Traditional Home Magazine Official Blog

Family Retreat

2007-02-13T12:14:00.000-08:00

If you’re planning a vacation but don’t want to leave your furry companion behind there is such a thing as luxury pet-friendly accommodation. Situated in southern Maine above Crescent Beach in Cape Elizabeth, I found such a place called Inn By The Sea. This luxury shingle-style property with 43 one- and two-bedroom suites—all with ocean views—considers your furry friend a VIP guest. In early August my young golden retriever, Bella, and myself with husband in tow decided to hit the road and explore the state deemed “Vacationland.” We really wanted to partake in an end-of-the summer trip but not without our “ginger menace” as we so affectionately call her. So we headed up the coast to idyllic Cape Elizabeth to visit this “pet-friendly” seaside resort.

Upon our arrival, the staff cheerfully greeted us with “Welcome Bella and family”– I thought maybe it was her good looks and charm (next to two very weathered parents) which sparked such attention but soon realized it was the reason this luxury resort was named one of the top ten pet-friendly hotels by USA Today. To our surprise the one-bedroom garden suite (complete with kitchen and porch) was fully stocked with lots of goodies (special pet package) including organic dog treats, pet bowls, made in Maine doggie rain coat, and all of it personalized just for Bella. Needless to say it didn’t take long for Bella to feel right at home. Although she never had the chance to sample the gourmet pet menu, I think it would tempt even the most finicky pooch.
We spent the entirety of our trip exploring nearby Portland plus being entertained by Bella at the beach. Crescent Beach, the site of Inn By The Sea, is surrounded by a nature reserve (recognized by the National Wildlife Federation as a wildlife habitat) and easily accessed by a private boardwalk to the beach and paths that run parallel from the inn. If that weren’t impressive enough, in 2006, the inn received green lodging certification from Maine’s Department of Environmental Protection (DEP). As you can tell they really take pride in taking care of all living creatures, both green and furry. If you have a water dog like Bella then head to Ferry Beach (dogs allowed year-round), just a 10-minute drive and a popular meeting spot for other dog parents. There are two state parks in Cape Elizabeth, so if you are the outdoorsy type, there is plenty to explore.

In the end, we couldn’t have asked for a better experience. As a side note, if you’re city dwellers like us, don’t be alarmed when at some point during your stay you are greeted with– “Have a great Maine day!” It’s very charming indeed.

Some of the other amenities include:

Dog sitters and walkers can be prearranged for $10 per hour; also grooming services are available
Garden tours provided by the head gardener (check with front desk for schedule)
Heated outdoor pool, tennis, Crescent Beach (dog restriction from April through October)
Audubon Room restaurant

Inn By The Sea
40 Bowery Beach Road
207/799-3134
(www.innbythesea.com)

Here are a few of our favorite stops in and around Portland for food, shopping and art:

Portland
This popular coastal city is admired for its rows of colorful Victorian cottages, and recently a new wave of young artists and foodies have arrived on the scene, creating a real metropolitan vibe.

I’m going to make a bold statement—especially considering I live in New York City—but the best pizza I’ve ever had was at Flat Bread Company in Portland (72 Commercial St.). Their organic pizza is made entirely with organic ingredients and fresh produce grown from local farms, baked in a wood-fired clay oven . . . superb!
www.flatbreadcompany.com

As a dog mom I am always on the hunt for quality pet products, and I really loved shopping at Fetch, a pet store on the main street (195 Commercial Street), which has completely embraced the best of holistic and earth-friendly pet products. Even the pet placemats are made with recycled tire rubber.
Fetch, 207/773-5450

We wouldn’t leave Maine without visiting a lighthouse so we drove to Ft. Williams historic park just off Shore Road in Cape Elizabeth to see the famous Portland Head Light. There is a museum and gift shop and if you get lucky you may catch one of the local historians who frequent the monument telling adventurous tales at sea. Plus there are special areas where dogs can roam off leash and you can enjoy the spectacular views.
http://www.portlandheadlight.com/park.html

Within Portland there are many cultural delights to enchant, including The Portland Museum of Art (Seven Congress Square; 207-775-6148; open Tuesday to Sunday 10 a.m. to 5p.m. and Friday 10a.m. to 9p.m.) The museum houses an amazing Winslow Homer collection not to be missed.
Portland Museum of Art, www.portlandmuseum.org

While driving along Congress Street, I spotted Ferdinand, a hip and funky shop just waiting to be discovered. The owner, Diane Toepfer, designs most of the assembly of jewelry, stationery, clothing (especially love the organic cotton onesies featuring whimsical objects and animal caricatures), plus stocks a medley of vintage modern housewares too.
(243 Congress Street; 207-761-2151)
www.Ferdinandhomestore.com

We couldn’t visit Maine without perusing the L.L. Bean outlet in Freeport (just 30 minutes away), which has three levels of merchandise for men, women, home and pets. Plus you might find a bargain or two at all of the other shopping outlets within walking distance.
www.freeportusa.com

After the first two days of traipsing around town, we couldn’t bear to leave our pooch behind for another day so we decided to embark on a short journey across Casco Bay to one of the neighboring islands, which are easily accessible from the ferry terminal in Portland. Peaks Island is the nearest destination (a quick 30-minute ferry ride) and a perfect spot to enjoy a lobster roll (at Peaks Island House, www.innonpeaks.com) followed by a stroll around its rocky shores. And, yes, you can purchase a ferry ticket for your dog for just $3.25. A visit to Peaks Island was the perfect half-day excursion and had we been sans dog, a bike ride along the five-mile perimeter road overlooking the scenic coastline would have been the optimum end to the day.
http://www.cascobaylines.com/

The Angst and Glory of a Kitchen Renovation

2006-11-22T15:16:00.000-08:00

A bit more than a year ago, my husband and I completed the renovation of our kitchen. I’ve had a year of preparing meals, entertaining, hanging out, and caring for this new space. So what do I like and dislike about kitchen? What could I never live without and what would I do differently? To help those now involved with or contemplating a kitchen makeover, I offer these friendly words of advice—won through 9 months of breathing plaster dust, washing dishes in the bathtub, and agonizing over tile colors.

First of all, don’t try to do this by yourself. Work with an architect, kitchen designer or interior designer, and builder who you are in tune with you. These projects demand so many decisions—from where to place electric sockets to how many BTUs you want in a cooktop—that you’ll want to foist some of these questions onto someone else. Yes, you pay for these pros, but I promise they will come up with innovative solutions that make better use of your space—and your money. Also, when you are slow to make decisions or are continually changing your mind, a project will take longer and cost more.

We hired a wonderful architect who came up with the inspired idea of moving our basement stairs, which allowed us to expand our kitchen’s square footage without altering the footprint. (The stairs originally ran behind one of the kitchen walls and they were moved under a stairway to our second level.) This shift would never have occurred to me, yet it made a world of difference in the total design and was relatively easy to execute.

The architect also added a 10x12-foot mudroom/pantry and back entry next to the kitchen, giving us more storage space and an out-of-the way place to feed the cats. (How many times did we kick the cat’s bowl when we were trying to fix dinner in the old kitchen?)

The kitchen designer was a gem who provided cabinet and drawer space for all my everyday dishes, good china, pots and pans, and serving pieces. I absolutely love the pull-out trays in the cabinets that make accessing dishes so easy. And my husband adores the new “bar cabinet” in the mudroom. Floor-to-ceiling pantry cupboards in the room are equipped with pull-out tray shelves where we keep bar glasses and liquor bottles. Make sure the pull-out shelves and hardware are heavy duty so they can support all those heavy items, such as food processors, stand mixers, and other countertop appliances.

Other favorite features: 1) The farmhouse sink in the mudroom, where I can water plants and soak messy barbecue racks. 2) The central vacuum’s “vac pan” in baseboard next to the range. (With a kick of my toe, I open a powerful vent that sucks away crumbs and debris.) 3) A chest-style island where I store pots and pans in drawers and have a central workspace close to my range, refrigerator, and sink. 4) Refrigerator, dishwasher and pull-out trash inconspicuously concealed behind cabinet panels so they are integrated into the room’s design.

Would I do anything differently? Nothing major. I might add task lights (either a pendent or a couple of sconces) for the main sink area. There are plenty of recessed lights in the ceiling but the one over the sink tends to illuminate my head, not what I’m doing with my hands. I’ve thought a frosted glass pocket door between the kitchen and dining room might be nice to conceal the kitchen when entertaining. If we’d had the budget, I would have loved to add in-floor heating in the mudroom, where the tile is chilly underfoot. (The kitchen floor is hardwood, which I love.)

Other words of advice: Plan on spending 25 to 30 percent more than you originally budgeted. Plan on the project taking twice as long as predicted. But remember, it will be worth it. (“It will be worth it,” will be your mantra. Recite it over and over when you’re on your knees washing dishes in the bathtub.) A new kitchen is a great investment. It dramatically ups the value of your home and will make it sell quickly when the time comes. But most of all, it makes every day so much more pleasant.

Word Nerd

2006-09-29T11:10:00.000-07:00

Head to Head

Headlines and their offspring, subheads and blurbs, give us word nerds an opportunity for way too much fun with geeky word play, terrible puns, annoying alliteration, and obscure references to pop culture that show not our cleverness but our age. (When my blurb “Simply Irresistible” made the September 2005 cover it was the next best thing to being a Robert Palmer dancer until I realized the Robert Palmer dancers all have stretchmarks by now.)

I managed to sneak the blurb “fanciful, frivolous, forever young” by on a piece about Marie Antoinette last month but only because at the close of the issue my colleagues are too proof-blind and desperate for gin to fuss. Ditto goes for my past mini-masterpieces “a sassy salute to spring,” “quintessentially quince,” and “make mine marmalade.” Last month, one fellow editor had enough life left in her to question my blurb, “the glories of faking it,” for a story on fabulous fake jewelry because it seemed reminiscent of Meg Ryan’s anticlimactic scene in “When Harry Met Sally.” But this was at the eleventh hour, and when I accused her of being dirty-minded, she knew she was licked.

In recent issues, I like the heads “Ranch Redressing,” although I always find introducing the idea of foodstuffs into home design a little disconcerting, perhaps because I take my groceries so seriously. “Into the Woods” (with apologies to Sondheim) is a nice one; likewise “Seeing Red;” “Outward Bound;” “The White Stuff” (done to death, but who can resist it?); “Home on the Range” (for a kitchen story); the Otis Redding-ish “Bliss on the Bayou” (there goes that annoying alliteration again); “Girls Just Wanna Have Clean;” “Young at Art;” “Bahamian Rhapsody;” and “A Lot to Love.” The last one reminds me of the way my late father would wolf whistle, whenever he saw a lovely large woman, “Lotta lovin’ there!” Headlines, by the way, are referred to as “heds” in our business and “decks”—the explanatory line(s) under the hed—as “deks.” I don’t suppose that in a professional lifetime, the seconds we save by leaving out the “a” in “head” and the “c” in “deck” add up to even one long lunch, but it makes us feel important to think that our time is so precious we dare not waste a second.

