"Our lives are like rooms in a house. We stay in one room for a while, and shut the door behind us as we move into the next room."
On a visit to my wife's grandparents' house, her grandmother said these words that only a strong-willed woman with 80 years of memories could string together to express her philosophy on life. She said them in an effort to comfort us when we got emotional at the sight of their half-empty house, where they've lived for 30 years, hosting parties and entertaining grown children and grandchildren. Living by themselves in a two-story house has become too challenging, between her Parkinson's disease and his painful joints, so they have secured a place at a nearby rest home, where they plan to live out their days in greater comfort. While we know their quality of life will surely improve, we all nonetheless feel sad that they have to exit the biggest and brightest room in their metaphorical house and close the door behind them.
This transitional period has ramifications for my wife and me, as well, for they are no longer fit to travel long distances, forcing them to put their beloved beach house up for sale. Next week may very likely be the last time we visit the house. Needless to say, we're very sad to lose the place. I consider this one of the rooms in the metaphorical house Granny was talking about. My wife entered this "room" when she was about 15 years old, and spent countless blissful summer days there, forgetting her troubles and just enjoying herself or getting into teenage shenanigans at night with her girlfriends. I stepped into this room in 2007 when she shared her favorite place with me the first summer we were together, and came for numerous summer weekends and nearly every week's vacation we had. I also got to reconnect with my preppy roots by getting the preppy beach experience I had been denied in my childhood. It's been a wonderful six years for me, and 19 for my wife; we've had getaway weekends there for one-on-one time, spent countless lazy hours doing nothing, eaten countless delicious meals at our favorite restaurants, and hosted raucous, bacchanalian vacations with groups of friends, getting wasted at the bars one night and staying up into the wee hours playing drunken card games the next. On days when conditions weren't ideal for sitting outside, we would pass the afternoons reading, napping, or taking in the charms of the beautiful town while strolling about in our casual preppy attire. All the while, I got to revel in the condo's 1990s time capsule effect, its decor unchanged since the early '90s. Down there, I would get to pretend it was perpetually 1998 or so, and all was right with the world. We had the time of our lives in that room; now it appears the time is nigh to leave that room and quietly shut the door.
It seems we're moving to a different room now anyway, one in which we prefer to get wild on a smaller scale, opting for parties at home with a few like-minded friends. Lately when we've gone out at night at the beach, we've been ready to go back at about midnight instead of 1:30 or 2, and spend more evenings in the condo watching movies than out on the town. So it may be that the condo is gradually outliving its usefulness as a place where we can collapse after drinking all night at the bars without having to drive. The growing crowds and increasingly heavy-handed enforcement of open container laws at our beach have also made sunbathing less enjoyable. So once we have to bid goodbye to the beloved condo, my hope is that we can still get wild, on a smaller, more intimate scale, with groups of friends at our other family-owned beach houses, be it my family's house at Myrtle or her step-siblings' house at Long Beach, where we can sit on uncrowded sands, fix big shrimp dinners, and stay up late playing games and chugging cocktails. Failing that, we can sunbathe at our neighborhood pool or our back patio, and have friends come up to get wild at our townhouse, which we may end up doing this coming Memorial Day weekend. A small part of me actually looks forward to a reprieve from the long drives, the gasoline expenses, the dog boarding bills, and the stresses of packing everything we'll need.
There is hope that the room beyond this one will be just as big and bright, if not more so, for her grandparents have promised to buy a larger house for us with some of the proceeds from the sale of their current home. We hope for a quick sale, so that we can take advantage of depressed housing prices before the market recovers. A bigger house with a couple of guest rooms would be a great place for raucous house parties when we don't want to drive four hours to the beach. Perhaps there is a room in the house beyond this one where we'll have a beach cottage all to ourselves, where we can keep clothes, shoes, sheets, towels, swimsuits, chairs, sunscreen, toiletries, and liquor, leaving us to be able to hop in the car with nothing but groceries before heading down to the beach.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Monday, February 25, 2013
Edwardian dinner trial run
The day after Valentine's day, I finally got some hands-on practice for what it would be like to host a sumptuous Edwardian dinner. The food itself wasn't so sumptuous, but the surroundings were pretty damned elegant for a couple in their early 30s.
Not having seen my mother-in-law (MIL) since that last fine dinner which I recounted in my last entry, we decided it was high time we return the favor and host her at our house. A friend of ours, having nothing else to do that Friday night, joined us, which was fine with me because it made the table setting symmetrical. We hurried home and got as much ready as we could before MIL arrived promptly at 6:30, having already set the dining table the night before with a plain white cloth, our Strasbourg sterling flatware, a mix of our finest china (all pieces for each service matched, of course), and one of my latest acquisitions: stemware by Waterford! OK, so it's the Marquis line by Waterford -- their machine-cut econo-crystal -- but it's still quite pretty and sparkles in candlelight just like high-end Waterford. We planned a modest three-course repast of salad, baked mahi-mahi with mashed potatoes and steamed broccoli, and a fruit tart for dessert. While waiting for the fish to bake, we had some pre-dinner cocktails in the drawing room. Once it was ready, we gathered around the dinner table, lit with a pair of beautiful English silver candelabra, and I poured everyone's wine from a cut glass decanter. After the salad course, I turned on the coffee maker so that it would be ready for dessert, laid out the fish on a silver platter, and put the mashed potatoes and broccoli into silver serving bowls. I played footman for a bit, serving the wine from another decanter and taking the fish platter to each person, and then we passed around the side items and rolls. We presented the fruit tart on a round silver salver, and served the coffee in my other recent acquisition, a stunning silver-plated coffee/tea service given to us by my wife's grandmother. Made by Goldfeder in the 1930s, the service includes a kettle-on-stand, teapot, coffee pot, sugar bowl, creamer, and waste bowl, on an enormous, heavy, footed tray. As we were only serving coffee, I put the coffee pot, sugar & creamer on a smaller silver tray. Ordinarily I would have served an appropriate port wine with dessert and coffee afterward, but I knew MIL was getting tired, so I omitted the dessert wine. Cleanup took about an hour, as the dishes and serving pieces had to be hand-washed.
It was a lovely experience, and a great way, I think, to practice serving a grand, multiple-course dinner in the spirit of the evening meals at Downton Abbey. I learned a few lessons from this scaled-down trial-run. First and foremost, I'm never doing this again on a Friday night right after work! I would rather have begun preparations about 2 hours before the scheduled start time. Also, I made the blunder of removing the dinner plates before removing the chargers, instead of both at once. I also lack proper fish forks, but considering the cost of silver these days, little can be done about that. I really should get a pierced serving spoon in my Strasbourg pattern in case I serve very moist vegetables, and a salad set as well; this time around, we made do with a Wilton Armetale salad set.
Someday, though, I hope to host a truly grand Edwardian dinner, with guests arriving in evening dress and gathering around a most elegant table to dine on courses such as hors d'oeuvres, consomme, salmon, filet mignon, some sort of palate cleanser, and dessert. I may even go so far as to hire serving staff for the evening. I've been hard at work making my dining room more and more elegant. After that dinner, I added a leaf to the table and swapped in my nicer-looking damask cloth. I recently purchased a pair of marble-topped plant stands, on which I placed a pair of artificial palms, that really make the room feel lush. Later today I'm finally going to see about getting a gilt frame for my self-portrait, and sometime soon I hope to install a chair rail and crown molding. Later on, as funds become available, I'll get an Oriental-style area rug. For now, though, it's a wonderful experience to be able to sit down in the mornings before work at a beautifully-appointed table, amongst our shining silver and sparkling crystal, and soak in the splendor of another era as we ingest our cold cereal before heading out for another 8 hours of drudgery.
Not having seen my mother-in-law (MIL) since that last fine dinner which I recounted in my last entry, we decided it was high time we return the favor and host her at our house. A friend of ours, having nothing else to do that Friday night, joined us, which was fine with me because it made the table setting symmetrical. We hurried home and got as much ready as we could before MIL arrived promptly at 6:30, having already set the dining table the night before with a plain white cloth, our Strasbourg sterling flatware, a mix of our finest china (all pieces for each service matched, of course), and one of my latest acquisitions: stemware by Waterford! OK, so it's the Marquis line by Waterford -- their machine-cut econo-crystal -- but it's still quite pretty and sparkles in candlelight just like high-end Waterford. We planned a modest three-course repast of salad, baked mahi-mahi with mashed potatoes and steamed broccoli, and a fruit tart for dessert. While waiting for the fish to bake, we had some pre-dinner cocktails in the drawing room. Once it was ready, we gathered around the dinner table, lit with a pair of beautiful English silver candelabra, and I poured everyone's wine from a cut glass decanter. After the salad course, I turned on the coffee maker so that it would be ready for dessert, laid out the fish on a silver platter, and put the mashed potatoes and broccoli into silver serving bowls. I played footman for a bit, serving the wine from another decanter and taking the fish platter to each person, and then we passed around the side items and rolls. We presented the fruit tart on a round silver salver, and served the coffee in my other recent acquisition, a stunning silver-plated coffee/tea service given to us by my wife's grandmother. Made by Goldfeder in the 1930s, the service includes a kettle-on-stand, teapot, coffee pot, sugar bowl, creamer, and waste bowl, on an enormous, heavy, footed tray. As we were only serving coffee, I put the coffee pot, sugar & creamer on a smaller silver tray. Ordinarily I would have served an appropriate port wine with dessert and coffee afterward, but I knew MIL was getting tired, so I omitted the dessert wine. Cleanup took about an hour, as the dishes and serving pieces had to be hand-washed.
