The Tailored Woman

The Mayflower Murder Mystery

2012-01-28T16:51:00.002-05:00

The first convicted murderer in Plymouth Colony (and hence in America) was Mayflower passenger John Billington, who, for reasons now lost to history, shot a man in the woods.

Nearly four hundred years later comes news out of Seattle of a Mayflower connection to a cold case, the chilling 1991 murder of a 16 year old girl. A forensic genealogist--who knew there even was such a thing--found that the DNA left behind by the presumed killer links him to two Mayflower passengers named Fuller. The police are quoted as saying they don't know how helpful this might be, but I imagine it could eventually lead to the killer. Most families know if they have Mayflower ancestry and are deservedly proud of it. If the murder suspect is in fact named Fuller, or if a family member or friend knows that he is descended from the Fullers, that could be all it takes to find him.

It's long been a sore spot in my family that we have been unable to turn up any Mayflower ancestors. Instead, we were on the leaky companion ship that didn't make it here, the Speedwell. (Hence the title of my family memoir.) My grandmother used to sniff that the Mayflower passengers were "riffraff" and the better sort came later... conveniently forgetting that we were all supposed to arrive together.

The murder suspect's DNA shows descent from Robert Fuller, who came over from England later, but whose uncles were on the storied ship. Samuel Fuller was a physician and church deacon. He was accompanied on the voyage by his brother Edward. But guess what? Samuel was originally supposed to come over on the Speedwell instead. (Ah, maybe my grandmother was onto something, after all.) As a doctor, he would have been considered vital to the journey, and hence was one of those former Speedwell ticket holders who crowded onto the Mayflower instead.

As for forensic genealogy, I'm intrigued. Instead of just helping people get into fusty old societies such as the Daughters of the American Revolution, genealogists are now potential superheros fighting crime. For the sake of the young Seattle murder victim's family, I very much hope this is the case.

The girl who admired Frank Bender

2012-01-10T20:47:00.000-05:00

This past weekend I stopped into the Mutter Museum to see a bust by renowned forensic sculptor Frank Bender. I had just finished reading The Girl With The Crooked Nose, which describes Bender's ability to create eerily accurate faces from the skulls of nameless victims of violence. Bender, who died last summer at the age of 70, also helped nab several fugitives from justice by making age-progression busts based on photographs.

The bust I viewed is of a young woman later identified as Rosella Atkinson, whose skeletal remains were found on the edge of a Philadelphia football field. Bender nicknamed her "The Girl With Hope" and depicted her almost exactly as she looks in a photograph, with her proudly raised chin. (Long before The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo series, Bender identified his subjects with "girl" nicknames that he felt identified some key characteristic about them. He once explained that the term "girl" wasn't dismissive, but was instead a way of acknowledging how tragically short the lives of many of the women he tried to identify were.) Atkinson, whose killer confessed to her murder years later, was identified by family members who saw her bust on display at the museum.

The news this week that Philadelphia's unsolved murder rate is scandalously high added even more poignancy to the loss of Bender. Fortunately, the members of the Vidocq Society, master criminologists who welcomed Bender into the fold, remain on the job.

The Year of the Wasp

2012-01-01T16:51:00.001-05:00

Looks like my people are back in for 2012.

Comedienne Alexandra ('Just call me Ali') Wentworth has a memoir coming out that promises to be as zany and entertaining as she is. I own—and cherish--her WASP Cookbook, a blue velvet-clad homage to preppy culinary classics. (And I just saw that, much like a blue chip stock, the book has appreciated nicely in value since I bought it years ago, with the cheapest used copy going for $42 on Amazon. )

I’m also excited to see the forthcoming film Damsels in Distress by Whit Stillman, the Woody Allen of the Wasp set. Stillman is famed for 1990's Metropolitan, about the lives of privileged Upper East Siders attending deb balls over the winter holidays. He will be live chatting during a screening of the film on Constellation.com on January 12.

I just finished the second memoir by an actress who made her debut (so to speak) in that film, Isabel Gillies, better known for her role as Detective Stabler’s wife Kathy on Law & Order: SVU. In A Year and Six Seconds, Gillies describes how she moved back to New York to rebuild her life following a devastating divorce. Gillies writes easily and candidly about her fairly cushy upbringing, which in many ways mirrored that of her Metropolitan character.

Could a Waspy reality TV show be far behind? I’m envisioning an elderly couple clad in 40-year old matching tweed suits (bought in London, but of course) getting ready for a cocktail party; they learn that they don’t have enough Goldfish to fill all of the little engraved silver bowls. Imagine the drama!

Occupy this space...

2011-12-22T19:12:00.000-05:00

I read that the most common blog post was something along the lines of "I haven't posted in a while..."

Well, I haven't posted in a while. (Obviously.) I've had my hands full with another writing project, and I'm happy to report that it's going quite well.

I could also and quite conveniently blame the holidays. All those family members vying for attention.

Speaking of family, I learned that, in addition to inventing the telegraph, my busy Vail ancestors also created the original bathroom indicator. Amazing, right?

Hmm. Maybe we could manufacture an "Occupied" indicator for Wall Street?

Fall at the house of Poe

2011-11-29T21:41:00.000-05:00

I finally stopped by the Edgar Allan Poe house this past weekend. Run by the National Park Service, the house was inhabited by Poe and his wife (and cousin) Virginia, along with Virginia's mother (also known as Poe's aunt) for six years, during which he wrote many of his most famous stories.

The Poe house is located in what, according to the Park Service, is the “now defunct” neighborhood of Spring Garden. The Spring Garden Civic Association might tend to disagree. I just attended a meeting of the association two weeks ago, where I was reliably informed that I live in Spring Garden, not--as I have been claiming for the past many months--Fairmount.

Whatever the neighborhood is called, it is still a bit edgy down Poe's way, as perhaps befits the author of chilling tales. The house itself is almost barren other than the front rooms. But I spied a stuffed orangutan in one room. The tour guide asked if we knew why our cuddly simian friend was there. Little Miss English Major promptly answered, “Because he was the murderer in 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue'!” (This really isn’t a spoiler since the orangutan isn’t the point of the tale, which is known as the first detective story.)

Downstairs in the creepy basement was a stuffed black cat. Apparently Poe wrote the tale of the same name while living in the house, using the basement for inspiration. (Actual spoiler - the cat drops a dime on the killer. This is why I don't trust felines.)

Over the River (and through the turnstile)

2011-11-24T08:33:00.001-05:00

Here's a little trivia to start your Turkey Day. Which beloved holiday is celebrated in these famous lines?

Over the river and through the wood,
To grandfather's house we'll go;
The horse knows the way
To carry the sleigh
Through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river and through the wood,
Oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the nose
And bites the toes
As over the ground we go.

Over the river and through the wood,
[I understand, you know this part, but just wait.]
To have a first-rate play,
Hear the bells ring,
Ting-a-ling-ding,
Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!

Huh. I was kind of stumped, too. I swear we always sang "Christmas Day." And for that matter, it's always been "grandmother's" house. Who is this "grandfather" guy? He doesn't sound as though he would make very good pies.

You know me, I had to do some research. Lydia Marie Child was an abolitionist, women's rights pioneer, and friend of Sarah Josepha Hale, who is credited with establishing Thanksgiving as a national holiday. Child wrote the lines in 1844. (Turns out her grandfather's house still stands, and it's a beauty.) And I'm not crazy (regarding this, anyway); the poem was later adapted into the more familiar Christmas carol version.

As for me, no sleigh today, just a SEPTA train. But I'm pretty sure some good pie awaits at the end of the line.

Happy Thanksgiving!

What do WASPs Say After Sex?

2011-11-10T20:02:00.002-05:00

I thought that might get your attention.

The answer, according to a rather dated paperback of the same name I picked up at my favorite used bookstore the other day: "Thank you very much. I'm sorry. That won't happen again."

I didn't claim it was a funny book. (And I'm not telling you the real answer.)

A far better satirical look at Wasps can be found in William Hamilton's Anti-Social Register, which I found at the same store. (I suspect the two books may have been longtime shelf-mates and were donated together.) Hamilton is best known for his New Yorker cartoons featuring uptight bankers and other patrician types. Though my edition of the book dates from 1977, and the cover (pictured at right) features a couple of freakish late hippies, many of the punchlines have stood up well to the test of time.

For example, in light of the current accounting scandal engulfing camera and medical imaging giant Olympus, this one is amusing. The caption reads, "In examining our books, Mr. Matthews promises to use generally accepted accounting principles, if you know what I mean."

And then there's this one: "I guess people are just going to have to tighten their belts and fall back on their trust funds for awhile."

(I suppose that could also be labeled "What do Wasps say in a recession?")

Some Komments on Kim K

2011-11-06T20:21:00.000-05:00

While walking in the city the other day I saw a sign on a small beauty parlor: "Have your makeup done like Kim Kardashian!" I half expected to see a sign on a neighboring church along the lines of, “Get married here like Kim Kardashian!” Followed, of course, by a sign at an attorney’s office: "Get divorced after 10 weeks like Kim Kardashian!"

Eric Felten, the Wall Street Journal columnist on whom I have a writer crush (the man knows his classic cocktails and writes frequently about the importance of having a functioning moral compass... swoon) managed the nearly-impossible task this weekend of adding a touch of class to the chatter about the reality TV star's marital woes. Felten writes, "The divorce was a given. But jumping right to it showed a disregard for the craft of reality TV. Where were the nightclub screaming matches? Where were the inevitable infidelities that would have pushed the tawdry plotline along to its natural conclusion?"

For a certain type of woman, marriage has always been a career move of sorts. In fact, I just read an article that mentions one of the ultimate gold-diggers of our time, Pamela Digby Churchill Hayward Harriman. Her life story provides an interesting contrast to Kim K's shenanigans. Sure, Harriman busted up a marriage or two on her way to the top, but she gave back once she became the Grande Dame of the Democratic party. (If you believe that helping to put Bill Clinton in the White House was a form of public service.)

Assimilation used to be the goal of barbarians at the cultural gates. Now, in the age of Kardashian & Kompany, the Kulture is bending to fit the arrivistes. Is that an elitist statement? Well, we aren’t all terrific actors or painters or singers. I’d like to be able to do even one of those things well, but I don't imagine I could without a lot of effort and more than a modicum of innate talent. (Heck, even Pamela Harriman probably put in her Gladwellian 10,000 hours of listening soulfully to rich older men before she became Pamela Harriman.) But it appears that with some skillfully-applied eye makeup and a Bravo TV show (and let's not forget the sex tape that started it all), you can have a wedding that nets $18 million, followed by what will presumably be an even more lucrative (and public) divorce.

Hmm. Maybe I should step into that beauty parlor next time I'm in the neighborhood.

It's not me, it's U(nited)

2011-10-24T18:21:00.000-04:00

I'm going through a sad, albeit overdue, break-up.

We started seeing each other when I moved to Chicago in 2004. It was casual at first; we enjoyed spending time together, but there was no commitment. I guess I got in deeper than I realized, because by the next year I had made Premier status and I admit it, I really liked the way United treated me. Boarding first, getting free economy plus seats, not to mention certificates for first class upgrades… we were very compatible, and life was magical. Sure, there were tough times-- the occasional canceled flight or luggage snafu--but then United would charm me all over again and we’d laugh about our little tiffs.

I remember clearly the day I finally stated my feelings. By then we’d been together a few years, and things were pretty intense. I refused to see any other airline. United had my heart, and it was time to say it already. I needed to make an earlier flight. It was a slow day at O’Hare and two agents chatted with me about my standby request. One of them said, “Okay, you’re all set,” and I said, “So my chances look good to get on standby?” He said, “Actually, I just went ahead and put you on the flight; here’s your boarding pass.” Tears came to my eyes. “This is why I love your airline so much,” I said. "United loves you, too!” the agents replied. I think they really meant it.

Fast forward to 2011. I checked in for my flight back from Cincinnati (via Chicago) last weekend and decided to request standby so I could make it home before 10 PM. In a shockingly callous gesture, my former love asked me for $75 for the privilege of trying to make standby, no guarantees. I had tears of a very different sort in my eye as I fished out my credit card. It just felt so cold, and so wrong. Did all those years and all those miles mean nothing?

Maybe United knew my heart wasn’t really in it anymore… not since my move to Philadelphia, a US Air hub. I explained when I left that long distance would be hard, though I’d make it back to O’Hare as often as I could… but I guess the airline saw though me. And I sensed that United changed, too, spending too much time chasing the elite Premier Execs and 1K fliers, sneering a little at the lowlier Premier types.

Since my airline seems to think it can do better, I’m gracefully saying goodbye. I haven’t even come close to flying enough miles to retain Premier status next year. And honestly, I don’t see that it will make much difference to my life anymore. I'm ready to see who else is out there and what I’ve been missing all these years.

Oh -- but since I'm still feeling a little raw about the split, this is not the time to tell me that all airlines are insensitive, self-serving and greedy these days..

2011-10-14T20:19:00.001-04:00

I'm delighted to have discovered (though sheer carelessness) that it's possible to post without a title. Thinking up something pithy is a struggle. Well, no longer! I can just get right to it without even trying to give my readers an idea of what they are letting themselves in for.

I'm also delighted with The Book Corner, which benefits the Free Library of Philadelphia. I stop in at least once a week on my way home from work. Today happened to be the fall sidewalk sale, featuring tables crammed with books. I nabbed a hardback first edition of Southern Ladies and Gentlemen by Florence King, a very funny writer I've mentioned before. I own a shocking pink paperback version of the book, but I like this vintage copy, which shows the author standing in formal hunt attire on a porch, much better.

My best find was a little blue paperback called Games to Play on Skis by Fritz Heinrich (translated from the German by Dinsmore Adams). Though in pristine condition, the book was published in 1938. This gives a certain unintended historical irony to the first chapter, "Bloodthirsty Games for Beginners," which describes how to play Murderball, Running the Gauntlet and The Game of Nations. Oh, those wacky Germans, always up to hijinks on and off the slopes. War can be such fun!

(Though now that they have reformed and no longer want to conquer the world every few decades, I suppose an updated version of the book would feature games such as, "Holding hands as we ski gently down the hill with all of our friends except the Americans, who are really not our friends at all, and are much more aggressive and unreasonable than we ever were, not that we are defensive or anything.")

2011-10-12T21:37:00.006-04:00

Last weekend I went on a ghost hunt at Laurel Hill cemetery. I'm usually such a chicken that I can't watch those paranormal investigation shows without spending the rest of the night wide-eyed under my comforter, startled by every moth fluttering outside the window. Fortunately, nothing terribly out of the ordinary happened on our moonlit ramble around the grounds, though the good people of Free Spirit Paranormal Investigations did their best to set a spooky tone, pointing out areas of negative energy, as well as some friendly spirits playing in the shadows. Oh, and one who rode by on a horse. (I do hope he tipped his hat at us.)

Harry Kalas, the late Phillies announcer whose grave we visited first, didn't make contact. (He was probably rendered speechless by his team's collapse the night before in Game 5 of the playoffs.) His monument is in the shape of a giant microphone, and the plot of grass is surrounded by four original bleacher seats from the old Veterans Stadium.

The tour eventually took us by my ancestor Caspar Gregory's grave. "Anything?" I asked the investigator in charge of my group. He shook his head no. I must admit that I was relieved my great-great-great-great-grandfather didn't try to make contact. (Or choose that moment to go riding by on horseback.) I'm perfectly happy with one-way communication when it comes to visiting certain family members. (Even, perhaps, some living ones...)

Hemingway's Parasols

2011-09-22T07:04:00.002-04:00

Two relics from the past that I’ve noticed are back in vogue – Ernest Hemingway and parasols. Not, mind you, together. (Despite my title.)

Hemingway has long been out of fashion, with everything from his terse sentence structure to his obsession with masculinity mocked, but suddenly he’s everywhere you turn: In Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris; in the bestselling novel The Paris Wife (about first wife Hadley), which is currently mandatory reading for every book club; and in the upcoming HBO production Hemingway & Gellhorn, starring Nicole Kidman as his third wife, the writer and war correspondent Martha Gellhorn.

There are also lengthy articles about Hemingway in two glossy magazines this month. Town & Country speculates that the woman who helped inspire the "rich bitch" in the short story “The Snows of Kilimanjaro” was socialite Helen Hay Whitney, while Vanity Fair features never-before-seen letters from Hemingway’s Cuban estate, the Finca Vigia.

As for parasols, I’ve noticed they are a trend here in Philadelphia -- perhaps because I work so close to the University of Pennsylvania campus, with its large number of Asian students, some of whom brought the custom with them from Japan and other countries. But no less a credible fashion source than the Sartorialist—whose readership is slightly higher than mine--also spotlighted parasols recently, and the numerous comments on the post echoed my observations regarding seeing women carrying them here in the States, not just in Asia. The other day in my neighborhood of Fairmount I spied a tall blonde walking with her parents in broad daylight, an ordinary black umbrella held aloft against the bright sun. I asked if she would consider carrying a parasol instead, and she said she would if it were affordable enough. With that in mind, a couple of similarly-minded friends and I are concocting a scheme to import and sell our own designs.

(Now, if we could only figure out a way to get our mitts on some of Hemingway's lost letters, and maybe a silk parasol or two left behind at the Finca Vigia by one of the wives, and sell those...)

The Bixby Letter and 9/11

2011-09-11T14:56:00.002-04:00

At this morning's Ground Zero ceremony commemorating the 10th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, former president George W. Bush read Abraham Lincoln's so-called "Bixby Letter":

Executive Mansion,
Washington, Nov. 21, 1864.

To Mrs. Bixby, Boston, Mass.

Dear Madam,

I have been shown in the files of the War Department a statement of the Adjutant General of Massachusetts that you are the mother of five sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle. I feel how weak and fruitless must be any word of mine which should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot refrain from tendering you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the Republic they died to save. I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.

Yours, very sincerely and respectfully,

A. Lincoln

The choice of the letter has, predictably, caused a stir in the blogosphere. Many doubt whether Lincoln actually wrote the missive. And worse, historians have established that only two of Mrs. Bixby's sons actually died in the Civil War; one, as it turns out, was a traitor. It would appear to many that once again Bush made a misguided choice, albeit one that speaks to his sincere beliefs and convictions.