One of my all-time favorite headlines comes from a newspaper in Iowa, where two little towns are called Manly and Fertile: “Manly Man Marries Fertile Woman.” We haven’t scored one that thrilling in the three years I’ve been at Trad Home, but we try. Anything that can be played off of a book or movie title is catnip to us; naturally we dubbed our November piece on the home of Early Show co-anchor Hannah Storm “The Perfect Storm.” The piece actually started life as “Storm Warning”—which made more sense than you’d think because the outside of Hannah’s Georgian farmhouse belies its Art Deco interior, making the warning idea implicit. But the implication was awfully subtle, and anyway, we decided “Storm Warning” had an ominous, Macbeth-like “something wicked this way comes” tone.

One of us wanted to stay away from the “Storm” theme entirely because it’s the journalistic equivalent of shooting ducks in a barrel, but others of us who long ago made fast friends with the obvious wore him slowly and inexorably down. The weather forecast terminology reminds me of my late, great friend, the larger-than-life novelist Thomas Gifford, who wrote the thriller The Windchill Factor. When someone would say musingly, “I think I’ve heard of that,” Gifford would throw back his leonine head and roar, “Of course you have, you twit! You’ve listened to a weather report!”

An Apple a Day

2006-09-27T15:37:00.000-07:00

September 26 was John Chapman's birthday. We know him better as Johnny Appleseed. I have to admit I thought for a misquided moment that he was the actor who played opposite Roseanne in the eponymous TV series, but no, this is the fellow who wandered around the mid-Atlantic states sowing apple trees. We owe him a huge favor for the inspiration he gives us to do the same, no matter where we live. In my rural English garden I planted an orchard of a dozen heritage apple trees like 'Cornish Gilliflower', 'Sack and Sugar', 'Venus Pippin', 'Court Pendu Plat'. I think I chose them for their names as much as for their savor. Here in my Des Moines garden, which I'm slowly carving from the ubiquitous lawn of the 'burbs, I inherited two apple trees of unknown name. One produces red apples, one yellow.

They are sorry looking things as the previous owner's idea of pruning was to fire up the chainsaw and let rip. There are protrubances up and down their trunks, like amputated limbs—a truly painful sight is a poorly pruned tree. But, my lands, how they produce new growth! And apples! Which are quite delicious. I owe this discovery to my husband, who has a thing about apples. I stopped buying them at the supermarket (our 'fresh produce' in these stores hardly qualifies for the name — it's shameful, really).

The saying "American as apple pie" may well have its origins in the fact that apples were once the mainstay of every homesteader's garden; one of the earliest orchards in the New World was reputedly planted in Massachusetts in 1625 by an apple-loving clergyman, who developed a variety known as 'Blaxton's Yellow Sweeting'. Pomologists reckon that there were at one time as many as 8000 apple varieties grown in the USA. The rise of supermarketing over farmersmarketing quickly whittled that down to a few sorts that could be depended upon to bear-heavily and produce uniformly-sized, 'resiliant' apples that would give shoppers the kind of apple experience they thought they wanted! Same deal with tomatoes. But guess what, consumers got bored with the same-old same-old, and just like heritage toms are making a revival, so are heritage apples. If you think you might like to participate in this glorious revival, a good source of accurate information and trees to buy can be found at Trees of Antiquity of Paso Robles, CA. They have a list of 147 old and some new apple varieties to make your mouth water (well, mine did!). They ship good quality plants and will help you choose the best for your locale and Zone. (www.treesofantiquity.com). They even list 'Court Pendu Plat', dating it to 1613, and 'Cornish Gilliflower' (1700s); then there's 'Pumpkin Russet' (1832) and one I would love to try, 'Seek-No-Further' (1870). Looking at the photos online of the different varieities, I think my red apple may be 'Arkansas Black'

Donald started eating our apples in June. A bit early, since they were only just becoming apples, but he likes 'em sour, I guess. Only now, in late September, they've come into their own, and he even got out the ladder to pick what he could reach, though we've been feasting on the windfalls. The red skins have turned a dusky burgundy and the greeny-yellary has gone gold. And each has a distinct flavor.
The red is acid and good for cooking, the yellow sweet and crunchy for munching. And because these two old soldiers have so stoically endured neglect and abuse for so many years, yet continued to flower (ever so sweetly) and fruit (generously), I have vowed to have an arborist tidy them up, to wrap their trunks in winter and spray them at fruit set against borers and worm. I owe it to them. They way I see it, plants are living things, and deserve to be rewarded when they done good.

This last spring I also planted a plum tree. Don't ask the name—the label was missing, and the tree was stuck in a corner of the nursery lot like an unwilling debutante trying to avoid attention, but actually longing to get out on the dance floor. Well, leave it to me to select just that tree—it looked so sad and neglected and clearly needed a home. We dug a generous planting hole (a $10 hole for 50 cent plant is the rule.) It produced 3 pounds of juicy yellow-fleshed, purple-skinned plums from a total of three branches. And now there are lots of new shoots that hold promise for next year's crop...and plum jam.
It just goes to show you—a little kindness goes a long way.

Topsy is turvey

2006-09-18T09:05:00.000-07:00

It is a difficult thing to eat a bowl of Cheerios while lying down. Smoked salmon on thinly sliced whole wheat bread and butter goes down a treat. So does Jello — the red colors have the best flavor, tho' tint plays no part in easy swallowing. McVitie's Digestives tend to get lodged mid-esophagus, but a gulp of milk speeds them on down. Carroll Stonor's meatballs in red wine and tomato sauce are silken over the tonsils. So, in all, this post back surgery recovery is not too horrid. And I'm seeing the world from a new perspective—upside down.

My laptop has become a stomachtop, so email is possible, as is blogging...but the mind tends to wander as the drug bath has yet to empty from every corner of my cranium. So some -- maybe much -- of what I write will seem a little la la. Oh well, blame it on the internet.

Viewing the world from a prone position is like seeing only the middle part of the picture. I can see the trees beginning to drop their leaves but I can't see the ground, which must be ready for its first raking. My eyeballs glaze over staring at the patterns created by the pebble finish on our ceiling (ancient Mayan faces, Toulose Lautrec ladies in big hats, Darth Vadar ... I've always thought pebble finish was wierd and now I know why, peopled as it is with latent 'toons from the Heironymus Bosch school of art.) I also play the game of rearranging the furniture, imagining the ceiling as the floor. I used to do this as a child, lying upside down in an old horsehair armchair in my Gran's Milwaukeee living room. Boy, did she have furniture! So, there I'd be, imagining the three-tier whatnot next to the chaise, with the lamp just so...Early glimmers of interior design shaping in my youthful synapses. But I moved onto landscape design, and it really is quite impossible to play the same game out doors, shifting plants around on the sky just doesn't cut it...there are no boundaries, no corners. It's an unsolveable puzzle.

But mostly I do my designing on the ground (tho it may sometimes look like I've done it from Planet Ethne), in a perpendicular position, which it's about time I resumed for purposes of taking a gentle stroll to the kitchen. Then perhaps I'll repair to an armchair for a spell at an obtuse angle—one I find myself in all too often.

Seeing Red

2006-08-26T10:20:00.000-07:00

I believe everything I read in Traditional Home. Every word – even though I’ve now worked here for seven years and know everyone who contributes to our magazine. Familiarity has not, in my case, bred contempt, and I’m glad.

Long before I worked here as travel and entertaining editor, I loved Trad Home, as it’s called in the industry. So when I read, “Seeing Red,” in our February-March 2006 issue, produced by neighbor and colleague Krissa Rossbund (our offices share a wall), I knew I’d found the answer to my decorating dilemma, which was this: My mostly champagne and taupe house needs punching up. Maybe it should be a color. Would red work?

And there, in print, was the answer! The story featured furnishings in my favorite vivid color. Something clicked. I loved every single piece pulled into the photo shoot. No surprise, since she and most of our editors devote their work lives to finding the most beautiful home furnishings in the world to feature in our pages. A bonus: Krissa and I share a taste for glamor. And that’s what her feature was about: voluptuous furniture and accessories with fine lines and glorious finishes in brilliant shades of red. It inspired me. I got busy.

Over the next few month here’s what we did to our living room. We painted the fireplace wall a bright Chinese red, a shade that went with the dark red in the mostly taupe Tibetan rug in front of it, which in turn went with the medium-brown bamboo floors we love. I bought three good-sized silk-covered pillows at an Asian home store. Each was different, but all were embroidered in black, one with gold. I tossed them onto sofas and chairs with the terracotta pillows already there.

I dug out a glossy, deeply concave, red bamboo bowl I had put away and set a red pepper ristra from Santa Fe in it. The wreath didn’t quite reach the top of the bowl, so I carefully folded a red hand towel and set the wreath atop it. I made two window shades with glue and careful folding and pressing —no sewing—of a deep red quilted fabric, which I mounted with Velcro to cover the multiple paned French doors that lead from living room to study. In addition to ensuring privacy in the room that doubles as our guestroom, the shades added an extra note of red, not a match but complementary.

As a bonus, I inherited three pieces of red and redder furniture when my daughter moved to another state, and they added a note of cheer --I’ve already told her I want back the low Chinese table I gave her as a housewarming gift. (She laughed, but is not giving it away.)

The finishing touch cost just pennies: I bought a bag of the brightest red apples I could find and piled them in a wide, flat pale bowl (unlike the other bamboo bowl) atop an extra-long table runner made of Sherri Donghia’s Horizon Jacquard stripe fabric (featured in our March 2004 issue). There are five shades of red in the runner and somehow it ties the entire room together.

So, no I didn’t buy the red and gold, hand-painted Chinese chair for $1000 plus. I didn’t get new curtains or sofas or anything major. Still, the results transformed a room with an instant shot of energy and sophistication.

Inspiration is what our magazine is all about. And the process of the work expressed what I saw in the story, Seeing Red, made me happy to walk into our living room and helped me through the emptiness I felt when our daughter left home. She brought sunshine into our lives, and a few dashes of red won’t replace her. But decorating is such an expression of creativity that it’s a welcome distraction from the life of the mind that defines my daily job as an editor. And, somehow, the results satisfied my spirit. Thanks, Krissa.

Carroll Stoner is travel and entertaining editor at Traditional Home Magazine. She welcomes comments and stories about decorating and design.

Word Nerd

2006-08-22T15:12:00.000-07:00

Word of the Issue

Familiar with the idea of the Collective Unconscious? Then you’ll have no trouble grasping a phenomenon at Traditional Home that we’ve come to call Word of the Issue.

