The Blushing Hostess Entertains

Ringing

2011-03-15T06:54:00.005-04:00

Darlings. These are for you. I've missed you too. Thank you for your notes and letters. There are no excuses. I should have written to you more often. But, sit with me for a minute, will you? You have your coffee or cuppa? Okay then, let's visit.

I've noticed recently, there are several things which wake one from a dead sleep: real or figurative.

A phone which rings at nine at night when your baby is horrendously sick and you have finally managed to get the torrent to slow enough so that she can sleep for a minute next to you, is one of those things. Even if she were well, I hate the time I have the children cuddled in their short little-hood to be infringed upon. Who doesn't? They will only be babies for about five minutes, the next thing you know they are deeming certain forks at the table, "inappropriate."

As life has progressed, I have had all those late night calls that somewhere the world was on fire and someone needed informed: In graduate school on a paramedic unit the sound of a phone ringing in the blackness of night likely meant someone's future literally was ablaze, and in my career when bombings or acts of nature occurred and it involved colleagues or our partners, then the phone would ring and ring.

The call that woke my tiny girl and I that night was not an emergency though, at least not any of the sort I've known. But it hammered the silence in a house that had struggled for it, deserved it. And it hammered a lot of other things too.

Sometimes a call is not just a call. Sometimes it is a wake up call: Your baby is sick. You choose the important thing now; take that call and allow the day to overtake the night and the sanctity of a home. Or you take your stand for the world you have made outside your work.

All of a sudden, you realize, only in theory, why the famous line in the sand was drawn at the Alamo, and you know just where yours is located.

My line is at seven pm in the evening. After that, the caller risks waking me in more than one way.

That is to say, gorgeous ones, I'm back.

Commanded by the Queen

2011-02-20T08:24:00.001-05:00

Fascinating. In the sense that the word "commanded" does seem to make the word "invite" a misnomer of sorts, no?

By request: Contradictions (revisited)

2011-01-20T05:24:00.000-05:00

Originally published on Blushing Hostess Entertains on November 3, 2009 and republished now by request, Contradictions. To the long-time reader who asked for it once again - my pleasure, I am humbled.

When I think of what we have been through, you and I: All those things we endured although we quietly appeared on this page and read about God knows what besides who we really were and what was really going on in our lives: Centerpieces, sterling. It is remarkable how much of ourselves remains uncovered on both sides of the monitor.

At times, those things I am compelled to cover because they are part of my niche, sometimes make me want to bounce off the walls with boredom. Because life is so much bigger than this and there is so much more to you and I.

Have you read Martha Stewart's work? She never diverges. Once in awhile she will give an interview and there is a sign that she is deeper and greater than the sum of all her irons, garden trowels, and cakes; none of that appears on the headers of Omnimedia. When she admits to being a cougar there is an outcry because she is assumed to be one-dimensional. But she is decidedly not.

There must be a misconception, generally, about women who keep well-appointed homes and are skilled domestically. Now, I will grant that I am young and consequently having the mantle of grand dame and task master hurled upon my shoulders is not appealing for the overtones of moth balls and wool crepe I sense in the accusation. Intentionally, I have walked a fine line here and the content is geared to keep my mind away from the campor because the "hostess" subject matter is inherently mined with the stuff, only it is pleasantly tagged as "tradition". I have lived at least long enough to know a lot of this skill is what a person has been taught or picked up and has little to do with gender or social strata. Furthermore, the fact that one knows how to polish glassware and get stains out of damask does not alone make her a dyed-in-the-wool church lady.

Between myself and the twenty-somethings reading though, there is a decided gap. If they are single, they can make the mistake of thinking they are a long way from where I stand today. A well appointed life has no boundaries: Genderless, ageless, timeless. Just because we were getting away with things in our college house does not mean we were less obligated. Ours at Providence had everything it should have, only it was slapped together; obviously more geared to affording to go out than to be at home among our stuff.

Nonetheless; good girls, from good homes, and had you come to dinner, you would have been well served. Even then. In a house where, mysteriously, every time my roommate went out at night, she came home missing a shoe (and we were grateful that was all). If you knew her, you would be nodding right now at her contradictions too. She, not unlike others in that house, is a cocktail of a girl: Polished, confident, sharp-tonged, fiercely bright, well put together, and privately, one of the edgiest people I know. All the good ones are.

The other day, when I talked you about tattoos, were there ever emails (and just a reminder to those souls: Hate is monetized, so keep it coming). Then I happened to be over at blog-friend LPC's page reading about her Doc Martens. And it occurred to me that there must be a misconception that we should write from a one-dimensional perspective and accept an if-then relationship with our subject matter: If I know about china patterns and centerpieces, then, I must be a starched grand-old girl? If I married a Naval officer of an old tradition, then I must be a girl who wears twinsets and pearls and never asks for too much for herself in this itinerant life of his?

Nothing and no one is a straight line but sometimes the shade from blog trees overhead might lead some to believe the writers here might be as easily explained-away as their general subject matter. The depth, layers, and scars of the person before us have always seemed so much more worthy of investigation than their dust jackets, for me.

Moreover, if you are going to read a blogger or a magablog for any period of time, chances are you need them to have had as many lives as a cat, ridden high and crashed and burned mightily, and known a few characters who made them, broke them, loved them, and hated them. Who could stand it if they just went on and on about china day in and day out without any color whatsoever?

The people in this world of mine are good and dangerous. They live amongst these missives. Willingly. Their choice is to be heralded and infamous on these pages by virtue of having decided not to miss out on this one life, and in turn, this one page. In a sense, now that we have you, all have agreed to the shadowy explanation that is Blushing. To put perfect clarity to the thing that is me, or her, or it, would cause us all to live in the blinding light of a less than perfect reality. You did not sign up for that, neither did we or they, in many ways. So we must agree: Parts of me, us, her, belong to you. The rest is in the air somewhere.

In parts, all here kind of know Blushing. But the truth is, "she" is a little something we tolerate when keeping it real might be too out of character for the readership's tolerence. But we are all coming about.

Here, let me explain for the fifteenth time that this is both hand painted and - excitingly! - dishwasher safe! I care about it, because I need to serve food, but I am not living and dying by it. No, no. I save that drama for grilled shrimp at Safe Harbor, which I would lay down my life to protect.

Before we go any further, then, it is best for all concerned to understand that this still-young life has been lived at a furious and sometimes wild pace. Unapologetically.

Contradictions within a person are what make the ride with them worth the time, and in the end, worth the fall. Martha Stewart is no less an authority on table setting because she sleeps with young guys, LPC is no less the high wasp for her Doc Martens, and I too am no less this hostess because I was inked when I was 22.

If I told you I was anything less than green with jealousy that our men's colleagues can own up to their experiences with vigor, acceptance (in most cases), and pride, I would be a bold faced liar (as I have told them ad nausea). At the same time, I like a woman's cloak of mystery, and when it comes to letting mine slip occasionally here so that we might know one another better, it is not my favorite sensation, admittedly.

I have not a clue where the balance is but I am also not losing sleep over placing it on this page accurately.

If you judged me for classically educated of a fine home, conservative, and reverent then you have me safely right on one count.

Welcome to The Blushing Hostess. Be advised, she is a real live girl.

Photos: Temporary quarters at Jacksonville, 2009.

Glamour and elegance: The mutually exclusive age ends

2011-01-17T15:08:00.005-05:00

If you catch me in a super market, I am asleep. Fair warning. You could gently remove that duck breast from my basket and take one solid whack at my head and there is a chance I might not flinch. It's become raaaawther mundane. Not unlike the chart-topping bore that is my dining room.

Look. I am in good company here, a lot of brilliant interior types, among them, long time friend of Blushing, Mrs. Blanding's for one; find that room a challenge. If not the worst kind. "The national disaster that is my dining room," is how she bravely referred to her own dining room, but just as easily to mine (only, more bravely, she published the photos).

Mine is in that category because it lacks imagination and the small swooshes of color and depth of texture it deserves and I prefer. It is, after all, housing the Fort Knox of porcelain, it should be treated with some reverence. Some glamour.

While that notion has been the battering ram my mind takes to that room whenever I find myself there, it was going no where. I was not in love, conceptually, with the modern notion of glamour although I knew the inspiration headed in that direction. And the old notion of glamour will only put bright rouge lipstick on an 1880 farmhouse. Mirrored tables and the like; just everywhere I look. And enough already; okay, okay, I got it. It does not spell glamour for me, and it is a toll call from there to elegance.

No apologies. I read all the interiors ink; I'm informed. Just because it is trend, no one expects me to love it. Only to tolerate seeing it all over and wishing the owners had a come-to-Jesus regarding fingerprints and Windex. Pay to play, I say.

I digress.

But then, like a raw duck breast to the temple, something elegantly masculine-come-glamour knocked me over.

The Veranda, 2011 cover is that duck breast. Dining room: consider yourself warned.

Heuriger: New excuse for a lawn party

2011-01-07T20:34:00.000-05:00

First off, you will know it by the pine bow above the door. There may never be any additional indicator. Remember that, it is critical. It is an old world signal, maybe a touch 007, a carefully guarded centuries-old remnant in part of this world. Neon signs be damned.

When you go to Vienna, and by all means, you should, you will have a great deal to do and little time to do it. You will have to pull yourself away from great music and architecture - not to mention Sacher tortes - to get loose of the city and make your way into the suburbs.

And (not that I wish to write your adventure for you), if you are sharp, you will turn up there on or after November 11th of each year and either stay for 300 days or some part thereof, and commit to getting yourself off the beaten path. Tip: If you are on a tour bus, you are already not living the dream... You will and should get lost. You need to come to terms with right this instant.

Now then. On those lightly beaten path's, truly known well only to locals, you will find heurigers; The vineyard houses belonging to wine producers where new wines are served in the year of their birth. Vienna, until recently when Madrid horned in, was the only metropolitan city that was also a wine growing region. Consequently, when oggling in downtown Vienna, you are never that far from the vine.

There is a great deal of imperial-law stickiness involved with heurigers but let's leave it at this: Vienna (Wein) producers may sell wines of the current vintage (For example: Grapes harvested in the fall of 2010 may first be served on November 11, 2010 or anytime for 300 days thereafter and still meet the criteria for "new" in Wein) directly from the vineyard houses, unbottled. An authentic heuriger will likely not use stemware but very average table water glasses or the like. Nothing about a heuriger is precious, so conquer your inner glassware princess before you pull up a picnic bench.

These establishments are not licensed as restaurants and in many ways were grandfathered into the Austrian equivalent of the food service governing bureau - gratefully.

They serve from a "communal table" or buffet, by law.

Initially, one had to provide their own food, heuringers in the modern age provide great buffets of local cuisine.

In my research I discovered the menu that follows. It's not health food, but look, if you do stay for 300 days, go easy on the meat drippings but remember, you only get one shot at life; balance. Chances are, this menu is incredibly appealing in its home and cooked by experienced hands: I'm in.

Geselchtes
Smoked bacon and other pork parts cut thickly and served with crusty bread.

Heurigenplatte
Sausage; cold, sliced pickled meat, cheese, chopped onions, sour pickles and a Laberl (bread roll).

Liptauer
Soft cheese generously spiced with paprika.

Quargel
Small cheese with chopped onions.

Saumeise
Ground meat smoked and boiled in a pig's net.

Saure Blunzen
Slice of blood sausage marinated in vinegar.

Schmalzbrot
Crusty bread spread with meat drippings.

Schweinebraten
Cold, sliced pork with bread.

Surbraten
Meat that has been pickled three weeks and then cooked and eaten warm.

Verhackerts
A spread made of minced sausage and meat.

- Global Gourmet

Locals will say the new wines always taste better under an open sky but their DNA has been refining its sensitivity to heuriger since the Middle Ages. I will take it indoors or out although the romanticism of drinking a new wine next to its vines is not lost on me either.

Austrian wines, in any environment, are glorious creatures, though I suspect they sparkle just a little more on the palate in a heuriger tasting. Roughly one-third of the regions' wines are blended, both red and white. Nearly all of it is consumed within Wein so you will likely need to go in person if you mean to taste them. The vast majority are whites which you may recognize: Gruner Veltliner, Muller-Thurgau, Reisling, Silvaner, Sauvignon Blanc, Pinot Gris, and Chardonnay (though these varietals are labelled with their local names). Reds are just as familiar: Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot.

There is a 300 day "new" period for wines of each vintage as some wines are aged for a period and take months for release versus some of their un-aged counterparts. Conceivably, throughout the newness time frame, you may find yourself back at a heuriger on several occasions to taste new releases of different blends and varietals. Obviously then, like an vineyard or winery, the time not to visit is during harvest and press: September through early November.

Although there is a heuriger in the United States - just one by name, it is far closer to a restaurant than the heuriger's I've described here you should really just go or...

Create a heuriger on the lawn when spring arrives and serve a pile of gorgeous new local vintages and have a heaping, gorgeous buffet? Once again, not being to precious about anything, which is patently against both the concept and everything Blushing is, anyhow.

Put a pine bow on the invitation and one over the door, don't forget.

Santa's new rig (aka Entertaining mythical non-entities and transients)

2010-12-13T06:45:00.012-05:00

I've put some thought into entertaining Santa this year.

This began innocently enough, with my Daughter remarking on the lit fireplace, "Be careful! You're going to burn Santa's boots!" Right on, Kid, it wouldn't hurt to light a fire under his ass.

Look, if everything said about the elf is true: He's no gentleman. I think he is the kind of guy who leaves the seat up and chews with his mouth open. I know this because one year when I was little, I suspect he did both those things judging by the trail of evidence in the house. These habits being altogether otherwordly in my Mother's mannerly kingdom, I think you'll agree, there remains no way I was wrong about the guy: He's a mess.

Further to my theory: One year he left the Barbie Dream House unassembled. He knew very well I could not follow an eight page manual partially written in French. I mean, really, guy?

Finally, he's no saint; keeps a reindeer up all night slogging all over creation in a blinding snowstorm and apparently is useless with operation of the front door.

Now, you remember last year around here, of course. The whole thing right and orderly: Jolly Old comes - chimney, what have you and then - cookie - good, scribble a little note, throw some gifts everywhere - then beat it next door.

And thank you very much.

But this house is full of girls. The women here, beginning with the one most closely in touch with the elf, feel he needs an image adjustment - er, correction perhaps. Firstly, without casting further aspirsions on Santa, we are not agreed he is a boy. We like to think he is above gender.

