I’ve had a number of questions about what to wear to socially-distanced Baptisms, small weddings, birthdays, baby showers, and the like. The subtext here is that things feel a lot more casual when you are standing six feet away from your cousins in a backyard or watching a baby be Baptized from across the street or attending a courthouse wedding. Below, sharing a few favorite picks for special occasions in the age of coronavirus, all of which would look just right with a pair of flat sandals (heels and the outdoors don’t mix):
SUCH A SPLASHY FIND (ORIGINALLY $450, MARKED DOWN TO $133!!!! — SEEN ABOVE IN A DIFFERENT PRINT)
THIS DRESS ONCE COST OVER $1,100 AND IS NOW MARKED DOWN TO $229 — I LOVE LOVE LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT IT; REMINDS ME OF JULIA ROBERTS AT THE POLO MATCH IN PRETTY WOMAN
*Image above from Mintwood Home, featuring their beautiful antique gold mirror. I love the way this nursery combines traditional (adult!) pieces with the prettiest soft green color for a nursery.
Are you designing (or re-designing) a nursery for your little one? Sharing some lovely finds (many of which are under $100) for a little one’s room below…
A few weekends after Venice, I made my way to Amsterdam, this time with a closer friend. I had coordinated the trip so as to cross paths with one of my brother’s best friends, B., who happened to be traveling there for work, and whose familiar, sibling-like presence left me with a lump in my throat when we first met up at a small, previously-agreed-upon cafe.
“SmileyJen!” B. yelled affably in my direction, an abbreviation of my AIM handle, as we approached. I smiled despite the telltale constricting in my throat, the catch in my breath. I forced myself into pleasantries and plans for the afternoon. Despite my misgivings about visiting art museums with others, the three of us spent a lovely afternoon at the Rijkmuseum, whose extensive collection of Van Gogh and Vermeer was staggering. In between appropriately decorous pauses at the feet of these masterpieces, B. asked about my parents and sisters, we exchanged well-worn jokes at my brother’s expense, and I suppressed multiple instincts to cry. B. was a part of my brother’s tight-knit high school posse of four wise-cracking, immature, highly intelligent, and loyal friends. One or several of them were nearly always at our house between the years of 1996 and 2000, when my brother left for college in Boston — to the degree that my mother took to calling them “Sons One, Two, Three, and Four,” and would eventually have t-shirts made up to that effect. To the degree that we routinely doubled the portions for dinner, as at least one was at our dining room table any given night of the week, or picking at leftovers after sports practice the afternoon following. To the degree that I wasn’t surprised when one of them would pick me up from a party in lieu of my brother without previous coordination. Just: “SmileyJen!” they’d yell from the car window, and I’d trot out, unphased, waving to my friends. But B. had always been particularly solicitous of myself and my three younger sisters. When my brother threw parties when my parents were out of town, B. routinely sat with us for long stretches of the evening in the kitchen. Though he was friendly and conversational, we understood even then that he was keeping an eye on us.
After dinner, B., my girlfriend, and I accidentally cut through a corner of the red light district, and I felt my stomach knot. The scene was alien and garish and I felt flustered in B.’s avuncular presence. I was already highly sensitive to the unknown, and the Red Light District felt a few yards over the line.
“Hey, what’s going on?” asked B. “You’re making a face just like your mom does.”
It was too much, all of it: I felt in an instant that I had been posturing my way through the many weeks of travel to date, feigning savviness and aplomb when I was inwardly drowning in loneliness, heartsickness, and anxiety. Having this figure from my childhood invoke my mother in the presence of this gaudy strip of street — knowing that I was still, even as far as I was from her and the near-holiness that she represented, an extension of her gesture — well, I was adrift, now a faceless dot standing in a highly-trafficked, brothel-lined neighborhood in an ancient Dutch city, the aptly named “Venice of the North,” hundreds of thousands of miles from the man I loved, staring at a tableau that was all sharp angles and shadows: again, the chiaroscuro of modern isolation. The vertigo I’d felt in Venice returned.
