Roxie and Ernie, the resident lovebirds at The House Where The Black Cat Lives, enjoyed this weekend's warmer weather, but took advantage of the cooler evening temps for a snuggle with their favorite Valentine. Ain't love grand?
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
My Style Muse
My chic mother in classic streamlined spring/summer style: Simple light-colored belted linen dress with slip-on huraches, accented with eye-catching earrings.
Even before I became a Francophile, I sought a signature style. My aesthetic has always been very French. People noticed that even when I was in my teens. At the time I assumed it was because I was tall, brunette and dabbed Chanel No. 5 on my wrists every now and again. I realize now there was way more to it. It was in my genes and in the air I breathed.
My first style muse and teacher was my mother. Mama was not French, never went to France and most assuredly never read "Entre Nous," the style bible cited by most American women with Francophile leanings. But like French women, she possessed in spades that je ne sais quoi quality that most American women find so elusive. She wasn't tall, but she wore clothes confidently. Having now observed many, many French women at close range, I can attest that style confidence is really the factor that sets "them" apart from "us."
My mother was not one to follow the herd. In an era when the preferred look was All-American Doris Day-ish snub-nosed blondes, my ethnic Croatian mother with her dark coloring and angular features didn't try to look cute or frou frou with ruffles and pastels. Nor did she go overtly sexy with cat-eye liner, cinched waists and plunging decolletage a la Sophia Loren or Gina Lollobrigida (though with her great legs and generous bosom, she would have stopped traffic).
Lean, clean lines that made her look taller were her trademark. She preferred solid colors, but sometimes wore prints, like this blouse, in small doses.
Instead she adopted a look that was part gamine, part classic casual elegance that suited her perfectly. Cropped pants with espadrilles and cotton boat-neck sweaters. Simple Ts with flowing skirts and leather huraches or ballet flats. Tailored trousers (still a novelty in the ultra-conservative South) with slip on loafers and button front cardigans with collars and three-quarter length sleeves. A cropped Italian boy bob that played up her big dark eyes and incredible cheekbones. Max Factor's flattering Pink 'n Orange lipstick rather than Revlon's dramatic Love That Red.
She loved clean lines and solid colors (but not black which she felt turned her dark olive complexion muddy), and put them together in original pairings like blue or aqua with brown. She didn't want to overpower her slight frame, so she accessorized sparingly but dazzlingly. She might adorn the French cuffs of a simple blouse with exotic jade cuff links fashioned like the heads of Burmese dancers. A pair of sculptural gold earrings looked great with her short hair and the cream, brown and camel clothes she favored.
Collared cardigans like this one worn over simple Ts were favorites whether paired with trousers, skirts or cropped pants -- always with flats.
My first style muse and teacher was my mother. Mama was not French, never went to France and most assuredly never read "Entre Nous," the style bible cited by most American women with Francophile leanings. But like French women, she possessed in spades that je ne sais quoi quality that most American women find so elusive. She wasn't tall, but she wore clothes confidently. Having now observed many, many French women at close range, I can attest that style confidence is really the factor that sets "them" apart from "us."
My mother was not one to follow the herd. In an era when the preferred look was All-American Doris Day-ish snub-nosed blondes, my ethnic Croatian mother with her dark coloring and angular features didn't try to look cute or frou frou with ruffles and pastels. Nor did she go overtly sexy with cat-eye liner, cinched waists and plunging decolletage a la Sophia Loren or Gina Lollobrigida (though with her great legs and generous bosom, she would have stopped traffic).
Lean, clean lines that made her look taller were her trademark. She preferred solid colors, but sometimes wore prints, like this blouse, in small doses.
Instead she adopted a look that was part gamine, part classic casual elegance that suited her perfectly. Cropped pants with espadrilles and cotton boat-neck sweaters. Simple Ts with flowing skirts and leather huraches or ballet flats. Tailored trousers (still a novelty in the ultra-conservative South) with slip on loafers and button front cardigans with collars and three-quarter length sleeves. A cropped Italian boy bob that played up her big dark eyes and incredible cheekbones. Max Factor's flattering Pink 'n Orange lipstick rather than Revlon's dramatic Love That Red.
