A pot or two of cyclamen would make a lovely tribute on St. Valentine’s Day. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

I DON’T LIKE roses for Valentine’s Day—unless they’re deliriously fragrant bourbons with their fat petal clusters, which so resemble peonies. Now those I wouldn’t sneeze at.  

Come to think of it, peonies are a better idea, since bourbon roses tend to be handled by florists who want to sit down and discuss your “vision” and budget. But peonies, with their heavy heads and spectacular perfume are glorious—just a few would do, mixed with glossy lemon leaves and maybe a twig or two of something blue.  

Better still, get me a house plant. 

Every year My Prince, bless him, buys me something beautiful and highly scented.  Often it’s some variety of jasmine, a bush or a climber; either delights me. Sometimes it’s a lemon or lime or a calamondin, which bears tiny oranges too bitter to eat but is deliciously sweet-scented. One year it was an orange clivia, which, though it has no scent, sports fiery balls of blossom that last a month. All are tropical and need to come in for the winter—fine by me. I have a little greenhouse where they bloom on and off through the winter, though a sunny windowsill would work as well. 

If he could find me a standard geranium, one grown as a tree . . . oh, be still my heart and good luck with that. An intense red or palest ballet-slipper pink would do. Or a standard gardenia, which is easier to come by. Standards are so labor intensive to train that few growers bother, and they can be expensive. But how smashing they are, like floral lollypops without the calories—and they can move out to the garden when the weather warms, adding a little . . . rhythm to the border.  

Love doesn’t have to cost the Earth. 

Curly willow branches may not look like much of a Valentine’s gift (more like a puzzled eye-roll), but if you put the curiously coiled long bare stems in water, within days tiny green leaves burst out, turning branches into what appears to be an airy little tree that can hang in there for months. They used to be hard to come by: Time was I had to schlep them from the Philadelphia Flower Show or order them from growers. Now I see them at markets such as Wegman’s and even at flower stands. Get them online at Blooms & Branches, from 16 to 24 stems for $25 plus shipping. 

Thanks to Trader Joe’s, miniature orchids at $6.99 a pot are as common as daffodils, though not quite as cheap. I’d like three of the little ones, which can be set on the fireplace mantel, where they’ll last until spring. Dwarf daffs are also charming on the mantel, and pots of cyclamen, $3.99 in velvety shades of pink and red and pure white—either would be delightful on the dinner table, one at each dinner-party place setting or clustered among the candles in the center. 

TJ’s should also have individual forced bulbs in small vases around now. When they’re spent, don’t try to keep them but do reuse the vases for small arrangements in the powder room, on the night stand, or your desk—or (oh no, not wine again) as a hostess gift. Okay, bring the wine too.

More an art project than an accurate representation of Jane Fonda. But it is, after all, Jane Fonda, so there was a lot to work with. / Harper’s Bazaar.

By Valerie Monroe

JANE FONDA. I’m preoccupied with her at the moment. For many of us, she clearly exemplifies our conflicts about aesthetic choices as we age. Among the women I know, Fonda—unlike other cultural figures such as Kris Jenner—is fiercely defended for her decision to have multiple surgeries. Why? Likely because she represents a bright, vulnerable, emotionally intelligent, politically active, sexy, forthright, professionally gifted woman. She’s all that with the beloved Lily Tomlin in this clip. What’s Fonda’s beauty secret? “Good genes and a lot of money,” she says.

Can’t get enough Valerie Monroe? There’s more at valeriemonroe.substack.com.

Still, I sense a problem—and I confess I’m a little reluctant to get into it, because when I wade through these particular waters, sometimes they’re clear and sometimes they get so murky I can’t see where I’m stepping. I hope I’m not the only one who feels this way. Diving in:

We see so many images of movie stars like Fonda—and other often-photographed women—in their 50s, 60s, 70s and 80s looking at least 20 years younger than they are. (Or just a whole lot better than we think we look.) In real life, for the most part, they don’t look like their photos. Photoshop, social media filters, makeup and props all contribute to an idealized public presentation. We know that at 83 Fonda is a miracle of talent and grit and great genes—but if you believe she actually looks anything like this, you’re mistaken. That’s a character she (and the photographer, makeup artist, hair stylist and other stylists) created. It’s fun! It’s interesting! You might even think of it as performance art. But when people say she looks great, that she’s a role model for looking good as we age, I find that disturbing.

Gazing at an image of someone who’s my age (or more than a decade older) who appears to look 20 years younger makes me feel very competitive. I mean, I don’t want to be the only 70-year-old who doesn’t look like she’s 50, do you? The thing is, in real life, we’re not. It’s been said before but bears repeating (and repeating): The Internet and media, in general, support a false narrative about how women look, which is often not much of anything like how we really look. In other words, the bar has been set so high that it’s out of reach for almost all of us. Is it possible to see these images without feeling challenged to aspire to them? Do you feel challenged to aspire to them?

That’s not to say we should be limited in our choices about how much we invest in our appearance—nor that we don’t want to look healthy, attractive and, yeah, even ensorcelling.

One of the questions I want to ask is this: Is it Fonda’s face that makes her beautiful? Watch her vulnerability (in the excellent and revealing documentary Jane Fonda in Five Acts) when she’s talking about giving up agency while married to Ted Turner, or when she’s being snarky and hilarious in another conversation with the snarky and hilarious (and 81-year-old) Lily Tomlin, or when she’s speaking out for the rights of restaurant service workers (she gets going about 31 minutes in).

Gorgeous. But not because you can’t see her jowls. Gorgeous because she’s open, engaged, forthright, present, unafraid to speak her mind and take up space. I’ll defend to the death Fonda’s right to her choices, but I don’t approve of the culture that nurtured her need for them by serving up unhealthy portions of unrealistic and infeasible objectives. A steady diet of that is toxic.

What can we do about it?

A wise old Buddhist nun and a few younger ones came upon a huge boulder. “Do you think that rock is heavy?” asked the old nun. The younger ones replied, “Of course!” The old nun laughed. “Not if you don’t pick it up,” she said.

For an exuberant romp with a few more wise old . . . birds, check out Tea With the Dames.

By Nancy McKeon

ST. VALENTINE’S Day is a bit more than a week away, time enough to find something not quite so last-minute for once.

LEFT: Zebras don’t necessarily bring St. Valentine to mind, but Scalamandre’s iconic zebras (and arrows) bring super-chic style to the powder room (package of 15 paper guest towels, $7.95) or the living room (package of 20 cocktail napkins, $5.50, or luncheon napkins, $6.95). At Caspari Online.

RIGHT: What says “unconditional love” better than a parade of pups? (Okay, there’s a kitty or two in there as well, which is fine as long as they behave themselves.) The paper house Caspari has this “Valentine Parade” design by Japanese illustrator Masaki Ryo produced in Germany using food-safe ink and non-toxic, water-soluble dyes. Packages of 20 paper luncheon napkins are $6.95; a box of 40 cocktail napkins is $13, a package of 20, $5.50. All at Caspari Online.

A picture of you, or the two of you, won’t seem so pedestrian if it comes in one of these sumptuous 24-karat-goldplated, leather-backed frames from L’Objet.