But if not, he is most likely a she and has refined taste in the boots that whoosh down the chimney; they are no one's buckled fire boots.

Secondly, Santa loves a note. Also, design-related books and scented glossy mags and could use a break to just kick back and flip through a few pages, you know? So, if you don't mind, could she have a bit of reading materials along with only a glass of water (she's not much of a milk drinker and she's driving). I think you note her car key here; of Scandinavian make for speed and turns in frigid cold. She doesn't believe in reindeer abuse; the modern sled has all wheel drive and Rudolph, always in shot-gun, is one hell of a navigator.

It has long been suspected that Rudolph carries the alias Pumpkin on any day but Christmas and is, in truth, a bit too porky to be alighting skyward between snowflakes.

Finally, that last myth with regards to the man: Santa has pretty thick skin but I'd be careful with the term right jolly old elf if you want anything out of the chimney arrangement this year.

Because, jolly might be pushing the issue when toys with a million pieces are involved. Maybe this elf sees a little devilish charm in this once-nightly festival of big wheels and dream houses. But jolly might be a misnomer of epic proportions. Safe to say at least, Santa can laugh at the consumer crisis that is Christmas still and the inexplicable line at Brookstone. Certainly Santa keeps amused, if not jolly.

And I don't know who you're calling old. But I assure you, Santa is not.

Three little words

2010-12-09T05:55:00.002-05:00

I know what you're thinkin'. But I don't write ballads, you know me better than that by now.

I was up on the hill behind the house today. A fiercly cold breeze made my nose tingle. I dug my hands deep into my pockets. It is undeniably that time; when those three words start to define what I know about life and family. Or at least, they do around here, on this hill, and on a few others atop which I've perched.

Emotion seems at times to be balanced on three little words. I'm not here to judge whose words are right and whose are wrong. All I know - which I have clearly established here is little and fleeting - is that there are about a million words and a lot of intonation all of this centering on the indefatiguable and highest pedstal of human wordiness - I love you.

High school is with me so vivdly in many ways. It was there I learned that a girl walking across E-Wing with a tall kid in a lettered-leather sleeve jacket, her smile seemingly the width of the span of a bridge, had heard the happy side of three words. Another girl, arms crossed at her chest, eyes to the floor, and back to the lockers in K-Wing was on the wrong side of three-word paradise. I watched the smallest things make and break; speak to your soul, define your memories, make you resolute. It still awes me what three words uttered thoughtfully or carelessly can do: Change a life, move a mountain. Or just not.

The words that those high school couples surely passed, while throwing around the optional fourth verbs -the dredded 'don't' or reassuring 'do' - can't all be wrong. After all, I have come to define a million moments with my own girls in the same terms: I love you. Certainly those three are powerful and moving, but they are anything but alone in meaning or synonyms.

This is my kid brother, who I love and because of this I know there are three words just as powerful; equally as defining and irresistible. There is no truth to "I love you," being the most moving phrase encountered by the human heart. After all, it depends on the heart.

I don't know about you, but as the family ski holiday over New Year's approaches, I know there is a phrase just as likely to cause us to move too far too fast, blaze inadviseable out-of-bound routes, carry on loudly, saying things we shouldn't, landing in a wreck of twisted humanity on our Mama's doorstep begging for help, her hot chocolate, and sympathy, all the while still arguing our rightness and swearing to even up the score as soon as we're healed.

Those three words, completely irresistible to the human heart in our world are not I love you. But they move us just the same, and as I think about it now, they are a familial translation of the same sentiment.

Race you home.

I have yet to meet the human heart that can resist it's appeal.

Here's hoping you are raced to the pile on the doorstep this season. I will meet you there in spirit.

Blushing letters: Workhorses and Bad Girls

2010-11-15T07:13:00.014-05:00

Blushing,

I need the workhorse dress for the season. Will you show me?

Much love,
Stephanie
Dallas

Stephanie,

So many workhorses for so many women; with luck yours is in here. If it is the last, I will toast you tonight.

Wishing you great parties!

Warmly,
Catherine

Dior

Donna Karan Collection

Disclaimer: The dress that follows has no business being here. It is no workhorse.

DVF

It took me a second to process it on paper because it was at once so fearlessly right and so categorically wrong: The softest black lamb skins tanned to be millimeters thin and trained into feminine movement grabbed me. Then so did the obvious presence of the closet renegade in the studio. That designer who took the country-club party dress notion and slapped it square across the face; Riotously cranking up all that baby soft leather in blackest-black, laser cutting it to shreds, and (sometime long after over-driving the fifth gear of childhood madras dress resentment) stitched it all up into something haltingly feminine but overtly bad girl.

(Note to the closet renegade: That must've felt good, huh? 'Cuz: damn.)

It is that last part which, when this dress steps into the predictably Tory Burch/ Nanette Lepore clad party it is headed to, will tip the balance between got-a-nice-dress and this-girl-needs-no-introductions. If a dress could be a good girl gone bad and come (tenuously at best) back, all the while fearlessly owning up to her scars and tendencies, this is her.

The girl in this dress prefers you not labor under misconceptions. At the split second her chin rose when the zipper reached the top of this dress, and she wiggled her hips gently to set the seams on her curves, she defined herself with perfect clarity.

While it may be no workhorse, the juxtaposition it declares for the woman in the dress is the unavoidable workhorse in her character - the "And Model of Identity" as it were - as coined unforgettably on these pages by LPC (right here). The girl in this dress came from conservative turf but she has taken it on the chin a couple of times. She has definitive texture and not just in her dress. She's packing an unburied hatchet in all that soft skin. Proceed with caution.

She can come sit next to me.

Don't bend

2010-11-06T05:22:00.009-04:00

It is one of the most commented upon articles in New York Times online history. And it is no coincidence that the pen was long time friend and supporter of Blushing Hostess, New York Times contributor, author of Slow Love Life, and former House and Garden editor, Dominique Browning. Those who read Dominique, as I hope you do, know her grace is as fearless and meaningful as her pen.

When, on October 21, 2010, this byline - Fear of Flying a Long Flag of Rebellion - was published it seemed clear a storm was coming. It is the great unsaid thing among women: You will cut your hair as you age. It has something to do with seriousness and how whimsy is expected to appear on novelty sweaters from Talbots with honking big appliqued apples, but not, on your head.

I was thirty-four when, for reasons I had honed for a solid two days, I had my hair cut madly short, for me, anyhow. I had new babies. I was exhausted. It was summer in Florida. I was thirty-four for God's sake and practically dead or so the part-partum illogical thought pattern went. Anyway, Stevie - who always sported a bleached or blue pixie, took it off in long strands - just blond wisps everywhere. I watched it hit the floor with no emotion. It was time. But if, at any other time in my life I had seen my hair about me in hacked piles, I would have swooned.

It wasn't me. It was a mistake. I also am not honey medium brown in hair color and I don't care for curls. Also not me. But I have had to learn all that on the way to this place.

Once it was gone, other signs of my multi-faceted identity remained because you cannot hide from who you really are with the help of a shear.

Above is my hair as it was this summer when Nick revised my tattoo (calm down, haters). One small piece of ink, but that too figures into me - and an identity I adore. It is not at all an identity that was dictated and doesn't mean (to reiterate) that I don't know how to set a table, iron linens, or where the guest of honor's wife can pull up a chair at dinner, okay? They are just puzzle pieces, they don't mean I don't pray.

Life is so much more complicated than hair and ink, but it all builds a spectacular and singular whole. If you can just get up the nerve and time to go with it...

A month before I had my hair cut off, I sat in that same chair before Stevie and we listened to the woman in her mid-forties next to me explain that she needed to have hair like Kate Hudson's in color. She also couldn't cut it because her husband liked her best and was most affectionate towards her when it was long. Stevie and I both cringed: If he loves you, then he loves you. Who cares about your hair?

Screw him, we said to each other over a glass of wine later on. Because we - however unrealistic this may be in truth in some lives - believe that love sees no hair color or cut. And that we choose the style. Because, look, it will always inherently tie back to the woman herself, and consequently, to the girl he fell in love with, no?

So, I pick the poison. I'm platinum, and it is long and a little edgy at times. Not just because that is how I like to keep my hair but also because that's what you get. I don't like my hair to tell lies for me. I'm not sporting a bob and headbands, I want to keep it real. It's far more comfortable.

Dominique, by the same token, is doing the same at fifty-five years old. I am proud of her, but this is only one small reason. She took her stand, in the New York Times no less.

I capitulated to whatever sense society and exhaustion could be mashed together to make to settle on a decision about my hair while a child kept me up all night and our world took some pretty fast and harrowing turns. I've been on the mend ever since.

More or less, as you can see now, I'm there. I am also still kind of exhausted as you also note, but that is another thing altogether.

I'm keeping longish hair.

I've got your back, be fearless. Cut if you want to, but not because social more's flattened your resolve to maintain it. And not because someone else prefers it another way. Do it because you want to see someone you recognize in the mirror. And because she is beautiful that way.

I Tweet. Therefore, I read.

2010-11-04T04:48:00.000-04:00

No joke.

The other day I was an unwilling victim to a man who insisted on explaining that "real men don't Tweet."

In that case - and following that unimpeachable logic down its weedy and dark path - it might be of some use to point out, especially to those giving gifts to the kings and queens of the social media game this year, that indeed, not only do real men Tweet, they also read. And promote literacy.

The Chardonnay and Pinot Noir made by Crushpad for Biz and Ev, founders of Twitter, Inc. under the Fledgling label made their way into my home this week as Blushing gifts. 100% of the cases sold will promote literacy. 100%.

These Hostess gifts are among the greatest I have known: In a class with the highway I was gifted, and the bottles of Absolute Boston for the Charles River Conservancy Charity.

I don't know what's in the bottles and I don't care. 1. I would serve it shamelessly to a table of hideous wine snobs and glare at them with daggers in my eyes if they chose to remark on its quality (although, knowing what I do, I can assume it is delicious). 2. I don't care if Biz mixed Concord grape juice and vanilla extract together and called it a Pinot - because it is the right thing to do.

It's on my bottle list now so don't come by if you're a real man who doesn't Tweet.

To you, Biz and Ev; real men who Tweet. Well done.

Order it here, by the palate.

I've adopted

2010-10-26T04:15:00.000-04:00

This 2.7 mile stretch of Zulla Road in Middleburg, Virginia on John Mosby's Historic Trail is now clean, mannerly, and soon to be decorated with abandon.

You don't think the homeowners will mind, do you? Surely not.

It was literally a perfect hostess gift. I love it more than any other, ever.

Honk if you love the Hostess! I can hear you from here...

The Dark Bride

2010-10-25T04:38:00.001-04:00

The movie Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows will be released this fall. The wedding scene featured in this picture is the most closely guarded cinematic secret of the Halloween season. The Los Angeles Times danced around the moment with costume designer Jany Temime here, it is worth reading. You will also find the typically darkly irresistible and arresting movie trailer there.

I can't help but wonder what that cake must look like; the fantasy of this series has been so accurate and compelling, what would do the dark trick there?

I digress.

Regarding Temime's comments: I have to hope it is not too light and confectionery. I like my weddings a little more dark, with a little more edge.

After all, I too was an October bride.

Just a nuance, but it's there

2010-10-21T04:27:00.006-04:00

One piece of paper will make all the difference at dinner. Written in long hand on personal stationary, tapped into a spread sheet, scribbled on a cocktail napkin with a bartenders borrowed pen: It looms largest in the host's consideration. It will be the document on which the greatest party music was written or the first shot fired at an evening which will go down in unmerciful and memorable flames.

The guest list creates evenings we will never forget, and parties we try not to remember. I write from experience: I didn't get here because I do not have few scars from the great sport of Inviting. My engagement party, owning to the perfect lack of control of one person (who I well knew was careening party-train off course and pleading for a catastrophic drunken wreck), was, for my closest friends, an exercise in grace and meditation over cocktails.

This was an error born of misguided magnanimousness on my part. She is the wife of a friend, and we had witnessed her in action before in a glazed-over state of startled speechlessness, I suppose. I was nervous about her from the start and should have followed my instincts.

In the time that has passed, she is a persistent issue with regard to guest lists and chemistry. In perfect sobriety, she is one of the most deeply miserable individuals I have encountered. I have learned I cannot overcome her raging insults of other guests or her falling down drunkenness in the best of circumstances, but her grotesque bigotry and racism became apparent during that party as well, and she has never been invited back (to say the kindest thing I can of her, actually).

We often say how much we miss her husband. He was one of those people my Brother and I knew first in life and one of the best. But, sadly, this is the way it has to be. Please leave your wife at home is just not an option at the foot of an invitation. And we are years beyond the how did he end up with her? conversation. I do not write his name on lists any longer, I am unhappy to tell you. But it would be better not to have people over than to subject them to this person.

There are other names on guest lists when followed by other names, and still others, that present difficulties in creating a festive night for less obvious reasons than my example. The stories of how some names go together and then must be parted on a guest list are intriguing, fascinating, and sometimes emotionally horrific. By virtue of all that, many are glaringly obvious to the aware host if one gave it some thought. But some enormities of interpersonal conflict could easily be perceived as no greater than a nuance.

Nuance is the key to everything between human beings. As J.M. Barrie noted so wisely in the original text of Peter Pan, "It's not that it didn't matter. It's that didn't make a difference." You have no way to judge how relevant an old story is to those parties now, best to yield a wide berth to a thing that happened, but does not outwardly seem to make a difference.

For this reason, a good host has either the memory of an elephant or the record keeping ability of Thomas Jefferson. The host is the eternal keeper of old grudges and flames, dark facts, circumstances, controversies, occurrences, phenomenons, and statistics. Success at the party which manifests on an enchanted evening from the first scribbled nickname is determined by the grasp of history in the hand holding the pen.

Those are not just names on paper or bodies in the living room; They are mortals. While they bring a world of talents, experiences, and jovial conversation to the mix, they also bring the facts of mere mortality and human nature. An astute host holds a guests' scars as closely as their own and knows the fatal social flaws of all the dinner guests. One misstep, one careless invitation, and the night is laid to waste.

There are just a few people in this world whose hands I will not shake and across from whom I would not attempt to keep down a meal (aside, obviously, from war criminals, murders, savages and so on). I am reminded here of Pat Conroy's Beach Music, "I shook his hand, and I thought it would kill me." I know that ground so intimately.