She loved clean lines and solid colors (but not black which she felt turned her dark olive complexion muddy), and put them together in original pairings like blue or aqua with brown. She didn't want to overpower her slight frame, so she accessorized sparingly but dazzlingly. She might adorn the French cuffs of a simple blouse with exotic jade cuff links fashioned like the heads of Burmese dancers. A pair of sculptural gold earrings looked great with her short hair and the cream, brown and camel clothes she favored.
Collared cardigans like this one worn over simple Ts were favorites whether paired with trousers, skirts or cropped pants -- always with flats.
She invested in quality pieces and wore them a lifetime. I loved her chocolate-colored three-quarter length, shawl-collar walking coat in a wool, cashmere and reindeer hair blend. She -- and I -- wore that coat for nearly 50 years, and she was still receiving compliments on it the last day she wore it. Her go-to evening bag was a simple cream-colored, mesh metal bead clutch she bought in the 1950s -- a delightfully tactile little number that my sister and I loved to play with when we were kids.
And to the end of her days, she wore one signature fragrance: Toujours Moi by Corday.
As she grew older, she became less interested in dressing herself than in passing on her style wisdom to my sister and me. But she never lost interest in good style. She read fashion magazines and pored over the latest fall collections (like me she always like fall clothes the best) and singled out pieces she thought would suit us. She loved to visit the mall to observe what people were wearing so she could critique them to us sotto voice.
And to the end of her days, she wore one signature fragrance: Toujours Moi by Corday.
As she grew older, she became less interested in dressing herself than in passing on her style wisdom to my sister and me. But she never lost interest in good style. She read fashion magazines and pored over the latest fall collections (like me she always like fall clothes the best) and singled out pieces she thought would suit us. She loved to visit the mall to observe what people were wearing so she could critique them to us sotto voice.
While Mama generally did not care for the way she looked in black, she did own a little black dress, worn here, with a flattering lace insert to keep the dark color away from her face. The simple lines are classic Mama.
Her lessons stuck. Though I've had my "what was I thinking" fashion moments (my 20s coincided with the 1980s), like my mom I prefer clean lines and solid colors and well-made pieces I can wear forever. I don't eschew trends, but, like her, I consider them carefully and adopt only those I feel suit me.
There are some individualistic differences in our styles. Since I have dark hair with a fair complexion, I prefer black and grey clothes and red lipstick (how very French of me) rather than the earthier tones she favored. I am tall, so I choose bolder scaled (but still classic) accessories. Unlike my mother, I am a cat mama so my clothes are often unintentionally accessorized with cat hair. For that reason, I keep lint rollers in every room of my house, my car, my office and my bag.
Mama even managed to look good in a bridesmaid's dress. Of course, she designed the dresses and picked the color schemes (mossy green here) for both of her sisters' weddings. My sister and I weren't the only ones who looked to her for style advice!
The biggest lesson I've learned from my mother is that I don't have to be a conventional beauty, have a certain weight or body type or be under 40 to look stylish -- and more importantly feel good -- in what I wear. It's an attitude as much as a look, and it's one I hope to continue to cultivate no matter how old, fat, flabby, wrinkly and /or stooped over I become.
Merci, Maman. Merci beaucoup.
The biggest lesson I've learned from my mother is that I don't have to be a conventional beauty, have a certain weight or body type or be under 40 to look stylish -- and more importantly feel good -- in what I wear. It's an attitude as much as a look, and it's one I hope to continue to cultivate no matter how old, fat, flabby, wrinkly and /or stooped over I become.
Merci, Maman. Merci beaucoup.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Baby It's Cold Outside!
Brrrrrrrrr!! It's cold in the 'burg this morning. Koko thinks today is a good day to stay in and snuggle under the covers.
Stay warm -- wherever you are!
Stay warm -- wherever you are!
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Winter Wallowing
My house in holiday dress. It's all gone now...
The holidays are over, and I finally got the Christmas decorations down. My mother's perennial excuse that the season isn't really over until after The Feast of the Epiphany expired last week. Well , I did leave a string of lights wound around my Eiffel Tower. Every time I plug those in, I'm instantly transported to Paris. Those are staying put.
