While I share a deep affinity for green, like my fellow contributors, I’ve always been too diplomatic to favor a color so absolute.
From cyan to cerulean, turquoise has long stirred in me something at once desirous and deeply familiar ever since my uncle gave me my first turquoise ring at age two. I promptly ate the ring, which was never to be seen again, and since then my affinity for turquoise has seemed to be a part of my very being, almost eminating from my pores. Some have even called my eyes, which were clearly blue the first few years of life, a greener shade of turquoise. Many turquoise rings, bracelets, and necklaces have since followed, as had a satisfied exhale every time I see a stone, a sweater, or shoe bearing this gorgeous hue.
I don’t get it. Why is it when he wisks that stuff together it tastes so fricken good I nearly slip into a bliss coma? What’s more, how can an Irish boy cook with such soul? I try not to ask: I just throw it on salads, bread, meat, chicken, fish, rice (sometimes I sneak it by the spoonful) and thank God I found him.
It’s hard to write about why I love Jenny Owen Youngs without feeling like I’ve done her some sort of disservice, since the way she describes herself is so darn smart, cynical and fantastic. Liam works with her and scored a promo of her debut CD Batten the Hatches about a year and a half ago. Since then I’ve done my best to turn anyone I can onto her astringent lyrics, simple arrangements and acerbic humor. Visit her site, download “Fuck was I,” and just deal with her awesomeness, m-kay? Then rally someone to get you a copy of her heartbreaking cover of Britney Spears’ “Slave 4U.” It made me teary. For real.
Nothing makes me feel more glam/punk rock/catwoman-eque than a sweep of jet- black liquid liner.
No one ever would consider me a very made-up woman, but something about this stuff makes it my secret weapon: it’s like kick-ass confidence in a tube. Simultaneously Audrey Hepburn and Joan Jett; I could be wearing nothing but a flannel jumpsuit, but with a little swoop of black liquid magic I’d still feel like I’ve channeled the spirit of both of those ladies.
The comfort food to end all comfort foods. From the school caf to my southern Nana’s kitchen, they’ve always been my gastrointestinal Achilles’ Heal, throwing a wrench in any well-intentioned diet; inevitably leading to a big honkin’ zit on my chin. I’ve learned to live with the zit (I have one now, as a matter of fact) and to give into my weakness for their deep-fried ‘tatery goodness; if you bake them on 400 for 15 minutes they come out flawlessly crispy on the outside, encasing a soft pillow of carbohydrate-rich joy.
A little Heinz Ketchup and you’ve got yourself a perfect late-night premenstrual snack.
Any magazine whose lifeline is so long and revered that its articles are quoted in my history books is pretty darn cool. Harper’s delivers deep and discursive writing, without stooping to intellectual snobbery. And the index is just plain awesome.
Toast it + Throw a little cashew butter on it = Heaven.
Our place is perennially freezing. In June I’ll sometimes lay outside just to warm up. In the winter, things get dire; our only salvation from the tendrils of arctic cold air, slipping in through ill-aligned doorways and windows, is the space heater. I hate New England winters. I love our space heater. I named it Clyde.
My eBay Boots
It’s probably a sacrilege to call vintage 1974 Frye riding boots “my eBay boots.” They’re so much more than an Internet bargain but, since I only paid $16 for them, the source of pride stems from much more than their fashion appeal.
These babies sat in a closet in Brooklin, Maine for 25 years hardly worn: when I recieved them the ink sizing-imprint on the inside was still new as the day they were bought. And yes, that Elkhorn was hand-embroidered and the leather is like butter.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my shoreline where it is and, to preserve it, I recycle, use biodegradable house-cleaning products, take the train when I can, etc. But tempuratures hit 60 degrees on March 14 and I was able to walk around in a long-sleeved cotton shirt… without a jacket on over it. I hate winter; I love warm weather. Need I say more?