist on paying for something, try Safer Insecticidal Soap. 

More-toxic remedies would be unwise in an enclosed area, like a greenhouse, unless you have it in for someone and can stay out of the house for an extended period. (See Question 3, below). 

Dear “Stephanie Gardens”:

I love hearing about your clandestine plant-pinching. I think it would add bit of thrill to my morning walks around the neighborhood (and some fun to my boring container gardens), but I’m unsure what to look for. 

Thank you for your inspiration!

Pilfering Poppy

Dear Poppy:

Well, technically you can pinch and propagate almost anything, but we’ll stick to the laziest possibilities, not the ones that require years of fretting and any tool beyond your fingers. 

The Begonia Solenia in apricot. You can obtain one at Marde Ross & Company.

By the way, we do not call this “pilfering.” It’s pruning, a perfectly respectable activity. If someone catches you, say you were simply correcting an imbalance, or deadheading.

Generally, fat and juicy stems take most easily to the pinch-and-plant method of propagation. With such plants as begonias, coleus and tradescantia (wandering jew), you can go straight from nipping a stem just below a node (the little stem bump where a leaf or roots might emerge) to sticking it in a pot. 

Other cuttings prefer to bathe before planting. Put gleaned clippings of plants such as pothos, impatiens and Christmas cactus in a glass of water. Roots should appear in about a week, and they can be transplanted to a pot or directly into the garden. Herbs such as mint, basil and lemon verbena also take well to water-rooting.

Geraniums are one outlier: Despite their firm stems, they are easily divided. Dip the stem in rooting hormone like Bonide, make a hole in the soil with a pencil, chopstick or finger, insert the stem, and water.   

For more about easily propagated plants, check out this article on Gardening Know How.

Dear “Stephanie Gardens”: 

I have several (single) friends who’ve taken up herb gardening as a twee new quarantine hobby. They’re drying the herbs, freezing them in oil, making boozy infusions, etc. Meanwhile, I’ve been contemplating murdering my husband, who is also stuck at home. My home. With me. Which got me thinking, what are some fun things to grow that I could also threaten him with when needed? 

Love,
Lucretia

Dear Lucretia:

Were you thinking mildly ill, or bumping him off?

Angel’s Trumpet, or Datura, looks so pristine and benign, but beware: It’s poisonous. /

Some poisonous plants have been done to death, but with good reason: They get the job done.  Most, however, can be diluted for degrees of discomfort and used in sauces and salad dressing, or as your friends do—in cocktails. 

Whichever you choose, the plant should be lovely to look at, so you can flutter your eyelashes, clutch your bodice, and reasonably say—through tears, if you can manage—Officer! I had no idea. But this is not an acting course, it’s a gardening column. 

Attractiveness eliminates Belladonna, also known as Deadly Nightshade. While it’s a legendary literary poison—think Macbeth—it’s not particularly attractive, with its no-account, itty-bitty bell-shaped flowers and innocuous-looking black berries. Really, everything about it is a dead giveaway. 

Now for a clutch of quite captivating possibilities.   

Datura is an old favorite. Also known as Angel’s Trumpet (as in, ha-ha you’re dead) and Devil’s Snare, this plant is gorgeous to behold, easy to grow and divinely lethal. 

Petite Pink Oleander looks so innocent, and it’s lovely to grow, just don’t suck on one of its leaves. / Photo from Gardenia.net.

Hemlock has such a lovely retro vibe, doesn’t it? A member of the carrot family, it has frilly white flowers like my favorite weed, Queen Anne’s Lace. Less well known, but also in the carrot family, is Giant Hogweed, which can grow to 14 feet and just oozes toxic sap. 

Yellow-flowering Wild Parsnip can bring on a nasty rash a couple of days after contact, meanwhile Foxglove with its towering flower-covered stalks can be, quite literally, heart-stopping, as can Mistletoe (Merry Christmas, darling!).

For a mild malaise, look to Bitter Nightshade, a rather pretty perennial with purple flowers and juicy-looking red berries (think pie), which can cause headache, vomiting and diarrhea.  

But if I had to pick just one to do him in, I’d go with Oleander. There’s no messing about with this beauty, with its clusters of showy flowers in shades of red, pink and white. A single leaf can kill an adult. 

Make sure his life insurance is paid up and have fun!

—Stephanie Cavanaugh

LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” doesn’t have all the answers, but she’ll research some if you submit questions to her. You can just add a Comment to this post, and the question will be forwarded to our Green Acre columnist.

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, whether through a retailer, an online store or Amazon.com.

What can items like these possibly have in common? All were offered to neighbors on a community listserv, by-products of the Great National Pandemic Clean-out happening in closets, attics, basements and garages all over America. Clockwise from left, all of the New Yorker magazines from 2019, a garbage bag filled with “totally clean” bubble wrap and a set of cow vertebrae, suited for use, we’re told, as napkin rings.

FOR EVERY POT there’s a lid, right?

Okay, that applies to love and maybe marriage. Does it also apply to a copy of Florida Wetland Plants: An Identification Manual? A 46-inch Samsung plasma TV in need of repair? Perhaps a garbage bag full of bubble wrap?

These are all things people have been posting on listservs as giveaways, as part of the Great National Pandemic Clean-out that’s been taking place across America (when people aren’t baking). And the remarkable thing is, almost every pot does indeed seem to have a lid.

One of the liveliest listservs around is the one covering Cleveland Park, a leafy, relatively affluent neighborhood in Washington DC. The email list claims some 14,000-plus members, so when you post something there for sale or for free, it’s not as if it’s on eBay but close enough for most householders.

Half a bag of Kingsford charcoal briquettes, right, was offered on (and snapped up from) the Cleveland Park (DC) listserv right after July 4. Classic Victorian-style garden furniture, left, was given away by people moving to an apartment without outdoor space.

And I have to give credit where credit is due. I march through the streets of Manhattan on a nightly basis (walking the dog) and am horrified by the mounds of decent-ish cabinets and lamps and bed frames and even art (well, you know, kinda art) that’s just dumped for curbside pickup. We’re not talking Chippendale here, but the Coalition for the Homeless or the New Jersey Department of Human Services could furnish any number of apartments and group homes by means of a few midnight cruises around the Upper East Side.

The people on these listservs, on the other hand, are well aware that they’re tossing useful stuff—useful to someone else. The examples are numerous and humorous. And some of them get snapped up in a matter of hours.

It’s not surprising that many of the items being offered for sale or for free are baby- and kid-related, given how relentlessly time marches on, even during a pandemic. Two examples: left, a Munchkin High Capacity Baby Bottle Drying Rack and, right, a Petunia Pickle Bottom diaper bag.

The availability of four free new vinyl blackout roller shades 35 inches wide was announced at 2:19pm on June 27; the former owner marked them TAKEN at 5:04pm the same day. An unopened bag of Whole Foods 365 Hardwood Charcoal plus a partially used can of lighter fluid were posted at 2:06pm on the 26th; they were gone by 3:42pm. (I don’t know what happened to the open bag of Kingsford charcoal briquettes, a nearly full can of  lighter fluid and a small bundle of logs posted on July 5.)

Free for the taking is this dark green garment bag, left. And for the lucky wearer of a size 10 shoe, a pair of “unisex” Gola Cadet sneakers in off-white.

I was surprised by how few exercise bikes were posted (and no stair-steppers at all) and how many TV sets, including some flat-screens (and including one the owner couldn’t get to work but hoped someone else could). Then there were:

• extra water bottles

• area rugs

• eight variegated snake plants and two Christmas cacti

• a collection of sci-fi movies and TV shows in VHS format (only The X-Files is left, last I looked)

• Farm Fetched freeze-dried turkey hearts (calm down, they’re cat treats)

• a Salton Hot Tray (wow, that takes me back about 40 years to my mother’s house!)