The holidays are over, and I finally got the Christmas decorations down. My mother's perennial excuse that the season isn't really over until after The Feast of the Epiphany expired last week. Well , I did leave a string of lights wound around my Eiffel Tower. Every time I plug those in, I'm instantly transported to Paris. Those are staying put.
... except for the Eiffel Tower lights (sorry about the blurry photo).
The house seems so naked now! What with the bare trees, dead grass and general blah-ness outside, it's all rather depressing.
But the post-holiday lull does bring with it the soul-soothing benefits of winter wallowing. And Lord knows, I do love a wallow.
I snuggle on the sofa in my cozy yellow and red family room, under a toasty throw, surrounded by purring kitties (Want to learn how to wallow? Observe a cat.) and watching old movies while sipping from a generous-sized mug of cinnamon vanilla tea or hot cocoa with chocolate-coated mint marshmallows melting inside. (Thank you, Kimmy!)
Everything I know about wallowing, I learned from my cats.
I flip through the new cookbooks I received for Christmas in search of wallow-worthy recipes.
Unlike holiday food --opulent, over the top and designed to impress -- wallow food is simple, homely, hearty fare meant to be enjoyed alone or shared en famille. That's another thing I love about mid-January: It's the least judgmental time of the year, completely lacking in pretension or pressure.
Unlike holiday food --opulent, over the top and designed to impress -- wallow food is simple, homely, hearty fare meant to be enjoyed alone or shared en famille. That's another thing I love about mid-January: It's the least judgmental time of the year, completely lacking in pretension or pressure.
Sammy finds a private place amidst the pillows for his wallow time.
The other night I tossed a couple of cans of rinsed white cannellini beans with a pint of grape tomatoes, olive oil, chopped fresh oregano, thyme and rosemary, smashed garlic cloves, sea salt and freshly ground pepper, topped them chicken thighs, drizzled with more olive oil, sea salt and freshly ground pepper and baked for about 45 minutes. Voila --- wallow-worthy winter food just like I ate in Paris last winter.
I also baked a dense, moist chocolate orange loaf cake from Nigella Lawson's new cookbook (now there's a lady who makes wallowing look downright sexy). It was a lovely, lumpy, sunken in the middle, frosting-less cake perfect for nibbling.
Tonight I'm going to take the remnants of the show-stopping standing rib roast I served at Christmas out of the freezer and simmer it with onions, potatoes, carrots, celery, garlic, beef broth, red wine and baby pasta to make my grandmother's famous beef soup. If I work up enough energy (difficult to do when properly immersed in a state of wallowing), I will make up a mess of tomato and pork-simmered sauerkraut to serve alongside it.
Just thinking about it lifts my spirits.
Just thinking about it lifts my spirits.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Cats In My Christmas Tree
There was a time, not so many Christmases ago, that the cats in my tree would have been real ones. As kittens, my babies loved to climb up in the branches and take a nap. It was always fun to see my house guests' egg nog go flying when one of the adorable "realistic" cat ornaments leaped out of the branches.
This Christmas, the cats in the tree, are of the ornamental variety. My tree is a reflection of me and the things important to me .... and, well, I am a cat mama .... so there are a few kitty ornaments in there with the stars, St. Nicks and Mr. Bingles.
Like these musical little tabbies that play Jingle Bells when their tummies are squeezed.
These little black cats are really gift tags, but they work well as ornaments don't you think?
My favorites may be the newest feline additions to the tree, these two stylin' black cats.
And, on that note, Henry, Sammy, Nettie, C.J., Koko, Ernie, Roxie and I all wish you a very Merry Christmas .... from the House Where the Black Cat Lives.
This Christmas, the cats in the tree, are of the ornamental variety. My tree is a reflection of me and the things important to me .... and, well, I am a cat mama .... so there are a few kitty ornaments in there with the stars, St. Nicks and Mr. Bingles.
Like these musical little tabbies that play Jingle Bells when their tummies are squeezed.
These little black cats are really gift tags, but they work well as ornaments don't you think?
My favorites may be the newest feline additions to the tree, these two stylin' black cats.
And, on that note, Henry, Sammy, Nettie, C.J., Koko, Ernie, Roxie and I all wish you a very Merry Christmas .... from the House Where the Black Cat Lives.