There was a problem with our accommodations that night — not on the order of the Venetian hole-in-the-wall, but something logistical. B. had gallantly walked us to the hostel, and, upon discerning the trouble, had insisted we stay with him in the fine hotel his company had paid for.
“Your mother would kill me if I didn’t,” he pressed. And because I was twenty and occasionally unknowingly rude in such ways, and because I was overwhelmed by the gesture, and because I was desperate to keep any part of home close to me, I agreed — much to my friend’s delight, I might add. B. spent the night on the floor in the hallway of the suite, and my friend and I collapsed into deep sleep in the plush, king-sized bed with its finely laundered white linens.
In the gray light of dawn, my friend and I scampered around gathering our belongings in order to make our 7:30 a.m. flight to Copenhagen. B. stood in the archway, bleary with exhaustion and yet, still, the very conjuring of home. I could not look at him. I rehearsed what I might say as I busied myself zipping my suitcase and running a brush through my hair, and then, it was only a too-chipper, too-clipped: “Thank you!” A perfunctory hug, a squeeze on the arm. His dark frame a silhouette in the doorway as he watched us scurry down the hallway.
That daybreak departure — the early hour convenient cover for the disproportion of my anguish — remains in my mind the adumbrated vignette of self-formation at that time in my life. I was somewhere between childhood, when I belonged to my family, and adulthood, when I belonged to myself. But I also was desperate to belong to my boyfriend, and I couldn’t quite figure out how to make the pieces fit together.
In the meager light of an Amsterdam morning, as I taxied through a fine gray mist, all I knew was that I was in migration, midway, in media res.
+Kate Somerville is running its friends and family event — 30% off anything with code BYNPFF30 (and free shipping!). This 2-minute exfoliating facial is amazing — try it in the trial size if you’ve never given it a whirl before! I’m also intrigued by this acne treatment lotion; in the past, I’ve used Mario Badescu’s drying lotion for “spot treatment” in emergencies, but I’ve consistently read good stuff about the KS lotion, and I know people rave about her daily cleanser. She used to have a body cleanser that I SWORE BY but that has been discontinued.
+I had to buy this precious Proper Peony for one of my girlfriends, who just had a daughter; now it’s 50% off with code SPLASH50.
+I have had great luck buying layering thermals at Old Navy over the years — they can be hard to find elsewhere! I love the look of a soft, waffle-knit tee at night or beneath a casual sweater. This one comes in such great colors!
I swear Nordstrom’s anniversary sale gets more complicated every year with different tiers of access (I don’t think I’ll be able to shop the sale for another two weeks because I don’t have a credit card there), but it is still a great opportunity to purchase items I would normally buy at full-price. I thought I’d share today in case you are able to shop the sale before me (it starts today for “Icon” status cardholders), or revisit when it’s open to the public…
A CASUAL WINTER COAT FOR MINI — I USUALLY GO WITH PATAGONIA, BUT I LIKE THIS REVERSIBLE STYLE IN THE PRETTIEST SHADE OF PINK
Finally, I am intrigued by the idea of trying a new denim silhouette this fall and am contemplating using the sale as an excuse to splurge on a new pair of designer sunglasses. These tortoise Pradas are calling my name. I typically buy less expensive pairs of shades because I find I drop them, crush them, scratch them, break them, etc at an alarming rate (I love Le Spec’s $69 Airheart style and this $15 Celine-esque pair), but…wheeeee. Almost $100 off those Prada beauties…
And if you are having a baby this year — we absolutely LOVED the Nuna Pipa carseat, easily the lightest-weight infant carseat on the market. So nice to have a little price break on this investment! Both of my children also have and adore these ultra-soft Little Giraffe blankets — mini sleeps with hers nightly and it is already threadbare from love. Great baby gift, too — as is this coverall!
When I was studying abroad in Lyon, France, an outbreak of feline AIDS left the city overrun by mice. I could hear them in the walls of my ground-floor apartment, especially at night, in their midnight mecca, when my lofted bed left me separated from their footfall by a slender panel of drywall and a couple inches of air. Before bed, my roommate and I — both of us under 5’2 — would drag my desk chair to the center of the room, alight, and hang our groceries in bags from the improbably-placed chandelier in the middle of our ceiling. Otherwise, we’d wake to find ourselves burgled by vermin.
