Flower Shops: A Little Piece of Eden

In my next life, I'm going to open a flower shop.  I can see it so clearly in my mind's eye.  A tiny light-filled jewel box of a space, with exposed brick walls, high ceilings and worn wooden floors.  I'll spend my days creating lush floral arrangements, plucking flowers from old galvanized tin buckets filled with colorful blooms:  pale pinks, brilliant fuschia, shades of white and green, dusky greys, soft yellows and deep violets.  Part shop, part studio, part gathering spot, this beautiful florist's atelier will radiate welcome to all who cross the threshold.

An ancient, lime-washed refectory table brought home from travels abroad will anchor the space and serve as my workbench, scattered with petals, wire clippings, scissors and ribbon.  Above, glittery glass stars and twinkly lights will hang from the ceiling, twisting in and around curling lengths of grapevine. Simple hand-tied bouquets nestled in clear mason jars will crowd the shelves, while little posies in terracotta pots sit in the windows soaking up the sun.  In season, we'll set out big wicker baskets of loose bulbs for wintertime blooms.  Customers can select their favorites from the offering of paperwhites, little yellow tete-a-tete narcissi, crocus or snowdrops, packaging them up carefully in brown paper bags tied with twine.

I'll pop over each morning for latte and a friendly chat at the scrumptious cafe next door, then browse the shelves at my best friend's bookstore down the block.  Favorite customers and new friends alike will stop by with a smile and leave with smartly wrapped packages and armfuls of flowers tied up with ribbon.  The calendar will bustle with flower-arranging workshops, decoupage classes and cooking demonstrations filled with hip, interesting people.

In this idyllic world of mine, the postman will know my name, and my mom will drop in once a week to catch up over a cup of tea.  The store will be open four days a week, and I'll close up shop each day at 3:30, taking my bike to collect the kids before heading home for playtime and dinner.  On days off, I'll scour the local flea markets for vintage treasures to resell at the shop.  Once a year, I'll travel to Europe to find floral inspiration amongst the quaint back streets of Paris, London and Florence.  And, magically, this wonderful atelier will be wildly successful and generate enough income to support my artist's creative lifestyle.

 

A girl has got to have dreams, I say.  And I have a lot of them, I mean A LOT OF THEM.  I've got a whole list to escape with:  florist, textile designer, cookbook author, photographer, antique jewelry designer, yoga teacher, roller derby queen (not!).  Daydreams are as essential to life as real life itself.  Nothing can replace the joy and sweetness of loved ones, or the fun and challenge of life in the moment, but where else can you explore a new persona, revisit a path not followed, dream up your own perfect world?

Someone who's living this dream is Ariella Chezar with a shop in NYC and atelier/workshop in the Berkshires.  Her work is gorgeous, with credit for many of the images on this post.  Check it out:  Ariella Flowers.

Tune in again soon for my next life.  I'm thinking European vintage linens, kind of an import/export thing.  Scavenging trips to Europe, an online store with a fabulous logo and a second business refurbishing antique French chairs with rustic chic grain sack fabrics.   Who's there with me?  Come join in my daydream -- who will you be in your next life?

Let me leave you with this thought for the day:

(photos in this post via Ariella Chezar Flowers)

In the Pink

I must admit:  I'm just a little bit fixated on flamingos.  Flamingos in riotous shades of pink.  I'm not normally a pink kind of gal (nor a flamingo type of a girl to be completely honest), and I'd sooner be on Block Island than South Beach, but I've absolutely flipped for these blooming birds in all their long legged glory.

Trend-setter, I'm clearly not, as I've seen these intriguing creatures scattered across the pages of just about every magazine I've flipped through in the past several weeks.  And Pinterest is virtually awash in pale pink feathers.  But I'm hooked.  I love the idea of an unexpected pop of pink (and flash of leg) turning up where you least expect it -- a tres chic powder room, super glam dressing area, ultra-feminine bedroom, a sitting area with moxy, cozy desk nook or elegant vintage modern dining room.

Come take a browse with me through the images that have struck my fancy this week...