Monday, December 20, 2010
A New Orleans Interlude
Last year I spent Christmas in Paris, one of my favorite cities in the world. This year, I'm spending Christmas at home in Hattiesburg, but slipped away this weekend to my other favorite city, New Orleans, for a little holiday interlude.
I have always loved this city and actually lived there for one magical Christmas when I was a little girl (I shared my memories of that Christmas on my other blog "Mike and Mary's Kitchen).
Neither the passage of time nor the ravages of Katrina have dulled New Orleans' Yuletide luster for me.
This year I enjoyed:
Shopping for sweet scents in the uber feminine Hove perfumer.
Finding another "House Where the Black Cat Lives," in this case the Mexican restaurant El Gato Negro.
... and Ernie's twin in the window of French Quarter vet's office (if possible I think this guy is even fatter than Big E!)
I have always loved this city and actually lived there for one magical Christmas when I was a little girl (I shared my memories of that Christmas on my other blog "Mike and Mary's Kitchen).
Neither the passage of time nor the ravages of Katrina have dulled New Orleans' Yuletide luster for me.
This year I enjoyed:
Shopping for sweet scents in the uber feminine Hove perfumer.
Citrus-laden trees in French Quarter courtyards.
Getting a history lesson at the Beauregard-Keyes, Gallier and Hermann-Grima houses, interrupted by a raucous second line passing by outside.
Celebration in the Oaks at City Park.
Lobster beignets and s'mores tart (yum) at La Petite Grocery on Magazine Street ...
... and duck confit and bacon seared scallops at Ralph's on the Park ....
... and duck/sweet potato hash with homemade pepper jelly atop a cornbread waffle, washed down with the perfect Bloody Mary (and did I mention praline bacon) at Elizabeth's in Bywater.
Lobster beignets and s'mores tart (yum) at La Petite Grocery on Magazine Street ...
... and duck confit and bacon seared scallops at Ralph's on the Park ....
... and duck/sweet potato hash with homemade pepper jelly atop a cornbread waffle, washed down with the perfect Bloody Mary (and did I mention praline bacon) at Elizabeth's in Bywater.
Finding another "House Where the Black Cat Lives," in this case the Mexican restaurant El Gato Negro.
The lovely courtyard outside my hotel window.
Meeting up with Old St. Nick in the French Market ...
... and Ernie's twin in the window of French Quarter vet's office (if possible I think this guy is even fatter than Big E!)
The twinkling white lights in the grand Roosevelt Hotel lobby.
Cocktails in the Victorian Lounge at the Columns Hotel. Yes, that is Brooke Shields' photo on the wall. Her controversial 1979 film "Pretty Baby" was filmed here.
Monday, December 6, 2010
If you knew Peggy Sue…
A feral cat is living in my guest bathroom.
Her name is Peggy Sue, and she is the matriarch of the Oak Gove kitties, daughter of my Roxie and the baby factory of a seemingly endless production line of kittens.
I finally decided to shut down kitten production, hence the current situation.
I am an old hand at the care, feeding and and TNR (Trap, Neuter, Release) of feral and semi-feral feline colonies.
If you had asked me last week, I would have characterized Peggy Sue, a member of the colony I have cared for two years now, as a shy, but mostly tame, occasionally affectionate, kitty who tolerated the odd stroke or pat on the head. She even recognized her name and mewed in response when I called her "my little girl."
So generally agreeable seemed she that when the time came, I put aside the scary wire contraption I use to trap only the most feral critters in favor of a open can of tuna tucked temptingly inside a common cat carrier with the door left ajar.
I figured after a week or so of reprogramming and TLC in my guest bathroom she, like so many cats before her including her mom, would be ripe not only for "the procedure" but also for relocation and adoption into a new life. I'm a sucker for happy endings.
Clearly, Peggy Sue doesn't believe in happy endings. She is not adjusting as well as I had hoped to her new life in my bathroom.
Considering she is semi-feral, Peggy Sue is not a bad cat at all. She’s quiet, unfailingly uses the litter box provided, eats whatever I give her without complaint and accepts the treats I leave as peace offerings.
But our formerly cordial relationship is in shreds -- as would be my hand, I'm sure, if I was brave enough to stick it uncovered into the cabinet where she has holed herself up. It seems some trust issues have been breeched.
