YOU CAN’T sit on the porch or linger in the gazebo forever, so how are you going to create the pool of shade that will protect your complexion? Wield a parasol! Fanciful or sober, paper or nylon, the choice is yours. But your skin will thank you.
It’s no news that antebellum images (and even Victorian ones) feature ladies and their frilly parasols. How affected the whole idea seems. But today’s Asian woman, particularly Korean) maintains her flawless face with intricate cleansing rituals and, yes, parasols.
Yes, it’s one more thing to cart around. But we learned to tote our smartphones around; we can probably conquer this challenge too. Here are some styles to get you thinking.
—Nancy McKeon
This Thai parasol hand-painted with elephants and chedi (temples) on oiled cotton. It’s $30 at Ladyshade.
Walmart calls this a small folding UV Sun and Rain travel umbrella, now with a violet or yellow flower. It’s $19.97 at Walmart.
Also from Ladyshade, a parasol again hand-painted in Thailand, a black cat on a cream background on oiled cotton. It’s $30 at Ladyshade.
How cool is this? Black Sugar Skulls painted on a paper parasol. Not very Victorian, eh? It’s $24 through Amazon.
The Georgetown Business Improvement District in Washington DC began a ParasolShare program in 2016, the better to encourage shoppers on too-sunny days. / Photo courtesy Georgetown DC BID.
Parasols on display at the DC Greenworks florist shop. They’re festive-looking but probably better in the garden. / MyLittleBird photo.
This mother and daughter told me my parasol was better than their umbrellas because it was smaller in diameter and lighter in weight. / MyLittleBird photo.
The parasol can also serves as a handy doggie water bowl during a visit to the park. / MyLittleBird photo.
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 sunny, blue-sky mornings ago I was dragging Lula the granddog about, enjoying the Emerald City green of the lawns. Everyone with grass appears to be cultivating a miniature golf course. Tiny birds were winging about chirpily—I’m not a bird person, these who-knows-whats were only slightly bigger than butterflies, which were also out in abundance. The birds were dipping and swooping, the butterflies perched on the flowers, batting their pretty wings, the dog was running circles around my legs with her leash. A flower bomb scented the air.
It was a 6-year-old girl’s birthday card—minus only the glitter.*
Then Lu stopped to lavishly anoint a patch of weed, and a gazillion blood- sucking little vampires ouched my ankles. It’s making me itch just writing this.
I’ve heard there are city blocks that chip in for a spray program for the little buggers. Ours does not, though various homeowners who live around us do—which we have taken advantage of in past summers, the drift of chemicals taking care of our yard effortlessly and, I might add, cheaply.
Not this year. The same rains that have made Washington DC as beautiful, floriferous and lush as I’ve ever seen it, have brought out more damn bugs than have ever pestilented the atmosphere.
My parsimonious Prince and I have actually debated hiring Mr. Mosquito Rid to deal with this, the back porch being usable for only a few brief hours in the middle of the day, and dining on the patio amid the monster elephant ears and whatnots that constitute our jungle, out of the question.
As his delicate Irish skin is particularly delectable to insects, The Prince actually agreed to at least consider The Hiring.
The only things stopping us now are his 12 precious goldfish. “Feeder fish” is what they’re called at the pet shop. The kind of no-account fish you buy to feed your anaconda. Ten will set you back a buck. For the same reason hiring a bug wrangler has been delayed, it took a bit for him to spring for the extra 20 cents and buy 12, which was important to him for some reason.
But they’re happy little things, I guess, the alternative being such as it might be.
Over the years we’ve tried those irritating bug zappers that fry mosquitoes as the steaks are grilling. Zip zip snap crackle pop. We’ve also invested in cans of spray that are guaranteed non-toxic and are about as effective: Sometimes we can get through a dinner party.
But all fails us this monsoon summer.
So the other day I was outside searching for moonflower buds on the vines that are growing so enthusiastically from the big pot beside the front door, stretching up to encircle the light, which hasn’t worked in years. (There’s this electrician My Prince knows, the best, he tells me. We’re on some list.)
My theory is that once the big white flowers open they will brighten up the entry most delightfully, between blossom and outrageous scent. This is neither here nor there.
Anyway, I’m out there on the front porch and I see Mr. Mosquito Rid pulled up to the curb, or kerb if you’re reading this in English as many apparently do (for totally mysterious reasons). He has tossed this large tank across his burly shoulder and is heading toward the alley alongside our house and I stop him.
“Hullloooo!! Is that spray toxic to fish?”
“Nope,” he says. “Not this stuff, it’s just garlic.”
“What?” I say.
“One hundred percent garlic mixed with water,” he says. “A lot of our customers ask for non-toxic sprays and this is it.”
“Garlic?”
“Yep,” he says, going to the truck and pulling out a jug marked 100% garlic juice. “You can get it at Home Depot.”
This is exactly what we did. Or The Prince did. They didn’t have SunJoe Super Garlic Defense** in stock at our local store, but they ordered it. You have to spray pretty regularly, but not only does it repel mosquitoes, says the label, it can take care of your rabbit, deer, raccoon, slug and various other . . . inpestations.***
Well, of course, I think, if garlic can scare away vampires, surely it can handle mosquitoes. It smells a bit nasty, though they say that fades. I wonder what it will do to the fishes’ breath.
I’ll keep you posted.
—Stephanie Cavanaugh
* Did you know there was such a thing as edible glitter spray? Now on my Amazon wish list.
**SunJoe and several other garlic concoctions are also available through various retailers including Target and Walmart, and on Amazon, where the reviews for use against mosquitoes are generally positive. Warding off deer and other large animals, not so much.
*** Not a real word but should be.
LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” reports in from her backyard every Thursday.
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.
OH, MY ACHING LIVER! Looking at the image above, I need to say, emphatically, that is not me! First, she has a nicer manicure. And second, if there’s something brown in my glass, it’s Diet Coke. Otherwise I drink only liquids I can see through, what the industry calls “white spirits.”
Nonetheless, as I stirred a vodka and San Pellegrino Limonata (lemon soda) last evening, I reflected with some alarm that my almost-nightly cocktail—a habit picked up in retirement—is not one innocent drink, but two.
Howzat? Well, the National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism explains that a standard-size drink for a woman is 5 fluid ounces of wine, 12 fluid ounces of beer or 1½ fluid ounces of a distilled spirit—and the vodka in my little vodka cocktail is twice that amount.
Heavy drinking and binge drinking are still largely a man’s sport, says the Institute. But according to a report the Institute recently issued, the rate of women’s binge drinking is on the rise among women of the boomer generation. It’s worth noting the definition of binge drinking: it’s measured as a blood alcohol level that can generally be reached after four drinks in a two-hour period. The bingeing of men of the same age cohort, meanwhile, is higher but remains fairly steady.
You might think that women are more susceptible to the effects of alcohol because, again generally, we’re smaller than men. But that’s not the only reason. Pound for pound, men apparently have more water in their system, and water is where the ingested alcohol resides and, presumably, gets mitigated. So in a binge episode, men can have five drinks to a woman’s four. For both sexes, that’s knocking it back pretty hard. (Also, take a look at the reporting on alcohol and aging LittleBird Mary Carpenter did for her Well-Being column.)
And given the difference in stature, women are the ones who can more quickly move into liver-damage and heart-disease territory. Not a good neighborhood to linger in.
Researchers are baffled by the uptick in women’s drinking activity. Could it be retirement and the opportunity to party on “school nights”? Depression that rises as vitality and looks begin to fade?