I’d broached the topic with my landlady, a brusque, portly woman who lived in a lavishly appointed apartment overlooking Place Bellecour.
“Alors,” I’d said, tremulously, radiating with discomfort as I took in the floor-to-ceiling drapes drawn at the French windows, “Il y a un probleme avec des souris dans notre appartement.” At twenty years of age, I’d been cloistered from such tenant dealings for the duration of my life, and I was by nature retiring in the face of confrontation besides. I’d stopped by with a rent check or some other formality only the French would require to be completed in-person — back in Charlottesville, we dropped rent into an impersonal box at the leasing company’s office — and she stared at me blankly.
“Bienvenue a France,” she’d replied, shruggingly. And that was that. Welcome to France: deal with the mice.
The upside to the infestation was that it drove me to spend nearly every weekend out of town, and I will never have the opportunity or inclination for such footloose, hastily-planned travel again in my life. Intra-European tourism was blessedly easy and cheap at the time — especially for me, as the Lyon St. Exupery airport was sufficiently big that it offered direct flights all over Europe on Ryan Air and EasyJet for as little as 29 Euros each way. (No, really — 29 Euros! Even as college students traveling on a shoestring, we were skeptical of the prices.) I also had many friends from high school and college completing their own semesters abroad and therefore had convenient excuses — and occasionally free accommodations — to encourage me to make my way all over Europe. I visited Venice, Rome, Athens, Amsterdam, Copenhagen, London, Oxford, Berlin, Dresden, Prague, and Geneva by plane. I was also a stone’s throw from Gare de Lyon Perrache, and I took the train for local travel within France: to Paris, Dijon, Annecy, Chamonix, Avignon, Nice, Cannes, and Amiens.
In spite of my opulent travel programme, I was desperately homesick and heartsick; I had not spent more than a couple of weeks away from home in my entire life, was terribly close to my mother and father, and had recently fallen seriously in love for the first and, as it would turn out, last time in my life. I had cried on Mr. Magpie’s shoulder the night before I had left, and then again, intermittently, on the long flight to Paris Charles de Gaulle airport, and finally, uninterruptedly, in the small hotel room at which I had been stationed the night I arrived in Lyon, just after calling my father from the phone in the narrow lobby of the hotel to let him know I had made it. “They lost my suitcase,” I said, barely evading the sobs I longed to release. “It’ll be fine, Jennifer,” he replied, and I knew he wasn’t only talking about the suitcase, and this made things worse.
My weekend travel itinerary around Europe was a privileged distraction from my melancholy. I nearly always traveled with a classmate or friend, but I had made clear with all of them that I was unbothered by the notion that we might pass our mornings or afternoons in individual pursuits. I specifically preferred to visit art museums on my own, untrammeled by the patience or impatience of a companion, and nearly always in and out within an hour: art at my pace. I liked to linger in front of paintings that spoke to me and cruise by entire sections that did not. And, as is the way with a twenty-year-old girl deep in love for the first time in her life, I treasured the opportunity to brood.
At the Peggy Guggenheim museum in Venice, I stood in front of an Edward Hopper painting for what must have been forty-five minutes. It was a self-aware kind of immobility: I longed for someone to interrupt and ask whether I was OK, to ask what that Hopper meant to me, to acknowledge my heart swell. No one came. I was a faceless dot standing in a highly-trafficked museum on the shore of an ancient Italian city slowly submerging itself in water, hundreds of thousands of miles from the man I loved, staring at a painting that was all sharp angles and shadows: the chiaroscuro of isolation. I felt a vague sense of vertigo contemplating it all.
