Posts Tagged ‘glass button’

I love the crinkle of chocolate wrappers. And I adore the pleated brown waxed cups that chocolates come in, each sweet morsel coddled gently until they are plucked from the box. It is a rainy night, with the water coming down in sheets so thick that the streetlights are only a faint glow in the dark. I am staying home, and in a gentle flutter of débauche am eating an aqua-colored box of Patrick Roger caramel-lime Couleurs and caramel-chocolate covered almonds for dinner. I’m wearing French blue and ocher herringbone cotton pajamas with silvery Czech glass buttons and blue velveteen slippers monogrammed in gilded threads. I lazily then turn the pages of The Affected Provincial’s Almanac by Breaulove Swells Whimsy, pop another sticky sweet into my mouth, and snuggle closer to Francy and Lulu.
“The perils of sportswear, diaphanism, self-defense for sissies, tramp aestheticism, the proper grooming of facial hair, and how to become a bon vivant–all this and much more may be found between the shimmering covers of this sleek and utterly beguiling volume. Take to your breast this artifact of grace and beauty!”
(Description of The Affected Provincial’s Almanac)


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I am amusing myself and my seat-mates with a series of rousing games of hangman. It is a stand-off, and if I lose this game I’ll be dangling lower than the measliest commoner during la révolution française. I eat a snippet of sticky glazed lemon tart with caramelized blow-torched oranges for fortitude, but it is no use, and with the word “whippersnapper”, I am soundly hung. The gentleman across from me tips his worn silk top-hat to one side, unbuttons the green iridescent Czech glass buttons of his starched white shirt cuffs and proposes another round of hangman, along with pots of steaming sweet hot tea for all. Perhaps this is another life lesson; never play word games with a man wearing a top hat.
“Baby, take off your coat… real slow
Baby, take off your shoes… here, I’ll take your shoes
Yes, yes, yes
You can leave your hat on
You can leave your hat on
You can leave your hat on”

(By R. Newman)

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It appears that Francy had a skirmish with the feisty Samuel Whiskers; she is covered from one tip of her pointed ear to the end of her ginger tail in cookie dough, with crumbs sloughing off in crumbling sheets. She has the common sense to appear chagrined as she sits at the end of the bed bathing herself to try and hide the evidence of her indiscretions. I am torn between a fierce scolding and laughing at her. In the end, I remove my black velvet double-breasted waistcoat with knotted antique silver Czech glass buttons, and help her clean all that hardened sweetness off her orange fur. I taste the dough clinging to her back; it appears that Francy has a sophisticated penchant for cornmeal lime cookies.
“”Anna Maria,” said the old man rat (whose name was Samuel Whiskers),–“Anna Maria, make me a kitten dumpling roly-poly pudding for my dinner.” “It requires dough and a pat of butter, and a rolling-pin,” said Anna Maria, considering Tom Kitten with her head on one side.”
(From The Tale of Samuel Whiskers: The Roly-Poly Pudding by B. Potter)

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The winter solstice is coming up on December 21st, so I’m conducting rehearsals. It is important to be prepared for festivities; I’ve invited a group of compatriots over for a pie and Cole Porter extravaganza this Sunday. I want to wear wintery clothing, so have sewn a black quilted velveteen lounging suit with snowy ermine cuffs and faceted glass buttons that are reminiscent of the Art Deco period. Lulu and Francy are determined to deposit brown tabby and ginger fur across my pristine attire, and I have pies to bake. Cat fur, velveteen, divinely naughty Cole Porter, and pastry are a tricky mix. I survey my countertop pie kingdom; chess pie, sour cream raisin pie without meringue, apple pie with a lattice top, pear-raspberry flan tarts, and a golden tarte au fromage frais.
“Before you leave these portals
To meet less fortunate mortals,
There’s just one final message
I would give to you.
You all have learned reliance
On the sacred teachings of science,
So I hope, through life, you never will decline
In spite of philistine
To do what all good scientists do

(By the illustrious C. Porter)

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I am baking solstice fortune cookies for my pals, as we all need words of beauty and luck. I’m hunched over my library table with a neat stack of cut Italian hand-marbled paper, a quill pen and inkpot, and a toppling heap of reference books. This project calls for the dusty smell of leather volumes of poetry, the soft glow of oil lamps, pots of steaming English tea, and cats slumbering at my feet. I fasten the clear Czech glass buttons of my threadbare black quilted satin smoking jacket and the scent of your cologne wafts gently into the night air; each fold of smooth fabric holds memories of your body. I open The Speed of Darkness to find a poem.
“To construct peace, to make love, to reconcile
Waking with sleeping, ourselves with each other,
Ourselves with ourselves. We would try by any means
To reach the limits of ourselves, to reach beyond ourselves,
To let go the means, to wake. “

(By Muriel Rukeyser)

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Later this afternoon, I am having friends over for tea, dainty sandwiches, and cakes. Sometimes one needs guileless pleasures, and this week is one of those moments. I have set the slate-topped side table with my vibrant ‘Red Autumn’ Clarice Cliff Art Deco tea serving set, and my favorite embroidered vintage tablecloth. I have scattered star-inspired Art Deco crocheted doilies over the arms and backs of my chairs and sofa. I am wearing a lightweight black and cream wool hounds-tooth smoking jacket with black satin lapels and triangular, black and gold Czech glass buttons, cream pleated wool slacks, black and blue striped silk hose, and velveteen slippers. I’m feeling a bit Henry Higgins as I sing along to The Rain in Spain.
“The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain!
By George, she’s got it! By George, she’s got it!
Now, once again where does it rain? On the plain!
On the plain! And where’s that soggy plain?
In Spain! In Spain!
The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain!
The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain!
In Hartford, Hereford, and Hampshire…?
Hurricanes hardly happen.”

(By A. Lerner and F. Loewe)

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I am virtuous, older and wiser, and for those stellar qualities, I get a chocolate cake. A cake a day is my very simple birthday rule for the month of October. You have noted my brush with virtue and have baked me a cake, substituting yogurt for sour cream and applesauce for oil. Since I have accumulated only a light dusting of that acclaimed quality, the frosting is packed full of non-virtuous butter and cream. I’m at the table and waiting for the magical moment when you bring me the cake. I’m wearing a violet linen pleated-front shirt, a red suede double-breasted waistcoat with clear Czech glass and rhinestone spider web buttons, brown leather pants, and tall riding boots. You walk solemnly into the room carrying the cake, candles alight, and humming a song. I love the moment when I blow out the candles and the flames are extinguished in a puff, with the smell of burning wax lingering in the air like a love letter.
“When the earth was still flat,
And the clouds made of fire,
And mountains stretched up to the sky,
Sometimes higher,
Folks roamed the earth
Like big rolling kegs.
They had two sets of arms.
They had two sets of legs.
They had two faces peering
Out of one giant head
So they could watch all around them
As they talked; while they read.
And they never knew nothing of love.
It was before the origin of love.”

(By S. Trask)

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