Hedonism

Late Summer Suppers

/ wvfurandroot / 8 Comments
Feng Sushi

Feng Sushi

It’s 10:15 and I just finished eating dinner.

I love late summer suppers.

This time of year, I’m too busy in the garden after work to think much about food (or laundry or housecleaning or bill paying or much of anything). When the sun starts slipping, I settle into the lawn chair with a glass of something and ponder the universe until the solar lights come on.

It’s about then that it occurs to me that I’m hungry.

My childhood was punctuated by late summer suppers. I inherited the after-work gardening gene from the folks. We ate late from about March to October. Daylight hours were spent outside.

In 1973, my father went through a spell where he was determined to perfect his spaghetti sauce – we all thought it was already perfect, but he wasn’t satisfied. We had spaghetti every twelve minutes or so. Fortunately, we liked spaghetti.

Daddy did this and Daddy did that – the sauce got better and better. But it also got later and later. As a starving teenager, by the time plates were set on the table, I was ready to chew on the formica.

That spaghetti – hot summer day cooling into a nice evening, sweat drying, ice tea glasses dripping, and the mosquito coil sending up spirals of smoke – digging into a steaming plate of perfect, tangy pasta with even better garlic bread – Lord, it was good.

The fullness of a heavy pasta and the exhaustion of an active day, the contentment of a good meal when ravenous – all of it engendered a sense of well-being that no psychotropic drug can mimic.

Today was hot. I’m making a point of trying to remember to eat, so on the way home from work, I stopped at the Kroger for something light. I ended up with California roll sushi, melon, strawberries, and Merlot. I also procured my father’s birthday cake – in this case, cheesecake. I ate dessert first (by several hours) and just now finished dinner.

We’ve all read that slogan – eat dessert first! I never do. But tonight? Tonight, I did. It’s a fine way to ingest the daily calories.

As I sit here thinking about 1973 and the following years, I’m awash in memories of all the late summer suppers I’ve had – at tables, on decks, at campsites, in restaurants. The joy of eating seems maximized in the summer – vegetables and fruits are fresh, the iced tea is cold, and, after the sun goes down, coffee is a miracle.

A few years ago, there was the naked lobster dinner. Last year, there was the rooftop North African dinner. Two weeks ago, there was the steak dinner (with art) on the deck.  I’ve had roasted venison by campfire, grilled trout by candlelight, and hamburgers under a yellow, bug light.  Dessert has been s’mores, cheesecake, a mango, and, on one memorable occasion, banana splits sitting on the side of a hill watching interstate traffic outside of Morgantown.

I love late summer suppers.

Tell me about yours.

The Well-Appointed Vanity (or Necessities for Feisty Girly Girls) has always

/ wvfurandroot / 10 Comments
Possibly my favorite piece of furniture.

Possibly my favorite piece of furniture.

I believe it’s a basic truth that everyone over the age of 12 needs their own desk. I also believe it’s a basic truth that every woman over the age of 12 needs a well-appointed dressing table.

I’m a girly girl. Get over it. (I’m also reasonably smart and getting really good at basic home repair.)

One of my early memories is of my father building me a dressing table/desk. I don’t think it had anything to do with his recognition of these basic truths. I’m pretty sure he was having an attack of need-to-play-with-tools-and-wood manly-man-itis. I was about 6 or 7. In terms of aesthetics, the dressing table/desk left a lot to be desired. In short, it was a piece of plywood on pre-fabricated legs painted white with a border of gold paint along the top edges of the table. I can remember us discussing the “fancy” line of gold. I loved it, though I don’t remember what happened to the table. More than likely it was discarded during one of our moves.

At the age of 11 or so, my mother went on a tear and “did” my bedroom in Sears French Provincial with hot pink, glue-down carpet squares, jungle green walls, and a lime green canopy. It was my first coordinated furniture and, um, stunning. Mom is colorful.