It was a lovely experience, and a great way, I think, to practice serving a grand, multiple-course dinner in the spirit of the evening meals at Downton Abbey. I learned a few lessons from this scaled-down trial-run. First and foremost, I'm never doing this again on a Friday night right after work! I would rather have begun preparations about 2 hours before the scheduled start time. Also, I made the blunder of removing the dinner plates before removing the chargers, instead of both at once. I also lack proper fish forks, but considering the cost of silver these days, little can be done about that. I really should get a pierced serving spoon in my Strasbourg pattern in case I serve very moist vegetables, and a salad set as well; this time around, we made do with a Wilton Armetale salad set.
Someday, though, I hope to host a truly grand Edwardian dinner, with guests arriving in evening dress and gathering around a most elegant table to dine on courses such as hors d'oeuvres, consomme, salmon, filet mignon, some sort of palate cleanser, and dessert. I may even go so far as to hire serving staff for the evening. I've been hard at work making my dining room more and more elegant. After that dinner, I added a leaf to the table and swapped in my nicer-looking damask cloth. I recently purchased a pair of marble-topped plant stands, on which I placed a pair of artificial palms, that really make the room feel lush. Later today I'm finally going to see about getting a gilt frame for my self-portrait, and sometime soon I hope to install a chair rail and crown molding. Later on, as funds become available, I'll get an Oriental-style area rug. For now, though, it's a wonderful experience to be able to sit down in the mornings before work at a beautifully-appointed table, amongst our shining silver and sparkling crystal, and soak in the splendor of another era as we ingest our cold cereal before heading out for another 8 hours of drudgery.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
We like the way they live
"We like Downton Abbey because we like the way they live." With those words, my mother-in-law (hereafter referred to as MIL) not only gave a good explanation for why the popular British series captivates so many viewers on this side of the pond, but also drew an apt parallel from the world of fiction that illustrates how our sort, who were raised to appreciate gracious living and the finer things, just like the fictional residents of Downton Abbey, prefer, or at least aspire, to live.
On Christmas Eve, my bride and I made the short trip to her mother's house for dinner and pleasant company. At dinner, conversation got around to how much we all enjoy Downton Abbey. An account of the evening's activities and a description of the setting in which this conversation transpired will show why MIL's acute explanation of the series's appeal resonates so with our sort.
We began the evening in the drawing room with glasses of fine champagne, celebrating the holiday and decompressing from its related stress and fatigue. From there, we moseyed into the family room to be able to continue interacting while MIL finished preparing dinner in the adjoining kitchen. After exchanging gifts, we made our way to MIL's small, but elegant, dining room. Her table is an early 19th century drop-leaf. To the side is a lovely inlaid sideboard, and to the other side is her china hutch, where she displays the china handed down to her from her grandmother and great-grandmother. The table was set with sterling flatware, gold-rimmed crystal, silver candelabra, and damask napkins. This is the way our sort have always done things.
As landed gentry, Lord Grantham and his family are free from the demands of regular jobs; they fill their days with leisure activities, charitable projects, and entertaining guests. They wear just the right clothing for every occasion, and take their meals in a splendid dining room with the finest china, crystal, and silverware, pairing each course with an appropriate wine. Sometimes, after dinner, the gentlemen adjourn to take a nip of brandy or cognac with a cigar before rejoining the ladies.
Although descended from landed gentry, our sort did not inherit the means to operate large manor-houses with a full staff, but they have managed to inherit, and bequeath, their aristocratic ancestors' legacy of gracious living, albeit on a smaller, more practical scale. We buy as much house as we can afford within our means, then furnish them with well-designed pieces that serve their purpose while making life more pleasant and enjoyable. My whole house could fit in the saloon at Downton Abbey, but I have furnished it with elegant, yet practical, antique or second-hand furniture. You would be hard-pressed to find a house among our sort with a matching suite of furniture, but somehow all the pieces magically work together to create a feeling of both sophistication and comfort. Like at Downton Abbey, most of the furniture was handed down through the family, the remainder bought at auctions or second-hand stores for less than a comparable new piece would cost. Our sort also take on do-it-yourself home improvement projects that make our homes more elegant while saving funds for other nice things. I have already installed an attractive faucet in my downstairs powder room (purchased on clearance) and have grand plans to install crown molding in every room. I have just acquired a three-dimensional brass coat of arms cheaply on eBay, to which I will affix my own armorial and display in my foyer.
A couple of generations ago, even middle-class people had at least a cook/maid; sadly, with the advent of minimum wages, 99% of Americans settle for a weekly visit from a cleaning lady or, more likely, no one at all, and manage everything themselves. Within that 99%, there are key differences in how our sort conduct an evening at home, and how the rest of the slovenly masses do so.
Picture, if you will, Mr. & Mrs. McTacky. Before leaving for work, they either cram down a bagel or Pop-Tart while rushing out the back door, or crouch at the kitchen table over a melamine bowl of cereal and take their coffee to the car in a "to-go" mug. In the evening, arriving home from their McJobs, they enter through the back door as if they were servants or deliverymen, and the first room they see is either the kitchen or an unsightly utility room. They head to the fridge and grab a can of soda or domestic beer and plop down on their La-Z-Boys for a bit before it's time to make dinner. While Mrs. McTacky cooks, Mr. McTacky gets to see, smell, and hear all the food preparation from his barcalounger in the "living area" thanks to the fact that the rooms in their modern home "flow" into each other and therefore lack any barriers between where they relax and where food is prepared and consumed. If the couple have children, they huddle around the kitchen table, possibly with a pile of mail and other junk shoved off to one side, with an unobstructed view of dirty cooking pans and the kids' hideous "artwork" displayed on the refrigerator door, and consume their repast off of ugly plates from Wal-Mart, either of melamine or heavy stoneware, with stainless steel forks, guzzling water from plastic tumblers. If there's dessert, it comes on either a disposable paper plate or worse, a paper napkin. It's likely that they own moderately priced fine china and stemware, received as wedding gifts, but keep them locked away in a cabinet to be used only for "special occasions," staying out of sight the other 360 or so days of the year. They may even have a fully-furnished dining room, but it, too, is only used for its intended purpose about 5 times a year, serving as a depository for mail or a place to sit and pay bills the rest of the year.
By contrast, Mr. & Mrs. Grace across town try to live up to the Crawleys' standards the best they can while making some concessions to practicality. They have a simple breakfast in the dining room using their Wedgwood china and sterling silver, having filled their Wedgwood cups in the kitchen instead of fussing with the Wedgwood coffee pot. After a relaxing breakfast, they leave for work through the front door. After work, they come home through the front door, process the day's mail, prepare cocktails in real glasses, and catch the news or quietly read for a bit. Mr. Grace can enjoy a little peace and quiet while Mrs. Grace makes dinner out of sight. When dinner is ready, they and their children serve themselves off the stove, take their dinner on fine china to the dining room table, which the youngest would have already set with sterling flatware and cloth napkins, and sit down for a quiet, relaxing meal together, out of sight of the messy kitchen. Down the street, their child-free friends, who find it boring to sit at the table when it's just the two of them, take dinner in the den on their Royal Doulton with glasses of wine, setting up their wooden tray tables with place mats and sterling. They may have a little port or sherry with dessert, poured from crystal decanters kept on a silver tray, or maybe some decaf coffee. Later in the evening Mr. Grace might have a dram of cognac or brandy.
When it comes to hosting guests, without butlers, cooks, maids, and footmen, we can't serve the seven-course dinners that Lord and Lady Grantham host all the time, but in order to preserve the richness of those spectacular multi-course feasts of old, our sort use exquisite dinnerware to serve a soup or salad course, an entree with side items, and dessert, all paired with an appropriate wine. Entrees and side items are passed around in serving bowls in the same china pattern, and crystal water goblets are filled from a silver pitcher. After dinner, coffee is served from an heirloom silver coffee service that belonged to someone's great-grandmother. For lack of a butler, a coffee maker with a timer makes sure that a fresh batch is ready, when dinner is finished, to be poured into the silver pot, which stands on a tray on the kitchen counter with a full sugar bowl while the creamer sits in the fridge, and the coffee cups and spoons wait on the sideboard. Because we keep entertaining in mind while shopping for houses, and avoid houses whose rooms "flow" into each other, our guests won't have to watch the hostess dump coffee from the Krupps into the antique silver pot or see a stack of dirty plates festering in the sink while trying to enjoy dessert; nor will we adjourn to a "living area" while a table littered with used coffee cups and soiled napkins stands in full view. Cleanup happens after the guests have left or gone to bed.
As far as aspects of life not related to dining and entertaining, I make every effort up a gracious standard of living. I will not wear jeans, t-shirts, sweatshirts, or athletic shoes to work. My bride's childcare job calls for sturdy clothes, but she makes every effort to pick natural fiber articles that fit well, coordinate, and flatter her figure, and keeps herself well-groomed. We make sure to dress appropriately for all occasions such as shopping, dining out, and meeting friends or relatives. I keep our calling cards on my person when we're out and about, and use them as gift enclosures or for brief correspondence. This past New Year's Eve, we set out champagne for our friends in a silver chiller on a silver tray with four crystal champagne flutes. Lately, I've taken to enjoying an electronic cigar (which doesn't leave an odor) after dinner with a snifter of cognac or brandy. I think the Crawleys would nod with approval.
On Christmas Eve, my bride and I made the short trip to her mother's house for dinner and pleasant company. At dinner, conversation got around to how much we all enjoy Downton Abbey. An account of the evening's activities and a description of the setting in which this conversation transpired will show why MIL's acute explanation of the series's appeal resonates so with our sort.
We began the evening in the drawing room with glasses of fine champagne, celebrating the holiday and decompressing from its related stress and fatigue. From there, we moseyed into the family room to be able to continue interacting while MIL finished preparing dinner in the adjoining kitchen. After exchanging gifts, we made our way to MIL's small, but elegant, dining room. Her table is an early 19th century drop-leaf. To the side is a lovely inlaid sideboard, and to the other side is her china hutch, where she displays the china handed down to her from her grandmother and great-grandmother. The table was set with sterling flatware, gold-rimmed crystal, silver candelabra, and damask napkins. This is the way our sort have always done things.
As landed gentry, Lord Grantham and his family are free from the demands of regular jobs; they fill their days with leisure activities, charitable projects, and entertaining guests. They wear just the right clothing for every occasion, and take their meals in a splendid dining room with the finest china, crystal, and silverware, pairing each course with an appropriate wine. Sometimes, after dinner, the gentlemen adjourn to take a nip of brandy or cognac with a cigar before rejoining the ladies.
Although descended from landed gentry, our sort did not inherit the means to operate large manor-houses with a full staff, but they have managed to inherit, and bequeath, their aristocratic ancestors' legacy of gracious living, albeit on a smaller, more practical scale. We buy as much house as we can afford within our means, then furnish them with well-designed pieces that serve their purpose while making life more pleasant and enjoyable. My whole house could fit in the saloon at Downton Abbey, but I have furnished it with elegant, yet practical, antique or second-hand furniture. You would be hard-pressed to find a house among our sort with a matching suite of furniture, but somehow all the pieces magically work together to create a feeling of both sophistication and comfort. Like at Downton Abbey, most of the furniture was handed down through the family, the remainder bought at auctions or second-hand stores for less than a comparable new piece would cost. Our sort also take on do-it-yourself home improvement projects that make our homes more elegant while saving funds for other nice things. I have already installed an attractive faucet in my downstairs powder room (purchased on clearance) and have grand plans to install crown molding in every room. I have just acquired a three-dimensional brass coat of arms cheaply on eBay, to which I will affix my own armorial and display in my foyer.
A couple of generations ago, even middle-class people had at least a cook/maid; sadly, with the advent of minimum wages, 99% of Americans settle for a weekly visit from a cleaning lady or, more likely, no one at all, and manage everything themselves. Within that 99%, there are key differences in how our sort conduct an evening at home, and how the rest of the slovenly masses do so.
Picture, if you will, Mr. & Mrs. McTacky. Before leaving for work, they either cram down a bagel or Pop-Tart while rushing out the back door, or crouch at the kitchen table over a melamine bowl of cereal and take their coffee to the car in a "to-go" mug. In the evening, arriving home from their McJobs, they enter through the back door as if they were servants or deliverymen, and the first room they see is either the kitchen or an unsightly utility room. They head to the fridge and grab a can of soda or domestic beer and plop down on their La-Z-Boys for a bit before it's time to make dinner. While Mrs. McTacky cooks, Mr. McTacky gets to see, smell, and hear all the food preparation from his barcalounger in the "living area" thanks to the fact that the rooms in their modern home "flow" into each other and therefore lack any barriers between where they relax and where food is prepared and consumed. If the couple have children, they huddle around the kitchen table, possibly with a pile of mail and other junk shoved off to one side, with an unobstructed view of dirty cooking pans and the kids' hideous "artwork" displayed on the refrigerator door, and consume their repast off of ugly plates from Wal-Mart, either of melamine or heavy stoneware, with stainless steel forks, guzzling water from plastic tumblers. If there's dessert, it comes on either a disposable paper plate or worse, a paper napkin. It's likely that they own moderately priced fine china and stemware, received as wedding gifts, but keep them locked away in a cabinet to be used only for "special occasions," staying out of sight the other 360 or so days of the year. They may even have a fully-furnished dining room, but it, too, is only used for its intended purpose about 5 times a year, serving as a depository for mail or a place to sit and pay bills the rest of the year.
By contrast, Mr. & Mrs. Grace across town try to live up to the Crawleys' standards the best they can while making some concessions to practicality. They have a simple breakfast in the dining room using their Wedgwood china and sterling silver, having filled their Wedgwood cups in the kitchen instead of fussing with the Wedgwood coffee pot. After a relaxing breakfast, they leave for work through the front door. After work, they come home through the front door, process the day's mail, prepare cocktails in real glasses, and catch the news or quietly read for a bit. Mr. Grace can enjoy a little peace and quiet while Mrs. Grace makes dinner out of sight. When dinner is ready, they and their children serve themselves off the stove, take their dinner on fine china to the dining room table, which the youngest would have already set with sterling flatware and cloth napkins, and sit down for a quiet, relaxing meal together, out of sight of the messy kitchen. Down the street, their child-free friends, who find it boring to sit at the table when it's just the two of them, take dinner in the den on their Royal Doulton with glasses of wine, setting up their wooden tray tables with place mats and sterling. They may have a little port or sherry with dessert, poured from crystal decanters kept on a silver tray, or maybe some decaf coffee. Later in the evening Mr. Grace might have a dram of cognac or brandy.
When it comes to hosting guests, without butlers, cooks, maids, and footmen, we can't serve the seven-course dinners that Lord and Lady Grantham host all the time, but in order to preserve the richness of those spectacular multi-course feasts of old, our sort use exquisite dinnerware to serve a soup or salad course, an entree with side items, and dessert, all paired with an appropriate wine. Entrees and side items are passed around in serving bowls in the same china pattern, and crystal water goblets are filled from a silver pitcher. After dinner, coffee is served from an heirloom silver coffee service that belonged to someone's great-grandmother. For lack of a butler, a coffee maker with a timer makes sure that a fresh batch is ready, when dinner is finished, to be poured into the silver pot, which stands on a tray on the kitchen counter with a full sugar bowl while the creamer sits in the fridge, and the coffee cups and spoons wait on the sideboard. Because we keep entertaining in mind while shopping for houses, and avoid houses whose rooms "flow" into each other, our guests won't have to watch the hostess dump coffee from the Krupps into the antique silver pot or see a stack of dirty plates festering in the sink while trying to enjoy dessert; nor will we adjourn to a "living area" while a table littered with used coffee cups and soiled napkins stands in full view. Cleanup happens after the guests have left or gone to bed.
As far as aspects of life not related to dining and entertaining, I make every effort up a gracious standard of living. I will not wear jeans, t-shirts, sweatshirts, or athletic shoes to work. My bride's childcare job calls for sturdy clothes, but she makes every effort to pick natural fiber articles that fit well, coordinate, and flatter her figure, and keeps herself well-groomed. We make sure to dress appropriately for all occasions such as shopping, dining out, and meeting friends or relatives. I keep our calling cards on my person when we're out and about, and use them as gift enclosures or for brief correspondence. This past New Year's Eve, we set out champagne for our friends in a silver chiller on a silver tray with four crystal champagne flutes. Lately, I've taken to enjoying an electronic cigar (which doesn't leave an odor) after dinner with a snifter of cognac or brandy. I think the Crawleys would nod with approval.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
A Preppy Thanksgiving
When the chill of November has set in, on the fourth Thursday of the month, the great unwashed put on their Faded Glory sweatshirts, travel to one another's hovels, quaff aperitifs of Natural Light, gather around a "natural oak" laminated particle board table with drunk and/or judgmental relatives while their ill-behaved children sit around a wobbly card table, and consume a large meal of overdone turkey, gravy from a jar, jellied cranberry-flavored goop still in the shape of the tin can from whence it came, instant mashed potatoes, Kraft Easy Mac, and bread-like products that had just that morning been nothing more than cardboard tubes of bleached glop. Perhaps one member of the fambuhly is spending the evening in the emergency room after a disaster involving a turkey fryer or attempting to ignite his own flatulence.
My Thanksgiving holiday, however, was spent the way every preppy person would dream of. This year, my bride and I shunned the usual exhausting rounds of visits with relatives near and far, and instead high-tailed it to our beloved Wrightsville Beach, where my mother-in-law would join us. Our sensible SUV, with its Wrightsville Beach plate and my bride's initials in nautical semaphore, was loaded down with luggage, groceries in canvas tote bags, and about 10 bottles of various wines (her mother would be supplying the liquor). Traffic was heavy but we were only delayed about 15 minutes. We slowed down as we crossed the causeway to admire the boats gathered on the channel at sunset. After unloading all of our crap and the obscene amount of food her mother brought, we had some cocktails and then went to 22 North for a late supper. On Thanksgiving day, her mother rose at 7AM to prepare the turkey, which had spent the previous day and night in a cooler of brine, and then went on to slice squash and cook sweet potatoes for casseroles. Meanwhile I stayed out of the way and enjoyed some Bloodies while watching the Macy's parade on the circa 1991 Magnavox. With the condo being such a '90s time capsule, I found myself in a '90s mood that day, so I put on my faded jeans, t-shirt, and 1997 vintage Abercrombie & Fitch plaid shirt while watching a marathon of Thanksgiving-themed episodes of Friends on TBS, getting up now and then to help a bit or go enjoy the view of the ocean from the balcony. Thanksgiving dinner was a feast of roasted turkey, squash casserole, sweet potato casserole loaded with whiskey, cornbread dressing, homemade giblet gravy, spiced green beans with dried cranberries and slivered almonds, and a homemade cranberry & orange sauce, all of course served on heirloom china with sterling flatware, paired with a lovely Beaujolais. Our attempt at a homemade pie yielded less-than-pleasing results, so we finished with a storebought sweet potato pie and whiskey-spiked eggnog. As any proper preppy would do, I changed out of my casual knocking-around clothes into something more suitable for dinner. Ordinarily I would wear a blazer, but being at the beach, I opted for a smart blue checked shirt, khaki chinos, and my sailboat motif belt.
The next day was a day of leisure; my mother-in-law went out for a long walk while we sat around relaxing. The weather was chilly but we nonetheless enjoyed the fresh air on the balcony, wrapped up in our L.L. Bean fleece jackets and 20-year-old cotton blankets. I finished the volume about clipper ships from the Time-Life series The Seafarers. That evening I put on my wool duffel coat, striped rugby shirt, canvas chinos, and canvas deck shoes, and we three walked nearly a mile to the public park for the lighting of the town's Christmas tree. We dined at King Neptune's, which continues to delight us with its reasonably priced menu, and my bride and I stayed for drinks at the adjoining pirate bar and then made our way across the street at 22 North.
On Saturday we made the walk again to the park for a craft fair. I dressed in canvas chinos and a rugby shirt again, with my lighter-weight Wind Challenger fleece jacket from Bean's. While perusing the various booths, I came across a brand-spankin'-new line of clothing for the preppy beach enthusiast called Coastal Pride. Until now, I hadn't come across a line of beachy preppy gear that really suits me, but I think this one is just what I've been looking for. Southern Tide, Vineyard Vines, Southern Proper, Southern Marsh, and High Cotton are all well and good, but Coastal Pride stands apart due to its being headquartered in North Carolina, and unlike the other brands, focuses solely on the preppy beach lifestyle. I purchased a khaki hat bearing the brand's simple, understated anchor logo, and plan to order a few more things soon. Right now they only have hats, t-shirts, sunglasses straps, and car decals, but I look forward to the brand's expansion into polo shirts next year.
That evening came the highlight of the weekend: the annual flotilla! We had a round of drinks in the condo and hors d'oeuvres such as Alouette spread with baguette slices and cold oysters with saltines before heading up to the top floor with a bottle of George Martel and three Solo cups (preppies appreciate irony, too) to brave the 40-degree nighttime chill and watch the 20-odd boats make their way up and down the channel, showing off their spectacular lighting decorations. The finale was the fireworks extravaganza, which rivaled the 4th of July display at the nation's capitol.
Sunday was another day of leisure, capped off with a lovely steak dinner at the condo. After my mother-in-law's departure on Monday, we caught a matinee of Skyfall and then stopped by Redix on the way back. My mission at Redix was to procure a nautical flag motif belt for my father-in-law (by Leather Man of Essex, Connecticut, of course). I found just the one, but I could not resist purchasing for myself a belt bearing a repeating Wrightsville Beach logo, made exclusively by Leather Man for the Redix store. Even as I type, I am wearing it with pride. In the future I plan to expand my collection of motif belts.
I'm the kind of person who appreciates the occasional chilly, overcast day at the beach, so on such a Tuesday, I took a nice walk by myself down the beach all the way to Mercer's Pier, wearing my navy fleece jacket over a chunky off-white cotton sweater with my new Coastal Pride hat and my Ray-Ban Wayfarers. Under the pier, I just stood quietly, watching the tide roll in and break against the concrete supports, breathing in the cold salt air, releasing what little stress I may have still had. There were no throngs of tourists or screaming children splashing around, or police vehicles rumbling by; in fact, I saw barely a dozen people the whole time I was outside. Standing there under the pier, the sun hidden behind a pale gray blanket of clouds, the only sounds being the crashing waves, the wind, the gulls, and the seawater rushing in and out between the pylons, I found the most unexpected little slice of serenity. It was so heartbreaking to have to pack up and leave Wednesday, returning today to my cubicle and business as usual.
O, what a marvelous week in preppy heaven! Flotillas and sunsets, cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, silver and china, dressing for dinner, champagne, oysters, craft fairs, and shopping! Deck shoes and duffel coats, chunky sweaters and motif belts, Wayfarers and Topsiders! I am near tears as I write this, for I have just learned the sad news that my bride's grandparents, with their health declining, plan to put the condo up for sale in an effort to leave a mostly liquid estate. This news saddens me, for I had hoped that we would somehow be able to keep it in the family, but short of winning the lottery and buying it from them, that may not happen. Perhaps we could convince them at least to put the furnishings in storage until such time that we could procure our own beach house. The dream is to be able to purchase an identical unit in the same building on another floor and recreate the old unit precisely, going so far as to have the wallpaper in the kitchen and bathrooms replicated, rendering a close duplicate of the original, maintaining it as a monument to the bygone days of the 1990s and as a sort of memorial to her grandparents. If we return for Christmas, I must make an effort to document the placement of every last thing. Should the Fates dash that dream, Plan B would be to purchase a modest beach house elsewhere at WB and fill it with the old condo's furnishings.
My Thanksgiving holiday, however, was spent the way every preppy person would dream of. This year, my bride and I shunned the usual exhausting rounds of visits with relatives near and far, and instead high-tailed it to our beloved Wrightsville Beach, where my mother-in-law would join us. Our sensible SUV, with its Wrightsville Beach plate and my bride's initials in nautical semaphore, was loaded down with luggage, groceries in canvas tote bags, and about 10 bottles of various wines (her mother would be supplying the liquor). Traffic was heavy but we were only delayed about 15 minutes. We slowed down as we crossed the causeway to admire the boats gathered on the channel at sunset. After unloading all of our crap and the obscene amount of food her mother brought, we had some cocktails and then went to 22 North for a late supper. On Thanksgiving day, her mother rose at 7AM to prepare the turkey, which had spent the previous day and night in a cooler of brine, and then went on to slice squash and cook sweet potatoes for casseroles. Meanwhile I stayed out of the way and enjoyed some Bloodies while watching the Macy's parade on the circa 1991 Magnavox. With the condo being such a '90s time capsule, I found myself in a '90s mood that day, so I put on my faded jeans, t-shirt, and 1997 vintage Abercrombie & Fitch plaid shirt while watching a marathon of Thanksgiving-themed episodes of Friends on TBS, getting up now and then to help a bit or go enjoy the view of the ocean from the balcony. Thanksgiving dinner was a feast of roasted turkey, squash casserole, sweet potato casserole loaded with whiskey, cornbread dressing, homemade giblet gravy, spiced green beans with dried cranberries and slivered almonds, and a homemade cranberry & orange sauce, all of course served on heirloom china with sterling flatware, paired with a lovely Beaujolais. Our attempt at a homemade pie yielded less-than-pleasing results, so we finished with a storebought sweet potato pie and whiskey-spiked eggnog. As any proper preppy would do, I changed out of my casual knocking-around clothes into something more suitable for dinner. Ordinarily I would wear a blazer, but being at the beach, I opted for a smart blue checked shirt, khaki chinos, and my sailboat motif belt.
The next day was a day of leisure; my mother-in-law went out for a long walk while we sat around relaxing. The weather was chilly but we nonetheless enjoyed the fresh air on the balcony, wrapped up in our L.L. Bean fleece jackets and 20-year-old cotton blankets. I finished the volume about clipper ships from the Time-Life series The Seafarers. That evening I put on my wool duffel coat, striped rugby shirt, canvas chinos, and canvas deck shoes, and we three walked nearly a mile to the public park for the lighting of the town's Christmas tree. We dined at King Neptune's, which continues to delight us with its reasonably priced menu, and my bride and I stayed for drinks at the adjoining pirate bar and then made our way across the street at 22 North.
On Saturday we made the walk again to the park for a craft fair. I dressed in canvas chinos and a rugby shirt again, with my lighter-weight Wind Challenger fleece jacket from Bean's. While perusing the various booths, I came across a brand-spankin'-new line of clothing for the preppy beach enthusiast called Coastal Pride. Until now, I hadn't come across a line of beachy preppy gear that really suits me, but I think this one is just what I've been looking for. Southern Tide, Vineyard Vines, Southern Proper, Southern Marsh, and High Cotton are all well and good, but Coastal Pride stands apart due to its being headquartered in North Carolina, and unlike the other brands, focuses solely on the preppy beach lifestyle. I purchased a khaki hat bearing the brand's simple, understated anchor logo, and plan to order a few more things soon. Right now they only have hats, t-shirts, sunglasses straps, and car decals, but I look forward to the brand's expansion into polo shirts next year.
That evening came the highlight of the weekend: the annual flotilla! We had a round of drinks in the condo and hors d'oeuvres such as Alouette spread with baguette slices and cold oysters with saltines before heading up to the top floor with a bottle of George Martel and three Solo cups (preppies appreciate irony, too) to brave the 40-degree nighttime chill and watch the 20-odd boats make their way up and down the channel, showing off their spectacular lighting decorations. The finale was the fireworks extravaganza, which rivaled the 4th of July display at the nation's capitol.
Sunday was another day of leisure, capped off with a lovely steak dinner at the condo. After my mother-in-law's departure on Monday, we caught a matinee of Skyfall and then stopped by Redix on the way back. My mission at Redix was to procure a nautical flag motif belt for my father-in-law (by Leather Man of Essex, Connecticut, of course). I found just the one, but I could not resist purchasing for myself a belt bearing a repeating Wrightsville Beach logo, made exclusively by Leather Man for the Redix store. Even as I type, I am wearing it with pride. In the future I plan to expand my collection of motif belts.
I'm the kind of person who appreciates the occasional chilly, overcast day at the beach, so on such a Tuesday, I took a nice walk by myself down the beach all the way to Mercer's Pier, wearing my navy fleece jacket over a chunky off-white cotton sweater with my new Coastal Pride hat and my Ray-Ban Wayfarers. Under the pier, I just stood quietly, watching the tide roll in and break against the concrete supports, breathing in the cold salt air, releasing what little stress I may have still had. There were no throngs of tourists or screaming children splashing around, or police vehicles rumbling by; in fact, I saw barely a dozen people the whole time I was outside. Standing there under the pier, the sun hidden behind a pale gray blanket of clouds, the only sounds being the crashing waves, the wind, the gulls, and the seawater rushing in and out between the pylons, I found the most unexpected little slice of serenity. It was so heartbreaking to have to pack up and leave Wednesday, returning today to my cubicle and business as usual.
O, what a marvelous week in preppy heaven! Flotillas and sunsets, cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, silver and china, dressing for dinner, champagne, oysters, craft fairs, and shopping! Deck shoes and duffel coats, chunky sweaters and motif belts, Wayfarers and Topsiders! I am near tears as I write this, for I have just learned the sad news that my bride's grandparents, with their health declining, plan to put the condo up for sale in an effort to leave a mostly liquid estate. This news saddens me, for I had hoped that we would somehow be able to keep it in the family, but short of winning the lottery and buying it from them, that may not happen. Perhaps we could convince them at least to put the furnishings in storage until such time that we could procure our own beach house. The dream is to be able to purchase an identical unit in the same building on another floor and recreate the old unit precisely, going so far as to have the wallpaper in the kitchen and bathrooms replicated, rendering a close duplicate of the original, maintaining it as a monument to the bygone days of the 1990s and as a sort of memorial to her grandparents. If we return for Christmas, I must make an effort to document the placement of every last thing. Should the Fates dash that dream, Plan B would be to purchase a modest beach house elsewhere at WB and fill it with the old condo's furnishings.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Fall is here! Why am I so sweaty?
Ah, autumn. The time of year when we venture out in our jackets and sweaters to take in the cool, crisp air as the leaves in colors as bright as the sun crunch under our every step.
Ah, autumn in North Carolina, where we venture out in polo shirts and still break a sweat in the middle of the afternoon in late September.
Remember my wistful, rose-colored post about transitioning to the fall wardrobe? The official start of autumn came to pass this past Saturday, and yet I'm sitting here wearing a polo shirt with slightly damp armpits. Autumn weather in the Piedmont is as unpredictable as Blair Warner's waistline. On Monday morning I came to work wearing a polar fleece jacket, and today I'm sweating in a polo shirt. I had to make some adjustments to the strict wardrobe transition strategy I mapped out in my last post to accommodate my native state's relatively warm, sticky Septembers. The seersucker shirts are off-limits, but the polo shirts turned out to be necessary; I compromised by putting away the lighter, brighter shirts and kept the warmer-toned shirts out for autumn. While the nautical motif belts went away for the season, I decided that the striped web belts are acceptable for year-round use, particularly if one is spending time at the beach in the off-season. My leather flip-flops will remain in storage until the next time I stay in a hotel with a pool, but I'm wearing my canvas boat shoes as I type; I determined these to be a year-round item, as well, as long as they're not summer white. I can imagine myself looking quite handsome this winter wearing wool socks with the blue canvas shoes and my navy wool duffel coat; should I spend some time at my beloved Wrightsville in the winter months, I shall wear just that, along with a heavy cotton or ragg wool sweater.
I've at least had a tantalizing taste of autumn weather here and there. As I said, we've had a few chilly mornings here, calling for the Barbour jacket to come back into service after languishing for 4 or 5 months on a hanger. My wool fedoras have seen daylight again, as well. This past weekend I visited family and in-laws, resplendent in one of my new checked shirts from my preferred clothier and outfitter, L.L. Bean. Made of soft twill, it looks relaxed but still polished, perfect for weekends in the city as well as visits to country houses, pairing just as smartly with a tweed sportcoat as with a navy blazer. Upon my return home that evening, it was cool enough that I could layer my soft flannel tartan shirt over a waffle knit shirt before settling in to catch up with the DVR. I am excited to try out my newly-acquired pair of 16" Maine Hunting Shoes from L.L. Bean next time I take the dog for a stroll in my town's big wooded park, but first I really should procure some sort of canvas or twill trousers suitable for knocking around outdoors. Cotton chinos won't do, and denim dungarees are reserved for wear around the house (when not entertaining guests) and potentially dirty or dusty manual labor. I have had a few opportunities to show off my rugby shirts on informal occasions such as afternoons at the cinema or grocery runs, as well as around the office as a more relaxed alternative to my oxford cloth shirts. I'm anxious for it to get chilly enough to use my chunky cotton sweaters and even my wool duffel coat. As soon as I get paid this week, I'm going on yet another little L.L. Bean shopping spree, this time for more shoes and some proper pants for those walks at the country park.
I am, for the first time in years, looking forward to fall. In years past I would dread the waning daylight and the cold mornings, but this year my overall attitude is much more positive. I'm sure it has a great deal to do with the fact that I'll be driving home every day at dusk in my dear old 4runner instead of that damned sedan I had for 3 years, plus I'm sticking with my daily fish oil supplement, which has done wonders for my mood and outlook. I also take a slower route home through a charming neighborhood similar to the one where I spent my childhood, instead of zipping through the hurly-burly of the main drag. Upon my arrival at home after work, unless I plan on lifting weights, I prepare a cocktail at the bookcase bar and change into a pair of comfy jeans and a soft waffle-knit shirt to keep out the evening chill. I'm so ready for those long evenings nestled in my cozy living room, from which I'll briefly emerge now and then just to fill my lungs with cool air and take in the aroma of dry leaves and wood smoke wafting on the night breeze.
Ah, autumn in North Carolina, where we venture out in polo shirts and still break a sweat in the middle of the afternoon in late September.
Remember my wistful, rose-colored post about transitioning to the fall wardrobe? The official start of autumn came to pass this past Saturday, and yet I'm sitting here wearing a polo shirt with slightly damp armpits. Autumn weather in the Piedmont is as unpredictable as Blair Warner's waistline. On Monday morning I came to work wearing a polar fleece jacket, and today I'm sweating in a polo shirt. I had to make some adjustments to the strict wardrobe transition strategy I mapped out in my last post to accommodate my native state's relatively warm, sticky Septembers. The seersucker shirts are off-limits, but the polo shirts turned out to be necessary; I compromised by putting away the lighter, brighter shirts and kept the warmer-toned shirts out for autumn. While the nautical motif belts went away for the season, I decided that the striped web belts are acceptable for year-round use, particularly if one is spending time at the beach in the off-season. My leather flip-flops will remain in storage until the next time I stay in a hotel with a pool, but I'm wearing my canvas boat shoes as I type; I determined these to be a year-round item, as well, as long as they're not summer white. I can imagine myself looking quite handsome this winter wearing wool socks with the blue canvas shoes and my navy wool duffel coat; should I spend some time at my beloved Wrightsville in the winter months, I shall wear just that, along with a heavy cotton or ragg wool sweater.
I've at least had a tantalizing taste of autumn weather here and there. As I said, we've had a few chilly mornings here, calling for the Barbour jacket to come back into service after languishing for 4 or 5 months on a hanger. My wool fedoras have seen daylight again, as well. This past weekend I visited family and in-laws, resplendent in one of my new checked shirts from my preferred clothier and outfitter, L.L. Bean. Made of soft twill, it looks relaxed but still polished, perfect for weekends in the city as well as visits to country houses, pairing just as smartly with a tweed sportcoat as with a navy blazer. Upon my return home that evening, it was cool enough that I could layer my soft flannel tartan shirt over a waffle knit shirt before settling in to catch up with the DVR. I am excited to try out my newly-acquired pair of 16" Maine Hunting Shoes from L.L. Bean next time I take the dog for a stroll in my town's big wooded park, but first I really should procure some sort of canvas or twill trousers suitable for knocking around outdoors. Cotton chinos won't do, and denim dungarees are reserved for wear around the house (when not entertaining guests) and potentially dirty or dusty manual labor. I have had a few opportunities to show off my rugby shirts on informal occasions such as afternoons at the cinema or grocery runs, as well as around the office as a more relaxed alternative to my oxford cloth shirts. I'm anxious for it to get chilly enough to use my chunky cotton sweaters and even my wool duffel coat. As soon as I get paid this week, I'm going on yet another little L.L. Bean shopping spree, this time for more shoes and some proper pants for those walks at the country park.
I am, for the first time in years, looking forward to fall. In years past I would dread the waning daylight and the cold mornings, but this year my overall attitude is much more positive. I'm sure it has a great deal to do with the fact that I'll be driving home every day at dusk in my dear old 4runner instead of that damned sedan I had for 3 years, plus I'm sticking with my daily fish oil supplement, which has done wonders for my mood and outlook. I also take a slower route home through a charming neighborhood similar to the one where I spent my childhood, instead of zipping through the hurly-burly of the main drag. Upon my arrival at home after work, unless I plan on lifting weights, I prepare a cocktail at the bookcase bar and change into a pair of comfy jeans and a soft waffle-knit shirt to keep out the evening chill. I'm so ready for those long evenings nestled in my cozy living room, from which I'll briefly emerge now and then just to fill my lungs with cool air and take in the aroma of dry leaves and wood smoke wafting on the night breeze.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
The seasonal preppy transition
"For it's a long, long while
From May to December;
And the days grow short
When you reach September..."