From Etsy, the Huggy Candle by CaiCai Handmade. Available in light mocha (shown) and ivory (undyed). Unscented it’s $21.50, scented (a choice of three scents), $23. At Etsy.

Let’s show the manatee some love! We know this sweet-tempered aquatic mammal is threatened, mostly by us. A symbolic Manatee Adoption for $60 through the World Wildlife Fund can help. The 16-inch-long plush creature, also called a sea cow, comes with a photo of the adopted species, information and a nice gift bag. Go to wwf.org.

Beauty columnist Valerie Monroe also knows a bit about sweets. She likes orange rind dipped in chocolate. (Her beau likes his apricots dipped.) If you’re still pretty much home-bound, you could actually make the orange-peel treats yourself—it’s not so hard. We found a recipe at Downshiftology.com.

iStock photo.

I would never suggest getting anyone a dog as a gift. But I’ll suggest sitting down  together with your Valentine in front of the PetFinder website and deciding if you and yours need a new best friend. Tons of small rescue operations list their adoptable animals on the site, and you can search by city, breed, age, good with kids/cats—whatever you need. (Don’t be surprised, though, to find yourself being cross-examined to see if you’ll be a good pet parent: These rescue groups are serious about making the best matches for “forever homes,” a somewhat sappy term but accurate when it works. In the past 10 years it has worked for me . . . twice (don’t be nervous: I adopt senior dogs).

Lotus in a pot. / Nowness.com photo, above and on the front.

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

SOMETIMES I FIND myself wanting the impossible and then find out it’s not so impossible after all. Often, this is a smack-upside-the-head moment. A solution so obvious that it should have been obvious.

Case in point. The other day I came across a photo of a lotus on a website called Nowness.* The lotus is in a very large and curious cream-colored pot, bulbous in the center and covered with lumps and mottles. It is either fabulous or creepy, I’m not sure which, anyway that is beside the point.

A blooming lotus is in said pot, which sits on a porch of what is possibly an Asian home, or an Asian-inspired home, with bamboo walls and screening and Asianly fronds in the foreground. This is also not the point. 

The point is that there is a lotus growing in the pot. 

I looked at the photo and said to myself: Self! Why didn’t we think of growing lotus in a pot years ago? Apparently, as I have just this day discovered, the Chinese have been doing so since the 10th century. 

I had no reply. 

It seems so clear now, looking at the pot and the lotus, all voluptuous of foliage and fabulous of flower; if you, meaning me, can’t grow a lotus in your garden pond (water feature) because it has become entirely too shady due to the tribute to the US Botanic Gardens you’ve been cultivating . . . plant a lotus in a pot and stick it in a sunny elsewhere. 

To paraphrase Wikipedia: The lotus Nelumbo nucifera is sacred to both Hinduism and Buddhism, representing the path to spiritual awakening and enlightenment. In ancient Egypt it represented the path from death to rebirth to the afterlife. 

Clearly, a must-have in this life and the next. It is also edible. 

While you can go shallow with your pot and it would be lovely planted with lower-growing varieties nestled in a flower bed, this is at root a water feature, meaning that the shallow pot has to be watched constantly in the absence of rain. 

A big pot is what is needed for a big display, which is what I’m perennially after. If anyone had whispered a mantra** in my ear in 1972 it would have been: Go big or go home. Lotus plants range in size from dwarf varieties with stalks no taller than 12 inches to 6-footers with monstrous blossoms—the sort of flower I covet.  

As it happens, we have two very large pots; both would suit. One is green-glazed, the other a handsomely mottled terracotta. Either could be moved to the center of the front garden where a slant of sun has a regular habit of appearing—the lotus needs at least a half day of direct sun to flower.

Both pots have drainage holes, which must be plugged so water does not drain out. A layer of soil goes in, followed by lotus tubers, which are pressed down; then the pot is topped off with water. Foliage will quickly leap to the surface followed by flowers in mid-July, or so I’ve read. While you’re waiting for the lotus to emerge, you can busy up the surface with other plants like water hyacinth, which floats and has small flowers. Fine Gardening has an excellent primer, like a Cliff’s Notes on the plant. 

Thus ensconced, the lotus would (in my imagination) grow magnificently, just like that picture. 

There would, of course, be a little issue with mosquitos and standing water. In my case, fighting them would give My Prince something else to do besides sweeping. 

*Nowness is a rather avant-garde website with a mix of videos and photos of places and people who do artsy things and somehow make a living at it and many naked people doing strange things. Also gardens, including a series called Great Gardens, which has some beauties, and interviews with those who cultivate them. 

**I, personally, never received a mantra and would have promptly forgotten it anyway. But it did seem everyone else around me around then had a guru who whispered unto them a phrase that was NEVER TO BE SHARED and the recipients were all very superior about it and withholding and boring. Sniff. The mantra has, I believe, gone the way of the ice box and the charge plate.  

Carrie Coon, right, plays nouveau-riche Bertha Russell in “The Gilded Age.” To her left is Taissa Farmiga, who plays Gladys, her young daughter. Russell’s dresses and gowns are more fashion-forward and in brighter colors than those worn by the old-guard women. / Photo here and on the front courtesy Alison Cohen Rosa/HBO.

By Nancy McKeon

THERE’S AN argument to be made for watching the new HBO series The Gilded Age with the sound off. That way you won’t be distracted by the hackneyed plot, the dismal dialogue, the caricatures that substitute for characters, and the “acting.”

Without the sound on, you can concentrate on the clothes.

There may be those who know nothing about New York’s Gilded Age, the post–Civil War period when immense fortunes were made in railroads and other burgeoning industries, and the old guard of polite society was forced to cede ground, slowly and resentfully, to the new monied crowd that was elbowing its way into stodgy drawing rooms up and down Manhattan’s broad avenues. For them, the show could be a tutorial, a kind of “Edith Wharton and Henry James for Dummies.”

For the rest of us, there are the 5,000 (plus or minus) gowns and tea dresses and capes and walking suits that depict an era when women were not so much clad as . . . upholstered.

Christine Baranski, as Agnes Van Rhijn, dresses like the dowager she is, in dark colors, with intricate ornamentation. The one odd note in this parlor scene is the fabric on the loveseat. That’s the kind of chintz print one might use today to reupholster an old Victorian piece, to brighten it and allow its curves to stand out sculpturally. Much more likely, for Agnes, would have been a dark, perhaps plum or maroon, silk brocade. Or horsehair! Never forget horsehair! / Photo courtesy Alison Cohen Rosa/HBO.

Behind the creations is costume designer Kasia Walicka-Maimone and her team. That team was busy! As writer Alexis Nedd notes on Mashable, the parvenue Bertha Russell, played by Carrie Coon, has seven costume changes in the first episode, which is the only one I’ve seen so far. “Is seven the baseline?” Nedd asks. “Will next week have eight? Let’s definitely make it a drinking game.”

I’ll drink to that. The plot lines and dialogue in The Gilded Age are anything but nuanced, but that can’t really be said about the clothing.