Mind you, I don’t see this increase among my friends. A cocktail before dinner, yes, often. Or sometimes wine with the meal. Doing both is just too much. My monthly book club is practically teetotal: Someone will provide wine, but it seems as if it’s almost a ritual gesture, that women of a certain age and background have gathered, so wine must be offered. Over time I’ve noticed that few of us are actually drinking it.
As for me, I’m looking forward to cocktail hour this evening. But as I let the ice cubes clink against the glass while I make dinner, I’m thinking that it will be ice water that fills a tall tumbler, arguably offering the same ritual pleasure. And less liver disease.
Here and on the front, lycoris sticking up for itself. / Photo above by Stephanie Cavanaugh. On the front, iStock photo.
I ONCE BOUGHT a compass. It seemed like a handy thing to have. While not generally prone to reading instructions, this time I did. The enclosed leaflet said something to the effect of, “If the compass is wrong, shake it until it points in the correct direction.”
Price-wise it was not exactly the Rolex of compasses so I wasn’t expecting much. Except direction. Being right a quarter of the time, with any luck, was not great odds of getting anywhere. But when it was right, it was right, so there was that. And it was cheap.
Even cheaper, as in free, and somewhat more reliable was an app suggested by Baby for identifying all of those plants I’ve planted and lost the tags for.
PictureThis uploads to your phone: You point it at a leaf or flower, and it’s supposed to tell you what you’re looking at—although in most cases, you’ll get several choices of what it could be. Which means, it might be right some of the time. Did I say it was free?
Taking it out for a test run, I pointed it at plants that I already recognized, a control group I suppose you’d call it. Very scientific.
A shot of a pink geranium in one of the upstairs window boxes brings up three possibilities, along with photos: Impala lily, Mandevilla plant and garlic vine. A fourth option is “no match” which, when selected, lets you ask other subscribers if they have any ideas.
You can also insert the name of the plant if you know it, though if you already know it why are you asking, may I ask?
But then, perhaps the app thought it impossible that a plant person (presumably the sort who would download such an app in the first place) wouldn’t instantly know a geranium on sight.
In this particular case, the app was right to be wrong. The geranium is fake, a lovely bit of Chinese polyester, or some such. Tucked amongst the ivy and other living greenery, the fakes give the upper boxes a constant hit of cheery color, no fuss, muss, water or death involved. Their fakeness is undetectable at 12 feet up, so why not?
In the interest of science—and at the insistence of Baby—I also photographed the leaves of an actual living geranium, not happening to have one in flower—which is my point, see “fake,” above. “Common geranium,” the app spat back, as if this answer were totally unworthy of its highfalutin time.
A helpful thing about PictureThis is that it stores the results of your inquiries so you needn’t take notes. This is handy when walking my 65-pound granddog and she suddenly sniffs a cat. One has to stay steady for only an instant and can refer to photos and notes at leisure.
So we snap a slightly blurry purple lily, still in tight bud, in a front yard. While I don’t know its name, I know it is not a red spider lily, or a striped Barbados lily, and it is certainly not an amaryllis.
It is a lycoris, I discover later. There was once a row of them in the front yard until I had the Prince muscle them out (they go very deep) and give them to a neighbor. Irritating they are in small spaces. Throwing up fronds and fronds of foliage during daffodil season and then withering and going belly-up in a slowly yellowing splat. Along about now a thick stalk will suddenly poke three feet up from the ground and quickly crest in a frizoom* of flowers. This is why it is also known as a surprise lily.
If you buy these—or come into a batch of bulbs—scatter them in the yard or plant them in a clump. This might eventually be attractive, if you can endure a month’s worth of dying leaves. Don’t do as I did, which was line them up along the walkway, where they’ll stand rigid as constipated soldiers with pots of lilies on their heads. This plant is entirely horrible from my point of view, flowering just in time for vacation—so we were enduring the wither and nothing of the flower.
Well. That was all neither here nor there.
Returning to the app. Shall we try a rose? Perhaps it was my choosing to photograph a bud that was confusing because the No. 1 choice was Turk’s Cap, more politically correctly known as malvaviscus arboreus. Quite a lovely lily by the way. Second choice, and equally wrong, the “common poppy,” it tells me. Third time lucky, as they say, finally the app posits a rose. Though they call it a China rose—perhaps being unable to bear identifying a $7.95 Knock Out Rose from Costco’s fine plant division.
Then came a string of hits: Lavender, sago palm, sunflower and sweet potato vine were all correctly named, though other possibilities were suggested for each. It’s in those possibilities that curiosity lies: I spent more time online with plant photos and names, trying to sort out the right and wrong, and discovering really pretty stuff like that malvaviscus arboreus that I must have.
Also right was the last try, which told me “Oops . . . I couldn’t find plants in the picture.” As it was a Washington Post newspaper delivery bag stuffed with dog droppings, the app was entirely correct.
*Frizoom is not a word, but should be.
—Stephanie Cavanaugh
LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” reports on her adventures in and around plants every Thursday.
LAST WEEKENDwas the start of the Water Lily and Lotus Festival at Kenilworth Park and Aquatic Gardens. in Washington DC.
I did not go.
The kickoff included, they say, food trucks, live entertainment, tours, lectures and the starring attractions, the sublimely colored water lilies and three-foot-tall lotuses that fill ponds and water gardens splashed across the 30-acre park.
It was raining last weekend, and Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday and probably today.
I completely intended to go to the festival—even though I am averse to crowds and noise. In fact, I am nearly agoraphobic, except for food forays and occasional jaunts to the Italian market, where I can drink coffee and read. Life is available on Amazon.
It’s as if I have a mental eruv, one of those Orthodox Jewish boundary strings, surrounding the part of Capitol Hill that I consider safely within my house. There’s only so far one can go with isolationism. Isn’t there? Maybe I’m not sure anymore—I take a virtual trip outside during the nightly news, and end up thinking it a better thought to stay put. This is all neither here nor there and somewhat exaggerated for dramatic purposes.
To head back in the direction of the subject at hand, while I could have extended my string a couple of miles down the road, I didn’t go to the festival last weekend because the weather was too bloody miserable.
Not that I don’t greatly admire water lilies. In fact, we bought one a few weeks back. I would have included a photo but, alas, it’s gone.
I can’t tell you the variety of lily, as we’ve lost the tag, but it was bought healthy and leafy and had extra strands of some other pond plant clinging to it, fast-regenerating greenery that I recognized as something the fish like to eat—such a bargain. The label showed a fat and enchantingly flashy pink flower perking up from the water, which would have looked lovely.
Which is what I said to My Prince, “Wouldn’t that look lovely?”
We were assured by the plant man at the boutique plant store that I’ve mentioned too many times that it will do fine in the miserable trickle of sun we get each day. No fuss, either: He had a corm or bulb or whatnot from last summer that he tossed into his own shady pond this spring—no pot or dirt involved—and it quickly sprouted and now covers the water’s surface.
It was on sale, too. Only $25—but what price beauty?
He also mentioned specialized fertilizer, which I’m glad we passed up, since he’d said nothing about raccoons, which immediately savaged the plant in the middle of the night, leaving nothing but shreds and the hard little corm or bulb or whatnot.
The Prince, who hates dead things, yanked the once-robust strands from the water and dumped them into a tragically small pot on the pond’s edge. Why he didn’t transfer them to his stinky fertilizer bucket (he’s still going with that) I don’t know. But I rescued the—let’s just call it a corm—and stuck it firmly into the grid of the green plastic milk crate that rests on the pond floor, hoping the lily will grow again.
