A WordPress Site

Category: What I Wore

Puttering in the kitchen

I was tired this past weekend, and I gave myself permission to be tired. I am not certain that this was so much a physical tiredness, as it was a physical manifestation of a basic introverted sort of emotional and psychological tiredness. I needed to be quiet, to be still. I needed the house to be quiet and be still as well.

The stonemasons were here early Saturday morning laying bluestone on the back patio and walk in preparation for the rain that was supposed to come on Monday. The rain did indeed come and the masons returned yesterday, but that is another story, for another day. While they were working on the back patio, I trekked downtown to the Market Square Farmer's Market. I came home with this haul:

I returned home just as the masons were leaving, for which I was grateful. I needed to work in the studio, hard pressed against a deadline, and did not look forward to traipsing back and forth across their workspace. But before I could get to work I needed, at a minimum, to unpack. I was too tired for my normal wash and prep work, tired enough to worry that I would make my deadline, even without the added kitchen work.

I did however, also need to eat. In my bag were some chanterelles and some lobster mushrooms (upper right corner, on the paper bag). I saw the lobster mushrooms first, and initially turned down the chanterelles because I had already purchased the lobster mushrooms. But I went back, my mind filled with dreams of a late breakfast of eggs and chanterelles. Initially I planned an omelet, but by the time I sautéed the chanterelles I was so needy for sustenance, that I just turned down the heat to its lowest setting, and scrambled the eggs slowly in the butter and mushroom juices. No regrets, just deliciousness.

I didn't even fret about not doing my usual round of food prep and cook-up. I accepted that I was tired, that my schedule was actually pretty open, and I could allow myself to do as much or as little as I wished. I gave myself permission to putter….

And somehow instead of cooking I felt like organizing cookbooks. Slowly: about 16 linear feet of shelf space over three days. As I sorted, I would pick up a book and glance through its pages, perusing volumes that have become like old friends, and when I was tired I would walk away to return later. No added pressure to do anything. In many ways it was like an extended visit with old friends; with a few new acquaintances thrown in as well. I still have my first cookbook. I still cook form it, although only occasionally now. But my collection isn't exactly about recipes, although that is part of the story. I have books that I love for what I have learned from them, how they have changed my attitude and understanding about food and cooking, and my skills, whether or not I follow the author's recipes or not. And of course there are new books in there as well, new friendships to be formed perhaps, although I realize that some of the new cookbooks will not mesh, and will be replaced.

I also spent part of the weekend rereading Lidia Bastianich's first cookbook, La Cucina di Lidia which was written before her PBS show, before she became a celebrity chef. It remains one of my favorite books. The food is simple and true to its nature and source, It is filled with memories for me, but also with inspirations and things I still want to cook. It is delicious to read. I spent a lovely afternoon knitting and reading, also remembering, but not in a clinging nostalgia-ridden way. I remembered going to the Italian Market in Poughkeepsie, the one that would have baskets of fresh snails and I remember buying them and cleaning and cooking them, I remember learning to cook tripe. Well, I had always loved the flavor tripe gave to a broth — my parents made a good tripe soup — but until this book I had disliked the tripe itself (I studiously tried to pick the tripe out of the soup). Lidia taught me how to cook tripe in a way that enhanced the flavor and texture. I grew up eating tripe because my parents would buy a side of beef, or did they buy a whole cow, before it was trendy, but because it was an economical way to feed a family. I don't remember eating heart, which I now like, although I do remember struggling with the liver. But the book is not only about snails and tripe, although Lidia Bastianich's cooking in this book leans toward the Istria cooking of her childhood. It is about an approach to food that embodies simplicity in terms of integrity toward the materials, to the act of cooking, and feeding others as an act of love and sustenance, in all the many forms sustenance can take, but not necessarily simplicity in terms of ease of use. But we confuse ease and simple sometimes. This book stays in my library because it is a part of my own evolving understanding of the world and life and my own place in this world. This book stays in my library because it makes me want to walk into the kitchen, even when I am tired.