The older “established” society ladies, most of them not that young, are often dressed in dark jewel tones, frequently adorned with symmetrical swags of lace or passementerie. But symmetry and dark jewel tones are not things Bertha aspires to: Her wardrobe crackles with color and energy. Not being a fashion historian, I don’t know how unusual it would be to lay a fluffy bodice insert on the diagonal, in a way echoing the tail feathers of the stuffed birds that sometimes pass for Bertha’s hats. Let’s just say those touches would not look out of place at a gala today (if anyone could go to a gala today).

A whole other look is given to Marian Brook, played by Louisa Jacobson*, the young penniless niece who has come to live with Agnes Van Rhijn (Christine Baranski), holder of the remnants of the family fortune thanks to a fortunate-unfortunate marriage, and she who will not be disobeyed. Cowering in the corner is Cynthia Nixon, fresh from her lesbian awakening on And Just Like That and now playing Agnes’s mouselike spinster sister, Ada Brook. Both of them dress on the dark side. Marian, on the other hand, gets the pastels that echo her youth and that place her outside the two competing social camps.

The Van Rhijn sisters simmer (well, it’s really only Agnes who’s close to being on the boil) in their brownstone, with its small dark and draped parlor, kitted out with brooding carved-mahogany furniture, while the Russells across the street strut their stuff in light, high-ceilinged splendor, complete with pale paneled walls, chandeliers and gilded boiserie.

Costumer Walicka-Maimone notes that in dressing her characters, she always follows the silhouette of the day; it would not do to violate the silhouette, which was still being broadcast from Paris and adapted by local dressmakers. But within the silhouette, she says, she felt free to adapt to suit the various roles the women play.

(About those local dressmakers: One of the first things Agnes Van Rhijn instructs young Marian to do is to go to her dressmaker to get some appropriate outfits. This may sound like something only a wealthy woman would do, but in fact there really was no ready-to-wear for women in 1882, the setting for the show. Men’s ready-to-wear, of a sort, did exist, largely having been born out of the need for general sizes of uniforms during the Civil War. So a woman of just about any station in that period would have had to sew something herself or find a local dressmaker. In the case of old-money Agnes, though, it would not have surprised me if she had asked a maid to go through her old dresses and rejigger something for her young niece. You know, the old-money response to fashion trends: “But I already have a dress!”)

Brash Bertha Russell and tycoon husband George, played by Morgan Spector. One could imagine that gown getting good marks on the Oscars’ red carpet, no? / Photo courtesy Alison Cohen Rosa/HBO.

So the clothes in The Gilded Age have a language of their own, and, with a little practice, all of us can understand it. Even with the sound off.

Poor Agnes Van Rhijn (Christine Baranski). Her somewhat somber at-home dress blends into the somewhat drab surroundings, while . . . / Photo courtesy Alison Cohen Rosa/HBO.

. . . firecracker Bertha Russell (Carrie Coon) is determined to blaze her way into the society that is intent on ignoring her. Even in that dress. / Photo courtesy Alison Cohen Rosa/HBO.

*It is apparently required by the gods of entertainment journalism that it be pointed out that Louisa Jacobson is Meryl Streep’s daughter. Done.

iStock photo.

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

I NEVER GOT AROUND to planting the hyacinth bulbs. I was of two minds about them, and the other mind won out. 

They are in the fridge, in the bottom drawer in a plastic bag behind an aged salami and a pound of bacon. They showed up yesterday when I decided to clean the fridge, a long-overdue event. The vegetable drawer was particularly disgusting. Out went the limp and stringy celery, floating like Ophelia in a pool of brown murk, the spongy third of a green pepper, a carrot only I would know was a carrot. 

I was shocked at how many Parmesan rinds were in the cheese drawer—did you know you could add these to olive oil and let them marinate for a fine bread dip? I learned this from Stanley Tucci’s marvelous memoir, Taste: My Life Through Food. He did not mention how to cut the rinds; I think one needs a hatchet. 

The fridge was so immaculate afterward that My Prince called it unrecognizable.  Did you do this? he asked. Oh, did I glow. 

So, the hyacinth. They are in the drawer because I couldn’t figure out where to plant them. Their scent can be over the border of offensively sweet, and the flowers are tacky, all those frills upon frills in some candy color or other. I wrote about them last fall, when I was doing my spring planting of tulips and whatnots. As I recalled . . .

Last spring I passed a patch of hyacinths in a neighbor’s yard and bent over to sniff, my head filled with their overwhelmingly sweet scent, and I said to myself, Well. That’s quite enough hyacinth for this year, thank you. One sniff is delightful, a second is rather disgusting. The least-subtle scent in the panoply of garden scents . . . 

So I’m wondering why I bought them and where I’m going to stick them. Somewhere where someone else can bend over and say, That does it for hyacinth this year, my nose has drunk its fill, thank you very much.

One might ask why I bought them. I am scratching my head too. 

Meanwhile, the fridge has acted like winter soil: The bulbs are firm with little sprouts emerging, like green tongues sticking out at me. I thought, perhaps I’ll put one in a pot. Maybe two. I don’t think I could stand the scent of more. And they’ll go in the greenhouse, with the parakeets, who should be charming amid the lemons and jasmine, but are nasty and smelly. Perhaps the hyacinths will offset the bird reek, though nothing else has. Remind me never to get birds again. 

Maybe I’ll stick a few out by the garage, where one might catch just a whiff in passing. That might be pleasant, if they’re far enough away from the path. 

Maybe I’ll take some of our “one of” glasses—we’ve amassed a decent collection of these over the years—plant a bulb in each and foist them off on friends as gifts. Oh, how pretty, I imagine they’ll say. You’re so clever . . . and thoughtful. 

Maybe I should give the lot to Lydia, our neighbor. She’s eight. Hyacinth is the exact right scent for an 8-year-old, don’t you think? The Easter bunny hops, the cherry tree is in full bloom, and the scent of the hyacinth. . . . All you need is glitter. 

Remind me not to buy them again, please. 

Next week: I clean out the freezer. 

A pencil plant, or pencil cactus, that looks a lot better than the one Stephanie got stuck with. / Photo, here and on the front, from iStock.

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

BRIE WAS ON SALE at Harris Teeter last week. It was lovely stuff, sides softly bulging so you knew it would nearly melt into cream on a cracker. 

There were two big wheels; one was sliced in half, each half with a price sticker.

I pointed and asked the young lady behind the counter, Could I have half of that half, please?

(Not that the entire half wouldn’t all be eaten, but buying the whole thing seems so piggish. In situations like this I prefer to return the next day for the other half.)

The young lady looked at me sadly and said, I’m sorry, the slicer is broken.

Let us pause here for just a second to consider the need for a machine to slice the cheese. 

How about cutting it with a knife, I said.

She peered at me with wonderment. Would that work?

Yes, I said. It would.

She wandered over to the prep table and hoisted a large knife, inhaled deeply and sliced the slab in two. Wrapping the requested half in plastic, she slapped on a new price sticker and proudly handed it over the counter.

Yay, I said, thinking something less generous. Well done. 

That had absolutely nothing to do with plants, flowers, window boxes, vases or anything else gardening-related. I just needed to weed it right out of my head. 