—from September Song by Maxwell Anderson
I play Sarah Vaughan's recording of this song every year right after Labor Day, as I lament the passing of another summer. I spent this past holiday weekend at my beloved Wrightsville for one last summer weekend of revelry, drinking copious amounts of spirituous beverages and staying up into the wee hours dancing the night away or watching mindless movies and TV shows.
The play-by-play: On Friday night, after a long drive through stop-and-go RTP traffic, we hit 22 North for a few rounds, always our first stop, and then pounded a few more at King Neptune's pirate bar across the street. We capped off the evening with a Vito's pizza in front of the TV. After a Saturday afternoon of getting hammered on the beach (with lunch from Trolley Stop, of course), we dined at 22 North, hung out at the pirate bar again, and then got snockered on fish bowls at Red Dogs, dancing and drinking until they shut down at 2AM, and bucked the drunken throngs to grab another pizza, which we scarfed down drunk while watching Puss in Boots. Due to scattered storms we didn't get on the beach on Sunday, but we did wander down to Robert's Market to grab their awesome chicken salad and pimento cheese for sandwiches, stopping for Kohl's frozen custard on the way back. On Sunday night we grilled a steak and stayed up until 3AM chugging cocktails and watching Cherry Falls, then a TV show about doomsday preppers, and then Fright Night after that. We slept late Monday, got more custard at Kohl's, and only got an hour on the beach before driving home in torrential rain storms and heavy traffic.
It's always a mildly melancholy time when we depart the family beach house on the afternoon of the first Monday in September and bid good-bye to lazy days on the beach, late evening sunsets, traipsing about in shorts and bare feet in the beach house, and Bloody Marys on the deck at Dockside. Though we plan on returning in October, now is the time of year I dolefully put away the trappings and accoutrements of summer: the canvas beach bag, stuffed with gaily-colored towels, visors, flip-flops, cheap spare sunglasses, and miscellaneous bottles of sunscreen; my swim trunks (to be taken out again the next time I stay in a hotel); my khaki shorts that I wear everywhere; and my cherished preppy regalia, such as my cheerful belts with stripes and nautical motifs, my airy seersucker shirts, and my faded canvas deck shoes. These shall rest in my closet until next May, where, whenever I reach for a flannel shirt or a tweed jacket, they'll remind me of the carefree gaiety of summer weekends at the beach while I'm freezing my nards off in February.
The mood isn't entirely mournful. This is, after all, a time of transition. I have much to look forward to in the coming months: two friends' weddings, where I will no doubt steal the spotlight in my Scottish evening dress; the annual Renaissance Festival; possibly hosting a Thanksgiving meal once again in my city house; and of course breaking out my fall and winter wardrobe. Time once again for Oxford cloth shirts at the office, rugby shirts for knocking around the house or casual weekend activities, canvas shirts and Bean Boots for visits to the dog park, and checked twill shirts for those weekend engagements that call for a neater appearance, such as visiting relatives or a fine dinner out. The time is nigh for my treasured Barbour jacket to reappear. The Clark's brown leather ankle boots will see regular use, as will my new pair of brown loafers (which I consider a year-round shoe, anyway). Sometime soon I also hope to acquire a pair of Blucher moccasins, which strike a perfect balance between carefree boat shoes and somber Blucher shoes. As the temperatures drop, I'll dig out my chunky cotton sweaters, my soft chamois shirts (on weekends), and hope to get an opportunity to wear my recently-purchased vintage L.L. Bean Norwegian sweater, the hallmark of preppies all over the east coast from the late '60s to the early '90s. It's been recently resurrected from the L.L. Bean archives and retails for about $130, but I snagged my barely-used vintage model on eBay for 28 bucks. Believe me, I am very tempted to put together a real-life version of "Prep Persona #3" from The Official Preppy Handbook (1980), which involved the aforementioned sweater layered over an Oxford cloth shirt and a popped-collar polo shirt, topped with a puffy vest, paired with wide-wale corduroy trousers, and finished with a pair of Bean's rubber moccasins (no socks, of course).
Although I am excited about unearthing my fall wardrobe, I will nonetheless miss my preppy summer wardrobe and accessories. Preppiness and summer go hand-in-hand; all summer long, I went about town looking as if I had just stepped off a boat. My most recent acquisition, L.L. Bean's Boat & Tote bag, made in Maine of thick, sturdy canvas, is a badge of membership in Club Prep, and for use on the beach, it must have blue trim, whereas trips to "the countr y" call for bags with green or other earth-colored trim. For that extra preppy touch, it ought to be monogrammed in threads that match the colored trim. However, for women, something bright and fun by Vera Bradley or possibly Lily Pulitzer is an alternative worthy of consideration. I noticed micro-expressions of approval from other people of quality in the courtyard at the condo as they recognized my bag, which coordinated perfectly with my blue soft-sided cooler, royal blue swim trunks, and pale blue polo shirt. Various shades of blue and white are the de rigeur colors for seaside accessories, though pale pinks and pale greens are a fun way to mix it up. Yellow and orange can be hard to pull off tastefully, and red just looks plain wrong. One must use good taste when selecting towels. Classic cabana stripe towels (wide alternating stripes of a single color and white) are the timeless choice. Other preppy beach-goers prefer more whimsical towels depicting artistic illustrations of sea creatures such as lobsters or nautiluses, and also simple patterns of checks, stripes, or polka dots, as long as their designs use a limited color palette and avoid gaudy gradients or airbrush effects. Preppies do not use towels depicting flags, Bob Marley, peace signs, giant hundred-dollar bills, or Betty Boop. Basically anything sold at the local beachwear store is off-limits, just take my word for it. I prefer wearing polo shirts on the beach because they make me look more respectable, which serves to defend Wrightsville's tradition as a vacation ground for people of quality against the onslaught of trashy people in wifebeaters, jeans shorts ("jorts"), and basketball shoes with black socks who would fit in better at Carolina Beach. In fact, at a particular private beach club up the coast, t-shirts are forbidden in the clubhouse except for in the poolside restaurant and locker rooms. T-shirts can still be respectable on the beach if they bear logos or decorations related to other preppy vacation spots, but anyone wearing a t-shirt celebrating the present location is worthy of ridicule. I also find it silly and pretentious when I see people down south wearing t-shirts and hats from The Black Dog Tavern. This is North Carolina, people, not Nantucket. T-shirts from traditionally preppy local colleges and universities are also acceptable, provided the wearer actually attended, plans to attend, or is the child, parent, or grandparent of an alumnus and didn't attend a rival school himself. T-shirts celebrating participation in specific athletic tournaments of a preppy nature, such as soccer, lacrosse, or tennis championships, regardless of how long ago, are a third option. Off the beach, in town, the options are numerous, though there are still protocols to observe. During the daytime, it's perfectly fine for a man to walk around within reasonable walking distance of the beach in damp swim trunks, provided he wears a shirt and footwear and doesn't intend on eating in a restaurant. Preppy women always wear cover-ups or shorts and tops over their swimwear when not on the beach or at the pool. Cotton or linen shorts in various solid colors, seersucker stripes, Madras, or embroidered with patterns of nautical motifs are perfectly acceptable for men of all ages almost everywhere except fine dining establishments, even at bars and night clubs, but cargo shorts really aren't preppy, with their saggy pockets and bulging rear pocket flaps, and denim shorts are absolutely horrid. Shorts should fit well and not fall below the knee when standing. Chino trousers and canvas pants are safe choices for fine restaurants. Grown men should avoid t-shirts even at casual restaurants at dinner. Other shirting options include polo shirts and button-front shirts of seersucker or other lightweight natural fabrics, but garish Polynesian patterns aren't preppy. To be truly preppy, button-front shirts, unless they are constructed with a convertible collar and straight hem, should be long-sleeved and worn with the sleeves rolled up to suit the temperature. The exception to this rule is shirts in tartan patterns, the reason being if they were long-sleeved, they would look like checked shirts from the wearer's fall wardrobe. Shirttails can be worn tucked or untucked; if tucked, colorful belts with stripes or nautical decorations help to lessen the sense of formality. Shirttails should always be tucked at a fine restaurant or clubhouse. Preppy beach footwear includes flip-flops, be they expensive leather or cheap plastic, sandals, boat shoes of leather or canvas, loafers, and Blucher moccasins. All must be worn without socks when paired with shorts, but socks are optional when closed-toe shoes are worn with long pants. Athletic shoes can be worn in the daytime, with or without short white socks.
I did get a taste of preppy beach paradise one weekend this summer, when my wife and I joined her parents at their waterfront home in another coastal North Carolina locale. They enjoy private beach access as members of a beach club, which owns a strip of sand where only members are permitted to sit, and better still, alcohol is freely consumed without fear of legal action by zealous patrolmen. An attendant prepared a spot for us with comfortable chaises and large umbrellas, and a waitress brought us Bloody Marys, margaritas, and Coronas. All around me at all times were fine people of good breeding with well-mannered children. No one was loud or boisterous, nor did I spot any repulsive tattoos. Children knew not to tear around knocking people over. Jorts and wifebeaters were nowhere to be seen. It was everything Wrightsville used to be in the glorious '90s, before unwashed hoi polloi began creeping in from underneath their slimy rocks.