And yes. I did get back into the kitchen, even that same day, although most of the prep-work was put off until Sunday and Monday. As I had shopped I had imagined one of the lobster mushrooms, sautéed until just soft, with a little caramelization along the edges, with warm spices, served over a bed of little gem lettuces. I ended up adding merguez as well. Lobster mushrooms look large and sturdy, and one would think they would keep, but they do not. It was the perfect, simple dinner for a lazy day. Sunday morning the last lobster mushroom was turned into a hash with shallots and sweet potatoes.

The books have all been put away and I am now slowly organizing the kitchen, again only in fits and starts, while also cooking my way through my haul. There is no expectation here, no pressure to finish by a certain time. The outside of the house is madhouse of work, but inside there is just time and peace. When I am hungry I can just open the refrigerator door and allow inspiration to light the way. Need satisfied with a bit of play.

July 24, 2019
Five Things Friday

1. Rain and headaches. That was yesterday. I woke up with a headache and the rain started before my first meeting ended. I was completely scatterbrained and drove past my second appointment and was therefore late. It seemed wise to spend the rest of the day quietly at home, where little actually got done, but I'm OK with that. Cold rainy days seem perfect for random laziness. Perhaps the headache was a gift. The pounding eventually subsided around 6 PM, when I had another meeting, but I still felt subdued and unfocused. I can't explain it but all has returned to normal this morning.

2. A building rises from the mud. Yes. Foundations are in place and they started framing the garage. Roofing materials also arrived and perhaps soon there will be a roof on the addition to the house. That period from Thanksgiving to Christmas felt awfully long, as progress was slowed by rain and mud. Waiting can seem interminable, and although necessary underlayment was progressing, I was feeling somewhat subdued about the project. Foundations, HVAC, and electrical wiring, as necessary as they are, don't look like much when they are going in, and I didn't realize how much I yearned to see something, anything, that looked like I might live in it again. Perhaps I just hadn't recovered from the shock of loosing plantings due to the need to replace and expand the buried drainage system, or the shock of the disruption of the backyard when the old garage was excavated and a buried septic tank was discovered, a buried septic tank that had to be removed. Every day it felt like the mud was increasingly exponentially. In December, that sense of having lost control was palpable, and although it is, perhaps, shallow and frivolous, seeing the framing take shape, floors and walls begin to appear, has lifted my spirits considerably.

3. I made chicken stock this week, for the first time since probably before Thanksgiving. The beef stock surplus is dwindling as well, so I will probably be back on a weekly stock-making schedule before spring is well established. With this batch of stock, I also made a pot Attukal Paya, a spicy Indian soup or stew made from mutton legs and/or feet, except that I used lamb because that is what I find at my local Asian Market. I've been making the soup for a few months now, off and on, but this is the first time I started with a base of my own rich chicken stock before extracting the collagen from those lamb bones. I will never go back.

I tend to pull the lamb out once I've extracted all the flavor, and then drink the pureed soup in a mug, but yesterday I had a bowl for lunch along with some baby bok choy I had seared in some smoked chaabani pepper olive oil. It turned out surprisingly well since I wasn't actually sure what to expect from the oil, a new-to-me ingredient and gift from my brother.

4. I also stepped out of my sartorial comfort zone, by branching out of my everyday boots and jeans mode and wearing a skirt and tights with a favorite pair of everyday boots. Actually, perhaps I found my groove because I was very comfortable and very much myself. Perhaps I am also rediscovering a bit of joy in the occasional jolt of black in my wardrobe. That black knit skirt had not been worn for a while, and now I can't wait to wear it again, black leggings and boots and all.

Of course the proportions worked better with the coat than they did with the sweater underneath, but that is something I can work on. It ended up not mattering much on Wednesday, the day I wore that outfit, because I had two meetings at the house, which is always cold given that it is not yet closed up, and otherwise ran errands. I ended up with my coat on for most of the day, the sweater simply acting as an insulating layer. The sweater itself, much as I have loved it in the past (it is 9 years old) may be spending its last winter with me. It no longer seems to just work the way I want it to work with the things I want to wear.