I ached for the comfort of home and the reassurance of my boyfriend’s arms around me. I was traveling with a girl I didn’t know particularly well, and in the twenty-four hours we’d spent together, I had discovered that our notions of travel did not get along particularly well either. After a protracted and overly polite exchange on the subject, I’d been relieved that she’d agreed to a private hostel room. As we’d dropped our bags in the shabby room up a narrow flight of stairs not far from St. Mark’s Square the afternoon we’d arrived, I’d walked over to the far wall and looked back at her in disbelief: “There’s an actual hole in the wall here,” I said, eyes wide, awaiting for a commensurate show of dismay on her face. It did not materialize. I placed my hand through the hole for dramatic effect: my entire arm could fit through the opening out into the clammy Venetian air.
“Oh well,” she’d shrugged.
I was, again, a retiring sort of girl at the time, and I bit my tongue, rallying and silencing arguments for finding alternative accommodation. I slept fitfully that night, clutching my wallet and a couple of personal affects to my chest. I knew, logically, that it was unlikely that someone could rob us through such a narrow aperture, but I felt exposed. And the prospect of mice (or worse) finding their way into our quarters felt like an irony I could not abide: I’d left the mice of Lyon for the mice of Venice.
The following morning, I had parted ways with my companion rather stiffly: she went off to visit some of the beautiful cathedrals and I found my way to the Guggenheim. And so I stood there with that Edward Hopper painting, stock-still–whether transfixed or paralyzed I could not tell.
It was difficult to call Mr. Magpie when I was traveling owing to the time difference and the fact that my cell phone at the time was limited to SMS on a European plan of some kind. I usually had to buy a phone card and call him from a shady Internet cafe or hotel lobby, and then the lack of privacy precluded meaningful conversation. But I called him from Venice nonetheless, as I would call him from Athens, and Berlin, and London, and Prague, and I spent a small fortune telling him that I loved him and missed him and belonged to him separated only from strangers a few feet and the throbbing self-absorption of a twenty year old marooned by an ocean from the love of her life.
I was caught between my girlhood self — the one who winced in the face of unimportant and largely unvoiced disputes over lodging and mice — and my adult self — the one walking alone across the Venetian canals and living amongst the dislocations and delights it afforded — and both versions felt so obscured by the self-alienating and lonely circumstances of being abroad without the person I loved most that I felt stuck inmedia res.
+I recently wore a sleeveless white poplin shirtdress from DVF (several seasons old) with my new Danielle Fichera belt on Instastory and had a couple of questions about the dress! It’s sold out, but here are a few similar picks. I love white shirtdresses. Timeless, ageless, easy to dress up or dress down.
It’s no secret that I cannot resist pearl embellishments. I actually gasped when I saw the Miu Miu dress above. It’s beyond a splurge but stunning to look at — it belongs behind glass at the MET museum! Below, a few beautiful pearl-embellished finds:
I have received a lot of questions from readers in search of attractive face masks. One of you recently wrote: “I’m bored of mine — where are you buying yours?” The fact that we’ve lived for so long amidst this pandemic that we are getting bored of our face masks is…well, it is a weird thought. (And apparently we’re still at the beginning. Deep breaths.) I thought I’d share a couple of my current favorites:
CLARE VIVIER — Seen above. These are nothing short of stunning, to be honest. I love the fabric, the little kiss embroidery, and the gauzey ties, which ensure a perfect fit. I will say that I often reach for my masks with elasticized loops for the ears over my Clare V. mask when I’m running quickly out the door because it does take a little longer to tie the mask in place, but mine still brings me so much joy!
BUSY BEES — Love the fun prints, the moldable nose (you can bend the edge that goes along the top so that it contours to your face better), and the fact that it has a pocket for a filter insert. They are super lightweight, too — a bonus in these hot NYC temperatures. Though they carry them in adult sizes, I buy mine in the large child size, as I have a very small face — it fits perfectly.
PUKATUKA — My wardrobe this summer has been so full of floral and pastel that I needed a Liberty London print to coordinate. I love these ones, which are very similar to BusyBees, though without the filter pocket.
A few others I’m eyeing:
BALANCED CASA — Wow! These gingham masks with the dramatic bow in the back are beyond.
TORY BURCH — Buying this four-pack for fall. Is it weird to think about seasonal face masks?! I am drawn to these because of the contoured wire at the nose, adjustable ear loops, and filter pocket and because they will be donating proceeds from each sale to good causes.