If you’re Jung at heart, you already know about Carl Jung’s theory that we each have a part of our unconscious that is common to all other human beings, that is, the part you don’t want to go spelunking around in without a flashlight.

What we’ve observed here—too uncannily often to be an accident—is that as manuscripts come trickling in for an issue, a particular word keeps cropping up. Last winter it was “eclectic,” which in the design context means jumbled, but ever so artfully so—the thrift shop table beside the Chippendale chair. Then in March our writers became communally besotted with the terms of magic: “legerdemain,” “sleight-of-hand,” and “conjure,” leading our Curmudgeon in Chief (Copy Chief/Production Editor) Cynthia Mitchell to issue the edict that one cannot merely conjure but must “conjure up:” Conjure me up, Scottie! Sexy words all, but a little legerdemain goes a long way. (Incidentally, Cynthia will likely suggest that in my first paragraph, “collective unconscious” shouldn’t be capitalized because it is a term in common parlance and furthermore not capped in Webster’s. I would counter that an exception should be made because I want to call the reader’s attention to it, and also that there is something to be said for parallelism. If “Word of the Issue” is to be capped in the same sentence—and it should be because it just feels right, dammit—then Collective Unconscious should be too.)

Last May we fell hard for “serendipity,” another pretty word, but all too easy to use hyperbolically. If a designer and a client get on like a house afire, that’s hunky-dory—not to mention commonsensical (yes, that really is a word) on the part of the designer, who presumably likes to eat—but not necessarily serendipitous. And if the perfect house happens to go on the market just at the time a homeowner gets a jones for it, well, that’s ducky, too, but not serendipitous—just the real estate market doing what it’s been doing since Neanderthals first started playing musical caves.

For our July issue, we became fixated on the word “iconic,” which I have been trying to root out ever since I fetched up at Traditional Home three years ago. Cool word, but one that I’ve become iconoclastic about because it’s nigh on to meaningless from overuse—everything from Willie Nelson’s grizzled ponytail to the Taco John spokesmonkey is dubbed iconic. If everything is iconic, then nothing is.

For our October issue, we developed such a jag about “puddling draperies” that it got on the last Irish nerve of Managing Editor Michael Diver, who served notice that the next person to make a puddle would have some ’splainin’ to do. Speaking of ‘splainin,’ Michael doesn’t think much of “explains” for attribution, much preferring the spare Hemingwayesque “says,” unless another verb is truly called for. (Yes, I just ended a sentence with a preposition and if you wanna make sumpin’ of it, consider how Churchill responded to an editor on this nitpick: “This is the sort of nonsense up with which I will not put.”)

In the November issue we are preparing now, we seem to be in an “ironic” mood, as in a designer with an ironic edge. We copy editors look askance at “ironies” that are not truly ironic but merely coincidental. To pass the irony test, there has to be incongruity between an expected and actual result. It’s coincidental, perhaps even serendipitous, if you just bought an itsy bitsy teeny weenie yellow polka dot bikini the day before you were invited to a pool party but ironic if there is a drowning at a pool party for lifeguards.

You say iconic, I say ironic—let’s call the whole thing off!

The Fluff of Life

2006-08-19T07:58:00.000-07:00

There are those among us who think that what we write about at Trad Home is extremely important. There are others who think that it is all fluff, a mote drifting across the big picture screen of life. They are both right.

My grandaughter is 24 years old. She has two little girls, 3 and 2 years old. She is studying to be a nurse. Her husband has been in Iraq for nearly a year. It's how he's paying for his college education. He's hardly seen his youngest child. But he's due home on leave soon, and she's moved to a rented house to be near the camp where he'll be posted before going back to That Place. She's an intelligent young woman, struggling hard to keep it all together.
Not long ago, my husband and I were in New York and she and the Greats came to meet us. We'd not seen her for 8 years, and the little girls, never. It was magic. She'd never been to The Big Apple before (she was living near Philadelphia with her Mom while her husband was in Iraq). We took all the expected family photos. Lovely, honest...could it be otherwise? We were resting in our Park Ave hotel before the kids caught the train back to Philly, when our grandaughter asked if she could use my camera to take some photos of .... the bathroom. It was, she said, the prettiest she had ever seen, and she wanted to email the shots to her husband so he could see what she is aspiring to, once they have their own home.

This young woman and her husband are the next generation of magazine consumers. "Millennials" is their market-research tag. But they are not so very different from Boomers, Gen-Xers, or any other group ID'ed by any other tag. Because every day, no matter their ethnicity or religious persuasion, the majority of people around the world just want to get up in the morning, send their kids off to school, go to work, and return in the evening a little more prosperous, to the home they have made.
Few things in life, in good time and bad, are more important than a refuge, which can be a cozy yurt on the Mongolian plain, or a little house in Kentucky...with a pretty bathroom.

Birds I have known, Part 1: Eric's Bird

2006-08-16T07:13:00.000-07:00

Oh goody! There's three more planets in our solar system. That changes everything. It seems that not a day goes by but what was once safe and familiar is suddenly a walk on the wild side. The things that made it possible to sit and slurp a cup of tea down while contemplating whether to wash the dog or check out the sales at TJ Maxx are constantly morphing into something dodgy.

There are nine planets. I can breathe easy. OOPS! no I can't. One's feathers get so easily ruffled..I must be getting cranky.

There have been other "you're kidding, right?" moments in my life, of course. I mean, who hasn't had the metaphorical rug yanked once or twice? And speaking of ruffled feathers, one of these goofy moments struck in garden in rural England some years ago...and may go some way toward explaining why I think birds are an essential ornament in the garden of life.

In my life as a junior journo, back in the day when I didn't dare turn down a freelance job, no matter how paltry the pay (wasn't it Dr. Johnson who wrote, "No man but a fool wrote but for money."), because, of course, say NO just once, and you'll never be asked to dance again. I digress...I was working on a book, my first as it happens, titled 'English Country Gardens". so there I was in an English country garden in deepest rural Surrey, south of London -- pure Gertrude Jekyll territory -- talking to this archetypal English granny...wispy white hair escaping from hairnet, saggy stockings around ankles above stout black shoes. Floral sprig dress and apron.

So, ordinary day in a pretty garden. We're strolling round, admiring the herbaceous borders (where did these old dears get the energy from to manage 300 square feet of perennials, not to mention kitchen garden, orchard...it nearly kills me to struggle out of my deck chair to pluck a tomato off the vine). It was a PURRFICK day, as they say in south England, blue sapphire sky, fluffy white bits, gentle breeze, impossibly green hills, that garden...and I hear a parrot squawk. SCREEE-CH. Hullloo love. SCREEK. Hulloo lovely. Scree...

"There's a parrot in your apple tree"

'I know, dear. M' nephew gave it to me to look after, poor old thing."

And it was rather moth-eaten, in the way parrots get when they're bored or stressed and have been plucking their feathers. Pathetic really, but clearly this little lady was doing her best to give it a happy retirement. Who wouldn't be happy sitting in an apple tree all day?

"So, have you had it a long time?"

"No dear. just a few years. M'nephew, you see, he lives just over that hill there. Eric Clapton's his name...he plays guitar. And the parrot was Jimi Hendrix's, you see, and Eric took him when Jimi died, and now I look after him. Goodness knows what that bird's seen."

Probably a few extra planets, now and then.

The Ultimate Outdoor Room

2006-07-11T16:12:00.000-07:00

Colorful phrases often have been employed by the women in my family, most of whom hail from Kentucky, West Virginia, and places further south. A cheapskate, my maternal grandmother always said, is a person who is “tight as the bark on a tree.” Someone with a distressing lack of money is as “poor as Job’s turkey.” One of my all-time favorite quotations, however, is “A house without a porch is like a man without a country.”

The words are my mother’s, and though I used to think the coinage merely charming, over the past year, I’ve come to see the wisdom in that dramatic little sentence. It’s true: a house without a porch, veranda, terrace, deck, or other connected outdoor space is a building without much of a soul. If you have a house or apartment without an outdoor space – one that allows you to be simultaneously out of doors yet sheltered from bright sun or drizzling rain – you know what I mean.

Nearly five years ago, my partner and I bought a farmhouse on the outskirts of sleepy, historic spa town of Sharon Springs, New York. It is trim, tidy, and nicely detailed, thanks to owners who remodeled the circa-1769 structure with Federal door surrounds and moldings around 1801. Still, it nonetheless has felt strangely unfriendly to me for a long time. Now, don’t get me wrong; I’m not complaining, at least, not too much. The surrounding fields and meadows are beautiful, even on days when the dairy farmer next door starts spreading manure across his cornfields in the spring and the earthy stench permeates our eight small rooms. The views of the scenic Mohawk Valley and the green-flanked Adirondack Mountains are picturesque, especially when storm clouds roll in and lightning crackles. (I have loved thunder and lightning since I was a child.) But the house always was missing a certain something, in particular, a sense of generosity. With its recessed-panel red cedar shutters we ordered from Timberlane, a clapboard exterior coated with a nougat-colored oil paint from Fine Paints of Europe – flaking, alas, due to my own inept painting in certain areas combined with two severe winters – and its modest neoclassicism rising in the shade of centuries-old maple trees, the house looked elegant, but it seemed pinched and a bit unfriendly.

Our dissatisfaction with the house became even more acute during the two years we lived in Morocco. There, in the ancient medina of Marrakech, we lived in a riad, a traditional courtyard house, whose third-floor flat roof served nicely as a terrace. We spent much of our time up there, usually working, chatting, eating or sleeping in the shade of a cabana that a band of craftsmen made for us out of wood poles, concrete, and woven-bamboo panels. All around yellow- and white-flowered plants grew in red-clay pots, massive to mini: oleanders, irises, daisies, roses, bougainvillea. Flocks of swallows swirled overhead, sharing the sky with the occasional stork or hawk. In one direction rose the jagged, snow-capped peaks of the Atlas mountains, and in another stood the intricately carved minaret of the 12th-century Koutoubia mosque.

On that terrace Catherine, our daughter, learned to ride a tricycle. There we erected our first Christmas tree, strung with popcorn strands and garish lights picked up from ACIMA, a supermarket across town. There we raised a baby turkey, whom we named Prissy, to adulthood, fed her cherry tomatoes and cornmeal, and eventually handed her over to the neighborhood butcher for Thanksgiving slaughter. The terrace gave us an indoor-outdoor experience that was sorely missed when we returned to Sharon Springs and found ourselves in a house that had no similar transitional space.

Very soon after our arrival, we decided to build a porch. Make that a veranda. Strictly speaking, a porch is a relatively small covered structure whose primary use is to protect an exterior door, and its users, from inclement weather. A veranda, on the other hand, has an extravagant columned breadth that matches the languor of its long, lazy syllables. The best location for such a structure, we determined, was the windowless rear façade of the house, a featureless expanse that remained after we demolished a large wing that was riddled with dry rot. With this improvement, the house, we surmised, would have a stage for weekend entertaining, western and northern viewing of the valley and mountains, and a rainy-day playground for Catherine, her bicycle, and her Razor kick scooter, which I relinquished after clumsily falling off it once too many times. The veranda also would overlook to our still-under-development kitchen garden, its raised vegetable beds, and broad gravel paths.