In a way, the choice to read the letter was perfect in its imperfection because it captures all that we have endured as a nation the last ten years. The Bixby letter's history is, like war itself, rife with uncertainty and inaccuracies. We live still today with the fallout from the difficult choices both Bush and Lincoln made in the aftermath of great atrocities. But whoever actually wrote it, and however you feel about the man who read it today, the Bixby letter is beautifully moving and sincere, and provides a model for the dignified expression of grief.

The Farmhouse of Mirth

2011-09-01T21:29:00.003-04:00

In Edith Wharton's 1905 novel The House of Mirth, the lovely and tragic Lily Bart misses her 3:15 train from Grand Central to Rhinebeck. When she runs into an acquaintance, she mentions that she is on her way to a house party, and has sent her maid ahead with her luggage. She boards a later train and proceeds to charm a potential suitor over tea.

A couple of weeks ago, a certain Tailored Woman was joining friends at a rented farmhouse in the Hudson Valley. At Penn Station--dragging her own luggage--she circled around and around the confusing Amtrak section, finally locating Track 5--and the cousin with whom she was traveling--before racing onto the train to Rhinecliff with 5 minutes to spare. No one offered tea; instead, while catching up with her cousin, our lady inhaled a sandwich from Pret a Manger that she'd brought with her.

Clearly times have changed. I'm not certain what happened to the Rhinebeck station, but it doesn't appear that any trains run from the city to the elegant town now. Perhaps the station was always fictional. Rhinecliff, on the other hand, is a charming, if tiny, town just a few miles away. While awaiting our ride to the farmhouse, my cousin and I discovered the Rhinecliff Hotel, where we enjoyed drinks on the veranda. I was thrilled to find an authentic Pimm's Cup, down to the sprig of borage in the drink. Much more refreshing than Lily's tea.

175 years of reflections... and 5 seconds of funny faces

2011-08-28T10:34:00.000-04:00

If you are housebound and bored because of the non-hurricane that was Irene, here's a video of the book launch event two weeks ago at Laurel Hill. I appear (silently, thank goodness) at about minute 1:49.

I have no idea why I make such a pained face when I read aloud, but hope those who were listening weren't sporting similar expressions!

Wicked Philadelphia (and its tapophiles)

2011-08-15T22:06:00.000-04:00

At long last a diagnosis: My name is Elizabeth, and I'm a tapophile. That's right, I love tombstones. But you already knew that.

I found out the word for my obsession when I sat next to the charming author and local historian Thomas H. Keels at Saturday's book launch festivities at Laurel Hill Cemetery. I was invited to read my short essay "Finding the Grave of my Ancestor," which appears on p. 114 of 175 Years of Reflections, Laurel Hill Cemetery: 1836-2011. I was slated to read first at the event, and my essay met with a polite round of applause. Then Keels, who was next, had to go and bring the house down with a hilarious story of how he learned to love Laurel Hill despite a tour gone horribly awry.

Turns out I bought (and relished) Keels's book Wicked Philadelphia: Sin in the City of Brotherly Love long before he had the pleasure of showing me up... I mean, before I had the pleasure of hearing my fellow tapophile speak.

Historic Speedwell

2011-07-29T16:54:00.001-04:00

Pop quiz: What was the first message sent via the telegraph? If you Googled it and answered “What hath God wrought,” I’m afraid I can only issue you partial credit. An earlier message was sent from Speedwell, the Vail family homestead in Morristown, New Jersey, when young Alfred Vail (a cousin of my Vail ancestors in Blairstown) tapped out, “A patient waiter is no loser.”

Unfortunately Alfred is still waiting for recognition, for reasons that the Historic Speedwell website calls “complicated, unfair and more than a little sad.” (A phrase that perfectly summarizes the stories I’m writing up for my family memoir, except I would substitute “funny” for “sad.”) According to family legend, Alfred sat in church looking upright and attentive, but secretly sending risqué dot and dash messages while holding the hand of his blushing bride. (So I suppose you could say my people invented “sexting” along with Morse code.)

Alfred and his father, Stephen Vail, were entrepreneurs and visionaries, providing the funding and labor to create the engine for the first steamship to cross the Atlantic, as well as perfect the telegraph. But they should have known better than to name the family iron works business “Speedwell,” after the Mayflower companion ship that leaked, never made it to these shores, and was promptly forgotten by history. (Foreshadowing, anyone? I promise, I don’t make this stuff up. )

Alfred Vail

Alfred partnered with Samuel F.B. Morse after seeing a demonstration of an early iteration of the telegraph. With his father’s financial backing, he went on to do what many consider to be the lion's share of the work on the device at Speedwell while Morse was largely absent. A complicated agreement was hammered out but eventually Morse got the fame and the money, while our Alfred ended up poor and obscure. Still, he never took up his cause directly, stating that he wanted to “preserve the peaceful unity of the invention.” It was left to one of his descendents to engrave on his tombstone, “Inventor of the telegraphic dot and dash alphabet."

As for the seaworthy steamship Savannah—thank goodness it wasn’t named Speedwell—the company backing the endeavor went under. (You say you guessed this already? How perceptive of you.) Stephen Vail was left with a bill for $3,527.84 (a lot of money back in 1819) that was never paid. Though he did receive a nice tea set (pictured at right) as thanks for his trouble. (For those of you who have visited my home, this goes a long way toward explaining why there is so much old china sitting around gathering dust. Apparently the Vail clan was only too happy to take dinnerware instead of dinero. Sigh.)

By the way, this not-getting-paid-for-ships thing seems to be a theme, since I’ve heard a similar story about the Collier family in Cincinnati. They apparently built gunboats for the Union during the Civil War, but the government defaulted on the debt. (Could never happen now, right?)

My adventures in Google search rankings

2011-07-23T13:07:00.000-04:00

Some of my friends think it's morbid that I'm so enchanted by a cemetery, but yes, I'm going to write about Laurel Hill again. This time the excuse is that I received an invitation to the August 13 book launch party for 175 Years of Reflections, Laurel Hill Cemetery, 1836-2011. I have a short essay in the book about my Gregory ancestors.

In other news, it appears that this blog, even with a less than spectacular readership, has now pushed me to the top of the Google rankings for the search term Elizabeth Denton without quotation marks. I had a friend verify this on his iPhone the other day since on my computer Google is linked to my Gmail account and is therefore biased (it shows me what it thinks I want to see... myself. Google believes we are all narcissists.) I am now first among 26 million results. Much like my interest in old burial grounds, this is either intriguing or slightly scary.

On becoming a domestic goddess (and domesticating my kitchenwares)

2011-07-13T23:03:00.000-04:00

Monday night's roast chicken with lemon and thyme turned into last night's chicken croquettes, featuring homemade breadcrumbs and parsley from the herb pot in the courtyard. (Wish I could say the egg used in the croquettes was from one of my pedigree hens, but I think the condo association might frown on keeping fowl in the common areas.)

What's going on here? Who is this woman? I seem to have convinced my Philadelphia friends (and myself) that I cook and entertain regularly, while the Chicago contingent is no doubt slightly puzzled.

I've found that the key is to have a few good dishes, as in recipes, not dishes themselves... though the latter help as well... everything tastes better when served on a pretty plate. In fact, ever since the big move I've been motivated to use what I own--not to mention what I hauled halfway across the country--or out it goes. (I'm looking at you, white linens. Yes, you should be nervous.) So, to return to the poultry reference, it's a chicken and egg sort of thing... I'm cooking and entertaining so I can finally use all these interesting implements, and I'm making better use of my accumulated kitchenwares because I'm cooking and entertaining.

So far the vintage silver French napkin rings have earned their keep, as have the antique champagne glasses. Next time I entertain it will be some other item's turn to step up to the plate or else bid my kitchen adieu forever. (Sounds like a reality TV series. I could pitch it as Antiques Roadshow meets Project Runway: Make it work, fish forks!)

Eyes for the Navy

2011-07-04T12:30:00.000-04:00

While I admit that an officer in dress whites is awfully easy on the eyes, that's not the subject of today's patriotic post. Rather, Eyes for the Navy was a World War I program in which ordinary citizens were asked to send in their binoculars and telescopes to assist in spotting destroyers. (I'm sure they were motivated strictly by a sense of duty and not by the $1 payment.)

My grandmother's favorite aunt, Elizabeth Collier Ring (for whom I'm named), participated. We have two letters from Franklin D. Roosevelt, who was Assistant Secretary of the Navy from 1913-1920, regarding her donation of a pair of binoculars. (As an aside, it turns out that no fewer than five members of the extended Roosevelt family, including Teddy and FDR, served as Assistant Secretary of the Navy. I have another connection to the Roosevelts; my advisor at Sarah Lawrence was Franklin III, though the brilliant economics professor was modest and unassuming and went strictly by Frank.)

While the letters are fascinating, and the first one bears Roosevelt's signature, it appears the binoculars themselves may have disappeared. (We have a pair that looks old enough--but no tag authenticating their brave war service.) I found an amusing exchange from an Antiques Roadshow episode where someone brought in a complete set of letters and binoculars. Everyone marveled at how efficient the government was in returning the items to their owners. Can't imagine that happening today.

Tiaras and Lambs Tales

2011-07-02T19:00:00.000-04:00

Today the other royal wedding took place, between Monaco's Prince Albert and his Olympian bride, Charlene Wittstock. (I guess the groom's rumored confiscation of his intended's passport worked, since she stuck around for both the civil and religious ceremonies.)

The impending nuptials reminded me to run up to New York the other day to see Set in Style: The Jewelry of Van Cleef & Arpels at the Cooper-Hewitt before the exhibit closed this weekend. The highlight was the former Grace Kelly's tiara and engagement set, gifts from her dashing groom (and Albert's father), Prince Rainier. The pearl and diamond engagement set was displayed for a time in the window of the Van Cleef & Arpels store in the Tailored Woman (now Bergdorf Goodman) building at 57th and Fifth.

Afterwards I decided to be a lady who lunches (albeit alone) and headed to The Lambs Club at the Chatwal Hotel in the theatre district. No one batted an eye at my solo status. I was seated in a comfortable banquette, where I enjoyed the chicken paillard, rumored to be the best in the city. (I do love my poultry smashed as flat as possible for maximum flavor, and the kind people in the kitchen did not disappoint.) I had heard that the fragrant iced tea is also not to be missed, and for good reason--not only does it hail from Le Palais des Thes, but it arrives complete with iced tea cubes, so one's beverage is never weakened by mere melting water.

As I was finishing up and bravely declining dessert, two gentlemen seated on my right introduced themselves. Turns out one of them (the one who had been chatting a few moments before with everyone in the room) was proprietor David Rabin, who told me that The Lambs Club was once an actual theatrical association dating back to the 19th century; members included the Barrymores, Charlie Chaplin and Fred Astaire. My host was beyond gracious and appeared to be genuinely pleased that I had chosen his restaurant that day, though I'm not one of his media titan regulars (or a Kardashian). I floated out feeling every inch a princess--even sans tiara.

A fabulous Denton decor (not mine, alas)

2011-06-29T21:22:00.000-04:00

A few years back I ripped a several-page spread of a New York apartment out of a French magazine, possibly Elle Decor. Three things caught my eye--the gorgeous red walls, the collection of miniature Eiffel Towers in the kitchen, and the name of the apartment's owner, Ward Denton. No relation, and unfortunately he has since died, but I learned that Denton and his partner Christopher Gardner founded an interior design company after working for Polo Ralph Lauren. There is still a Denton and Gardner store in Bridgehampton, Long Island.

Someday I'll have a crimson living or dining room with black and white prints on the walls. Meanwhile, I've started on a collection of wire miniatures for my kitchen. When I stopped by the American Institute of Architects store here in Philadelphia, I found options representing a number of cities besides Paris. So far I have a Chrysler Building to keep the Eiffel Tower company, and Big Ben will shortly join the fold. (He's been hard to find; the version sold by the AIA store is currently out of stock.) I do hope they all get along.

My fridge-top homage to the late Ward Denton

The Rich and Handsome Men of Philadelphia (well, the dead ones, anyway)

2011-06-19T22:08:00.001-04:00

I've been looking for the most handsome man in Philadelphia for quite some time now, with no luck. It's possible I've been searching in all the wrong places. But I'm happy to report that I found him today, and he is truly charming.

The story begins about ten years ago, when I joined a tour of Philadelphia's famed Laurel Hill Cemetery. The tour guide showed us a monument for a man who had died far too young, and stated that he (the deceased, not the tour guide) had been known as the handsomest man in town. (This was in the 19th century, well before People magazine's annual Sexiest Man Alive issue.) I remembered the face in stone but not the name. When I posted a query on Laurel Hill's Facebook page, the consensus was that I was thinking of the young artist William Emlen Cresson, who is indeed quite attractive in his chair. I Googled around and found only one reference to the handsomest man story, which also seemed to point to Cresson since the author mentioned that the portrait was life-sized.

But today when I went to the cemetery on a whim to check out Cresson, I instead spotted my man almost immediately, only a short distance from the entrance, looking almost exactly as dapper as I remembered. Robert Allen Trenwith, who attended the University of Pennsylvania, died in 1892 at the age of 22. I can't find much other information about him--or anything to corroborate the tour guide's claim that women were weeping in the streets upon hearing of his demise. (This sounds rather suspiciously like the story of silent movie star Rudolph Valentino's death.)

Trenwith's father John was a publisher and newsagent, and printed a book called The Rich Men of Philadelphia: Income Tax of the Residents of Philadelphia - Income of 1865 and 1866. He also has an exquisitely rendered bas-relief portrait; even the the flower on his lapel is perfectly done. He looks rather startled and bilious, so one assumes that the son's good looks came from his mother... though she evidently didn't merit a portrait.

In which I prepare to adopt (a quotation)

2011-06-15T21:10:00.000-04:00

I'm speeding through the adoption paperwork at record speed. Now, before you go starting rumors, I'm not referring to a baby. Rather, I'm making someone else's quotation mine.

It's all part of a clever fundraising campaign by Chicago's Newberry Library, a treasure trove of precious manuscripts. For a mere $20, anyone can adopt a quote from Shakespeare, Lewis Carroll or Herman Melville. I rejected the latter's "Call me Ishmael," the opening line of Moby Dick, as too aggressive. It might prove to be a difficult quote for me to manage alone. Instead I've decided to go with Shakespeare's "Thou'rt a scholar! Let us therefore eat and drink!" from Twelfth Night. Far more festive and fun to have around the house, even if the line is spoken by one Sir Toby Belch. (I won't, needless to say, be adopting him.)

Finding Sarah (and hiding from Oprah)

2011-06-12T22:31:00.000-04:00

Before watching tonight's debut of Finding Sarah, a reality show about Sarah Ferguson, the (formerly) royal mess, I felt I had to clean up my own life--especially after a full week away at a work conference. I folded laundry, mopped the kitchen floor, went to the gym and gave my checking account balance a look. End result? I'm not bankrupt and the UK tabloids are leaving me alone. So far so good.

Alas, poor Fergie. She was once the Kate Middleton of her generation--the spunky commoner bringing a breath of fresh air to the hidebound royal family. But unlike Kate, or Catherine, as she now wishes to be known, who thus far has seamlessly assimilated into her new role (and seems to grow terrifyingly more perfect by the day), Sarah Ferguson was a wreck almost from the start.

I thought I would enjoy the show, but all it did was serve to remind me of why I'm one of the apparently few who has managed to resist Oprah's mighty media machine. It just seems to me that everything she produces is so... obvious. Fergie has self-esteem issues and was never taught how to manage money? Really? Wouldn't have guessed without the grating Suze Orman pointing it out.

I spent a much better hour this weekend with tennis royalty, courtesy of HBO's McEnroe/Borg: Fire & Ice. Who knew that Borg once had a temper to rival McEnroe's? (Though to be fair, he was all of 11.) What a relief that these two don't need Dr. Phil, Suze and Oprah to teach them about self-worth or second chances.

Tied up in (Castner) Knott(s)

2011-06-06T22:37:00.000-04:00

While visiting Nashville I located the downtown building (618 Church St.) that formerly housed the venerable Castner-Knott department store, which reigned for 100 years. The site is now a national historic landmark, as I am helpfully pointing out in the below photo.

My great-grandfather E.C. Denton (yes, those are my initials as well; we are fond of recycling them each generation) got his start working for Mr. Castner before moving to Cincinnati and opening the Denton stores. He named his son Castner in tribute, and that name has subsequently cropped up a time or two.

I hope the building will also also be recycled, as it is looking a bit forlorn right now.

The Professor and The Tailored Woman

2011-06-02T20:24:00.000-04:00

I had forgotten how early summer arrives in Philadelphia; we've been stuck in the 90s most of the week. Today, however, was lovely, so I chose the right date to visit historic Girard College, which I've mentioned in a previous post. The kind folks who work in the renowned Greek revival Founder's Hall building at the heart of the campus invited me for a tour and dug out a few items of historical interest relating to my great-great-great-grandfather, Henry D. Gregory, who was Vice President of Girard from 1883 to 1892.

The school was originally intended for poor, white fatherless males, and continues today to serve economically disadvantaged children and teens, so it's fitting that my ancestor was himself something of a Horatio Alger success story. According to a profile in the May 1891 Girard College Record, Gregory's father died when he was young, and his mother did her best to keep him out of trouble in their rather rough Northern Liberties neighborhood. She must have done a fine job, as Gregory went on to earn a Ph.D. and a reputation as a learned scholar.

I was amused, during my one hour tour, to see a scholar of another kind on display in a room devoted to alumni achievements: Russell Johnson, who portrayed "The Professor" on the TV show Gilligan's Island, is a Girard graduate. His character--who famously could build all kinds of complicated devices out of mere coconuts, but couldn't patch a boat to get the gang home after their three hour tour went awry--obviously was not.

Even for those without a tie to the school, the collection of founder Stephen Girard's treasures, including rare antiques, ceramics and silver, is well worth a visit.