• a Crate and Barrel leaning desk

• a collection of “Mid-Century, Middlebrow British Fiction” (Angela Thirkell, P.G. Wodehouse, “Miss Silver”—”not fine literature,” according to the listing, “but excellent pandemic reading”

• a beanbag cover with the name Claire embroidered on it

• among other things “dusty and decades old,” six bentwood chairs, “all in need of new seats” (quite the salesman, this poster)

Not to be passed up (though so far it has been): “some extra kefir grains, enough to ferment a bottle of milk in a day.”

And those cow vertebrae suitable for use as napkin rings? Turns out they’re a thing: There are two  dozen sellers on Etsy offering them at anywhere from $8 to $21.95 each.

Some items need more “sell” than others. A poster on the Cleveland Park listserv announced, left, “Tinker items: old faucet spout and tubes, locks, other metal items that would all be good to tinker with for art or other projects.” Yeah. Those may still be sitting on the lister’s porch. But the six “silvery” cabinet pulls, right, posted on June 29 were gone by the next day.

People post for things they’d like to acquire as well. One listserv member is hoping someone will hand over a Beach Cruiser Bicycle for her boyfriend. Others are looking for very specific things: a used Nanit or Owlet baby monitor to buy and a cat stroller sturdy enough for two hefty cats.

Sadly, we may never know if someone wanted Florida Wetland Plants: An Identification Manual, a 588-page door stopper edited by John B. Tobe and published in 1998 by the University Press of Florida.

—Nancy McKeon

LittleBird Stephanie’s quest began with a bottle of Seville orange fragrance imported from Spain. Back home the quest led to—where else?—the Internet.

BABY WENT to Spain last year, a time, you may recall, when people hopped on planes to places such as Madrid and Montevideo, a time when we worried about leg room and entertained the dismemberment of small children and the guy whose seatback was lying on our knees. Wonderful, wasn’t it?

That was an aside. 

On her return, Baby pulled from her bag a small spray bottle of something called Agua Fresca de Azahar, and with a sly grin opened the bottle top and waved it under my nose.

It was, it was . . .

My knees actually grew weak, even though I was sitting down. The scent! A single note of bitter orange, Sevillian bitter orange to be precise, sweet yet tart. It was like standing in an orange grove in full bloom, or being transported to Madrid on a rainy spring afternoon. One whiff was astonishing, a second irresistible. We passed the bottle back and forth, inebriated by the scent. 

LittleBird Stephanie found two close calls (but no cigar) online. The first (on the right) was rough on the nose, the second turned out to be for cooking.

She got one 1.6-ounce bottle for me and one for herself. ¡Qué lástima! Even with the rare wearing, just a spritz now and then, I am two-thirds down and growing panicky. 

Tragically, Benditaluz, which makes this body splash, as they call it, ships only to the Spanish peninsula and nearby islands. So began a search for something approaching its magic.

Being as this was bought at a pharmacy in Spain, not at a fancy fragrance counter, I figured the best place to hunt for something similar was Amazon. Nada doing, but after several hours of dogged research I had a couple of possibilities, swiftly ordered. 

There was Murray & Lanman’s Florida Water cologne, which may or may not be made in New York—the label is a bit vague,  though it has a delightfully vintage appeal; too bad the bottle is plastic.

I gave myself a little splash. 

“Phew! What the hell is that?” My Prince spat. It does have both the top and bottom notes of eau de 8-year-old girl in a dime store in 1959. There, I saved you $12.05 (don’t ask me what the nickel is for).

Much more successful was Agua de Azahar, Orange Flower Water, made somewhere in the US by the Imperial Drug and Spice Corporation. This was two 8-ounce bottles for $7.95. It has the top note of a just-cleaned room in a budget motel, but quickly dries down to a soft orange scent. Quite pleasant, in fact. 

Then I discovered you’re supposed to cook with it, not wear it.  You can add it to salads, chicken and sauces. Middle Eastern dishes rely on it. 

Oh. 

Still, it’s a lovely scent. I’ll put one bottle in the bath and the other in the kitchen.

Which brings up the question: What else might one eat, drink—or wear?

There’s vanilla, which must be daubed on when baking, of course, and the freshness of lemons and limes, which do better in a gin and tonic than they do rubbed on the skin, where the fruit leaves a sticky, pulpy mess. Rum sounds promising but actually doesn’t smell like anything. Cointreau is better, nice orangy hit there, but it quickly dissipates. 

And then I hit on bitters. 

Artisanal bitters come from Crude of Raleigh, North Carolina, which makes small-batch bitters and sodas, and also sells the tools you need to make bitters from your garden.

Pause for brief bitters lesson: Says Wikipedia, “Bitters (plural also bitters) is traditionally an alcoholic preparation flavored with botanical matter . . . aromatic herbs, bark, roots, and/or fruit for their flavor and medicinal properties.”

While that doesn’t sound particularly seductive, bitters do add that little tweak, that edge, an additional delicious dimension. Most often used in cocktails, bitters can also relieve stomach distress. Angostura is probably the best known, but there are smaller makers as well. Like craft beer, turns out there’s craft bitters. 

Baby introduced me to one maker on our visit to Raleigh, North Carolina, a few weeks ago. The young couple across the street operates Crude Small-Batch Bitters, with an “apothecary,” as they consider it, on East Davie Street. They have clever names, such as Bitterless Marriage, a blend of hibiscus, lavender and oak; Sycophant, with orange and fig; and Rizzo, which combines rosemary, grapefruit and peppercorn.

Rizzo is what Baby added to my gin and tonic, a healthy splash, along with cucumber peelings instead of the traditional lime—it was exquisitely refreshing. 

It also turns out to be an exquisitely refreshing body splash, first the grapefruit hits, then the rosemary and then a dry down to peppercorns. Really lovely. I’m sniffing my arm right now.

Turns out, if you have a garden, a rack of spices and herbs, and a bottle of vodka, you can easily turn out your own bitters.  Check out Thekitchn.com for such tempting blends as Lavender Bitters, which combines lavender, orange, vanilla and ginger. 

If you don’t care for the flavor, you can always take a bath in it. 

—Stephanie Cavanaugh

LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” also knows her way around the kitchen. Trust me on that.

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, whether through a retailer, an online store or Amazon.com.

YOU THINK you know what fancy-pants people wear and eat and think because you know your Loro Pianas from your Versaces, your La Prairie from your Mario Badescu? Ha! I say. And ha! again.

Enter, if you dare, the world brought to us by novelist Kevin Kwan. The Singaporean writer didn’t invent the world of Crazy Rich Asians and the other two books of his 2013-2017  trilogy; he survived it, well enough to satirize it.

Here, satirizing means dropping the names of designers and cafes and private schools three inches deep on every page, so the resulting new book, Sex and Vanity, can be something of a self-parody. But there’s fun to be had in this written version of a rom-com, set in Manhattan, the Hamptons and Capri, and a whole world of super-spending to wade through. There is an attempt to ennoble the world of self-consciously shabby old-money Social Register types, but the brash new-money gazillionaires do seem to have more fun. They certainly shop more.

Back when I read Crazy Rich Asians, I encountered names of jewelry and fashion designers—even a make of car—that I thought Kwan had simply invented. Oh, no: This middle-class gal, anchored to the Eastern Seaboard of the US, just hadn’t heard of them. This time the territory is a bit more familiar, but there are still worlds within worlds to be unearthed, deceptive sentences to be parsed, luxuries to covet (although sharing a meal with friends in a restaurant seems like a luxury these days). Here are a few “discoveries.”

—Nancy McKeon

The island of Capri is known for its sandal makers, and we get the message quite clearly from Kevin Kwan in Sex and Vanity that Da Costanzo is the one that really counts (as in, you know, Jacqueline Onassis). There are fancy-schmancier styles than these, or course, that run into the hundreds of dollars, but this style, the classic “Cuccurullo,” is 80 euros. You can order directly from the sandal maker’s website, manecapri.com.