That milk crate, by the way, is The Prince’s particularly unattractive way of protecting his 12 goldfish from the raccoon. The fish have learned to slither inside the crate when night brings marauders. I imagine them laughing at Rocky as he flails and snorts.
And then tears up the water plants.
Raccoons are omnivorous, equally happy to munch on fish or fauna. They also like their comforts, as we’ve found occasional evidence of little clawed wet feet and damp, dirty body marks on the white porch sofa. We were also once gifted with a gutted bull frog on said couch, gory parts spread in a nearly unrecognizable muck on the cushions. We no longer buy frogs, which is sad. Croak.
The Kenilworth Aquatic Garden, which is where we started off as you may recall, is a shock to the system off that seedy speedway, Kenilworth Avenue, in Northeast DC, a route one normally takes only to get elsewhere: Baltimore, Annapolis, Rehoboth, New York. Or Key West if you’re heading in the other direction.
A swift turn or two off the roadway is this extraordinary alternative universe, the last tidal marsh in Washington DC, and the only national park dedicated to growing aquatic plants, though it also features abundant butterflies, birds and the occasional fox and mink.
Admission is free, and the garden is open all year from 9am to 5pm daily. There’s the whole gloriously weepy wabi-sabi decay thing going on fall through winter and then the return of spring and so forth, but right now the flowers are at their peak in the century-old park.
This year’s festival runs through Sunday, July 22, 2018, from 10am to 5pm. Go early to catch the last gasps of the night bloomers: In general the flowers are open and at their best before the heat of midday.
Once the festival has ended, the flowers will remain fabulous through the summer: exotic, near supernatural in shape, size and color. It will also be quieter, if that matters to you. As soon as the rain stops, I’ll douse myself with bug spray, leash up granddog Lula (the park is dog-friendly, if your dog is friendly, they say) and join you.
—Stephanie Cavanaugh
LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” writes about gardens, watery or not, her own or those of others, every Thursday.
What’s Right (and Not So Right) About Eileen Fisher
By Nancy McKeon
I’M LOOKING AT the Eileen Fisher website. Which is what today’s email from Eileen Fisher suggested that I do. Their push at the moment is for linen, organic linen of course.
But I’m not seeing the crisp, airy-looking linen that I usually find at J.Jill, for instance. At the latter there are oversize woven-linen tunics, light-as-air trousers and crops, in airy, summery colors—aqua, raspberry, ivory. The Eileen Fisher pieces, at least those being promoted in this email, are mostly linen knits, easy to wear, true, but droopy. And the colors are . . . non.
One thing we have to remember about wearing Eileen Fisher styles: You have to supply your own shoulders. By that I mean most of the tops do not have the high set-in sleeve seen in, for instance, a classic Chanel jacket or just about anybody else’s blazer. That kind of cut builds in some architecture where there may be none. EF styles, on the other hand, often have drop shoulders or no real delineation of shoulder at all. If you’re round up there, or slightly droopy, be aware that EF may be the paper bag you worry about looking like.
Proportion is another caution. The current standard says that if one part of your outfit is voluminous then the other part should be tailored or cropped, anything to give the blousy, flouncy piece something to contrast with. But so many EF garments are big and loose and shown over . . . big and loose. A small woman is at risk of being overwhelmed, a larger figure may just look draped with a tarp. The cropped and more fitted EF styles are available, for sure, but stylists for the EF site as well as those of major retailers often highlight the droopy over the trimmed back. So you have to be your own wardrobe stylist to keep things in check.
Assuming you’re buying or at least browsing online, take a good look at the models wearing the EF styles. See whether you think the women look their best—and remember, they’re models! Do you think you’re going to look better than they do?
Now, on the positive side, EF understands (a bit too well, perhaps) the idea of understated. No one will think you’re trying too hard, for sure! In addition, the cuts are what we might call “forgiving,” what with so many elasticized waistbands.
I have a friend who swears by the EF ponte pants, mixes and matches them with everything. Another woman I know is careful to always pack an EF black knit dress when she travels; add a cardigan or a shawl and she’s ready for evening. One of these women is very petite, by the way, the other her polar opposite, taller and bulkier. EF accommodates them both.
Maybe we’re forgiving of Eileen Fisher simply because she is so forgiving of us. Gain a little weight, lose a little weight, no matter! Call it the new body unawareness. The line is undeniably popular, and the relatively new “System” of eight basic shapes (tank top, T top, cropped pant, straight pant, tank dress, etc.) is a reboot of Donna Karan’s debut all those years ago, albeit without the body suits and shoulder pads.
If any brand ever epitomized the chasm between “fashion” and “fashionable,” it’s probably Eileen Fisher. It’s not either-or, though; our lives require a mix of both. But just as in extreme fashion, we all need to be judicious about the choices we make, even in our everyday wear.
I think the crop of the pants keeps this Eileen Fisher outfit from being too droopy. LEFT: The Short-Sleeve Vertical Striped Sweater is $148. The description calls the sleeves “caftan style,” making it unclear how they would fit under a jacket. MIDDLE: The nicely cropped Tencel-Linen Tie-Waist Lantern Pants are $178. RIGHT: The cotton Mandarin Collar Snap-Front Channel Jacket is $258. All available at Neiman Marcus. The jacket is also at Saks Fifth Avenue.
Two faces of Eileen. LEFT: The Inverted Step-Hem Sweatshirt with drop shoulders in cotton “offers abstract structure to sweatshirt,” according to the description. Not really, but it does look comfortable. It’s $178 at Saks Fifth Avenue. RIGHT: This boatneck linen box top has a little bounce to it, probably because of the crisper, woven fabric and the slightly shorter, and only slightly dropped, sleeve. It’s now $124.60 (down from $178) at Saks Fifth Avenue.
LEFT: The short-long balance of the boxy sleeveless shell ($128) and the long faux-wrap skirt ($178), both in handkerchief linen, seems about perfect. Both available at Eileen Fisher. CENTER LEFT: Pulled apart, the jacket and pants are fine. Shown here, though, it’s an overabundance of fabric: The Washable Wool-Knit Blazer ($358), Italian Boatneck Long-Sleeve Cashmere Sweater ($378) and Silk Georgette Wide-Leg Pants ($298). All available at Neiman Marcus. CENTER RIGHT: This is about as pared down as Eileen Fisher gets: The Velvet Drawstring Slouchy Jumpsuit, on sale at Saks Fifth Avenue for $116.40 (down from $388), can be surprisingly flattering. And it’s certainly minimal. RIGHT: The Eileen Fisher Square-Neck Shell in a viscose-nylon-spandex blend ($88) nicely tops off the Wide-Crop Self-Tie Pants ($178) in the same fabric. Available at Saks Fifth Avenue.
Here are a few of the useful pieces that make up the Eileen Fisher “System.” You can see the entire collection at Eileen Fisher.
Fashion and beauty for women over 40. A Substack from the writers who bring you MyLittleBird.
We’ll still be here at MLB, but do come check us out on Substack. You’ll no doubt find other newsletters, on all topics, as well.
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.
PERHAPS YOU’LL recall that I swore off buying any more plants this year. The garden is beyond overgrown.
That said, I am now the proud owner of a Mexican lime, also known as a Key lime, bartender’s lime, West Indian lime and citrus aurantifolia for those who like to toss Latin about.
How did this happen?
As always assessing no blame, the acquisition was not my fault. It was The Prince’s idea to hit the fancy little local garden shop, which had just announced a big sale. And I was standing there holding these tall, skinny green metal garden stakes with the loop at the top which are really terrific for holding up the heavy limbs of hydrangea and such, and even at the exorbitant prices normally charged at this garden boutique, they were dirt cheap. Like 35 cents each cheap. What can you buy for 35 cents anymore, I ask you.