5. A secret garden. I suppose that best describes how I feel about this small collection of artifacts. Granted, they arrived in this spot because I didn't know where else to put them, but this location, the corner of my desk, has proved fortuitous because I see them everyday and they always make me smile. The glass rose is new, a Christmas gift from my brother, Charles. The silver llamas were my grandmother's, and I see I need to polish them, although at the moment I am also fascinated by the way the reflection of light off the rose plays out in a subtle play of colors dancing across the tarnished surface of the llamas. I don't remember the provenance of the small vaseline glass vase but looking at it I am reminded of where it sat in the house, on a windowsill in the sunroom, the play of light and shadow and the green of oak leaf hydrangeas behind it. Those hydrangeas are now gone, but the vase does not make me sad. There will be new plantings, new leaves, new light. For now however, we just wait, remember, and dream.

January 18, 2019
Books, Triple Denim, and Another Opera

As I settle further into this current phase of semi-settled liminality, my reading has picked up a bit.

October saw a few more books pass through my hands. The two non-fiction books, Momofuko Milk Bar and Devil in the Milk have prompted some changes in my way of thinking (yes, even a cookbook can do that) but those thoughts have not yet settled. They may well surface at some future date.

Otherwise, not surprisingly, I read fiction. Phil Rickman's Merrily Watkins mysteries bookended the month. The first of the two, A Crown of Lights, was not my favorite and I struggled, impatient with Merrily and the story. But perhaps also I was mentally contrasting it with Anna Burns' Milkman, which I had already started. There was no comparison in terms of prose and the contrast may have simply unsettled me. I was hoping light diversion from the Burn's intense meanderings, and Rickman fell flat. You can read my review of Milkman here, and my thoughts on Donal Ryan's beautiful From a Low and Quiet Sea, another Booker-nominated novel, here.

By the end of the month I was ready to return to Rickman and I read The Cure of Souls, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Perhaps I had simply distanced myself enough from poetically lyrical prose that I was ready to settle into the story, perhaps I also found story itself more appealing. There continue to be times when I find the jumping around choppy, and Merrily continues to be someone about whom I simultaneously feel becomes more familiar while also being completely unknowable and unrevealed. But I think that may be the point, and part of her strength, even though she does at times try my patience. Anyway I will continue with this series, and there are moments when Rickman so perfectly taps into something about the faith experience, about the mixing of the psychic and the holy, the muddling of human ego and odd moments of clarity, of good an evil and what we perceive and more likely(and often) misperceive, that continue to draw me in.

With the advent of transitional and autumnal weather I also made my first foray into double-denim, layering a chambray tunic over dark-wash jeans, although probably too late to be on trend. Well, I've rarely been on trend with anything. Obviously, it quickly became triple denim when I added my purse, which, now that I think of it means I've probably been doubling up on denim without even thinking about it. When I bought the denim bag I wondered if I would wear it — now it seems to go everywhere except the dressiest of occasions.

The denim bag even accompanied me to the opera last night, not that it was a particularly dressy opera. I did wear my new velvet jeans, although, seeing as it was a rainy night and I feared I might traipse through mud, I wore them with my trusty blunnies. Apparently I fit right in with the crowd.

I was stunned by the performance, but I don't know how to write about an emotional opera about a self-indulgent madman, Nero, without descending into a self-indulgent morass.I will quote the brief description on the program:

"Nero Monologues" is a one-woman pastiche opera. The show journeys the inner workings of he notorious Roman emperor during his final hours. The resulting work explores themes of abandonment, abuse, passion, sexual identity, love and power and comes together to paint a portrait of a damaged man; equal parts crazed artist and idealistic ruler.

What immediately struck me was Sarah Toth's incredible emotional resonance. Her diction was not always clear, but her ability to portray emotional content, even conflicting emotions through her voice and her movements wrapped this listener up in the experience. The interlayering of the music with alternating sung and spoken parts was evocative and very well done. The program notes had compared the Peter Learn's technique of layering music to Samuel Barber, and I could see that comparison. The music, beautifully filled the role of inner voice, heard but not seen, as the musicians were in another room. The composition itself was fascinating, at times very much touching on jazz and more contemporary atonal and minimalist forms and yet seamlessly mixing in passages by Handel and Monteverdi in order to build a complex emotionally-rich portrait.. For a moment even I was certain I heard a bit of Kurtág. The relationship of Toth's performance to the musicians and the music seemed to embody an ongoing battle between emotion and reason, between madness and power, sanity and insanity.