LADY PEPPERELL — Pretty florals similar to my Dear James pick but at $10/mask, a bit more affordable. (These are reversible, FYI!)
ILILILY — Another pretty floral option. Very grandmillennial chic. I like the adjustable ear tabs!
Mini wears Busy Bees masks like myself, but I just added a pack of these to my Amazon cart to keep in the stroller bag just in case and am eyeing these for school, as they will have her name on the side. (Though I did just learn that she will have to wear a school-provided face shield.)
P.P.S. My sister and soon-to-be sister-in-law are tying the knot in a private ceremony in two weeks — thoughts on love in the age of corona here.
By: Jen Shoop
*Image above has nothing to do with the following post, but it felt aspirationally correct for a Saturday morning. This photo is of Belmond Reid’s Palace hotel in Portugal.
My Latest Snag: Fall Clothes for Mr. Magpie from Todd Snyder.
I mentioned this in a brief post earlier this week, but if your man is in need of fall duds, get thee to Todd Snyder, who is running an additional 20% off their already steeply discounted sale section. We bought him two different styles of corduroys (these, which fit like a pair of jeans, and these, which are more traditional), a striped sweater (a first for him!), a few shirts (especially excited about this smart glen plaid), and more. He also owns and loves these colored twill pants and — though these are not on sale — loves these shorts on the weekends.
Great opportunity to score unbelievable prices on beautifully-made men’s clothing — I was already thinking forward to his Thanksgiving look!
I would be laying in the dark of my childhood bedroom, letting my thoughts wander, and the ground beneath me in my mind’s eye would crumble and give way to an ill-lit abyss. I would grimace, jerk my body taut, attempt to whip my imagination into line: no, I would command myself. Make the ground solid.
This was the recurring falling-off feeling I confronted countless nights of my youth, just before slipping into sleep. Sometimes I still encounter it in that netherworld between waking and dreaming, as thoughts of all stripes course through my mind, though the sensation feels far less pernicious — even benign, impotent — now. I have often considered it a manifestation of anxiety, the fear of being out of control. But I have also wondered if it isn’t simply the visualization of falling into sleep: something my mind unwittingly plays to itself as I tumble into exhaustion. More recently, it has occurred to me that “the falling off” might also have represented a kind of internal friction between the bigness of my imagination and my obedience-oriented, risk-averse nature. This push-and-pull has defined the nature of creative work, at least for me: writing feels like a tightrope walk between the rendered and the unrenderable. It gives shape to what I feel, but there is always much left unparsed, immaterial, in the expanse beyond language.
I know that dreams about falling are as common as dreams about being chased through the streets or losing teeth, and there are myriad theories about the psychologies that support them. But did anyone else have a waking dream of this kind, where you are conscious enough of the progress of your thoughts that you can still re-direct them?
+Fun fall dress, especially for an expecting mom! But would work with or without a bump.
+This Oscar de la Renta dress is 70% off — wow wow wow. An investment but you could wear it from the age of 18 until 98, and I’d bet it’d hold up the entire time.
“Honestly, this work is really boring,” she said. “Can I do something else?”
It was late in the afternoon, and I was sitting across from a young lady who was interning for the educational non-profit at which I worked. I shifted in my seat, studying her, unsure whether the pregnant pause on my end would be interpreted as censurious or thoughtful–and not sure how I intended it to be interpreted, either. I was thinking back to an internship I had held at an academic press my second year of graduate school. I had nursed a kind of inward bruising every time I’d passed an afternoon weighing books on the small scale in the mail room in order to print shipping labels, or alphabetizing the spines of titles in the sample room. This was the same year I had taught writing to Georgetown University undergrads and been flown to Rome to read a paper I had written at an esoteric symposium on James Joyce. That is to say: I had been bored and underutilized, too, but I would never have even conceived of the possibility of walking into my boss’s office and asking for more interesting work.
Is this a generational thing? I wondered. Or is this a me thing?