A couple of years later, when I began wearing makeup, I turned the nightstand into a dressing table with the help of a bean bag chair. From the beginning, I’ve had issues with standing in a bathroom trying to apply eye shadow. It’s not comfortable, the lighting is usually horrible, and, well, it’s just wrong. I suppose there is something very amusing about a young, wannabe hippy sitting amidst faux French Provincial furniture on a faux fur beanbag chair in front of a daisy-shaped, lighted makeup mirror and experimenting with tres chic lip gloss as well as green mascara. And reeking of Wind Song. With a well-thumbed copy of Siddhartha on the nightstand.

After the death of the French provincial, in the midst of the Disco Era, I resorted to sitting on the bed with a basket and a mirror. The room was decorated in Early Attic with touches of brass and a fair amount of wicker. The makeup had expanded to include glitter eyeliner, concealer, and vivid lipstick.

In the late 80s, my antique phase, I acquired a late 40’s table. It was designed to be covered completely in lots of gaudy fabric with a 3-panel mirror, but mine had no fabric or mirror. I stripped it, stained it, hung a mirror on the wall, and added an ice cream chair. It was quirky. It was functional. It was cheap. It was a lot of flippin’ work.

Sitting at the table, my thoughts on the necessity of a dressing table began to coalesce. It was nice having a place dedicated to the morning ritual of coffee, makeup, and staring out the window. It had a drawer, far-too-small, into which went the understated and ridiculously expensive makeup of a young woman on the move. The top of it, far too small, was littered with baskets to hold the stuff that wouldn’t fit in the drawer.

In what was probably Not A Good Idea Financially, but never regretted, I cashed out a little more of the house equity to decorate the master bedroom when buying out the ex. In all our years of barn remodeling drama, the master bedroom kept getting pushed to the end of the list (and it was a very long list). It was a horror story (the décor, that is). Delighted to be sleeping alone, I wanted the room to be comfortable and decadent. I started looking at bedroom furniture.

Inexplicably, I did not want antiques or quirky. While I love those things, as my home will attest, I wanted something different for the master bedroom. I kept returning to what the designers refer to as traditional. And I wanted it all to match. And I wanted a dressing table.

The dressing table proved to be a problem. In the past couple of years, dressing tables have begun making a comeback and more and more manufacturers are including them with bedroom suites, but at the time I was on the forefront of an emerging trend. The only ones I could find, precious few, were in high-end lines of furniture. I may be a hedonist and financially imprudent, but I am not stupid. Twenty-five thousand dollars for bedroom furniture is not just stupid, but possibly criminal. However, I had found exactly what I wanted and the dressing table was breathtaking.

I knew the markup on furniture was insane and after months of searching, online and off, I found a discount distributor who could get it to me for less than 25% of retail. Woo Hoo! It was all perfectly legal and proof that the markup on furniture borders on criminal.

The delivery of the furniture was high drama due only in part to having to hoist it up to the second floor and angle it through the silly French doors that lead to nowhere. A good deal of the drama was centered on the fact that I had never seen the furniture up close and personal. I found it online and, after much dithering and hand-wringing, special ordered it. No refund, no return.

It was (is) magnificent and perfect. The dressing table is beyond wonderful. Even after a few years, I marvel at it. It is freakin’ awesome.

Lacquer Box (Memento).

Lacquer Box (Memento).

Being in possession of the best dressing table on the planet, I feel qualified to list the absolute necessities of the proper dressing table.

It must have drawers.

It must have surface space.

It must have comfortable seating.

It must be well-appointed.

The well-appointed thing probably varies, but I think there are basics.

Mirror – one large and one smaller magnified one. The large one is required so you can double-check that no one is sneaking up on you when you’re pretending to be a chanteuse of remarkable talent and singing into your deodorant/microphone. It’s best if it’s mounted on the wall. A magnifying mirror helps keep eyeliner on the eyes and lipstick on the mouth and is really helpful in eradicating unibrows and menopausal mustaches.

Hairbrush – a good hairbrush is critical. You can’t sit at a dressing table and not brush your hair. It would be bad form and get you thrown out of the Diva Hall of Fame. If you insist on keeping the deodorant in the bathroom, the hairbrush can serve as a microphone.