Mindful of country houses in my native Virginia, and with visions of Mount Vernon dancing in my head, I wanted the veranda to stretch across the entire back of the house and be as big as possible: 35 feet long by 12 feet deep by nine-to-10 feet high. We found eight tall Tuscan-order wood columns at an architectural salvage dealer; clad in the alligatored remnants of white paint, they cost $500. The columns’ capitals and bases proved too rotten to use, alas, so we purchased near-replicas out of a catalogue we found at a local lumberyard; made of some sort of high-density foam, they cost about the same amount.

Not long after we bought the house, Barbara Davis –a designer whose rough-but-elegant, vaguely Swedish aesthetic I’ve admired for years – introduced us to Alan Campbell, a carpenter who does a brisk business in tearing down old buildings and using their wood components in other building projects. This spring, after a brief consultation, he agreed to build us a veranda with a corrugated metal shed roof for $4,500, and about two weeks later, he and his congenial crew had done just that. The wide tongue-and-groove floorboards came from a 19th-century factory building in a neighboring county; the wood for the roof and ceiling of the veranda were recycled from a Victorian house. I never asked after the origins of the sheets of corrugated metal; all I cared about was that the roof of the veranda didn’t leak.

It hasn’t, despite a few incredible storms that recently flooded our little village, left the nearby Canajoharie Museum & Library awash in 13 feet of water (the museum’s stellar cache of paintings by Winslow Homer and Mary Cassatt thankfully were on loan at Giverny and elsewhere), and turned several counties of upstate New York into official disaster areas. Three weeks since its completion, the veranda utterly has transformed the character of the three-bedroom house at the center of what we call Medina Farm. The weathered wood still needs to be primed and painted – that’s my summer job, in case you were wondering – and a lot of junk that ended up on the veranda during construction, including a Depression-era refrigerator that recently died, is being moved offsite soon. Eventually I will coax the vines of Aristolochia durior(a.k.a. Dutchman’s pipe) along the veranda’s roofline so the plants’ giant heart-shaped leaves will soften the structure’s hard architectural lines and cast some welcome shade at sunset. But for the moment, this addition to our house is everything we hoped it could be.

For some people, the kitchen is the heart of their home. For us, it is the veranda. Catherine has already figured out that rain now cannot stop her outdoor playtime. (The 35-foot-long floor makes a perfect place to race that fleet Razor, especially if she creates an elaborate obstacle course out of chairs and tables.) Guests already have staked out their favorite spots: sitting on the steps that, Southern-style, run the length of the veranda; sprawling on stacks of Moroccan-style fat square cushions; reading newspapers and sipping African red bush tea while seated in old wrought-iron garden chairs that have been pulled up to a slightly wobbly round center table. The veranda’s shadowed comfort also is a magnet for our cats, Sebastian and Mrs. Susan, and our dog, the gentle Gulliver, a blind Bernese/Rottweiler mix whom we adopted last November at the Susquehanna SPCA in Cooperstown. Half the time, all three beasts can be found there, happily snoozing in a congenial pile.

A few evenings ago, I joined that peaceable kingdom, a glass of 1999 Château Frank Brut Champagne in hand, and Catherine asleep on my lap. The sun, almost completely set, stained the cloudy horizon hot pink, and a gentle rain danced across the metal roof. Swallows darted across the sky, scattering briefly to make room for an enormous horned owl as it swooped low and stopped to perch in the branches of a tall tree. Thanks to that veranda, our slightly uptight house loosened up and started feeling like a home. FYI: If you need me this summer, you’ll know where to find me.

Antiques Weekend in Upstate New York

2006-06-20T08:17:00.000-07:00

It poured buckets of rain last weekend in upstate New York. (And by upstate, I mean hundreds of miles north of New York City, not neighboring Westchester County.) On the plus side, it meant that my partner, Matthew, and I couldn’t dig holes for the posts we ordered for our new chicken yard. But instead of spending the day lounging indoors beside a warm fire and watching the 1968 version of “Heidi” for the umpteenth time – children’s movies are a big thing at our house, thanks to our four-year-old daughter – we decided to wake at dawn and drive west through the downpour for about an hour. If it was raining so badly at home, it had to be raining just as bad at the Brimfield. Unfortunately, Brimfield, a Connecticut institution that has been in operation since the 1970s, fills me with a kind of low-grade horror. Prices are high, big-city dealers are out in force, and I bump into all sorts of people I know in the design business, all of whom are looking for the same things I want. Brimfield’s New York State counterpart, however, is smaller and more manageable (about 1,000 dealers from the U.S. and Canada rather than 5,000). Also, there’s something cozy about Bouckville and the neighboring village of Madison, both flea-bite-size spots amid rolling hills that only come to life during the antiques shows, which take place in June and August. (That being said, Bouckville does have antiques shops and junk shops that are open year-round.)

In terms of the weather, I was right. When we pulled up at about 8 a.m., it was obvious that the showers had forced many dealers to pack up and head home. Those left braving the drizzle were anxious to sell something, anything, and we were anxious to spend. Our daughter, on the other hand, was largely interested in test-driving her lipstick-red rubber boots through the sludge-like fields of mud that in drier days are actually farm meadows.

After about two hours of looking around, poking our head into tents and waking the occasional slumbering dealer, we ended up with a trove of modest treasures that packed practically every square inch of the Jeep. I’m a table-lamp freak, so couldn’t pass up an octagonal Adirondack-style lamp made entirely of popsicle sticks (it was only $9). Two lamps with bases made of pairs of white ceramic chickens made the cut, too, for $35 (trust me, they’ll look great with red-and-white gingham shades). So did a $95 pair of two-foot-high ceramic cockatoos that I plan to make into Palm Beach-style lamps for a friend whose house I’m decorating. (I’ll be using a blue-and-white David Hicks-style graphic fabric for the shades). We also picked up three white glass lamps with handpainted roses, two large ones for $25 for the pair and $5 for a smaller version that our daughter put dibs on for her room. We also picked up a circa-1900 patented folding wood bed, twin size, for $25, which is destined for our small library at home, where it will be piled with cushions and used as a daybed. For the same price we became the proud new owners of a high-backed, vaguely Spanish upholstered chair from the 1960s, a dramatic piece that is going to be tucked into a corner of our guest room. It will be a perfect reading chair for Karoline, the teenage Norwegian girl who’s going to live with us for a year as an exchange student through the American Field Service program.

All in all, we spent about $250 and had to squeeze into the Jeep, being careful not to break anything. Even then, as we were driving out of town, I screeched to a halt and turned around. On a table at the side of Route 20 was a very cool pair of table lamps, the last two items that a dealer hadn’t yet packed up. Big, cylindrical, ceramic, and colorful – a very 1960s combination of brown and orange – they were $35 for the pair. “Actually, I’ll take $30, but no less than that,” the dealer said. “I paid $20 for them.” Since we had no more room in the back, Matthew was forced to carry them in his lap for the hour or so it took us to drive home. What I’ll do with them is anybody’s guess; every table we own already has its lamp. But not passing by something great (and cheap) is one of the cardinal rules of decorating; if you like it enough, you’ll find a place for it. Even if that place, temporarily, is the storage shed.

Camera Ready

2006-06-29T08:26:00.000-07:00

Summer is officially upon us, so it’s time to remember what to pack for the season’s travels. In addition to the usual sunscreens, road atlases, and iPods, might I suggest that you bring a camera and use it for more than snapping images of friends and family posed against landmarks?

Being camera ready is especially critical travel advice if you are a design junkie like me. After all, I managed to visit Paris a half-dozen times before I ever set foot in the Louvre or ascended the elevator in the Eiffel Tower. What was I doing with my time in the French capital? Visiting antiques shops and flea markets and photographing whatever caught my eye: neoclassical-style balconies whose pattern might look good as the embroidery on a dinner napkin, a medieval window whose quatrefoil shape inspired me to plan a similarly-shaped planting bed at the center of a courtyard garden. I have baskets and files full of photographs like this, disembodied bits of architecture and gardens that often serve as launching pads for home improvement projects, snapped everywhere from Jeffersonville, New York to the bustling streets of Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam.

Recently, I spent four days in Madrid, crisscrossing the city with my digital camera, an Olympus D-630 Zoom, at the ready. Though I had a few critical shopping goals (such as my daughter’s request that I buy her “a pretty dress and tapping shoes,” i.e. black patent leather shoes like those Shirley Temple wore in her movies) and as well as some magazine business to attend to (you can read all about the best Madrid antiques shop in Traditional Home’s international-theme issue next spring), most of my days were spent in aimless but eagle-eyed pursuit of details that eventually could spark anything from a curtain design to a styling tip that might make its way, subtly, into the pages of Traditional Home.

In Madrid, this meant, for me, photographing the pagoda-like rooftops of the charming brick outbuildings amid the gardens of Parque del Bueno Retiro; the whimsical silhouettes might one day be replicated in a pair of small storage sheds that I would like to build at the end of my kitchen garden. I snapped a zebra-striped ottoman, a white Spanish fan trimmed with black lace, and a curiously beautiful piece of Biedermeier furniture whose sinuous mahogany frame held aloft a galvanized metal tray that was designed to hold flowers or potted plants. Also in the camera’s memory is a bewildering array of JPGs of store and street signs with interesting fonts. What I will do with these is anybody’s guess.

Particularly inspiring were the window displays of fashion shops in the Salamanca neighborhood. This upscale, tree-shaded area is home to blue-chip stores like CH Carolina Herrera (a boutique that is home to the American designer’s diffusion line of clothing and accessories) as well as innumerable shops that cater to antiques lovers, parents of the very young (Madrid has terrific baby and children’s clothes, especially in the department store El Corte Inglés ) and well-heeled brides-to-be. (If you’re in the market for a distinguished but romantic nuptial ensemble, I highly recommend the ivory- and tea-stain-colored dresses at Mi Querida Señorita at Calle Claudio Coello 83.) After a quick lunch at the standing-room-only counter of the old-guard delicatessen/bakery La Mallorquina on Calle Mayor, where you wash down tea-party-size sandwiches with a pint-size glass of beer, I marched out into the heart of Salamanca’s shopping district, ready to aim and shoot.