And: Have I done myself — and this young lady — a disservice by being too lenient and collegial? Have I set her up for a rude and potentially deleterious awakening at her next place of employment?
And, finally, the most perplexing: Am I envious of this young woman’s gumption? Should I have asked for more myself?
She was walking a fine line between boldness and impudence, and I couldn’t tell what to make of it. I felt an uncomfortable mix of irritated, empathetic, and impressed.
For my part, I had been grateful for the graduate school internship: at the time, I had the intention of pursuing a career in either academia or publishing, and I felt the resume entry would predisposition future employers toward me. I also knew that the connections I would make could prove helpful in those pursuits, especially as the press enjoyed a kind of highbrow cache, with many notable politicians and scholars publishing their treatises under its imprint. But I was at the same time aware that if my father knew the type of work I was doing there, he would look at me with bewildered concern, and not out of superciliousness: he had willingly held grueling, physically-demanding jobs in his adolescence in a chemical factory, a tree nursery, and, later, cleaning out the cages at a veterinarian’s office. I had held many internships before this one, and he had never said a word about them and I had never felt a sense of frisson when it came to my qualifications, either. But this was different. “You could be doing the editing itself there,” he would have said, which would have been both true and untrue. I grasped that the path to such a title would require years of working my way up through the ranks, and that the men and women who held the positions above me had earned their keep by investing years of their own lives doing things like shipping books and fetching coffee. I saw, too, that they had years of practical experience picking up the jargon, understanding the subject matter, navigating the inevitable politics of the office, and that they had more polish, savvy, and confidence than I did because of it. But I also knew — and therefore empathized with the young lady asking for more interesting work — that I could write and copy-edit just as well as some of my superiors, who would occasionally pass their work along to me for a quick check.
I was lucky to have the position. In between tedious mornings printing and shipping manuscripts and collating packets for meetings, I learned the conventions for marking up copy, which proved useful when I later parlayed the experience into consulting gigs with a department at Georgetown University and with a few professors working on their own manuscripts. I also learned how to conform with informal house style — how to “write within the lanes,” as it were: my manager tossed me a few softball opportunities to write book jacket copy and blurbs for press releases, and I learned quickly how to mold my writing to her (and the press’s) preferences by reading what they’d published on the other book jackets I read while organizing titles in the sample room. My manager was pleasantly surprised. “This is actually perfect,” I remember her saying, eyebrows arched, waving the paper in the air. “No edits. Thanks.” This practice parroting a writing style not my own helped in graduate school and every other professional role I’ve held beyond, all of which have asked me to “write within the lanes”–to speak fluently in the patois and style of the academic world, then the philanthropic world, then the tech/product world (and its unpleasant underworld of fundraising, which has its own acronym-littered vernacular). More narrowly, I managed to curry the favor of one of the head editors by way of a quick exchange during my interview for the position:
Him: “Which style guide do you work with?”
Me: “I am proficient in both Chicago and MLA but, of course, am beholden to Strunk and White.”*
He’d looked up with surprise from across his broad wooden desk and smiled. “Good girl.”
The exchange was shorthand for something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, but it had the shape of intellectual snobbery. Thinking back, I cringe at my staged haughtiness. At the same time, I believe it earned me the job and endeared me to the editor, who would later write me a letter of recommendation. Can I blame myself?
There is something in this cluster of distant memories that jangles in my pocket every now and then, and I find myself straining to listen. Somewhere between “good girl” and “can I do something different?”, I see some of the strange calculus of job-seeking and job-filling as a young woman, a protracted equation involving line-towing, permission-seeking, and cautious rule-breaking. Sometimes I think I have spent most of my life — professional and otherwise — “writing within the lanes,” and so I wonder on occasion about that Strunk and White comment. Was I playing the game or somehow slipping a twenty under the table? And what about later, when an intern asked me for more interesting work: was I undermining my own agenda in hoping to help other young people advance their careers by taking umbrage at her audacity? Should I have applauded it or condemned it?
What do you think? Does this nest of memories resonate with you?