To have arrived at the conclusion that I would sooner chew tin foil in a locked closet than sit across from one of my known scoundrels, I would have known the reprobate well at some point. As a guest, I am counting on the host to know as much and not to get me into that position. There is an inherent and critical sensitivity to sorting out relationships which have not mended if an evening is to succeed. When these differences are not obvious and the host is innocently clueless is when a guest may quietly beg off on a stomach ache and disappear into the night. Not that it will save the evening, just the guest from an uncomfortable situation.

It is not possible to know all the hot spots, but critical to try and recall that Kate is coming with her new boyfriend and consequently, it is unwise to also invite her ex and his new wife, and/or her gynecologist. If the party is smaller, no one has anywhere to go, conversation is guarded, and the night is a bust. Bring on the grappa, it is sooooo over.

Once all the divorces, bad investments, infidelities, and lies are sorted: It is my opinion there should be an artist, a musician, a pol, a lawyer, a horse trader, an adventurer, a war horse, a dryly amusing Brit, and a siren.

Now, that's a party.

Behind the music

2010-10-20T05:00:00.002-04:00

"No matter how good the food or the wine or the music, if the people are dull, the party is a failure. And, when it comes to entertaining, beginning with a real liking for people is the best guarantee of success.

"If there is a single key, that is it.

"Neysa McMein will always be thought of as a great hostess. But I can't remember anything I ever had to eat at her apartment. Food was a matter of tremendous unimportance to her and to us - when we were her guests. What mattered was her gift for filling the house with gay, amusing people... writers, and theater people, and artists. Her special kind of warmth (everything at Neysa's seemed to turn into a game) kindled more life and spirit in all of us than we ever had any place else."

- Dorothy Rodgers, decorator and wife of Dick Rodgers (of Rodgers and Hammerstein, known for Broadway productions South Pacific, Carousel, and Oklahoma among hundreds of other scores and songs), in her musings in My Favorite Things (Antheneum, 1977)

Live simply. Let others simply live.

2010-10-19T04:35:00.001-04:00

Tuber melanosporum. Translates to sexy brown thing in Latin and every other tounge.

Sexy dog: He's going to go get the brown thing. Thanks, pal.

Sexy French dog owner/ possible poacher/ believeable sales person.

Little more sexy now?

(Yeeeeeesssss, gimme those!)

Champagne Taittinger, Comtes de Champagne Blanc de Blancs; I think you hear me knocking.

Shaved truffle. Olive oil. Fleur de sel. Taittinger: Don't muck up dinner for two at nine with actual food.

Pant quietly, Gorgeous Creatures.

The international incident

2010-10-18T05:56:00.004-04:00

"... you're not going to believe this."

"Tell me."

"One of the guests put her finger in the dressing to taste it."

"Wait. Whaaaaat? In the actual dressing bowl or was it on her plate? The one on the buffet?"

"Yes. The buffet. And it had a serving spoon."

"What did you do?"

"I said, 'Really? Reaaaallly?' What else can you do?"

"Not sure. Did she like it?"

"I suppose so. She ate it, didn't she?"

And that is what was said between a colleague and I after an event hosted for a group of international visitors recently.

Once this happens, you would rightly pitch the whole dressing bowl and begin again because, frankly, eeeeeeewwwwwwwww: That about covers our collective thoughts.

The trouble in this instance however, was that it was an off-site catered event and there was no replacing the entire untouched bowl of dressing. The caterer was already gone. This woman was at the head of the buffet line, and all the guests behind her witnessed this lunch hour treachery in horror.

Now, one could do any number of things after swooning and being revived (and then once again remembering what happened and naturally passing flat out a second time - but anyway assuming you do, at some point, recover). I have thought of some options, maybe you have some thoughts too?

A. Pick up the spoon and stir up the fingertip germs and bacteria. When you are finished squeal with delight, "Yummmmm, delish!"

B. Using the serving spoon as a sword, you engage the perpetrator in a duel, landing her in her seat safely away from the buffet and presumably preventing her from "testing" any of the other dishes she encounters, all the while growling, "Back! Get back! Away!."

C. You pick up the dressing bowl walk it over to the trash and instruct your assistant to go decant some olive oil and vinegar ASAP.

D. Throwing the dressing to the floor while awash in elephant tears and wailing, "You... you, animal. You've ruined it! My lunch! My life! You filthy, filthy beast!" While waiting for the ambulance to arrive and administer oxygen which you will refuse as you dramatically flee the building with tissues clutched in both fists, you fling as many insults in as many languages as you can manage and advise her she will be hearing from your lawyer and to expect some papers arriving to her cave shortly.

Just loose thoughts of course...

50 and fabulous

2010-10-11T23:17:00.001-04:00

A number of you wrote in asking for online resources for style tips for women in their 40's and 50's. I have read a number of sites now and I think these two have the best realistic handle on this demographic:

More Magazine has both comprehensive beauty and fashion areas. Find it here.

Secondly, Real Simple does have a solid grip on real life women and the styles they are willing to carry, versus those prescribed by couture magazine stylists. Find the style section on line here.

Both sites allow you to receive regular emails or use iPhone apps.

Finally, in the way of advice, this relatively generic about.com tutorial is the most comprehensive I have found regarding achieving your best look or looking ridiculous - there are pit falls in fashion at every age...

Finally, and I want to stress this: tailor your clothing.

I hope I have helped.

You lost me

2010-10-11T07:23:00.011-04:00

Lately I have been running headlong into the curious melodrama that is my generation making its values (or more often this week, lack of) known. For the record, I am proud of us on the whole. But a few are still discovering there is no entitlement in the real world. We make our own luck and determine our fortunes. You can blame karma all you want but it is a lot less other-worldly than that: One reaps what one sews.

Decency and honest work: It seems to me there is not much more to it than that. Ultimately, this life-thing is not all that mystifying. If you're looking for happiness, you're not working hard enough. Either you work like a dog every moment to do it all correctly, including just being a human being, or you try to skate and we all know where that ends. Stop looking; start workin'. At everything.

In a week full of news reports about the misuse of Twitter and Youtube and young, unsteady lives lost over them, and the drama I have unwillingly watched unfold in my own life among adored souls in my my world, I did what I always know to do: I worked. Just kept my head down and concentrated. Quietly forming my own opinions and occasionally ferociously making them known, but on the whole, staying safely inside my work-is-the-only-course-of-action in all scenarios bubble.

I assure you this has not endeared me to some. A lot of people want you to take sides, help them make someone love them, write a check big enough to solve all their problems... Actually, all that would only be the beginning of the end for people not laying the truth bare and owning up to who they are, and worse, what they need to work diligently to correct.

What I am saying, perhaps in a clumsy maneuvering of veiled references, is that all that can be done to change one's fate is too work to change it. Break your tail making fixes. Fall down: hard as you can. Get back up like a prize fighter. Accept your next scrape. Repeat doggedly. Never give up.

You are on a horse in this life, ride it until broke and when the last day comes, slide into home and knock St. Peter over then grab a glass of wine and regale the heavens with tales of the battle wounds of a fearlessly lived life that worked until the second in made that final turn for home.

Don't amble into the gates full of woes and might-have-beens. I won't have that for you or me.

While all this bright luminous living is your life's work, the best I figure you can do by others then is to be cognizant of their feelings because they need to get back on the horse too, do the best you can to be fair, always give it to 'em straight, and above all else exercise human decency.

It is this last point that has me stumped as I write to you: We all get to times when the world we live in creates a momentous amount of exhaustion and you would just like to find a place to nap and listen to the roar of a big ocean. The sheer indecency of the world in this last week has me thinking that at times you have to work to rest too. A little escapism does not necessarily mean you are not working at overcoming something. So, that is my plan.

In these pictures, you have been visiting my sanctuary: Half Moon Bay. With any luck, all of you gorgeous readers and I will converge there for a Blushing nap one day.

Get to work on some rest on this holiday of ours, Gorgeous Creatures.

Chic hostess: Nothing to wear

2010-10-05T03:55:00.022-04:00

Recently it came to my attention that not only can the clothing you have in your closet be unfulfilling for your parties and events, but even if you buy something new, you may not be leaving the store feeling you've accomplished what you set out to do: Look and feel your best.

Because it was both my career and my craft before media became my thing, I assure you: Clothing can be so moving and empowering when it is carefully considered. It disappoints me to find anyone unhappy with so much to choose from in this vast retail environment.

I can only share what my time wearing clothes and working with them has taught me. I hope you find it useful.

1. A little research, in every endeavor, is the best start.

I follow a number of magazines on-line which are style and age appropriate (I am in my 30's, if I followed Cosmo's page I would look ridiculous). There is absolutely nothing worse than attempting to dress younger that you are: Grow old gracefully. Style is not only for twenty-something's but it does need to adapt. Unwillingness to adapt is inelegant and foolhardy: Your Abercrombie t-shirt will not turn back the clock, sister.

But if everything you purchase is well-thought out, then even in "throwing something on," you cannot take a left at the intersection of gorgeous and "does she own a mirror?"

I follow resources which represent style, color trends, and stylist picks. I want a cross-section of information at the start of each season; Once I have all that, I know what is carrying over in my closest from previous seasons and years.

I follow a few brands which have done well by me, but not many. Fickle is admirable if you want to find the best options; see everything, raise your horizon line to the limit. I want to know about new brands: Not sales. Look, if it is ready-to-wear or off-the-rack, it will always go on sale. I am after the right pieces at the right times. I keep some of this intel in my back pocket for events. I like to know who has what dresses if I need them long before the moment arrives.

Two nights ago, I was advised I should appear for work at an event at the Governor's mansion. My boss and I might have had a thirty second conversation about clothing: I had the right dress in my closet. If not, I know who had the one for the job, follow? For those of you who, like me, work in the event arena, it is critical to take care of the clothing issue well in advance and deal with a season at once; Breakfast, lunch, dinner, cocktails, and black tie all in the bull pen.

2. I flip through a few things.

I gather for a season or two at a time. Once the recon in the closet is complete, I flip through a couple of realistic fashion mags (I read Vogue for inspiration, I read inStyle for my actual clothing at this stage in my life), whatever appeals to you - but, again, age appropriate.

Catalogs: I hate 'em. Aside from the tree sacrifice, each book is too stylistically narrow. I just want a larger selection. Nordstrom.com, eDressme.com, and sites like them go right across the board for all types of product, find the one you like and bookmark it.

3. I look carefully at mannequins in stores.

A stylist whose only job was to track trends and represent them correctly for the retailer agonized over the mannequins you see: This is not a store manager's decision. At a corporate level, all of this is styled by the real pros of the game alongside the designers, and then literal books, maps, and guidelines are sent to every store to tell them exactly which scarf and just how jaunty it is to be. Look at their work, and if you can put nothing together on your own, buy the outfit on the mannequin. Let the stylist do the creative work for you.

4. Ugh, vintage (aka pretty girls gone grannie)

Fact: If one does not have a great flair for fashion styling, this often looks more found-in-attic/ hidden-with-good-reason than glam, ok?

I know someone who, without fail, will turn up in a piece of "vintage" and whatever sneaker she deems hippest that day (Chanel jackets and Converse - please hand over the Valium. I die, and not in a good way). It's just bad. It is not stylish (see point 1 above: research).

A lot of things have to be consciously jammed into place to get vintage working for you: The piece will likely need tailored. Your hair needs to be set or up (unless you want an unintended sartorial revisit to Woodstock from the neck up). Your make up should be correct in color, coverage, and there should be enough of it.

Too often, vintage is used as an excuse to look relaxed. However, these girls who are rockin' boho chic are coiffed, make no mistake. I mean, set and styled within 1 millimeter of their scalps, so, please, do not mistake older clothing or even vintage-inspired apparel for something relaxed. Keep in mind, we are the most casual society of any that came before and their clothing was meant for more high-maintenance looks, generally.

In moderation: If you really have a talent with styling.

5. Make sure it actually fits, not generally fits.

6. Buy quality over quantity.

7. If you can have only one very good thing and it is going to be a basic or a pivot point for a whole season, color black will have the most longevity.

To sum up then: Feeling fantastic in your clothing is possible but like anything else, it takes work and research. You will need to purge, and it will be hard to part with the old stand-by's, but getting it absolutely right is far better than maintaining a storage closest for useless (albeit well-loved) pieces.

Your advice. I need it.

2010-09-28T11:21:00.000-04:00

The above is just an example. Maybe not the best. It is only to say, I have a real issue with holiday decor. I get a buy at this time of year in that most of the fall work is done by a garden and land which is, no pun intended, giving up the ghost at this time of year. Dried corn stalks and gourds, pumpkins, hay bales from forgotten corners of unused paddocks. All this is fine by me, what came from the earth, I eventually turn back into it in one way or another: The pumpkins will be stolen by the foxes, the corn will compost, the hay will cover the garden through snow.

Once in a while though, I see these happy commercial seasonal items which, if I were not more careful and guilt-riddled, would leap thoughtlessly into the canning-overstuffed pantry or butlers closets. And there they would sit the remnants of fun from last year, useless for all but three weeks per annum. I caution myself with the words of Suze Orman to some poor soul in front of her on a check out line, "No wonder you're in debt! Do you need all that crap?!"

But once in a great while, especially where babies and fun holidays are concerned, my resolve becomes less steeled. I almost allow myself a retreat from the effort to minimize the clear waste that any sort of storage is...

I don't know, Gorgeous Souls, tell me how you balance it all, and by it - I mean - the stuff in the closets?

Photo: Pottery Barn, Blushing Hostess sponsor

The ghost, revisited

2010-09-25T06:03:00.005-04:00

The thoughtful gardener who planted Merryvale surely went on to his paradise long ago. Initially, it was hard to say just how long but once fall arrived the copses of trees began to give up his secrets.

Twenty and thirty foot chestnut and English walnut trees in deliberate patterns have begun to nod to the ghosts age. Two, maybe three generations before I was born he lived here. His name was Snowden and this was his family's place. Today, I live in the home that had been his family's farmhouse. One day, in his fifties, he up and left for California, selling the place to the people who eventually built the abandon nursery on the southeast corner of the property.

I do what I can to keep up with his hand-me-down projects. The tiny twinkle-toed girls and I harvested the chestnuts and complained viciously to the family of squirrels who left not one walnut for anyone else let alone enough to make even one measly banana walnut pancake.