This leaves me room to ponder the pencil plant, now sitting unpleasantly on My Prince’s dresser, its skinny limbs flailing about like an orgy of praying mantises.  The pencil plant, also known as a pencil cactus, or euphorbia tirucalli if you want to get fancy about it, is a native of South Africa and India, and is a very difficult plant to kill. This I know because I’ve been trying to for several years. 

We inherited this unpleasant specimen from our artist friend Jill, who sublet her DC condo, went off to New York for a few years to paint, and left us her windowsill garden to tend. Though she’s been back and forth numerous times since, the plants have remained. They’re so happy with you, she said, or words to that effect. 

Among them were several handsome scheffleras, a ponytail palm she’d been growing for decades and is now nearly five feet tall with Rapunzel-length leaf blades. And she left the pencil plant.  One could hardly say, I’ll take everything but . . .

But. What an ugly sucker it is. Each summer I put it out in the garden, hide it behind more glamorous shrubbery and hope it will die. Then I can just say, Oops. 

Alas, it continues to hang on, and now that I think about it perhaps it’s less a pile of praying mantises and more a mess of middle fingers aimed right at me. 

How can you be so cruel to a poor innocent plant, My Prince says. Particularly since it’s Jill’s.

Yeah, and Jill seems really eager to have it back. There is a certain luxury in lending something to a friend while you dash off to art shows and what not, expecting that something to thrive—for years. And if it dies or breaks, you get to blame it on . . . me.    

The pencil plant appears to be ailing at the moment, which is exciting. Those wretched, skinny limbs are looking limp and maybe a little brown. The Prince frets. What should I do, he asks me. What could have happened?

And here we arrive at your gardening tip of the week: If you have a pencil plant that you insist on propagating or saving (lord knows why):

1. Break off a piece.
2. Stick it in some dirt. 
3. Water

The end. 

The vase contains Japanese privet with clusters of near-black berries, cypress and magnolia leaves and a few sprigs of pink carnation. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

THANK YOU for taking that, said the woman, muffled and masked so that only her screechy voice was identifiable. As I too was muffled and masked, and said nothing at all, I felt invisible.

A good thing as, from that voice, I realized it was someone I detest. As I’m working on my kindness this year, I shall say no more  (though my skin crawled at the sound of her screech-screech). I just nodded, more of a cringe, but I think it could be mistaken for a nod, and skittered off. 

I was, however, perfectly happy scavenging her leavings, the branches of a cypress tree piled on the curb, detritus from last week’s snowstorm, waiting for the trash trucks. 

Such a wealth of branches I was finding, strolling the sidewalks with my granddog, Tallula: Japanese privet with clusters of near-black berries, those frilly cypress, the prickly fir of discarded Christmas trees, glossy magnolia. All neatly embalmed by the cold and heaped on the sidewalks, just asking to be foraged. 

Poor dead branch, says another neighbor. So tragic, say I, loading my arms.  A florist would charge a fortune for filler like this.   

These big leafy branches make for the easiest framework for big leafy arrangements. Cluster a few in a vase or whatnot and boom, you have a tree, or at least a shrub. If you feel so moved, add a few fresh flowers—you won’t need many to make what feels like an extravagant display.

Clip the ends, pull off any leaves at the lower end of the branches so they don’t rot and pop the stems in water. No frogs or fancy tape supports are required. A pair of crossed branches provide all the bracing you need. The greens will be good for a month if you just change the water every week.  

I happened to have baby’s breath—gypsophila—left from a holiday arrangement. The white fluffy stuff dries and lasts forever. Poked among the branches, it feels like a miniature snowstorm. When I next traipse out to Trader Joe’s maybe I’ll see if they have gerbera daisies—the brilliant colors and large faces would be jolly. If I’m feeling more romantic, hydrangeas, which also dry well, have a dreamy vibe nestled in the greens. Just three stems of either would be plenty—with big-headed flowers more would probably be overdoing it—which is a good thing, given the cost of fresh flowers.    

Clipped branches can also revive window boxes, which tend to look sad around now. If you’ve neglected to plant pansies and cabbages and the whatnots that survive cold weather (if you keep watering), those dirt troughs do little for your home’s curb appeal. But jam a few branches into the soil and—va-voom!—you have presence.  Cold weather will keep them looking fresh for several weeks, and you can always replace them after the next storm. 

The window boxes start with ivy, oregano, cabbages and pansies. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

This “after” image shows the window box with the addition of Japanese privet. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

iStock image.

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

THE PRINCE has just marched out of the house, shovel in hand, to tackle the snow on the front porch, the steps, the sidewalk. More snow than we’ve seen in years in Washington DC. Not a sprinkling, this is the kind of heavy stuff that brings the tree limbs to the ground. A heart attack waiting to happen. *

In such moments I simultaneously plan his funeral and redecorate the house. Tell me you haven’t done something similar.

I’m tired of the wallpaper in the kitchen. It was wonderful once, bunches of purple grapes on a Tuscan sunset ground. Being a paper paper, not at all suited to a kitchen, I slapped on a coat of polyurethane, which made it more-or-less washable. That was 20 years ago and it’s had a good run, but replacing it is way down the list of Princely things-to-do, particularly as I’m not a paying customer for his meticulous services. Just a freeloader.  

But without him? Ahhh.

Baby bought me a lovely roll of paper last year, huge palm leaves that will look smashing viewed from the dark green hallway and the gray-green dining room. Since I won’t have anyone to help me hang it, I shall hire someone—what a refreshing thought. No screaming match over the right way to handle this and that. Have you ever hung wallpaper with a spouse?  Well then. 

I also have a yen to remove the paper from the bathroom, full-blown hibiscus and fringy tulips in colors that shade from pale rose to crimson on a dark green ground. It’s another large pattern that fairly jumps off the wall. I think I’d like black-and-white stripes instead. With the original 1914 clawfoot tub and white tiles—some of which need repair, another thing down the list—it would have a French boudoir feel, I imagine.  I’ll hire someone to do that too. 

But maybe the reverse would do better, hanging the palms in the bath and the stripes in the kitchen. The stripes would look smashing with my black cabinets and black-and-white-checkerboard Mackenzie-Childs kettle. 

I was also thinking of a mural on one dining room wall. When I was a kid, my dad hired an artist to paint a wall in our dining room. It was a blooming wisteria vine draping the entry to a magical garden. I would like a garden scene in mine, impressionistic trees in shades of mossy green surrounding the big gold-framed mirror that is the centerpiece of the room. As long as the scene is impressionistic (highly impressionistic), I can do it myself. Daubing away with a sea sponge works for leaves—it worked for Monet, though I think he used a brush. But maybe that would that be too much.

Perhaps you’ve noticed I like to bring my gardening into the house in the winter?

I’ve always wanted a mural on the foyer ceiling, too, like one in Rome’s Galleria Borghese, but smaller. Not one of the violent ones, though. Putti floating about on clouds, but no rearing horses and flashing swords. It should feel more welcoming, you know. This I could not do myself, but I have my brilliant friend Ed Huse in mind. . . .

My Prince just phoned—in truth he has called four times in the last half-hour with this and that. Now our neighbor has asked for help with a tree that fell on his car, a smallish tree but still. So, he’s back to get his Sawzall, which he uses to saw all manner of things. I don’t know why he feels the need to tell me this. There are going to be some sore bones tomorrow, should he live. 

