Posts Tagged ‘navy button’

I’m getting ready of a train adventure, and have lectured the cats sternly about appropriate travel behavior; keep your claws to yourself, no begging for treats from our fellow travelers, say “please” and “thank you”…and I’m tempted to add “Don’t speak unless you are spoken to.” They listen solemnly, nodding their furry little heads in mute agreement. I fasten the cat-eye shaped, navy blue vintage buttons on the collars of their puppy-tooth travel caplets, settle my feline compagnons into their wicker travel basket, and grab my hamper of travel food. I have made crackery potato bugnes, a tasty croustillante aux cerise et pistache, and a thermos of hot, gingery Moroccan spiced chickpea and lentil soup.
“Fierce-throated beauty!
Roll through my chant, with all thy lawless music! thy swinging lamps at night;
Thy piercing, madly-whistled laughter! thy echoes, rumbling like an earthquake, rousing
Law of thyself complete, thine own track firmly holding;
(No sweetness debonair of tearful harp or glib piano thine,)
Thy trills of shrieks by rocks and hills return’d,
Launch’d o’er the prairies wide—across the lakes,
To the free skies, unpent, and glad, and strong.”

(By W. Whitman)


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Will I ever stop worriedly mulling things over? Could I spend my nights holed up in my steamy kitchen, baking galettes while listening to Marlene Dietrich? That is my new goal; an oblivious and content mind full of cookery and music. This is the first night of my resolution; the apartment reeks of baking pastry and I am eating a warm slice of blackberry and apple galette with burnt sugar ice-cream. I am not, peaceful though, but rather sulkily peevish. I tilt the bowl to slurp the last of the melted ice-cream, and wander off to my bed. I’m wearing dark paisley Liberty of London pajamas with navy piping and engraved vintage navy buttons. Once covered with sheets and quilts, I grab Lulu and Francy for feline company.
“I can’t give you anything but love, baby.
That’s the only thing I’ve plenty of, baby.
Dream a while, scheme a while.
We’re sure to find,
Happiness, and I guess
All those things you’ve always pined for.”

(By J. McHugh and D. Fields)

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I’m up baking at 3am. There isn’t a full moon. I’m not unhappy, dissatisfied, or cranky. I’m not even slightly moody, however I am absolutely awake. I’m making a batch of banana coconut bread pudding, with a handful of candied ginger for bite. Sashaying to “Ladies Who Lunch”, I whisk the eggs and sugar together until they are thick and creamy, and then add melted butter, cinnamon, Madagascar vanilla, and whole milk. I toss in a teaspoon of ground nutmeg, because I adore nutmeg. I’m barefoot and wearing worn denim overalls, with a tattered wool and cotton blend Campbell plaid shirt fastened with vintage engraved navy buttons. The kitchen smells deliciously of spices, black tea, and Ethiopian food from dinner earlier, and the cats are sleeping on the bed, waiting for me to join them.
“Here’s to the ladies who lunch–
Everybody laugh.
Lounging in their caftans
And planning a brunch
On their own behalf.
Off to the gym,
Then to a fitting,
Claiming they’re fat.
And looking grim,
‘Cause they’ve been sitting
Choosing a hat.
Does anyone still wear a hat?
I’ll drink to that.”

(By S. Sondheim)

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I stagger off of the airplane, a little woozy from too little sleep and too much sugar. It has been a long ride home. I wander over to baggage claims, and have the good sense to be chagrined at the volume of steamers, hatboxes, and valises that await me. A dashing porter in a marine blue suit with gold epaulets assists me, piling my bags and boxes up carefully, and whistling for a cab to ferry me home. I look out of the window grateful to be on land once again; at this very minute, San Francisco feels like home, with the silvery damp fog rolling in over Twin Peaks, the Sisters soliciting donations in front of Café Flore, and bicyclists of all ages whizzing by me with their handlebar streamers flowing in the wind. I fasten the deep navy vintage buttons on my midnight blue velveteen wide-lapelled jacket, wrap my white silk scarf around my neck tightly to keep out the evening chill, and wonder how my cat at home will take to Francy. A song comes on the radio, and I doze.
“It is an odd thing, but everyone who disappears is said to be seen at San Francisco. It must be a delightful city, and possess all the attractions of the next world.” – Oscar Wilde

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