When surely I would stop for a minute to take stock, rest, or feel the unavoidable emotion of everyday life, his ghostly thirst for earthly endeavor never allows for a moment of reflection. Reflection generally being an intellectual past-time I suspect of creating a waste of working time anyway: Idle hands...

I don't honestly know anymore if I chose his place, or if it chose me.

A lot

2010-09-24T06:20:00.004-04:00

"I CARE ABOUT THIS ALOT."

Daylight again? Really? Fine, then, a lot of humor for your day. I laughed about this, but felt guilty for not also crying. Please meet Hyperbole and Half.

Yes, my spell check corrected the spelling of a lot...

I hate this part

2010-09-24T05:32:00.000-04:00

I temper my distaste for this week of the year when bulbs need to be uprooted and stored for the winter with photos like the one above. At least, I tell myself, I do not have to unearth a field of bulbs by hand.

Truth be known though, it could happen. In some motivated state of mind, with little foresight, I could easily be overcome with the urge to plant hundreds of bulbs. And like a happy fool, forget until September the unearthing of bulbs attached to lifeless stems which is an unparalleled downer.

It's time, ya'll. Bulbs out.

Photo credit: holland.org

Your cocktail is obviously in danger, risk it

2010-09-23T05:07:00.009-04:00

From spring to fall, polo matches bring the world to see Northern Virginia. On many weekends there will be two or three tournaments close by. In perfect honesty, as long as I have been around horses, polo has been more of a sporting event (for the teams) and a social event (for all) than it is a spectator sport (if I was paying close attention I would spend a lot of time clutching my heart and grinding my teeth, it is harrowing).

It seems I am not the only one who feels this way. Entire tents have been erected for the half-attention of uncommitted spectators. Like this one, from this past weekend.

If I am to be comprehensive in this manners thing we have going here then I need to inform you that while there is all the usual good manners required at polo, there is something else you should know if you intend to be a spectator at a polo match: The tradition of the Divot Stomp is an unspoken non-negotiable attendee mandate. You will rise from your chair, leave the tent, and take to the field on foot to replace divots en masse with the rest of the gallery. Period.

There were just too many weak-souled people who remained in the tent; revelry undisturbed by tradition. But there are those who know you need not abandon your cocktail in order to be in the good graces of the polo community. It is about balance: Both literal (you might be in kitten heels) and figurative (figure if you have had more than four you need an escort on to the field).

One other piece of advice springs to mind in looking over the pictures: If you are going to take to the middle of the field for the divots, then, really - concentrate. It is far better than standing around chatting when you are supposed to be working.

Linens. China. And childhood vices.

2010-09-21T10:36:00.007-04:00

Sunday mornings were not as critical a get-it-right mothering scenario to me before I had a staircase down which babies scoot on tiny behinds with this never-ending fountain of of what's-next springing from twinkling eyes.

It might have been Christmas morning that ruined me for all others with them. When I hear the feet upstairs, something in me demands mornings be special or easy. My children are not treated like guests here, perhaps when my patience is infinite, they are treated just as they are: These inexplicably magical beings of the sparkling azure eyes and blond ringlets.

You'll understand then that some days, some early starts, need to be flush with the forgiveness of rules and high on the scale of beautiful. Which is why, on a cool Sunday morning in this old but stately farmhouse, they of the shimmering eyes and sticky curls are placed in beautiful big chairs before a roaring fire with all kinds of pretty things that can certainly be broken in the course of eating apricot stuffed pancakes with a side of M&M's, then ceremoniously washed down with a demitasse cup of milk...

That's how we roll. There is no guilt in me about candy and Sunday mornings. Childhood: They and I will only pass this way once.

Following up. Letting you know. Passing out.

2010-09-18T07:15:00.003-04:00

It has been a long week. If there were anyone around to hold a heavy camera and take a photo of me still typing while my head was layed squarely upon my desk at the same time, I certainly would share that with you. In the meantime, this shot was snapped while I was still pretty lively. So, at the very least you know I am still panting. Er, I mean, breathing. Anywho.

Several readers asked to see the photos of the amazing event I attended this week called Outstanding in the Field which has or will come to a farm near-abouts all of you and is both a magnificent event and a great cause. Please come see me at the Boxwood Winery blog where I posted the photos and my thoughts, here. It was of great interest as you will remember, as the meal has a tradition of guests bringing their own plates.

Secondly, I have been over at the Boxwood Blog on the matter of another occasion this week: Our wine-making consultant from Bordeaux, Stephane Derenoncourt (I was absolutely not starstruck. Ah-hem. Okay, maybe a little) was in the vineyard this week reviewing the varietals for harvest. You can follow that work of mine there also and do "Like" me on Facebook if you have a spare moment so you will know I have not really been asleep at the keyboard but indeed quite perky and likely standing in a field or vineyard somewhere, if stifling a bit of an exhausted yawn.

The housekeeper quit. Right before the flood.

2010-09-16T05:09:00.000-04:00

Dear Living, etc.,

Not on your life.

Warmly,

Blushing

1000 words and the plates that said them

2010-09-14T05:14:00.010-04:00

Place setting.

Girl.

Total accuracy.

I was out standing in a field last week (long story, and after all, it's not an uncommon occurrence) when I noted perhaps the most painstakingly accurate match of a fine china plate pattern to the host who possessed it.

At this event, each guest was asked to bring their own dinner plate - it is a tradition of the meal. Of the 140 guests whose places were set at one long table in a field, this plate had an arresting quality when walking along the table and, although Rachel Martin was not immediately around to tell me so, I knew that was her pattern.

Now then, below is mine. Raynaud, Festivite. In the course of my work here, I look at a lot of patterns, both new and historic. I adore this pattern, but as new patterns emerge, I wonder if there is a more accurate reflection of myself not only as a host, but as a complete life.

Noting this made me curious; now that I know Rachel's skill in this area, which she would choose if she were to choose a pattern to tell 1000 words about each of the important people in her world...

Is your place setting an accurate reflection of you?

Photo credits: Boxwood Winery

Backwards. In high heels.

2010-09-12T07:00:00.000-04:00

That title roughly describes my story.

Although I am not in my forties, the writers of Backwards in High Heels do not practice age discrimination and I am welcome to visit their blog whenever I like, which is generally as often as they have something to say.

I hope you enjoy them as a new read...

11 September, 2010

2010-09-11T00:47:00.000-04:00

“Now, we have inscribed a new memory alongside those others. It’s a memory of tragedy and shock, of loss and mourning. But not only of loss and mourning. It’s also a memory of bravery and self-sacrifice, and the love that lays down its life for a friend–even a friend whose name it never knew. “

- President George W. Bush, December 11, 2001

Whine-free wine-pairing dinner

2010-09-10T05:27:00.003-04:00

Please note: Wine in wine coasters on the buffet with place card holders displaying the course which has been matched with the wine.

Now, the person serving the wine can serve without confusion and the guests will be able to review and note the wines they enjoyed with specific courses.

Sticking my qualified neck on the line here and daring to point this out (ah-hem): If one were to offer the food and wine from two buffets as a self-service sort of affair of small plates and tasting size (2 ounce) servings, this presentation would also be useful.

Just one more reason to miss Southern Accents magazine.

You wrote to me

2010-09-09T05:51:00.007-04:00

Sometime ago when I wrote about remembering local stores giving away china as promotional items in Remains of the Day, a number of you wrote to me with your memories of mothers and grandmothers buying a plate here or there, or saving slips which would eventually add up to complimentary pieces in whichever pattern a local grocery store might be offering.

I remember my own Grandmother explaining this to me at Finest Grocery store in Mount Kisco, New York. I was little and this had to be 1978 or 1979. Powerful memories occur in grocery stores for all of us evidently. Grocery trips and plate patterns marked many of us and I think of this now when I enter a store with my girls so I thank you for calling my attention to how they will look back on a seemingly innocuous task. But, I digress.

Delmarva Media has published a net article, the title of which I take issue with so it will not be published here, but the content, on plates and grocery stores is relevant. Find it here.

I did a little digging regarding the pattern I assume the writer refers to, which is likely Blue Garland by Haviland.

Staggering that at one point, Haviland which bills itself with such refinement now, and has patterns costing into the many thousands for place settings, was once respectably attained at the A&P. I love that once upon a time Haviland patterns were easily available to all through one means or another and wish it were the case today. As I look over the Michael C. Fina website and shake my head with disapproval, it is hard to believe fine china was once so accessible because it is perfectly outrageous for many now.

It is a fine story those of you who wrote in will recognize in parts, although I very much disagree that "Fine china is the mark of a caring hostess."

I prefer something far more sensible and grounded in reality for a sentiment: "Preventing salmonella is the mark of a caring hostess and after that you do what you can." Or something which rolls off the tongue equally as appealingly.

Sometimes obtuseness is overwhelming.

Chic hostess: Lanvin at H&M

2010-09-06T04:41:00.005-04:00

This morning I was confused.

It was as though I was dreaming in black and white; As though H&M would pull off the coop I always knew they were capable of and convince the incomparable French couture house of Lanvin to guest-design a collection for H&M stores.

It was no dream. I know this because I spilled coffee on my lap just now and it hurts like love (to put it far more gently than any of the words I used at the time). The burn is real as are the mens and womens collections which will be introduced to the press on November 2, 2010 and be available for purchase in stores on November 23, 2010. See designer Alber Elbaz discussing the line here.

Here is to my consciousness having not failed me again. Lanvin for H&M: No, you are not dreaming. Go ahead, dip a finger in your coffee, I dare you.

Darlings, it is a good, sweet life but it does burn a bit at times.

For the host: Flashes of light

2010-09-04T06:06:00.006-04:00

With every new season that opens, fashion will demonstrate some bright moments and a full international compliment of train-wrecks-come-clothing. No fooling: All those collections you thought were hideous in many cases, were. Or only meant to be appreciated for their ability to wake up the fashion writers who actually truly cover the stuff from the third row and are dozing over their triple shot espressos from town to town around the world for weeks on end.

Or the apparel is meant to transcend actual customers and actual revenue and catapult into a museum before the retails season ends, or one actual dollar is made. But look, runway is promotion, for the most part, it is not sales. Nor is it much fun for those involved; a sedative- laced roller coaster of fear punctuated with pin-stabs and screeching designers.

So, maybe you've noted, it can be hare-brained madness.

Anyhow, this is to say you are not just whistlin' dixie. Oh, how I have been there. If it seems runway fashion was by the few for even fewer, I promise you that the late night I spent helping to fit a rubber splash-painted Jackson Pollock-like number to a twig only proves your reasoning is sound.

But once in a while, in the great Spring, 2011 race down the runway, there were flashes of light. Or, more specifically, orange. In menswear! Honestly, I nearly skipped around my desk.

Ahhhhhh, the sweet vision of relief from gray, steel gray, dove gray, white, and black from an Italian family house that never fails me, Ermenegildo Zenga, which celebrated its one hundredth anniversary with this collection.

"The show closed on white, not just lightness, but a blank canvas on which to create another century. When the label's current caretakers, Gildo, Anna, and Paolo Zegna, brought their father Angelo, Ermenegildo's son, onto the catwalk for a bow, the audience took the only reasonable course of action. It rose to its feet and cheered."

- vogue.com

Photos: style.com

What they ate: The Hindenberg

2010-09-01T06:52:00.006-04:00

Herbert Morrison, a reporter WLS radio, was broadcasting from the Lakehurst, New Jersey airfield on May 6, 1937. He was standing by to report on the landing of the German airship Zepplin Hindenberg on her second trans-Atlantic crossing. He became the reporter of note for the tragic disaster above the airfield that day and in the midst of realizing the airship was engulfed in flames with a full crew and passenger list aboard, wailed from the ground, "Oh the humanity!"

The pictures of the disaster in history books throughout school were enough, were they not? So, instead, a bit of reassurance that the likely last meals of the souls gone on that day were quite glorious...

"Much attention had been given to "Hindenburg's" public rooms, where Dr. Durr and the airship's designers had excpected that the passengers would spend most of the daylight hours...To port, occupying an area measuring 15 X 50 feet, was the dining room. Here, with all the luxury and refinement of a small restaurant, were seats for 34 passengers--at four small tables for 2 person along the inboard wall, and at six larger tables outboard. The tables--and chairs likewise--were of a special lighweight tubular aluminum design--'as light as possible, as stable as possible'--created for the "Hindenburg" by Professor Breuhaus. In the dining room the chairs were upholstered in red. The inner walls, covered with airship cotton fabric and off-white in color, bore 21 original paintings by Professor Arpke...the colorful paintings in the dining room represented "Graf Zeppelin" on a South American journey... Meals in these surroundings were an unforgettable experience. Passengers were assigned seats by the chief steward (obviously there must have been two sittings)...The tables were laid with white linen napkins and tablecloths, fresh-cut flowers, fine silver, and the special china service created for the "Hindenbug."...Exquisitely confected of "Heinrich Ivory Porcelain," it is marked on the bottom "Property of the German Zeppelin Reederei," bears a chased gold and blue band around the rim, and exhibits the Reederei crest--a white Zeppelin, outlined in gold, superimposed on a blue globe with meridians of longitude and parallels of latitude in gold.

On dishes thus decorated the chief steward and three waiters served meals prepared in German style. Breakfast appears to have been a standard affair of rolls freshly baked in the ship's ovens, with butter, preserves or honey; eggs (served boiled in the shell for German passengers, fried or poached for Americans); Frankfurt sausage, ham, salami, cheese, fruit, coffee, tea, milk or cocoa.
On Monday, August 17, 1936, "Hindenburg's" passengers ate for luncheon: Strong Broth Theodor, Fattened Duckling, Bavarian Style with Champagne Cabbage, Savory Potatoes and Madiera Gravy, Pears Convent Style, Mocha. For dinner there was: Cream Soup Hamilton, Grilled Sole With Parsley Butter, Venison Cutlets Beauval with Berny Potatoes, Mushrooms and Cream Sauce, Mixed Cheese Plate. All this was served with tall bottles of Rhine and Moselle wines--Deideshiemer Kranzler Riesling, Piesporter Goldtropfchen Spatlese, Freiherr von Fahnenberg Spatlese, and others, as well as a few French red wines and an assortment of German champagnes led by the Deinard Cabinett, Troken (some 250 bottles of wine were carried on each crossing)."
-LZ 129 "Hindenburg", Douglas H. Robinson, Famous Aircraft Series [Morgan Books:Dallas TX] 1964

Great Burgundies, cause celebre, and their service

2010-08-30T05:45:00.006-04:00

The first duty of wine is to be red. The second is to be a Burgundy.
- Harry Waugh

Don't reach for the champagne.