Some of the clothing in Sex and Vanity is outrageously expensive, and some of it is just . . . expensive.

LEFT: One character is admired for the way the pleats of her Tibi dress flutter around her. Yours could flutter too: The ruffled plissé-georgette midi dress is on sale for $268.50, down from $895, at Net-a-Porter.com.

RIGHT: From Erdem comes the Celestina dress, made in England of ivory floral organza and embroidered lace. Though it’s being marketed as a wedding dress, it’s similar, I suspect, to one worn by Sex and Vanity‘s heroine. It’s $5,825 at erdem.com.

A relative newcomer to the palazzo-hotel scene in Venice, the Aman Venice inhabits the lower floors of the 16th-century Palazzo Papadopoli, with the upper floors reserved for the owners, the Arrivabene family. The palazzo is trimmed out with all sorts of baroque details—frescoes, painted ceilings—as expected, but . . . 

. . . the Aman chain is known for its minimal Asian beach hotels, and the minimalism that shows up here contrasts well with the baroque. And be aware: There’s a half-price sale on now! Rooms are currently in the $1,600-per-night range . . . providing, of course, that Italy allows you to enter the country.

To hear Kevin Kwan tell it, wealthy Asian women wear jewels the size of Christmas tree ornaments, with price tags to match. Some of them surely come from Carnet, a Hong Kong jeweler whose designer, Michelle Ong, has spent two decades creating for those who don’t need to ask the price. The brooches shown above are, left to right, Iridescent Ocean Brooch 2, Oceans Fantasy Brooch 2 and Jade Embrace Brooch 2. It’s important to get the names right if you want to, you know, order one of them online at carnetjewellery.com.

The treats from La Maison du Chocolat are jewels of another sort. With shops throughout France and several in both Tokyo and New York, this luxury is even accessible, in its own way. The Twigs, a box of 16 chocolate twigs in three crunchy recipes, is $37. The individual Traviata (Almond and Hazelnut Praline Cake with a Whipped Crème Brûlée Interior and Coated in Dark Chocolate) is $9 but available only in Maison du Chocolat shops. There’s also a Traviata for 4 to 6 people for $52.

Show up with a case of Dugat-Py Mazis-Chambertin burgundy as an apology the way a Kevin Kwan character does? You’re forgiven, but it’ll set you back. The book says the 2014 vintage was $875 a bottle. I found vintages for only $300 or $350 per. Imagine that.

Back in the land of normal luxury, Moynat handbags feature in Sex and Vanity. This Mini Gabrielle, available in a number of colors and fabrications, is $4,062 as shown, available at 24s.com.

Now, who doesn’t want her boyfriend to notice that her Mini Cooper is 10 years old and therefore should be replaced . . . with an Aston Martin DB11 Volonte? And then have a rich Hong Kong woman laugh that it was so cheap at $268,000 because it would cost at least half a million back home? Ah, to live in Kevin Kwan’s world.

The world of the wealthy, at least in Kevin Kwan’s telling, includes tiaras. Of course. So my last discovery was the 400-year-old Maison Mellerio of Paris. The jeweler still makes tiaras as well as jeweled ceremonial swords for members of the Académie Française. Surely it would be more than happy to make a tiara or two for you or me. Price, no doubt, upon consultation and request.

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, whether through a retailer, an online store or Amazon.com.

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, whether through a retailer, an online store or Amazon.com.

The Raleigh, North Carolina, backyard of Baby and Her Prince before the ministrations of LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” . . . / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

THERE ARE ROSES in Baby’s garden: floribundas, hybrid teas, and scentless (but prolific) red Knock Outs. These have names like Fragrant Plum, Sunshine Happy Trails and Fun in the Sun, which is about as much fun in the sun as she’ll likely have in this most miserable of summers.

Last week we visited Baby, her Personal Prince Pete, grandbaby Wes and granddog Lu, for a few days in North Carolina. Like so many other grandparents living at a distance, it’s been months since we’ve seen and hugged the family.

Since matters only seem to be getting worse and this may be our last chance for many months more—did you hear about Bubonic Plague and the brain-eating disease blossoming in South Florida?—we strictly social-distanced for two weeks and tested for disease, and there we were.

This is their second summer in the big house they designed for themselves, with double porches front and rear and a staircase that climbs to a roof deck that views the night twinkle of downtown Raleigh. Unfortunately, between the state of the economy and a new baby, the plant budget is lean and the garden looks a bit sketchy. With limited time and funds, we did a quick and dirty fix.

Two-thirds of the sizable rectangle that forms the backyard is Pete’s Lawn, a greensward dotted with cheerful patches of yellow frizzle and dollops of brown droppings, courtesy of Lu, whose playground this is. The sole ornament: a youthful pinkish-red (we think) crape myrtle covered with buds.  

. . . and after. What sump pump? Where? Okay, it’s still there, but it’s not quite so obvious now./ Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

The other third is garden, Baby’s domain. Last fall we sculpted a scalloped edge, where border meets grass, and did our best to improve what turned out to be a thin layer of soil atop building rubble, heaping it with free mulch from the city’s yard-waste center. Before this visit she added compost and more mulch, all sprinkled with weed-suppressing Preen—to combat the uninvited guests that arrived with that free mulch. 

Already in place were the roses, planted near the house and along the back of the border. At the far end are bulbs just beginning to bloom: calla lilies, ballet-slipper-pink gladiolus, dahlias, pink stargazer lilies, orange day lilies, hollyhocks, sunflowers and purple and yellow iris. Down at the very end, a surprisingly bushy stand of what Baby insists are orange cosmos, but I think not, has emerged near a little birdhouse with a morning glory climbing the post. 

All of these will grow fast and lush in full sun, which this garden has in abundance. How unused I am to the luxury of sunlight, I struggle to know what to do, dappled shade (to be generous) being my total gardening milieu.

Though it might sound like a lot of plants, it’s a big border, and there’s still a sizable gap beside the rather large and unfortunate centerpiece: a round metal sump-pump cover at ground level and a gray metal alarm box for said pump that pokes several feet above soil level and is equipped with an ominous red eye that seems to be surveilling the back porch, a ridiculous North Carolina building regulation.

Drinking my coffee and hanging over the back porch steps, a particularly fine vantage point, I decided the red standard hibiscus sitting beside me should move down—it’s several years old and over four feet tall in its pot. Surrounded by quick-growing and colorful annuals, such as zinnias and begonias and such, it will make a fast—and free—distraction from the surveillance apparatus.

I stuck a plate on top of the alarm box. It balanced. Maybe it could be a base for a statue or a Big Pot of Something? Baby has already set a pretty potted lilac on top of the manhole cover: Potted plants are so handy for quick renovations, with not just flowers but the pots themselves serving as color and ornament. 

Later in the day we added the three-foot-tall purple Rose of Sharon The Prince and I toted from home, an offshoot from our mother plant and a cold-hardy variety of hibiscus. It filled a blank spot nicely, and will grow into a small tree within a couple of years. 

Several pots of zinnia and a butterfly bush (buddleia) were snapped up at the splendid North Carolina Farmers Market in Raleigh, and will bloom prettily in the back of the border until late fall. 

We’re home now for several days and Baby writes: “It still catches me off guard every day when I look out there and see that four relatively small changes completely altered the look of that whole space. For such an impatient person it’s a blessing for my brain and my wallet that the bare spots are full enough that I can take a breath and just enjoy it. Now I’ll have to start squirreling away my pennies for the fall planting season. Oy.” 

—Stephanie Cavanaugh

LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” spreads her gardening wisdom and enthusiasm far beyond Washington DC, her home base.

 

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, whether through a retailer, an online store or Amazon.com.

A FEW MONTHS ago, I ordered a case of commercial toilet paper rolls when I couldn’t find “residential-sized” rolls at the grocery store. Baby boomer that I am, I posted a photo of my gigantic toilet paper roll on Facebook (not quite Instagram-worthy). It was meant to be silly and eye-catching, and it certainly produced more comments than usual and maybe improved my FB feed for a minute. To be honest, I was more concerned that people would focus on my old and ugly green 1940s bathroom tile than on the giant toilet paper roll, courtesy of Amazon, as I immersed myself in new COVID buying patterns. Awkwardness aside, however, I decided to bare all for the sake of entertainment. I resorted to juvenile humor out of boredom, I rationalized. It was a welcome distraction from a global health crisis in a politically charged year.

“TP” is at least 10 inches in diameter and doesn’t fit into the regular slot, so my husband rigged up a solution that allows it to roll using a bungee cord. Brilliant. And that first roll lasted for what seemed forever. I was happy. I lived through the FB posts (no one commented on the ugly tile!) and I enjoyed seeing the bounty of my purchases, safe in the knowledge that I had all the toilet paper I needed during the pandemic. It has been a peaceful time, all things considered. I don’t have to go to the grocery store en masse, en mask, en glove. I can live in total decadence and use all the toilet paper my little heart desires. My hoarder’s stash, crowding my linen closet and spilling into my bedroom, has been a visual reminder I am cared-for and safe. I am RICH. 

About a week into my toilet paper bounty, my husband tweaked the set-up. Could it get any better? You see, “TP” had its own giant inner cardboard roll and kind of bounced against the tiled wall. Blop, blop, blop. A little rip here, a little rip there; maybe I was able to get what I needed in one fell swoop, and maybe I had to start over and wad things up a bit. BUT THEN, brilliant fixer that my husband is, he added a regular-sized leftover cardboard roll on the inside of the large cardboard roll. Whoa! Now, TP rolled smoothly! No rips, no tears, just a nice little wad of toilet paper that was perfect for the job. Like ’70s soul music . . . never-ending and smooth. Background music to my daily routine and a new appreciation for the magic of adding one small “gear” to one’s set-up. I started to feel something akin to affection. Toward my giant TP and baby tp, that is. 

I continued to marvel at how a gentle giant, its pint-sized clone, and one little tweak made by a savvy fixer made all the difference in the operations department. I sat and pondered in the Green Room (what else does one do during a pandemic? I had time). Big roller and little roller became my muse and a metaphor for a well-oiled machine as my mind meandered. 

Well-oiled machine. Big gears and little gears, working in quiet, productive harmony. My husband, newly discovered mechanical engineering consultant. Me, acquisitions department (with a nod to Amazon, shipping/transport, and its manufacturing affiliate). 

Bungee cord, strong enough and flexible enough for the job. How could one not be proud of the productivity and efficiency before me? 

Fast-forward two months, TP the Fourth and little tp have been getting along nicely and holding up their end of the team effort. Bungee may need to retire as some threads are fraying. (We have identified and are interviewing a new bungee recruit.) Acquisitions and design departments, able to concentrate on other productive work. “Everyone” (allow me some personification) is clear on his or her roles and responsibilities, and management is pleased things are rolling along so smoothly. 

Has this toilet paper motivated me? In short, yes. Do I have a better appreciation of how welcome it is to have a clearly defined goal and to be surrounded by efficient, creative team members? You bet. How am I going to implement my toilet paper strategy at work or in my personal life? I’m not quite sure (maybe a Green Room retreat is in order). But TP has changed my thinking and has given me a new-found inspiration to ponder which part of the process I do best or want to improve, not to mention an appreciation for the objects and people around me who lend their talents to my everyday riches. Silver linings. 

What about you? How do you enrich your life? 

—Kathy Redd

Kathy Redd is a mom, a daughter-in-law and wife of a world-class jazz pianist. She works in property management in the Washington DC metro region. 

WHILE LITTLEBIRD “Stephanie Gardens,” a/k/a/ Stephanie Cavanaugh, relaxes (I hope) with The Prince in Raleigh, North Carolina, I thought I might share a somewhat different view of gardening. As in, I’d hire a gardener if I could.

Though I’m hardly a rookie (at anything, it seems), my determination to make rookie mistakes seems fierce.

Lantana was such a brilliant idea on a sun-drenched DC patio. / MyLittleBird photo.

Take lantana, for instance. I adore this showy, billowy plant, especially when the clusters of blossoms are a cacophony of conflicting color, yellows and oranges and pinks all muddled together, each color sparking off the next. Over the years I’ve had many a big basket of these lively beauties on a big zinc table on the back patio. That townhouse patio is in the rear-view mirror now, and the zinc table inhabits the foyer of my city apartment. But my glassed-in balcony faces due east and therefore is flooded with as much light as the former patio, so why not have a big bushy lantana out there?

Here’s why: Because when it’s lounging about outdoors, the lantana disguises the fact that it’s a filthy plant, constantly shedding its blooms and stems and leaves and other unidentifiable (by me) detritus, all of which is happily carried off by the odd breeze. On a balcony, even with one of the giant windows flung open, all that stuff just . . . drops . . . and collects, on the plant stand, on the floor, on the indoor-outdoor rug. You get the filthy picture.

One thing my two lantana experiences have in common: Whether outdoors or in a glaringly bright sunroom, the lantana drinks almost as much as some of my friends. Which is to say, quite a lot.

Not so proud now, are we? This city lantana gets all the sun it needs and then some, and plenty to drink. But it’s a litterbug on steroids. You can’t see the mess at the base of that pot. Nonetheless, it does bloom gloriously, and when it does, all is almost forgiven. / MyLittleBird photo.

The ranunculus showed such promise earlier in the spring. Sigh. / MyLittleBird photo.

Next failure: ranunculus. There are few flowers more lovely than these little beauties, also called Persian buttercups (how quaint-sounding is that?). They want full sun but cool temps; not sure how to achieve that. One way not to achieve it is to plant the tiny corms in a full east-facing sunroom. Before I learned to leave one of the windows open all the time, I discovered there is indeed such a thing as too much sun. Or maybe it was too much heat. Whichever was the culprit, the result (below) wasn’t pretty. I documented it fast before I could change my mind.

One brave little ranunculus sprang up but got fried for its trouble. / MyLittleBird photo.

I’d read enough to know that spindly is the default in a newly shipped rose. Soon enough there were several arching canes, each carrying its own Princesse Charlene de Monaco blossom. This is an ongoing drama. (Don’t be disturbed by the angry-looking character staring at the plant. It’s a statue of the Queen of Hearts from “Alice in Wonderland,” based on the drawings of Sir John Tenniel.) / MyLittleBird photos.

On to the rose. I ordered a Princesse Charlene de Monaco tea rose because . . . well, because I must’ve read about it. It arrived in early spring, bare-root with a couple of canes. I expected the bare roots; I didn’t know they’d be so stiff. I found a pot that was, I hoped, deep enough and wide enough that I could spread the roots out enough to let them breathe. Greenery showed up soon enough, and then buds—one bud at the tip of each arching cane. One by one the flowers appeared, very lovely, very delicate-looking, then one by one they faded and went away. This rose is supposed to be extravagantly scented, and I would say that’s overselling it by a bit, but there was a delicate fragrance to be had. The Princesse Charlene is said to bloom repeatedly and, sure enough, this morning I noticed green shoots at the base of the plant, so there may be more royal activity to come in this corner of the sunroom.

Eureka! Tall and spindly and now yellowing and ugly, the three cherry tomato plants have nonetheless kept the faith. / MyLittleBird photos.

I once had a backyard, I had a patio. So why didn’t I ever grow “patio tomatoes,” as some call cherry tomatoes? I always meant to, then used the excuse that I’m not that wild about tomatoes anyway so why bother. For some reason, this year I bothered. (I could credit the coronavirus pandemic with this change of heart, but my trip to the little garden center in Harlem predated the full lockdown.)