*There are several style guides that identify accepted standards in written documents — for example, how to cite other works; how to format book and article titles; capitalizations; etc. These guides are used by publishing houses as a sort of technical guide. Strunk & White is more about conventions of good writing: omitting unnecessary words, using parallel construction, etc. It is by and large accurate but also pretentious and stuffy.
Post Scripts.
+I know it feels like Halloween is a thousand years away, but how cute are these jammies?
+Cooks Illustrated just wrote an entire review on why these kitchen sponges are the absolute best. Ordered!
+Fall is coming: now is probably the last time you’ll be able to find designer boots on sale for awhile. These Gannis are crazy chic (and 60% off!) and I think I have to have these Isabel Marants (70% off!). And there are several pairs of cowboy boots from hot label Paris Texas at 70% off here!
We compiled all Magpie recipes into beautiful cards for your kitchen! Get the recipe card collection in your inbox here.
We have tried many fun cocktails over the course of quarantine, which we are still very much living through in these parts, but my absolute favorite has been “The Seersucker” from Mr. Magpie’s favorite book from storied craft cocktail bar Death & Co, which is as pretty to look at as it is dangerously easy to drink. It is fruity but the cinnamon flavor affords surprising warmth and depth, and any cocktail with crushed ice feels like vacation. You have to make the cinnamon bark syrup in advance (but once it’s made, you’ll find the cocktail so easy to make anytime you have strawberries on hand!), and the Flor de Cana brand rum is a MUST-buy to make the cocktail work, but beyond that, it’s a fairly simple recipe and will immediately transform your unremarkable groundhog-day-like Tuesday or Wednesday into “the happy day we drank seersuckers.”
The Seersucker.
1 strawberry
2 ounces Flor de Cana extra-dry white rum
1 ounce fresh-squeezed lemon juice
1/2 ounce cinnamon bark syrup (recipe follows)
GARNISH: 1 strawberry
In a shaker, gently muddle the strawberry. Add the remaining ingredients and short shake with 3 ice cubes. Strain into a pilsner glass with crushed ice. Garnish with the strawberry and serve with a straw.
Cinnamon Bark Syrup
5 cinnamon sticks
1 cup water
1 cup sugar
Muddle cinnamon sticks until they are broken up into shards and put into a saucepan. Add water and sugar to the saucepan. Bring to a boil, stirring occasionally. Once boiling, lower heat, cover and let simmer for 4 minutes. Remove from heat and let stand overnight. Strain through a cheesecloth wrapped sieve into bottle or mason jar.
*Some of our favorite bar gear:
+These angled measuring jiggers, which make pouring small amounts so easy (you can see how much you’ve poured from a bird’s eye view, without having to hold the jigger up to your face);
We always follow the cocktail book’s advice for glassware, so we do use pilsners for this cocktail, which makes me feel like I’m on a vacation — but I do want to add that my absolute favorite cocktail glass is this etched fish old-fashioned one, which I use for margaritas and palomas. It makes me so happy!
+I mentioned the other day that my favorite puff-sleeved sweatshirt that always sells out is fully restocked here — but I have also spotted this similar $20 short-sleeved variation on so many chic peas!
+With the bandwidth having a nanny has afforded, I’m trying to get more organized about diversifying meals for my children. Has anyone else been in a major food rut in quarantine!? I felt like I just did not have the space to think outside the box there. I’ve been cooking more and trying new recipes for them, and I think having a meal planning pad would help.
*Image above from La Coqueta. I adore this coat and am hoping they bring it back in additional colors — ideally navy and pink! — this fall, though the burgundy is fetching, too…
On the heels of planning mini’s back to school look, I started to draw up a list of other fall must-haves for her in my handy Leuchtterm notebook, aka my constant companion as I barrel through my days, jotting down thoughts and adding to lists and doodling in it while on phone calls. So far, I have these items on my tick-list and top contenders alongside:
+Raincoat — I love the ones by Petit Bateau (mini owned one as a baby), as they are made to last and lined in soft cotton, but you can get one that is close to identical at Gap, which I have also purchased mini in sizes past, and from Hiheart for even less (<<have not yet tried this brand but intrigued based on reviews and price!). What I like about the traditional yellow slicker is that it works for either gender so micro can wear mini’s hand-me-down one day. That said, mini currently owns a pink patterned raincoat from TBBC (boy version here) that she has just now outgrown that she has looked precious in! I am likely going to go with the Amazon HiHeart this go around, just to see.