And he says, “You can have anything you want. It’s my treat.”
iStock photo.
I contemplated that for a very brief bit, suspecting he was guilty of something that I would find out about soon enough, so best let him off the hook in advance. No?
So I ended up with this bushy little lime that I didn’t need, though I will confess to wanting. My last one went belly-up, and the lemon and kiwi and orange plants missed it. Dreadfully. What’s a collection of citrus without a lime?
However. Per the tag, which I have not yet lost: “This variety is exceedingly vigorous growing from 6 to 13 feet tall and 6 to 8 feet wide.”
Oops.
In another location, this would be just a reasonably sized bush, but what we have here is a very small city garden that is already crammed full of invasive this and that and up and down and sideways. I had even read that tag in advance, sort of, at any rate the part that said it was a lime.
Thankfully, the Mexican lime is a smaller tree than the Persian lime, the fruit most commonly seen at the grocery, which can grow to 20 feet tall and 10 feet wide. Still, when this sucker has to move inside for the winter, it will prove interesting.
Once home with my new pet, I transferred it to a handsome terracotta pot and shoved a few things aside to find it a dedicated patch of sunlight on the back porch, the only place I have left that gets direct sun for more than five minutes.
I then went off to further my arguably non-existent knowledge.
Sitting at the computer I nimbly typed in the word “lime” and the first entry, from organicfacts.net said: “The health benefits of lime include weight loss, improved digestion, reduced respiratory disorders, enhanced immunity, relief from constipation, as well as prevention from cancer and kidney stones. Lime is also used in the treatment of scurvy, piles, peptic ulcer, gout, and gums. It also aids in skin care, hair care, and eye care.”
All of these I either suffer from, want to suffer from (see weight loss), or expect to experience.
Not only do limes offer health benefits, they are key ingredients in a variety of staffs of life, such as key lime pie, gin and tonics, and margaritas. This I did not have to look up.
Plus! In Jamaica, coconut water with lime juice is said to relieve hangovers, stomach upsets—and high blood pressure. There is a song about this by Harry Nilsson: Don’t listen to it if you’re an addictive personality, you’ll be singing it all day.
But then, a grower’s site adds this somewhat alarming tidbit: “Lime juice may be used to clean lime deposits from the interiors of coffee pots and tea kettles.” Oy. And we drink this stuff?
There are also some, shall we say, hoodoo aspects that I stumbled upon. Numerous sites suggested curatives for the spookier aspects of life (or death) and had the same suspiciously exact and mysterious wording—“there are many superstitious uses of the lime”—with no further elucidation. I found this fascinating, and so devoted several hours to ferreting out information.
There wasn’t much, mostly just those words, but what I did find was useful.
In Malaysia they say that hanging a string of limes and chilies in the entrance to your home will ward off the evil eye.
Mexican abuelas say lime in water (and presumably in margaritas) will absorb bad spirits and negative feelings you’re getting from people like husbands, which should come in handy.
But be aware that, besides ample space, limes of any sort need direct sunlight all day to perform at their most prolific—not 10 minutes on the back porch. Sigh.
—Stephanie Cavanaugh
LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” shares garden stories every Thursday.
LONELY AND forlorn in the kitchen? We just remembered a few little gadgets and appliances that will get a smile out of you on the dreariest day. Promise.
—Nancy McKeon
Already a friendly classic, the Hug salt-and-peppers were designed in 2002 by Alberto Mantilla. White is salt, black is pepper, and the three dispensing holes in each make up the characters’ faces. They’re $32 for the pair at the Museum of Modern Art shop.
Talk about friendly faces—though now they seem to come only with black ears. The mini salt and pepper grinders from Chef’n are magnetic so you can keep them nearby for one-handed grinding. The mini pair is $11.95 at Houzz.
I love this cuddly Penguin Sodastream sparkling-water maker. The Penguin model is $199.95 and is exclusive to Williams-Sonoma stores (and online). It comes with two 20-ounce-capacity glass carafes.
In 1990, French designer Philippe Starck sketched a squid and wound up with this now-iconic foot-tall Juicy Salif citrus squeezer, produced by the Italian design company Alessi. It is $105 in the classic polished aluminum, or $85 in white. At Alessi.
This friendly-looking blob, the Elite by Maxi-Matic 3.5-quart Digital Air Fryer, fries with every little oil, also cooks and even bakes. It can handle 2.5 pounds of food per batch. It’s $200 at maxi-matic.
Everyone has a mamma. The Nessie (as in Loch Ness Monster) ladle’s mom is a colander spoon! Nessie is 2 feet tall, Mamma Nessie is 29 inches tall, and the pair of them, from OTOTO Design, is $29.99 at Animi Causa.
Left: The Francis! Francis! espresso machine made for Illy coffee comes in a pod version (iperEspresso). Retailer Sur la Table has a program, partnered with Illy, to take some of the evil out of all those landfill-hogging used single-serve capsules. The quirky-looking FrancisFrancis!! X1 is $595 at Sur la Table, online only.
Right: There are lots of cute little rice cookers on the market. But this mini from Elite by Maxi-Matic now comes in perky white. It makes 4 cups of rice (and cooks other things besides) and is $50 at maxi-matic.
From the Italian company Alessi, the polished stainless-steel Cheese Please grater, designed to look like a cowbell by Lorenza Bozzoli and Gabriele Chiave, is a bit over 6 inches tall and $65 at the online Alessi shop.
Darn cute, a silicone spoon rest in the shape of, hmm, a raviolo. It’s $15.99 at Animi Causa.
Richard Sapper based the design of his Todo giant cheese grater on the idea that one sweep of the chunk of Parmesan cheese down the length of the conical grater would be enough for a single portion. Made of stainless steel and wood for the Italian design company Alessi, the 18-inch-tall Todo now costs $105 at Bloomingdales.
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.
IF YOU are a painter, all you see is color and shapes. Everything you encounter is either a good subject for a painting or it isn’t. You spend a lot of money on supplies. While you are not painting you wish you were, and while you are painting you doubt the validity of the activity, think it is pointless, and feel you should be doing something else. But what?
Nothing measures up, mostly because whatever it is, when it’s over it’s over, whereas when you finish a painting, the memory of those minutes, hours, days or weeks you spent creating it are forever sealed inside a tangible thing you can look at forever. Seeing it, you remember deciding to make that part there red instead of pink, or to move the purple thing up and slightly over, and how hard it was to fix it when you picked up the wrong brush and mistakenly painted something black instead of white. (Ouch!) Plus, there is always the possibility of a “happy accident,” as one of my college professors told me years ago. Those are rare, but they happen, and they make your day.
Best of all, in life what’s done is done—your mistakes take their toll and you’ve got to live with them. But in art, what’s done can always be done over and made better. Mistakes are instantly fixed. A landscape covers a still life covers a portrait covers another landscape. You remember them all. You have captured time.
O! that this too, too baggy bed would pass from my eyes. To the rescue, the Vermont Country Store’s Slender sheets. / MyLittleBird photo.
THE VERMONT Country Store is used to looking back at the way things used to be, the things we used to be able to buy. Me too. Cotton clotheslines? Check. Bed boards? Check. Bonomo Turkish Taffy? Check, check, check and check (vanilla, chocolate, strawberry and banana!).
The store’s 72-year-old catalogue features a whole array of down-home goods, including bed linens. And in this last category there has been a lot of change in recent years.