Just this once when you have something to celebrate promise me you will celebrate with a great Burgandy instead.

Of all the bottles one should experience in laying claim to being a person who likes wine, both the reds and whites of this tiny wine region of France are critical to an understanding of the true potential of beautiful wines and great celebrations. These wines are full of never-ending complexities and intrigue. Polished, sexy, solicitous, and unpredictable to the bottom of every glass and bottle.

Now, if you are going to do this, get a really fine bottle. And brace yourself, in recent years the Burgundy market has become heady. At least your first few times, do not bother with the lesser Burgundies, even if you are tempted to walk away with a $20 bottle, you are only cheating your own bucket list. But that's your business in the end. Moving on.

"Above all, the great white Burgundies are stunningly complex. Drinking them can be an exercise in delicious patience as layer of flavor after layer of flavor reveals itself. The great red Burgundies are indisputably sensual. For centuries they have been described in the most erotic of ways, and sipping them, has been compared to, among other things, falling in love. This sensuality extends beyond the wines provocatively earthy aromas and flavors. The top Burgundies, red and white, have beguiling textures that melt or dance upon or explode against the palate in unforgettable ways. Great ones can send shivers up your spine."

- Karen MacNeil, The Wine Bible

When a great Burgundy makes its way into your orbit, do the wine well and be certain you have the right glass: a broad bowl which tapers towards the top. Never hold the bowl of any wine glass cradled in your palm; it will heat the wine.

Red Burgundies are all Pinot Noir; the most finicky creature on the vine yields spectacular wines in this region. Unlike other red wines you have come to know, do not allow these wines to sit about in the air, put your nose in the glass immediately and then drink thoughtfully. No fooling around; you have no time to waste. Burgundies will immediately reveal their character and continue unravel a wild world of flavors as the wine lowers in the glass.

Because these wines are likely to blossom, thrill, and change until the glass is emptied, it is standard practice never to top off Burgundies. It would be something of a gluttonous and unfortunate tragedy. Indeed, the sommelier is not slacking in this case when the wine is allowed to reach the bottom of the glass. Finish your glass, taking your time, have another if you are lucky to have enough on hand.

And when you do, remember who sent you. Cheers.

Thing of beauty: Edible landscaping at Home Farm

2010-08-28T07:36:00.005-04:00

These are the borders and street facade of the Home Farm store here in Middleburg, Virginia. I can only say about this enterprise that absolutely everything they do as part of the greater whole of Ayrshire Farm, is authentic and true to their mission statement. If ever you wondered if edible, sustainable, organic landscaping was possible, I encourage you to look over these photos carefully.

What might look like landscaping greenery is actually the the late summer lives of strawberry, varying herbs, beans, and squash. You might walk past the window boxes on the street and not take note of their sustainability but they are proof this method of landscaping is as successful and aesthetically pleasing as any other.

As I mentioned earlier this week, this book is as good a place as any to begin planning...

It is what it is: Just another pile of words

2010-08-27T05:09:00.000-04:00

Perfecting the art of anything just isn't realistic conceptually. A lot of "perfect" falls into subjective perspectives on whatever subject is being discussed.

Professionally, myself and a lot of people I have encountered, have spent the evenings of their careers saying something, but nothing very much; Ever perfecting the small-talkiness that is the hallmark of all good business people. If they never find me here at The Hostess, most I have come in contact with will never know I had an opinion on anything but my business.

"It is what it is," That phrase that is so often thrown around in the field of vague, conversation-ending catch-alls is on my list of things to be extricated from the verbiage of humans, along with "hubby" and "DIY", and other losers. It makes me chafe with annoyance, not unlike, "And you are?"

"It is what it is, right?" And I want to respond, no, it only looks like what it is but in reality it's just a tea party in a rabbit hole.

From the "Say what you mean" file now, Darlings: It means it isn't perfect. By some definition or all.

Back to my original point then: Show me something that truly is. We are not talking about the prime mover now, nothing has been "perfect" since day 7, just so we're clear. And since that day, no one on the planet has been in a haze about the fact that we humans are imperfect and ever so likely to create things of equal imperfection.

The other day I spoke with a man regarding General Billy Mitchell, as I often do, my current work having a vague relationship with the man, "Well, he was what he was."

You mean, an American hero? Who was court-martialed for speaking his mind against what he perceived as imperfect national defenses? The father of the Air Force? Posthumous recipient of the Congressional Gold Medal?

The man was court martialed over defense of the nation he was willing to fly to his death for: The youngest of the judges was Major General Douglas MacArthur, who later described the order to sit on Mitchell's court-martial as "one of the most distasteful orders I ever received."

He was as "imperfect" as the rest of us, certainly. But he was better than a catch-all. He was an impassioned, a true believer, a man who took paths coward's have never dreamed existed.

Nothing we were, ever will be, or create of great and minuscule human endeavors is so little to be swept into a grotesque conversational pass-off, not for the sake of small talk, not for the sake of excusing imperfections.

"It is what it is". Strike it.

Dinner Rush

2010-08-26T05:21:00.001-04:00

One of the most frequent letters received here at The Blushing Hostess asks how to introduce new dishes to the family table; Carving out the time to research them, gather the ingredients, and so on.

Be forewarned: I'm not promising a twenty-minute dinner preparation, as I have never been party to one: I don't use processed foods in my kitchen and I don't consume things that come from boxes. Admittedly, then, this is speedy food for cooking fresh but not, say, anything as quick as (oh Lordy, help these souls) TV dinners or hot pockets.

I keep tabs on a tool over at the internet arm of Bon Appetit and (the former) Gourmet magazine called Dinner Rush (Quick and Easy Menus). A new menu of fresh, seasonally available dishes is posted each week with instructions and the week's work of grocery needs condensed into one small list. Both the menus and list are available on iPhone to save some paper as well.

I use it haphazardly at best. Most of the food decisions here three seasons a year are based on what is coming out of the garden on that day. It is most useful to me in these seasons for the protein suggestions, but once in a while the suggestions hit the crop availability at the same time.

For me, it is an indispensable tool now and hopefully, one more resource for your arsenal. Use it in good health.

You think. And then you give.

2010-08-24T05:50:00.005-04:00

Host and hostess gifts fall into two categories: Brilliant. Boring.

I have a friend who puts a great deal of thought into the gifts she brings; they are nearly always books, but sometimes they are also magazines on a topic upon which I like to read from overseas; British and French decor mags, an underground fashion thing, what have you. All of them brilliant.

Plants and greenery of any kind: Brilliant.

Then sometimes I get cocktail napkins. Yawn.

In the last two weeks I have spotted these two books I will be pleased to give to the modern hosts who are gardeners (or at least have one) and healthy eaters. While they may not seem right up the same alley, indeed, one leads to another.

Landscaping with Fruits and Vegetables, Fred Hagy, is a beautiful book that should have a place in every home: Borders and gardens full of organic produce. This is not a fad, in fact it was a war-time method of survival here in the United States and now it should be a pesticide-free method of the same.

Ani's Raw Food Essentials, Ani Phyo - now hear me out - is another instructional, glorious text for a new way of thinking about food (and those autumn borders filled with cabbage, see above). The Raw Food Movement is not one of my favorites only because of the way it appeared on the scene - too often presented with snobbery by the sanctimonious. But seeing past all that nonsense, if you can, it is the best way to consume food for so many reasons: Clean, unadulterated, easier, faster - I could go on and on. As much as the movement on the whole may annoy the mainstream cook, host, and consumer, the message is perfectly simple and critically important: Just plain good food. It can't miss: Just take the cooking oils out of your life and see what happens to your skin. Trust me, I know.

Give thoughtfully, ya'll.

Working rules of party consumption, quite literally

2010-08-16T05:40:00.000-04:00

We have a saying at work, it's pretty eloquent. It goes, "I can't eat now or I will be all blah blaaaah, ugggh, with the teeth and everything before I have to talk."

I know what you are thinking: Brilliant.

Both to translate and demonstrate the canniness of this seemingly Bevis-and-Butthead generated sentiment: If you have to speak to a room full of people, I mean have to; because it is, say, your job, then you can't be trying to chew and swallow quickly because you are eating. Or, for that matter, be hammered out of your gourd when you are trying to listen or speak in the line of duty.

One of the ever-present qualities of people who attend many events is that they rarely eat at the event. Sometimes, possibly, only enough to say they have sampled all the food; that is usually my goal. In my hand is water in a wine glass or wine cut with three quarters water, or sparkling water if it is supposed to be champagne.

I took this photo at a food event. The most notable missing object in the photo is the reason the gathering was held: Food in the guests hands. Worth noting, no?

Only once have I run across a bartender who did not understand why I wanted my drink watered down but not looking like a spritzer; At work events, I don't want questions about why I do or don't do anything. I am there to elevator-pitch a product or business. As pleasant as it is to chat about kids and vacations, I am going to be razor sharp conversationally and swing you right back to my charge. Food and wine slow me. I will eat after or tomorrow. But not now.

Likewise, I cannot ask you to wait while I swallow a Peking Duck roll and suck on my teeth for a moment while you wait to shake hands. Seen it, believe me. Oh, have I been there.

I write about food and wine, consequently, I need to taste it all. I generally wander away from humanity to eat. At wine tastings, I am relentless in using a spittoon (indeed, it took me a while accept this was both necessary and mannered).

Like most of my colleagues, I am always hungry and cannot wait to get to dinner but I prefer not to eat while trying to do other things. Between events, our team will often head for a favorite spot and have a quiet meal. Since we are food and beverage people, we do not speak very much at a "family meal" because we are tasting the food, assessing, mulling... in my past life, people just needed a few moments to unwind and did not want to eat alone and meals between events or during travel could be equally as quiet.

Even though guests at the recent fundraisers in New York for the Democratic Party paid $30,400 a seat to dine with President Obama, he ate little or nothing in two events and stopped to take a meal with his staff at the Four Seasons.

Frankly, I understand perfectly. I mean, what if he had spit a chunk of tartare out on a piece of Elie Saab couture at Anna Wintour's place while trying to eat and ask his questions. No, I mean, no, that would not fly.

How do you manage food, wine, and the business?

Thing of beauty: Creative catering presentations

2010-08-15T15:30:00.000-04:00

I spotted this at an event this week: Tiny - miraculously, still crunchy - rice paper cones with a gorgeous - and thankfully still cold - tuna tartare hors d'oeuvre topped with wasabi caviar and presented in a bowl heaped with white and black sesame seeds. Like a sand beach for the tartare cones it was both a nod to the sea and a brilliant touch of flavor on the outside of the cone. Both delicious and a perfectly conceived passed nibble.

Cake. Reconsidered.

2010-08-14T06:01:00.000-04:00

I cannot tell you how few cakes jump off the page for me anymore. But this one has the simple, minimalist touch I prefer along with the depth color every pastry chef should be pushed to produce; spare me the baby pinks and blues of the supermarket bakery. I cannot stop looking at the detail in that flower. This cake was produced - not surprisingly - by Sweet Melissa Patisserie in Brooklyn, NY - a veritable outlet of new and fresh cake designs.

Add an additional peony on each level at varying locations and this is my little girls next birthday cake with hot pink candles flickering from atop and behind the peony.

What she gave: Buy local

2010-08-12T06:23:00.000-04:00

Chelsea Clinton's guest baskets were filled with locally purchased goods, like Saturn peaches from Montgomery Place Orchards, chocolate cookies from Wild Hive Farm, a tote bag from the Rhinebeck Farmers’ Market, and a bottle of a Seyval Blanc wine from Clinton Vineyards.

While we could revisit (yawn, yawn, yaaaaaawn) the endless debate over her menu having been prematurely labelled "vegan"; the prescense of the grass fed beef on it going to show that the food press was truly not in the loop at all. Or take a swing by the cake made by La Tulipe Bakery in Mount Kisco, New York; my favorite bakery on the planet which is, not coincidentally owned by schoolmate of mine and her amazingly gifted pastry chef husband - I would much rather focus on Chelsea's decision to focus on local products.

Buy local. This is sentiment is critical to small business and local economies but in general yields far better products which are far healthier for you.

At the place of each of my own wedding guests was an apple from our own local Salinger's Orchard, with a small note, "Good health, from the Hudson Valley to you." The parting gifts were monogrammed cupcakes from a local bakery which were diligently loaded into individual boxes by the maid of honor the night before. And while she still suffers some emotional trauma from this, I say: Worth it!

Move over Martha

2010-08-11T06:59:00.004-04:00

I have to admit that I am regularly held rapt by the New York Times new slide show feature for the Style and Home & Garden sections; must have watched the slide show for this magnificent home of P. Allen Smith's in Arkansas several times.

In considering bringing this to you, I discovered P. Allen's Smith's website. Moss Mountain will welcome you and your group into the house for a tour, book signing with P. Allen Smith, and lunch or dinner, which his firm will cater. This sounds a good bit more appealing to me than the average home tour. Especially given this beautiful setting for dinner.

If you are not going to be near Moss Mountain, like me, we will always have the slide show... enjoy.

Survivors

2010-08-04T05:01:00.007-04:00

Never go home too early; Blushing rule #14.

Last week, if I had, I would have missed a dinner prepared by a world class chef who, although not even 40 years of age, has already died twice in his own estimation. The first time he took a bullet in a Cuban siege.

The second was when he came to the United States on an inner tube from Cuba. When people use the word "survivor" in the future, I will hold them against my memory of him.

He is one of the finest chef's in the world, a died-in-wool American from the melting pot we pay a lot of lip service to being these days, and a credit to these shores.

At one point during dinner, the topic of the wine known as Carmenere was discussed. No idea what it was, my boss leaned over told me, "It's an old world grape of Bordeaux, we grew it for a while but had to rip it all out, it didn't succeed."

A motion to the staff, a few words in Spanish, and a bottle appears without ceremony. "Carmenere," said the Chef, "It's so good. From Chile. They have it right." He looked over the bottle carefully, took it between his capable hands and uncorked it.

This thing in my glass was dark as night, like onyx laid against edges of bloody scarlet velvet. It swirled around the glass like a dramatic black wine ocean. Its nose didn't leap, more like lingered in the frame of the glass and waited for visitors to come and experience this huge black fruit and leather power. It ran like life blood across the palate, woke you up in Alice's Wonderland, and left you panting, with a glass in your hand you silently implored fate never to allow to go empty.