For help, I turned to the Best Friends Animal Society's socialization manual – the one they use to resocialize the cats pulled from cat-hoarder rescues. But Peggy Sue and I can’t seem to get past step 1 .
We have arrived at an impasse.
With her continued baleful stares, flattened ears and hisses, my hopes for an immiment peaceful détente between us are fading.
If she doesn't break by next week, I’m going to have to suit up and drag her off to the spay and neuter clinic, then release her back into the world from whence she came, hoping she will still bond with her colony members and allow me to continue to care for her.
Most of all, I hope she will survive the cold winter, the dogs, the cars, the unfriendly humans, the predators and other hazards that make the lives of feral cats such short ones.
This is the suck-y side of being a cat lover and caregiver. As rewarding as what I do is, I have to accept that while I do my best, there is a fair amount of attrition in any feral colony. Every time someone doesn’t show up for dinner several nights in a row – as Tux has not for weeks now -- my cat mama’s heart breaks just a little.
The fact is while you can love these cats and do your best to make their lives better, you can save some, but you can't always save them all. Peggy Sue’s dilemma is hardly unique. But I want so much more for my “little girl” and her remaining offspring. If not a home, at least a safe environment where they can live out their lives.
And so now you know why I feel blue about Peggy, ‘bout Peggy Sue.
Her name is Peggy Sue, and she is the matriarch of the Oak Gove kitties, daughter of my Roxie and the baby factory of a seemingly endless production line of kittens.
I finally decided to shut down kitten production, hence the current situation.
I am an old hand at the care, feeding and and TNR (Trap, Neuter, Release) of feral and semi-feral feline colonies.
If you had asked me last week, I would have characterized Peggy Sue, a member of the colony I have cared for two years now, as a shy, but mostly tame, occasionally affectionate, kitty who tolerated the odd stroke or pat on the head. She even recognized her name and mewed in response when I called her "my little girl."
So generally agreeable seemed she that when the time came, I put aside the scary wire contraption I use to trap only the most feral critters in favor of a open can of tuna tucked temptingly inside a common cat carrier with the door left ajar.
I figured after a week or so of reprogramming and TLC in my guest bathroom she, like so many cats before her including her mom, would be ripe not only for "the procedure" but also for relocation and adoption into a new life. I'm a sucker for happy endings.
Clearly, Peggy Sue doesn't believe in happy endings. She is not adjusting as well as I had hoped to her new life in my bathroom.
Considering she is semi-feral, Peggy Sue is not a bad cat at all. She’s quiet, unfailingly uses the litter box provided, eats whatever I give her without complaint and accepts the treats I leave as peace offerings.
But our formerly cordial relationship is in shreds -- as would be my hand, I'm sure, if I was brave enough to stick it uncovered into the cabinet where she has holed herself up. It seems some trust issues have been breeched.
For help, I turned to the Best Friends Animal Society's socialization manual – the one they use to resocialize the cats pulled from cat-hoarder rescues. But Peggy Sue and I can’t seem to get past step 1 .
We have arrived at an impasse.
With her continued baleful stares, flattened ears and hisses, my hopes for an immiment peaceful détente between us are fading.
If she doesn't break by next week, I’m going to have to suit up and drag her off to the spay and neuter clinic, then release her back into the world from whence she came, hoping she will still bond with her colony members and allow me to continue to care for her.
Most of all, I hope she will survive the cold winter, the dogs, the cars, the unfriendly humans, the predators and other hazards that make the lives of feral cats such short ones.
This is the suck-y side of being a cat lover and caregiver. As rewarding as what I do is, I have to accept that while I do my best, there is a fair amount of attrition in any feral colony. Every time someone doesn’t show up for dinner several nights in a row – as Tux has not for weeks now -- my cat mama’s heart breaks just a little.
The fact is while you can love these cats and do your best to make their lives better, you can save some, but you can't always save them all. Peggy Sue’s dilemma is hardly unique. But I want so much more for my “little girl” and her remaining offspring. If not a home, at least a safe environment where they can live out their lives.
And so now you know why I feel blue about Peggy, ‘bout Peggy Sue.
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