In this case I did everything wrong. I had only two pots for the three little plants I bought (they came as a threesome), and neither pot was really large enough. I gambled, stuck two plants in the larger of the two pots, one in the other, and started watering. And kept watering. The things shot up like crazy, which reminded me why God invented tomato-plant cages (and why God also invented sisters who happened to have bought a couple of cages that very week—thanks again, Pat!). Soon enough—how soon? no idea; I was too busy masking up and social-distancing to pay much attention beyond the watering—the plants were as tall as I am. Now, a few weeks later, they’re even taller.

The plants have produced a couple dozen tomatoes so far, and I continue to find tiny green globes that grow and turn a tempting orange. They grow in little clusters but don’t mature at the same time, so there’s always a few ready for the evening’s salad and a few on the horizon for the next day’s. Win, win!

I have noticed that the most productive of the plants is the one that has a pot all to itself, so there may be a rookie lesson in that. Having said that, I’m looking over at the trio of plants, now truly spindly and reaching up toward the ceiling of the sunroom. The two sharing a pot are kinda yellowish and not so good-looking, but I also see a few newbies emerging from them.

So, a minor triumph or two among the horticultural disasters. One thing is for certain: LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” has nothing to fear from me when it comes to writing a Green Acre column!

—Nancy McKeon

At one time this spring, tomato plants and ranunculus co-existed happily in this enclosed balcony overlooking New York’s East River.

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, whether through a retailer, an online store or Amazon.com.

Authorized copies of Eileen Gray’s Adjustable Table E 1027 are produced today and available through the Museum of Modern Art store for $1,200. Made of chrome-plated steel, it appears that at least one original version (right) was painted black, though the Bard Graduate Center exhibit makes it clear that the piece had in fact been painted many times.

WHAT DOES it mean when the furniture we call “modern” was designed almost 100 years ago?

Well, I don’t know either, but there we are. Marcel Breuer’s “Cesca” chair was designed in 1928 (many call the cantilevered chair made from tubular steel simply the “Breuer chair,” but he designed many). The chrome and leather Barcelona chair, with its leather seat and back and curved-X legs of steel, dates from 1929.

And the little round Adjustable Table E 1027 was designed by Irish architect Eileen Gray in 1927. She made it for the Côte d’Azur vacation home she designed and lived in with fellow architect Jean Badovici.

In fact, the little table, which adjusts from 24 inches to about 40 inches tall and which can be easily moved around by its top handle, is a Gray icon, the one item known by those of us who know little or nothing about Gray.

A newly rediscovered drawing in Gray’s hand of a bedroom for a Monte Carlo home. Before this, the room was known only through a photo that appeared in a 1924 architecture magazine. I lean toward the chinoiserie end of the decorative spectrum, but I swear I can hear a Cole Porter tune when I look at this image.

An exhibit at the Bard Graduate Center in Manhattan promises to amend that. It offers—online, of course—drawings of rooms Gray designed for clients, vintage black-and-white shots of the E 1027 house, and interactive images of the Bard gallery rooms that allow viewers to click on objects for more information (my favorite thing). What emerges is a much fuller picture of a woman competing, and largely succeeding, in a man’s profession in the early part of the 20th century, mostly in Paris, where the world was open to her.

—Nancy McKeon

One of the exhibit rooms at the Bard Graduate Center Gallery in Manhattan. Here the little Adjustable Table E 1027 is highlighted, and object information will pop up.

Two Eileen Gray designs.
LEFT: The “Rocket” Lamp from 1923. Eileen Gray made three versions of this lamp. The hand-painted parchment shade of this one is a modern replacement based on her original drawings. / Photo by Katherine Wetzel.
RIGHT: The 1930-33 Seat-Stepstool-Towel Rack, made of wood. / Photo by Bertrand Prevost.

Eileen Gray’s Transat Chair from 1930. / Photo copyright Phillips Auctioneers LLC.

An exhibition room at the Bard Graduate Center Gallery.

A modular tea table by Eileen Gray.

This is the living room of E 1027, the name of the vacation house on the southern French coast that architects Eileen Gray and Jean Badovici designed for themselves. The Transat chair is in the foreground at right. Off to the left is her Bibendum chair, named after the famously tubby Mchelin man.

From the East London Parasol Company Ltd. comes the luscious Etta parasol, above and on the front, with its hand-carved pole. It’s $675 with free delivery. The pole is included, but the base is not. Made of vibrant tangerine twill with lotus design hand-painted in gold ink. Fuchsia pink threading, bamboo spokes. The pole is made from hand-carved durian wood with gold paint and finial; the pole join is made from solid brass. Hand-made pink fringing with beaded sunset orange tassels.

THAT GREAT FAT white blossom on the new gardenia that I wrote (and wrote and wrote) about last week?

It did what it gardenia blossoms always do for me: fizzled and fell off like a little bird dying on a branch and falling flat to the ground, little feet wriggling in the air. Not that I’ve seen such a thing except on cartoons, but you get the picture. This is very sad.

Therefore, I will not write about plants this week—it’s too upsetting. Anyway, there’s more to creating a beautiful garden than those pesky, needy flowers. 

Let us consider the umbrella, for instance. 

You can, of course, go to Walmart or some such and pick up a perfectly fine-looking market-style umbrella for the yard or table: Those giant spreading circlets of canvas in punchy colors like tangerine and aquamarine can be immensely cheerful. If your flowers are already half dead from some plant plague or other, they can be a jolly distraction. At somewhere in the vicinity of 50 bucks, they’re also cheap enough that you can change colors midway through the season with your stimulus payment and still afford the ramen. 

But I’m thinking about those wondrous umbrellas of the 1930s, ’40, ’50s, mostly years in which I had yet to exist. You see them in movies—the best are somewhere in the tropics, Key West, Cuba, Casablanca; set around turquoise pools where white-coated waiters hoisting trays bearing infusions of rum circle tables serving ladies in wasp-waisted, wide-skirted sundresses and gents in loose linen trousers and Panama hats.  

Heavy things they were, those umbrellas, with mammoth canvas canopies, scalloped around the border and edged with thick fringe. They were striped or flowered or some combination, finished inside and out. Magnificent.

While these are just a memory, there are still ways to cast some wonderful shade.

For years I’ve been noticing the fabulous wares of East London Parasols on star patios in the pages of  magazines like Architectural Digest and Veranda. Pricy to begin with, at around $700, add the shipping and . . . maybe if I took the Queen Mary to England for vacation I could tote one back. The trip might cover the cost of shipping. Now they’re available in the US  and delivery is free. 

Accurately described as “flamboyant, luxurious and unique showstoppers,” these are hand-made in Indonesia and finished inside and out. Some are cool shades of white, others flamboyantly colored, but each silken and fringed beauty is one of a kind and utterly show-stoppingly fabulous. Called parasols, not umbrellas, they are for use in the sun, not monsoons, and demand a caftan and jeweled mules for full effect. 

The Etsy site is home to a whole world of handmade Balinese ceremonial umbrellas. Above is a Full Painted Silver umbrella made in Bali, from The Wicked Boheme, $495, including shipping. It’s made of white cotton canvas, the top design painted in silver.

Etsy has an fine selection of garden umbrellas, mostly from Bali, ranging from around $135 to $500. For instance, a stunning $495 (with free US shipping) Balinese ceremonial umbrella, the white cotton canvas top intricately hand-painted in silver, the edges fringed. Many of the umbrellas on Etsy are, shall we say, sublimely tacky. But that might be just the finger in the eye your garden needs in July. 

Above is the 8-foot-wide Stuttgart Market Umbrella
from Ophelia & Co. is on sale for $305.99, including shipping, at Wayfair.com. The octagonal canopy has a burned-out pattern that allows for dappled sunlight rather than complete shadow.

