Big P, Little p, What Begins with P?

Last evening brought to you by: the letter P. My filmmaker came over for an impromptu play date; we nibbled on some pretzels and goat cheese cheddar, which did not exactly taste reminiscent of cheddar but had a nice goat flavor and a firm texture, while coloring with some permanent markers. I am working on a large sketch pad of drawings to give to him, eventually; they are rather geometric and biologically inspired. We also shared a bottle of prosecco and baked some absolutely delicious peanut butter cookies.

One of the best design aspects of these vintage champagne and cocktail glasses is the hollow stem; it adds some color to the translucent glass, and when drinking something bubbly, creates a tame volcano of effervescence. The wide, round shape is so idyllically retro.

My pink ice bucket, thrifted some time last fall from a consignment shop. It is displayed prominently with my cocktail and collins glasses on my dry bar table.

In keeping with the theme for the evening, the filmmaker came bearing a present, with a pirate twist: an eye-patch. I have been teasing about wearing one of these when we go out and about, so now I can finally don this one night and give my heavy eye shadow a rest.

The peanut butter cookies came from an adapted Betty Crocker recipe. As I have said before, she may be fictitious, but that cartoon diva has some great baking tricks.

Ingredients:

1/2 cup shortening, softened (butter or margarine can be substituted)

1/2 cup peanut butter

1/2 cup granulated sugar

1/2 cup brown sugar, packed

1 large egg

1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour

3/4 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

1/4 teaspoon salt

cinnamon to taste

My butter was in the refrigerator and not quite softened; I expedited the process by letting him hang out by the roaring front burner for a few moments. This is probably not advised, but it worked. As an amateur and budding domestic goddess, sometimes you have to be resourceful and adapt to the environment at hand, even if that environment stems from your own poor preparation and planning.

I used creamy, unsweetened peanut butter. Since the cookies have so much sugar added as it is, the unsweetened, natural variety allows for pure peanut flavor to power through.

First, measure the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and cinnamon in a smaller mixing bowl and set aside.

I love the look of freshly opened peanut butter; so flat and smooth. Peanut butter pond.

In a larger mixing bowl, I added the butter, sugar, and peanut butter, then mixed these ingredients thoroughly. It required some intense bicep work to get all the ingredients well incorporated.

Then I added the large egg, and mixed some more.

After the wet ingredients were all together, I added the flour mixture slowly, making sure it was well incorporated after each new addition.

The pan should be ever so slightly teased with some grease. Roll the dough into roughly one inch balls, and make sure they are evenly spaced out, with plenty of stretch room as they bake.

I wielded a floured fork to cross-hatch each cookie, for a more decorative appeal. They know vaguely remind me of the golden quilted earrings I wore Saturday night, featured in my previous post. Not quite a golden ratio-like monumental coincidence, but a nice pattern.

The cookies should bake in a 375 degree oven for about ten minutes, maybe twelve, depending on the size of the dough balls. The final product was absolutely delightful. We each ate a belly-full of cookies before retiring, to watch the conclusion of the film "The Saddest Music in the World"; it is a hilarious and beautiful satire, with rather strange, emotively incandescent lighting and camera effects, which visually appear to capture some by-gone, twisted era.

For some type of finale, two looks that I would love to promenade about in, from the Proenza Schouler Fall 2011, debuted last week in New York. Both of these dresses are a bit outside of my typical sartorial comfort zone, from a palette and a pattern perspective, but sometimes you need to push yourself out to the edge and pry away from preconceived conventions.

(Proenza Schouler images taken from Fashionologie)

New Year's Eve

I understand that I continue to dwell in the past, however, one thing I have learned about myself is that I do have a propensity towards nostalgia and sweet reminiscing. Also, given the tumult and the mundane hum-drum of the past couple weeks, it is soothing and pleasant to reflect and visually return to an evening that was spent in fun, frolic, and revelry with my good friends and my new man: New Year's Eve. This year was a complete success, both sartorially and personally, as I made only the best decisions and miraculously awoke without a hangover.

A few months ago, at the very up the road consignment boutique where I snagged my favorite winter white Oscar de la Renta skirt, I found this dress: a very fitted, black, backless, gold-studded long-sleeved, shoulder padded vintage Tadashi cocktail dress. Initially, with a single glance, the dress seemed too ridiculous. Once I managed to shimmy my hips that never seem to lie into this dress, it remained a tad ridiculous, however, fit me like a dream. My desire to own this number was only bolstered by the encouraging power of this wizened eighty year old grandmother who volunteers at the shop (all proceeds go to support the local hospital; more on this amazing shop later): "Oh my dear, I would die for your body." Despite being only a mere skip away from sailing with dear Charon into some realm better than this one, I took this woman's comment for a compliment. This amazingly funky interpretation of the quintessential little black dress only set me back about 15$ or so. Once December rolled around and I was without a steady salary, I was certainly thankful that I had the foresight to snatch this up, as it was absolutely perfect for drinks and fireworks and other foolery to celebrate the New Year.

The filmmaker and I met up with good friends of mine from university, now roommates, Becca and Peter, who live in a cosy apartment in south Williamsburg. One of my favorite guy friends, who I have not seen in ages, was visiting from all the way out in Washington, left coast style. My best friend Rebecca was there, as well as two of her lovely friends from Brown, where they are all in graduate school, so it was a nice amalgamation of a reunion and new friends. We all had a few drinks and some laughs, then crossed the water onto the island and headed to the Upper West side, where we went to a dinner party at our friend Paul's parents apartment; completely endearing location, and certainly very generous of his parents to allow a whirlwind of young guests. Paul prepared lamb with a yogurt sauce, salad greens with chick peas, and bleu cheese crostinis, all of which were delicious. And of course, more whiskey cocktails and champagne.

The group then hopped over to a larger, slightly more raucous party, ironically being hosted by a former beau of mine, who happens to share many mutual friends. I had not seen this particular gentleman in a number of months, and though things did not end quite how I would have wanted them to, due to a certain spoiled and selfish nature of one of the involved parties, he is a charming and affable young man, and I wanted, even just for the sake of social graces, to remain friendly. However, I was, obviously, quite apprehensive about bringing the film maker to this former beau's (or, perhaps more aptly, young man who used to take me on lavish dates) party, at his parent's very beautiful and extragent Upper West side home. Though not impressed with my choice of former companion, the filmmaker mixed in seamlessly and without too much notice with my friends. We drank and danced and watched the fireworks explode in the sky over the park from tall dining room windows, and shared a midnight kiss in the dark. It was absolutely perfect, despite the romantic comedy potential by attending a party with a former gentleman caller.

I am a rather buxom build, and so I wore a leotard underneath the dress, in order to get away without any interferences across the back. This stratagem proved fruitful; after many of the evening festivities in Manhattan, while winding down in a dive bar in the Williamsburg neck of the woods in Brooklyn, I was street styled by a friendly and mildly intoxicated young lady, working for the Influential Archive. I began following this blog soon after, and though I have not yet graced their image files, the contributors have a keen eye and some great street inspiration. Also, obviously, they are on the look out for fashion forward looks from us regular ladies and gentlemen, and not merely models, which is always a bonus.

On another note, I cannot recall the name of the dive, but it featured both Buck Hunt and Connect Four. I did not indulge in the Buck Hunt, but the filmmaker's best bud, and our sleepover host for the evening, put on a rather riveting display of electronic hunting and gathering capabilities.

The accessories that I paired with the dress for the evening: some large black and black with gold barbed wire bangles, an oversized geometric plastic or faux-ivory ring, and some drop black and gold and rhinestone earrings.

The gold barbed wire lucite bangle was a find from that same Upper West side outdoor market as my lucite chandelier necklace, featured in my winter white post. I wear both of these lucite pieces constantly now, as they are both utterly unique and stand on their own, yet match my wardrobe in a truly ideal manner. I love the contrast of the smooth lucite and its transparency with the sharp angles of the barbed wire and its golden glint.

Finally, my opulent, Dynasty-inpsired outfit would not be complete without some over the top dangling earrings; these were a present to myself, found in an antique center near Shrewsbury, Pennsylvania. My mother and I had gone to a Christmas open house at the store the day following Thanksgiving, still tryptophan weary from the rich feast, and I was lucky with a number of great finds. These are a bit too decadent for the office, even for me, but I am definitely working to build these into my rotation more frequently.

Winter White

Some of my absolute favorite pair of earrings, and a cream skirt I wore Saturday night for dinner, drinks, and dancing with some friends in Brooklyn. I absolutely love the slight variation to traditional polka dots, and the slight hint of yellow, which I generally can only wear in accents or within accessories, since it does not always complement my skin tone depending on the hue, type of fabric. The skirt is a silk 1960s vintage Oscar de la Renta, and it is a tad too large and rather long, hitting a bit below my knee; would not recommend this look for most people, but I manage to belt the top tightly around my waist and have very long legs, so I manage to make it work for me. Also, I had found this skirt at a nearby consignment shop for a mere 8$, so I pretty much had to purchase it and create some look with it. The awkward skirt length has been increasingly popular in various street style looks. If you are taller, and don't mind some heels, it can be pulled off, but nothing makes already short legs look more squat than cutting them beneath the knee with skirt fabric.

My photo shoot cocktail: traditional gimlet. It is difficult to tell in those images, but the stem of that vintage cocktail and champagne glass is hollow. Absolutely beautiful glasses, and a great look when drinking a lightly tinted cocktail, such as the Rose's Lime Juice or some cranberry. My mother found a set of two at a small antique shop on the eastern shore, and bought them for me for Christmas.

Fuller image of the skirt, and the camel color leather belt with broad gold buckle I wore with it, again to cinch the waist and to help with the fit.

My silver heels from the Christmas party; they are a medium heel, which can be difficult to find, so are quite comfortable for an evening of walking and standing.

The lucite chandelier necklace and the lucite bangles. The bangle in the background is actually clear lucite, encasing a piece of shining aluminum foil. My roommate from university and one of my all time best friends purchased that bangle for me, as a birthday present, while we were still in school, and I definitely get a lot of use out of it. She understands my style very well. The necklace was found at an outdoor street market on the Upper West, for a surprisingly good price, given its unique look and the typical NYC prices.

Last, but not least, my white boxer dress, which has definitely been showcased at a number of dinner parties and cocktail soirees. This dress was quite a puzzle to learn how to put on, initially, and how to hang neatly; I adore how it drapes, how it is elusively fitted, yet also rather loose, and is quite the perfect length, again, especially for my longer legs. Generally, I have worn this with some opaque black tights, but to create a monochromatic look with the heels for the Christmas party, opted for an opaque light charcoal. I have some indigo and purple tights as well, which I may try one day, and which would add even more spunk to a dress like this.

Could Have Been an Eagle Scout

Earlier this evening, after a particular trying day at the office doing my part-time, not on salary, no bonuses work on this new account, and before doing my please for the love of God/Allah/Zeus/Krishna/Buddha/Anyone with Some Potential Celestial and Atmospheric Authority let it not snow once again dance, I spent at least twenty minutes trying to unscrew a brand new Rose's Lime Juice bottle. Since I had already measured some Tanqueray into my shaker, and I really cannot tolerate nice chilled gin going to waste, I manipulated my cork screw and punctured a hole through the bottle cap. Resourceful, or desperate? You decide.

I was going to make some dreadfully clever and sardonic joke about adding "tool use" to my resume, before realizing, even in my bleary, lap-top eyed one-gimlet stupor, that the comment would retrogress me to some primordial primate. Opposable thumbs, cognitive capabilities that foster linguistic capacity, not so much marketable talents in this era. Though perhaps I could thoroughly and confusedly impressive someone during an interview by outlining my pollical skills.

A Christmas Party

The first Friday of my journey along funemployment towards inevitable and deplorable destitution, fully accessorized undoubtedly, I found myself traipsing in silver heels through light sprinkles of snow to attend a party of complete and total strangers.

Perhaps a bit of background: when I had, over a year ago, accepted a position at the firm that had just strongly encouraged me to hang tight, collect that government money from those productive tax-paying citizens, and hope they still found me valuable in a few months when finances and new accounts were secure, it had necessitated an uprooting to a vaguely reminiscing-metropolitan suburban sprawl small town where I knew absolutely no one. And that suburban small town was in none other than the reputable, the wild, and the beautiful Garden State. I am, and always have been, affable, gregarious, open to new experiences, and charmingly adept in a range of social situations, so I anticipated the professional and personal transplant would be an opportunity, as opposed to a hardship and move to definitive pariah status. Besides, my new apartment would be a mere ten minute strut from the closest train station to Manhattan, and my personal favorite borough, Brooklyn. Though this was a tad optimistic initially, I have yet to achieve the pariah social caste. And I have grown quite accustom to sticking out like a stylized sore thumb, though more on this to come.

Within recent months, my father's long time childhood buddy's daughter had moved to this sequestered suburban sprawl land and, naturally, our parents decided to friend set us up. After a number of failed attempts to meet up for coffee or a cocktail, she invited me to attend an intimate Christmas gathering. Within the emotional maelstrom of precarious employment, I thought for an instant that a stranger-filled party would be mediocre, possibly boring, maybe even uncomfortable; then, with the slightly desperate and crazed mindset of a girl on the rebound, again, I saw social and professional opportunity. Networking.