Ooh, la, la... the hot pink tub adds a nice touch to this glam vintage bath
(Cole & Son flamingo wallpaper):

Wowsa!  That's a lot of flamingo, but super elegant.

Love this mod vintage sofa set against a striking Grace Garrett wallpaper...

 Wow - flamingos with Mojo! (Albany wallpaper)

Oooooh, love the effect of pink against black (Graham & Brown wallpaper):

Too sweet... (Cole & Son)
 

And this one's wall art (via Etsy) instead of wallpaper, but I still love it.  Perhaps it needs a home in my studio space:

 

What I don't know is how to tell my male-centric household that pink flamingos are in our future... any thoughts?  "Honey, I know you're going to love it..."  or "Trust me on this one?"  Wish me luck...

Fancy Pants

Have you checked out the Norwegian men's curling team??!?  I don't mean the men (though they're also quite fine), I mean their pants.  It's not often that I feel compelled to comment on fashion trends, but I heard talk about the Norwegian curling team’s daring duds, and had to take a peek.  Curling, for those not in the know, is the sport where teams slide heavy stones across the ice, using brooms to smooth the surface ahead of the puck’s trajectory.  

Why?  Why not.  People from cold, frozen places like Minnesota, Canada, Norway and Iceland play the game, while the rest of us winter lightweights catch a few minutes of televised matches every four years during the Winter Olympics.  My recollections of curling attire (do I really have recollections of curling attire?) bring to mind matching woolen sweaters and basic black pants.  High fashion?  Never.

Enter the Norwegian men’s curling team.  No black pants in their closets – instead, these he-men are sporting boldly patterned pants with eye-popping color – so outrageous it makes every bone in my carefully dressed body cringe.  But I like it, I really really like it.  I think they’re adorable.   They have style and panache, a certain flair that lights up the ice.  Woo-hoo!  Go curlers!!  (Is curlers a word?  Who knows, who cares?)  What I do know is that these guys are rockin’ it.  And if you haven’t seen them yet, you must.  Take a look.
 
The flag:
 
 The white argyle:
   

The red argyle:


And last but not least, the zig zag suit:

 

These guys even have their own fan page on Facebook: Norwegian Curling Pants

Thumbs up or down??  I think they're going for the gold.

This Old Spoon

I have a favorite spoon.  It's the one I use to make homemade sauce for mac and cheese, the one that stirs lemon pie filling over the double boiler, the one that blends the sugar, butter and chocolate into a satin smooth fudge sauce, the one that offers up a taste of the meal to come.

It's my cooking spoon, the one I reach for as I pull out the recipe book, the one I'll clean if it's found dirty in the dishwasher.  I have other spoons, worn wooden spoons from my college days, new wooden ones picked up on an Italian holiday, sturdy stainless spoons with an extra long handle.  But of all my spoons, this is the one I love the best.

It's old and heavily silvered, the bowl of the spoon generously sized, perfect for scooping and serving, stirring and tasting.  Its front edge has been worn down from years of use, and the silver plate finish is buffed to a soft shine.  A dainty floral pattern runs along the handle, capped by a heart-shaped swag at the end.  On the back, a small leaf is stamped into converse curve of the bowl, the mark of an unknown maker more than a hundred years ago.

I love this spoon.  As I feel its familiar weight in my hand, I think about its story, about the women through whose lives it has passed.  Who was that first woman?  Was it a wedding gift or purchased for her hope chest?  Or did she buy it herself, a practical tool for her kitchen?  I'll never be sure.  What I do know is that it came to my grandmother, perhaps from her mother, where it lived in her kitchen for forty-odd years.  With this spoon, she made simple nourishing food to feed her family, raising the boys who would grow up to become my father and uncle.  With this spoon, she mixed the batter for her legendary chocolate chip cookies, freshly baked each time my sister and I came to visit.

And now, as I use this spoon in my kitchen to cook for my own boys, I think of her.  Of the years, the love, the stories, the recipes and the laughter shared around her battered kitchen table with its vinyl cloth.  With this spoon in my hand, I feel her near, cooking with me once again.

Now, dear friend, what memories are found in your kitchen drawer?