You’ve heard of burn-out velvet, right? I have no clue how it’s done, but the velvet undergoes a mysterious process to create a semi-transparent surface pattern. Just so, the 8-foot-wide Stuttgart Market Umbrella, white on white and semi-sheer, creating a dappled shade on the patio table or lounge—though hopefully not strange blotches on your bikini midriff. A little bird finial perches on top, as if he just finished artfully gnawing the umbrella’s edges. An unusually gorgeous piece, this appears to be. On sale at Wayfair for $305.99 with free shipping.

Stella Umbrellas on Decatur Street in New Orleans boasts of being a couture parasol operation, with sizes that make them true walking parasols. Their designs seem to be only as limited as your imagination.

No room for a giant-size number? How about a petite parasol from New Orleans, where ostentatiously feathered and mirrored and fringed umbrellas are a fixture at celebrations, from Mardi Gras to bar mitzvahs and probably funerals? Stella Umbrellas on Decatur Street has a vast selection.

Useless in the rain, these can be delightful in the garden: Stick one over a statue (à la Tony Duquette) or in a pot to shade a fragile blossom from the heat of the afternoon sun. 

Or, ask Alexa to play a little N.O. jazz and have yourself a parade. Laissez les bons temps rouler! 

—Stephanie Cavanaugh

LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” is usually disappointed by gardenias but never by parasols.

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, whether through a retailer, an online store or Amazon.com.

A view of one of the exhibition rooms of “Raphael, 1520-1483.” The painting on the far right is the famous “Alba Madonna,” back in Italy for the first time since the 17th century. At far left is Raphael’s “Madonna and Child With Saint Anne.” In the exhibit hall, masks and social distancing will be enforced.

THE GREAT RENAISSANCE painter and architect Raphael Sanzio lived and died in a period when Italy was relatively free of epidemics. It took the 21st-century Coronavirus pandemic to disrupt a monumental exhibition in Rome mounted to mark the 500th anniversary of his death.

This is generally thought to be a self-portrait of the young Raphael. The Renaissance painter and architect directed an enormous workroom, which allowed him to produce a remarkable amount of work before dying at age 37.

The exhibit opened in March and closed down after only three days, given the Covid-19 catastrophe that engulfed Italy. Now the show, at the Scuderie del Quirinale (usually known in English as the Papal Stables), has reopened and will run through August 30. Hours have been extended, starting today, from 8am until 11 at night on weeknights. On Fridays and Saturdays it will be open till 1 in the morning. But what was almost guaranteed to be a blockbuster will be a much quieter, and safer, affair, with only six to eight masked visitors allowed to enter the exhibit hall every five minutes. The tours will be guided, with five minutes allotted to each of the rooms.

Given the extreme unlikelihood of most of us being able to attend in person, I was happy to find a video that walks us through the exhibition on the Quirinale, the highest of Rome’s seven hills. At this writing, tickets do seem to be available online, so if the stars align and you think you will find yourself in the Eternal City before the end of August, you may benefit from this show of more than 200 works, borrowed from collections and museums all over the world.

—Nancy McKeon

Raffaello 1520-1483, Scuderie del Quirinale, via Ventiquattro Maggio 16, Rome. 15 euros, through August 30, 2020.

Another view of “Raphael, 1520-1483,” at the Scuderie del Quirinale in Rome.

Raphael’s genius was to make devotional works into human events filled with emotion and telling a personal story beyond the usual iconography. This is a detail from Raphael’s “Madonna and Child With Saint Anne.” According to tradition, Saint Anne was Mary’s mother. Another detail from the painting is on the MyLittleBird homepage.

Known as “La Fornarina” (daughter of the local baker, the fornaio), Margherita Luti was Raphael’s mistress.

God bless jasmine! There’s no missing its dirty-sweet scent, and there are enough varieties to take you through a whole year. (Don’t ask LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” which variety is pictured. She lost the ID tags long ago.) / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

THE NEW GARDENIA is about to bloom; one of the fat buds is ripening on the little bush. At least I assume it will bloom, though I do get into trouble assuming things. I buy a gardenia every year, it seems, and every year it up and dies, having done nothing. 

Here follows a rather lengthy aside. TMI? You decide:

Had I remained married to the pre-prince, we would be hitting our 49th anniversary this week. I wanted gardenias in my bouquet, which horrified my ex-mother-in-law-to-be. “Oh no!” she said. “Don’t you know gardenias at a wedding are unlucky?”

Why would I know that? I carried roses instead, though it didn’t matter, since the marriage was doomed before it began. 

My ex, a nice Jewish lawyer, should have been right up there, just behind brain surgeon. But my father called it “a good first marriage.”  

Now, if that isn’t dooming something—and from the very lips of the man whose fault it was that I was wed at 21. 

We wanted to rent a summer house. There was this ad in the New York Times for a rental, $2,000 for six months. It was a farmhouse, set on a hundred acres, with a swimming pool and tennis courts in Cobleskill, New York, a three-hour drive from the city.

Driving up one Saturday, just to see, we went nuts over the rambling white house with the wide front porch and seven bedrooms. Unlike Fire Island, where everyone else summered, sleeping on living room floors when it wasn’t their weekend to have a door, there was plenty of privacy.

Back in the city, I announced to my parents, with whom I still lived, that the pre-prince and I were going to rent the place, which did not go over well. In 1971, shacking up was not yet the norm. Two weeks later, we were hitched, just in time for the lease to begin. 

Seven years later we parted, sort of. There was enough of something left that I went with him to buy a mattress for his new place, bouncing around to make sure we both liked it—in case, you know.

We were living in DC by then, dating each other—and others. I was, in fact, at a party with him when I met My Prince, who asked me to dance. Then he suggested a ride in his Porsche,* the most obnoxious pickup line I’d ever heard, and I ditched him.

Several days later he groveled about and took me to a show—I don’t remember what, though it involved roller skates. There was dinner after, at his place: stuffed rock Cornish hens, skinny green beans with almonds, plenty of wine, and I thought, My God, what a find, though I later found out that he didn’t know how to cook anything else. 

There were no gardenias in my bouquet at our wedding, which was 37 years ago and change. 

Returning to the subject at hand, beyond gardenias I love most flowers that bludgeon with fragrance—subtle is so boring. 

Our back porch is lined with pots of jasmine, most of unknown variety, since I lost the tags. One of them has been flowering for over a month, wiry limbs scampering along the railing. It’s fading now, but another is preparing to explode. Later this summer the stephanotis will flower. The South African jasmine, which busily blossoms throughout the year, fills in any gaps. 

For me, the dirty sweetness of jasmine is the essence of Key West, slow, sexy, steamy nights, drinking mojitos under twinkling palms . . .

Speaking of which, a potted Key lime is perched on the steps into the garden, where the Meyer lemon has set fruit from its winter flowering, with new buds just emerging. Citrus is just so damned delicious. 

For perhaps the ninth time, I’m attempting to grow a plumeria, a shockingly fragrant flowering plant with gorgeous colors that Hawaiians use for leis. I have hope, since the bare stick (which is how they’re started) that I ordered from a Florida grower is leafing out. Unfortunately, something bad always happens, usually when we go on vacation, which may or may not happen this year.   

These are all tropicals, which are nursed in my little solarium through the winter. Many varieties can be hard to find north of the South until absolutely all danger of frost is over—around here that means now. I lust after a bitter orange, a bush with nasty-tasting fruit but delectable scent.       

There are other powerfully fragrant vines and plants in the garden that are less tricky than these, like the honeysuckle climbing the garden wall, and drifting over the fence in May. This grows well with no prompting (too well for some people, who find it wildly invasive), reaching up to grab the sun, of which we have just a dappling, precluding most roses and peonies.