One moment that stands out for me in this immensely powerful performance occurred when Toth was singing Nero's lines from Monteverdi's Pur ti Miro. This duet, to my mind is one most beautiful love songs in the operatic repertoire, becomes perverted, a song about one-sided obsession and fractured lust. To me it spoke of the descent into insanity but also of the difference between relationship and obsession, and how what we might think of as simple, unrequited affection, can become warped in the mind, can lead into a dangerous path that is something else entirely. The power of this piece is in its emotional content, the way it brings humanity to its subject, while at the same time bringing the receptive listener right up to that line that separates and protects us from our darker inner impulses. A lot of questions are opened here, about art, idealism, power, fear. We don't necessarily need to see the answers, just trying to understand the questions may be a good start. I am happy I went.

Nero Monologue photo of Sarah Toth, from Marble City Opera, here. There is also further information about the piece and a link to the poetry of Geoffrey Lehmann, a selection of which is used in the performance.

November 2, 2018
Transition Time

Somehow my blog break was not as productive as I had hoped. No. Go back a step. My blog break was not productive in the ways I had hoped and anticipated….

That's more like it.

Fall has finally come to the Knoxville area and I am grateful. My wardrobe had already started to transition gently. The wide legs cropped jeans that I had worn faithfully throughout the summer of 2017 came out again. I didn't wear them at all this past summer, but they felt perfect as the light and the ambiance of the air shifted, even as the heat was recalcitrant. The summer of 2018 was just too hot, and I was outside a lot, what with moving and tramping around a construction site. I spent most of the summer in skorts, not the most glamorous look, but then I accept that I am not glamorous, and really just want to be able to be comfortable and move. There was the skort I knocked off, a skort I bought on sale at REI, and a couple of more that got whipped up before I packed up the sewing room, none of which I managed to share with you. Probably for the best.

And then, suddenly, the temperature dropped. There was a morning in the 40s, upper 40s yes, but still, somewhat chill. I was ready for my morning walk but a skort would not do. I needed a vest or sweatshirt; I needed pants. I couldn't find either. I moved in 90+ degree heat you see. At that point I couldn't imagine needing a sweatshirt. Everything that was "not summer" was in boxes on the top shelf of my closet, above my head. And so I started pulling down boxes.

I bet you can imagine what happened next.

I was lazy and in a rush. Despite the fact that I live in a small apartment, and the step ladder was literally only a few steps away, I did not go fetch the step ladder. I tried to reach up on tippy toe, I tried to take a small leap and snag those boxes. All my fall and winter clothes (luckily in canvas boxes) came tumbling down upon me, and my closet became a pile of clothes all jumbled together. I was probably fortunate that I was not standing under the box of boots.

I found a vest before I found a sweatshirt. I found a 5-year old pair of yoga pants. I didn't find my gloves and my hands suffered. I walked, went to the farmer's market, rand errands, planned menus and cooked.

I also started to sort out clothes, to shift the closet. I started to accept something that my head had not quite wrapped itself around. Looking at that photo, I see the evidence of something my brain and body were telling me, but which I was nonetheless refusing to accept. Although not loose, those yoga pants are not snug either. Last year they were snug, perhaps even tight. Ah the joys of stretch. Before I went to North Caroline for a long weekend at the beginning of my break, frustrated as I was trying to pack, I stepped on my scale and the truth was revealed. Somehow I had lost 13 pounds since I moved into this apartment.