So, while I bid an emotional farewell to another glorious summer season, I turn my attention to the coming autumn and all it holds in store — winery tours, visits to the dog park, bowls of hot soup or chili on gray afternoons — and, while I love our exciting travels, I nevertheless look forward to lazy weekends at home, nestled in my living room with good books and hot drinks, wearing my cozy rugby shirts.
From May to December;
And the days grow short
When you reach September..."
—from September Song by Maxwell Anderson
I play Sarah Vaughan's recording of this song every year right after Labor Day, as I lament the passing of another summer. I spent this past holiday weekend at my beloved Wrightsville for one last summer weekend of revelry, drinking copious amounts of spirituous beverages and staying up into the wee hours dancing the night away or watching mindless movies and TV shows.
The play-by-play: On Friday night, after a long drive through stop-and-go RTP traffic, we hit 22 North for a few rounds, always our first stop, and then pounded a few more at King Neptune's pirate bar across the street. We capped off the evening with a Vito's pizza in front of the TV. After a Saturday afternoon of getting hammered on the beach (with lunch from Trolley Stop, of course), we dined at 22 North, hung out at the pirate bar again, and then got snockered on fish bowls at Red Dogs, dancing and drinking until they shut down at 2AM, and bucked the drunken throngs to grab another pizza, which we scarfed down drunk while watching Puss in Boots. Due to scattered storms we didn't get on the beach on Sunday, but we did wander down to Robert's Market to grab their awesome chicken salad and pimento cheese for sandwiches, stopping for Kohl's frozen custard on the way back. On Sunday night we grilled a steak and stayed up until 3AM chugging cocktails and watching Cherry Falls, then a TV show about doomsday preppers, and then Fright Night after that. We slept late Monday, got more custard at Kohl's, and only got an hour on the beach before driving home in torrential rain storms and heavy traffic.
It's always a mildly melancholy time when we depart the family beach house on the afternoon of the first Monday in September and bid good-bye to lazy days on the beach, late evening sunsets, traipsing about in shorts and bare feet in the beach house, and Bloody Marys on the deck at Dockside. Though we plan on returning in October, now is the time of year I dolefully put away the trappings and accoutrements of summer: the canvas beach bag, stuffed with gaily-colored towels, visors, flip-flops, cheap spare sunglasses, and miscellaneous bottles of sunscreen; my swim trunks (to be taken out again the next time I stay in a hotel); my khaki shorts that I wear everywhere; and my cherished preppy regalia, such as my cheerful belts with stripes and nautical motifs, my airy seersucker shirts, and my faded canvas deck shoes. These shall rest in my closet until next May, where, whenever I reach for a flannel shirt or a tweed jacket, they'll remind me of the carefree gaiety of summer weekends at the beach while I'm freezing my nards off in February.
The mood isn't entirely mournful. This is, after all, a time of transition. I have much to look forward to in the coming months: two friends' weddings, where I will no doubt steal the spotlight in my Scottish evening dress; the annual Renaissance Festival; possibly hosting a Thanksgiving meal once again in my city house; and of course breaking out my fall and winter wardrobe. Time once again for Oxford cloth shirts at the office, rugby shirts for knocking around the house or casual weekend activities, canvas shirts and Bean Boots for visits to the dog park, and checked twill shirts for those weekend engagements that call for a neater appearance, such as visiting relatives or a fine dinner out. The time is nigh for my treasured Barbour jacket to reappear. The Clark's brown leather ankle boots will see regular use, as will my new pair of brown loafers (which I consider a year-round shoe, anyway). Sometime soon I also hope to acquire a pair of Blucher moccasins, which strike a perfect balance between carefree boat shoes and somber Blucher shoes. As the temperatures drop, I'll dig out my chunky cotton sweaters, my soft chamois shirts (on weekends), and hope to get an opportunity to wear my recently-purchased vintage L.L. Bean Norwegian sweater, the hallmark of preppies all over the east coast from the late '60s to the early '90s. It's been recently resurrected from the L.L. Bean archives and retails for about $130, but I snagged my barely-used vintage model on eBay for 28 bucks. Believe me, I am very tempted to put together a real-life version of "Prep Persona #3" from The Official Preppy Handbook (1980), which involved the aforementioned sweater layered over an Oxford cloth shirt and a popped-collar polo shirt, topped with a puffy vest, paired with wide-wale corduroy trousers, and finished with a pair of Bean's rubber moccasins (no socks, of course).
Although I am excited about unearthing my fall wardrobe, I will nonetheless miss my preppy summer wardrobe and accessories. Preppiness and summer go hand-in-hand; all summer long, I went about town looking as if I had just stepped off a boat. My most recent acquisition, L.L. Bean's Boat & Tote bag, made in Maine of thick, sturdy canvas, is a badge of membership in Club Prep, and for use on the beach, it must have blue trim, whereas trips to "the countr y" call for bags with green or other earth-colored trim. For that extra preppy touch, it ought to be monogrammed in threads that match the colored trim. However, for women, something bright and fun by Vera Bradley or possibly Lily Pulitzer is an alternative worthy of consideration. I noticed micro-expressions of approval from other people of quality in the courtyard at the condo as they recognized my bag, which coordinated perfectly with my blue soft-sided cooler, royal blue swim trunks, and pale blue polo shirt. Various shades of blue and white are the de rigeur colors for seaside accessories, though pale pinks and pale greens are a fun way to mix it up. Yellow and orange can be hard to pull off tastefully, and red just looks plain wrong. One must use good taste when selecting towels. Classic cabana stripe towels (wide alternating stripes of a single color and white) are the timeless choice. Other preppy beach-goers prefer more whimsical towels depicting artistic illustrations of sea creatures such as lobsters or nautiluses, and also simple patterns of checks, stripes, or polka dots, as long as their designs use a limited color palette and avoid gaudy gradients or airbrush effects. Preppies do not use towels depicting flags, Bob Marley, peace signs, giant hundred-dollar bills, or Betty Boop. Basically anything sold at the local beachwear store is off-limits, just take my word for it. I prefer wearing polo shirts on the beach because they make me look more respectable, which serves to defend Wrightsville's tradition as a vacation ground for people of quality against the onslaught of trashy people in wifebeaters, jeans shorts ("jorts"), and basketball shoes with black socks who would fit in better at Carolina Beach. In fact, at a particular private beach club up the coast, t-shirts are forbidden in the clubhouse except for in the poolside restaurant and locker rooms. T-shirts can still be respectable on the beach if they bear logos or decorations related to other preppy vacation spots, but anyone wearing a t-shirt celebrating the present location is worthy of ridicule. I also find it silly and pretentious when I see people down south wearing t-shirts and hats from The Black Dog Tavern. This is North Carolina, people, not Nantucket. T-shirts from traditionally preppy local colleges and universities are also acceptable, provided the wearer actually attended, plans to attend, or is the child, parent, or grandparent of an alumnus and didn't attend a rival school himself. T-shirts celebrating participation in specific athletic tournaments of a preppy nature, such as soccer, lacrosse, or tennis championships, regardless of how long ago, are a third option. Off the beach, in town, the options are numerous, though there are still protocols to observe. During the daytime, it's perfectly fine for a man to walk around within reasonable walking distance of the beach in damp swim trunks, provided he wears a shirt and footwear and doesn't intend on eating in a restaurant. Preppy women always wear cover-ups or shorts and tops over their swimwear when not on the beach or at the pool. Cotton or linen shorts in various solid colors, seersucker stripes, Madras, or embroidered with patterns of nautical motifs are perfectly acceptable for men of all ages almost everywhere except fine dining establishments, even at bars and night clubs, but cargo shorts really aren't preppy, with their saggy pockets and bulging rear pocket flaps, and denim shorts are absolutely horrid. Shorts should fit well and not fall below the knee when standing. Chino trousers and canvas pants are safe choices for fine restaurants. Grown men should avoid t-shirts even at casual restaurants at dinner. Other shirting options include polo shirts and button-front shirts of seersucker or other lightweight natural fabrics, but garish Polynesian patterns aren't preppy. To be truly preppy, button-front shirts, unless they are constructed with a convertible collar and straight hem, should be long-sleeved and worn with the sleeves rolled up to suit the temperature. The exception to this rule is shirts in tartan patterns, the reason being if they were long-sleeved, they would look like checked shirts from the wearer's fall wardrobe. Shirttails can be worn tucked or untucked; if tucked, colorful belts with stripes or nautical decorations help to lessen the sense of formality. Shirttails should always be tucked at a fine restaurant or clubhouse. Preppy beach footwear includes flip-flops, be they expensive leather or cheap plastic, sandals, boat shoes of leather or canvas, loafers, and Blucher moccasins. All must be worn without socks when paired with shorts, but socks are optional when closed-toe shoes are worn with long pants. Athletic shoes can be worn in the daytime, with or without short white socks.
I did get a taste of preppy beach paradise one weekend this summer, when my wife and I joined her parents at their waterfront home in another coastal North Carolina locale. They enjoy private beach access as members of a beach club, which owns a strip of sand where only members are permitted to sit, and better still, alcohol is freely consumed without fear of legal action by zealous patrolmen. An attendant prepared a spot for us with comfortable chaises and large umbrellas, and a waitress brought us Bloody Marys, margaritas, and Coronas. All around me at all times were fine people of good breeding with well-mannered children. No one was loud or boisterous, nor did I spot any repulsive tattoos. Children knew not to tear around knocking people over. Jorts and wifebeaters were nowhere to be seen. It was everything Wrightsville used to be in the glorious '90s, before unwashed hoi polloi began creeping in from underneath their slimy rocks.