Clock – ornamental and battery-powered. If you’re like me, you may lose time sitting at the dressing table first thing in the morning. It’s good to have a reality check that isn’t too disconcerting. Digital is out. So are cords.

Lighting – flattering, but realistic. This is the trickiest one, but crucial. While you don’t need reality (especially first thing in the morning), you do need enough representativeness that you don’t end up looking like Heath Ledger’s Joker portrayal. You also need morning light – it’s cheerful, refreshing, and inspiring.

Geegaws – not too many. I am on a de-cluttering, anti-junk binge, but that doesn’t mean that ornamental mementos and somewhat useless crap are completely verboten. A dressing table practically begs for it. The rule is that you must absolutely love it and that it be tied to some memory that makes you smile.

Perfume – in a pleasing bottle.. I rarely wear perfume as I work with many folks with allergies and/or asthma. However, I do have a signature perfume that I’ve been wearing exclusively since the Wind Song ran out. (Lord! How I hate that term signature fill-in-the-blank.) Nonetheless, perfume that’s been chosen for its personal appeal and not because it’s been heavily marketed or has a nice bottle is required. I wear perfume for special occasions, so just simply smelling it brings back good times. I don’t particularly like the bottle that my perfume comes in, so I’m on the lookout for an antique or reproduction spray bottle – you know, the kind with the little rubber squishy sprayer thingie.

Makeup – using the term loosely. I don’t always wear makeup. But I do always sit at the dressing table. Whether it’s just moisturizer or body lotion, applying something is a good way to re-link the inner and the outer after a night where body and mind go their separate ways.

Tranquility – No bills. No junk. No clutter. Don’t use the dressing table as a desk except, possibly, journaling.

Black Silk Pajamas – While not absolutely necessary for the dressing table, every woman should own a pair. Just because. (A Beloved Robe goes without saying.)

And there you have it – the well-appointed dressing table.

Barefoot

/ wvfurandroot / 8 Comments
Barefoot in Massachusetts

Barefoot in Massachusetts

My feet are dirty

And I couldn’t be happier about it.

I knew the spate of warmth we had a while back was a false spring. Lovely, though it was, the floors in my house and the ground outside were still too cold to be comfortable in bare feet.

There’s some Appalachian folklore about the earliest it’s safe, in terms of health, to go barefoot, but I couldn’t find it with a casual search and I’m too lazy to do an exhaustive search. If memory serves, I believe the old wives declared that it was the appearance of dandelion blooms that signaled the ground was warm enough to shed shoes.

My yard is a spanse of bright yellow dandelions and my feet are gloriously dirty.

I awoke yesterday knowing that the weather forecast was calling for warmth and sun. I planned a day of gardening. The house was already warm enough that there was no need for My Beloved Robe or house shoes. I poured coffee, opened the patio door to let the dogs out, and ending up letting myself out too. The grass was dewy, but warm and the morning sun was spotlighting the patio table and chairs. I sat on winter-filthy furniture, drank coffee, and watched the dew dry on my feet. Periodically, I ambled about the yard taking inventory of the plants – what made it through last summer’s drought and this winter’s horror and what didn’t. Though the plant inventory was depressing, the day was too beautiful to grieve.

I decided a shower was in order. I took great delight in getting out of the shower and not immediately breaking into goose bumps. Really, I’m easily amused. If I wasn’t already giddy from morning coffee on the patio, getting out of the shower and not rushing to swaddle in layers of terrycloth before hypothermia set in would have been enough to make the day a success.

I pulled on ratty jeans and an even rattier t-shirt and returned to the garden with Great Plans of yard cleanup and double digging. Hours later, I was still sitting at the table. Apparently, I just needed to wallow – barefoot. In the sun. With coffee.

I moved to West Virginia (the first time) on my 15th birthday. I have never really understood this whole barefoot hillbilly thing in the sense that running around barefoot is somehow unusual. The first 15 years of my life, most of it spent it California, Hawaii and coastal North Carolina, I spent barefoot. In fact, my first consumer act as a West Virginia resident was to buy a pair of shoes – it was cold in Bluefield in August.