Since fashion design frequently influences interior design, the windows of dress shops are a particularly good place to put your decorative mind into gear. A dotted-swiss petticoat peeping several inches below the hem of a printed-cotton skirt in one shop provided me with the solution for a pair of flea-market curtains I have never used because they stop about six inches from the floor. Why lengthen them with a contrasting hem when I could install a window treatment made of two pairs of curtains hung on back-to-back rods, with the undercurtain exposed in the manner of an errant slip? A white cotton skirt decorated with widely spaced horizontal rows of crocheted ribbons made me think about adding similar rows of lacy decoration along the bottom half of the plain, readymade cotton or linen curtains you can find at Country Curtains, Silk Trading Co., and Pottery Barn. Equally attractive would be a curtain trimmed with bands of grosgrain ribbon, in a variety of widths and colors.

At Zara, the Spanish fashion chain that deftly churns out reasonably accurate and highly affordable versions of the latest styles within weeks of their appearance on the world’s runways, I got on my knees to photograph a voluminous New Look-style skirt composed of what looked like multiple flounces of artfully shredded tulle and vintage lace. Imagine how romantic-but-rugged that would look translated in to a full-length tablecloth; impractical, yes, but worth remembering. Spanish fashion designers also were using enough eyelet-style cotton to make me wonder why one doesn’t see more of this material in everyday decoration, turned into tailored window blinds or bedskirts or pillow covers slipped over contrasting linings.

Madrid’s antiques shops and interior-design boutiques were full of ideas to steal or adapt for domestic use, too. The proprietor of one shop had filled a tall, wide, cylindrical glass vase with a bouquet of antlers. (Conservationists, stay calm: They were naturally shed.) The effect was startling but simple, like something the late, great 1960s decorator Billy Baldwin would have done if he had been commissioned to refurbish a ski chalet in Gstaad. At another shop, this one around the corner from the elegantly hip five-star Urban Hotel, I was impressed by the sight of four large chunks of white coral that had been stacked on small wood pedestals atop a 19th-century plateau. That’s a kind of long, low, mirrored platform, an old-fashioned accessory that was typically used as a stage for candles and flower arrangements on a dining table.

That plateau arrangement is going to be recreated, somewhat more humbly, on my porch this summer, as a dining table centerpiece. A rectangular sheet of mirrored glass from the hardware store will stand in for that costly silver-and-mirror antique, and I’ll round up some artificial white branch, cluster, and corduroy coral from Seashell World and march them down the middle of the mirror. Tuck in a few votives here and there, and voila–a memorable summer centerpiece.

Next stop on my agenda? Munich. And, yes, I’ll be keeping my eyes open and the Olympus fully charged.

Word Nerd

2006-06-21T09:07:00.000-07:00

Making it Up as We Go Along

Today, class, we tackle the neologism, a fancy word for a made-up word. The general rule is: Writers will not use words that are not in Webster’s Eleventh, so help them God. But rules sometimes deserve to be flagrantly and gloriously broken (consider e.e. cummings and his licentious lowercase). The late Toni Cade Bambara was a master of the neologism, such as “monkeybardom” for the freedom kids feel at recess. And then there is the inimitable Anne Lamotte, who refers to the turkey wattles that dangle from the aging neck as “neckage” and “necular degeneration.”
Here at Trad Home, we look at neologisms with a gimlet eye but sometimes permit them, especially if it is Friday and we are in a giddy mood. Our own Mitch Owens, Senior Interior Design Editor in the New York office, got “glamorama” by us in a piece in our upcoming September issue on a revival of interest in ’50s design diva Dorothy Draper (how’s that for gratuitous alliteration?). Mitch called the new book, In the Pink, “a glamorama survey of Dorothy Draper’s work.” (It is ticking me off that even as I type, all the neologisms are hysterically underlined in red, just as if Miss Ryerson, my eight-grade grammar teacher, had been reincarnated into Word as a cyber scold.)
I would argue that not only is glamorama easily understood, but also that its multisyllabic flamboyance and the vaguely exotic-sounding consonant ending (Voilà! Arrivederci!) is just right for describing Draper. After all, “fuhgeddaboudit” isn’t in the dictionary either, but you don’t need Al Pacino as Donny Brasco to tell you its multipurposes: agreeing that Raquel Welch is sexy (“Fuhgeddaboudit!”); disagreeing that a Lincoln is better than a Cadillac (“Fuhgeddaboudit!”); exclaiming over something wonderful to eat (“Fuhgeddaboudit!”); and dismissing highly personal criticism of one’s anatomy (“Fuhgeddaboudit!”).
Our Senior Decorating Editor in Des Moines, Candace Manroe, writes like an angel—and so nonchalantly that you never even hear the flutter of her wings. She, too, is also partial to made-up words, but I balked at her coinage of “metropoliths” for large cities. For one thing, it thounded lithpy, and for another, metropolis is already a perfectly good word. Granted, the plural, “metropolises,” doesn’t trip off the tongue, but it is not so repulsive that it needs a replacement. Better just to avoid it in the same way that so many of us write circles around the dreaded “lie” and “lay” conundrum.
I agreed not to mark metropoliths, and instead wait to see if it made the other editors’ hair stand up. It did. Candace’s gracious surrender stood her in good stead when she described a homeowner’s leggy blonde daughter as “fashion-glam” in our June issue: we let it stay.
Our executive editor, Marsha Raisch, and I are of two minds when it comes to finding just the right word. She swears by her trusty Synonym Finder, which I believe all too often ends in using a word that sounds like it came from a synonym finder—say “Bacchanalia” for “party” when “get-together” will do. I prefer to assign my subconscious to search the black hole of my cerebral archives and then go on to another task in hopes that the right word will float up in the nick of time. When wording looks funny in a headline, however, Marsha and I nonetheless make a good team, having trauma bonded late one wintry night over blowing up 50 black balloons for a coworker’s decade-breaking Bacchanalia with just one air pump between us.
This week when I wrote blurbs for the September Table of Contents, I trotted out the immortal line, “The 1937 Georgian-style home of a pair of Pennsylvania empty-nesters evolves from dark and knickknacky to light and kicky.” I was relieved to find out “kicky” really is a word (meaning excitingly fashionable) but expected to have to do battle for “knickknacky,” which isn’t. When I asked if I could use “knickknacky,” our “Curmudgeon-In-Chief” Cynthia Mitchell (aka Copy Chief), already reduced to eating circus peanuts due to deadline stress, threw up her hands and growled, “Knickknacky, Paddywhacky, give the dog a bone!”
I took that as a yes.

Think Pink

2006-05-15T08:21:00.000-07:00

Last week, the only place to be in the New York City decorating world was the Museum of the City of New York (www.mcny.com), a towering Federal-style brick structure on Fifth Avenue, near the boundary between the tony Upper East Side and grittier Spanish Harlem. The event was the gala opening of “The High Style of Dorothy Draper,” an exhibition devoted to the work of an American interior decorator who turned her couture-clad back on conventional good taste to pioneer the notion of interior design as an exercise in personal style. In Draper’s larger-than-life world, the curtains were made of fabric printed with roses the size of soccer balls, the walls were painted with foot-wide stripes of green and white, and undistinguished wood furniture was smartened up with shining coats of glossy black enamel and loads of brilliant gilt trim.

In additional to maximal, eye-popping décor, Dorothy Draper also had a passion for pink, a color that, then as now, is rarely part of any home’s larger decorating lexicon, perhaps because it is considered too feminine for anything but a little girl’s bedroom. But she saw pink – along with sky blue, emerald green, and fire engine red – as one of the color wheel’s happy shades, and for her, a room that made you feel optimistic was the ultimate goal. That feel-good sensibility is still practiced by her firm, Dorothy Draper & Company, www.dorothydraper.com, which was founded in 1925 and is now owned by her former associate, Carleton Varney.

Draper, who was born in 1889 and died in 1969, went through a period of personal depression in the 1920s, a decade of upheaval that saw her career blossom at the same time that her marriage to Dr. Dan Draper – one of Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s polio doctors and a founding father of the study of psychosomatic illness – was coming to an end. After several years of intensive psychoanalysis, however, she resurfaced as a new woman, determined to create only rooms where brilliant colors sang, sometimes discordantly, but always with conviction. As the exhibition at the Museum of the City of New York proves – the show, which opened on May 2, runs through September – pink was paramount in the decorator’s vision, whether she was decorating a massive hotel-and-casino complex like Quintandinha in Pétropolis, Brazil, or her apartment on Central Park South in New York City. The main room of the exhibition is painted a shade of pink so bright you might want to pack a pair of sunglasses for the journey. (For the gala event, the museum surprised everyone by serving Rhododendrons, a tart rose-pink cocktail that is a specialty at the Greenbrier, www.greenbrier.com, a Draper-decorated hotel in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia. And the boxwood-edged flower beds in the entrance of the museum were planted with ‘Dorothy Draper’ roses from Jackson & Perkins, www.jacksonandperkins.com.)

Frankly, I’ve always been partial to pink, though I grew up in houses whose rooms were heavily freighted to brown, red, cream, and blue. I once collected pink Venetian glass vases, the only flowers I really like are old-fashioned pink roses, and I always have a few bottles of an elegant Moroccan rosé wine called Gerrouane Gris around the house. My favorite articles of clothing are a bold pink gingham shirt from the coincidentally named British shirtmaker Thomas Pink (www.thomaspink.com) and shocking pink socks from Anniable Gamarelli, a darkly paneled little shop in Rome whose primary clientele is the Roman Catholic clergy, including Pope Benedict XVI. My partner and I also have a four-year-old daughter whose favorite color is any shade of pink and who likes when she and I dress to match, more or less. But when it comes to using pink in decorating, I’ve always steered clear of anything in the pink category, be it rose, blush, or salmon. But this summer, that’s all about to change.

Decorating choices are often as much about exposure and education as much as personal preference. In a recent meeting with the London furniture designer Christopher Hodsoll (www.hodsoll.com), he was showing me photographs of his new collection, some of which was displayed in his house. One image illustrated a sitting room whose once strong pink walls had faded to a pale mottled color that, depending on the light, read either as blushing beige or the pink of slightly faded cherry blossoms. Now, that’s the kind of pink I can live with – aged, beaten up, worn down, uneven, a bit soiled. It is a pink with some character to it, a pink with unexpectedly rough edges. Unfortunately, that particular shade doesn’t come out of a can. Nor can it be specially mixed by the corner hardware store. It’s the kind of pink that develops over time. So I’m going to bite the bullet and buy a few gallons of a strong, clear, medium pink for the walls of my sitting room and be patient and let the years, and the sun, take their toll.

Pink can be saccharine in major doses, so I plan to control the potential perkiness of the walls by furnishing the room with some gutsy elements – a well-worn brown leather wing chair, natural linen curtains with broad bands of madder-red paisley at the ends, a tarnished bronze end table. Along one wall will stand a circa-1860 American Empire mahogany console, and the floor will be painted with snow-white deck paint and partially covered with a seagrass carpet. Further breaking down the pink background will be a motley assortment of art, from a large 1960s oil of the Grand Canal to a sketchy watercolor by the artist Ruben Toledo depicting a lady in sunglasses and a bubble-shaped hat. If my plan works out as conjured in my head, the pink walls will still be in view but the color’s role in the room will be as a glow rather than a shock. And, yes, I will be serving lots of Rhododendrons this summer. Stay tuned.

LKFs (Little Known Facts)

2006-05-01T13:14:00.000-07:00

Working as a copy editor at Traditional Home, I have become a font—yes, that’s “font,” not “fount”—of LKFs (Little Known Facts) and language usage.

Think a “gimp” is derogatory slang for someone who walks with a limp? Well, that, too, but it is also an ornamental flat braid used as a trimming.

Does a “fauteuil” sound like something that might malfunction in Gypsy Rose Lee’s wardrobe? It is an upholstered chair with open arms. And in case you’ve been lying (not laying, as I’m sure you are aware) awake at nights wondering whether to italicize fauteuil (no quotation marks around a special term on second reference), it takes no italics. Even though it is a French word, it is used commonly enough in English to be in Webster’s, and therefore needs no italics. If it were not in Webster’s, we would italicize away. And if you believe I am taking liberties by saying Webster’s instead of Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictonary, Eleventh Edition, I’m just that kind of a girl.

By such wee judgments and arcane rules is the life of a copy editor ruled. (It is for our breed that the T-shirt asking whether “anal retentive” has a hyphen was designed. Well, it depends. In noun use—say that you are talking about a person who is an “anal retentive”—it does not take a hyphen. In adjectival use—say you are talking about a person who has “anal-retentive tendencies,” it does. Hey, what’s so anal-retentive about that?)

Sometimes our writers use terms so obscure that researching them turns into a mini history lesson. Our flamboyant food editor Carroll Stoner (her favorite word is “fabulous!”—you can hear the exclamation point in her voice) has a fun piece coming up in our July issue about a cooking school in the Adirondacks in which fiddlehead ferns (what a jolly Appalachian ring that has to it) and ramps are used. As it turns out, ramps are a sort of wild onion, also sometimes referred to as “wild leeks,” that Food Lover’s Companion (a handy little book chock full of LKFs to keep in your kitchen, by the way) politely describes as having an “assertive garlicky-onion” flavor. When I googled it (vaguely obscene sounding verb, that) I discovered that June Snow of the Akron Beacon-Journal described it more colorfully as “like fried green onions with a dash of funky feet.” Funky feet flavor or not, it is a fabulous piece, Carroll dahling, fabulous!

What really thrilled me, though, was to learn that ramps are related to rampion (Latin name, Campanula rapunculus L.) the European herb that Rapunzel’s mother craved while pregnant. It was while stealing rampion from a crone’s garden by moonlight that Rapunzel’s father was caught and ordered to turn over his firstborn (“firstborn” is one word, not hyphenated). I happen to like “Rapunzel” because although the prince who climbs her hair up to her tower is cuter than a speckled pup, it is Rapunzel who finds the resources to escape within her own body by growing her hair—but that is a digression from our main topic here that I would question rather sharply if one of our writers tried to get it by me.

Readers, if you have any comments or questions about design or cooking terms or language usage in general that you see in the magazine, write us and we’ll discuss them in a future entry. In this techno world we live in, a good blog discussion is almost as exciting as the bustle around the library reference desk used to be on a Saturday night.

Ireland Beckons 5: Goodbye and all that

2006-04-18T08:01:00.000-07:00

Being Irish is most definitely a state of mind. Of course there's the geographic realities of being born there, or the legacy of inherited nationality (I'm an Irish citizen by birth because my mother was born in Ireland before the Easter Uprising). But no matter what your roots, if you love to talk, have poetry in your heart, see the humor in most things and a prediliction to generous hospitality...you're Irish. When you're in Ireland, for all the scenic beauty, scrumptious regional food, history and so forth, it's the people that give the place that certain something that is universally understood as Irish.

The last stop Lucinda had guided us to was the country house B&B, Ashley Park, Ardcroney near Nenagh, Co. Tipperary, a rambling, neo-Gothic, country house overlooking a small lake. Its walled gardens are undergoing an extensive program of restoration, there are stables for those interested in horse riding, but best of all is the exceptionally warm and relaxed welcome from owner Sean Mounsey, who is, as Lucinda puts it, "a rare find". It was a long haul from Kinsale to Nenagh, thanks to the lack of a Cork City bypass, but 10 minutes after our arrival, and deep into conversation with Sean, we'd forgotten our travail. He's got the gift of the gab, okay. But it is worth listening to, as his discourse is studded with advice for sane and sensible living (and the occasional 'Begorrah')..."you've got to fight your corner", "be grateful for what you've got—tomorrow you may not have it!." I particularly liked his technique for learning to dance, "Which I couldn't do at all," he says, recalling the days of his youth when he'd go to the socials to meet the girls. "And they knew it. Every one I'd ask would say, 'I'm dancing', and off they'd sail."

Now comes the genius part ..."So I looked at the wallflowers, sitting there, their feet twitching. I asked them to dance. And glad they were of it, with me stumbling over their feet, but they got a chance to show their steps." Hey presto—an Irish Fred Astaire was born. Judging from the family photos around the drawing room and hall, Sean was quite a lad, and his late wife was his world. They'd met riding their bikes in the lanes around Ashley Park. They married, and the day came when they purchased the old house and began to restore and furnish it. Be sure to get the room with the tester (4-poster) bed. And have them light a peat fire in the grate for you to fall asleep to—it's the best sedative in the world... you've not been to Ireland until you've experienced the perfumey smoke of a peat fire.

Me and Joy Larkcom in her garden.
One person that Amy and I were particularly keen to visit was Joy Larkcom, the English garden writer who has made a speciality of heritage and unusual vegetables, a passion she shares with Amy (visit Amy at WWW.RAREFORMS.COM to learn about her commitment to the vegetable kingdom). Joy wrote about Oriental vegetables when all we knew about was napa cabbage, and Joy put Mizuna salad mix on the map. She and her husband Don have retired to Ireland a few years ago and live on the windswept cliffs overlooking the Atlantic, just south of Bandon. She is, of course, making a garden. But only after erecting a system of windbreaks to defeat the blowing gale that would make even the stoutest heart quaver. If you're at all interested in creating an ornamental vegetable garden, or potager, look no further for good advice than Joy's book 'The Creative Vegetable Garden'. And tune in to some of her other books...she is the guru of veggie gardening.

At 5am, Saturday morning, we staggered into our waiting taxi for the trip to Dublin airport and home. We'd hardly left Merrion Square when our driver began his literary tour of the city, pointing out Oscar Wilde's recumbant statue on the edge of the square. I remarked how early it was for such erudition. "Oh, right then," he said, and fell quiet. But the urge to talk, to share the highlights of his city, and the culture of Ireland (along with a 'spoof' or joke) overcame him..."Ye see that house there, it's where Bram Stoker died in poverty, Dracula is not a Translyvanian word ya' know, it's Gaelic...for red blood...".

Taking a deep breath— we were off.

PS. If you're planning a trip to Ireland, it's worth visiting WWW.TOURISMIRELAND.COM, and for car rental I recommend Murray's Europcar.

Ireland Beckons 4: Lucinda O'Sullivan Says.....

2006-04-13T07:30:00.000-07:00

I invited Lucinda O’Sullivan to be a visiting editor and post a message on our blog page.

There is always a bit of apprehension when meeting up with someone you haven’t seen for quite a long time, never mind taking them on a week’s tour of the REAL hidden Ireland, but that was blown away in the first five minutes of screeching and jumping up and down as Ethne and I immediately recalled our childhood memories in the hallowed surroundings of Dublin’s poshest Hotel – the Merrion. Photos - a flash of self-consciousness - we have just met again -memories of all those we knew and loved, laughter and tears. Our paths may not have crossed for a while because we were on different sides of the pond and had young families – all boys - but our other similarities have come out – we both write – we both love food, travel, interiors, gardens…. and writing….

Lucinda O'Sullivan and her family, Ian, Aidan, and husband, Brendan.

I started out my career in the Tourism business working in Ireland House in London and in a roundabout way I have come back to it. For the past number of years I have been Food, Travel and Restaurant Critic with Ireland’s biggest circulation newspaper, The Sunday Independent, which makes me every Irish Chef’s nightmare! In fact I am the longest standing critic with any Irish newspaper and I have been the only critic to travel the country widely and anonymously, thus receiving the same treatment as any other traveller. What does that say about me – some might say she is tough as old boot – but no, not really. I am soft as Irish butter and have built my reputation on being scrupulously honest in my weekly reviews. However, I want to see standards continue to rise in the food and tourism sector in Ireland and will not brook lack lustre efforts and rip off establishments.

Things have changed greatly in Ireland since I started out with my pen and paper. Ireland is now wealthy and it is hot and hip. We travel all over the world bringing back new and exciting ideas. There is an obsession with cutting edge design, fashion, interiors, and food. Having come through the “Modern Irish” food syndrome with those sky high layers of tasteless ingredients on a plate at horrendous prices, hopefully, we are mellowing into a more knowledgeable return to simplicity with fine local produce, well cooked, with precision and exquisite trimmings. We have superb fish and shellfish in Ireland, magnificent lamb romping our meadows, beautiful well padded cattle on lush grazing, gorgeous white pigs honking with delight as they are now fed on grain rather than the auld scraps of yesterday. Our cheeses are second to none. We have Slow Food, Organic Food and Local Produce galore being proclaimed all the time, although it is hard to know what is really on your plate! I sat in the café of a well-known Country House where everything is supposed to be grown on site, as the big white van of a Fruit and Vegetable distributors arrived with the lettuces and vegetables and headed straight in with the regular order! However, with the Celtic Tiger and influx here now of so many different nationalities we also have some really good ethnic restaurants with really great Indian food at places like 'Rasam' in Glasthule – along the south coast of Dublin and at 'Jaipur' in Dalkey – a lovely village unknown to tourists but where the rock stars like U2 live. Charles de Gaulle famously said of France – “how could you rule a country with so many different cheeses” – and shortly the same will be said of Ireland.

In my role as Critic with the Sunday Independent, I was constantly receiving emails and letters from people saying – “we want to go away for a weekend – where will we go that is not a faceless 4 Star Hotel”. “You wrote about a place 6 months ago but I can’t remember where it was - Why don’t you write a book?” Well that was that. The first edition of “Lucinda O’Sullivan’s Little Black Book of Great Places to Stay” came about in 2004 and was a sell out success – hence the 2nd Edition.