I was shocked even though the evidence had been all around me. That first summer skort was falling down over my hips, but I couldn't accept that because I felt more tired, schlumpy and out of shape. In my head "schlumpy" and "fat slob" go together, which is not a flattering image I know, or even a flattering thing to admit to thinking about oneself. There are certain inner voices, deeply imbedded, which we never fully escape. It did not occur to me that I might feel schlumpy because my clothes were too big. There is a bit of cognitive dissonance going on here, and I know perfectly well that what makes a person feel fat or thin or sexy (a woman? Do men go through the same thing?) often has little to do with actual body size; instead it is shaped by a host of other unrelated psychological and social inputs. Inputs I do not intend to explore here or now.

What I did notice, and what prompted me to step on that scale in the first place, was that my pajamas were too big. I knew the pajama bottoms were loose, and if I moved around too much they could start to slip down. I had fixed that by shortening the elastic in the waist of the pants, but although they stayed up, they did not hang attractively. I had not noticed that the tops were also too big, a couple of sizes too big, and that I looked like a sad old woman in them. I probably only noticed that because I was going away with family for fall break, because we would be sharing a cabin and because, heaven forbid, someone might see me in my pajamas. No one ever sees me in my pajamas, a situation I might still hope is not permanent. Obviously, until last week, I never even saw myself in my pajamas, and that was truly sad state of affairs.

As I started shifting the closet to fall and winter, as I started putting away clothes, I started trying things on. I am still working on that. Various piles are growing. There is a pile of things to give away. There is a smaller pile of things that are too worn, things that should be recycled or thrown away. The only place I knew of in Knoxville that accepted fabric for recycling closed, so more research is warranted.

There is also a pile of things that will work with minor alterations or mending. The boyfriend jeans in the photo above are between 6 and 7 years old. they were skinnies when I bought them, although not the super stretchy kind. But they have only needed minor alterations to keep them wearable, and I love them too much. The gray cardigan from Margaret O'Leary is at least 12 years old, Last year I kept it in the laundry room, which is usually cold, and wore it only as a robe or a house-sweater. Last year I felt it was baggy and unattractive, but now I love it again. Who knew that would happen?

There is a pile of things I love, things that can be easily altered to fit. I've already made a few alterations. There are things I haven't worn for years that suddenly fit again. I've found five old pairs of pants that I still like, that I haven't been able to wear since George was alive, that only require minor alterations for me to wear them now. Actually, they just require hemming. In those days I wore heels. I practically never wear heels now and am not convinced that heels will be any part of my future life. I need to be able to make a fast exit.

And those jeans? Those wide-legged crops seen at the top of this post? In September of 2017 I realized that those jeans were beginning to get a little loose and I searched for a replacement. I found them on sale and I bought another pair. This is not an action I normally recommend, and I felt foolish at the time. The sale pair was 2 sizes smaller than the pair I was wearing, and I could zip them closed only with effort. But I kept them anyway. I figured it was a $29 folly and I could always donate them. I found them this fall, and they fit. In fact only in trying on the smaller jeans did I see how loose the bigger jeans had become, only in trying on those jeans, larger and smaller, did I actually start to look at what I was wearing and see actually see myself, actually begin to see that I was wearing things I shouldn't be wearing. I am probably still wearing things I shouldn't be wearing. It is a process after all. There is still a pile of clothes on the floor. I am working my way forward. It is the only way to go.

October 16, 2018
Blue Suede Shoes

Yesterday I awoke to an overwhelming urge to wear blue suede shoes. Luckily I knew I had a pair hiding out in the master closet and so I wore them.

They made me very happy.

Actually, it was the hot pink soles that made me happy. I couldn't help but smile. I felt like I was walking on my own magic carpet of joy.

April 2, 2013
Just Another Monday

It has been cooler here in Knoxville this fall than it was most of last winter, and I admit I am enjoying the crisp mornings. The best news is that I am finally sorting through my supply of more wintery clothes, which have been sadly negleted since my arrival, and I am thrilled to be pulling out wools and cashmeres and rediscovering old favorites.

Still everything is different here. I am different here too, less worried about things, more relaxed, more willing to let clothes just be clothes, at least most of the time.

Shirt: J Crew summer 2011

Sweater: Bompard fall 2011

Jeans: Lafayette 148 New York spring 2012

Shoes: Moschino, at least 4 years old, quite possibly older.