Dressing for the funeral won’t be difficult; there’s no shortage of black clothing in my closet. I do need waterproof mascara, though a little undereye smudging is so Colette. Should I make a lasagne for the after-gathering? He’d be pissed if I got oysters and he missed out. 

I shall keep him in a fine receptacle on the mantel, or maybe on his side of the bed. He will be missed.  

In other news, Grandbaby Wes, who has just turned 2, finally has a name for me. Everyone else on both sides of the family has a name, which he uses with great glee at his own cleverness. We tried grandma, but he didn’t take to it—thankfully, as neither do I. 

He was sitting in his highchair the other day and I tried again:

Who am I, I asked.

He looked at me, pointed to his peanut-buttered chest, and said: Me. 

Then he pointed at me and said, Maw. 

Then he laughed, pointed at me again, and said, MeMaw!  

That’s me. MeMaw.

My Prince, meanwhile, has been PawPaw for some months. 

Hey, skin me that rabbit, Pawpaw, and I’ll boil that thar up for supper . . . if you put in your teeth.

Ayup. Just like that, we’re an episode of Hee Haw. 

*Update. He lived. But they say it will snow again tonight . . . 

Sarah Jessica Parker as Carrie Bradshaw in her cocktail-party-cum-funeral dress at Mr. Big’s memorial service. If his demise is a shocker, you haven’t been reading about the show. / Photo by Craig Blankenhorn/HBO.

HANDS UP IF you’ve leered at your husband and goaded him into masturbating in front of you.

No takers? Well, then.

So here they are, our four women friends from Sex and the City (1998-2004, plus two movies) and now the new, as of last month, HBO Max show And Just Like That. Twenty years later, Sarah Jessica Parker’s Carrie Bradshaw is still dressed as fashion roadkill; Kristin Davis’s Charlotte has morphed her school-girl wardrobe into a school-girl wardrobe with the occasional bare shoulder (and a hint of unfortunate trout mouth), and Cynthia Nixon’s Miranda has got herself up like the little boy who won’t grow up—and gets dressed in the dark.

T-shirt and cotton jumper, that’s our gal Charlotte (right), out looking for an after-school playdate, no doubt. Another view of the duo reveals that Miranda’s checked outfit is in fact a wide-leg jumpsuit, suitable for nothing in particular. Miranda pulls herself together for formal and somber occasions, looking like the elegant lawyer she is. By day, though, it’s anyone’s guess what she’s going to wear. / Photo by Craig Blankenhorn / HBO Max.

And as we’ve read, the sexually predatory Samantha, played by Kim Cattrall, has not joined her old pals. But that’s okay! They’ve mostly become as sexually explicit and lascivious as she was. Samantha was the free-love bookend to Charlotte’s marriage-at-all-cost stance. These days, though, the married Charlotte is more concerned with adding Black friends her social circle and dealing with the first whiffs of sexual questioning by her tweenage daughter.

Of course the show, and Carrie’s newspaper column, were always about sex. But it was heartwarming this weekend to view some of the charming original Sex and the City episodes. First, to see how young they (we?) were! And to see the big boxy things that passed for phones back in the Pleistocene.

And even to hear Charlotte whine, “What about romance!?” Yes, Charlotte is also the one who complained, “But I don’t want to be the up-the-butt girl! Nobody marries the up-the-butt girl” (or something very close to that, I promise). And for sure our “girlfriends” hurled as many F-bombs as, well, me. But there was an innocence. even when Carrie wrote, “Welcome to the Age of Un-innocence. Cupid has flown the co-op.”

Back then we didn’t have podcasts. Now, on the show, we have a sex podcast seemingly dripping at all times with some bodily fluid or other. Carrie’s discomfort with the banter, even as she gamely tries to get with the seedy program, caused one reviewer to out our favorite sex columnist as a prude.

Well, I’m lining up right behind her. When did the show become so coarse and tasteless? I thought it hit a low in the 2010 Sex and the City movie, when Samantha diddled her date under the dinner table in a conservative Middle Eastern country (though to be fair, the diners in any country would have been mightily offended). That doesn’t seem even remotely charming, even in hindsight, but at least it was an outlier.

To ask another question, When did our entire society become so coarse? I like to date it to 2004, when Vice President Dick Cheney told Senator Patrick Leahy to go fuck himself on the floor of the Senate. That seemed to be an official declaration. But maybe that’s just me.

Back to sex. And Just Like That is clearly trying to hit all the Zeitgeist buttons: integrating their lily-white social scene, raising LGBTQ possibilities, dealing with death and orthopedic surgery. The whole 2020s trifecta.

I’ll continue to milk the HBO Max show for moments of tenderness and charm. But here’s the difference: Back watching Sex and the City I envied the girls their coffee dates, their outings to clubs I would never even try to get into, even their romantic meltdowns. And Just Like That? So far, not so much.

—Nancy McKeon

This image is a distillation of the characters’ sense of self: Miranda in . . . something (what’s with Miranda and stripes? even the pillows on her sofa are striped), Carrie in . . . a very complicated something (note the two crossbody bags, de rigueur in New York), and Charlotte as Talbots as she can be. / Photo here and on the front by Craig Blankenhorn / HBO Max.

iStock

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

I AM NOT thinking flowery thoughts, and that’s the last garden-related thing I shall say today. 

Instead, I am panicking, again, over what to buy My Prince for Christmas. He doesn’t read books (though he does read the New York Times book review, so it may seem as though he does). My beloved hates games and puzzles, aftershave and other “girly” items, anything computer related, and has no hobbies besides minding my business and sweeping the sidewalk. Every day. Sometimes at night. Sweep, sweep, sweep. 

I recall, years ago, being on vacation at some tropical all-inclusive with Baby and the Prince. She and I, well-beached and roasting, sipping piña coladas and dipping chips into a vat of guacamole, gazing tipsy-eyed at the ocean—this may have been Mexico, come to think of it—when what to our wondering eyes did appear, but a figure in a Speedo as blue as his eyes making his way along the coastline on a paddleboard. 

“Look! Daddy’s sweeping the ocean!” Baby said. Or maybe it was me. We’re similarly disrespectful, or so we’re told. 

Sweeping is his meditation and his primary exercise. One year I bought him a broom, painted it black and printed in gold letters:

Chim chiminey

Chim chiminey
Chim chim cher-ee!
A sweep is as lucky
As lucky can be.*

He didn’t much like it, though he used it, because waste not want not—or some such. 

If I buy something for the house, he’ll accuse me of getting it for myself, which is probably true. 

There were classes. Flamenco, yoga, acting, cooking. Don’t ask. 

A few weeks ago, I asked him to give me a list of 100 things he’d like to have—in his lifetime—get wild, I said: trips, cars, houses, wines, a truffle-sniffing pig . . . 

He mulled and at last said: another back brush—for the downstairs bathroom. 

He went on to describe how it had to be a particular sort that won’t fall apart and some essential attributes that I slept through. 

Oh, my. 