Girard College
2101 S. College Avenue
Philadelphia, PA 19121
215-787-2600
www.girardcollege.edu
Open to the public Thursdays from 9 AM to 3 PM (free admission)

Decoration Day

2011-05-30T12:38:00.000-04:00

While researching the origins of Memorial Day, I learned that the holiday was originally called Decoration Day. No, not as in home decor, despite what all those sales flyers would have you believe. Rather, in the years after the Civil War, the graves of the Confederate dead were decorated with flowers, and apparently some kindhearted Southern belles gave floral tributes to the Union dead as well. (Though, true to form, exactly which town started this tradition appears to be a source of great conflict.) Nonetheless, the first official observance was May 30, 1868, when flowers were placed on the graves of Union and Confederate soldiers at Arlington National Cemetery in a show of reconciliation.

I'm afraid the Civil War is a topic that makes my eyes glaze over. I should know more about it, and I mean no disrespect to the horrifying number of dead on both sides, but I'm convinced it takes a Y chromosome to be truly interested in which battle happened where. If you've ever driven through the south with a Y chromosome type, you know exactly what I mean. There is an endless amount of pointing out what looks like yet another placid green field where Something Really Important once happened.

My double X chromosomes and I do a bit better with either current conflicts (I am fortunate to have a couple of close friends who served in Iraq and Afghanistan and made it back safely) or older ones (just ask me about the Wars of the Roses and I can rattle on as boringly, I mean, as excitingly, as any Civil War buff). Somewhat closer to home, I found an ancestor who was killed in the Revolutionary War. Captain Francis Lock was a forebear of the Blair and Vail families about whom I've written before. A member of the First Battalion, Somerset Militia, he was killed by the British in Elizabethtown, NJ on September 15, 1777. (It is easy to forget, since we celebrate the year 1776, that the war was not over until 1783.)

I'll end with thanks to Captain Lock, to my friends who served and their friends who did not make it home alive, and to those Confederate and Union brothers, all of whom deserve to be showered with garlands today.

I totally meant to correct the assistant director

2011-05-25T20:57:00.001-04:00

Somehow Southerners can talk about their eccentric Waspy families and always get the tone right, probably because they go all out with the campy (or gothic) humor. For example, I’m a huge fan of Florence King, author of Confessions of a Failed Southern Lady.

While King hails from Virginia, the neighboring state of North Carolina seems to spin out a disproportionate number of humorists. Of course everyone adores megaselling David Sedaris and his wacky sister Amy. Then there’s Celia Rivenbark (her titles alone are worth the price; who doesn’t identify with Stop Dressing Your Six Year Old Like A Skank). Now I have a new favorite, Jane Borden, who calls herself a hipster-debutante. Her book I Totally Meant To Do That describes the cultural car crash between her Southern roots and her New York lifestyle. The chapter that made me laugh loudest entails an etiquette book her well-meaning Aunt Jane sends Borden, with directives such as, "When a lady makes her way down a row in a crowded theater, she faces the people who are already in their seats. A lady never forces others to stare at her backside." Ah yes. I'm familiar with that one. Though, ahem, other people are not.

I was, as I’ve mentioned before, very briefly an extra in the Michael Mann/Johnny Depp gangster flick Public Enemies, which was filmed in Chicago over the summer of 2008. I bobbed my hair (actually, the movie folks bobbed it for me) but ended up doing only one very tedious day of filming, sitting inside a dark theatre pretending to watch a movie. At one point things livened up a bit when we were told to walk into the theatre to take our seats, and I was selected, along with another woman in my row, to come in late and hurriedly scoot past those already seated. I frantically gestured to the assistant director who was working with the extras, then opened my big Miss Manners mouth to inform him that we should not walk down the aisle with our backs towards the people who were seated, as this was considered rude. Back then one would have walked in facing those already seated. (Just try doing it at a movie theatre today and people will look at you as if you are crazy. They’d much rather have your derriere hovering dangerously close to their popcorn than have to make eye contact.)

Far from being grateful for my helpful and historically accurate suggestion--one which I know the great Mr. Mann, with his renowned attention to detail, would have appreciated--the assistant director gave me The Look. (The one that said: Listen lady, you’re just an extra, and one with a hideous dress and hairstyle at that, so shut up and hustle down that row the way I tell you to.) I complied, but I knew I was right. (I frequently know that I’m right. You say you already guessed that?) Good thing that scene ended up on the cutting room floor.

I felt vindicated when I read about show runner Terence Winter nervously giving the legendary Martin Scorsese a note for a scene Scorsese was directing for HBO’s Boardwalk Empire. Winter knew that a gentleman (or even a thug) in the 1920s would not keep his hat on in a room full of ladies, something Scorsese hadn't noticed during the first few takes.

I bet Winter knows that a thug wouldn't attempt to slide past a lady derriere-first, either.

Elizabeth Gray Vining, remembered

2011-05-17T21:15:00.000-04:00

Almost finished with the boxes. Why, you ask, has it taken me two weeks to unpack? Might have a little something to do with the twenty boxes of books. Yes, twenty.

At the bottom of one of the last ones, I found a little treasure that recalled both my late grandmother, Caroline Collier Russel, and my previous years in Philly. Inside an envelope addressed to my grandmother was a letter dated 1954 from a writer named Elizabeth Gray Vining, along with a slim volume of hers called Anthology With Comments, an analysis of devotional poems. I had tucked in an obituary clipped from the Philadelphia Inquirer on which I'd written the date November 30, 1999. The headline read, "Elizabeth Gray Vining, 97, a tutor to royalty." It was sheer happenstance that I noticed the obituary and remembered the name. At the time I was living in the city's Mt. Airy neighborhood, and when I dug out the envelope and saw the address on the letterhead, I was startled to see that Vining had lived only a few blocks away.

The letter, along with the obituary and its tantalizing headline, made me want to learn more about this remarkable woman. Vining became a Quaker after the tragic death of her young husband, finding solace in silent worship, though she admitted to never fully recovering from her grief. In 1954 my grandmother was a young widow herself, having lost her husband two years before.

In addition, the two women shared a love of Japan. Vining was selected to be the tutor to the young crown prince Akihito during the post-war occupation of Japan. Historians seem to concur that the formidable General MacArthur had something to do with this decision, wanting to assist the imperial family to become less remote and more assimilated into Western culture. My step-grandfather was a lawyer serving on MacArthur's staff in Japan at the time, working to re-write the nation's constitution. He had been my grandfather's closest friend, and eventually upon his return to civilian life he married my grandmother. Her Japanophilia, which culminated in a collection of modern prints housed at the Cincinnati Art Museum, dates from his years in Japan, when he sent art home to her.

Vining wrote a bestselling book about her time with the future emperor called Windows for the Crown Prince. I'm guessing that she was on a book tour when she visited my grandmother in Cincinnati. But it seems these two intellectual women were drawn together by something deeper. In a paragraph from the letter, Vining wrote, "You were so good to me that day. I needed very much that quiet half hour in your study, and yet now I am sorry that we didn't use it to talk, for I know we have much to say to each other. Yet perhaps it is better this way, with much understood without words. Some other time we shall meet, with more leisure."

How lovely and poignant. I'm fairly certain she and my grandmother never met again, but I'm so glad to have re-made Vining's acquaintance. It made digging through all the boxes worthwhile.

My adventures in extreme (lack of) couponing

2011-05-14T12:34:00.002-04:00

[Sorry, something went wrong after I originally published this on Wednesday, so I had to re-post and lost the comments.]

I’m addicted to TLC’s “Extreme Couponing” show (airing Wednesdays at 9:30 PM EST). Wasps are thrifty sorts (some might use other words… for example, “tight-fisted” and “miserly” come to mind). So it’s no wonder I get a thrill out of watching the total at the cash register go from $1,000 to virtually nothing once all the coupons and store discounts are processed. Of course, this type of haul requires serious planning—those featured on the show spend an average of 35 hours per week preparing for shopping trips, and some have entire rooms devoted to their coupons, not to mention basements loaded with their spoils.

I seem to come home from my unscheduled, haphazard trips to Whole Foods $75 poorer with only about 3 things to show for it. Hmm, let’s see. On a recent jaunt I purchased one box of kale chips, a couple of champagne mangoes and a carton of interesting vegan faux tuna salad. (It tasted… interesting.) Hard to make that last a week. But on the other hand, what would I do with 50 jugs of laundry detergent, or over 100 bottles of painkiller? (Even if I did make a profit on it, as a recent show participant did, by cannily doubling a coupon on the store’s sale price.)

It strikes me that a lot of what is being purchased by extreme couponers is expensive and unnecessary to begin with-- packaged, processed goods that aren’t the healthiest options for either people or the environment. Soda, sports drinks and sugary cereals seem to be high on the list, along with snacks and the aforementioned jugs of laundry detergent. Produce is in short supply; no one ever seems to offer coupons for spinach or kale. (Unless it’s frozen and tarted up by the Jolly Green Giant.)

I did try to use a pasta coupon the other day at Rittenhouse Market (even pricier than Whole Foods, but I just needed a few things and I had a coupon, after all). They rejected me! Apparently coupon counterfeiting is on the rise, and some stores won’t accept those computer-printed coupons you receive at checkout, only manufacturers’ originals. Who knew? I also wonder how long it is before the big supermarket chains wise up in response to the couponing craze and stop allowing folks to clear a profit on double coupon sale items. While the store managers featured on “Extreme Couponing” always seem to have a big smile on their faces, someone must be taking a hit as a result of this hit show. (I hope it’s the Jolly Green Giant. I’ve never trusted that guy.)

This is why I don't subscribe to the New York Times...

2011-05-14T12:34:00.000-04:00

...though I will read a secondhand copy fished out of the recycling bin at work.

But to return to my rant, I saw this quote from paragraph two of yesterday's front page article on Donald Trump’s shady business practices: “Far from the New York City towers that bear his name, in cities like Tampa, Fla. and Philadelphia, house hunters clamor to buy into [Trump’s] developments…”

Huh? Last time I checked, Philadelphia was the 5th largest city in the US, and was located on the east coast. I do believe New York is still right up the turnpike, less than two hours away. Lots of folks even commute there. But to the Times, this city (former banking center of the world, and former capital of this country, and a pretty happening place now) is apparently just a Podunk lil’ Midwest town that gets suckered by the likes of Trump, with his slick big city ways and his fancy hair. Sigh.

But seriously, I read the entire article and couldn’t find any reason why Philly was mentioned. I even checked my rental agreement in case I'd missed something. The short-fingered vulgarian, as the late lamented Spy magazine used to call Trump, hadn't put his paws on this condo development. What a relief.

In which I ask Rupert Murdoch to deliver my paper

2011-05-10T20:01:00.000-04:00

Dear Mr. Murdoch,

I’m one of the few out there who thinks you have improved the Wall Street Journal. (But then, I’ve always had a soft spot for tabloids, my secret vice. I’m in heaven in the UK, with its scores of trashy, er, entertaining options… several of them owned by you.)

I hate to complain, but here’s the thing. I can’t actually read your fine paper anymore… because News Corp can’t find a way to deliver, well, the news to me. I’ve only moved about 10 blocks, within the same zip code, but apparently this puts me outside the paper's invisible green zone. Can I really be the only person looking for her Journal in the morning? Are there no investment bankers in this part of Fairmount? (Were they all rounded up when the economy tanked and marched to nearby Eastern State Penitentiary? Now there’s a story for you.) Or is everyone else secretly pulling it up on Kindle while pretending to read only the Times?

The point is, I live in a densely populated section of a major US city, not in Nunavut or some other remote site where it would be acceptable, and rather charming, to receive my paper via the postal service. I’ve called your customer service agents three times, and they just tell me that a note has been added to my file while they continue to explore my delivery options. (Perhaps they have to travel from Romania to do so, and this explains the delay?) Yesterday I didn’t receive a paper at all, not even in the afternoon mail, so apparently the expedition party has gotten bogged down in some treacherous mountain pass. (I truly hope you don’t have a Donner Party situation looming...)

I’d be ever so grateful if you would personally intervene on my behalf to ensure that I can once again hold your paper safely in my hands. (If, that is, your outsourced customer service agents know who you are… I'm afraid this is doubtful given the state of their English.)

Regards,

Elizabeth

PS - Nice work! I drafted this earlier (um, on my lunch hour) and when I got home tonight all ready to post my complaint, there was my paper. It appears to have reached my threshold via an actual delivery van. But not, alas, in time for the morning commute. So I still need you to put in that good word.

Call me (or leave a calling card)

2011-05-09T20:56:00.001-04:00

Big news. Calling cards, those genteel reminders of a different sort of social networking age (when one socialized in person-- imagine that) are back.

I remember the ritual of going with mom to have my engraved cards done when I was sixteen. It seemed sort of silly but it was part of being a young lady, and went along with other anachronisms that punctuated my teenage years, such as Cotillion dances, wood-paneled station wagons and sitting down to family dinner every night (meat and potatoes, as you may have guessed). I prided myself on living a dual life back then, spending Friday nights at the ballet with mom, but sneaking into a fabled punk rock venue called the Jockey Club on Saturday nights, using the world’s worst fake ID. (I had a babyface and could barely pass for 16, let alone 21. How kind of you not to point out that times have clearly changed.)

When I selected my cards there was some debate over “Miss” versus “Ms.” I took my cue from the stationer, an older gentleman who no doubt had only been to the Jockey Club in its Sinatra-esque heyday. He frowned slightly when I tentatively mentioned “Ms.” and rewarded me with a warm smile when I decided that “Miss” was acceptable, since I wasn’t even 18 yet. I think I still have the box of cards somewhere since I didn’t have occasion to hand many out. (Though I'm sure the Ramones and Husker Du and other bands that played the Jockey Club would have found this most amusing.)

I certainly didn't distribute or receive as many calling cards as my great-grandmother, whose collection is pictured below. I believe the cards, strung together with ribbon, accompanied wedding presents. Reading the names and addresses is like opening a delicious novel. (Can't you just picture Miss Gertrude Underhill of Washington Square?)

These days I have a boring old business card, but I’m longing to visit the Thornwillow Press’s gallery at New York's St. Regis hotel, sipping tea while picking out the perfect engraved script. (Though I suppose I would finally have to jettison the “Miss.”)

Cinderella ate my daugher (and that prince guy lost my phone number)

2011-04-28T20:46:00.000-04:00

On the eve of the royal wedding, I’m surprising those who know me by my mild rather than rabid interest in tomorrow’s proceedings. I attribute my burnout to the days after Diana’s death, when media fascination with the monarchy reached a fever pitch. And I’ve always been more interested in the older generation of royals anyway. (By older, I mean those born in the 15th century.)

I do admit to wanting to be a real live princess when I was a teen, back when Lady Di was young and shy and the whole world still believed in her fairytale romance. I recall thumbing through a book called Royal Singles and selecting a cutie named Frederik of Denmark. As it turns out, my hunch was spot on; he married not only a commoner, but an Australian-- which is almost the same as American other than the funny accent--and one named Donaldson, at that! (I have Donaldsons in my family tree--none of whom, I might point out, were descended from convicts. At least, that we know of.)

I was reminded of my princessy daydreams when I read Someday My Prince Will Come, a memoir by the strangely-named Jerramy Fine about her unquenchable desire to marry a prince. Her drive took her all the way from a hippie-cowgirl childhood in Colorado to adulthood in London. My obsession didn’t go quite as far, but I still identified with Fine’s love of all things English and aristocratic, as well as her sense that she was born into the wrong era.

Fine's pick is Peter Phillips, the handsome and studly, though title-less, son of Queen Elizabeth’s daughter Princess Anne. Spoiler alert: Fine does indeed meet and charm her would-be true love one magical night… but she doesn't carry the day. (Phillips, who never called Fine after asking for her number, did ultimately marry a commoner. As it turns out, she was Canadian, which is almost the same as American except for the puzzling need to say "sorry" to both people and inanimate objects at the drop of a hat. Maybe his future bride apologized to Phillips so many times when he asked for her digits that he felt simply obligated to follow through and call the poor thing.)

Instead, Fine has founded a summer camp for future young royal wannabes. (Had I seen an advertisement for "Princess Prep" when I was younger, I would have shyly shown it to my parents, while fully expecting to be laughed out of the room when they glimpsed the price. “Why on earth would you want to be a princess?” they would have asked, absolutely mystified. To my people, being on display all the time like that was the ultimate horror.) It appears the publicity-savvy Fine has also updated Royal Singles; her guide to eligible aristocrats, Bright Young Bluebloods, will be published in the coming year.

On the flip side, I'm now reading Peggy Orenstein’s Cinderella Ate My Daughter. Orenstein is a serious journalist, and she's serious about her distrust of Disney-fied princess culture, even as her daughter Daisy revels in it. But on one thing both Fine and Orenstein agree: at one time or another, every little girl wants to be a princess. (And I would add that while most guys don't call when they say they will, the true princes are the ones who do show up. And they are worth a title and a tiara.)

Sunday at the clinic with Gross

2011-04-18T17:42:00.000-04:00

Nothing like waiting until the last minute. No, not taxes. Filed those ages ago. Instead, I’m referring to seeing Anatomy/Academy at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts. The exhibit, which closed yesterday, examined Philadelphia’s contributions to the intersecting fields of medicine and art, with Thomas Eakins’ masterful The Gross Clinic as its centerpiece.

The painting depicts Dr. Samuel Gross instructing students in surgical methods in an operating theatre, as the patient's terrified mother shields her face in horror. It was jointly (and triumphantly) purchased by the Academy and the Philadelphia Museum of Art after a concerted fundraising effort by art lovers and everyday citizens saved it from being sold (by former owner Jefferson Hospital) and moved out of the city of its birth forever.

Dr. Samuel Gross, red in tooth and claw (or at least, scalpel)

After the somewhat gory exhibit, I wandered down to a vintage shop called Reverie in the Northern Liberties neighborhood. There I found a 1920s black purse to add to my burgeoning collection. Then I hopped on the quaint Route 15 trolley (featuring refurbished streetcars dating from 1947) and rode it back home along Girard Avenue. Very Streetcar Named Desire. (Without, of course, the Southern-fried family drama or some big oaf bellowing "Stella!" outside my window.)

Rocky and Capucci: A fashion love story

2011-04-13T20:39:00.000-04:00

The other weekend I strolled by the Philadelphia Museum of Art and saw the Rocky statue sporting a cheeky pink sweater with the words "Go see the art" emblazoned on it. I later read that this was the work of a "yarn bomber" named Ishknits.

Not wishing to disobey the yarn people (or Rocky), I obediently entered the museum to see the exhibit Art Into Fashion: Roberto Capucci, though this meant braving the crowds for 'pay what you want day.' (I paid nothing, but it’s not as bad as it sounds, given that I’m a member.)

I had never heard of Capucci but I was entranced by the fact that his devoted followers (who included Hollywood legends Gloria Swanson and Marilyn Monroe) were referred to as "capuccine." The word brings to mind my favorite Capuchin monkeys... though I doubt a simian, no matter how svelte, would look elegant in this swoonworthy, multi-layered Nove gonne (Nine Dresses) red taffeta creation.

Et tu, NPR?

2011-03-14T21:13:00.000-04:00

I’ve long joked that cheapskate Republicans watch PBS (Masterpiece Theatre, but of course) and listen to NPR, but feel justified in not contributing to those organizations’ pledge drives because of their perceived liberal biases. Well, it’s not so funny anymore.

Preppy activist James O’Keefe has created a quagmire with his sting involving a fake Muslim group’s efforts to give $5 million anonymously to public radio. I read the comments of disgraced former NPR fundraising chief Ron Schiller and winced: “White, mid-America, gun toting… scary.”

Oh dear, Mr. Schiller. I’m white (not much I can do about that, sorry), from mid-America (Cincinnati, to be exact), and I have a gun (though I don’t in fact tote it around—no room in my purse what with the two Blackberries). I can indeed be very, very scary, albeit perhaps not in the way you think. (Um, please don’t go asking any exes.)

I also read the likes of Thackeray and Trollope just for fun, live in the Democratic bastion of Philadelphia, and, in addition to a gun license, possess a Liberal Arts degree from what is arguably the most liberal college in the nation, not to mention a Master’s degree. Stereotype me at your peril. (Rubbing it in would be rude, but I think you may have just figured that out the hard way.)

Don't let the bedbugs bite... your books?

2011-03-07T20:58:00.000-05:00

One of the downsides to my recent relocation to Philadelphia? It's the penultimate bedbug city of choice, second only to the Big Apple (one imagines the juicy nickname alone makes New York more enticing).

It's bad enough that I have taken to looking suspiciously around me when traveling on the subway or trolley--is that a bedbug or just another random sunflower seed on the floor, and just who is spitting these things out in the first place? But recently my father made a comment that had me shuddering in horror. The bugs, apparently, often tag along happily in books passed from person to person. And there are few places I like more than used bookstores and libraries. (It appears I travel in much the same circles as our bedbug friends.)

Dad said he has taken to microwaving his library books. Thanks, Dad. I just looked this method up online and is not recommended, for reasons that were quite obvious as I tried to clear the smell of charred paper from my apartment. (My apologies to the Free Library of Philadelphia for that scorch mark on p. 86.)

Turns out one can freeze a book for 14 days to kill the pests, but two weeks of looking longingly at one's reading material in the freezer compartment, so cold and unresponsive and unreadable, sounds like agony.

So for now I'm buying nice clean new copies from Amazon. (And watching my bank account balance go down in flames, but better that than a book.)

Delight in Disorder

2011-02-20T21:59:00.000-05:00

I returned to the Philadelpia Museum of Art today for brunch at Steven Starr's Granite Hill and a stroll through the American Galleries. The Thomas Eakins painting entitled William Rush Carving His Allegorical Figure of the Schuylkill River caught my attention. The sculptor Rush is almost an afterthought in the shadowy background, working away on his water nymph. A chaperone sits demurely nearby, her gaze on her sewing. But the viewer's gaze falls squarely on the model and her spotlit arm and backside.

Therefore it's amusing to read that the painting caused a scandal, with one reviewer writing, "What ruins the picture is much less the want of beauty in the model (as has been suggested in the public prints) than the presence in the foreground of the clothes of that young woman, cast carelessly over a chair. This gives the shock which makes one think about the nudity—and at once the picture becomes improper."

Right. No one would have had any thoughts whatsoever about the nude female form on full display were it not for those pesky discarded garments.

The brouhaha reminds me of Robert Herrick's poem "Delight in Disorder":

A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness:
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction,
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher,
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbands to flow confusedly,
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat,
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility,
Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.

Alas for Eakins, his belief in art being very anatomically precise--he insisted that female students attend classes using live (male) models--got him kicked out of the stodgy Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts. (Of course now they are only too glad to claim him as their own, especially with the return of the artist's masterpiece, The Gross Clinic.)

Hibiscus Royale

2011-02-13T18:30:00.000-05:00

Sounds kind of like the name of a James Bond girlfriend, no?

It's actually my favorite champagne cocktail of the moment. I've mentioned my obsession with edible Hibiscus flowers before--they are available in syrup, or in a less expensive dried form at Trader Joe's. Simply pop one in a champagne flute, add a little of the syrup, then top with the bubbly of your choice, whether Champagne, Prosecco or Cava. I made these at a recent dinner party and a lively debate ensued as to whether a woman would be thrilled or a little suspicious of his manhood were her date to make her one of these. (I'm in the former camp, but most opposed me.)

Turns out no less an authority than the Wall Street Journal is on my side, concurring that this is a perfect Valentine's Day quaff, and giving the cocktail a name, the Hibiscus Royale. (Makes sense, since my prior favorite, the Kir Royale, is Creme de Cassis topped by Champagne.)

If you feel like economising or can't locate the kind in syrup, you could try making simple syrup (as the name suggests, nothing could be easier) and plunking some of the dried flowers in for a good soak. This drink is so pretty and delicious that you really can't mess it up.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Wolf Hall (and halls of armor)

2011-01-31T12:11:00.000-05:00

Made it to snowy Philadelphia. My first stop (well, after stocking up at Target, courtesy of a car-owning friend) was the Philadelphia Museum of Art, conveniently located across the street. I renewed my membership (many years since expired) and reacquainted myself with the collections. I've felt at home in museums since I was a child, the legacy of a grandmother and mother who were collectors and volunteer docents. There's nothing like the slightly musty odor of a gallery; museums smell, well, old. I mean that in the best possible sense, of course. As opposed to the way the car-owning friend meant it when she said that my condo building smells like old (people). Humph.

At any rate, when taking a break from all of the packing and moving activities over the last week, I've been immersed in Hilary Mantel's Booker-prize winning historical novel Wolf Hall, recommended by my most devoted reader. It's a splendid reimagining of the relationship between Henry VIII and his formidable though low-born advisor, Thomas Cromwell. And as I wandered the galleries of the museum, I was delighted to find references to many of the historical figures in the book. In the Arms and Armor gallery, a series of stained glass medallions from the exact period line the windows floor to ceiling, including the coat of arms of Henry's long-awaited son Edward (who reigned briefly as Edward VI), as well as those of many of Henry's friends (and enemies).

In another gallery I found a portrait of Francis I, the French king with whom Henry allies himself, and was delighted that his fleshy nose was accurately described in Mantel's novel. While searching for these links I learned that the museum also has an engraving of Thomas Cromwell himself, though it's not currently on view.

I suppose at some point I'll actually be expected to check into my new office, but meanwhile other galleries and other faces await. And sadly, just a few more pages of Wolf Hall.

Bolly Good Times

2011-01-22T18:13:00.000-05:00

My lovely friend Lara shared the below quote attributed to Lily Bollinger, of the eponymous Champagne house, and it seemed most appropriate. In between packing and sorting and organizing, life has been a whirlwind of social activity, almost all of it involving my beloved bubbly.

I only drink champagne when I'm happy, and when I'm sad. Sometimes I drink it when I'm alone. When I have company, I consider it obligatory. I trifle with it if I am not hungry and drink it when I am. Otherwise I never touch it - unless I'm thirsty.

In researching the quote, I stumbled across a wonderful website, the 007 Museum, with a list of every champagne quaffed in every Bond film (scroll down on the left side of the Bollinger page); according to the list, the films are heavy on Bollinger, affectionately known as "Bolly" in Britain.

What's more heavenly than a glass of champagne and a man in a tux? Not much, not much.

In which a lady waits for her book about The Lady

2011-01-15T14:24:00.001-05:00

Today I received an email from a British bookseller from whom I had purchased Rachel Johnson's memoir A Diary of The Lady, about her first year editing the venerable old English publication of the same name. I glimpsed the book at W.H. Smith when I was in London and should have just bought it there and then. Instead, in the interests of keeping my luggage light (as I've said before, I refuse to check a bag, even for overseas flights, even when it doesn't cost anything) I decided I would just order it online when I returned Stateside.

Easier said than done. I purchased the book before Christmas and it still has not appeared. Instead, said email states that due to those naughty terrorists (will no one rid me of these meddlesome men?), books and other goods can't be sent on planes for international shipping anymore. Apparently my book is making its way to me in stately old-fashioned manner on a boat. (I hope it is sunning itself on the deck and enjoying sumptuous feasts in the dining room, perhaps even at the captain's table, as suits a book about a Lady.)

All of this makes me nostalgic for the days when one couldn't purchase English goods at any old Safeway, or via that Internet thingy, and reminds me of 84 Charing Cross Road, the charming memoir consisting of letters between a London bookseller and his devoted yet exacting New York reader, Helene Hanff. (Later made into an equally charming and touching movie with Anthony Hopkins as the bookseller and Anne Bancroft as his favorite client.) I'll have to rescue it from the stack of books to be packed.

(Regarding my above quip: 'Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest' is allegedly the way the slippery Henry II ordered the execution of Thomas a Becket without quite ordering it. He was just, you know, kvetching, and was therefore shocked-- shocked--when a couple of his henchmen took him literally and killed the poor saintly Thomas at the alter of Canterbury Cathedral. So, while I'm not saying I'd like all of these pesky terrorists who interfere with my right to pack liquids and receive books from across the pond in a timely manner to disappear forever.. it would make my life a whole lot easier and more pleasant.)

Tailored Woman by day, crime fighter by night...

2011-01-12T22:28:00.002-05:00

The move details are all coming together. I'll be in a very nice furnished condo for a few months while I get settled into my new city.

Finding the housing was quite eye-opening. Craigslist eliminated its controversial 'erotic services' listings after women advertising on the site were attacked and even murdered. (I resolutely deny watching the ripped-from-the-headlines movie The Craigslist Killer on Lifetime the other night.) However, it is still rife with criminal activity--even in the otherwise bland real estate section. The other week I clicked on one listing for a furnished 2 bedroom condo, a steal at $900 per month. I promptly replied to the add, and just as promptly received an auto-response stating that the apartment was still available. It was a lengthy message from one Hillary Brown, who said she had moved to the UK with her husband, thus needing to rent her properties in the US. 'Hillary' said all of the details would be handled through eBay's property management service. I sent the link to a friend and we squealed as we looked at the photos. Exquisite! We figured out that the purported address was the Bellevue, one of the most elegant buildings in Center City Philadelphia.

Now, I'm the type who is so suspicious that I actually called my cell phone company about a possible overcharge of 17 cents on this month's statement. (I blame my cheap, er, thrifty Scottish blood, and besides, another provider got busted not that long ago for small overages that added up to millions for the company.) Still, I wanted this apartment, even as my friend warned me that it was too good to be true. So I did the smart thing and Google-stalked 'Hillary Brown.' It's a pretty common name (chosen, I imagine, on purpose). Then I put in the alleged email address and bingo. Up popped property listings for Boston, New York, San Francisco and Washington. I tested one and got almost an identical auto response (save for the city and address) linked to the same property description and photos as my Philly condo. Then I Googled property scams and found stories about people being ripped off after being convinced to wire funds as deposits on (non-existent) apartments. Apparently this is very common abroad, and, more often than not, someone in Nigeria is responsible. Sigh. So cliched. I would have preferred that Hillary be a real life scoundrel (scoundress?) in London, rather than the pen name for just another Nigerian email scammer.

I didn't receive a response other than the auto-reply; I must have seemed too astute (or too crazed) to tangle with. I'll never set foot in Hillary's lovely (fake) apartment, but I took some petty satisfaction in flagging 'her' Craigslist posts as inappropriate. And I hope perhaps I'll save someone from being taken in. (You may thank me by wiring funds to my offshore account...)

The Pillow Blog (er, Book) of Sei Shonagon

2011-01-10T22:29:00.000-05:00

I think 10th century Japanese writer Sei Shonagon may have been the first blogger. Her witty and sometimes catty observations about life at court, told from her vantage point as a lady-in-waiting to the Empress, are captured in The Pillow Book. (Which provided loose inspiration for the 1996 Peter Greenaway film that features a naked Ewan McGregor. Though come to think of it, what film doesn't show Ewan's naughty bits?)

Sei Shonagon's diary is divided into small numbered segments with titles such as A Lover's Visit, Once During a Long Spell of Rainy Weather, and The Cat Who Lived in the Palace. My favorite chapters are her lists: Rare Things, Outstandingly Splendid Things, Annoying Things, Things that Make One's Heart Beat Faster. In Things Without Merit, she apologizes for writing of vulgar topics, but says, "I never thought these notes would be read by anyone else, and so I included everything that came into my head, however strange
or unpleasant."

We modern readers may not understand why rice starch mixed with water is unpleasant to a well-bred lady, but most of Sei Shonagon's musings translate easily. Here is Chapter 110, Things That are Near, Though Distant:

Paradise.
The course of a boat.
Relations between a man and a woman.

(No comment...)

Take my brain (I'll never use it)

2011-01-03T22:41:00.000-05:00

One of my resolutions is to be smarter this year and quite wasting brain cells perusing unworthy material. Well, I just read an incredibly insightful essay about Flaubert's Madame Bovary. In, er, a glossy fashion magazine. (Elle, to be specific.) How wonderful to find, alongside the usual puff piece on a famous actress cover girl (this month, Sarah Jessica Parker; next month, Sarah Jessica Parker!) a serious, even lengthy exploration of a classic novel by a bone fide intellectual (Daphne Merkin).

I used to be able to write the way Merkin does. No really, I had a much better brain back in the halcyon pre-blog days of grad school. For example, I fondly recall a professor who decided we were a sophisticated enough class to read Shakespeare in a Complete Works edition without footnotes. Think about it. No explanatory notes. (And the Internet wasn't firing on all cylinders yet, either. So if you wanted to look up a reference, you actually had to look it up. In a book. At the library. To which you walked uphill both ways, of course.)

Here's the opening of an essay my professor gave high marks to called "'More Than My All is Nothing': Love Tests and Relationships in Shakespeare's Later Plays":

In the later plays of Shakespeare's career, plots are often set in motion by tests involving loyalty and fidelity. These tests involve all-or-nothing extremes, and what seems the economics of love and friendship. Characters in these plays weigh their affections, and it is usually when the balance is found to be off that the tragedies--or situations with tragic potential--occur, even in the romances. Love tests are concerned, it seems, with questions of where the self ends and the life of another begins, and of how much one can truly own of another person. The Shakespearean love test seems indeed a test of the self as reflected through another person, or through a body of people, as in the plays which deal with the love and loyalty owed the state.

And, because I know you're dying to hear how this all turns out, here's the conclusion:

The late history All Is True concerns both fidelity to the state as a whole and tests of romantic love. The tenuous position of wives in both of these cases is once again pointed out. As the play opens, Henry tells Katherine that she has "half of our power/ The other moiety ere you ask is given (I.ii, 13-14). Of course, when she does ask for Henry's loyalty, it is refused her. Katherine is subjected to what she feels is a "trial" in II.iv, a trial which foreshadows that of Anne Boleyn. Thus the political machinations of the play mirror the romantic ones; Wolsey and Katherine lose power as Anne and Sir Thomas More rise. Anne says in II.iii that she would not "for all the riches under heaven" be Queen (35). When the title of Marchioness of Pembroke is offered her as a clear test of her willingness to accept Henry's suit, a bewildered Anne replies, "I do not know/ What kind of obedience I should tender./ More than my all is nothing" (II.iii, 65-68). Her statement implies that Anne realizes she is powerless. Shakespeare seems again to be foreshadowing Anne's downfall; for indeed, Anne's "all" proved not to be enough for Henry. Thus this penultimate play of Shakespeare's sums up the tragic potential implicit in all tests of loyalty and love: suspicion lies behind most questions and tests. Hence the love portrayed, be it loyalty to husband, lover, state, or ruler, is already, from the start, subtly poisoned. The paradox Shakespeare seems to be offering through his use of the tests is that the economics of state and marriage require some means of determination and measurement, yet love and fidelity remain immeasurable qualities.

Isn't that nice? Oh, and for those of you who need explanatory notes, please see below.

Henry = Henry VIII

Katherine = Katherine of Aragon, his first wife

Anne Boleyn = Maid of Honor with whom Henry became obsessed--so much so that he broke with Rome in order to annul his marriage to the faithful, long-suffering Katherine. Spoiler alert: once Anne failed to deliver the male heir she promised Henry, he chopped off her head and moved on to wives 3-8.

Cardinal Wolsey = Henry's Lord Chancellor who lost his power (but not his head) after failing to attain the annulment from Rome

Sir Thomas More = The 'Man for All Seasons' who succeeded Wolsey as Lord Chancellor. He refused to attend Anne Boleyn's execution but bravely attended his own, after (inevitably) falling out with Henry

(Bonus points if you caught the reference to the Billie Holiday song All of Me in the title of this post)

In which I'm quite cavalier about bloodlines

2011-01-01T20:50:00.002-05:00

This weekend I've been immersed in boxes, doing brave battle with legions of dust mites while I sort papers. In one box I found this article on the British aristocracy from a 1999 issue of Smithsonian. I see that I highlighted a paragraph about Charles Mosley, editor of Burke's Peerage, the chronicle of aristocratic families: "Half of Europe descends from Charlemagne, [Mosley] said, and much of the population of the British Isles, the United States and other former colonies presumably also has roots in the aristocracy."