Finally, I know a wine like that. And I know the guy who fearlessly served an old, almost mystical vines' wine with an Argentinian steak that was almost as unforgettable. This grape, not unlike the gentleman who selected the Carmenere that night, was once given up for dead. Genetic testing in the modern era confirmed Carmenere had indeed survived from colonial transport on 14,000 acres in Chile.

Hard not to wonder now if Chef appreciates the hard-lifers, the ones left for dead, the survivors, over all comers. For their depth, for the stories that will be told about them, survivors are the best wines, and the best dinner guests, I see now.

It was refreshing not to be poured an easy winner of a great wine from a chateau whose name carried it when its products were less than stellar. Give me the quiet underdog over the legend any day, unrecognizable and a little otherworldly and introduced as a perfect stranger; rule #15.

That chef thinks I wear ballet flats all the time because that is how he met me, after an event. What that guy doesn't know about me is only a drop in the bucket compared with what he inarguably does know: That life is not for the faint hearted, that you have to seek out danger and mystics - even if only for your wine glass - and that if you are going to die, you better have been able to say you lived.

My hat is off to Chef, to his talent, to his wine, and to this melting pot of ours.

And now, meet Carmenere, seek out a fine one and worthy company for the drinking:

Similarly, (in Chile) vines called Merlot are in fact a mixture, and sometimes a field blend of Merlot and the Old Bordeaux variety, Carmenere, first identified as such in Chile in 1994.

The vine identification required to distinguish Merlot from Carmenere is continuing and since the end of the mid 1990's the word Carmenere has emerged on wine labels and is increasingly respected both as a varietal and, perhaps more suitably, an ingredient in a blend.

It is rarely acknowledged in the vineyards of Bordeaux today, but was, according to Daurel, widely cultivated in the Medoc (France) in the early 18th century and with Cabernet Franc, established the reputations of its best properties. He reports that the vine is vigorous and used to produce exceptionally good wine but was abandoned because if its susceptibility to coulure and resultant low yields.

It yields small quantities of exceptionally deep colored, full bodied wines and may even be, like Petit Verdot, the subject of a revival. Chateau Clerc Milon, the Pauillac (France) classed growth, admits to its presence in their encepagement and the odd varietal emerged on to the Bordeaux market in the early 2000's.

It's new power base is in Chile, where it was discovered in 1994, a substantial proportion of the vines previously believed to be Merlot are in fact this historic variety, presumably imported directly from Bordeaux in the late 19th century.

It has the potential to make very fine wines combining some of the charm of Merlot and the structure of Cabernet Sauvignon. Excessive herbacousness can sometimes dominate its tomato-like flavours but the Chileans have already acknowledged that at least 15,000 acres of their vines were Carmenere by 2004. More than 4,000 acres previously thought to be Cabernet Franc in northern Italy have also been identified as Carmenere... which may be legally used for blending in the Veneto, Trentino, a Fruili (regions). Ca'del Bosco of Lombardia make a sturdy, robustly-priced varietal called Carmenero from it.

- The Oxford Companion to Wine, Janice Robinson

The Trad, before you shop

2010-08-03T05:06:00.000-04:00

Read it twice, be sure you get it.

Turtle soup and other stuff at 3 am

2010-08-02T04:04:00.001-04:00

It's three in the morning, I have just finished complaining bitterly to Trad via email about LL Bean about how old isn't the new New and now I find I'm out of coffee. I need that like I need tartan pants that are inevitably too big everywhere my post-child bearing curves could afford to show off a little. I would have liked some French Market coffee, if I could have any this night. And that is how I arrived at Turtle Soup - a New Orleans specialty.

Indirectly.

During Mardi Gras at Commander's Palace in our precious New Orleans, coffee cups full of turtle soup are handed around after the parade in the private party rooms.

The soup part sounds warm and inviting, the turtle part - although many in this esteemed readership disagree - never has been appealing to the Hostess. But I love the idea of soup in coffee cups after a parade.

At the moment however, I love the idea of coffee in my cup so very much more.

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Thing of beauty: Chanel's silk and feathers

2010-07-31T04:43:00.004-04:00

"This gown and matching evening cape, constructed from Chanel's signature black silk crêpe and embellished with combed ostrich feathers, embodies the fluid movement and elegance equally suitable for the 1930s dance hall and the private cocktail party."

- Metropolitan Museum of Art, Costume Institute

Coco Chanel for House of Chanel, 1935, the 1944 gift of Isabel Shults

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Blushing's best new interior blog award: Catalog Living

2010-07-30T08:13:00.005-04:00

"Elaine was concerned that Gary was drinking too much soda, so she kept them by her feet at all times. To retaliate, Gary threatened to loosen the umbrella buoys."

- Catalog Living, a blog

My gorgeous friend Jessica sent me a link to Catalog Living and I have to say, it finally made interior blogs full of catalog shots amusing. Well, done, Catalog Living, and Elaine and Gary, whoever you are.

Stop on by...

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Hot summer color

2010-07-28T06:19:00.001-04:00

What to order from the florist for dinner parties this week: Blue salvia, zinna in hot summer shades, and colombine, among others.

Here in Middleburg we are lucky to have a florist who grows her own colombine. Just ask a few questions of the local flower purveyors and you may find a resource for something new, easily had, and beautiful.

Photo credit: southernaccents.com

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Big fat dinner vs. lean and modern

2010-07-26T07:02:00.001-04:00

Further to my waxing endlessly on my love of Greek food...

In 2008, one of the chef's in the Blushing Hostess stable of dream chef's, Michael Psilakis, created a menu for a modern green dinner party for Bon Appetit which, according to my research, is accurate in flavor but light on the actual meal, which should involve, perhaps, three or four tons more food than the Chef called for. Obviously, this is geared to the American audience of the magazine but, I am hopeful that including a lot more food here would make it perhaps more authentic and the kind of meal that begins at 2 pm and ends at 2 am. Because, those are my absolute favorite. I fear this might be the sort that begins and 5 and ends at 8.

The Modern Greek Dinner Party

Chef Michael Psilakis, for Bon Appetit

Smoked Salmon Tarama with Pita Chips

Dried Fig Slouvaki

Scallops with Cauliflower, Dried Cherries, and Capers

Sun-dried Tomato and Garlic - Crusted Lamb Rack

Roasted Garbanzo Beans and Garlic with Swiss Chard

Spiced Fresh Orange and Honey Sorbet

This is relatively light for a Greek meal. Where is the table full of little bites? Meatballs? Cheese? Vegetables? Honey pastries? Puddings?

Comparatively, here is the menu provided for a dinner by another writer:

The Summer Buffet

Rosemary Barron

Mezethakia

Black Olives and Lentil salata

Beet Salad with Allspice

Cucumber Salad with Honey and Vinegar Sauce

Country Bread

Pita Bread

Moussakas

Potatoes in a clay pot

Islands Greens Salad

Nut Pastries with Fragrant Honey Syrup

Honey Cakes

Now, this second menu is more my style for authenticity as well as creating the feeling of a great feast in progress. But, choose your weapon.

Now then. To go with the small-bite (mezethes) portion of either menu, be sure to find a good bottle of ouzo, it is available in all broad-minded package stores these days. I like it cold, plunged into an ice bin in the freezer even. It takes a little of the edge off. The best ouzo's, and really the only ones Greek's will recommend, are from the island of Lesvos. Ouzo is anise-licorice in flavor, and like absinthe - which it stepped in to replace when absinthe was prohibited - it is often mixed with cold water and a couple of ice cubes which causes the drink to become milky white. Or as I say, drink it as cold as you can stand it and eat as much as you possibly can. If the day is 110 degrees in the shade in Greece, this will make ever so much more sense.

"The key to drinking ouzo is to eat snacks known as mezedes. These keep the effects of the alcohol from overwhelming you and enable you to sit and drink slowly for hours in a profoundly calm state of mind where all is beautiful and life is fine. In the villages where life is slow ouzo is partaken day or night."
- greekfood.com

Whether this dinner goes big-fat or lean-modern, if you are not serving dinner in your beflowered courtyard then the all-white suggestion here will help to best show off the colors of the food.

In a nod to the favorite patriotic color of Greece, you might consider a few winking blue delphinium tucked into the centerpieces.

A few thoughts for a long, ouzo drenched evening. Enjoy...

Photo credits: Bon Appetit, 1&2. marthastewart.com, 4.

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Facebook reminder: Let's be friends

2010-07-26T05:29:00.000-04:00

Follow Blushing Hostess here.

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Thing of beauty: Presenting sangria

2010-07-25T07:13:00.001-04:00

Hard not to stare at this glorious sangria presentation I noticed recently at a local tapas bar. A magnificent way to entice the crowd into a perfect summer drink, no?

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In from the garden

2010-07-24T07:03:00.004-04:00

I found myself with a dozen limes this week. When I worked in Mexico, I was addicted to lime agua fresca. I have recreated something like it here. It was perfect to have in the fridge coming in from hours in the garden. Not to mention, easy on the eyes.

I grow several mint hybrids, among them pineapple mint, which I have used here. I also love this mint in a light vinegar sauce over grilled lamb, for muddling in mojito's, and for it's multi-color talent in garnishing desserts; worth planting if you can find it.

Blushing's Sparkling Lime Aqua Fresca
Serves 6

1 cup sugar
1 cup water - for simple/ sugar syrup
1 cup lime juice
3 to 4 cups sparkling water to dilute the limeade
Garnish: thinly sliced limes and pineapple pint

Make simple sugar syrup: Heat the sugar and water over medium heat in a small saucepan only until the sugar is dissolved completely.

While the sugar is dissolving, use a juicer to extract the juice from 4 to 6 limes, enough for one cup of juice.

Add the juice and the sugar water to a pitcher. Refrigerate 30 to 40 minutes.

Fill the glass with one third lime-ade mixture, top with sparkling water.

Serve with or without ice, sliced limes, and mint.

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The Fizz Event at PX blue light

2010-07-23T05:53:00.013-04:00

Today, a peek at a very special event I attended this week to support another fabulous Virginia winery, Thibaut Janisson, and their creamy, delicious sparkling wine, Fizz. The event was held in partnership with PX Blue Light, as close to a modern-day speakeasy I have found.

We are off to beautiful Old Town Alexandria, Virginia, just a hop from Washington, DC. This section of the city has always very much reminded me of my haunts off Charles Street in the flat of the hill in Boston. When in the nation's Capitol, do not miss a visit.

This is my fabulous boss (seriously, she is), Rachel Martin, EVP of Boxwood Winery, with Claude Thibaut, founding partner of Thibaut Janisson Chateau and winemaker of Virginia Fizz.

PX Blue Light's legendary mixologist, Todd Thrasher, worked with the concentration and speed of a master, carefully crafting each Virginia Fizz cocktail with care for the guests crowded into PX to sample his luxe cocktail creations.

Todd developed a varied cocktail menu focused on all the bright, hot colors of a sparkling Virginia summer to best show off Fizz as a great sparkling wine for cocktails.

PX Blue Light

Virginia Fizz Cocktail Menu

PX Champagne Cocktail

Cavalier cherries, house-made cherry bitters, Grand Manier, Bacardi 151, and Virginia Fizz sparkling wine

Tahitian Dream

hibiscus tea, vanilla, Liquor 43, Woodford Reserve bourbon, and Virginia Fizz sparkling wine

175 Degree Cocktail

Grapefruit skins, yellow cardamon, bay leaf, Patron Silver Tequila, and Virginia Fizz sparkling wine

Summertime

Yellow watermelon sorbet, verbena fizz, pickled watermelon rind juice, cardamon, and and Virginia Fizz sparkling wine

The details at work at PX create a the snug, clandestine feel of a luxe speakeasy
tucked away off a street corner. There is, in true speakeasy style, no sign out front, and only a blue light above the door to let you know you have arrived.

The wrought iron protected shelves in the wall, looking not unlike a sorcerer's workshop, encase Todd Thrasher's self-made bitters in a dozen flavors or more. This attention to detail, this seriousness of his craft, is what sets Thrasher aside from every other mixologist in Washington, DC.

There is something about a glowing surface and cocktails in a range of enticing colors that I cannot resist. Bottles of homemade cherry bitters wait their turn in the PX Virginia Fizz Cocktail on the bar. The sweet and salty preserved lemons will make their way into The Tahitian Dream Virginia Fizz Cocktail.

PX is nothing short of a cocktail historian's tribute to drinks gone by. Small touches make the room elegant and studied but not overwhelmed with antiquities. Here, an antique absinthe dispenser sits on a former window sill, set off by the low glow of candles twinkling against dark, polished wood. PX's three rooms are filled with these small thoughtful cocktail-driven considerations.

The juxtaposition of Todd Thrasher's beautifully conceived cocktail menu against PX's ocean of rich navy velvet and dark wood walls caught my eye.

The room was jammed with happy guests holding cocktails which were no less than promised: Magnificent to the eye, dancing on the palate, and full of a delicious Virginia sparkling wine now adored by the crowd for its ability to make a great cocktails: Virginia Fizz of Thibaut Janisson.

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Big fat etiquette

2010-07-22T06:00:00.007-04:00

Such a great scene. The appalling nature of the meat abstinence would have been the same in many homes I knew growing up, including my Grandmother's. That has little to do with being Greek, but big fat family meals and the sentiment of cooking for you, that is woven into Greek DNA.

As it happens, I'm a little obsessed with Greece, Greek food, Greek wine, and now, Windex. Not the Greek diners we New Yorkers knew as kids: Formica counters, old warped travel posters of Greece, and some gyros tossed in to lend authenticity to a menu from which I shamelessly ordered vanilla coke and egg salad. If only I had known.

Like every place and culture, dining with a Greek family has some big fat etiquette and I tell you this only because I hope you know one, and I hope they invite you for a meal, and I hope it is around Easter. Fates willing then, you have some time then to brush up your Greek; study even. There is a lot to learn: The Greeks are a vertible crossroads of cultural food touches; marked by wars, invasions, occupations, and great growing land. Their tables are a literal feast of flavor, color, laughter, and joy.

"In the villages, the traditional way of dining is still observed, and very pleasant and relaxed it is. A table is set up in a courtyard and on it is spread a variety of mezethes for guests and family to nibble on for and hour or two while they chat and wind down.