Clothes? Oh . . . thanks mostly to me, is this man ever dapper. His closet is overstuffed with trousers and jackets and sweaters in cashmere and wool and leather. His ties fill a bureau drawer. He has cufflinks and gloves and scarves and socks, coats and jackets, and some of the coolest sneakers I’ve ever seen. Gray flannel? I mean, puleeze.

And since, during these plague years, we don’t have much cause to dress up, it’s a pristine collection.  

It’s so nice, in fact, that I might shop it: go into the closet and pick a jacket and pants, a sweater, tie and shoes, wrap them up and stick them under the tree.  I wonder if he’ll remember that he already owns them. 

And with his birthday less than a month after Christmas, if it works, I may try it again. 

*Chimney sweep song from “Mary Poppins.”

Magnificent magnolia kissing balls punctuate a porch in Raleigh, North Carolina. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

MAKING MAGNOLIA-LEAF balls is the kind of activity that is beyond me. However, I am happy to tell you that it is easier to do than you might think, unless you are me, in which case, as I’ve just said, it’s an activity that’s beyond me. 

Ask me to arrange flowers in a vase and I’m brilliant. Ask me to fidget with snippers and stick things evenly anywhere and it’s not going to happen. 

The Prince and I were in Raleigh, North Carolina, last week, visiting our Baby and her Personal Prince Pete to celebrate our devastatingly handsome and brilliant grandson Wesley’s second birthday. He now says Shit! What a little treasure. 

Along for the ride was MK, Baby’s Mother-in-Law, who shares with me a fondness for Popeyes, though she prefers spicy. Thankfully we can have it both ways.  

It was MK and Baby who requested this column. We’d been driving around Oakwood, a historic neighborhood near downtown Raleigh filled with a mix of 19th- century homes, most with fine front porches. There are Victorian gingerbreads, Queen Anne’s, four-squares and cottages; all beautifully kempt, colorfully painted, with delightful gardens. The sort of place where spring is a flower show, Halloween is a decorating extravaganza, and the Christmas Candlelight Tour is a very big deal.  

An award for something hangs beside the front door of a grand Victorian on a main avenue. I would tell you what the award is for, but I didn’t notice it until I was back home in DC and I can’t make out the writing on the photo. The pale purple house with its khaki trim and teal shutters is nestled in evergreens. A wide front porch wraps the house, with Carolina jasmine smothering the railings and columns.

This year it’s done up with mammoth balls of magnolia leaves, topped with huge hot-pink bows and hung from the porch roof by (presumably) chains covered in scrunched-up hot-pink fabric, that extra fillip that subtly hollers, Top that,  plebeians.    

The second-floor railing takes it completely over-the-top with stars made of gilded magnolia roped together with what appears to be a garland of perfectly draped laurel leaves—oh, please tell me it’s fake—and wreaths with a flourish of hot-pink ribbons in the upper windows.    

I crept up with my camera and snapped the porch. MK complained that I got the back of a chair in the shot, but though I was tempted, I did not rearrange the furniture. What a spot. And those balls, those balls.

Never mind the back of the chair! This Raleigh, North Carolina, porch is magnificent. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

While I’d be willing to bet there was a fine florist’s hand involved in these specimens, they are not particularly difficult to re-create. If, as I mentioned earlier, you are not me, all you need is a foam ball of some girth, a bunch of leaves (perhaps you have a friend with a magnolia tree that you can pillage), snippers, a couple of hooks, a length of chain and ribbon—plus some matching fabric for the scrunchy chain cover. 

Snip clusters of leaves, leaving a couple of inches of stem intact. Jab stem into Styrofoam. Repeat until the ball is tightly packed with leaf clusters. Stick hook in top, attach chain, tie a huge bow, somehow or other make a scrunchie, put it on the chain. Add a hook to the top. Suspend from ceiling or porch or whatnot. Done!

Those beautifully shaped magnolia balls in Raleigh were fantastic, but they require a certain degree of precision and patience. However, a quick Google search under “kissing balls”* showed how you can freestyle something splendid with tree trimmings, pine cones, mistletoe, flowers and various ornaments.  

Michaels has 9.6-inch balls that customers say work perfectly. In fact, one stop at the craft center will yield all the supplies you need.

Except the house.    

*And here I thought kissing balls were only mistletoe. 

A grand Victorian in Raleigh, North Carolina, made even grander by its Christmas decor. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

The Red Room of the White House, Christmas 2021. The theme of this room is Gift of the Performing Arts. LittleBird Stephanie doesn’t find it artsy enough. / Official White House photo.

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

THROUGHOUT the White House this year, tabletops and mantels have been heaped with an effervescent mix of greenery, shiny baubles, paper butterflies, glittery birds, ribbon and flowers—not the usual sorts either: red chrysanthemums, yellow gerbera daisies and fabulous pink and purple orchids laced with ribbons and white lights.

And then there’s the Red Room’s mantel, where it seems the decorating elves must have run out of . . . well . . . everything. Greenery, decoration, inspiration . . .

A single, sad garland lolls along the white marble mantel, dripping downward and weighted at the corners with a precious few dangling brass instruments. The room’s theme is supposed to be a “gift of the performing arts.” Some gift. 

Why not a glittering stand of flutes, a lighted display of miniature harps or a trumpet on a pedestal? And, please, please, more greens. 

Which is all to say, take the Red Room as a lesson in what not to do with your own mantels. Turn instead to that tried and true rabbit hole of ideas, Pinterest.

LittleBird Stephanie’s mantel treatment last year was abundant but definitely not in the standard Christmas red and green. A bit on the Goth side, actually. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

There are flowering mantel arrangements so overblown with roses and orchids and hydrangeas they gave me palpitations. Constructs so voluptuous that they spill and drip and puddle and stream onto the floor, or reach like fantastical flowering trees to the ceiling. 

Of course they cost the Earth and tend to quickly drop dead, thus one may only spy such displays at over-the-top weddings or affairs of state. 

Yet! If you rummage through and don’t get sidetracked by the impossibly fabulous, there are plenty of ideas for the marginally talented. Like using less-common flowers and unusual colors—spring blooms feel so fresh—and employing a touch of asymmetry, perhaps a tall candelabrum or massing of flowers at one end, stepping down to greenery and a sprinkle of blossoms dancing off to the other. Or a collection of simple, mismatched glass beakers, each with a single white flowered stem with white votive candles at their bases—which would be smashing against a dark wall, on a white mantel in a traditional setting, or in a hypermodern loft.

 An effortless start? A lush garland on the mantel—nothing skimpy, please—has instant impact, creating a luxurious base for fanciful embellishment. You can buy one and fold it over on itself to create volume (25 feet for $20 at Costco, says Baby),  but if you’re feeling both thrifty and crafty, they’re easy enough to make. Head to any Christmas-tree lot, and the purveyor will be happy to send you off with piles of trimmings. Line up the branches on the floor, cut off any strays, tie the garland together with floral wire, and flop it onto the mantel (you may need to tack it in place).

Still leaning toward the dark side, this year’s mantel chez Cavanaugh boasts a bright pink peacock. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

If the mundanity of evergreenery isn’t your bag, try something unexpected, such as a feather boa. Mine is a fabulous one—if you’ll allow me to crow—made of peacock feathers that Baby and I drooled over in New Orleans (where else) and she dutifully ordered for me shortly thereafter.