Indeed. While it may sound impressive that I'm a descendant of Edward I (whose tomb I visited at Westminster Abbey last month), sadly, my name does not appear on the line of succession to the British throne. (Though a Sarah Lawrence College classmate of mine does appear, thanks to her Romanov bloodline. Looks like she'd have to hasten the departure of quite a few people to make it to the top, and while I don't know her, I'm sure she's much too nice a woman to think of such a thing.)

At any rate, the point is that hundreds of thousands of other people can make the same claim of being descended from one of the Plantagenet kings of England, so it's silly to make a fuss about it. (In fact, as others have pointed out, this is a glaring weak point of the plot of the mega-bestselling DaVinci Code: if Mary Magdalen and Jesus had married and produced offspring, then the odds are there would be millions of descendants walking around today, not one "princess" in France.)

I was happy to discover, in the same box of genealogical papers, that it appears we may have a connection to the Lovelace family, who came to Virginia during the English civil war. The name is pronounced "loveless," though I trust that's not a family trait. My possible ancestress Anne Lovelace Gorsuch was the sister of the Cavalier poet Sir Richard Lovelace (pictured here, in all his mustached glory... kind of like a 17th century Tom Selleck, if you like that sort of look). He wrote the famous poem "To Lucasta Going to the Wars":

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;

And with a stronger faith embrace

A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore;
I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more.

Hmm. On second thought, perhaps I should disavow any knowledge of Lovelace blood. That closing stanza seems sweet but packs a wallop: it's the slippery old, "I have to go pursue manly adventures and leave you behind, but only because I love you so very much" thing. (Perhaps this is why the term 'cavalier' changed from meaning 'courtly and chivalrous' to 'kind of a jackass'?)

A Moveable Feast (and a moveable me)

2010-12-30T18:46:00.001-05:00

One of the presents I gave my father for Christmas was the 2009 restored edition of Hemingway's A Moveable Feast, a series of essays about life in Paris when he was a starving writer. Dad, quite the Hemingway expert, tells me this wasn't strictly true as Hemingway's first wife, Hadley, had a trust fund. But nonetheless, it makes for excellent material about what it is like to be strolling the streets of Paris, breathing in all the wonderful smells from boulangeries, without a sou in one's pocket. (Incidentally, according to this NPR review, the revised edition was sanitized by the descendants of Hemingway's second wife, Pauline, to remove references to her as a vixen who destroyed his happiness with Hadley.)

I'm not a fan of Hemingway's novels, but I do adore this book (both versions of it, actually), along with a few of his short stories--most notably "The Short Happy Life Of Francis Macomber," one of the frankest and most chilling examinations of warfare between the sexes you'll ever read.

I stole, er, borrowed, the book from Dad one night when I was home. (I absolutely deny perusing it before it was wrapped and given to him.) I love the piece where Hemingway tells his wife of his joy at discovering Gertude Stein's Shakespeare & Co. bookstore; in just a few lines this simple exchange becomes a poignant examination of his doomed marriage:

“My,” she said. “We’re lucky that you found the place.”

"We’re always lucky,” I said and like a fool I did not knock on wood. There was wood everywhere in that apartment to knock on too.

Paris, Hemingway writes, is a moveable feast. I'm knocking on wood (furniture, soon to be moved) that my once and future city of Philadelphia will be, as well.

Happy (day after) Boxing Day

2010-12-27T22:57:00.000-05:00

You thought it was safe and the holidays were over? No such luck--Christmas officially runs through January 6, otherwise known as Twelfth Night or Epiphany, when the Wise Men arrived in Bethlehem bearing gifts for the newborn King. And yesterday was Boxing Day, which, contrary to its name, does not involve pugilists duking it out. Rather, the day after Christmas is an official holiday in the UK, and apparently takes its name from the tradition of alms boxes for the poor, as well as gifts from the gentry to their servants.

Boxing Day holds a different significance for me this year; it heralds the start of Boxing Month, since I'll be packing up and transferring back to Philadelphia shortly. I'll be living in temporary housing at first. This is of some concern since I come from a people who do not part with our boxes of possessions lightly. Deciding which items to have with me and which will go into storage is likely to bring some Sophie's Choice-esque moments when the movers arrive.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Monkey Love (and sock monkeys... and monkey socks)

2010-12-22T18:55:00.000-05:00

It’s hard to explain my obsession with simians, but this does appear to be a Waspy trait. Look at Jane Goodall, for example, who eschewed polite English society to hang out with chimps and gorillas. Or the eccentric socialite Gertrude Davies Lintz, whose antics, including driving around with a fully clothed ape or chimp riding shotgun, were the basis for the 1997 Renee Russo movie Buddy.

In my own family we learn towards stuffed monkeys rather than the real thing. Every monkey is known as Jocko, in tribute to my brother’s favorite toy when he was a baby. (A very dirty Jocko was once thrown in the washing machine and that, according to my mother, was a dark day in our household. At least until Jocko emerged.)

The other family obsession is sock monkeys. (We were into them way before they became cool in that Kia commercial.) But even better than sock monkeys? Monkey socks. Recently a little boy in the security line at the airport stared wide-eyed and pointed at my feet after I removed my boots. “She has monkeys on her socks!” Why yes, indeed, she does.

This year I received a monkey in my stocking. (Yes, I peeked already. So sue me.) He’s very soft and cuddly, with a winning little face (that's him on the right). But after examining him for awhile, I determined that he was, in fact, a dog toy. Specifically, the squeaky kind. I figured that out because he squeaks. And his tag reads, “dog toy.” I can’t decide if I should be pleased or insulted, but I’ve reassured my new friend that no one will chew him up on my watch.

After all, it’s Christmas.

In Memoriam: Blake Edwards

2010-12-19T20:49:00.000-05:00

One of my readers commented that he hoped I don't have a "Sports Illustrated" type curse on my blog, wherein misfortune befalls my chosen subjects. I trust I don't have that sort of power. (If I did, I might choose to wield it on... well, let's just say one or two non-famous people. Of the male persuasion.)

But I digress. My faithful reader made this comment because just after I wrote about Breakfast at Tiffany's its storied director, Blake Edwards, died at the age of 88, longtime wife Julie Andrews by his side.

I was raised on Edwards movies; while my elementary school friends were no doubt watching age-appropriate fare, I was staying up way past bedtime with my dad and older brother watching the Edwards-directed Inspector Clouseau films, The Pink Panther and A Shot in the Dark, on the Late Late show. I didn't quite get the Cato scenes--thuggish Asian manservant who would attack Clouseau for no apparent reason, making the male Dentons dissolve into helpless laughter while I looked on, mystified--but I loved the sophisticated European settings. I wanted to be Capucine, the exotic, one-named European model and actress who played Mrs. Clouseau. (Not, you understand, because I wanted to be married to Peter Sellars' bumbling detective. But that was the whole joke--how did this idiot end up married to someone so stunning?)

I wasn't as big a fan of the later Edwards oeuvre, including 10 and S.O.B, in which the gloves (and a lot of other clothes) literally came off. I prefer the 60's era Edwards, such as this spectacularly-staged party scene from Breakfast at Tiffany's, which took days to film and features astonishingly fluid and funny vignettes:

Thank you, Mr. Edwards.

The Ambassador East (by Northwest)

2010-12-15T22:47:00.001-05:00

My brilliant friend and reader Sadia continually sends me interesting bits of information. Today she alerted me that Chicago's venerable old Ambassador East will be revamped as an Ian Schrager luxury hotel, reopening in September 2011.

I live not terribly far from the hotel's location in the swanky Gold Coast. Every time I pass the Ambassador East, I think of Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint in Hitchcock's North by Northwest. The hotel has a cameo in the film, one of its many claims to fame. (The Sex Pistols stayed there, and the Pump Room was once a Sinatra rat pack hangout.)

Grant's character Roger Thornhill, on the run from thugs in New York who have mistaken him for an international man of mystery named George Kaplan, encounters the lovely Eve Kendall (Eva Marie Saint) on a train to Chicago. She picks him up over a meal in the dining car, and the ensuing dialogue is some of the sexiest you'll hear in a movie from any era--made more so by Saint's demure demeanor. She's the quintessential fire and ice Hitchock blonde just waiting to melt when the right man falls into her trap. (And with Hitchcock, it is the women who set the traps. Witness Grace Kelly at the end of Rear Window. She's clad in jeans and reading a book about Africa to show Jimmy Stewart's rugged and reluctant to commit photographer that she has reformed her Park Avenue princess ways... but check out her smile of triumph as she sneaks a look at Vogue while he dozes by her side, both legs in emasculating casts to keep him from running around the world anymore. It's a funny yet chilling ending.)

One of Saint's lines--"I never make love on an empty stomach"--was famously dubbed over because it was too racy. Instead, she says, "I never discuss love on an empty stomach." But here's the best exchange:

Eve: It's going to be a long night.
Roger: True.
Eve: And I don't particularly like the book I've started.
Roger: Ahhh.
Eve: You know what I mean?
Roger: Uh, let me think. (Pause) Yes, I know exactly what you mean...

When the train arrives in Chicago, Grant follows George Kaplan's trail. After the well-known crop-dusting sequence, he winds up at the Ambassador East, where he begins to figure out that Saint isn't quite the woman she said she was. I won't spoil the rest in case you haven't seen the film. (In which case, for the love of Pete, what are you waiting for? You must order one of those Netflix envelopes now. Or get it on your BlueRay thingy. You'll thank me, I promise.)

At any rate, I'm glad that the hotel will once again be a place for assignations between elegant women and their prey.

Fifth Avenue, 57th Street

2010-12-12T21:03:00.000-05:00

I just finished Fifth Avenue, 5 A.M., Sam Wasson's splendidly-entertaining chronicle of the making of the movie Breakfast at Tiffany's. (The book doesn't mention the Tailored Woman store, located on the opposite corner from Tiffany, but this article does.)

I've watched Breakfast at Tiffany's too many times to count. I don't agree with Wasson's assessment (and that, apparently, of the movie's producers and costars) that George Peppard was a weak link as the love interest of Audrey Hepburn's character, Holly Golightly. He is slightly wooden, but for me it works for his character, a conflicted young would-be writer who believes himself to be an upstanding citizen even as an older woman (the splendid Patricia Neal) keeps him as her plaything.

I carried a torch for Peppard for years because of the film. And then one day, of all the library reference rooms in all the world, he came walking (or slouching, really) into mine. It was parents weekend at my college, which was much favored by the children of the rich, famous or merely notorious. I looked up from my book and saw only a ruined shell of a man, not the gorgeous and idealistic young writer of my hazy movie-based romantic fantasies. No way would I want to kiss him in the rain in a dark alley.

The original Truman Capote tale involved an unrepentant golddigger and an unnamed narrator who befriends her. In the cleaned-up (though still racy, for 1961) movie version Peppard's character gradually falls in love with Holly, leading to a romantic ending. I re-read the novella this weekend and it left me with a case of the blues, or the mean reds, as Holly Golightly would say. It's a tawdry story, though beautifully written. In the book Holly never does have breakfast at Tiffany's. That's why I'll always stay true to the movie version instead, with its sweeping opening shot of 5th Avenue at 5 AM. Holly's true love affair is with New York itself, and this wonderful corner in particular.

Women I love: Anglo-American writers edition

2010-12-08T20:06:00.000-05:00

I am intrigued by the stories of Anglo-American women writers, no doubt because I wish I were one. I posted previously about Joan Aiken, who had a remarkable career as a writer of children’s and young adult books, science fiction and cheeky period romances. She was raised in England, the daughter of American writer Conrad Aiken (probably better known now for his welcoming, bench-shaped tombstone in Savannah than for his works). Her children's novel The Wolves of Willoughby Chase is in part a sly satire of “orphan lit” such as the works that brought fame to Frances Hodgson Burnett in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

Burnett's best-loved novels--Little Lord Fauntleroy, The Secret Garden and A Little Princess—all involve children who lose at least one parent and must endure much hardship before regaining an identity and, often, an inheritance. (Goodness is rewarded by riches in these stories. Warms my capitalist heart.) Burnett was born in England but her family moved to the States when she was young. She was drawn back to England, where her novels were tremendously popular, many times over the years. The stories echo Burnett's own; her family lost their money when she was young, and Burnett turned to writing as a means of supporting them. She was successful enough, churning out dozens of stories and novels, to be able to live in a lovely home in England later in life, Great Maytham Hall. (The property has now been divided into 15 luxury apartments, but the walled rose garden that inspired A Secret Garden is still there.)

On a more recent note, I discovered Ariel Leve on my way back from London last month. I picked up her book of short, wry essays, It Could Be Worse, You Could Be Me, based on the title. Turns out Leve splits her time between London and New York. The essays were originally published as a weekly column in The Guardian, followed by the Sunday Times Magazine. Leve claims that she's a constant worrier who gets little done, but her bio is awfully long and replete with words such as "Feature writer of the year" and "Interviewer of the year," so it seems she's only slightly less prolific and adored than Burnett.

Good thing she doesn't appear to live on a gorgeous English estate, or I'd have to hate her.

The Wolves of Willoughby Chase

2010-12-06T23:12:00.000-05:00

It snowed this weekend and then turned bitterly cold, which made my thoughts run to favorite books for winter reading. A sprawling Russian novel such as Anna Karenina seems tailor-made for a commute by train, with snow falling outside the window. Though certainly one doesn't wish to have quite the same experience on the tracks as poor tragic Anna.

On a much shorter and less depressing note, there's the Joan Aiken children's classic from 1962, The Wolves of Willoughby Chase, with appropriately chilly opening lines:

It was dusk--winter dusk. Snow lay white and shining over the pleated hills, and icicles hung from the forest trees... Snow lay thick, too, upon the roof of Willoughby Chase, the great house that stood on an open eminence in the heart of the wold.

I still remember picking the book out at my elementary school library, drawn to the dramatic Edward Gorey cover of wolves slavering after two young girls, and reading it, enraptured, over a lunch of tuna fish sandwiches and Ovaltine. (I grew up in the sort of disgustingly wholesome village where kids could walk home for lunch, back doors were often unlocked, and moms such as mine prepared plates of sandwiches cut into stars and hearts. No, this was not 1952. It was actually the late 1970s, thank you very much.)

Aiken is a joy to read, gently satirizing Gothic romances (those vicious wolves, an evil governess) and the English class system (the station master walks 10 miles in the snow to ask the very rich Sir Willoughby Green if the train may proceed through the latter's property) while providing a ripping tale for young readers. Many of her nuances were lost on me until I re-read the story as an adult. For example, the aforementioned Sir Willoughby is the father and uncle, respectively, of the two young heroines. I wonder if Aiken borrows the first name from Jane Austen's cad in Sense & Sensibility, who marries a Miss Grey for her 50,000 pounds after forsaking his true love, Marianne Dashwood, because she is penniless. Of course, Aiken's Sir Willoughby appears to be a devoted husband and father (albeit one who is absent for most of the book). But then, Austen's Willoughby might have reformed and been just as good to Marianne, had he inherited both a fortune and a house on the wolds full of mystery and intrigue.

A Hat Even Scrooge Would Love

2010-12-04T20:29:00.000-05:00

To get into the holiday spirit, I went with friends to see A Christmas Carol at the Goodman Theatre. The production features amazing set design and special effects. (Marley's ghost is dragged down into a fiery pit of embers!)

My style inspiration that night was, however, less Charles Dickens or Drag Me to Hell and more Boardwalk Empire. At the end of last winter I bought this Flower Ribbon Bowler Hat from Charlotte Russe, but it lived on a bedpost, neglected and forgotten. I threw it on for the trip to the theatre, turning it so the flower was on the side, and suddenly it was a chic cloche rather than a bowler. I wore it again today in the snow and received several compliment. Though I did get a few odd glances when I (quite accidentally) boarded the CTA holiday train last night. Apparently my flapper look clashed with the green and red elves. (As did the Scrooge-esque frown on my face when I realized I had to ride the garish, loud train all the way out to the Cumberland stop...)

What I read on my Thanksgiving break

2010-11-30T22:39:00.001-05:00

I didn't grow up in either my mom's house outside of Asheville, NC or my dad and stepmom's home in Cincinnati, but going back to visit either one is a treat because, in addition to hanging out with people I (usually) genuinely enjoy, I get to visit with longtime friends in the form of books.

This past weekend I curled up with Black Beauty, mom's illustrated childhood copy that I first read when I was about 8. I blame this book in part for my Anglophilism. Even though the depictions of London are pretty bleak from a horse's point of view -- poor Beauty comes down in the world and ends up a common cab hack with broken knees--the portrait of the English countryside is lovely. I wanted a fat little gray pony like Beauty's friend Merrylegs. (I'm still waiting, and Christmas is just around the corner. Hint, hint.)

After that I read The Great Gatsby. It makes a strange pair with Anna Sewell's polemic on cruelty to horses and their animal friends. (Or maybe not so strange; F. Scott Fitzgerald was interested in cruelty as well, the kind involving the rich smashing up things and creatures and retreating into their money or their vast carelessness, as he so memorably put it.) But it's my favorite novel, and, as Nora Ephron just said in the New York Times Magazine, I wish I had written it.

For that matter, I'd give anything to have written a line--any line--by Nora Ephron. To wit: "In my sex fantasy, nobody ever loves me for my mind." Or if that's too racy, how about this one, from the screenplay for You've Got Mail: "When you read a book as a child, it becomes a part of your identity in a way that no other reading in your whole life does."

Just like Black Beauty.

Henri, Naomi, Nan and me: Adventures in good customer service

2010-11-29T19:22:00.000-05:00

Who says customer service is dead? While Hilton and United have thus far ignored my posts (click on the respective links if you are curious), others have been far more gracious. To wit: After I mentioned that her book Fix It Write was the last hope for my chicken scratch, Nan Jay Barchowsky herself sent me a gracious handwritten note. Her script was, of course, impeccable. (I would hate her but she’s too nice.)

I also received a lovely email from Randall Harris, a gallery owner in Brooklyn who found me when he searched on Naomi Shapin, the illustrator who did many of the original advertisements for the Tailored Woman store. (Here's an example of her work; I love this sketch.) The gallery, Figureworks, will have an exhibit called "The Figure in Commercial and Decorative Arts" that includes some of Shapin's work through December 21.