Every meal is preceded by mezethe's, 'To prepare the stomach for the onslaugh to come,' as one ancient Greek writer exxplained.

When the mezethes are finished, bread, salad, and a main course are set int he center of the table. Vegetables are usually served later, separate from the main course.

Family and guests alike are expected to serve themselves to the food provided and to pass their wine glasses to the host to be filled...

Taking large helpings of everything at the start of the meal, to show appriciated for the food, would actually be an insult to the host, implying there might not be enough food to go around! Instead the diners helps themselves to the same dish several times, proving to the host they are enjoying themselves with the food he offers.

When we serve Greek food at home, these customs can pose problems. Our guests, used to spending less time relaxing before dinner, can easily mis-judge the pace of the meal and become full on mezethes! Thus, it is better to serve just a few mezethakia suck as olives, feta cheese, salted almonds, and peppered figs with drinks. Then, at the table, serve two or three more substantial mezethes as a first course.

In traditional Greek homes no separate first or soup courses are served (a soup is sually served as a compelte meal), so the main course is served immediately after the mezethes.

Fresh fruit, or perhaps pudding or ice cream usually completes the meal.

After the meal, and away from the dining table, Greeks often enjoy honey-rich pastries, candies, or syruped fruit (glyka) with coffee. For us these treats make delectable desserts."

- The Flavors of Greece, Rosemary Barron (William Morrow & Co, 1991)

Or, maybe, it would be best to go to Greece in person.

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The ideal gadget

2010-07-20T05:49:00.016-04:00

The other day at work I had an epiphany of sorts. No, I it did not lead me to the promised land. Well, I suppose that depends how you look at it: Committed entertainers may feel they too have arrived after reading this post.

In any event, I happened to be loitering in Tasting Room at Chevy Chase (the event site for the launch of the best and hippest happy hour in Chevy Chase, Maryland, and not just because I said so) while waiting for an appointment and had a moment to truly consider these enoteca-style machines we use there, called Enomatic's.

With the use of customer's pre-paid card, they dispense a taste, a half glass, or a full glass of each of sixteen amazing wines from great wine regions around the world. One card can enable a guest to try a galaxy of delicious red wines. There is also a wall-enclosed refrigerated Enomatic self-pouring machine for white wines.

It occurred to me that if I had Enomatic pouring machine's at home it would be a wildly successful conversation starter, no guest would be unhappy with the wine they were served, and the machine alone would make a great wine-tasting theme party.

It seems the kitchen and entertaining gadget guru's have some work ahead to shrink this concept for home party use. I do not care for "wet bars" in private homes (the term alone bringing back the debauchery of those spring "breaks" and the questionable kind of girl who engaged in all that ickiness), although I do not mind a home bar which is relatively cloaked or a small non-nuisance. If this fit in a closet-sized bar, the butler's pantry, or the corner of the kitchen, what have you, it would be a perfect gadget.

In the meantime, I can take the guests to The Tasting Room Wine Bar since they graciously receive private parties. Maybe at happy hour, as I love any concept which begins with the word 'happy' and am more likely to believe that might be the case if it only takes a hour.

Photo credit: Courtesy The Tasting Room Wine Bar of Chevy Chase, Reston, and Middleburg, and The Boxwood Estate Winery.

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Entre nous: The Tasting Room event at Chevy Chase

2010-07-19T05:51:00.009-04:00

An amazing week just passed. The team at Boxwood Winery, my real-life media job, put together a fabulous gathering in one of our Tasting Room locations at The Shops at Wisconsin Place, in beautiful Chevy Chase, Maryland. We kicked off the location's new happy hour (and arguably the best happy hour in all of the fair kingdom of Chevy Chase) in sleek, modern style.

I want to share some of the evening with you, since I am, after all, the Blushing Hostess around here and I like to give a peek of the actual hostessing whenever possible; to establish my prowess and to also prove I have done something this season other than wrangle my over-zealous squash and watermelon planting in the garden (this last bit to be filed under: What, whaaaat, was the Hostess thinking? Lordy!).

For the happy hour launch party, and frankly for all parties, I save a lot of digital images which I always hope will help our team for inspiration. As you remember, I have been hanging onto this beauty for sometime, ever since I discouraged you from creating a cheese avalanche in that unforgettable work of my pen long discussed in event planning circles.

My bosses are exceedingly patient people, gratefully. They are willing to wait while I dive (digitally-speaking) into a veritable ocean of media I have amassed looking for one tiny piece of inspiration. The photo above was just such an instance.

In the initial planning stages, I showed this picture to Rachel and Sean Martin, for whom I work because, aside from being an example of my favorite sort of cheese presentation (large hunks, not tiny, sweaty, hot bites of pepper jack - oh help me!) it seemed like that might be a wine barrel top underneath the cheese service. Perhaps? And if so, that is right up our alley, obviously.

I asked Rachel, Vice President for winery operations, if we would have a spare barrel top upon which to display. After tossing the idea around, Rachel mentioned an entire barrel would stand at hip height to an average person. We concluded we should bring the whole barrel to Chevy Chase for the cheese display. I think ours, in the photo below, was magnificent, don't you?

A word of caution loved ones, unless you are Adam McTaggart, our princely winemaker at Boxwood Winery, or some of the brave employees at The Tasting Room at Chevy Chase, you should not attempt to be rolling your own French oak barrel hither and thither. I am certain it was comical to watch me stretching, limbering-up, pushing, wiggling, and then giving up on moving the barrel with an annoyed pout on that fine 100 degree Virginia afternoon.

Let's just say that I am lucky the Boxwood Estate Winery group is agreed that no task is too big or small for every set of hands on staff. And so, my wine barrel escapade was saved by Adam who no doubt had about a billion things to do, owning to his having 16 acres of Bordeaux varietals under his care. Ah-hem.

And now, on to the glorious and tasty nibbles. The menu was created by Rachel and Chef Nico Armoure of Chevy Chase's unparalleled M Cafe at The Collection. It included four offerings of small bites: Duck confit sliders with roasted fig and aged balsamic vinegar, grilled spicy Moroccan lamb skewers, ahi tuna tartare atop toasted brioche, and fluted Parmesan crisps delicately filled with crabmeat salad. I am sorry you cannot not taste these delicious nibbles, but I offer you the photos and hope you are enjoying a magnificent meal as you read Blushing today.

Great entertaining and event planning should, more than anything else, be a process in which your five senses rule in the plans. I really took my time looking over the store at Chevy Chase, hoping to see the littlest details the architect and build-out contractors took their time with when the location was born. The lighting is a small twinkling directed beam above each table. In the world of great hosts, that one detail is critical for getting the event exactly right. Under each glowing beam, a perfect orchid, and the menus.

So ends our jaunt through Boxwood Winery and The Tasting Room Wine Bar Media Launch Event. The hippest and best happy hour in Chevy Chase got off on a perfectly tuned high note, and while we were exhausted when it was over, it was great fun for all concerned as well as the guests, which as always, is the key to great entertaining.

Photos credits: The Boxwood Winery and The Tasting Room Wine Bar and Shops of Chevy Chase, Reston, and Middleburg, Virginia. Under copyright and by permission only.

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Thing of beauty: Her pumpkin

2010-07-15T06:35:00.001-04:00

These are the last few days in which a weary soul thinking far behind calendar might be able to plant pumpkin in time for Halloween. Look, anything is possible and if you are counting on a little magic to make it happen then this is your pumpkin. The magnificent French heirloom Rouge Vif d`Etampes.

Come time to harvest, the children will know this pumpkin in darkness, its shapeliness was the inspiration for Cinderella's pumpkin carriage.

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Cremant Verveine: Start now for the weekend

2010-07-14T05:35:00.002-04:00

Cremant D'Alsace is the white sparkling wine of the Alsace region of France in methode champenois (the traditional champagne method). As you probably know, unless a sparkler is made within Champagne, it cannot be called a champagne, even though it is, more or less, precisely the same thing. In the region of Alsace, that same animal goes by the name Cremant.

To get your mitts on a bottle, let's just say that in areas with out savvy, interested wine dealers and consumers, this bottle might be hard won, but worth the struggle. Exotic and under-appreciated but generally not expensive.

So, you have to beg, borrow, steal, perhaps cast aspersion on a mother or two, challenge the wine guy to a duel, and absolutely threaten to Yelp him if he does not capitulate and give you the goods by this very Friday. And then you need to pop home, throw the door open, and like a mad cocktail-making Alsatian, order up some Lemon Verbena tea. To do this, you could go here. Or here. Which is not unlike a local specialty market, if one happens to be handy to over charge you on organic stuff with attractive labels.

Now then.

You'll make that lemon verbena tea and be sure it is well steeped. You will want it to have the heady scent of a verbena leaf just plucked from the stem, so do extend your perky little nose over the steeping vat and determine whether it is up to snuff. When your verbena tea is completely cool, refrigerate it for a good long while until it is cold.

Fill half a champagne flute with the iced lemon verbena tea and top with Cremant D'Alsace. Now you've a Cremant Verveine. Garnish the platter with verbena leaves if you grow it, or lemon leaves. I don't mind the tiniest tip of lemon balm as a garnish as well.

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Addison Mizner, you are missed

2010-07-12T05:39:00.006-04:00

Addison Mizner, the man who, along with his partner Henry Flagler, built some of the most memorable and important structures in Palm Beach, is also remembered for one of the oddest party fouls in American entertaining history at the opening gala of the Everglades Club.

The club was originally intended to be Mizner's post-World War I gift to veterans: A magnificent convalescent hospital of sorts in sunny Palm Beach. Nearly 300,000 invitations to live in the palace of healing were extended but only 33 were accepted. Mizner decided then to turn the intended-hospital into a grand social club with residences, racquet past times, golf, and generally, camaraderie in navy blue blazers in the grill room. What have you.

I doubt very much he would have seen the quiet club full of old multi-residential money types as a place ever taking center stage in the Tiger Woods matter or, for that matter, any scandal. But over the years, whether public or not, the club has been well-versed in the seedy side of up as well as the gracious side of socializing. But that's another thing altogether.

The Everglades Club began, as everything intended to be swell should, with a great party in 1919 and everyone was there.

"The opening of the club was a gala affair with one fatal flaw. Since war precluded furnishing the club with authentic antiques, Mizner made his own Spanish furniture, using quick lime and shellac to antique the leather on the chairs. They looked lovely, but when the beautifully gowned ladies sat on them on opening night, the heat from their bodies and the quicklime softened the shellac, and they were literally stuck. Mizner spent much of the night pulling distraught females from their chairs. The next morning, swatches of material stuck to the shellac testified to who had sat where."

- Social History of Palm Beach

I still read this and cannot help fast-forwarding ninety years and devilishly wondering if it would be at all possible to get the chairs back and host a new gala, say, for all the Real Housewives? Ah-hem.

Photo credits: palmbeachhistory.org, palmbeachhomesforsale.com, thepalmbeachblog.com

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Sunday beauty: Harvest

2010-07-11T05:04:00.008-04:00

Small hands made quick work of the first harvest in their garden. When they find other pursuits of their own, I hope these days in my cathedrals still bring them some comfort.

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4 July

2010-07-04T05:24:00.001-04:00

This, then, is the state of the union: free and restless, growing and full of hope. So it was in the beginning. So it shall always be, while God is willing, and we are strong enough to keep the faith.

~Lyndon B. Johnson

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Watered down

2010-07-02T05:32:00.006-04:00

"Once, during Prohibition, I was forced to live for days on nothing but food and water."
- W.C. Fields

At an event I attended recently, special attention was wisely given to the water service. One entire rough-hewn outdoor table was dedicated to a well-presented water display. It was a sweltering evening and a lot of wine was served: Easily available water was key to happy guests. The bottles were pleasing to the eye and plentiful, the garnishes treated as if centerpieces, and the ice buckets dutifully re-iced by the catering staff. On the whole a beautifully conceived necessity for summer and the guests water themselves, nothing better than that in my book.

Something like a girl in a pie

2010-06-30T05:21:00.001-04:00

On the unexpected: "If possible, I try to plot an evening so that something new is happening all the time. Guests coming in after dinner make a kind of second party. Games, like music are okay if the mood's right. Try to prepare a surprise. It can be the food, a little present in each napkin, a musician in the middle of dinner - never at the start, it wastes the impact - a poem read by a guest, an amusing table decoration - you know, something like a girl in a pie."

- Alexis Gregory, among other fine things, the author of Private Splendor: Great Families at Home, as quoted by Bloomingdale's Book of Entertaining, Ariane and Michael Batterberry (1976, FDS)

What is your dinner party girl in a pie?

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Yada, yada, yada, the caterer was fired

2010-06-28T05:30:00.001-04:00

My Mom is a kind and understanding person. She is generous to a fault. Loving and forgiving. But of she and the volunteer ladies with whom she serves in various women's organizations one thing can be said: They will forgive poor etiquette, but they will not pay for it a second time. So, when the coffee buffet was assembled at a luncheon and the milk placed on the table by the catering staff still in the milk carton, the ax fell graciously but effectively.

Look, I don't care who you are, how much you do or do not have, where you have or have not been, what you do or do not know: Never put cardboard down in front of a guest. Decant the milk into the cat's bowl for all I care but do not put a carton or a bag of sugar down in front of a guest. Come on.

At a service level, things like this numb the mind just a little, no?

Beat the streets

2010-06-27T06:18:00.004-04:00

I could walk around New York City for the rest of my days and never take it all in. I will spare you the complaints about how there is never enough time in life to wander - wandering being considered the plain dalliance of fools, naives, and village idiots. And in turn, not seriously thought of when it appears on most Outlook schedules. Except mine that is, where you can be assured it is the deadly serious to-die for business of this Hostess. If I sit in Westchester for any period of time, my skin starts to itch and I feel an overwhelming sense of anxiety that culture and curiosities are passing me by in town.

I get a lot of support in the wandering endeavor, thankfully. Either my friends think we might unearth something fascinating, or there is the outside chance they may finally find their way into witness protection, but on the whole - good days had by most. Ah-hem. Now then.

After a long recent day spent wandering in Manhattan, I came across this piece on Grub Street: Chef Yang Haung of Buddakan in New York takes his service staff to his purveyors and favorite haunts to familiarize them with his ingredients. It is only coincidental that his restaurant, Buddakan, is a favorite of mine, not only for food but for its soaring shameless display of decor and related cash outlay verging on the absurd. Even if only once, it is a place not to be missed for over-wrought design, delicious legitimate Asian food a la banquet hall, and impeccable service.