No matter your garland of choice, amp it up by tucking a string or three of warm white lights throughout the spread, then finish with fresh blooms (poke the stems into those little plastic water holders) or buy flowers in small pots and shove them in here and there. Trader Joe’s has a wonderful assortment of potted cyclamen and orchids, stems of hydrangea and roses, and fluffy bunches of gypsophila (baby’s breath) that won’t bust any budgets.

Et voilà! A fanciful display worthy of the White House itself . . . if only they’d asked me. 

Light, light, as befits the Festival of Lights. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh. / On the front: iStock photo.

To mark the kick-off to the hols, here is a reprint of Stephanie Cavanaugh’s potato-pancake recipe. Remember, Hanukkah begins Sunday night, November 28, 2021.

BESIDES THROWING OFF gloriously ruffled vines that grow to fabulous lengths in one’s window boxes, potatoes are also useful for potato pancakes, or latkes, the essence of the Jewish holiday of Chanukah, or Hanukkah, or to get technical, חֲנֻכָּה.

In a time before food processors, Mama would grate the potatoes by hand, which always involved adding a bit of skinned knuckle and a drop or two of blood. She would also hand-grate onion into the mash so there would also be tears. This all feels very symbolic but isn’t. It was just painful and a little gory.

The pancakes were, and are, fried in oil until golden, a cast-iron pan giving the best color. Mama would stand in the kitchen over the hot oil frying and serving batch after batch, which guests would eat before she got to the table, since she didn’t want them getting cold and latkes grow unpleasantly heavy and flaccid if left to warm in the oven.

My older sister who, distrusting the newfangled, still grates by hand, gets around this by having people stand next to her in the kitchen, eating them the instant they’re done—and then sitting down to dinner.

The master recipe, as laid down by my mother, makes enough for two or three little piggies (or the kosher equivalent, which is what?).

Potato Pancakes

4 servings (you don’t want to know the calorie count)

2 large russet or Idaho potatoes, peeled

1 small onion, peeled

1 egg

Scant teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon ground pepper

½ cup matzoh meal* (or flour)

Peanut or corn oil

Cut the potatoes and onion into large chunks** and place in the food-processor bowl fitted with the steel blade. Chop—do not grate!—until the potatoes are about the texture of oatmeal (about 10 to 15 seconds, depending on the size of your chunks). Dump in a large bowl. Add egg, salt and pepper, and matzoh meal and combine well. Do not squeeze out or drain the moisture the potatoes release (I don’t care what you’ve read).

The mixture should just hold together when stirred. If it is runny, add more matzoh meal.

Heat enough oil in a frying pan for the potatoes to float. When sizzling (but not smoking) drop serving spoonfuls of batter into the oil, flattening slightly with the back of the spoon (don’t mash them down or they’ll stick to the pan), and fry until golden brown on one side, flipping and frying the other side, about 10 minutes total.  You should get eight in a 12-inch frying pan.

Remove and drain on paper towel or brown paper.

While it’s reasonable to prepare such a small batch while you’re putting dinner together, making latkes for many may mean you’ll never leave the kitchen.

My mother’s recipe is straightforwardly doubled or tripled or more, the only possible adjustment being to add a little matzoh meal or flour if the batter is too runny.

Pause for extremely brief history lesson: Chanukah is considered a miraculous holiday, the Festival of Lights. The Jews, who had just beaten back the Greeks, needed oil for the temple lights but had only enough to last a single day. Yet the oil lasted for eight, time enough to keep the candelabrum called the menorah ablaze until a new supply could be prepared.

And so oil becomes a holiday theme, herein represented by latkes. Interesting side note: Jewish holidays, with few exceptions, involve eating extraordinary quantities of  particularly cholesterol-rich food, and yet we are often long-lived. Another side note is that Aunt Ruthie always had to lie down somewhere midway through holiday meals. She was also afraid of my pet mouse, Willie. But that is really neither here not there.

The miracle of cooking a party quantity of latkes is to pre-fry them.

I usually make them around noon and consider a few testers to be my lunch. Fry them until cooked through, about 8 minutes total, and light brown, drain on a wire rack, which saves paper towels and therefore trees. Do NOT refrigerate, which lends an offish taste.*** There’s nothing that will spoil during a few hours’ rest.

It’s essentially like the double-fry method you use for making French fries. Reheat your oil (or use fresh if it’s a mess) until burbling and, when you’re just about ready to serve dinner, drop in the precooked latkes and fry 15 to 20 seconds on one side and flip for another 15 or so (experiment!). They quickly crisp up and heat through and taste as good as fresh.

I’ve been known to fry 100 for my occasional annual Chanukah party and have them on the table within 10 minutes.

With numerous decades of latke experimentation under my increasingly large belt, and a recipe that has brought grown men to tears, I do not know why so many people doubt that this method works. While I might embellish and exaggerate from time to time (alas, a family shortcoming), I do not lie, if I can help it.

And so I will here repeat: The large-batch process uses the same double-fry technique that’s used for French fries. The end result should be pancakes that are brown and deliciously crisp on the outside, warm and almost creamy within—and done in time for you to sit down with your guests and eat them.

Additional notes:

*Matzoh meal makes for a lighter latke.

**Cut your potatoes into chunks just small enough to fit in the bowl without jamming the blades—quarters or sixths. Do not try to chop more than two potatoes at a time; they quickly go from oatmeal-coarse to liquefied.

***If you do have leftovers, they can be frozen or refrigerated and are not terrible reheated, as long as you bring them to room temperature before briefly refrying, not baking them. No matter how hot your oven, an oven-heated latke will never taste as fresh or crisp as one that’s been refried.

—Stephanie Cavanaugh

LittleBird “Stephanie Gardens” is writing about potato pancakes in her gardening column because potatoes are a plant, not that she grows them, but what the hey.

By Nancy McKeon

AS WE TIPTOE back into entertaining friends and family in our homes, we’re noticing that it’s pretty dark out there. Actually, very, very dark.

Time for lights. Time for candles. Time for glittery things that will reflect those lights and candles. And time for little interior touches that will signal warm hospitality at a time when we most need it.

Entertaining pros have lots of tricks. We have only a few, but here they are.

MyLittleBird photo.

Come on, baby, light your fire. It may be humankind’s most basic social instinct: gather around the flames for warmth and light. Your fireplace is decorative only? Fill it with pillar candles. No fireplace? Consider doing what I did: order a Real Flame electric fireplace from Overstock (actually, Real Flame fireplaces are available to order from lots of places) and slap it against the wall (have a carpenter take off the baseboard molding first). Result: instant focal point and my all-time-favorite electrical appliance.

The bottom line is that a fire in the fireplace, real or facsimile, means a warm welcome to guests.

Another sign of warmth and welcome: a sheepskin thrown over a chair. Mine, above, from House of Fluff, is fake, as is the small, white Gullviva ($29.99) at Ikea. A fluffy (genuine) alternative is the 20-inch-square Mongolian pillow cover (you supply the pillow insert) from Frontgate. (It’s $119 and comes in four colors.) The real curly lamb fur catches the light and offers guests a snuggle.