Finally, I made a complaint--or helpful suggestion, as I like to think of it--in person the other weekend at The Gage, my favorite Irish bar/restaurant. It turns out one of my friends knew the manager, so when he stopped by to check on our group, I told him I had a bone to pick. The bar stopped serving my favorite drink, a gorgeous champagne cocktail with an edible Hibiscus flower. The manager apologized and excused himself. (Okay, so he ran. I guess I’m scary when I’m denied my edible flowers.) A few moments later he handed me a glass of water, instructed me to clear my palate (I had been sipping a pint of Guinness), then reappeared with a classic champagne cocktail (champagne, cognac and a sugar lump soaked in Angostora bitters) from Henri, the splendid new French restaurant next door from the owners of The Gage. I couldn’t have been happier as I stirred my little spoon to make the sugar disappear into the bubbles. Henri, mon ami, this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Happy Thanksgiving: In Praise of Kiva, Sarah Josepha Hale (and lingerie)

2010-11-25T11:54:00.000-05:00

Two things to share today: First off, Oprah picked Kiva as one of her favorite things. I know, I know. I'm usually allergic to anything with her seal of approval on it. (Call me a snob, but I just can't pick up an Oprah Book Club selection.) But I've been a Kiva lender for a few years now, and I've agreed to help publicize the microloan organization, so here's some exciting (albeit Oprah-related) news: This week, new Kiva users can buy $25 of Kiva credit for only $15, via Groupon. Click this link to purchase.

Also, courtesy of a newsletter from Philadelphia's historic Laurel Hill Cemetery (those dead folk sure have one heck of a PR machine), I learned the following about today's holiday and the remarkable woman behind it:

In 1827, Sarah Josepha Hale began a 40-year campaign, lobbying five presidents and numerous congressman to commemorate Thanksgiving as a national holiday. Finally, in 1863, her persistence paid off, when President Abraham Lincoln issued his Thanksgiving Proclamation declaring the last Thursday of every November a national day of thanks.

Widowed and penniless at the age of 34 with five small children to raise, Hale was determined to ensure her family's survival. She became the first editor of the first woman's magazine in the United States, Godey's Lady's Book. She was the first to start daycare nurseries for working women, and the first to campaign for equal education for American girls, helping to organize Vassar College. Hale insisted on the term "domestic science" to describe the noble art of housewifery, and introduced the word "lingerie" into the English language as a way to categorize a woman's underwardrobe. She raised money both to complete the Bunker Hill Monument in Charlestown, Massachusetts, and to preserve Mount Vernon as a national historic site. The author of numerous books and poems, her most famous was included in a collection of children's poetry entitled "Mary Had a Little Lamb."

Hale died on April 30, 1879 at the ripe old age of 90, and was interred in Section X, Lot 61. Without question, Sarah Josepha Hale earned her peaceful rest at Laurel Hill Cemetery.

(Heck, I'd say she deserves praise just for bringing us the word "lingerie"! Thank goodness we didn't get stuck with "underwardrobe" instead.)

Out of Kentucky Kitchens (and the Wall Street Journal): Persimmon Recipes

2010-11-21T21:51:00.000-05:00

Does anyone remember what a dull, stolid paper the Wall Street Journal used to be? Just pages of black and white dense text about business, the tedium unrelieved by photos, with the exception perhaps of one grainy dotted illustration of some boring old businessman's face. But since I was the kind of voracious reader who needed something to look at while eating my cereal in the morning, I would often give my stepdad's Journal a try. I loved the quirky column on the front page, the one non-business story in the entire paper. Somewhere I still have a clipping about the Richard III Society with the delightful headline to the effect of, "Richard III Supporters Get Their Backs Up About All Those Lies." (But that, as they say, is a story for another time.)

Today's Journal is scarcely recognizable as the same beast. Yes, it's been Murdoch-ized, and I for one don't mind. The newly revamped weekend edition, in an overt bid to take on the Sunday Times, now offers not one but two leisure sections ("Off Duty" and "Review") full of recipes, book reviews, and design and fashion features. This weekend I was thrilled to find a persimmon, my favorite fall fruit, on the front page, advertising a group of recipes in the "Off Duty" section that include Herbed Persimmon Spoonbread.

That in turn made me think fondly of the following recipe for Iroquois Persimmon Pudding. My cousin, the one who is a CIA-trained chef, adapted it from a cookbook called Out of Kentucky Kitchens originally published in 1949. It's sensational.

1 cup sugar

1 1/2 cups buttermilk

I cup flour

2 tablespoons melted butter

½ teaspoon cinnamon

2 eggs, beaten

½ teaspoon soda

1 teaspoon baking powder

dash of salt

1/2 teaspoon grated nutmeg

Preheat oven to 450. Mix the pulp with the sugar. Add buttermilk, melted butter and eggs. Sift the flour with the soda, baking powder, salt, cinnamon and nutmeg. Combine the two mixtures, pouring the liquid slowly into the dry, and beating well. Pour into a baking dish with high sides, and set in oven for 15 minutes, then reduce the heat to 400 and leave the pudding in the stove for 25 to 30 minutes longer, or until it no longer shakes in the middle. By that time it should begin to leave the sides of the pan and the top should be a lovely dark brown. Serve hot with your favorite caramel or wine sauce. Can also be served cold.

The Women of Dick Francis: Dastardly deeds and dark desires

2010-11-17T20:19:00.003-05:00

I posted previously about the death this year of celebrated mystery/thriller writer Dick Francis. At the time, my father and I exchanged emails about the loss of one of our favorite authors, and dad said he was re-reading the book I had Francis autograph for him in tribute. It took me a little longer to delve back in, but I just picked up a couple of paperbacks: Nerve, one of the earliest ones, from 1964; and Banker, from 1982.

As plenty of people have noted, Francis follows a formula. His heroes are modest, unassuming, yet tough as nails stand up guys whose jobs bring them into contact with horses and the English racing set.  Through dogged determination they unravel a sinister plot others can't or won't see. (And they always take a severe physical thrashing at the hands of the bad guys along the way.)

Francis's men are quite respectful of women and their intelligence--perhaps unusually so, given that the earliest novels date from the pre-liberation 1960s. One perceptive reviewer on Amazon points out that there is typically a helpful middle-aged woman in the background.  In my favorite novel, the poignant Reflex (published 1980), the helpful woman is the surrogate mother who helped raise young Philip when his 'feckless' mother abandoned him. (I first read this novel when I was fairly young and that wonderfully evocative word has stayed with me ever since.) In Banker it's a pharmacist who befriends the narrator Tim. I wonder if this archetype is a stand-in for Francis's wife Mary, a way for the writer to pay tribute to his irreplaceable helpmate and companion, who did the impressive research that informs the complex plots of the novels.  (Indeed, there have been rumors for years that she was the true talent behind the writing, not just the research.)

At first the pharmacist seems to be a romantic option for Tim. But he's in love with a colleague's wife. And in thinking that over, I realized there's another pattern regarding women in many Francis novels. Perhaps it's coincidence, but in the three I've mentioned here, an element of incestuous desire is present. In Nerve this is perfectly straightforward: the hero is in love with his own first cousin, and by the end of the novel convinces her to marry him despite her misgivings, which presumably echo the reader's own. (I confess I found it creepy.)

In Reflex, Philip falls in love with the daughter of the woman who helped raise him. Since she's a maternal figure, this makes his love interest a sister of sorts, even if they weren't raised together.  In Banker, Tim adores his older colleague, but he is torn between respect for his friend and desire for his wife. The typical Francis hero has parents who have physically and emotionally distanced themselves from, or even completely abandoned, their son. Tim's dissolute parents are dead, so the colleague functions in some ways as a paternal figure; he is certainly the right age, facing both Parkinson's disease and imminent retirement. And in the end he dies right on cue, allowing Tim finally to attain the prize for which he has so longed. No, the colleague's wife is not Tim's mother, but there do seem to be strong Oedipal echos all the same. (I wish the old man would hurry up and die so I can have her all to myself!)

I don't have a handy conclusion for my conjectures. I just find it interesting that so much is going on between men and women in what at the start appear to be standard plot-driven airport thrillers.  Francis takes on much more than horse racing; he seems intrigued by what defines his heroes, who must simultaneously solve both the nefarious goings-on and the mystery of their own backgrounds and identities.  Perhaps in winning each of these elusive women, Francis's heroes are simply completing their journeys home?

Confessions of a (Barely) Premier Member: My Life on United

2010-11-16T22:00:00.001-05:00

The recent trip to London was in part a 'mile run' to ensure that I make Premier again on United. I've held onto this, the lowliest of the status rungs, for the last 5 years. My loyalty to the airline is at this point more habit than anything else. I'm comfortable on United--literally, since I get the extra legroom Economy Plus seats. I enjoy having a special security line (sometimes so crowded with business travelers at O'Hare that the regular line for the E/F gates is shorter). I definitely like not paying for checked bags. (Though I never, ever check my bag, so really this benefit saves me no money.) Okay, well, how about getting on the plane first? That is more important than ever since I'm dragging a heavy bag that I positively refuse to check. As I may have mentioned. (Yes, I'm still bitter about the checked bag debacle of Christmas '04.)

This year United debuted, with great fanfare, its "automatic upgrade" program for elite flyers. So, rather than getting a certain amount of upgrades that I can use at my discretion, I'm on a list with everyone else who has status, and we are all jockeying for the few first class seats open on any given flight. I've had exactly two upgrades in 2010. The first came about on the opening day of the automatic upgrade program; things weren't configured correctly yet with the upgrade list so I enquired about it and they forced it through for me. (Squeaky wheel + grease = Me in first class with a free drink and cheeky grin on my face.) The second was an actual, bone fide automatic upgrade awarded to me when I checked into my flight the day before. I happily contemplated my first class seat as I took the train to the airport. Then my cell phone rang and that cheerful United voice ("Hello! This is United with an important flight update!") informed me that my flight had been canceled. Figures. I ended up rebooked on a US Air flight in the cattle hold. No aisle seat, no legroom, and first class but a distant memory.

No bags of mine on those carts.

In a related adventure, I tried to use miles to sponsor an upgrade for a friend who was going through a slightly rough time this summer. Everything went fine until the call center attendant realized that I wasn't on his flight. Or even in the same city. "I'm just trying to do something nice by upgrading him, but I'm not going with him," I explained for the umpteenth time to the kindly but thoroughly confused woman in India or Bulgaria. I had done this for people before and it was no big deal. But now--you guessed it--there's a fee . The United system would not allow me to pay the fee without my presence on the same flight. (I felt sort of important. Or like a stalker. Or possibly both--an important, Premier type stalker.) Fortunately my office is right by O'Hare so I took the L two stops out there at lunch to sort things out at the counter. No such luck. Three game employees tried to figure it out. But in the end, my friend was confronted with a $50 bill and could not get anywhere near his first class seat without handing over a credit card. I got just a few sarcastic texts of the "Thanks, but no more presents I have to pay for myself" variety.

(Some people are so ungrateful. Unlike moi, of course.)

Tea and Sympathy

2010-11-14T14:56:00.000-05:00

One not-so-lovely souvenir of my trip to London: bronchitis. This English variety is proving to be quite tenacious.

As a result I'm sipping quite a lot of tea these days. At home, I should add, because it's close to impossible to find a good cup stateside. (Why does every hotel and restaurant stock Earl Grey but not regular English Breakfast? Why?) While waiting in line at airport customs I chatted with a young English lad eagerly awaiting his first trip to New York, but I made his cheerful little face fall when I murmured, "Good luck finding a decent cup of tea here." "Oh, no, I hadn't thought of that," he said plaintively. Then I felt cruel.

I nipped into a Tesco Express grocery store before I flew home to pick up a box of Twinings English Breakfast. Just an ordinary box of everyday tea, but somehow it tastes so much better than the Twinings variety manufactured for the American market, the one you find in stores here in the red box. For one thing, the English version comes in a square flow-through bag rather than our anemic little dunking version in the traditional teabag shape.

When I opened the box I was delighted to find this quote from Noel Coward inside: "Wouldn't it be dreadful to live in a country where they didn't have tea?"

Well, perhaps not dreadful, but at least decidedly annoying.

Over Here: Veterans Day

2010-11-11T21:08:00.000-05:00

November 11 has a rich history. It was first known as Martinmas, the feast day of St. Martin of Tours, who converted to Christianity after he gave his cloak to a beggar. Hence there is a long connection between this date and clothing. In her wonderful book on holidays called Mrs. Sharp’s Traditions, Sarah Ban Breathnach writes that on St. Martin’s day she would have her family sort out clothing they had outgrown, to be given away to charities.

Now we associate this day more with uniforms and a different sort of service. Hostilities in the ‘Great War’ ceased on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918. The date was commemorated as Armistice Day, before both that war and that peace were eclipsed. Veterans Day was established in place of Armistice Day by Eisenhower in 1954 to honor all Americans who have served their country.

This morning, instead of sorting out clothing, I found the military pamphlets my step-grandfather collected when he was posted in England during World War II. One is a cheerful little brochure for Yanks in London called Over Here, published by the American Red Cross Information Department. It features a stirring preface by Winston Churchill, dated May 20, 1942:

The armed forces of the United States coming to this country will not have much time for leisure or sightseeing. They have come to take part in the fight for existence of civilization, and their first task and wish is to make themselves ready for battle. But while they are here we should not like them to feel strangers in our country. They will understand us better if they know something of our ways and customs..."

While in London last weekend I visited the Churchill War Rooms. Even in the face of current terror threats to that city, it was good to be reminded that the civilizations of our two closely-allied nations have endured and will continue to do so.

Poppies, Passion Fruit... and a Pile of Rocks

2010-11-10T20:37:00.001-05:00

The long London weekend went off splendidly, and the Savoy Hotel's two bars (American and Beaufort) did not disappoint. Over the course of two evenings my companion and I enjoyed sampling cocktails with unbelievably fresh ingredients such as passion fruit, strawberries and basil. (The prices were unbelievable as well.. but then, produce is very expensive on the sceptered isle.) Then I sampled what has to be the nicest bathroom in hotel history. It appeared that there was a woman whose sole job was to re-point the toilet paper in each stall. I almost felt compelled to apologize to her for wrecking her work.

While strolling about the city I noted that many Londoners were sporting scarlet flowers to support the Poppy Appeal for Afghan war vets. Is it shallow of me to think that the poppies looked rather chic, especially against a black coat? You can decide for yourself. Here's a photo of me wearing mine in front of some pile of old rocks. (Clearly I got very lost on the way home from the Savoy?)

A Short Guide to Great Britain (and its shortcomings?)

2010-11-04T21:29:00.000-04:00

Is it any wonder I'm an Anglophile? Here's just a smattering of the books and pamphlets about the "Mother Country" accumulated and handed down by my (packrat-ish) forebears...

The Short Guide to Great Britain issued by our War Department in 1942 is (quite unintentionally) a hoot. The section called "Age Instead of Size," for example, gives this sage advice: "The British care little about size, not having the 'biggest' of many things as we do."

(Reading a little further, one finds that the paragraph is about our skyscrapers versus their ancient cathedrals. Oh. Good to know.)

White Ladies and Good Behaviour

2010-11-02T21:53:00.000-04:00

The Savoy Cocktail Book mentioned in my previous post includes a cocktail that has faded into obscurity since Prohibition: the White Lady. A combination of gin, Cointreau and fresh lemon juice, it's similar to the perennially popular Sidecar, which is made with brandy instead of gin.

My favorite author, Molly Keane, mentions White Ladies twice in her magnificent 1981 novel Good Behaviour. The bitter and lonely narrator, Aroon St. Charles, looks back at her life as the daughter of Anglo-Irish aristocrats whose privileged way of life is on the wane. Describing the 1920s, she says:

On our way to the bathroom we wore crepe-de-chine and lace boudoir caps--what has become of crepe-de-chine? Or real silk stockings with their transparent clocks, if it comes to that? Or those life-giving white ladies before dinner before the ball? Not that I am actually against martinis, but I want to go back, I want to soak myself in Cointreau, gin, and lemon juice in equal parts.

I discovered Keane's novel in a used bookstore a few years ago, and quickly read everything else I could find by her. She is a sensational, witty and beautiful writer. Keane wrote Good Behaviour when she was in her 80's, decades after her first spate of novels, which were originally published under the pseudonym M.J. Farrell. All of her works deal with the landed gentry in Ireland, and they are comic in a shrewd and dark way, while also quite moving. Good Behaviour is her masterpiece and one of those books I have read too many times to count. Yet I find I always want to go back, to soak myself in this world of beautiful manners hiding all kinds of vice and decay.

Sipping at the Savoy

2010-11-01T22:11:00.000-04:00

It may be All Saints Day, but I thought I'd throw in a little sin. I'm heading to London soon and hope to check off at least one item on my dream list (I refuse to call is a "bucket" list): cocktails at the Savoy Hotel, which just reopened this fall after renovations that took three years and over 100 million pounds.

My grandmother had an original (1930) copy of the Savoy Cocktail Book, filled with delightful illustrations and the famous concoctions of Harry Craddock, star of the hotel's American Bar. It's not much of an exaggeration to say my cousins and I read it to tatters whenever we visited my grandmother. The volume mysteriously disappeared after her death and no one has copped to taking it. So I've had to content myself with a reissue.

I look forward to seeing the reissue of the Savoy itself. And should I get a little crazy and decide not only to steal a policeman's hat (a la Bertie Wooster), but his very car, the hotel conveniently dictates that vehicles entering and leaving Savoy Court drive on the right. (A nod, apparently, to hackney carriages rather than Americans doing hackneyed touristy things, but I appreciate it all the same.)

A Recipe for Carbonnade a la Flamande

2010-10-29T21:08:00.000-04:00

Suddenly it is truly fall, with gusty winds and dark evenings. Makes me want to cook something hearty and comforting. Here's my recipe for a somewhat authentic Carbonnade a la Flamande, a Flemish (Belgian) beef stew made with beer and prunes. (What, that doesn't sound like a delicious combination? Just try it.)

Carbonnade a la Flamande
Serves 4-6, depending on appetites!