As mattresses have become plusher and deeper, bed-linen manufacturers have understandably responded with fitted sheets that have a much deeper “pocket,” some accommodating a mattress up to 20 inches deep (presumably the Princess never feels the pea when she sleeps on that one).
From the Vermont Country Store catalogue.
The rest of us with older or more modest mattresses have learned to tuck all that extra material under the mattress and hope for the best. But as deeper got deeper, the extra material threatened hospital corners everywhere.
In short, my bed is a mess. The extra material stays in place, out of sight, for about one toss and turn, and that’s it. And it’s not as if my mattress is some straw-stuffed antique. It’s a Tempur-Pedic of fairly recent vintage, but it measures about 9 inches deep, practically non-existent to the pillow-top crowd.
Then, a couple of weeks ago, I got the Orton family’s Vermont Country Store catalogue in the mail. Why? Don’t know, don’t care. I had had a run-in with a new set of sheets from another source—my first floral pattern in decades and the dye ran!–so I thought I’d take a look at plain percales.
The catalogue says it commissioned these Slender sheets from their “expert weavers in Portugal”; I suspect the Portuguese manufacturers were already making them for markets that are not obsessed with jumbo-size everything, but that doesn’t matter. The Slender sheets come only in white (I prefer ivory), but at my age I can’t forgo the opportunity to buy anything “slender.” I went online and hit the Buy button.
The jury will be out until the sheets arrive in about a week. Until then I will lie in my wrinkled bed and dream Slender dreams.
—Nancy McKeon
P.S. My next campaign is against oversize “standard” pillowcases.
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.
Shakira (he, on the left) and Vinnie (she, on the right) make kissie-face bird-style. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.
I’M MISSING my birds this morning. It’s years since they’ve been here, but they brought such pleasure.
The avian incursion occurred shortly after My Prince turned the little upstairs back porch off my similarly little office into a little greenhouse, a place to keep the increasing number of tropical plants that summer in the garden but need to be coddled when the temperature dips.
The birds happened thus:
I was admiring an antique wire birdcage at Ginkgo Gardens, the charming little garden shop on DC’s Capitol Hill that mixes such odds and ends with the gardenias and pansies, and suggested to Baby that we buy it for Daddy for Christmas, figuring I could convince him it was for him. She found this idea a bit shabby. Instead she (secretly) bought it for me.
When she returned to Austin, which she was then calling home, The Prince and I had a what-to-do-with over the cage and concluded that we needed a bird. Off we went to Petco or PetSmart or whatever it’s called and sat on the floor in front of the cages for an hour, watching the parakeet activity. The Prince was surprisingly involved.
There were two that were clearly a pair. One was doing tricks, hanging by its beak from a set of brightly colored hoops then twisting around, looking for appreciation from the other—who obliged with grating squawks and fluttered wings. Then they’d sit together on a branch and make out.
The docile one was the peacock of the pair, a very pretty bird. Mostly a soft shade of green, with a blue-tinged tail. A keeper, we agreed.
The gymnast, however, was a hesitation. This was the homeliest parakeet I’d ever seen, with a horny beak, like an old toenail with a mild case of fungus, and rumpled-looking feathers that were a glaring, fluorescent-spray-paint green that hurt the eye. There were tiny buggy-looking black dots on its head.
While we weren’t understanding the attraction, they were obviously in love and clearly couldn’t be parted. So home they both came.
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Bird action: Watch as Vinnie works at destroying her own house.
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In a completely sexist decision, we assumed the ugly gymnast was male and named it Vinnie—after Vincent, the beast in the old TV series “Beauty and the Beast.” The more docile bird, who we thought was female, was named Shakira because it danced and squawked whenever Shakira, the singer, launched into “Hips Don’t Lie,” my favorite dusting music at the time.
We didn’t know Shakira was a he and Vinnie a she until several months later when their nose holes or snouts or whatever you call them changed to their mature color—males’ are blue, females’ tan. Oops.
For a couple of weeks they sat quietly in their cage. At night I’d carry them downstairs and we’d spend the evening en famille. Just me and The Prince and our sweet little birdies watching “House” or a film on TCM. Really boring.
Then I thought, why not . . . let them loose? It’s a greenhouse-solarium! What could be more enchanting than a pair of parakeets fluttering colorfully about? And since a screened door is the only separation between this room and my office, I’ll add some extra amusement (distraction) to my days.
They were so timid at first, sticking their skinny clawed feet out the cage door as if they were dipping those toes in a freezing bath, but eventually freedom caught on.
Unfortunately, what I assumed would be delightful, instead, proved a nuisance. They’d sleep in the branches of the hibiscus and when they’d awake they’d shred its leaves and throw them about, then they’d swoop, perching here and there, dropping bitty birdy turds as they flew. They were also very loud.
Much of the morning Vinnie (the female) was busy digging up the dirt in the greenhouse pots and tossing it on the floor while Shakira chirruped his encouragement. Sometimes Vinnie napped and you’d think she was dead, but no, she was just resting up for her really serious work, gnawing at the inside of a bird house we’d bought them; white it was and resembled a wooden chapel.
Grand-dog Tallula, not to be trusted around birds, had her way with one. It wasn’t pretty. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.
Scritch scritch, she’d claw at the thin wood, chipping it away and heaving the shavings out the openings (which she had enlarged to better suit her healthy girth). Every so often she’d look out, searching for Shakira, who’d be nervously pacing around and around the house, muttering to himself.
This was all a noisy and messy business, and obviously very time-consuming for me.
Shakira’s day, meanwhile, flapped between cheering Vinnie’s deconstructions, trying to lure her from the birdhouse and attempting to consummate their relationship.
Vinnie would be wooed out and they’d kiss. Oh, would they kiss! Shakira’s eyes would roll back, his body trembling and so forth and he’d try to climb on top of her—a very funny-looking process that involved kicking a leg out sideways and trying to slide onto her back—and she’d promptly knock him over and go back to work.
And then, one day, Baby came to visit with our beloved grand-dog Lula, who did not like birds, specifically Vinnie.
This had a tragic ending. I saved one of her (ugly) feathers in a locket.
Shakira was inconsolable, moping about, and so was I. Amazing how that ugly little creature had wormed her way into my heart too.
We added another bird, Boychic. But Shakira didn’t take to him, or her. Joining them very briefly were Blue, who was blue, and Yolko, who was yellow. But it was never the same, just dirtier, smellier and louder by a magnitude of four.
And then, one horrible night, something did them all in. All four in one swoop. They were buried in the garden. A pot holding the Meyer lemon summers over the spot.
As you know, I never assess any blame, though I suspect My Prince had something to do with this, just as I suspect his culpability in the mysterious death of the pond fish last year, which is neither here nor there.
Some years after these events, my older sister sent me a large, fake, turquoise parrot, with feathers covered in glitter and sequined paillettes. He (or she) is very glamorous perched upon a potted palm on the downstairs porch. Last night one of his (or her) legs fell off.
So much for birds.
—Stephanie Cavanaugh
LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” reports every Thursday on the state of her greenhouse, backyard and whatever else is on her mind.
I’M A WIMP in terms of survival. I read Jack London’s “To Build A Fire” in high school and know to always have matches with me in the winter, but that’s about it. My son, who teaches survival skills for a living and knows how to do everything the old-fashioned way, has tried to bring me up to speed, but I’m a slow learner. The best I can do is make toast without a toaster, but I need a frying pan and a fire to do it. (Good thing I have those matches.)
I’m on this because sometime during the night, while the residents of our small town and four neighboring towns slept, a tree fell and blew out a transformer, sending us all back to the Dark Ages. Air conditioners abruptly stopped, their blanketing din replaced by the angrier sound of generators owned by people much smarter than me and my husband. For us it was just total darkness, oppressive heat and, worst of all, no morning coffee.
I was pissed, and so was my cat since he likes his food microwaved for 10 seconds and that wasn’t happening. Lurch took a few licks of his room-temperature Fancy Feast, shot me an annoyed look and then left the premises, realizing I was no good to him until the power came back on. That hurt.
Another thing that hurt was our lack of Internet service, so I turned to my iPhone, fortunately fully charged, for solace. There I read an update on the 12 young boys in Thailand, members of a soccer team, who along with their 25-year-old coach have been trapped in a cave for the past two weeks. Chances are slim that they will get out before the next heavy monsoon rains start in two days, worsening their situation. Rising waters and diminishing oxygen inside the dark cave pose life-threatening danger for all the boys, as well as their adult rescuers. (One former Thai navy SEAL has died already in a heroic rescue attempt.)
Suddenly our power came back on. I reset all the digital clocks, made some coffee and wrote this blog post. My day will continue as planned. I’ll meet a friend for lunch—we decided on sushi—and survive the current heat wave with our one window air conditioner and several standing fans placed strategically around the house. Soon enough, this being Maine, things will cool down and life will improve. My mood will brighten. And all that time, those boys will still be trapped inside that cave—the dark, wet one with not enough oxygen.
There’s no punchline. Just a reminder to appreciate what you’ve got and pray for the boys in the cave.
It’s a jungle out there! A tropical-ish paradise (a/k/a banana republic) right in the heart of Washington DC. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.
Look toward the back wall and you may spot the headless, torso-less maiden testing the waters of “Stephanie Gardens” ‘ backyard water feature. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.
The General in his normal habitat, keeping watch over the back porch of “Stephanie Gardens” and The Prince. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.
The General, up close and personal, in the manner of Botero. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.
NEWS TOOdistressing? Forget Canada! Secede in place: Consider creating your own banana republic, a tropical paradise entirely under your own rule.
This is easier than you might think. Perfection is not desirable; a certain dishevelment is, in fact, essential. As if, and in my case indeed, you had scavenged most of the finery, pirating it away from the refuse of an embassy, perhaps.
That said, such a creation must have grand elements; where assistance is required, I find My Prince a handsome stand-in for the exploited labor force of such a republic.
How to proceed? Since this is a gardening column, we will start with . . .
Planting a setting: Some plants appear tropical but are actually not and will happily grow in cooler climes. I have great success with horrendously invasive plants, such as trumpet vines, which come in steamy shades of orange, pink and red and, given a little sun, can rather quickly cover the side of a house. An easy tropical touch is hibiscus syriacus, a hardy hibiscus that grows into a small tree and can be had in a delightful bouquet of colors, in addition to a gorgeous, creamy white—you may know it as Rose of Sharon, which sounds like something one should genuflect in front of.
If you don’t have a greenhouse or sunny spot to overwinter true tropicals, pick at least one of the following and treat it as an annual (or give it to a friend, ahem, to store for you).
Jasmine is your essential eau de jungle, becoming more powerfully scented as evening falls. Oh, that lovely, slightly dirty, heavenly sweet perfume!
Citrus is also divine, orange and lemon and lime and grapefruit—worth growing for the scent alone, but if you’re lucky you may even get some fruit out of them.
Elephant ears grow upright or spreading, with gigantic fan-shaped leaves. (Yank them in the fall, dust off the soil, and store the bulbs in a cool, dry place, like under a chair, and you’ll have them for years.)
Still an experiment for me are bird of paradise, which may at some point spout pointy-nosed flowers with feathery heads, resembling exotic birds. Most frequently orange with plumes of blue and red and purple, but sometimes seen in pure white. I have both, and if they never bloom the foliage is still spectacular.
Palms. Parlor palms, which prefer shade (and are content to overwinter in fairly gloomy corners of the house, hence the name), are fabulous in the tropical garden. Stick yours in an urn to punctuate an entrance, or lushly fill a spot too shady for much of anything else.
Finally, what’s a banana republic without bananas? Find a sunny spot for a clump of them, and holy Fidel! If you don’t have the sun, fake it. Google pictures of “fake banana plants.” There’s an impressive selection—and, added bonus, you can’t kill them.
Attire: All white is good, as are caftans and flowing skirts. Panama hats are optional, but a spiffy touch. Mirrored sunglasses are essential. For a fine selection of tropical garb, try Soft Surroundings and the J.Peterman Company. I also have the remains of an ancient cigar to wave about; it’s probably too poisonous to smoke at this point, but it has a certain flair.
Furniture: Wicker, rattan or bamboo, of course, heaped with downy cushions for lolling. Go with cool white or hot tropical prints, like palms and hibiscus, and monkeys—of course. If you can hang white muslin curtains, do so.
Mirrors: Particularly in the small habitat, like the small habitat I inhabit. Sprinkle them about to reflect the fabulous. The final effect should be that of a cockeyed Versailles.
Lighting: Think glitz! Chandeliers and sconces dripping with crystals. Colored spots to up-light your palms, and projection lights, which offer many effects, and are ridiculously cheap. Baby bought me a kaleidoscope projection light for $15 at Walmart that beams a slowly swirling white pool of light over the garden. Hypnotic.
Water feature: A pond, a pool, a water-filled dumpster, all are excellent —but you must add a fountain. If you have space, one of those triple-tiered numbers would be excellent, but a simple statue will do: a dolphin, a lion, maybe an eagle. Some years ago we picked up a headless maiden, who is now torso-less as well, having fallen into the pond. She gives just the right touch of ruin.
Pink flamingos: Yes, they are too too passé, and in any other setting one would cringe. However, they are a wholly appropriate touch in the jungle. Try to ferret out plaster ones: Plastic flamingos should be reserved for an emergency. Set them by your water feature.
Music: Harry Belafonte’s Banana Boat Song (Day O), is a ripe one, but you can loop it only so many times without screaming. Alternate with the complete oeuvre of Bob Marley and the Wailers, and, for fans of Hasidic reggae, Matisyahu.
Art: Presiding over my personal jungle is an oil painting of a general, whom I call The General. Rendered in the style of Fernando Botero, he was discovered at a yard sale. Now that was a coup! Consider painting your own dictator, or just hanging a poster. A statue would also work, statues are always good.
Something to drink? A banana daiquiri, of course. This one’s from fine foody/drinky writer Kristen Hartke, who says, “Wherever you are and whatever the weather, rum transports us to the Caribbean of our souls.”
¼ teaspoon instant coffee mixed with a little granulated sugar (optional)
Put first 5 ingredients in a blender and blend on high until smooth. Pour into a margarita glass and dust the top with instant coffee.
When you have your own banana republic it’s always 5 o’clock.
—Stephanie Cavanaugh
LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” beguiles us every Thursday with her ideas about gardening.
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’S A TOSSUP which will be hotter this year, the fireworks or the heat index. For sure the fireworks will be more enjoyable. Have fun and see you back here tomorrow!
IT’S NICE to have something to complain about that’s not rain or floods or wild fires. Not so nice that it’s searing heat.
We don’t know how to control the weather. (You knew that, but for one hot second you were hoping, right?) But we do know how to control our own reaction to it. Best? Barricade yourself at home if you have killer air conditioning. But most of us have to leave the house at some point.
So MyLittleBird looked around and stumbled upon some ideas, some clever, others downright gimmicky. Maybe just looking at pictures will make us all feel cooler? Here’s hoping.
—Nancy McKeon
Left:Place one of these little flat pillows in your freezer and soon you can take out a frosty delight for your sweat-lined brow. In winter you can microwave it for use as a heating pad. Because the filler is corn kernels, larger and denser than the filler in many such bags, these guys promise to retain their heat or cold longer. They’re $27 at the ForeverOhSoCrafty shop at Etsy. Right: Liberty prints make a lot of things look better, but this is the first time we’ve seen one on a water bottle, and one of those super-duper double-walled stainless-steel bottles from S’well. It’s $42 at Nordstrom.
Hard to decide which item can fool the heat, the Grapefruit cologne from Jo Malone London or the airy eyelet shirt from the Vermont Country Store. We’re thinking we’ll try both. The ¾-ounce bottle of fragrance is $135 at Nordstrom. The all-cotton snap-front blouse/jacket, which also comes in black and royal blue, is $54.95 at the Vermont Country Store.
If $15.98 seems a bit steep for a little fan that hangs around your neck on a lanyard, the answer is that you get two of them for that price. However, you don’t get the 2 AA batteries each requires to start the cooling-off period. Find the O2COOL fan at Amazon.
Nice and icy: USA Ice specializes in . . . ice. On the left is a well-chilled penguin, on the right a polar bear. Both are 40 inches tall, and each is $425 including delivery and setup in the Richmond to Baltimore to Frederick area. In the center is something called a Liquor Luge, something new to us. Apparently you pour the whatever-on-ice into the funnel and it slinks its way down the block of ice to a waiting glass. Who knew? It’s $80, also at USA Ice. (That funnel is unfortunate-looking but necessary, I guess.)
These light and loose garments are what will (maybe) get us through the weather. From left to right: A Pure Jill ombré knit dress that just pops on. It’s $99 to $109, depending on size, at J.Jill. Next: A gauzy organic-linen caftan/tunic in the well-named Pool color. You can ditch the leggings, but you’ll need a camisole underneath. It’s $198 at Eileen Fisher. Next: Easy-peasy dressing in this Pure Jill knit maxi dress in moody indigo, $99 at J.Jill. Far right: This Tassel-Tie Flutter-Sleeve shift dress is a bestseller at Old Navy for good reason. It’s on sale for $34 ($38 in red or navy blue). At Old Navy.
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.
JEWELRY NEVER WAS my thing. Unlike most women I know, I don’t have pierced ears. God didn’t make holes in my lobes, so why should I? I have lived with, and regularly lose, clip-ons at a fast pace.
Though I admit to craving the occasional ring, pin, necklace or bracelet—though nothing clunky or expensive—I never minded a lack of sparkle or enhancement. My substitute, my companion piece, was an understated Danish-designed watch from Skagen, so reliable and self-effacing.
Then recently while out walking, I suddenly realized that my left wrist was bare. In a moment of haste I must not have closed the stainless-steel clasp tightly enough. Panic ensued, the way one feels when a pet has gone missing. Exaggerated emotion, perhaps, though no less real. A watch is just a thing, after all, nearly irrelevant in an age when digital devices keep people up-to-the-minute, in tune with the world.
Luddite I may be, I considered my watch a ballast, helping keep me upright. Without it, I had sense of being disconnected from my surroundings, a kind of existential dread. I was unlikely to recover it, having gone a considerable distance from home. I tried retracing my steps anyway, without luck.
In our planned-obsolescence consumer culture I wasn’t likely to find the same model available either online or in stores. The original had come from a small but eclectic selection at the National Building Museum’s fine shop. (Much longer ago, in the same vein, I had on a whim bought a Japanese-made watch at Miami’s Wolfsonian Museum of Decorative and Propaganda Art. It was a plaything of sorts, though practical, too, since its numbers glowed in the dark. I wore it until the bright yellow plastic band broke in two and I found the Skagen.
Both of these were so-called “fashion watches,” and, as a Nordstrom clerk told me, sales in the fashion category had hit a new low of late. The more expensive and more versatile Apple watch favored by as many women as men was the reason: It had become the new status icon.
Swatch is fun and popular in some circles, but the models I saw looked too lightweight and ephemeral. The latest Skagen models at a Macy’s counter featured Swarovski crystals—too much glitter for me. Online options were numerous, but none came up to the mark, being either too fussy or too large.
Compromise ensued. I would buy a black plastic China-made creation for everyday use while continuing to look for a replica of my lost friend. Back at the Building Museum I found a simple style with the words “Prime Time” written in white at the center. Being a mathematical dunce, I didn’t get the joke at first. The only numbers highlighted on the face were prime (ones that can’t be divided except by themselves or 1). Curiously, its package was a little black and gray box marked “Tempus Fugit” on the top and “The Unemployed Philosophers Guild” on the side. The box may have cost more than the watch.
So clever, these Chinese. So gullible, we Americans.
Checking for a philosophers guild online, I came up with a website offering other similarly odd, slightly comic items for sale under the same label. The explanation was tongue-in-cheek. ”Part of every purchase you make goes to philosophically profound causes,” it said. “The other part goes to extra gold-plated faucets in the Ivory Tower bathrooms.”
I still hankered after some elegance, something that spoke to my personal taste. Luckily enough, passing by a downtown jewelry store one day, I glanced in the window and saw what looked to be a timepiece remarkably similar in size and shape to my old Skagen. What’s more, an obliging clerk inside offered me a whopping reduction if I bought it that day, her last one on the job, she claimed: “In honor of my retirement.” It was an enticing low-key Danish design, by Bering, with a “solar- activated” mechanism and the same silvery mesh band. Its box was another fancy, more “fashionable” package: a lidded round opaque glass jar, “so useful for holding flowers or keys and things,” the clerk noted.
A watch is just a watch until it isn’t.
—Ann Geracimos
Left: Here’s the super-sleek solar watch from Bering that Ann finally bought. She found it at Robert Laurence Jewelers, at 1202 G Street NW in Washington, DC, but it can also be found at Beringstores. It’s $199.
Center: Minimal and yet somehow extravagant, the La D de Dior diamond and stainless steel bracelet watch is $4,950 at Saks Fifth Avenue.
Left: A lovely watch to remember Kate Spade by: the Holland Strap watch in navy leather, with a navy mother-of-pearl face and the sparkly markers of a starry, starry night. It’s $225 at Lord & Taylor.
Center: The Heure H watch from Hermès, in stainless steel and leather. It’s at Saks Fifth Avenue, and, in the context of Hermès prices, its $2,775 price tag is pretty reasonable. Many variations here, including gold plating on the H, costly alligator bands, and even a diamond-and-alligator combo that blasts past the $12,000 mark.
Right: The classic Movado Museum watch face is for design purists (and, yes, for those who can tell time without numbers or hour markers). This stainless-steel mesh-bracelet version is $695 at Saks Fifth Avenue. Saks carries many variations on the Museum theme: leather and bracelet bands and also a few versions that have diamond hour markers on the face.
Center: For a bit of sheen, Shinola’s Canfield mother-of-pearl goldtone stainless-steel watch with leather strap. It’s $700 at Saks Fifth Avenue.
Right: The Kyboe! Rose Gold Sport Watch with mint green accents may be as far from the simple Skagens and Berings as you might like to travel. It’s $240 at Saks Fifth Avenue. The band is silicone and the case is stainless-steel with a rose-gold tone.
Just a little bit different, this Swatch watch with a rubber band is for people who can tell time without the little numbers (but a whole lot of lines). List price is $60, slightly less at the Swatch shop on Amazon.
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.
Designer Charlotte Moss, left, and friend Susan Hull Walker outshine the garden in their splendid caftans. Walker is the founder of Ibu Movement, a collective of women artisans around the world who make caftans and other clothing. / Photo by Brittany Ambridge, from Charlotte Moss Entertains.
Decorator, retailer, event planner, Charlotte Moss knows from fancy. She’s the one with drawers filled with table linens ready to mix and match with the plates and bowls she has been collecting for decades. Through her professional projects she knows all the best florists in Manhattan and the best caterers. And she can entertain in the Upper East Side town house she shares with her husband, or at their place in the Hamptons. Just like us!
So she’s set up for any kind of entertaining. But she’s realistic enough to cut the rest of us a break. Case in point: She’s totally in favor of buffets—and so are we!
Here’s what she has to say about buffet entertaining in her new book, Charlotte Moss Entertains, published in April by Rizzoli International Publications. (I love the way she seems to think a lot of us have fireplace fenders!)
—Nancy McKeon
I LOVE a buffet—guests can select exactly what they want.
A buffet is one of my favorite ways to entertain a group larger than my dining room table can accommodate. In fact, one of the great benefits of a buffet is that it leaves you room to be a bit more elastic with the size of your guest list, and free to add at the last minute. Count your chairs, stools, ottomans, fireplace fenders, and sofas; you may be surprised just how many people you can seat. Buffets are generally more relaxed and the conversation more animated because people have more freedom of movement than they would at the dinner table, and can chat with others while standing in line to fill their plates. When it comes time for dessert, you have an opportunity to switch partners and possibly meet someone new. And, there is the matter of the menu. There are the no-carb eaters, the vegetarians, the gluten-free guests, and every once in awhile there is an old-fashioned carnivore who has seconds of the prime rib but will simply not eat anything green. This is when every guest is appreciative of the buffet format because no one feels bad about refusing food due to their restrictions—everyone gets exactly what they want.
If you like gathering people together, buffets are perfect for you.
M.F.K. Fisher distilled some guidelines for the buffet in a few sentences. “Plates should be large and easy to hold in one hand—no heavy porcelain—and they should have a well-defined edge or rim to take care of teeterings and swayings. In the same way, the silver should be light and simple, and the napkins should be large and, of course, never starched. Glasses, stemmed or not, should be short and solid.”
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It’s not a falsie; it’s a glittered-up eye patch, draped on Phyllis the hydrangea. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh (taken with her one good eye).
THE PRINCE AND I were gardening Saturday morning, grappling with the Don Juan climbing rose that had thorned its way into the rose of Sharon and the mock orange; three plants nearly 30 years old and completely run amuck alongside the back-porch railing.
This wet spring has done wonders for the plants. Mosquitoes too, but that’s another story.
He, of course, was fussing at me for heedlessly, so he said, leaning out over the railing to grab thorny rose canes and tug them about. “Where are your goggles?” he said, these being part of the gardening equipage that he’s bought me over the years, a collection that includes a soil-testing kit I’ve never used and many pairs of gloves that I forget to wear.
“Stupid,” he called this disregard for my eyes. And I suppose I agree, in theory at least, though I’ve yet to damage an eye no matter how violently I’m gardening.
I’d also never injured myself with an eyeliner pencil, but that was about to change.
Cue ominous music, please.
That night, we were preparing to go out to dinner and I was doing my eye makeup over the bathroom sink, when a jagged edge of the casually sharpened pencil dragged itself across my left eyeball.
Caution: If you’re squeamish about eye injuries stop reading now.
A pinprick of red quickly filled the outside edge of the eye and then enthusiastically grew into a bubble that was rapidly becoming the size of a marble.
“A doctor! I need a doctor,” I yelled to the Prince, who hustled in and for once didn’t argue. I stomped about the foyer, whining impatiently, while he changed out of his Hawaiian shirt and into a solid purple, which was more appropriate, he told me, for an emergency room visit, and off we sped.
The Washington Hospital Center was shockingly calm and quiet, and seemingly staffed exclusively by 20-year-olds, poor dears. We’d gone with expectations of an endless wait amid the carcasses of the overdosed and the creatively wounded. Perhaps it was too early in the evening.
A CAT scan was done to check the extent of the damage, and then an orderly arrived with a wheelchair to transport me to the eye clinic. Since I was entirely capable of walking, which I had already demonstrated with a jog to the X-ray department, or whatever they call it, this was more than a tad alarming. What had I done that I was now forbidden to move on my own?
Then: “Can you walk?” asked the absurdly young doctor, the lonely occupant of the eye clinic, who had been watching a murder mystery on TV when I, blessedly, brought him an emergency to play with.
“Yes,” I said, getting up and sashaying into the examination room. Here he tested the this and the that and put numbing drops in my eyes, which he said would take about 20 minutes to work and cause several hours of blurring.
I asked for the ladies’ room and he said there’s one right outside in the hall, which of course I didn’t see, as I didn’t have my contacts in and was doused with blur that was rapidly taking effect. It felt like a Stephen King novel: deathly quiet hospital, the clack of my heels on the linoleum, an empty gurney here and there, and me, this hideous woman with a bulging bloody eye groping down an endless corridor, searching for the toilets, and fearing I’d stumble into the morgue.
Groping my way back I saw in the distance a white coat and a purple shirt, shoulder to shoulder, staring in my direction, which I correctly deduced were the doc, having nothing better to do, and the Prince come to find me—and point out the bathroom right outside the clinic doors that I had completely overlooked.
Now numb, I sat while more invasive tests were performed with lights and gadgets; another lonely doctor, a specialist with a blond pony tail, swished in and I was pronounced really ugly but okay.
“Damn,” I muttered. “My phone is out of juice and I can’t take a photo to impress my friends and family.”
“No worries,” said the doctor, “it will still be there in the morning, and the next morning, and the next . . . ”
The blood will turn black, then fade into a rusty light brown, he said, rather too happily, and then to a jaundiced yellow. Maybe in a month or so it will fade completely.
As of now, I have what looks like “an eyeball floating in deep red wine sauce,” said my friend Phyllis (the person, not the hydrangea). My Prince bought me a black eye patch at CVS, to protect me from the sun—and so he doesn’t have to look at me, I presume.
Those numbing drops are too cool, by the way. Like being stoned without the smoke. The car lights and lampposts looked like blasts of red and green and white fireworks on the drive to grilled-cheese sandwiches at the Tune Inn, our local dive bar. It’s the only place in the neighborhood still serving dinner at 11:30 at night.
Next week: In a return to gardening, I’ll pass along tips for creating your own banana republic. Also, instructions on how to glitter an eye patch.
—Stephanie Cavanaugh
LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” reports on her back 40 mostly when she’s able to actually see it.
table can accommodate. In fact, one of the great benefits of a buffet is that it leaves you room to be a bit more elastic with the size of your guest list, and free to add at the last minute. Count your chairs, stools, ottomans, fireplace fenders, and sofas; you may be surprised just how many people you can seat. Buffets are generally more relaxed and the conversation more animated because people have more freedom of movement than they would at the dinner table, and can chat with others while standing in line to fill their plates. When it comes time for dessert, you have an opportunity to switch partners and possibly meet someone new. And, there is the matter of the menu. There are the no-carb eaters, the vegetarians, the gluten-free guests, and every once in awhile there is an old-fashioned carnivore who has seconds of the prime rib but will simply not eat anything green. This is when every guest is appreciative of the buffet format because no one feels bad about refusing food due to their restrictions—everyone gets exactly what they want.