I had probably slept in every bad bed in Ireland, had thimblefuls of watery orange juice and greasy rashers of bacon. I suppose you could say I was ideally qualified. So, I set about doing a book which would cut across all the marketing organisations and categories covering Country Houses, Castles, Special Hotels, Spas, Inns, and places that had something different to offer with enthusiastic and welcoming hosts. What is also different about my book is that it is not just a travel guide in guide speak – it is written in the style of my weekly reviews recounting my experiences at different houses. It is not sponsored by any organisation so I do not have to include certain places because they stock a particular brand of whisky and so on. Also, it is all in colour – because I like to see where I am going and not just a dreary black and white exterior and possibly a bedroom. There are over 500 colour photos– some quirky – showing the Real Hidden Ireland – as it is now in 2006. The book is now available in the U.S. through Irish Books & Media retailing at $18.99.

One could be forgiven for thinking there was only one Country House in Ireland because this one particular establishment is all that seems to be covered by visiting journalists, and boy do they miss so much. They fail to find the real gems; they just fall into the same old tourist traps. I would send them to places like 'An Bohreen' overlooking Dungarvan Bay and run by Jim and Ann Mulligan who have returned to Ireland after a lifetime in the U.S. Jim went out with his mother and younger siblings and fought in Korea thus attaining citizenship. Ann is an amazing cook and both are wonderful hosts.

Go to Cobh and visit the Gaudiesque Cathedral standing like an sugar frosted confection in the little town on Cork harbour which was the departure point of all the emigrants who left Ireland – and the last departure point of the Titanic. Stay in the John and Pam Mulhaire’s glorious 'Knockeven House' - it is just beautiful and so reasonably priced. Meet the delightfully effervescent Olive O’Gorman and her serene farmer husband at 'Glasha Farmhouse' in the Nire Valley with a sweet little really olde world pub a hundred meters down the lane. I guarantee you will never have seen anything like it. Oh, and I mustn’t forget the serenely beautiful Foxmount Country House on the edge of Waterford City - home to Margaret and David Kent – the house, gardens and farm are perfection – soft blushing roses on windowsills convey Margaret’s style and personality. These are just a few people and places in my book.

But the really good thing about Ireland is the friendliness and, no matter where you are, you are not far from the sea. You will have read of the wonderful places I took Ethne and Amy to…and we really do love welcoming our American friends to the Emerald Isle there is such a tie between our two countries. Do come and visit us….

Ireland Beckons 3: We Just Picked...

2006-04-11T17:43:00.000-07:00

They say that an army travels on its stomach. I say so do tourists, and judging by the 2006 Clarke-Goldman Expeditionary March Across Southeast Ireland, it's the only way to go.

It all began innocently enough, with High Tea at the Merrion Hotel in Dublin (see Ireland Beckons 2). Tall, polished wood tables and low, upholstered chairs designed to allow our crinolines, had we been wearing them, to cascade gracefully over the shallow arms—and to keep the vittles at eye level when served. Behind us a peat fire burned in the grate while intelligent, graceful attendants took our order. A choice of tea blends (not, I hasten to add, of the Celestial Seasonings variety), little china plates, dainty linen serviettes, and a silver plated, three-tiered cakestand moaning seductively under the assembled weight of scrumptious finger sandwiches. These were composed of finely sliced fresh-baked bread, crusts removed (of course), embracing silken slices of smoked salmon, rare roast beef or baked ham. Egg salad was served in dear little brioche buns. And that was just the bottom tier! The middle tier held restrained slices of dark fruit cake, Irish brack, and banana bread, as well as doll-sized fruit tartlets. The topmost tier was a crown of scones, plain and raisin...with bowls of raspberry jam and whipped cream to help them go down. STOP! There was three of everything ... because there were three of us (Mary Harrington, Amy's friend from years ago, joined us), but we could have fed a small platoon.

Earlier that morning, Amy and I, wandering around Dublin, stumbled into a small farmer's market just off Temple Bar. Organic food is just as important there as it here to those who appreciate quality food, and support for family farms and local producers is huge. Slow Food Ireland has its most vocal supporter in Peter Ward, who is passionate about the necessity to conserve and encourage small local farmers and artisanal food producers -- they are the backbone of rural communities. Irish cheeses are beginning to find their way into the market over here, but this artisan cheese maker had sorts we'd never seen. The temptation to become renegade cheese smugglers was hard to resist.

From the comfort and food of Ballykeally Manor (see previous blog), we sauntered down to the Mount Juliet Conrad Hotel, Thomastown, County Kilkenny. There aren't enough stars to bestow an adequate accolade on this huntin', shootin', fishin' estate turned country house hotel. And don't forget the golf course and equestrian center.

Or the view.

Or the comfort...complete with peat fire...

Or the garden and grounds...this is a garden tour, don't forget...

And the food! I didn't get a chance to photograph it because, quite frankly, I was too busy with my knife and fork to pick up the camera. But trust me—the duck breast was perfectly cooked and plated, and elevated to perfection by the poached pear veiled in a truffle-flavored glaze. A complete taste revelation. Truffles and pears...perfect.

Fish is a big deal in Ireland...it being an island nation and all. And most days I started off with locally smoked wild salmon. It's one of my main food groups...and Amy's, too, as it turned out. But we met our Waterloo in Kinsale at Fishy Fishy Cafe. Amy buckled under the weight of her smoked salmon platter. I tried to help, but was prevented from doing all I could by the bowl of luscious mussels in cream and white wine I had just downed. The fact that it was noon, and we'd breakfasted at 9am might also have contributed to defeat. But, oh well, there will assuredly be other smoked salmons to tackle along the route.

Kinsale is renowned as the Foodie Mecca in Ireland. Check out http://www.kinsalerestaurants.com/ to learn more about Kinsale's Good Food Circle. Located just south of Cork City, the first festival was 30 years ago. I recall my mother attended, and returned raving about the goodies. But, inevitably, quality slipped, but over the past few years, the old Kinsale sparkle has started to return. This is most evident at the Blue Haven Hotel, our base for the past two days while Amy and I explored the further reaches of a fish-based diet.

Blue Haven had been the epicenter of the original Kinsale phenomena, and under the direction of new owner, Cairan Fitzgerald, the place is enjoying a renaissance. A native Kinsalean, Ciaran purchased the hotel several years ago; he's a chartered accountant, and admits that becoming hotelier was a paradigm leap, but "I just wanted to be part of Kinsale again." Bless his heart...because the Blue Haven is heaven. Located in the heart of the town, the rooms are small, but state-of-the-art modern (pillow menus, king-size beds, fast DSL (cable is not an option in rural Ireland), and three restaurant venues, Ciaran's put together a young, expert team who are, with the lightest of touches, putting Blue Haven on the map.

Blue Haven's three dining areas are the bar restaurant, the cafe, and 'blu' for white-linen dining, but with an informal, never stuffy ambience (expressed by the lower-case first letter of its name). The congenial aura is fostered by Head Chef Hugh Bailey, who earned his chops at Jury's in Cork, moved to major hotel restaurants in London, before taking on Australia at the Sydney Opera House restaurant. And he's brought back some of that country's relaxed style and innovative cooking. Talking with him about the menus he's developed, he buys fresh and buys local daily, pushes the envelope with flavor combinations while honoring Ireland's culinary heritage. So, for dinner Amy and I raided the menus of the bar and 'blu', having a small (HAH!) fish and chips for starters. Amy went with a steak sandwich for entree, but I followed Hugh's recommendation for turbot served with a red wine, meat glaze reduction. Turbot is a rare item, but one of the sturdiest of white fish. It was succulently steamed, and the reduction—dark and rich like an aged balsamic—brought out the fish's fine flavor. This is one dish I did photograph.

That night, as we staggered off to our rooms we looked at each other in amazement. "I'm so full!".
"I know," said Amy. "But we just picked!"

And live to fight another day.

Fun in the sun

2006-04-17T08:05:00.000-07:00

Everyone should visit Palm Beach at least once in their lives. It's like no other place (well maybe Beverly Hills) but even so, it has a style all of its own. The houses are opulent, the beaches are pristine and the haute couture shopping is superb (even if your credit card can't hack it). As a native Floridian, I always feel a sense of comfort upon arriving to the sunshine state. As we hit the coconut palm tree lined streets to photograph an outdoor story recently, I knew we were destined to produce a beautiful story. Without digressing too much, I will share but a few sentiments from our fun in the sun.

While I had the best of intentions of taking pictures along the way, truly I did, the camera never seemed to make it out of my bag...sorry! So if you can imagine the scene: sidewalks lined with well groomed ladies in brightly colored Capri pants, Italian leather sandals and sun hats, oh the hats! My love affair with Worth Avenue began at Steven Stolman's shop. His stylish array of skirts, pants and dresses all embellished with jaunty summer prints like coral, and chinoiserie, fitted linen blouses in motley colors, and did I mention the white leather sandals? They should be a permanent fixture in every woman's shoe collection.

Next on my list of favorite Palm Beach shopping hot spots is Kemble Interiors, Inc., housed in a Spanish Colonial Revival townhouse, it was built for a rich man’s mistress (I must say-very scandalous for the 1920s). The raffia hats in assorted colors (featured in the forthcoming June/July issue) are another must-have for summer in the sun because as every good Palm Beach lady knows, aging skin is to be avoided at all costs.

We did manage to make a few stops at what might be considered 'discount shopping' next to the boutiques on Worth Avenue, but City Place in West Palm (just over the bridge) is somewhat charming and offers a few treats: like the yummy gelato at Bellagio Café.

When you’ve exhausted all the shopping stops, enjoy a nice casual dinner or lunch at the Palm Beach grill, it won’t disappoint.

So even if you can't afford a multi-million dollar retreat on South Ocean Boulevard, you can rent a convertible and enjoy a joy ride, it will be well WORTH it!

Ireland Beckons: New Beginnings

2006-04-10T07:17:00.000-07:00

The best piece of advice I've ever had is, “Begin as you mean to carry on.” I've not always followed it, but generally it is true. So, my advice to you, should you ever go to Ireland, is this: Take a taxi from the airport straight to The Merrion Hotel, on Merrion Square in the heart of Dublin. The degree of comfort is just plain splendid, the food is nourishing and wonderfully prepared and presented, the on-site spa has a pool as soft and warm as a baby's cheek, and there are several therapists to manipulate away the kinks of jet lag.

After that, hit the streets—Dublin is calling. Back in the early ‘70s when I lived here for a few years, the place was a quiet backwater. The Georgian terraces were crumbling husks, the shops were asleep, food service was, well, sketchy. It was the land that time forgot.

Not anymore. Thanks to the advent of the Euro in 2000, this place is booming. "Ireland," says Lucinda O'Sullivan, our guide and traveling companion, "is a building site." And property prices are through the roof. Literally. Handsome old cottages that have stood since Cromwell's time in the 1600s are being allowed to collapse into their rafters, so that characterless executive-style houses with all the mod-cons can be erected in their place. This seems to be the destined fate for The Pike, my mother's family home, which I visited yesterday. The roof is still sound, so the walls thus far are intact. The orchard has been plowed up and the barnyard buildings are falling in. My grandfather would be raging! But that is just part of life's rich pattern. However, as Ireland surges into the 21st century, they're in danger of throwing the baby out with bathwater.