Things I have learned:

1. I had forgotten how much I like a classic button-front shirt worn with a sweater.

2. When wearing a fairly sporty outfit like this, narrow jeans, sweater, shirt, I found I prefered a feminine shoe, heels or a pretty flat. With heavy shoes or boots I felt too clunky. I am still trying to figure out my boundaries as to what makes one combination feel just right and another not so good.

3. i don't particularly like sleeves that extend down over my hand, even just to the metacarpal joint of the thumb, except in outerwear. For non-coats I prefer that sleeves only go to my wrist bones, and I prefer them narrow. I might like a soft wide sleeve if it were short, somewhere between 3/4 and bracelet length, but I don't really know. Most of my sleeves are too long and too wide and I fuss with them all the time. The outfit above was perfect. This is an issue that requires more thought.

It has been a long time since I've joined the group over at Not Dead Yet Style for Visible Monday. Come on by a visit.

November 19, 2012
Brightening up Difficult Days

Friday was one of those days where I just couldn't settle down at my desk, couldn't focus my mind, jittery and distracted. Of course I found other things to do instead, I went out to get the new slippers G said he wanted then went to Hobby Lobby and bought a plate stand. Later, when G was out for a walk, climbed up on the step ladder and put a large plate that will not fit in any of my cabinets up top. Storage as display.

Some days are just like that. Some weeks even, and you learn to cope. Little things help. I made myself a mocha to start the day rather than my usual plain unsweetened black coffee. By breakfast I was already tired, already frazzled. G and I had been up since 5 and he was mad at me, mad at his aide when she came in, probably most of all frustrated and angry with himself since his mind and body weren't doing what he wanted them to do and he wasn't able to express himself in a way we understood. The hostility, the anger, this is all just part of the disease. One might think "this is not my husband" and in many ways it is not, it is a symptom of neurological paths gone horribly awry, and yet one must live through it and try not to take it personally. That part is sometimes hard. What the brain knows can still cause the heart distress, even when the heart knows better. Besides how do you explain to a man who is sitting on the bed screaming that his feet can't touch the floor and that he can't put his slippers on , that his feet are on the floor quite firmly and that he is, in fact already wearing his slippers, and that he put them on himself. How to explain that he may in fact be standing up while he is screaming that he can't get out of bed.

By breakfast he wasn't speaking to me or to his aide, just muttering a steady stream of swear words and glaring at us. The mocha was good. So was hiding. Sometimes absence is the best solution. Or joking. We joked that we should start a collection for the aides. Everytime G used a swear word he would have to put in a quarter. I would have to buy rolls of quarters by the gross. Later, when G saw the new slippers he threw them across the room, once again swearing, "I don't want anything that woman gets for me". This is why I waited until he was out to put things away.

By the time all the early morning drama was coming to a close and we were entering the wall-of-hostility phase, my hair was frizzy and I considered just opting for a tee and yoga pants and admitting defeat. But I wanted comfort and color so I grabbed the first bright things that caught my eye in my closet and ended up discovering another favorite outfit. There is nothing quite like dressing up when the road is hard, or dressing to satisfy your inner three-year old.

This is the same purple silk Ralph Lauren blouse I posted before, worn with J Crew Cafe Capris from last fall and purple Moschino ballet flats that are several years old. In the fall I wore these pants with boots and a sweater, but I hadn't worn them since moving to Knoxville, I think they are perfect with the long blouse and the delicate flats. It is true, that the long straight top with the cropped pants accents the fact that I am long of torso and short of leg, but so what. I am long of torso and short of leg. And yet this is everything I love: narrow pants hovering around the ankle (yes these are a little shorter than that), long tunic top, simple flat shoes, color. I assume you are picking up on a trend here. I certainly am.

In fact this outfit reminds me of my favorite gardening outfit, something I wore for years back when I spent a lot of my time out working in the garden. In those days I wore something called Japanese gardening pants, which I initially purchased and later copied. They were full and straight and loose and gathered at the bottom, just at the top of my ankle. Sometimes I wore loose straight leg jeans or painter's pants, rolled up or chopped off, again to the top of the ankle. I had some cute little canvas flats shaped like a ballet flat with rubber bottoms and toes, and I always wore G's old scrub shirts. I could spend the day in that outfit, day in and day out, only changing if i had to leave the house. This is just an updated version of the same thing and obviously an essential part of my own style.

