The A. giganteum of Capitol Hill go bob-bob-bobbin’ along. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

IT STOPPED raining the other day, you may have noticed.

Along East Capitol Street in Washington DC, Capitol Hill’s Grand Boulevard, the gardens are a little overgrown and blown about from the downpours, but still splendid. The roses are outrageous this year, massive canes drooping under the weight of the flowers—and no sign of black spot, yet. The alliums (A. giganteum), which once again I forgot to plant, are up and their fluffy purple heads are the size of melons. Peonies are flopped over fences, fleshy pink petals dripping perfume.

I assure you that the Prince and I were neatly dressed when out for a stroll last Sunday evening. We were eyeing one such delightful display when the Lady of the Manor walking her no doubt inventively named and pricy mutt stopped on the sidewalk and glared at us. “What are you doing,” she growled, as if we were planning a petunia heist. “We’re just admiring,” I said in impossibly sweet response, as opposed to biting her head off as well as the dog’s.  “Oh! Well, thank you,” she simpered, not in the least embarrassed, and sashayed into her manse.

Such a picture of innocence we were.

I’m not going to tell you where I pinched a bit of a plant commonly called twisted jasmine (more haughtily known as jasminum tortuosum), but there was no way I could resist. This is a jasmine unlike any I have sniffed, entirely without the slightly dirty tang most of these tropical plants have, a scent that always has me waffling between love and ugh, though I lean toward love. This smells of honeysuckle, clean and soft. If I hadn’t, shall we say, groomed it, I’d still be standing in this place I’m not telling you about with my nose buried in the blossoms.

You are a terrible person, I said to myself as I pinched. I know, I’m so ashamed, I murmured. But what can I do? I love it and I want it.

No! No! You mustn’t pick at people’s plants, I insisted. If everyone went about pinching off bits there’d be nothing to sniff, nothing to admire.

(Though of course they could come on-a my house . . . )

This is the last time, I swear it, I whispered as I surreptitiously tucked my little, really little, twiggy into my pocket.

Conducting an Internet Investigation at home I read that such jasmines are vigorous growers, clambering up into trees—at least in South Africa, where it is native—but hard to propagate. So while I’d dipped the stem of my foundling in rooting powder and tenderly tucked it up alongside one of my well-established, potted jasmines—kind of like the plant edition of one of those dogs you see online that adopt a baby ostrich—as backup I investigated actually buying the plant.

At Amazon, there was one on offer for 10 bucks, not a bad price, though not eligible for Prime so there was a modest shipping fee involved. But, in the fine print, the pot size was said to be 2½ inches. This gave me pause. I whipped out the ruler from my desk drawer, brushed off a desiccated jelly bean and marked the size with my fingernail. That is really small.

Another place offered one for just eight bucks, no size mentioned, shipping $17.

Perhaps I’ll call around to some local garden centers this weekend and see if I can find one, but in the meantime I’ll practice watchful waiting and root for my twig. Go, twig!

Last-minute update: It does appear a little splat this morning. Sigh.  Serves me right, eh?

—Stephanie Cavanaugh

When LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” isn’t purloining plants, she’s confessing it all to us on Thursdays.

Rub, rub, rub that chicken. / Photo by Stephanie Witt Sedgwick.

WHEN MY MOM wanted to make a quick dinner, which was almost always, she poured a bottle of Italian salad dressing over a shallow baking pan filled with bone-in, skin-on chicken-breast halves. (Raise your hand here if you know this dish because I bet a lot of you do.) The pan went right into the oven and, if she was feeling energetic, she might finish it under the broiler. Woo-hoo, dinner! It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great either.

Fast-forward a few decades and marinated, rubbed, seasoned chicken parts of all kinds are everywhere and I’m glad of it. As my mother knew too well, seasoned chicken makes a good dinner. Luckily, the old bottle of bad Italian dressing is gone, but the core idea is still around—well-seasoned chicken cooked quickly.

You can start with whatever cut of chicken you want. Boneless chicken-breast cutlets, chicken legs, chicken thighs, bone-in chicken halves all work. I favor removing the skin so you get maximum seasoning coverage, but it’s your chicken, do as you like. The key is to have a really flavorful wet rub that covers the chicken. Yes, I say rub because when you’re in hurry that’s what works. Liquidy marinades need some marinating time; wet rubs are a quicker seasoning choice.

My ideal timeline: Rub the chicken pieces, let them sit 20 minutes while the grill heats up, then grill until done.

Basically, you combine spices with a little oil and a splash of citrus or vinegar for a quick homemade rub. For example:

Southwest-style: Purée some chipotle in adobo with olive oil, a splash of lime juice, salt and pepper.

Provence-style: Purée fresh herbs with olive oil, Dijon-style mustard, salt and pepper.

Florida-style: Orange, lemon and/or lime zest with olive oil, cumin, salt and pepper, and a splash of citrus juice.

Or, sometimes better, find a prepared wet rub you like.

Whichever wet rub you choose or make, smear it all over the chicken pieces. Let them sit for 20 to 30 minutes. Cook over a medium-high grill, being careful to keep them from burning; you may have to move them between direct and indirect heat. And make plenty, because rubbed chicken makes great leftovers in sandwiches, salads or eaten as is.

—Stephanie Witt Sedgwick

One of the eggplant-purple window boxes affixed to the front of LittleBird Stephanie’s house. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

THE FIRST RULE of window-box gardening is that most, if not all, of your plants should look good dead.

Once they go belly-up from whatever mishap happens—and they will happen—the departed should assume a grandly feathery wilt or be rigor-mortis stiff, making them easily spray-paintable, should you elect to do so.

Consider dried flowers, which are essentially the same thing: dead as door knobs, or is it door nails? Doesn’t matter, in either event they’re dead. People spend money on dried lavender and strawflowers and baby’s breath, fluffy pampas grass, eucalyptus  and various reeds. They snap up dried hydrangeas and little pink roses. Any of these would look lovely living in your boxes. Why not have them simply die in situ?

The feng shui of living with the dead may be questionable, but needs must, as the Brits say.

At the moment I’m admiring my window boxes. They’re freshly planted for summer, with things I can name and things I cannot because I lost the tags. Everything is still quite lively.

As always, there’s a centerpiece, something that will grow tall, reflected in the window glass. This year I’m attempting asparagus fern. In front of that is acid-green sweet potato vine, which will drift down in a flurry of ruffles as the centerpiece (hopefully) lofts up and out. On either side are pink geraniums, purple wandering jew and bits of this and that I’m attempting to root. Small-leafed ivy drapes over the ends.

The deep purple paint on the window boxes needs a bit of a touch-up, but they’re still handsome enough that passersby lurch their baby buggies and bikes to a stop: “I love your window boxes,” they’ll sigh if they see me, and don’t I preen at the attention.

This is now, in earliest spring, when it’s all so fresh and the rains are pressing the flowers into a tropical growth spurt. Soon enough something will go kaput. No doubt that will happen late in June, when there’s little left at the garden centers. And so, one punts. Boxwood, I’ve found, can be sprayed green with remarkable verisimilitude.

Boxwood was the first of many centerpieces I tried. That was more than 20 years ago, after a trip to London, where the Prince and I had wandered dank dark March streets amazed at the spilling over of geraniums and ivy—punctuated with such lovely boxwood—from windows and rooflines. It was stunning against the gloomy sky of late winter, or early spring, however you want to call it. And I wanted them.

In an unusual turn, the Prince wanted them as much as I did, for he quickly set to with hammer and boards and made lovely deep and wide boxes for each of the five windows on the front of the house, then painted them eggplant to match the front door.

The scale of the boxes is Rule No. 2: Go as big as you possibly can. Those attractive clay planters that neatly rest on the windowsill with little support dry out within hours, making it impossible for normal people with normal things to do with their lives to maintain. When the weather grows hot, one has to hover above them with a watering can.

Ours are a decent size, measuring 31 inches across, 10 inches in height and 8 inches deep. While our windowsills are substantial, the boxes still need to be firmly attached to the bricks with iron supports, otherwise . . . not a pretty picture.  This is not a project for amateurs.

Even given their largish scale, there are always plant casualties. Although, if I were, perhaps, more modest in my ambitions, not filling every iota of space with something, and managed to keep them watered and fed . . . I might have a better survival rate.  

Watering happens to be Rule No. 3. No matter how big they are, these suckers dry out fast when the weather hits the 90s. Rule of thumb: Stick your finger in the soil every day and, if it’s dry, water.  

Feeding them every so often doesn’t hurt either.

Not really a rule, just an aside: Always plant something sweet-smelling. There’s a particular purple petunia that’s glorious, but needs too much water for me to bother. Sniff the petunias, most have no scent. But those purples? Mmmm. I have better luck with moonflowers. I just poked in seed, though already-started plants are easy to come by. As they grow, they’ll tangle with the sweet potato vine and scent the evening air most delightfully, drifting through the house when the windows are open.

Sadly, moonflowers are not attractive when dead.  

—Stephanie Cavanaugh

—LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” cultivates her garden and reports back every Thursday.

A silvery mesh-covered canteen-style bag can be used with its wrist strap, over the shoulder with its chain—even as a crossbody bag. It’s by Whiting & Davis and is $255 at Nordstrom.com.

The shape’s the thing with the Jane clutch by Kayu, perfect for summer, day or night. Clutch or crossbody (there’s a chain tucked inside), the rattan minaudière is available in the natural tone shown or in summery white. It’s now $123 at Bloomingdales.com.

In gunmetal gray (the pale champagne shown is gone), this Shimmer Metal Minaudière from Estee & Lilly, with its crossbody-style chain, is a low-key but dressy way to go hands-free at the party. It’s $32.99 at Target.com.

Jeffrey Levinson’s Elina Pearl Gloss Clutch is made of aluminum and leather with a spectrum metallic finish. It comes in blue (shown), which shades to violet, and red, which glows in red and orange. It’s $1,250 at Nordstrom.com. Levinson’s Elina Electric variations come in an aluminum finish ($895) and an 18K-gold-covered aluminum ($1,550). Or if you really want to go for broke, there’s the gold-flecked finish ($4,250). All at Modaoperandi.com.

“So Kate” is a signature Louboutin pointy-toe stiletto, and “So Kate” is the patent-leather Kate-shaped minaudière from Louboutin (look closely at the flap of the baguette and you’ll see the “So Kate” silhouette, from Louboutin’s original drawing of the shoe). It comes in shiny black, nude or red and is $850 at Nordstrom.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.

Potato salad many ways: Stephanie’s Classic American, her Warm German, and Potato and Lentil Salad With a Mustard Dressing. / Photo by Stephanie Witt Sedgwick.

I ONCE HEARD Will Shortz, editor of the New York Times crossword puzzles, talking on NPR about solving puzzles. Shortz was asked if it were okay for solvers to look things up on search engines, and he gave a great reply: It’s their puzzle, they can solve it any way they want.

Shortz’s answer always comes to mind when I start discussing potato salads. Everyone seems to have their own concept of what constitutes a perfect potato salad—some more orthodox than others—and that’s okay. This past week at a potluck I was presented with an “authentic German potato salad.” The salad listed yogurt as one of the ingredients, making it my first experience with this version of German potato salad. At cooking school, one of the German chefs had made a warm German potato salad that had no dairy at all. American potato salad is no different, having many variants of a classic “American” version. My dad was a fan of a plain potato salad, seasoned with no more more than mayonnaise, salt and pepper. Some think it’s not a potato salad without chopped pickles or egg or onion or mayonnaise. You get the idea. I’m fine with them all!

The fact is potato salad is a classic and a terrific way to to complement grilled foods. If you have time to make it advance, a cold mayonnaise-dressed salad is great. If you’re short of time, a warm salad dressed with vinegar and oil works. I really like vinegar in my mayo-and-sour-cream-dressed salad, but you do as you like.

The same holds true for which potato to choose. I use whichever potatoes I have on hand. Sometimes I have bought baby potatoes hoping to roast them whole and they end up cut in half in a warm salad. Or if I have only baking potatoes, I’m careful not to overcook the potatoes, but they work fine. Yes, it’s terrific if I have red potatoes, since they hold their shape best, but do the best with what you have.

Here are my three faves:

Classic American Potato Salad, Stephanie-Style: Boil peeled potatoes; keep small ones whole, halve or quarter larger ones. Drain and cut the boiled potato chunks into relatively equal pieces while still warm. Sprinkle the pieces with apple cider vinegar. Let them sit about 10 minutes. MIx together 2 parts mayonnaise with 1 part sour cream. Season with Dijon-style mustard, salt and pepper. Add to the potatoes along with chopped chives and diced hard-cooked eggs. Mix gently to coat the potatoes. Top with more chopped chives. Serve right away, or refrigerate until ready to eat. Ideally, the salad should be brought to room temperature before serving.

Warm German Salad, Stephanie-Style: Boil red or waxy white potatoes with the skin on, just until tender. Drain the potatoes and let them sit for 10 minutes to cool slightly. While they are cooling, heat a generous amount of oil in a sauté pan. Add some diced onions and cook until the onions are soft but not browned. Take the pan off the heat. Add white vinegar and enough oil to make as much dressing as you need. The ratio should be 2 parts oil to 1 part vinegar. Add chopped herbs, and salt and pepper to taste. Peel the still-warm potatoes and cut into small chunks. Pour the dressing over. Toss to coat the potato chunks and serve warm.

Potato and Lentil Salad With a Mustard Dressing: Cook lentils until tender;  drain and set aside. Boil small skin-on potatoes until just tender; fingerlings or baby potatoes are perfect. While the potatoes are boiling, make a mustard vinaigrette by mixing 1 part Dijon mustard with 1 part white-wine vinegar, salt and pepper to taste, chopped shallots and enough olive oil to make a dressing. When the potatoes are cooked through, drain and cut the small potatoes in half and quarter the larger ones. Place the potato chunks and the lentils in a large bowl. The amount of potatoes vis-à-vis lentils is up to you. Pour the dressing over the potatoes and lentils and toss to combine. Serve warm.

—Stephanie Witt Sedgwick

LittleBird “Stephanie Cooks” inspires meals every Monday.

Designer Charlotte Moss says collages of images and colors she likes inspire her to great settings for great entertaining. It works for us lesser beings too. / Photo above and on the front from “Charlotte Moss Entertains” (Rizzoli, $50).

I AM NOT a fan of Pinterest, that cyberspace bulletin board where people stick photos of their every material desire.

Yes, there’s a great deal of I-want stuff out there, or up there, or however you might say it. But give me a magazine, an actual glossy piece of paper, with brilliant photographs that I can rip out and hang in front of my nose for a day, a week. Years.

May is a particularly fine month for ogling magazine spreads devoted to other people’s summer decorating and entertaining schemes and fabulous gardens. Here are all the intentions you could possibly have. With spring so youthful, so promising, surely by July, August, September at the latest, you too—meaning me—will have replicated, more or less . . .

As always, I find myself pondering how to install a swimming pool, even a wallowing trough, in this minute city garden.

A pool is the single element from my long-ago house-hunting checklist that’s missing. We have the garage (aka carriage house), the basement, the attic, the fireplaces and the porches. All essentials for one reason or another—fireplaces and porches for me, and enough space for Princely crap that arrives and never departs.   

Now, if I got rid of said Prince I could take the life insurance money and put in the damn pool—I’d hire a truck and a bunch of (sexy) muscle and heave every board and nail out of the garage and turn it into the pool house. Or maybe a guest house. Perhaps a studio for something artistic that I will then do, brilliantly.

I can never decide, which is neither here nor there since he’s not going anywhere—what would I have to complain about?—and the garage remains a garage.

But. On page 113 of this month’s House Beautiful there is a gorgeous pool and pool house, and I want them. Chaise longues with pale pink cushions and white piping surround the turquoise pool. More pink-and-white cushions flop about on the wicker chairs and a sofa and ottomans under the pool-house roof, and it all looks very fresh and clean and COOL and there’s not a buzz saw in sight.

“It’s not a buzz saw,” he says. “It’s a Sawzall.” A reciprocating saw for the pedantic among us.

Oh. This is supposed to be reassuring. He saws all kinds of stuff with it. Yesterday he was standing on a wall, sawing off several sturdy but intrusive limbs from the cherry tree while yakking on his cell phone, an operation I refused to watch.  

What was I saying? Oh yes, pools, magazines, fresh clean . . . 

More from Charlotte Moss’s “Charlotte Moss Entertains” (Rizzoli, $50), as seen in Veranda magazine.

Then I open Veranda magazine and a feature on designer Charlotte Moss and her new book (Charlotte Moss Entertains, Rizzoli, $50; see opening page) that includes what she calls collages of her favorite things: beside the pool, a shocking pink and yellow fringed patio umbrella from someplace in India; fat burgundy peonies, fuchsia dahlias and French blue hydrangeas; statues and glassware and silver, a wedge of watermelon and a yellow canary. “Pile it on!” she says. It’s joyous and HOT and exotic and I want it.

How does one begin to reconcile such disparate desires?

Collaging is an excellent way of gathering and honing items that attract you into some comprehensible scheme. Designers like Moss have long done it, and I suppose those Pinterest postings are intended as such.

Better, though, to stack a dozen or so magazines and swiftly go through, tearing out every page that catches your eye for any reason. You’re searching for crumbs of inspiration, a personal aesthetic, not a complete picture. Yet.

When you have a nice pile, pick up a sheet and tear off everything that doesn’t appeal;  there will probably be a surprising amount of that.  From each page you might be left with a single flower, the corner of a cushion, a lipstick color.  

Now, take some glue or tape and a poster board, which, if you’re like me, might be found shoved behind a bookcase for a teenager’s project that should have been completed in 2001.

Dump all your tearings onto the poster board and move them this way and that, overlapping, ripping off a smidge of not-quite-right that you overlooked, and when you’re happy, glue them down.

Now hang this collage somewhere in front of you and consider the colors, the patterns, the mood that has emerged. Didn’t know you were that attracted to . . . puce?  That glitter really gets you energized? That amethyst and emerald make you happy?

What also materializes is a shopping list for what you love right now. Even if you can afford precisely nothing on the board, quite possibly you already have reasonable alternatives in your closets, your basement, you attic—or your mother’s attic—that can be hauled out, dusted off, maybe repainted, and reimagined into your happy place.

Notice that I said, what you love right now. Moods change, styles go in cycles (that open-plan living room is going to look mighty dated in a decade, mark my words, by cracky). What you love today may make you cringe tomorrow—and vice versa.

Of course this means you must never throw anything away. So much for Marie Kondo and the fad of de-cluttering. If you never dump it,  you’ll always have it.

—Stephanie Cavanaugh

LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” opines on things botanical-ish every Thursday.