So, while I bid an emotional farewell to another glorious summer season, I turn my attention to the coming autumn and all it holds in store — winery tours, visits to the dog park, bowls of hot soup or chili on gray afternoons — and, while I love our exciting travels, I nevertheless look forward to lazy weekends at home, nestled in my living room with good books and hot drinks, wearing my cozy rugby shirts.
Friday, June 15, 2012
What's my age again?
Getting old blows. I've watched my older brother wrinkle and sag, largely due to the stress of his ongoing divorce. I've watched my grandparents-in-law gradually deteriorate. The ravages of sun damage are even beginning to take their toll on my wife's beautiful skin. Although we're all programmed to get old, sooner or later, thanks to those god-damned genetic time-bombs known as telomeres, I'm working now on being in the "later" category.
Considering how much I wasted a good deal of what should have been my most vital years (ages 15-25) being a good student, not getting into trouble, and not getting laid, my demented psyche has determined that I can recapture my lost youth by maintaining the appearance of a late-20-something. During some downtime in my cubicle, I did a great deal of research on the inter-webs all about aging: why skin sags, how cells slow down their regeneration, free radical damage, blah-blah-blah. I tried my best to filter out the old wives' tales, pseudoscience, shaky anecdotal evidence, and sales pitches thinly disguised as success stories written by snake-oil hucksters, and base my anti-aging approach on well-researched and time-tested techniques.
My approach begins with nutrition. When researching what keeps skin young and firm, I read all about the makeup and regeneration of collagen and elastin. Since collagen is comprised of proteins synthesized in the body from lysine and proline, using vitamin C as a catalyst, I knew I needed to get enough protein and also plenty of vitamin C, so I've begun eating either protein supplements or lean animal protein such as fish or chicken every day, as well as taking a vitamin C supplement. Vitamin A is also important for regenerating skin tissue, so I take a supplement every other day (care must be taken not to overdose on carotenoids). Coenzyme Q-10 (CoQ10) also promotes collagen and elastin production, so I take a CoQ10 supplement every day. As the body ages, it begins to produce more collagenase than collagen, which breaks the peptide bonds in collagen; certain phytochemicals such as anthocyanins and catechins, found in dark berries and green tea, are known to inhibit collagenase production, so I make sure to consume some form of dark berry fruit every day, as well as a cup of hot green tea. Copper has been linked to wrinkle repair, so I take a daily men's multivitamin containing copper. Part of skin's healthy appearance is owed to an abundance of moisture, so I make an effort to consume generous quantities of water every day (which also gives me plenty of chances to get up from my desk during the work day). I'm not stopping at looking young; I'm also going for a young, energetic, healthy overall feeling. I'm attempting to eat a healthier diet in order to protect my heart and the rest of my body. I abstain from refined sugar, which is just plain toxic, and consume oatmeal nearly every morning for its poop-enducing fiber and artery-unclogging beta-glucans. I try to keep saturated fats to a minimum so I don't pack on unnecessary pounds. As suggested by my shrink, I even started taking fish oil supplements. I've also begun exercising fairly regularly (my wife's recent knee injury has made it more difficult for me to get motivated to work out).
Further preventive measures involve daily skin maintenance. I settled on using a moisturizer containing retinol twice a day, as its usefulness in protecting the skin is well-documented. I also use a mild exfoliating skin cleanser twice a day, to remove some of my dead skin cells and bring new skin to the surface. For good measure, I'll top it off with a smearing of emu oil, a biological moisturizer that seals off the skin.
While I can't reasonably expect all this effort to make me look 25 forever, I think I can at least expect to look 5-10 years younger at any time, and also feel even younger than that on the inside. I have to say, for the past couple of weeks, I really have felt less depressed, more content with my life, and even more energetic and less exhausted in the mornings. My stupid knees still make noise despite my constant intake of glucosamine & chondroitin.
For me, part of feeling young is revisiting the things I enjoyed when I was younger. I recently sort of rediscovered CDs. Remember how douchey vinyl enthusiast geeks proliferated as CDs took over as the primary storage form of music? I find myself becoming a CD enthusiast in the age of touch-screen MP3 players. Now I'm no musical Luddite; I carry my entire music library in my pocket on my iPhone. But lately, I rediscovered the pleasures of the tactile experience of pulling a CD out of its shiny jewel case decorated with album art, sliding it into a CD player, and listening to it hiss as it spun around getting up to the proper speed. Last week, I even paid a visit to a used CD store to pick up a few classic albums from the '90s, to help me get into that youthful spirit. I picked up Blink 182's Enema of the State (containing a popular track which inspired the title of this blog entry), Green Day's Dookie, and Matchbox Twenty's Yourself or Someone Like You. I slide them into the factory CD player on my 2001 Toyota and I'm transported to that glorious time, the turn of the 21st century, and suddenly I'm 20 years old again. Recently, I even tracked down the same model CD player I had installed in my first car. The dream is that one day I'll have a duplicate of my '89 Volvo sedan in which to install it. Play it again, Kenwood.
Considering how much I wasted a good deal of what should have been my most vital years (ages 15-25) being a good student, not getting into trouble, and not getting laid, my demented psyche has determined that I can recapture my lost youth by maintaining the appearance of a late-20-something. During some downtime in my cubicle, I did a great deal of research on the inter-webs all about aging: why skin sags, how cells slow down their regeneration, free radical damage, blah-blah-blah. I tried my best to filter out the old wives' tales, pseudoscience, shaky anecdotal evidence, and sales pitches thinly disguised as success stories written by snake-oil hucksters, and base my anti-aging approach on well-researched and time-tested techniques.
My approach begins with nutrition. When researching what keeps skin young and firm, I read all about the makeup and regeneration of collagen and elastin. Since collagen is comprised of proteins synthesized in the body from lysine and proline, using vitamin C as a catalyst, I knew I needed to get enough protein and also plenty of vitamin C, so I've begun eating either protein supplements or lean animal protein such as fish or chicken every day, as well as taking a vitamin C supplement. Vitamin A is also important for regenerating skin tissue, so I take a supplement every other day (care must be taken not to overdose on carotenoids). Coenzyme Q-10 (CoQ10) also promotes collagen and elastin production, so I take a CoQ10 supplement every day. As the body ages, it begins to produce more collagenase than collagen, which breaks the peptide bonds in collagen; certain phytochemicals such as anthocyanins and catechins, found in dark berries and green tea, are known to inhibit collagenase production, so I make sure to consume some form of dark berry fruit every day, as well as a cup of hot green tea. Copper has been linked to wrinkle repair, so I take a daily men's multivitamin containing copper. Part of skin's healthy appearance is owed to an abundance of moisture, so I make an effort to consume generous quantities of water every day (which also gives me plenty of chances to get up from my desk during the work day). I'm not stopping at looking young; I'm also going for a young, energetic, healthy overall feeling. I'm attempting to eat a healthier diet in order to protect my heart and the rest of my body. I abstain from refined sugar, which is just plain toxic, and consume oatmeal nearly every morning for its poop-enducing fiber and artery-unclogging beta-glucans. I try to keep saturated fats to a minimum so I don't pack on unnecessary pounds. As suggested by my shrink, I even started taking fish oil supplements. I've also begun exercising fairly regularly (my wife's recent knee injury has made it more difficult for me to get motivated to work out).
Further preventive measures involve daily skin maintenance. I settled on using a moisturizer containing retinol twice a day, as its usefulness in protecting the skin is well-documented. I also use a mild exfoliating skin cleanser twice a day, to remove some of my dead skin cells and bring new skin to the surface. For good measure, I'll top it off with a smearing of emu oil, a biological moisturizer that seals off the skin.
While I can't reasonably expect all this effort to make me look 25 forever, I think I can at least expect to look 5-10 years younger at any time, and also feel even younger than that on the inside. I have to say, for the past couple of weeks, I really have felt less depressed, more content with my life, and even more energetic and less exhausted in the mornings. My stupid knees still make noise despite my constant intake of glucosamine & chondroitin.
For me, part of feeling young is revisiting the things I enjoyed when I was younger. I recently sort of rediscovered CDs. Remember how douchey vinyl enthusiast geeks proliferated as CDs took over as the primary storage form of music? I find myself becoming a CD enthusiast in the age of touch-screen MP3 players. Now I'm no musical Luddite; I carry my entire music library in my pocket on my iPhone. But lately, I rediscovered the pleasures of the tactile experience of pulling a CD out of its shiny jewel case decorated with album art, sliding it into a CD player, and listening to it hiss as it spun around getting up to the proper speed. Last week, I even paid a visit to a used CD store to pick up a few classic albums from the '90s, to help me get into that youthful spirit. I picked up Blink 182's Enema of the State (containing a popular track which inspired the title of this blog entry), Green Day's Dookie, and Matchbox Twenty's Yourself or Someone Like You. I slide them into the factory CD player on my 2001 Toyota and I'm transported to that glorious time, the turn of the 21st century, and suddenly I'm 20 years old again. Recently, I even tracked down the same model CD player I had installed in my first car. The dream is that one day I'll have a duplicate of my '89 Volvo sedan in which to install it. Play it again, Kenwood.
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