Vegetable or olive oil
2 teaspoons sea salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
3 lbs. beef chuck for stew, cubed
2 large onions, either yellow or Vidalia, chopped
1 cup beef or chicken stock, or a combination of both
1 12 oz. bag pitted prunes, halved
1/2 teaspoon dried thyme
3 cups dark beer (I like Samuel Smith's Nut Brown Ale)
2 bay leaves
4 cloves
6 sprigs fresh parsley, roughly chopped
Cheesecloth for spice mixture (I often use an unbleached muslin tea bag instead)

Heat about 3 tablespoons oil in a dutch oven over high heat. Season beef cubes lightly with 1 teaspoon salt and 1/2 teaspoon pepper, and brown in batches. Remove meat with a slotted spoon. Add more oil if needed and carmelize the onions, stirring frequently. Add the beef or chicken stock and deglaze the pan. Boil for about 5 minutes. Remove from heat.

Layer beef, onions and prunes in the dutch oven. Sprinkle 1/4 teaspoon thyme and 1/2 teaspoon salt over this layer. Repeat with a second layer of beef, onions, prunes, thyme and salt. Sprinkle the top with the other 1/2 teaspoon pepper. Put the bay leaves, cloves and parsley into cheesecloth or muslin tea bag. Tie up and tuck the herb bundle into the center of the layers. Add beer and bring to a boil. Cover with a lid and cook in the oven for approximately 2 hours, until the meat is tender. (I like to gently squeeze the herb bundle periodically to release the delicious aroma into the stew, but if you do this, don't burn your fingers!)

I find that this is best when made at least a day in advance, and then gently reheated on the stove. The classic way to serve Carbonnade is over frites, or french fries: I buy the organic frozen kind and bake them in the oven so they are crispy yet low fat. This stew is also delicious over spaetzle or egg noodles.

Chicken scratch and crab puffs: In which I learn to write

2010-10-25T22:15:00.002-04:00

After a dinner party last month I wrote the hostess a thank you note. Not an email. An actual note on a card, sent in the mail. And guess what? It came back to me. I was sure my handwriting was to blame, because my scrawl is sub-doctor level. Even sub-chicken level. (Chickens would have every right to be insulted by the comparison.)

My pretty notecards. Not my pretty script.

I don't know how this happened. At one point I had reasonably nice, neat writing. But somehow over time I started doing a combination of cursive and print that only I can decipher. (Sometimes. I was just organizing some recipes and it took me a full five minutes to work out what "Fix Leo Paz" meant. Leo Paz? Who was that and why did I want to fix him, and what did any of this have to do with hot crab puffs with chives? Oh... "For tea party." Right.)

My handwriting. Only a minor exaggeration. Oh dear.

My coworkers and staff dread anything in writing from me. I can't blame them. I fear meeting my own script in a dark alley. Or on a cheery yellow Post-It. So it was with great interest--and no small glimmer of hope-- that I read an article in the Wall Street Journal that included a survey of online handwriting resources. After checking them out, I decided my ideal script would resemble the Barchowsky Fluent Handwriting method. I've ordered Fix It... Write, for, um, older students. (Ouch, Barchowsky.)

Incidentally, I took the decadent recipe for hot crab puffs with chives from Victoria magazine some years back. I found the identical recipe reproduced on a couple of afternoon tea sites, including here and here.

Let's Bring Back

2010-10-23T14:01:00.001-04:00

Lover of old and vintage things that I am, I adore the new book Let's Bring Back by Huffington Post columnist Lesley M.M. Blume. She's clearly a kindred spirit. (Though as doppelgangers go, she is the much chicer and better-connected one of the pairing.)

I have been sighing with delight over every page... yes, let's please do bring back real men a la Humphrey Bogart who like whiskey (though I can do without the smoking). And chargers, those decorative plates you put under the real plates for formal dinner parties. (I've been meaning to dig out the old monogrammed ones I have tucked away somewhere.) And Chumley's, the New York speakeasy I mentioned previously. Though I was dismayed to learn courtesy of Blume that the building has now been torn down.

One minor comment on what is thus far (I'm only up to the Cs) a thoroughly wonderful book: in the Introduction, Blume writes, "Starbucks runs have supplanted high tea." I believe she means afternoon tea, with its attendant dainty sandwiches and cakes. The two are often--and easily--confused. High tea, contrary to its fancy-sounding name, was more of a hearty early evening meal for laborers. Though nothing wrong with bringing that back, either. I for one am quite fond of a Ploughman's lunch (salad, cheese, a hunk of bread, and some Branston Pickle... pure bliss).

(The) Tailored Woman (with her fur flying)

2010-10-22T20:20:00.000-04:00

Another eBay find: this ad from a 1964 Vogue. Now I know that fur is a no-no, but I had to have the ad because it shows the Tailored Woman store and its famous display windows.

Incidentally, for reasons I haven't yet determined, the store sometimes used "The" in its name and sometimes did not. It appears that at the time of this ad, "The" was out of fashion. (Much like real fur today.)

In Which I Prevent Wardrobe Malfunction

2010-10-17T22:12:00.000-04:00

Best thrift shop score recently: a fitted white Trina Turk shirt for $2 at Goodwill. It's perfect. Except for two things. The shirt has French cuffs and I don't own any cufflinks. So I tooled around online today and wouldn't you know it, I found some with the "Keep Calm and Carry On" logo I posted about yesterday.

The other problem is that the shirt is so fitted it gapes a little at the bust. My fashion-savvy cousin (and frequent thrifting companion) said she found out how actresses wear tight shirts without the accidental peekaboo effect. No, it's not Hollywood fashion tape. Instead, they have a seamstress sew the shirts closed between the buttons in question. Then they pull the shirts on over their heads (gently, one imagines).

Normally this might give me claustrophobia, but a glance at my snazzy cufflinks should keep me coolheaded...

Keep Calm and Carry On (Blogging)

2010-10-16T16:32:00.024-04:00

I needed a hostess gift for an upcoming dinner party so today I stopped by my favorite store, P.O.S.H. The initials refer to the old term "Port out, Starboard home," the preferred way to sail to India in the days of the British Empire, because it ensured that first class travelers were protected from the sun both directions. (This is also the origin of the word "posh," which would no doubt be news to a certain Mrs. David Beckham, the former Posh Spice, who frequently sports a deep though possibly faux tan.)

Full of one-of-a-kind treasures, P.O.S.H. is a dangerous place for me since I want to buy absolutely everything in the store, either for myself or someone else. (Know any Premier Exec or 1K frequent flyers? How perfect would the vintage United Airlines china be for them?)

I was reasonably restrained on today's visit, opting for Tocca candles in a pretty robin's egg blue box for my dinner party hostess. Then I threw in a "Keep Calm and Carry On" canvas bag since I love the poster on which the design is based. (I promptly transferred a couple of bottles of Prosecco into the bag, then wore it out of the store, where it immediately drew stares and comments.)

The "Keep Calm and Carry On" logo is in the public domain, so lots of enterprising types have put it on everything from bookmarks to coffee mugs. I read up on it and was surprised to learn that while intended for propaganda during WWII, the original poster was scarcely displayed in England. It only gained its iconic (and ironic) status later. (I'm particularly fond of this "Now It Is Time to Panic" alternative poster, which would be ideal in my kitchen, were I ever to try my hand at a dinner party...)

Got Medieval (fools, on a ship)

2010-10-11T22:38:00.002-04:00

I was recently introduced to the wonderful Got Medieval website, which, in addition to erudite and funny discussions of illuminated manuscripts, frequently features monkeys from the middle ages (though perhaps not middle-aged monkeys) creating mayhem. (And there's a cool store at Café Press; I am definitely buying one of the monkey magnets.)

My grandmother was a book and print collector who gave me three framed black and white prints that are actually illustrations from an old manuscript. (Yes, it’s painful when books are destroyed to make art, but I doubt she was the culprit… more likely she purchased these already cut and framed.) After perusing the Got Medieval site I was inspired to try to learn more about the artwork. I don’t have a home carbon-dating kit, but I did carefully disassemble one frame to examine the (Medieval coffee-stained?) page.

I tried translating the Latin and could somewhat match the text up to the Bible verses cited on the lower right, particularly the lines from Matthew 6:24 about not being able to serve two masters, God and mammon. (In the Latin Vulgate Bible, nemo potest duobus dominis servire aut enim unum odio habebit et alterum diliget aut unum sustinebit et alterum contemnet non potestis Deo servire et mamonae.) After searching around, I found that the illustrations are from a 1494 satire by Sebastian Brant called Stultifera Navis, or The Ship of Fools. (Though it's not clear to me how old my pages are; they certainly could be from a much later printing of the book, maybe even from the 19th century.)

Alas, I found no monkey illustrations, but in another of my prints we have a bunch of merry folk venerating a cow balanced somewhat precariously on a nifty pedestal. (Something tells me this isn’t going to make God very happy.) I assume that were I to open this frame and look at the text, I would find a reference to the story of the golden calf in Exodus 32. (Spoiler alert: it doesn’t end well for the calf.)

Now here's the lovely part: Chicago's Newberry Library has a copy. The even lovelier part: the stunning woodblock prints are attributed to a young Albrecht Durer. (I'm a geek, I know, but this makes me swoon.) And, as a special Columbus Day treat, it turns out the book contains the first literary reference to the discovery of America.

Garden & Gun

2010-10-09T15:18:00.003-04:00

My readers know I'm a magazine fiend. But I thought Garden & Gun was a joke when I first spied the title in Lexington last weekend. ("Honey, this new issue of Garden & Gun makes me want to take the Glock out to the vegetable patch for a little weed whacking!")*

Turns out it's real, and perfect for my family; even the more liberal branches on the tree know how to handle guns (though perhaps not at the same time as they are gardening).

My cousin and I analyzed the content and tried to figure out what reader segment the magazine is targeting. Garden & Gun is avowedly Southern in tone and content, and it appears to be trying to reach male and female readers equally. I'd call it a hybrid of the late lamented lifestyle magazines Victoria and Gourmet, with a dash of British staple Country Life, not to mention more than a jigger of Southern Living and Field & Stream.

Beautiful photographs abound. (Actually, not many guns or gardens appear, despite the name... and the current cover.) The writing is lovely. I may just have to subscribe!

(*Credit for the 'weed whacking' line goes to the incredibly witty Pamela Chanko, who won the first annual Garden & Gun pun contest on my Facebook page...)

Madame Dubarry (and her Galway boots)

2010-10-05T19:37:00.001-04:00

While we were at the World Equestrian Games this past weekend, my observant (and slightly boot-obsessed) cousin pointed out that many of the women tromping around the fields at the cross-country event were wearing brown leather Galway boots by Dubarry (an Irish company despite the French name). The boots have been popular in Europe for years. The eventing crowd particularly loves them because the Gore-Tex lining means Galways are impervious to leaks, and thus can be worn when splashing through the water obstacles on the cross-country course. (Riders walk the course so they can figure out what angle to take through the difficult elements, including the crowd-pleasing hurdles requiring horses to jump into and out of water.)

I’m curious what will be the tipping point to make the boots fashionable outside of the horsey set. Hunter Wellies famously crossed over from country wear to chic city attire when model Kate Moss was photographed sporting them (paired with short shorts) on a muddy day five years back. Will a similar sighting--perhaps on Kate Middleton, who loves boots and Prince William, not necessarily in that order--make Dubarry Galways all the rage among urban women who’ve never mucked out a horse stall in their lives? Though I should point out that the boots are currently available in the US only via the Dubarry website or from saddle shops, rather than on Zappos or Piperlime, and the price point is quite high ($439). So they will likely never become as ubiquitous as Uggs or Wellies.

I confess that I’m tempted to invest in a pair of Galways since they would make admirable snow boots and would last for years. Could it be that the Tailored Woman (who does not date Prince William, or any prince for that matter, ahem) will herself spark a trend? Stay tuned!

(Just for fun I’ve added the Elisabeth Vigee-Lebrun portrait of the real Madame du Barry, the former courtesan who became the last mistress of Louis XV. I’m sure her boots were a little more delicate. As, alas, was her neck, which met a grisly fate at the guillotine.)

In Which I Visit the World Equestrian Games (with a side trip to Bahrain)

2010-10-04T21:52:00.001-04:00

Each April and October I head down to Lexington to do something horsey with my cousin. We shook up our routine this past weekend; rather than our usual day at Keeneland racetrack, we went to the Kentucky Horse Park, site of the 2010 World Equestrian Games (or 'WEG,' for those in the know). This is the first year the games, the Olympics of the horse world, have been held outside of Europe. I'm pleased to report that Lexington has done a fine job thus far. The park looked splendid and the whole city is decorated with colorfully-painted horse statues. (Similar to the jaunty cows that took over Chicago a while back.)

We watched the cross-country event, in which horse and rider negotiate an extremely demanding series of elements over rough outdoor terrain. The course was a tribute to Kentucky, with, among others, a log cabin hurdle (Abraham Lincoln's birthplace), a Maker's Mark barrel element, and-- my favorite--a large felled tree with a giant squirrel standing guard at one end. (He strongly resembled the gopher from the movie Caddyshack and I kept waiting for him to start shimmying to "I'm Alright," which would have startled the horses indeed.) If you're curious what the course looks like, here's a video of the individual gold medal winner, Michael Jung of Germany.

After a couple of hours of tromping from element to element under the hot sun, we wandered off the course and there, shimmering in front of us, was the Veuve Cliquot tent. Such bliss to sink into a white leather couch in the shade.

Next stop was a tent set up by the Bahrain Economic Development Board. It, too, was white and shady, so we stepped inside to learn more about the smallest Arab nation. (Fine, we actually went in because we saw people exiting with an intriguing gift bag.) The tie-in with WEG is that the Royal Endurance Team is competing at the games, but the real purpose was to advertise how business-friendly Bahrain is to Westerners. The gift bag contained a baseball cap reading, surprisingly enough, "Bahrain." There was also a nice bound journal with a pearl on it, since prior to the discovery of oil, the kingdom's main industry was pearl fishing. But the best (and most astonishingly generous) gift was a silver-plated box, the sort of thing one would place on a vanity to hold pins and rings.

I felt a little guilty as I examined our hoard. The lovely folks behind this tent probably imagined having all kinds of big shot racehorse owners coming through, eager to invest in the island kingdom. Instead, they got sunburned tourists and jaded bloggers who simply wanted to invest in another glass of bubbly!

A Pretty Prosecco

2010-09-29T23:22:00.003-04:00

I've enjoyed a few festive outings this month involving sparkling wine. At one such event I was introduced to a delicious but modestly priced Prosecco, Riondo. It retails for about $12 per bottle. Look for the oval green label.

(It's possible my birthday was involved at another party or two. But to paraphrase Oscar Wilde, a woman who would tell her age would tell anything. And I'm only going to confess what I was tippling, not how many candles were on the cake.)

On the Paris Hilton 'Problem'

2010-09-25T12:14:00.002-04:00

No, I'm not referring to her recent arrest for cocaine or whatever it was in her purse. Yawn.

I finally got around to reading last Monday's Wall Street Journal supplement on estate planning, in which two learned gentlemen (Michael J. Graetz and Ed McCaffery) give opposing viewpoints on the estate tax, an issue I've weighed in on previously. Both writers cite Paris Hilton as an example of a parasitic heir, calling this syndrome the real problem with passing on inherited wealth.

I've got news for these guys. Paris Hilton doesn't live on a trust fund. As she herself has proudly proclaimed, she makes more money from being Paris Hilton than she will ever inherit from being merely a Hilton. Of course, she would never earn what she does (mainly from relentless promotions... she allegedly commands hundreds of thousands of dollars for paid 'appearances' at nightclubs and parties) did she not possess the famous last name and its attendant connections in the entertainment world.

Nonetheless, the problem is not with Paris or any other moderately attractive but entirely vacuous "celebutant." (I'm looking at you, Kardashian sisters.) The problem, dear readers, is those of us who finance these lifestyles by watching reality TV programs, buying tabloid magazines, reading gossip sites (c.f. Perez Hilton, a parasite's parasite, down to his name)... you get the point. (Though I honestly don't get the point of paying to get into a club where the 'celebrities' are roped off behind a velvet cordon as though they were exotic beasts. Which I suppose they are.)

Such activities seem innocent enough, just guilty pleasures, but the implications when multiplied by millions of people are fairly disturbing. We live in (and most of us actively contribute to) a society that rewards the superficial over the substantive, spawning monsters such as 'The Situation' who are far worse--not to mention richer--than a few spoiled trust fund kids. Until and unless that changes, the estate tax--which brings in a small amount of revenue and affects a tiny percentage of the population--is just a chimera.

And now if you'll excuse me, I've got to head to the gym. Where, after this hectoring post, I'll have to pass up Us Weekly on the magazine rack and instead choose the New Yorker or at least Sports Illustrated. (Though these days, even those may not be safe, Hilton-free choices. But I do what I can.)

My Favorite Speakeasies

2010-09-23T22:16:00.001-04:00

Here is the Boardwalk Empire Speakeasy Tour video I mentioned in my previous post about the new HBO show. Three Chicago speakeasies are featured, and of course I particularly enjoyed the segment on Twin Anchors.

The 21 Club appears in the New York segment. Eugene K. Denton, the Tailored Woman's owner, was a regular. But my favorite New York speakeasy, Chumley's, does not appear; it has yet to reopen after part of the building collapsed a couple of years back. The cozy pub had a wonderful literary atmosphere with book covers and author photos lining the walls. Chumley's address, 86 Bedford Street, was said to be the origin of the expression "To 86 someone," since patrons fled out the garden door if the cops arrived. Let's hope we can all get back in someday soon.

On This (Super) Harvest Moon

2010-09-22T23:07:00.000-04:00

My two favorite full moons in the year are the Harvest Moon (September) and the Hunter's Moon (October).

According to Chicago's Adler Planetarium, tonight is the first time in nearly 20 years that we've had a full moon on the first full day of autumn (the autumnal equinox), so it qualifies as a Super Harvest Moon. (No cape, but a gorgeous orange glow in the sky... be sure to take a look, preferably while humming a little Neil Young.)