In Hawaii, we wore shoes to school, but once there took them off and placed them in a box next to the door. Every morning began with us lining up to take our shoes off and toss them into a large wooden box. And no, this wasn’t some small school on a deserted island somewhere – this was a Marine Corps run elementary school on a major base. I have no idea what the shoe thing was about, but assume it had something to do with Japanese cultural influences. Many of my teachers were Japanese.

In North Carolina, I wore shoes in school, but not to or fro except for the “winter” months – loosely defined as November through February. My best friend incurred the wrath of her father when it was discovered that she had managed to fly from North Carolina to New Jersey for a summer vacation only to arrive in New Jersey without any shoes at all. My brother did the same thing the year he spent the summer in Michigan.

In fact, my shoe mania wasn’t indulged until I moved to West Virginia. At present, I have in excess of a 100 pairs of shoes in my closet. I will often buy shoes and then wait for the proper ensemble to appear to go with the shoes. I love shoes. And I love taking them off.

One of my first acts at the office is to kick my shoes off. In fact, I keep a pair of slipper socks at the office for the winter months. The rest of the year, I run around the office in socks or hose or (gasp) bare feet. I once worked with a guy from Ethiopia. In his country, bare feet were a sign of abject poverty and quite shameful. He was appalled anytime he walked into the office and noticed my naked feet. Walking about in socks didn’t seem horrify him the same way.

When the weather is accommodating, I take my shoes off in the car for my commute home. I also tend to forget to take them out of the car so there are months of the year when I have half a dozen pairs of shoes in the car. I can’t remember where it was, but I did live somewhere where it was illegal to drive barefoot. Imagine – shoe police.

Barefoot in West Virginia

Barefoot in West Virginia

I’ve run around barefoot in a number of states and foreign countries and the only time I hear hillbilly jokes is in West Virginia (or if my travel partners know I’m from West Virginia). More importantly, I am never the only person running around sans shoes. This barefoot thing only seems to be an issue here.

A month or so ago, I was staying at the Marriot in Charleston. Through a comedy of errors that was that (very long) day, I ended up with a foot injury that while not immediately noticeable precluded the wearing of shoes by the end of the day. Fortunately, we were having false-spring. I probably would have anyway, but I ended up padding through the hotel barefoot after I changed into jeans. I’m no-doubt responsible for some out-of-state guests leaving with tales of barefoot West Virginians.

Why is this cheerful little flower so hated?

Why is this cheerful little flower so hated?

So it’s mid-April, the ground is warm, and I’m barefoot. For the next 5 months or so, I will begrudge every second I’m in shoes. This is more than habit. I seem to need the contact with the earth (and concrete, gravel, carpet, etc.). I think better in bare feet. I’m happier. I’m certainly more comfortable.

I definitely need a pedicure.  And I’m curious as to why people wage war against dandelions.  They’re such cheerful, hardy little things.

Feliz cumpleaños

/ wvfurandroot / 10 Comments
Casa Blanca

Casa Blanca

I’m turning 50 later this year and there are big plans in the making. I’m not privy to some of them, but it looks like I’ll be celebrating in West Virginia – my favorite place on the planet – with HM O’Keefe – my favorite man on the planet. (I still think of Chef Boy ‘R Mine as a boy – something he would vociferously debate, but I’m the mom and I said so.)

Until a few years ago, I didn’t do much to celebrate the yearly event. My family is low-keyed about birthdays. Once we left childhood, birthdays weren’t particularly a big deal. They were celebrated, oh yes, but not in any grand style or with much hoopla.

Turning 50 is not particularly bothering me, but it does seem like a time to be reflective. First and foremost, it’s mind bending to think I can be that old. The essential me doesn’t feel any older than I did at 25. At 13, I felt older than 10. At 25, I felt older than 18. From then on, it’s as if mind and spirit quit aging. (The body is in rapid decline, but we needn’t talk about that. Today, for example, my knees feel like they’re 72.) I’ve gained wisdom and experience since then (presumably), but I don’t feel as old as my birth certificate would indicate. Of course, there are almost 5 months between now and then, so maybe in August I’ll wake up with some dramatically different perspective. I don’t think so, but I’m wrong about half the time.