It took a few stabs to find the right mock orange, but the one by the pond is so headily perfumed you can catch a trace of it from 20 paces (the others flower prettily but you really have to get in there to smell them). Damned if I remember the variety, but it has acid-green leaves. My best advice? Buy one that’s already in bloom so you can assess the scent. 

Should you choose to plant a wisteria, that pestilent but heavenly vine, do your research. Mine is a total waste of time, though it does a good job covering the junk My Prince stores on the garage roof. In over three dacades it has done nothing but throw off masses of leaves and insanely invasive stems that need constant thwacking back. Thankfully, our neighbor, Pat, has a beauty that gifts us with billows of divine fragrance. 

I‘m hoping that the new gardenia isn’t toying with me. Surely this time those great fat buds will ripen and burst, not dry up and drop. With this week’s rain, then the hot summer sun . . . maybe I’ll get lucky. If not, there’s always next year.

—Stephanie Cavanaugh

LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” has a nose for gardening.

*The offer of a ride in his Porsche continues to be a prickle. He claims he said his “convertible,” which I reject. In any case, offering a ride in a convertible is only marginally less obnoxious. 

Pandemic nails au naturel have inspired the Washington Post’s Jura Koncius to rethink fancy, time-consuming manicures. / iStock photo.

AS MOST OF US mostly sit at home, working, not working, bingeing (Netflix or M&Ms, whatever), we’ve learned a few things we might not have otherwise noticed.

Our funny friend and (whip smart) former Washington Post colleague Jura Koncius posted this list on Facebook and it got us wondering:

What are five everyday things you’ve discovered during this pandemic?

Here are Jura’s.
1. My husband looks better with long hair.
2. I love my short natural nails and I don’t need to have a manicure again.
3. I miss having a cat.
4. Black leggings and a denim shirt make a great uniform.
5. It’s good to keep some candy hidden away for bad days.

In response, LittleBird Janet had this to say:
1. My husband looks better with short hair.
2. Dry-cleaning clothes is not an essential.
3. The Zoom touch-up-appearance setting is.*
4. Hair looks better when it’s dirtier.
5. Don’t underestimate the medicinal effects of good Italian wine.

Jacqueline Salmon in Charlottesville, Virginia, was quick off the mark with her list:
1. Makeup and a dress shirt, with saggy yoga pants and slippers, is a fine work uniform for Zoom-only meetings
2. I finally found the option to disappear my own image on Zoom calls.
3. Now that I have no commute, I can read books very quickly.
4. The maintenance people in my apartment complex really, really love constantly running very loud leaf blowers.
5. I don’t miss takeout sandwiches.

We’d all love something more magnificent, but to serve the basic desire to cool off, this kind of pickup-truck thingie will do quite nicely, thank you.

SUDDENLY IT’S summer. Thankfully, at least around Washington DC, the major gardening work has been done and what will be, will be. Well, in time we’ll find a number of things that didn’t do, that fizzled, dried up, performed in some unpleasing manner and must be replaced, but these will be tackled with little perspiration on my part. What else are Princes for? 

Chilling out, though, that is an issue. Perhaps you’ve noticed there is a shortage of inflatable, or otherwise portable, pools. Not the ones big enough to actually swim in, but the wallowing sort. Where you can lie back in a puddle and read a hot novel.  

This is another woe attributable to the plague, I presume. The hotel and community and club pools are closed this summer and there’s been a run on anything that holds water, except the beach, but a three-hour drive is a bit much for a quick dip. Just how is one to get wet?

A pool is what Baby wanted for her first Mother’s Day—nothing fancy, just something big enough for her and maybe baby Wes, but not Tallulah, the grand-dog. A big, hot, wet, panting brown dog is not a cool thing to lie next to. Her Personal Prince Pete and I spent hours trying to find one for her online and in stores where they live, in Raleigh, North Carolina. No soap, as it were—everything was out of stock,  and replenishment was not expected until August.

She got a plant, a very lovely pink mandevilla, but one cannot splash in a plant saucer unless one in very, very small or the sauce is very, very large. 

Whether she got a pool doesn’t affect me, trapped in DC. This city is so hot in summer that British troops stationed before and during WWII wore tropical battle ensembles, with shorts, as if this were Bombay or the Serengeti, which you might mistake it for, should you wander forth from the air conditioning in mid-July. 

I thought, aha! What I need is a lounge chair that could be filled with water, a personal slosh-pit. But the only chairs I came across were for use in actual pools—either too flat to hold water, or with mesh bottoms that would leak. What I want is a me-length chair, with a solid bottom and high sides that could hold, say 8 inches of water, that I could just flop into. An attached pillow would be nice.  

Doesn’t that sound like something that someone somewhere would have? Apparently not. 

I also looked into the advisability of just climbing into the fish pond in the rear garden, which is the right length, though kidney-shaped, which I am not. Not to mention that it would be uncomfortable, and kind of weird to be in there with the fish. In any case, a filter system is advised. This was not going to happen. 

I did come up with a few cooling alternatives. 

Pop on the waterproof cover for the Kindle and lounge beside a Cozy Breeze Misting Fan, which has five nozzles that generate a mist when hooked up to your garden hose. There are three speeds to cover all heat situations, from baking to blistering. They appear to be actually available at Lowe’s for $138.

Dumpster and shipping-container pools are so last year. They’re also impossible to move. If you happen to have a pickup truck (we do!), you can make a splash anywhere with a truck-bed insert from Pick-Up Pools. Grab your laptop and your phone and set up a home office, or entertain friends! Imagine the admiring comments as masked and sweaty neighbors stroll by with their yorkipoos and labradoodles. Available for short, standard and long bed trucks, priced from $189 to $249, and Made in America. (Really, where else?)

From “Shell Chic: The Ultimate Guide to Decorating Your Home With Seashells” by Marlene Hurley Marshall. / Photo by Sabine Vollmer von Falken.

An outdoor shower—in this case, simply a hose attached to a shower head that’s mounted on a wall or hovers overhead—might seem an extravagant waste of water if you intend to be under it for any length of time. But what if! You created a small platform of stone or wood to stand on in the garden border, so you’re watering the plants as you cool yourself down. There are plenty of spectacular ideas, like this one, on Pinterest, though I can’t see reading in a shower. 

I can see reading in a clawfoot tub, though, my ultimate fantasy wallowing hole. Just the right size for one—me—and simply pull the plug to drain water into the garden when I’m done. Plus! The decorative possibilities for the outside—paint, découpage, seashells. As I’ve written before, check out the cover of Shell Chic,  by Marlene Hurley Marshall, and tell me that wouldn’t be just divine. Side benefit? You can also use it as a champagne cooler for parties, or plonk a sheet of plywood on top and use it as a table. Depending on its condition, old clawfoots usually start at around $500.

One could also just hold a hose over one’s head, which I’m about to do right now. 

—Stephanie Cavanaugh

LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” would like to be all wet.

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iStock photo.

THE KILLING of George Floyd and the protests that followed reminded LittleBird Nancy of something from a couple of summers ago in DC. A Georgetown neighbor mentioned an incident involving his son and friends a few nights earlier. The son, a law student, and his housemates had had the music in their nearby rented row house cranked way up after midnight and had been outed by a neighbor and so the police came a-calling.

Apparently chastened, the boys turned down the music and the cops left.

The boys, in their early 20s, then waited a nanosecond and turned the music back up. Georgetown cops, being no fools, were right around the corner and drove back almost immediately. Upon seeing the police, the students inexplicably—stupid? drunk? stupid drunk?—then proceeded to drop trou’ and moon the officers from the second-story windows of the house.

What followed was inevitable for drunken (one presumes) white college kids: They got hauled in, spent a few hours in a holding cell, called their parents and were let go.