+Dress coat — In seasons past, my two favorite dress coats for mini were this knit Foque (with the little hat — OMG, she was such a dumpling!) and this knit, fur-collar Mayoral (which mini owned in impractical white). She has now sized out of the up-to-36-month sizing of both brands and I am looking for something new and inspiring. My current frontrunner is this lovely LaCoqueta (seen above), which I am assuming they will re-stock closer to autumn, but also remember when Prince George wore that amazing wool coat similar to this? Here is a similar version for girls — the scallop trim is beyond!
+Tights — I always buy these cableknits in multiples. I like the classic look but they are also warmer than your standard tights! I also love these ribbed ones from Jacadi (mini owned a pair of these in gray last fall), though they are crazy expensive.
+Casual socks — These. Over 2,000 five-star reviews. I always buy the children’s socks in all white. Then you’re never searching for mates that go lost in the laundry and they go with everything!
+Fleece — Mini owned this Patagonia last year (currently on sale!) and I’m eyeing this for her this year (also on sale). Patagonias are beautifully made, warm, and hold up well in the wash.
+Fall everyday coat — Looking for a quilted style for this year and devastated I missed out on this! Joules has chic ones for boys and girls (some on serious sale at Zulily!), Burberry would be the cutest splurge (upside: these coats have serious re-sale potential!), and RL usually releases something a little closer to fall. Eyeing this style for micro already. If I weren’t so hell-bent on something quilted — how amazing is this pink sherpa bomber (under $20!)?!
+Boots — I have been eyeing these since last fall, though so many of the chic downtown children at mini’s school wear biker boots like these last fall and they looked adorably “New York.” I’ll probably go with the Elephantitos. I think they look adorable with jeans and a sweater or cableknit tights and a jumper.
+Sneakers — Mini always has one or two pairs of Cientas (usually navy t-strap and/or a pastel plimsoll) and sometimes also a pair of Supergas. I love the traditional look of canvas sneakers and the fact that they can be worn with either dresses or shorts/leggings without looking out of place. They can also be tossed in the laundry machine when dirty and can be worn by either gender if purchased in accommodating colors. For this fall, though, I have already added a pair of Vejas to her wardrobe.
+Jeans — I go with Gap for classic slim-fit and Zara for trendier fits/washes.
+Sweaters — I usually buy a navy and a white/ivory cardigan from J. Crew and then look for fun statement pullover styles from BusyBees, H&M, Zara, La Coqueta, and Ralph Lauren. (Most retailers have not yet released cool-weather clothing yet!)
+Leggings — Old Navy. I buy in solid colors. I will often layer some of mini’s transitional dresses that are a little short in length over these leggings to extend the wear of the dress — a lot of La Coqueta dresses (like this) hit above the knee and look adorable paired with coordinating leggings.
+Layering tees — H&M, Old Navy, and Petit Peony (run small) for layering under sweaters, but I usually favor a peter pan collar top that can be worn under a jumper, sweater, or with a skirt. I have tried so many different brands and unfortunately I think this is one of those articles worth the investment given how much use I get out of them. My favorites have been ones made in pima cotton (soft, launder well, and last) from Beaufort Bonnet Company, Little English (on sale), CPC (runs small), and Kissy Kissy.
+Rainboots — Sweet Honey! I used to buy Hunters in classic yellow or green with the intent of handing down to Hill but just could not resist the pastel colors and gingham lining of these.
I will of course add fun specialty outfits and dresses to this list, but those always feel to me better-bought opportunistically, when something jumps out at me (like this — WOW — or is suddenly discounted, like this!), versus in lockstep fashion. The above items, however, are non-negotiables that I must have in place as the school season starts. A few other amazing children’s pieces I’ve come across recently:
