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Posts Tagged ‘wood button’


I am languishing in a mire of indecision; should I order a slice of dense Gâteau au chocolat fondant de Nathalie with a slide of ever-so-slightly sweetened whipped cream, or a hunk of burnt sugar goodness in the form of a large slice of caramel cake with caramelized butter frosting? Perhaps I should order one cake after the other, nibbling forkfuls of chocolate and caramel until a sweet preference is made. I order both gâteaux, and unfasten the last wooden buttons of my ocher suede waistcoat in anticipation. If I cannot be decisive about love, I can be decisive about cake! Stevie Smith spoke eloquently.
“I always remember your beautiful flowers
And the beautiful kimono you wore
When you sat on the couch
With that tigerish crouch
And told me you loved me no more.
What I cannot remember is how I felt when you were unkind
All I know is, if you were unkind now I should not mind.
Ah me, the power to feel exaggerated, angry and sad
The years have taken from me. Softly I go now, pad pad.”

(The ingenious Ms. Smith)

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My motto for the upcoming season is, “When in doubt, make shoes!” I have a deep lust for a pair of wing-tips with hand-done brogueing, and have spent night after night restlessly awake, reading “Handmade Shoes for Men” by László Vass and Magda Molnár, listening to Etta James, brushing crumbs of roasted tomato, ricotta and mascarpone tart from my drawing tablet, and sketching shoe design patterns. I have finally settled on an arabesque motif with feathery swirls surrounding fat-cheeked squirrels. These bespoke shoes will be stunning. I fasten the oak buttons on my chocolate brown cable-knit cardigan and shuffle into the kitchen to make a cup of ginger tea before retiring to bed.
“Something told me it was over
When I saw you and her talkin’
Something deep down in my soul said, ‘Cry, girl’
When I saw you and that girl walkin’ around
Whoo, I would rather, I would rather go blind, boy
Then to see you walk away from me, child, no”

(By E. Jordan and B. Foster)

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I thought carefully about the British banker’s tale as I boarded the plane. I wanted to follow in his footsteps, but I also wanted my life of baking a gloriously simple yogurt cake at 3 am with an insomniac cat winding her way impatiently between my ankles. I wanted to wander in the desert singing sailor shanty tunes to Pauline, occasionally stopping to dance with dusty nomads at night under the silvery stars. I wanted adventure, and I wanted solitude, and I wanted comfort, and I wanted company. All my worries led back to my definition of “home”, and I wondered where my heart would rest. The cabin lights dimmed, and I watched Istanbul disappear as we took off. I fastened the oak buttons on my oatmeal cable-knit fisherman sweater, and turned on my iPod to “Once in a Lifetime”.
“You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
You may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife
You may ask yourself, “Well, how did I get here?”
Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by, water flowing underground
Into the blue again, after the money’s gone
Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground”
Water dissolving and water removing
There is water at the bottom of the ocean
Under the water, carry the water
Remove the water from the bottom of the ocean
Water dissolving and water removing”

(By B. Eno, J. Harrison, D. Byrne, T. Weymouth, C. Frantz)

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It is a beautiful day; the sun is a shiny lemon-drop, and the clouds are pale wisps of puffery scooting their way across the shimmering turquoise ceiling of the Turkish sky. I have woven a wreath of goat’s-thorn, seapinks, and leafy weeds for Pauline, fitting it over her silky ears and tilting it rakishly to the left. We meander; I perched on her soft, furred back like a Kurd traveling homewards. I’m wearing loose dark brown and ultramarine blue striped cotton trousers, a brown well-washed linen shirt with 15 buttery oak wooden buttons, and a ratty wide-brimmed straw hat. Between swigs of hot sweet tea from my metal thermos and nibbles of a rolled up anchovy kaygana, I am light-hearted, and soon find myself whistling a song.
“In the jungle, the mighty jungle
The lion sleeps tonight
In the jungle, the quiet jungle
The lion sleeps tonight
Near the village, the peaceful village
The lion sleeps tonight
Near the village, the quiet village
The lion sleeps tonight
Hush my darling, don’t fear my darling
The lion sleeps tonight
Hush my darling, don’t fear my darling
The lion sleeps tonight”

(By L. Creatore, H. Peretti, L. Solomon, G. Weiss, D. George)

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