In every career search orientation and seminar I attended at university, the prevailing mantra was always that almost all new jobs are acquired through networking with contacts, and these contacts can be collected from all walks of life, so keep your eyes and ears open. Now, despite entering this soiree with a particular stratagem, I did not don my favorite tailored black power suit, my demurely stern librarian eyeglasses. This was a cocktail party, after all. So, as many young girls in a position of hope and tumult would, I decided to perform a twist, and wear a modern classic: the little white dress.

Wearing a little white dress to a Christmas party, an actual seasonal Christmas party, none of this Christmas in July retail lunacy, incorporates one of my favorite style dares: winter white. True, our mothers and grandmothers warned us against this, but they and their fashion testaments are ancient history as far as Karl Lagerfeld or Grace Coddington or Valentino are concerned (please note this magnificent irony; all three icons are, well, icons and geniuses, but also older than fossils). Many tend to shy from and want to deny winter white, fearing an epic hyperbolization of pale, dry skin, at least the many who live in the great northeast. And these fears are quite founded. However, to continue to enjoy white, we simply need to be more mindful of shade, fabric, draping, and pairing with accessories. A warmer cream or sleek ivory, a delicate light lace matched with a tailored jacket or fur, and a heavy wool coat or fitting slack are some of my favorite manifestations of the winter white look.

In retrospect, my choice was rather bold for a party of strangers, and one in which I had networking aspirations: I wore a favorite piece of mine, a stark, opalescent short white dress, of an almost light satin material, draped and gathered in such a complex way that I have always compared to a boxer's robe. I have rosy, olive-toned skin, which maintains some color in the colder gray months, and so the bright white did not leave me like a walking, poorly exposed photograph. I paired the dress with thick chrome gray opaque stockings, some silver gray heels, and an opulent lucite chandelier necklace and two strong lucite silver bangles, all from the late 1960's. Ironically, once again, the necklace had been purchased from a vintage street vendor on the Upper West, a few months before, celebrating my recent promotion. To combat the frigid winter air, I covered up with a belted camel coat, also vintage from the 1960s, purchased at a consignment shop near the beach in North Carolina, when sharp cold is a glimmering, translucent memory.

As I wandered through the labyrinth of hallways in the brand new building of luxury apartments, a building so new it clung comfortable to its paint and carpeting stench, seeking my hostess' humble abode, fear and anxiety began to set in. The invitation had been emailed, I would know not a soul, I honestly have no idea what these people are interested in; what if this is one of those famed ugly sweater holiday parties, and I arrive in a short white party dress, full jewelry, and shimmering eye make up? Furthermore, I was empty-handed, and began to feel foolish not even arriving with a bottle of wine, and not wanting to admit quite yet that funds for me would be tight in the coming months. When I knocked on the door, I was relieved to be greeted by her sweet sister-in-law, resplendent in layers of pearls and a traditional little black dress, and behind her a spread of snacks and drinks covering the entirety of the kitchen counter and table.

Ever the punctual one, I was the first guest to arrive, besides the hostess' brother and his new bride, and their family's rather forward black lab, whose wet nose was up the back of my dress skirt within seconds, and returned for further exploration throughout the evening. With the hostess' encouragement, I made myself a Cape Cod, and broke the ice with her older brother, who was utterly tickled to learn that a vodka and cranberry was actually called a Cape Cod. All were friendly, open, and lovely people, in non-atrocious holiday costume, and I was assured once more that the night would be fun and relaxing, not some ill-fated mistake.

As more guests piled in, mostly the college and high school friends of the hostess, I was immediately reminded that young people, such as myself, and indeed all of my friends, were not much interested in networking at a cocktail party. They, like my close friends and I, were interested in drinking and joking at a cocktail party. I believe the closest I reached to some type of swapping of contacts was playing the ever popular name-game with some baseball beau hunk who had attended Yale. One of the hostess' colleagues and I, sharing similar interests in aesthetics, discussed some of our favorite music venues and live shows, not our professional aspirations or our current status on the corporate hierarchic ladder. This was an evening of simple, unadulterated pleasantries and new acquaintances, which, as it turned out, was precisely what I needed. Like many girls on the rebound, I was not prepared for new professional potentials, for discovering and unearthing other prospects, and thankfully I instead relished in the spirit of the season and beamed in my clean white.