As for the hair, it had settled down quite a bit by the time I got around to taking the pictures in the late afternoon. Starting out you can imagine Sonia Rykiel with shorter hair and you would get the basic look. At first I wasn't happy but then I decided I had to own my hair. I opted for a much brighter pink lipstick than I usually wear. I rather liked the effect. It made me feel intentional, as if I had planned to frizz my hair out to the skies. I suppose even bright pink is still just pink; its impact is still somewhat subtle. But it made an incredible difference in my attitude. Bright. Pink. Must. Remember.

Oh, and things did get better. Saturday morning the aide was in tears, but G and I had a good time Saturday afternoon. I took him out for lunch and shopping, exploring some of Knoxville's finer men's establishments. He found something he wanted, although we had to order the right size, and equilibrium was restored.

Have a great Monday. If you have a chance pop over to Patti's blog and check out what is going on at Visible Monday.

photo of japanese gardening pants from here.

April 16, 2012
Easter Pink

Pink and easter always go together in my mind, something to do with spring and rebirth and promise I suppose, although why pink instead of green or blue, I'm not sure. The intellectual side of me, the student of history and literature, always remembers that not that long ago pink was considered much too strong a color for girls, even watered down as it is, still too much of a reminder of red with its associations of warriors and blood. Good thing we are at least somewhat past those days, although I still adore a man in a pink shirt.

Anyway, the pink Lafayette 148 New York dress came in two weeks ago and seeing as it was so close, I decided I need a new Easter dress this year and that pink cotton would be perfect. This picture was taken after Easter services and is a little rumpled but still looking good. I went to the earliest full service which meant I had to get G out of bed early and didn't have time for pre-departure photos, but it was worthwhile. Afterwards I was in such a good mood because I always love the music at the Easter services and most of the congregation joined in for the Halleluliah Chorus at the end. I sang the alto part, which I still remember from when my junior high school choir sang the entire Messiah, as well as those high school years in the church choir; I didn't pass the audition for our high school choir. Of course this time I had the orchestra and the choir to help keep me on track as well, and as usual, the higher alto notes are out of my range so I had to drop down to tenor. That too brought up great memories of when a friend and I would trade parts sometimes in church and he would sing alto and I would sing tenor. I don't think the organist appreciated our efforts but we had fun.

Anyway I think my Easter-Pink association probably dates back to a particular pink Easter dress I had as a child. It was a pretty full-skirted number which had a little off white bolero with it. I adored that dress and I dreamed of pink patent mary janes to wear with it. I remember begging and whining for those shoes, making a terrible nuisance of myself, and being told they were completely impractical. And yet, on Easter morning there they were, waiting for me to wear with my pretty pink dress. I held on to those shoes for years, until there was no chance of even squeezing my foot into them. They made me so happy; the memory of them still does. I still like having a pair of pink shoes in my closet, like this pair of Manolos, which are at least 7 or 8 years old.

This post is part of Visible Monday. Pop on over and see what others are wearing. And also take a peek at the pretty pink tulips Materfamilias posted yesterday. Don't you think they would look just perfect with my dress? Easter and pink just go together.

April 9, 2012
Finding a Thread of Consistency in Everyday Style

It struck me, as I was whiling away a little time with virtual shopping and clipping last week, that there should be some kind of connection between the things I dream of making and wearing and the things I actually wear. In short, my virtual wardrobe might fit occasions I don't attend in my actual life, but it should look like it actually belongs to me, or, conversely, my daily wardrobe should in some way look like it belongs to a woman who could wear the items I clip.

It also struck me that this has not particularly always been the case, although I think I have managed it more consistently since I have moved to Knoxville. I am however still finding my way, sorting through the things I brought with me, thinking about what I want to wear now, and yes, just throwing on clothes and trying to get out the door.