But as we travel deeper into the countryside, we find signs of hope. Towns are bustling with the new economy, and artists, craftspeople, and “boutique grocers” offer a taste of the real...and the new...Ireland.

From Dublin, Amy and I followed Lucinda through Wicklow, where we made our first garden stop at Kilruddery House and Gardens, Bray.This is the seat of the Earl of Meath and one of the few remaining 17th-century landscape gardens in the country, laid out by a French gardener named Bonnet, an apprentice of Andre le Notre, who fashioned Versailles. Twin pools stretch from the house into the natural landscape, and a formal parterre garden is laid out below the glass-roofed sculpture court.

From there we traveled south along the coast to Avoca and Knockanree Garden, a private garden beside a babbling brook overhung with ancient boughs. Harold Clarke (no relation!) has made a charming woodland garden, ornatmented with highly personal touches. Email whclarke@iol.ie to obtain information on open days in the garden.

Lucinda has planned our tour to focus on lesser-known gardens and our stays at hotels with gardens. We finished the day at Ballykealey Manor Hotel, at Ballon in Co. Carlow.

Surrounded by blindingly green pastures (dotted with the new season's first lambs) the building is a fairy-tale construct of turrets and gothic furbelows, and the rooms are spacious enough to accommodate king-size canopy beds and large Victorian mahogany wardrobes. Let me say here and now that the Irish hoteliers understand the need for comfortable beds...and freshly ironed linen sheets!

It being Sunday evening, the restaurant was closed and only bar meals were on offer. At first we thought, phooey! Sandwiches! But no. This is the new Ireland...and though the Irish have always enjoyed a hearty meal, the influx of European chefs has raised the bar so that even in the remotest corner of the country you're sure to find something scrumptious. Well, Amy and I tucked into locally raised pork, smoked salmon (made by the hotel's chef), and fresh-baked brown bread with Irish butter (the only kind to eat!). Ambrosia. And as it's the place where local families come for Sunday dinner, the place was packed with little kids running around, grannies tuning in their hearing aids to keep up with the craich, and that was just the first shift. The second brought the courting couples. Needless to say, Amy and I sat and munched and enjoyed the hubbub.

But this is a garden tour. And if I seem to wax lyrical about the food, it is only because we do have to eat to keep our strength up for all the walking. Monday morning we had a walk around the lovely Altamont garden at Tullow, just down the way from the hotel. This is a private garden gone public, and beautifully so. Long walks beneath mature trees meander down to the lake, dug by the hands of 150 local workers during the 1850s as part of the famine relief program. The garden was filled with hellebores, daffodils, lungwort, and scads of early spring flora. The snowdrops were over, however, which was too bad as I suffer from a bad case of galantophilia, and I get no relief in the States as we have yet to discover the power of the snowdrop.

While Lucinda took me to some of hidden Ireland's gems like Thomastown and Inistioge along the banks of the River Nore. Again, impossibly green pastures, ruined castles (someone else's relatives looking for a chance to upgrade their housing conditions?), craft shops, and more.

Must cut off now, as there are some other guests at our hotel waiting to use the computer. More later.

Ireland Beckons

2006-03-23T08:50:00.000-08:00

I have a green thumb. No question. And I swear that's my inheritance from my Irish grandfather, Joseph McDonnell, of The Pike, near Bagenalstown, Co. Kilkenny. He had a large farm, a large family (15 kids including my Mum), and always had a brace of large dogs at his side. Judging from his photo, it's clear, too, that he had a large personality. At Sunday Mass, he'd swing his pocket watch back and forth to signal the priest that the sermon had gone on quite long enough.

He and my grandmother, Clare Maher McDonnell, were in their very early 20s when they set off together down life's highway.

Next week, I set off on a journey — back to Ireland to visit The Pike and the remnants of Grand Dad's garden. He had a passion for roses and arum lilies (I wonder do they still grow below the drawing room window?), and an apple orchard where he gathered violets and primroses for Grandmother on her birthday.

I first visited Ireland when I was 10, then lived there in the 70s for a brief period before moving on to London. I spent time at The Pike, at my Aunt Clare's farm in Tullow, my Uncle Joe's rectory in Abbeyleix, and tooled around with a childhood friend, Lucinda O'Sullivan, as she is now. We shared fish and chips on the seafront at Skerries, after a swim that would freeze a polar bear.

And we're about to do it again...without the swim. Lu is the travel and food editor of the Sunday Independant, Ireland's best national newspaper, and the author of The Little Black Book of Great Places to Stay: Ireland — a way with words is another McDonnell trait...or maybe it's just part of being Irish. Check out Lu's website at www.lucindaosullivan.com.

Amy Goldman is joining me in this journey to revisit old haunts. When we were doing the story about her garden in upstate New York ('Simple Abundance', September 2005, page 178), we discovered that we'd both been in Kilkenny at the same time during the 70s. "Let's go!", said Amy. And so we are—from Dublin to Kinsale and back again.

Thanks to Lu's insider knowledge, we'll be touring some of Ireland's most beautiful gardens and houses, enjoying the best of Irish cooking (Carroll Stoner's article, 'Balleymaloe', April 2005, page 114, has tuned up my tastebuds for tasting the region's fine foods), and generally relishing the beauty of the country and the "craich", or the lively banter and conversation for which the Irish are renowned. Watch this space, since I have every good intention of sharing some of our touring highlights though this blog. Thomas Wolfe claimed you can't go home again. But then, he wasn't an Irishman...

Animal Kingdom, Part II

2006-03-30T09:35:00.000-08:00

From the amount of e-mail I've received in response to Animal Kingdom (March 2006/page 87), you, our kind readers, want to learn more about how to live stylishly with your cuddly critters. Other animal lovers wrote in to recommend pet-friendly books, hotels and furniture as well as more rescue groups and recipes for cooking up your own pet chow. And yes, all shelter pets featured in the story were adopted (thanks for asking). Keep the suggestions coming. Here are some of the best:

For readers interested in cat behavior: www.katwallks.com offers an opportunity to study our favorite felines as they jump from “branch” to “branch.” Katwallks isn’t just a cat toy. It’s a way of life.

Animal advocate and author Julia Szabo is best known for her well-written guide to the good life, Animal House Style (Bulfinch). But she recently published The Underdog: A Celebration of Mutts (Workman) dedicated to shelter animals, which are the pets of choice for Julia Roberts, Jennifer Aniston, Drew Barrymore and Hilary Swank. The photographs help I.D. huggable hybrids. www.animalhousestyle.com

Who among us hasn't wondered what our pet would say if they could speak our language? First-time author Emily Pottruck poses the question to animal lovers (actor Robin Williams and author Amy Tan among them). All book proceeds benefit five animal welfare organizations–The San Francisco SPCA, the Friends of San Francisco Animal Care and Control, PAWS (Pets are Wonderful Support), Pets Unlimited and Rocket Dog Rescue. The book is self published by the San Francisco philanthropist Pottruck. www.tailsofdevotion.com

From the California couple who first oven baked Buddy Biscuits for their highly allergic rescued shepherd mix comes sweet-smelling shampoo, Buddy Wash and Rinse (available at Whole Foods). My Rottweiler rescue, Zeus, can’t get enough of Peanut Butter Madness-flavored Buddy Biscuits which are shaped like people. I'm not sure which Zeus likes best-the peanut-butter taste or the human shape. To learn more about the all-natural pet chow, tap into www.cloudstar.com

For readers who love designer handbags: A Louis Vuitton pet carrier. www.louisvuitton.com (from a reader in L.A. who “travels everywhere with a tea cup.”)

Andrianna Shamaris

2006-03-24T13:58:00.000-08:00

This job does have some perils. I’ve become a bit of a hardened shopper—not often expecting to see anything that really bowls me over. That said, last year I was out shopping for product for Traditional Home’s Body & Soul feature and wandered into Andrianna Shamaris, a home furnishings and clothing shop in SoHo. I knew immediately that I’d exhaust a paycheck or two picking up gifts for friends or, more likely, myself. While it took every ounce of self-control I had, I managed to limit my individual purchase to a mere pair of sandals. I did, however, leave with some great product ideas for the feature. (Look for a Balinese daybed from Andrianna Shamaris in Traditional Home’s April issue).

The eponymous shop is one of two Andrianna Shamaris locations—New York and Malibu—chock full of unique items from across the globe. Take it from Andrianna herself, “You’ll find things in my shop that you can’t find anywhere else. I import directly, instead of buying from wholesalers, so my items are unique.” And she designs the products herself, often while traveling. She recently spent a month in Indonesia, creating a new collection of furnishings made of aged teak planks with shell inlay—tables, cabinets, beds and bookshelves. Andrianna’s other favorite items include hand-dyed fishermen’s bags she converted into handbags and bracelets she created from leather and solid silver.

So what inspires the designs? “I’m inspired by texture, patina, smell,” says Shamaris. “I love vetiver root. The scent is amazing and I weave it into all my placemats. I also have huge screens made from sarsaparilla wood that smell of peppermint.”

The sandals aren’t half bad either. A wise purchase, indeed.

For more information on Andrianna Shamaris stores, visit http://www.andriannashamaris.com/.

Store locations:
Andrianna Shamaris
121 Greene Street
New York, NY
212/388-9898

Andrianna Home
3835 Cross Creek Road, # 9
Malibu, CA
310/456-2243

Delicious and Easy Chicken

2006-03-21T23:15:00.000-08:00

Everyone needs an occasional simple, new and delicious chicken recipe, and this one is as good as it gets. Developed by Gina Stipo, a fine American chef who teaches cooking classes in Italy and in the United States, this needs only fresh sage to make it unusual enough for a dinner party, but easy enough for a weeknight meal. No fresh sage? This recipe is interesting enough to make a quick stop at the supermarket worthwhile.

Baked Chicken Breasts with White Wine
4 chicken breasts, boneless and skinless (or veal cutlets)
Flour
Salt and pepper8 cloves garlic, whole
8 fresh sage leaves
1/4 cup olive oil
4 tablespoons butter, cut into thick slices
1 cup white wine

Pound chicken breasts between two pieces of plastic wrap or waxed paper until they are large and flat. Salt and pepper each piece and dredge lightly in flour. Place olive oil, butter, sage leaves and garlic in a baking dish, layer the chicken cutlets on top and bake in preheated 400° oven. Cook until browned on top, (watch carefully, this should take about 20 to 40 minutes, depending on your oven, and the thickness of the cutlets) then turn. Add white wine and continue to bake for another 15 minutes until the wine has cooked down and forms a sauce. Serve the chicken with the sauce spooned on top. Serves 4.