Photo from Tablecloths Factory.

Reflections. A caterer’s trick, perhaps, but a center mirror can amp the candle glow of your tables, whether a series of rounds or one long buffet table. A big plus is that you may already have a version of this centerpiece on your bedroom dresser holding perfume bottles. If not, centerpiece mirrors are available at TableclothsFactory.com, the source of the image shown (available for pre-order, they’re $19.99 for a four-pack of 16-inch-diameter rounds), and Joann shops ($7.99 each for 16-inchers). TableclothsFactory also offers round mirrors in smaller diameters and a six-pack of 10-inch-square glass mirrors that can be marched down a long table. The square six-pack is $16.99.

Potentially tacky alert: I’m planning to weave star tinsel garland among the candles on my tables to try to reach max glitter.

Glittery, meet super-glittery. Gump’s of San Francisco calls this Gold Floral Jeweled Wreath, above, “a glittering whirl of hand-jeweled metal flowers,” and who could argue? Designer Eric Cortina’s extraordinary 19-inch-wide metal and crystal confection is aimed at the wall, but who’s to say it couldn’t be just as extraordinary as a table centerpiece? Over the years, you could amortize the $1,950 price tag by alternating between wall and table. (Just watch the ketchup.)

Slightly lower in the stratosphere but also a candidate for wall or table is Suzanne Kasler’s Jeweled Wreath. Fashioned of gold wire and cut-glass leaves, the wreath is 18¼ inches in diameter and on sale for $89.10 at Ballard Designs.

MyLittleBird photo.

Bar none. When they first arrive, guests want to gravitate toward the bar. And if you don’t have a bar cart or other designated watering hole? Consider sending some of your books into exile for the holidays and dedicate one or more shelves to drinks material (it’s actually not enough real estate: you’ll probably want a table below for the wine bottles, ice and dozen or so glasses; but the bookshelf bar will give newcomers an eye-level signpost of sorts).

The White Company in London calls these “gin glasses,” but they would be just as special holding Diet Coke, no? The big bowl—it holds a whopping 20 ounces—speaks of its host’s generosity, and the chunky base will help keep the drink frosty. Made in Poland of lead-free crystal, the Halden Gin Glasses are $44 for a pair.

Skip to the loo. Yes, even the powder room should be glammed up before the guests arrive. And these hand-poured artisan intaglio soaps from Reprotique are just the things to do it. The ivory Venus Intaglio soaps (above, right), two ovals to a package, also comes in Wedgwood blue, $20. Round intaglios come four disks to a package in several colors, including charcoal gray and Wedgwood blue, shown, for $20. They’re made in Richmond, Virginia, for Reprotique, brainchild of art historian Susan Stanley Sprinkle, whose shop also sells other home goods, all based on historical drawings and artifacts.

Atop a curio cabinet in the far right corner of the Cavanaugh dining room, a pair of Philodendron Monstera leaves will last for weeks, as will the enormous leaves of the Colocasia gigantea elephant ears, seen at the rear of the picture, in a vase behind the living-room sofa. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

Good morning! We were wondering . . .

You probably know that MyLittleBird sends out a daily newsletter Monday through Friday and A WEEKLY ROUNDUP  on Saturday. That’s how you receive our posts in your inbox. But in case you didn’t know, we have an extensive website— My Little Bird—where you can take a look-see at ALL the stories we’ve written in the past seven years. 

For example, maybe you’ve only seen Mary’s columns on the pandemic; if so, you’ve missed her posts on HOW TO TALK to your doctor, the benefits of naps and what your dreams are TRYING TO TELL YOU???

Or if you’ve only seen Nancy’s Virtual Museum posts, you haven’t read her terrific stories on Jane Fonda and the kitschy Met Gala.

Speaking of celebrities, our series called “What’s in Her Closet,” written by Nancy, our fabulous art director, Kathy (she’s multitalented), and yours truly, dissects the wardrobe choices of Sarah Jessica Parker, Holly Hunter, Gayle King, Viola Davis and more. 

GO ON, GET BEYOND THE DAILY! JOIN US IN A DEEPER DIVE!

—MyLittleBird Staff

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

WINTER’S coming on.

Save for a handful of hyacinth bulbs, the garden is planted for spring. Denuded of plants, it’s just so . . .  naked.

I don’t know what I’m doing with those hyacinth bulbs, which is why they’re sitting on the wrought-iron table on the back porch, loose and glaring at me. Last spring I passed a patch of hyacinths in a neighbor’s yard and bent over to sniff, my head filled with their overwhelmingly sweet scent, and I said to myself, Well. That’s quite enough hyacinth for this year, thank you. One sniff is delightful, a second is rather disgusting. The least-subtle scent in the panoply of garden scents, methinks.

So I’m wondering why I bought them and where I’m going to stick them. Somewhere where someone else can bend over and say, That does it for hyacinth this year, my nose has drunk its fill, thank you very much.

Returning to the now naked garden: The transition from summer to winter is always a shock, much like the transition to and from daylight savings time, which has us now in the dark at five o’clock. Doesn’t it seem that dark has come faster this year? Didn’t full-on night once fall in December? Discuss.

Just days ago the elephant ears were monstrous in size, dwarfing my hand, and the single fruit on the Meyer lemon (for all the fuss and fertilizer my only yield) was continuing its growth quite happily despite the chill, well on its way to becoming the size of a baseball. With the still-balmy air, it could have been midsummer.

But yesterday, I grabbed the secateurs and in a brutal attack, deaf to their howls of protest, hacked the enormous ears off my Colocasia gigantea, my most fabulous elephant ear. The bulb I’ll tenderly store.

I had been procrastinating about this. The plant filled a quarter of one of the two back borders, a fantastical reminder of summer and tropics and so forth. But a freeze warning had been issued, not that we’ve ever had a freeze so early in this part of town, and a nastier than usual winter predicted. More snow and ice than we’ve seen in years, they say. I can’t trust the soil to keep my bulb from freezing. But it’s too big now for the solarium. It needs a gigantic pot and a ton of soil . . . and so.

Small sop that the leaves are so dramatic inside in vases, lasting weeks and weeks.* Tip: Put a spotlight at the base of the pot and give the night ceiling a fabulous shadow show.

The lemon, the jasmines, the hibiscus, the geraniums, the philodendrons and parlor palms, the birds of paradise and their siblings and extended family are now in the house. Those content with gloom are in the living and dining rooms with their layers of rugs and heavy drapes and fireplace—our night rooms. Those demanding sun are in the solarium, that handy little glassed-in porch off my office where the feral parakeets flit about. They appear to like nesting in the bridal veil that  hangs in a tangle from a ceiling hook.

We’ve turned the place outside in.

I forget how much I love this house when it becomes the garden.

*Elephant ears. There are several varieties that are grouped under the name. All are tropicals grown from bulbs and have large to enormous leaves. The ones that have leaves that droop, like limp wrists, do well in the garden but not so well inside in vases, lasting only a handful of days. The ones that appear to be lifting their faces to the light, or palms up, can last for many weeks with just a change of water.