Sometimes I think it works, othertimes it doesn't. Here I am in the dressing room at Belk (about to try on an Eileen Fisher blouse) feeling casually pulled together, stylish, and confident. This outfit "fits" as did the rolled up jeans with the checked shirt and the white/black suede cap-toed flats,I showed you a couple of weeks ago. That woman would also be comfortable in the clothes I clipped in my inspiration files.

However, at other times I pull together an outfit but somehow the pieces don't mesh nicely with some invisible but still ever-present sense of self. For example, last week, the tee, skirt, clunky sandal combination did not work for me in that although I loved all the pieces individually, I somehow felt "outside of myself" when I was wearing them. When I look at my inspiration pages, I see no connection to that woman in the blue skirt. My dream self would not wear that outfit, although she would definitely wear the skirt and tee with other pieces.

So this whole wardrobe idea encompasses more than just clothes I love. The clothes have to play well together, in a way that reflects something true and constant about me. I can work with that.

I like long tunics and tops. Here is a top and chinos which I think work well together. I felt pretty good about this combination, although when I look at the photo I am not sure about the ankle length pants and the heel on the espadrilles, but that is a truly minor issue.

Next I tried wearing this more fitted and tailored blouse out over the same chinos, and I didn't like it at all. The whole look just felt and appeared sloppy to me, although part of the blame may be a combination of loose shirt-tails and flat espadrilles, which upped the sloppiness factor considerably to my eye.

I did however like the shirt when I tucked it in and wore a belt, even with the same espadrilles. And why not? When did I stop tucking things in? Oh, I know the answer to that and let's not go there; it is a part of the past. Besides, having finally found a pair of chinos that I like and that fit at my actual waist, why not take advantage of that fact and wear a belt?

In case you hadn't noticed from the blurry side view, and there is no reason you might, one week after beginning yoga and some mindful changes to my gait and walking habits, I am already feeling less back pain and standing up much straighter. I have to thank you all for your suggestions, and especially Duchesse, for her thoughtful advice which helped me find a good instructor whom I look forward to working with.

This post is a part of Visible Monday. Pop on over and see what else is going on.

Now for the gritty details:

picture 1: Green blouse by Lafayette 148 (purchased in February) worn with DKNY Soho jeans (2011) and Heavy Machine Sandals (2010)

Picture 2: White stretch cotton tunic blouse by Eileen Fisher (purchased that day at Belk) with Lafayette 148 (2012) and J Crew Espadrilles (2010)

Picture 3: More Lafayette 148 in the white blouse and the same chinos from picture 2. The green belt is from Banana Republic (2007 or 2008) and the espadrilles are by Diane von Furstenburg (2011).

March 26, 2012
Reflect, Reflecting, Reflection

Yesterday I actually managed to cross more items off my list than I added, enough that the list seemed visibly shorter. Today not so much, although I did managed to cross off three items while I adding only two

One of those items was finally getting a mirror, which is now leaning against a wall in the guest bedroom, still in its box, although fully functional. Here I am checking it out immediately after bringing the mirror into the house wearing items that have become basics in my wardrobe since moving to Knoxville. Although I had a couple of these pieces before moving, I probably wouldn't have worn them together before, I don't know why. Perhaps I just fret less now.

Elieen Fisher tee (2012)

J Crew Skirt (2011)

Michel Kors platform sandals (2011)

I am not convinced that having the mirror will change much in terms of how I am dressing. I feel like I have explored style and expectation and now I just want to get dressed. Sometimes I'll get it "right" sometimes I won't, although the mirror will help me discern when things are way off, not that anyone else would be as critical as I myself tend to be.

Having a mirror will certainly make it easier to take a full length photo, even with stacks of paintings still stacked up against the wall in the background. I still think I find the camera more telling. Something about the flattening and two-dimensionality of the photographic image, even a photo of me looking in a mirror, seems to impose a layer of separation between me and the image of me. In the mirror I am far too prone to see my expectations of myself. It will be useful however, when I start looking at the various items in my closet that I am not yet wearing, trying to weed out the keepers and the losers.

March 20, 2012