The father telling the story, an Austrian lawyer, seemed baffled and concerned at the same time. Nancy can’t remember which black student/jogger/driver/suspect had been treated rather differently by police that summer, but her lawyer neighbor and she obviously had the same thought: If the kids had been black, she suggested, they would be dead. “I know,” the lawyer dad said.

That, in case you don’t recognize it, is an example of white privilege, generally unnoticed or unexamined (by white people). Tired of hearing about it, think it’s sanctimonious to mention? Maybe that means you’re among those who get it. Or, on the other hand, tired of being told (also often sanctimoniously) that white people can’t speak out about black people and what they’ve experienced but can only listen? Listen, absolutely. But also perhaps channel the Quakers who sat on the pavement in downtown DC last week with a sign that read, “End White Silence.”

And also take hope from a Wall Street Journal story this weekend reporting that sales of books about the history of racism and race relations have popped, big-time. As of Friday morning, the Journal reported, nine of the top 10 best-selling titles on Barnes and Noble explored those core themes. High on the list for B&N as well as Amazon were White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism, a two-year-old book by Robin DiAngelo, and How to Be an Anti-Racist, by Ibram X. Kendi, published in 2018.

So it’s turning out that the spring and summer of social-distancing are not allowing for any distance at all from America’s long-standing social challenges.

—The Editors

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, whether through a retailer, an online store or Amazon.com.

IT DOESN’T take much to stand out as knowledgeable and trustworthy in the current US administration. So little competition. But Dr. Anthony Fauci has been standing out for decades now. He’s not doing anything new; we’re just now noticing.

Small wonder that his fans are legion and that there are products we can buy (come on, folks, this is America!) to show our devotion. There’s any number of T-shirts, including some with the good doctor’s famous face palm (at a coronavirus press briefing, in reaction to something President Trump said) and those that read “In Fauci We Trust,” “Team Fauci” and  “I ♥ Dr. Fauci.” (There’s also a fetching face mask with the face-palm image on it.)

We’re more taken with other devotional objects, though. There is the Dr. Fauci Bobblehead Doll, above right, being produced by the National Bobblehead Hall of Fame and Museum. These are available for pre-order (shipping expected in July), and $5 of the $25 (some Internet pages, but not all, are now advertising the bobblehead at $59.99) cost of each bobblehead will be donated to the American Hospital Association’s Protect the Heroes campaign in support of the 100 Million Mask Challenge.

Speaking of devotional, a $15 Fauci prayer candle found on Etsy, above left, dubs Fauci the Patron Saint of Staying at Home and is offered in four colors of glass.

“Doc Donuts” from Donuts Delite in Rochester, New York, are available by phone order. The photo, which appeared in the Rochester Democrat & Chronicle, is also available. / Photo by Shawn Dowd.

Clearly some Fauci fans are having fun. Photographer Shawn Dowd took a photo for the Rochester (NY) Democrat &  Chronicle of the Doc Donuts being produced since mid-March by Donuts Delite, a Rochester institution. A four-pack is $10 plus shipping, which varies by state. But get this: Even the photo of the donuts taken by Dowd and published in the paper is for sale! Prints run from $8.95 for a 4×6 to $24.95 for an 11×14 . . . and you can buy the image on a mouse pad for $14.95.

And if all that isn’t sweet enough, Chouquette Chocolates, an artisanal candy company in Bethesda, Maryland, is offering Fauci Fan Club Chocolates, vanilla bean caramel with fleur de sel in a chocolate shell. A box of five pieces (mixed milk and dark, or message them if you want all of one or the other) is $15, of which $2 will be donated to Doctors Without Borders.

Those are a few other patron saints we can get behind. Perhaps while downing Fauci Spring, a beer brewed by Atlanta-based Wild Heaven brewery with açaí berries, and betting on a 2-year-old thoroughbred who made his racing debut this week (came in second at Belmont race track on Wednesday).

—Nancy McKeon

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, whether through a retailer, an online store or Amazon.com.

A porch should be easy, breezy, sure-to-pleasey, especially in these times of distress. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

WE SOCIAL-DISTANCED dinner on the back porch with Judith and Robert last week. A bowl of taco chips and queso for them, sitting on the sofa, another for us, sitting in wicker chairs on the other side of the ottoman that serves as the coffee table. No communal dipping. They contributed the queso and a pitcher of margaritas, trundling them over in their bike baskets. (I provided the enchiladas, guacamole and flan for dessert). 

Both are architects, and artists, always curious about the making of this and that. In this case the white-on-white trapunto-stitched quilt I use to cover the ratty sofa cushions. Dripping queso from a chip dangling from the fingers of her right hand, the fingers of her left hand toying with the heavily knotted surface, Judith lifted the scalloped border to examine the back stitching.

“Is this handmade?” she asked, queso wobbling perilously from the chip.  

“Yes,” I said. “Lovely, isn’t it?”

“You just throw it on the sofa?” She sounded a little alarmed. 

“I do,” I said. “Where would you suggest I put it, a closet?”

When I was a kid, my friend Cece’s mom roped off the living room. It was a gold rope, of course, and the drapes were always drawn. Sometimes we’d stand outside the ropes and gaze in, as if viewing the Goldberg Wing of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. 

One night, her parents went out, and Cece and I raided the liquor cabinet, getting tipsy on sugary Framboise. Then! We took down the rope and tiptoed into the living room, gingerly bouncing on the down-cushioned sofa.

My GOD it was thrilling, unforgettable. So unforgettable was it that I’ve never forgotten, and, despite being 12, I knew how ridiculous it was.

I think here of Aunt Dorothy, a woman my family visited with maybe once a year, whose hair was always rolled up in those pink sponge rollers, the ones with the attached clips—remember them? If our visit wasn’t special enough to unfurl her curls, what was? I saw a recent photo of her, in a nursing home. Her hair, finally on view, is nearly shorn and white. Bent over a table, she’s “making beautiful toilet paper pumpkins,” the photo caption says. That last is neither here nor there—but save me! 

I was lucky to have grown up around antiques and beautiful furniture, the ancestral business, to be hoity-toity about it. We were expected to be careful around a few things, but mainly what we had was there to be used and enjoyed. 

Baby and I were discussing this the other day, I complaining that My Prince, her father, embalms everything on the porch in black plastic tarps at a hint of rain—which around here is fairly frequent. The furniture is not just covered, it’s piled up to prevent the tarps from shifting. As this is a covered porch, only torrential rains would do more than dampen the cushions.  

I can’t blame my boy: He didn’t grow up with a surplus of luxury. Nice things were for special occasions. The opposite of me. If the cushions get soaked? They dry! If they get ruined, so what? Everything can be replaced—including trapunto-stitched quilts. 

When the porch furniture is heaped and draped, where does one carelessly flop down to read, eat chips out of the bag, doze off to the drone of cicadas, get stoned on the scent of jasmine, which tendrils so deliciously about one’s nose in humid heat? 

This is a need that escapes The Prince, despite nearly 40 years of my dramatic angsting.*

A porch is meant to be casual, inviting, carefree. The gymnastics involved in unwrapping it all are so exhausting that too often I end up just sitting on the steps leading down to the garden. Not a bad perch—the view is fine—but it’s a little hard on the rump bones.  

“Never, not me,” said Baby, words that caressed my motherly ears. Her screened porch is filled with white wicker and cushions striped and patterned in navy blue and white. “This wicker gets misted regularly by rain drifting in and we never cover it,” she said. “It would curl Daddy’s toes to hear me say it, but when this stuff falls apart, we’ll just replace it. Are we taking it for granted? Yep. Is it worth it? Yep.”

Just as it should be, I think. A place of ease, of pretty things well enjoyed, of sweet scents and bird song—a welcome place to weather a monsoon, or a pandemic. 

If ever one needed such a place, one needs it now.

—Stephanie Cavanaugh

*Not a word, but should be.

LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” probably gardens just so she’ll have something interesting to look at when she’s flopped out on the back porch.