In Which I Make My YouTube Debut!

2010-09-13T21:03:00.000-04:00

Oh my goodness. I just discovered that my friends at Essay Fiesta were secretly taping me while I read at last March's event! Seriously, I was so focused on just getting through the reading without hyperventilating that I did not even see the camera.

I knew the essay pretty much by heart so I focused on the audience as I was reading. I didn't get many laughs; I guess my humor was too subtle. (Or, you know, entirely lacking.) And the word "privileged" (as in, I grew up in a moderately privileged family) clearly ruffled some feathers. It's a dirty word these days. One young woman near the front made a sour lemon face after I read that line and then radiated hostility at me for the rest of the essay. But the lovely Keith Ecker and Alyson Lyon, not to mention the other readers, could not have made me feel more welcome, and it was all for a good cause, the Howard Brown Health Center.

I have not been brave enough to watch more than the first 15 seconds of this, chiefly because I look like an alien. Or a cartoon character. So you watch it instead and tell me how I did. (It's ten minutes. Yes, you may fast forward.)

As the saying goes, when you talk about me--and you will--be kind. (Though strangely enough, I can't find the citation for that quote. Anyone?)

Lips That Touch Liquor (shall touch ours): Boardwalk Empire

2010-09-12T10:49:00.002-04:00

I'm eagerly awaiting the debut next Sunday of the Martin Scorsese-produced HBO series Boardwalk Empire, set in Atlantic City during Prohibition. In a former life I spent quite a lot of time 'down the shore' in the towns near AC. And as I've posted previously, my grandfather made his own bathtub gin during Prohibition. So I come by my flapper tendencies naturally.

I just registered to receive a speakeasy password to attend a party at one of three participating Chicago cocktail bars this week: Violet Hour, Bar Deville or The Exchange. The parties, which will also take place in New York and Philadelphia, are sponsored by Canadian Club as part of an ambitious marketing campaign for the new series.

HBO visited real former speakeasies to film segments that will be available via On Demand. The other week a friend and I stopped into one of them, Old Town's venerable Twin Anchors, a rib joint made famous by Frank Sinatra's patronage. It was a quiet night so genial owner Paul showed us the half door in the wall by the jukebox leading to the stairwell of the apartment buidling next door. Patrons could crouch down and scurry through it in the event of a police raid.

Always good to know the location of one's escape route, no?

A Reliable Wife (and the girls of murder city)

2010-09-09T22:00:00.000-04:00

I just flipped through A Reliable Wife, memoirist Robert Goolrick's bestselling debut novel. Terrific plot, amateurish writing. (Which means I assume he got a great movie deal.) There's quite a lot of telling, not showing, as we learn what demons drive beautiful Catherine Land to leave her tawdry, whoreish life in Chicago to marry a man she's never met in a bleak Wisconsin town. I stuck it out by skipping every expository paragraph; this made the plot even more exciting since I had to fill in the blanks.

I have higher hopes for The Girls of Murder City: Fame, Lust, and the Beautiful Killers Who Inspired Chicago. I'm only one chapter in, but Douglas Perry's writing sings (no pun intended) as he introduces the true murderesses behind the musical (and movie) Chicago. (Thanks to my killer friend Sadia for reminding me to pick up this book!)

A Light Meal Aboard the Minnewaska

2010-09-04T15:13:00.003-04:00

I read that the FDA is expanding its calorie-posting efforts; movie theatres and airlines will soon need to post nutritional information.

I wonder if cruise ships are next. Here's a menu from the S.S. Minnewaska, part of the Atlantic Transport Line. One of my ancestors--possibly my great-grandmother, who was slender despite eating meals such as this--traveled to England aboard the ship in 1909.

Can you imagine figuring out the calorie counts for this Edwardian feast? I confess that I had to research some of the culinary terms. Interesting that baked ham (which I did not need to look up) comes after the entrees, between salad and dessert. (Just a little light palate cleanser?) Sweetbreads Toulousaine appears in the famed Escoffier Cookbook, which means it's a ridiculously complicated recipe. It involves, among other things, truffles and chicken-forcemeat quenelles. (Forcemeat is finely ground and spiced meat and quenelles are fancy dumplings.) As for Squab a l'Americaine, that sounds like plain old American pigeon... something I encounter every day at the Western Blue Line stop and thus have no need to cross the Atlantic to sample.

Incidentally, the Minnewaska was requisitioned as a British army troop transport vessel in 1915. She struck a mine off of Crete and had to be sold as scrap; a sad end to a grand ship.

An Alaskan Light

2010-08-29T21:04:00.000-04:00

I like to joke about how close my family has come to various events of historical or social significance, but I'm happy (and proud) to report that someone in the clan actually delivered. My cousin Mead Treadwell easily won last Tuesday's Republican primary for Lieutenant Governor of Alaska. Mead is the former chair of the Arctic Research Commission and a brilliant man devoted to his family and his adopted state. Alaskans will be lucky to have him in Juneau.

We have a few other politicians lurking around the family tree--including a much more distant cousin, our current President. (Don't believe me? Click here for that post.)

W(hat) the... have they done to W?!

2010-08-22T21:23:00.000-04:00

It's fall fashion issue season. Nice to see some thick tomes on the newsstands for once; most magazines have grown rather thin of late, as advertising dollars continue to dwindle. (And Time, to name one, appears to be suffering from anorexia. Someone give this magazine a cheeseburger, stat!)

The September issue of W is shocking not for being svelte--indeed, the magazine weighs in at a healthy and reassuring 404 pages--but for its new cover style. The "W" now slants in a strange, slightly squeezed-looking manner, as do the headlines along the left side. Even worse, the magazine went for a Vanity Fair-style cover pic, a three-fold group portrait of hot young actresses. It's all wrong, like a 50 year old mom wearing lingerie and dark glasses in public. (Oh, wait. That was Madonna on the cover of W last year.)

The redesign is the handiwork of new editor Stefano Tonchi, and I'm not a fan. Much like a Playboy subscriber, I always say that I read W for the articles -- quirky stories about, for example, European countesses restoring their family chateaux. (Sometimes I wonder just how many of them are out there; W seems to find one every month.) But I'm afraid I glimpsed nothing of interest in Tonchi's pages, too exhausted by the effort required to decipher all of that slanty script.

I can't wait to see the crotchety letters to the editor next month!

Eat, Pray, Love... Annoy?

2010-08-17T11:33:00.002-04:00

The movie version of Elizabeth Gilbert's mega-selling memoir Eat, Pray, Love opened strongly this past weekend, though the unabashed chick flick couldn't quite take down the assortment of action boys starring in The Expendables. (Is it odd that I would be more likely to see the latter movie? I'll take Jason Statham over Julia Roberts any day...)

Here's a post I wrote a couple of years ago. I did eventually (grudgingly) read the book, and yes, I enjoyed it.

So I was picking up a book at the library yesterday and the woman in front of me in line was asking if she could renew her copy of Eat, Pray, Love.

I can't believe I haven't read the bestseller yet, if only because it assaults me wherever I go. Stacks of it in every bookstore, including the one at O'Hare. The woman next to me on the plane last week was reading it. And today I was perusing the Wall Street Journal on the treadmill at the gym... and there it was on the first page, an article subtitled, "A calculated approach for Eat, Pray, Love; Memoir Strikes a Nerve." (Or grates on one...)

Apparently Gilbert's story of divorce followed by spiritual renewal is selling even better in paperback than it did in hardback, because of a stealth marketing campaign masquerading as word of mouth buzz that included advertising in non-literary publications such as Yoga Journal. The publisher (Viking's Penguin line) also sent Gilbert on a 20+ city tour to support the paperback, almost unheard of in these days where writers are increasingly doing only "virtual tours" online.

Hmm. I wonder if Penguin pays women to go around to libraries endlessly reserving Gilbert's book--both to keep the word of mouth action going, and to force patrons to buy the damned thing, since it's never available on the shelves.

Now that would be clever.

Aunt Jane's Crazy Mixed-Up Wasps

2010-08-15T12:06:00.001-04:00

The September issue of Vanity Fair has an excerpt from True Prep, the forthcoming Preppy Handbook sequel I posted about previously. The passage on "Who We Are Now" made me laugh outloud:

Formerly Wasp. Failing that, white and heterosexual. One day we became curious or bored and wanted to branch out, and before you knew it, we were all mixed up.

Well, that's the way we like it, even if Grandmother did disapprove and didn't go to the wedding ceremony. (Did she ever stop talking about the “barefoot and pregnant bride”? Ever?) And now one of our nieces, MacKenzie, is a researcher at the C.D.C. in Atlanta and is engaged to marry the loveliest man … Rajeem, a pediatrician who went to Duke. And Kelly is at Smith, and you know what that means. And our son Cal is married to Rachel, and her father the cantor married them in a lovely ceremony. Katie, our daughter, is a decorative artist living in Philadelphia with Otis, who is a professor of African-American studies at Swarthmore. And then there's Bailey, our handsome little nephew. Somehow, all he wants to do is ski, meet girls, and drink beer.

Well, there's one out of five.

Allow me to decode the reference to Smith College... when I arrived at Sarah Lawrence for my freshman year, there was an anguished line of graffiti in the women's bathroom at the library: "Where have all the young lesbians gone?!" Someone else had scrawled, "SMITH!" in bold letters underneath.

And for those of you who didn't grow up on it, my title refers to what I believe used to be called Aunt Jane's Crazy Mixed-Up Salt--we used it on everything from popcorn to steak--but now appears to be known as "Jane's Krazy Mixed-Up Seasonings." (I do not approve of dropping the reference to the salt's genealogical heritage, nor do I 'kare' for the alternate spelling of crazy.)

The Half-Life of Easy Girls

2010-08-11T23:12:00.000-04:00

One of the agents I'm targeting for my book proposal is open to memoir, but seems to be signing almost exclusively young adult novelists these days. Smart guy. After the spectacular success of the Twilight and Gossip Girl series, YA is a bright spot in an increasingly unstable publishing world. Even Sex and The City author Candace Bushnell has jumped on board with The Carrie Diaries, her account of Carrie Bradshaw's high school years.

Alas, this doesn't help me since I'm not a novelist and even if I were, I don't think I have the right voice for that audience. My friend Brendan Halpin, who started as a memoirist, has, however, easily made the transition. He co-wrote The Half-Life of Planets with Emily Franklin, another prolific YA author. (When I met her at a book reading, Franklin said that she thought they'd make a great writing team because she could see her characters dating his characters. How cute is that?) Released earlier this summer, the story of a girl with a reputation--she's been tarred with the dreaded "s" word, though she's really more of a kissing bandit--and a boy with Asperger's syndrome is getting great reviews. (No surprise there to any of us who've enjoyed Brendan's previous books.)

Speaking of teen girls who've been falsely labeled as sluts, I'm looking forward to the September release of Easy A, which was partially inspired by The Scarlet Letter. The trailer makes it look smart and witty. Plus the movie boasts some of the funniest (adult) actors around: Lisa Kudrow, Patricia Clarkson and Stanley Tucci. (I'm not all that clear on the young leads, Emma Stone and Penn Badgley, though I believe the latter stars in the TV version of Gossip Girl.)

At any rate, it has to be an improvement on Demi Moore's execrable 1995 "adaptation" of the Hawthorne classic, in which Moore's liberated Hester Prynne battles injuns. (Really, you can't make this stuff up. Well, I mean, someone obviously did, but it wasn't Hawthorne!)

Prep Like Me

2010-08-09T23:04:00.000-04:00

I'm delighted to see that Lisa Birnbach, who brought us the The Official Preppy Handbook way back in 1980, is finally issuing a sequel.

True Prep will be released in September, promising to help would-be preppies negotiate what the book's subtitle calls a whole new world. (Updates include tips on cell phone etiquette and, no doubt, handling shameless, publicity-seeking bloggers.)

I just watched the promotional clip on Amazon, and I love this good-natured quote from Birnbach, who is Jewish: "Everyone can be a preppy, there's no barrier to it. You want it, we'll let you in. Now, some people might not want me in... but I wrote the book!"

Amen to that.

Vixens and their feathered prey

2010-08-05T21:28:00.001-04:00

My wonderful cousin just bought this Tailored Woman hat and hatbox for me at a vintage store on Etsy. I love it! Can't you see me walking down Michigan Avenue in feathered splendor?

I also love the descriptor the vintage store used: "Mad Men, Vixen, Bombshell, Rockabilly." (Well, everything but the last term, which doesn't really go with my secret fantasy image of myself as a film noir siren.)

"Vixen" is such a great word. I knew it meant a female fox, but I was surprised that "a shrewish ill-tempered woman" is the first definition, followed by the more popular usage, "a sexually attractive woman." Hmm. Interesting that those two are so closely linked. Misogyny? Fear? Well, best take cover when I get my feathers on and head out on the prowl!

The Most Economical Primate (Hint: It's not man...)

2010-08-04T22:37:00.000-04:00

I haven’t posted any monkey news lately, so I thought I would share this study about Orangutans. (Yes I know, they are properly apes, not monkeys.)

Turns out Orangutans aren’t being lazy when they hang out in trees all day; rather, they are highly-evolved energy conservation specialists! But one side effect of their low calorie diet appears to be a correspondingly low birth rate.

Hmm --thrifty and proponents of population control. Reminds me of another primate group I know!

Mad Men Marry Women Who Hate To Cook

2010-08-01T22:22:00.000-04:00

Some of you have noted that, based on the available photographic evidence, I tend to favor red. (In fact, I really only wear four colors: black, white, red and gray.)

White House Black Market, my favorite chain store, is offering a number of gorgeous red pieces for fall, including a suit I saw in the new issue of Glamour that apparently isn't in stores or online yet. It's very curvy and retro and Mad Men-esque. I'll post a photo once I find it; in the meantime, here's a completely impractical but romantic red rosette purse that's on my must-have list. (Do you think I can fit one Blackberry, let alone two, in there?)

Speaking of Mad Men and the early 1960s era it evokes, The I Hate to Cook Book is being re-released in a 50th anniversary edition. The late Peg Bracken's campy and hilarious classic appealed to the frazzled suburban housewives married to the real-life counterparts of Don Draper and his ilk. I own an old paperback version, though I can't confess to have tried any of the slightly scary recipes (heavy on the packaged soup mix, meaty stews and other items that might make it tough to fit into that sleek red suit...)

Everyone Loves a Parade (and some nice vintage linens!)

2010-07-28T22:50:00.001-04:00

Just bought this wonderful photo on eBay of a parade passing the Tailored Woman store at 57th and 5th. The seller thinks it was a campaign parade for Wendell Willkie, the Republican candidate for president in 1940. (He lost, of course, to Roosevelt, who was elected for his 3rd term.) Willkie was actually a liberal in many ways and Roosevelt ended up using him as an ambassador-at-large.

I know I should be more interested in politics, but what caught my eye is the shop name on the right of the building: Grande Maison de Blanc. Apparently this was an outpost of the grand Parisian linen store of the same name. Some gorgeous goods from the store are available at various vintage boutiques online. (Where I may or may not be browsing right now!)

The Mary Frances Scowling Book

2010-07-27T21:13:00.001-04:00

Damn, there went a button on a favorite pair of shorts. So I guess it's off to the dry cleaner's.

My mother despairs that despite all of her efforts when I was young, I still can't sew a button. I did love listening to the sound of her sewing machine when she was at work whipping something up. And I really loved my grandmother's copy of The Mary Frances Sewing Book (originally published in 1913--when my grandmother was 3--but still in print).

The book, part of a series meant to encourage little girls in their pursuit of the home arts, was full of color plates with patterns for gorgeous outfits. I especially loved the ermine cuffs fit for a princess and the red cape, very Little Red Riding Hood-esque. (Here's a link to a blog where a woman recreated the outfits.)

Alas, mom never made one of the outfits for me. Or rather, for one of my dolls. So you see, it's her fault that I never learned to love life among the thimble people and instead scowl when faced with a lost button.

Philly on the Cheap

2010-07-26T22:52:00.000-04:00

I realize this isn't a bargain travel blog, but I had to share my budget hotel find: Club Quarters. The one at 17th and Chestnut in Philadelphia has rooms as low as $89 per night on weekends, when the hotel's bread and butter business customers are gone. (I checked out the weekend rates for the new Club Quarters - World Trade Center in New York and was equally impressed with $139 for a club studio.)

My room at the Philly hotel was very basic, but who cares for that price. I enjoyed the quiet club ambiance--hushed conversations, newspapers, and a nice little library--in the second floor lobby. And my friend Beth and I very much enjoyed happy hour at the adjoining Davio's restaurant. (Free appetizers and $5 drink specials from 5-7.)

I recommend, however, skipping breakfast at Davio's and instead strolling south down 17th a few blocks to Little Pete's, a quintessential Philly joint, for a breakfast sandwich or an omelet served up fast, cheap and greasy.

Now what are you going to do with all that money I just saved you? (Perhaps spend it on heartburn tablets?)

Hail to the Chief

2010-07-24T19:01:00.001-04:00

I took the week off from work and tried as much as possible to put the Blackberry away as well. Hence no posts lately.

First up on my vacation tour was bucolic Leelanau County, Michigan. I've written about this area before: It's like a living Ralph Lauren ad, with beautiful, fresh-scrubbed blond people zipping about the lake on gleaming vintage Chris Craft boats. (And then there's my family. I'm glad they passed some kind of exemption allowing brunettes to enter the county.) I stayed at historic Fountain Point Resort, owned by dear family friends, and soon to be the site of the Lake Leelanau Rowing Club. (My mom, cousin-in-law and I all rowed and we decided we should put together a women's four--if the club will have us, and if we can find a fourth willing to put up with us. This may be no small feat.)

Had one day back in Chicago before turning around and heading to Philly to enjoy yet more 100 degree weather while catching up with friends and attending the office party there. Here's a shot of me posing as your new Commander in Chief, resplendent in Republican red, courtesy of a cool interactive exhibit at the National Constitution Center, where the party was held. From the looks of it my political style is sassy and assertive, yet unfocused and blurry around the edges. Some might say the whole thing falls apart on closer inspection. (Very Sarah Palin of me, no?)