Better service through directed wandering: One hostess is not surprised.

Then this happened

2010-06-22T06:01:00.000-04:00

My gardening ghost is still hard at work. As you might remember, in each new season, I have been greeted by new flowers remaining from sometime long even before the previous occupants of this 1880 colonial arrived. In early spring, our roadside curb was triumphant with daffodils. Summer has brought thousands of tiger lilies.

I think there is a little message in here for me. The tiger lily is my Mother's favorite flower, carried by her bridesmaid's in her wedding against light orange gowns. Makes it feel a little like this place was meant to be for me. Do you think?

I obsess shamelessly and tell everyone

2010-06-21T07:44:00.003-04:00

At a party this week I met the charming Michael Woestehoff of the purely magnificent blog on hotels (architecture, cocktails, interior design, and events), The Washington Lobbyist. If there is any blog to add to a read list this year, it is this one. It is magnificently photographed and executed with no angle of these beautiful structures left unturned.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I have over the past few days, ah-hem, in nearly every free waking moment. Truly fascinating stuff, even if one was only in it for the photos.

Follow me at Boxwood

2010-06-20T08:07:00.002-04:00

By way of further explanation of my slowness on this page, the news is that I am also the marketer for the Boxwood Winery, in Middleburg, Virginia: the realization of a life-long passion of John Kent Cooke. It is my pleasure to write the Boxwood Winery Blog as well as Blushing Hostess and I hope you will follow along on both pages. See you there?

Interlude (aka where I've been)

2010-06-10T18:28:00.003-04:00

We took a breath there. Had a pause, you and I, we did. I was spending some time with a dear old friend as she waited for her husband to finish an eight month deployment.

We are all safely back in our places now, thank you for your patience.

If wishes were horses

2010-06-10T17:34:00.002-04:00

I have had a full house these last two weeks: Two girls, two boys visiting, and all of them toddlers. I do not want to discuss what they have done to us; I will just say it was plenty, it was always disgusting, and there were always gleeful cheers whenever the hideous deed at hand was finished. I am thoroughly defeated which is why, while looking for both boys and girls bedding, this Pottery Barn Kids photo of "Amy's bedroom" appealed to me.

Look at that heavenly room, here you can get great girls and boys bedding to accent their rooms, but besides that I see beds made, floor free of debris, everything immaculate. And those two angelic children sharing tales of their day. The stylists who cracked this whip, can they come to Blushingdom?

I like the sensation this kind of thing might be possible.

Hope: The Hostess's favorite virtue.

Memorial

2010-05-31T15:15:00.005-04:00

To live in hearts we leave behind, is not to die.

- Thomas Campbell, Hallowed Ground

Thank you for my freedom, the single most humbling sensation of this American life.

Humbled again: Dominique Browning

2010-05-27T06:15:00.003-04:00

Once again humbled by the notice of one of the great pen's on the planet and another gorgeous kind friend of this blog, a great thank you to Dominique Browning, author of Slow Love, Washington Post and New York Times contributor, and a lush and refined blogger.

Dominique's blog post on 21 Questions and The Lioness (she surely is an elegant one), can be found here. I hope you get to know her too.

My thanks as always, DB.

RIP: An Aesthete's Lament

2010-05-26T07:01:00.003-04:00

Arguably the best interiors blog in both design insight and history passed into American media history this month as "the Aesthete" as we loving referred to its pen, announced the blog would be discontinued. Certainly, it will be sorely missed for informational strength and intellectual prowess, but the degradation of the level at which the Aesthete set the bar for the rest of us in content and editing is perhaps the second most worrisome concern of the void left behind.

The Aesthete, who I can only hope continues to drop into this genre, is, as you might have suspected in reading An Aesthete's Lament, a singular, brilliant, graceful talent. The Aesthete nourished minds and creativity and taught with patience and encouragement being, as you also might have sensed, a researcher and scholar aside from the obvious staggeringly impressive design credentials.

The first of the luminary bloggers to have come to Blushing Hostess seemingly a lifetime ago, the Aesthete hand fed this blog at its hardest moments, offered reassurance, and somehow, in the remarkable real world of the Aesthete, managed to be a friend and confidante to me. I was humbled by the Aesthete's praise and encouragement and frankly, the design and style blogosphere is without a North Star for me now.

So begins the post-Aesthete era, sadly.

The Virginia Gent wedding tradition

2010-05-22T05:55:00.001-04:00

A friend of mine was married here in Middleburg this past weekend. The week before, he said, "We're pretty much ready to go, we buried our bottle today, so there is not much left to do."

I cannot help but cherish the tradition of old Virginia families gathering together before a wedding to bury a bottle of Virginia Gent Bourbon in the garden for, "the hard times ahead."

I wished him the best; it is heartening to know that in a pinch, he has an old friend and a bit of his family's luck and love resting in the garden next to house.

And for all those not in Northern Virginia, it couldn't hurt...

Endeavor

2010-05-20T04:45:00.003-04:00

As you might remember, there is a lot to do regarding the gardens at this house. Not only has the long-gone gardener left bulbs and old country roses everywhere, there is an asparagus patch which does not quit and some inexplicable potato remnants, and thankfully, peonies. I don't ask questions, fate handed me the stewardship here and hard work in the dirt is critical for a person's constitution, so I am nothing but grateful for everything that springs up and needs cared for - once, that is, I figure out what it is.

It has not been the kindest spring season, there continues to be frost threats and seedling loss. My only reservation to this necessary process of nature is that I have to watch something coddled from seed, die.

All the rest of it is the cycle of life and we have no choice but to go with it.

You remember what I came upon, surely, this ghostly plot of a vegetable garden long gone by.

Here it is today. The cold-adoring early seasonites are thriving: bok choi, turnip, radish, beets, onion, leek, Brussels sprouts, and sunflower. The true summer plants are still waiting their cue as the cold spring nights refuse to yield for them.

Give or take, it is about a quarter-mile over land to the garden from the kitchen. In a flash of false enterprise, I pronounced the distance far too great for herbs and lettuces which I need for cooking all the time, and consequently (and this is where the landscaping staff and I really became close, ah-hem) I overturned this old shade and sun garden at the back of the field behind the house.

I imagine it was a rock garden once, now it is another huge thing to be weeded, although I was not thinking of that when I turned it under. Nor did I consider the two toddlers who will do anything to thwart all this organized gardening effort in favor of wild patches of green mayhem.

What can I say? I'm here now. And I am tired but always thankful.

A short but perfect season

2010-05-18T13:58:00.006-04:00

In the far west of France, the region of Alsace has long been a source of geopolitical strife between France and Germany. While I would love recap a millennium of agony regarding what belongs to whom, which religion, whose language, and how it was ruled, it is far beyond the scope of this page.

Aside from the storybook beauty of Alsace, a culture vibrant with centuries of gifts bestowed from east, west, and south of itself, it makes remarkable wines both dry and sweet (Gerurztraminer, Muscat, Pinot Blanc, Pinto Gris, Reisling, Cremant d'Alsace, and Pinot Noir) and has a commitment to asparagus worth a trip in spring.

Restaurants spring up between April and June and the only item on the menu is asparagus, generally served with three sauces: Hollandaise, mayonnaise, and vinaigrette.

Alsatian's will drink only one wine along side their prized asparagus; well-chilled dry muscat. Whether or not you go in person, or recreate this beautiful meal at home, I suggest you follow suit; locals know their pairings.

Asparagus is imported for fine purveyors and restaurants only during the legitimate season from the west of France. Check the tags at the grocery store: Although Mexico and other locales produce white asparagus (achieved by growing in darkened boxes, rather than in the mounded nutrient-rich soil of western France), they are generally an inferior product and it is worth, even if it is a splurge to experience this meal, to get the truly tasty asparagus of France. The season is only from late April until June 22 each year, so be quick.

For more on the history of Alsace and the French and German populations therein, read here.

Great time had by all

2010-05-12T05:08:00.002-04:00

I must receive the "fun meals with small children" question once a week. Were it not for a legion of physicians warning against giving little ones seafood, for reasons of preventing a horrendous allergic reaction, I could recommend a rowdy, messy, crab cracking festival to you.

I am one of those lucky (?) mother's who found Grandma and baby engaged in an allergen summit one afternoon; Nuts, strawberries, and shrimp spread out on her high chair table just daring her to have three types of anaphylaxsis at once. It was the baby allergen trifecta, I thought I would swoon on the spot. But I recovered and thought, well, at least I have those answers now.

Consequently, there is little I cannot feed my year-old, including Maryland steamed crabs.

This meal is an uncultivated barbaric mess. An unpredictable event of creepy undersea things encrusted in curious red gunk ("Old Bay and stuff," in technical parlance), fiercely addressed with mallets, and picked apart to succulent crabby shreds (which will leave you no questions as to why buying crab in the market is so costly). This process takes hours and limitless patience but even in restaurants which serve steamed crabs requires only fearlessness and no cleanliness or real table manners since smashing, sucking, and pitching are all par on this course.

I have two toddlers, I go where the mess takes me. Baltimore steamed crabs. Great time had by all.

The kitchen buffet

2010-05-11T04:55:00.005-04:00

Honestly, what difference does it make if you serve the food family style, from a side board, or hanging from a circus high wire in a tutu while ladling gazpacho into shot glasses?

Etiquette texts of the old and dusty school will say absolutely not; get a staff! Alright, in the real world however, the staff often fails to report for duty (I sometimes wonder if they were only pithy imaginary British gents, anyway) and the food has to get from vessel to lips with one hostess and a house full of guests who seem, at least outwardly, capable enough to have read and responded to an invite, and followed directions to the house; therefore being presumably competent to amass food on a flat surface and get it to their mouth without insurmountable obstacle, all the while chatting on about that messy business in Bedford Garden Club (or, er, what have you).

I dare say, it is fine to put the food up on the counters in the kitchen, next to the plates, silverware, and napkins, and allow the diners or guests to fend for themselves in food-serving. There are times, as in the case of the this supper, with food that needs to be assembled to an individuals preferences (menus involving tortilla's and anything, for example), when the food is perfectly graciously - and more effectively - served in a spotless kitchen.

As a rule, the further the plates will move, the smaller they get (to be lap-friendly) and less precious (fewer tears shed over broken pieces). The same goes for the utensils: No sterling sees light when guests may be returning their own plates to the kitchen; to prevent it ending up in the trash by expensive accident. The napkins remain pressed cloth: Not only because paper is so flimsy, but it is eco-conscious.

Put the food out on the counters. Tell them I said so.

Saturday Night Supper Buffet

Tortilla Soup

Spicy Jicama, Apple, Melon, and Tangerine Salad

Carne Oaxaqueno Tacos with Queso Fresco

Green Chili Spoon Bread

Tamarindo Dark and Stormy

Chic hostess: Money. No object.

2010-05-10T04:59:00.001-04:00

Givenchy

Blushing -

I have a very formal black tie fundraiser to attend this month, can you imagine what you would wear if no expense were to be spared? Dream for me.

XOXO,

Diane

Ohhh, Diane.

The truth is, with one month to go and couture demands, you are under the gun. Had you asked me this question six months ago, I would have sent you to custom couture. Now, you are at the mercy of the market but, lets imagine you had a hand in getting couture quickly (by definition however, it is an agonizingly slow and painstaking dressmaking process and allowing time to fit the gowns properly is critical).

Here are a few beautiful pieces, my go everywhere late-night shoe for this season, and the birdcage clutch I dream about as I lay my head on the pillow.

Best of luck,

Catherine

Valentino

Elie Saab

Judith Leiber

Jimmy Choo

Happy Mother's Day, gorgeous creatures

2010-05-09T08:17:00.003-04:00

Happy Mother's Day, to you and yours from me and mine.

Chic hostess: Fairy tales can come true

2010-05-08T05:34:00.000-04:00

Dear Blushing,

What's on your handbag radar?

Truly,
Jenny

Jenny,

Fairy tales, blooms, and hobos.

Best,
Catherine

Valentino, Floral Straw Hobo

Valentino, Fairy Clutch. Neiman's.

Nancy Gonzales, Liquid glaze crock hobo

Valentino, Shiny Napa Rose

Prada, Saffino

Beirn, Metallic Watersnake

Laura Merkin, Eve

Judith Leiber, Minaudier east-west butterfly

Sheer beauty? Couture train wreck?

2010-05-01T05:25:00.001-04:00

The much blathered-on about Valentino Court Shoe, runway, Spring, 2010. $4700.

That is not a typo.

Road hazard

2010-04-30T04:58:00.000-04:00

On Wednesdays, give or take, I replace the flowers in the house: In the winter from the store, and in all the warm seasons, from the garden or the borders with some help from the roadside out front. This week, my nose is tingling with Lily of Valley everywhere I go. Is anything better than that after a winter of three foot snows?

Anyway, as you know, in this process I find all kinds of nifty uses for things from the road (a "weed" to you, maybe) but occasionally all my best efforts go badly awry.

Last week, I was having one of those weeks. Preoccupied, and a little bit of a head cold - nothing catastrophic, but enough to throw off my nose as I was getting the flowers together. It was only when my sense of smell began to recover that I detected just a note of skunk spray in the house...

There are some downsides to the roadside flower arrangement, I have to admit.

SanLori giveaway for Blushing Followers

2010-04-28T06:38:00.014-04:00

I am pleased to announce another fabulous SanLori Stationery giveaway for Blushing Followers. To celebrate National Etiquette Week, SanLori is providing our winner with 20 personalized note cards of their choice. You can view hundreds of beautiful choices here. There is, quite literally, something for everyone and every taste.

In the meantime, these are only a few pretty suggestions.

To enter before midnight on May 4th, 2010:

1. Please be sure you are a Blushing Hostess Follower by clicking on the Follow this Blog button at the top left of your screen.

2. Fan SanLori on Facebook, here or if you are already a SanLori fan, post a note on SanLori's wall.

Good luck!

Practical magic

2010-04-27T11:09:00.002-04:00

Muscari, lamb's ear, lily of the valley, andromeda, helleborus, thyme, rosemary, sage, and scented-geranium foliage; check the yard, most of it is there. Old things, newly conceived.

Photo: marthastewart.com

Sunday beauty: Jackie in Seville, 1966

2010-04-25T05:36:00.000-04:00