HM O’Keefe is largely responsible for the hedonistic bacchanals that are now my birthday celebrations. I’ve come to appreciate his point of view – birthdays are special days and should be not just be feted, but should be set aside and celebrated to their core.

I caught on pretty quick, hedonist that I am. The day became a week. The week became a month. One cycle of the moon should be enough for anyone, but we’ll see.

Today is his birthday.

While we haven’t always been together on his birthday, we’ve managed to see one another within a few weeks of it. Not this year. I can’t get to Boston and I won’t let him come here. (And he’s disappointed with me about that, but it’s a long story and rational people would agree with me.)

So, I’ve been thinking about his birthday and how to celebrate it. And damnation, if it hasn’t had me stumped. The man is impossible. This year, it’s like he’s going out of his way to make it even harder. Plan A fell apart. Plan B was far-fetched at best. Plan C was just dumb. Plan G seemed workable, but then the man who has a deep abiding belief that birthdays should be celebrated and honored made his own damn plans.

Five Star Meals.

Five Star Meals.

Plan A was to take him to Mexico – one of his favorite spots on the planet. He celebrated his 50th there. Mexico is my second most favorite spot on the planet, so it wasn’t like I was being all passive aggressive or something. But the lawyers and the doctors and the economy all conspired against us.

From there on in, it was downhill.

The next best thing to Mexico is a great gift, right? A thing of some sort. Ah.

I pondered. I mused. I thought really hard. I even made a brainstorming list. I’m anti-stuff these days, but I don’t think that’s it. He’s just really, really difficult to buy for.

In truth, he’s impossible.

Books. You would think books would be a good idea. I had more books than anybody I know and then I met him. I’ve got a 1/100th of a shot of getting him a book he doesn’t already have. Scratch that idea.

Orange blossoms! There we go. First of all, he likes getting flowers. Second, during our courtship and his convincing of me to celebrate birthdays with wild abandon, he told me how growing up in Southern California his birthday was always scented by the spring blossoming of the orange groves. It’s a fond memory for him.

It seems that orange growers can’t be convinced to lop off future fruit and mail it to Boston. I asked. I pleaded. I groveled. They said no. Often rudely. (I’ve been calling florists, orange groves, and fruit exchanges for a few years now. I’m getting good at groveling and they’re getting better at saying no.)

Clothes. Well, that’s another problem. Don’t ask – definitely too much information. Scratch wardrobe enhancing.

Isla de Mujueres

Isla de Mujueres

He really likes Mexican talavera. West Virginia isn’t exactly bursting at the seams with Mexican pottery -or orange blossoms, for that matter. Choosing something online is daunting especially when they tack on “item shipped may not look exactly as pictured due to artistic variations.” I’m fussy. Ask anyone. He’s worse.

I think he’d like a super-duper camera – you know – the kind that would make all the camera geeks drool. But, um, well, I’m poor.

He’d like more time with his daughter. I’d like more time with my son. You raise your kids to be independent, responsible, and fully engaged in life and damned if they don’t up and do it. Some of them sooner than later. Besides, I can just picture that phone call. “Listen, hon, I need you stop what you’re doing, get on a plane and go spend your dad’s birthday with him. It’s the only thing I can think of to give him for his birthday. . .What?. . Oh. . . A visit from you.. . . Am I paying for what?. . . Um. No.”

So you see what I’m up against. It’s even worse than all that. He’s very talented at gift giving. It’s always perfect and often it’s something I didn’t know I wanted until he gave it to me.

some place warm

some place warm

So, there is this – a love letter of sorts. The guy is wired nine ways to Sunday, so between the Blackberry, the laptop, portable hard drives, thumb drives, and the desktops, he can read it anytime he wants, anywhere he goes. Web 2.0 has gotten out of hand. It’s only fitting. Really.

We met online.

If you’re still here, y’all can quit reading now.

Te amo, Dragonman.. Next year, Mexico (or West Virginia, I’ll probably still be poor).