Hoard, Keep

Back to the bottle caps.

It is my genetic inheritance to be a fantastic hoarder. We are talking Depression-era hoarding skills here. There is the canning (pickles, jam). There is the ostensibly practical stocking-up on erasers and toothbrushes. But there is also the peeling and curling of labels, the pocketing of old buttons. The lengths of string, the erasers, the lists. It is my saving grace that I am also a detester of clutter.

I think I could stop if I wanted to. I could not keep, but then I would be denying myself a bit of lovely, of comfort. For me, small things, pretty things, are very simply imbued with magic. And a small pile of those lovely things? Ever more magical. And when I'm taking note of those things that my life lacks, it is comforting to also take note of the things I have in plenty. To measure my life with coffee spoons.

But in this new land, the hoarding is more difficult to do well. I do not have space for 30-some tiny flower pots, for example, nor a cabinet just for old paper bags. Nor a drawer for nothing but, mmmmm, bottle caps.

And so. A place to put the things I love. A place to keep the acorn tops, the strips of paper curlicued. A new segment on First Milk for those things I love to pile, wish to pocket: Hoard, Keep.

Week I: Half-and-half caps for cream-friendly milkmaids, from Papier Valise.

From the Library*: Golems, Noodles

For anyone who has ever tried to escape. And for golems and Houdini enthusiasts, too. Because Meg is bossy.

For eaters of pasta, and some other people.


*In this case, "from the library" actually means "stolen from my friend's bookshelf in Denver." Does that make me a bad friend? What if I plan to send her presents in the mail? What if we think of me not as a stealer of books, but as a liberator of words?

Succulents, Moss

For me, part of making new digs home is planting things. While I couldn't quite make it work to plant a full garden this year, I finally got around to making a few new green friends in the flower district last weekend. I'm awfully fond of these tiny succulents hanging out on my windowsill. Some soft, Irish moss, too. And the lover-ly, green-smelling flower district? My new best friend.

Weekender: Snuffles, Sweets

And then just as I was getting ready to stand the heat, it got a little bit cool. It got a little bit cool, and I got caught in the rain, and then I got a little snuffly. Snuffles for me means naps. So the weekend was mostly a home weekend. A curled-up-in-bed-with-a-book, eating-peaches weekend. A macaroni-and-cheese weekend. A sweets-in-spite-of-snuffles weekend. There was good noodle soup and agua fresca. There was finally making it over the to the High Line, which could not be any sweeter if it tried, for a breezy evening stroll. There was lemon gelato with ladies, and Meryl in all her glory coupled with enough popcorn to make me want to throw up. And then there was walking home in the rain, a melon balanced on my hand.

And the weekend's crowning glory: At long last, a proper doughnut shop. A proper doughnut shop with stools and checkered floors. A doughnut shop with counter-folk in paper hats (or if not actual paper hats, most certainly implied ones). A 24-hour doughnut shop, my friends, which means I am officially home.

Peaches, Fans

It is August. It is August and it is too hot to do anything. At yoga last night, the instructor quipped, "Let's not move too quickly, people. It's August." On NPR, there was this lovely piece by Frank Deford about how August is filling up. Recipes for agua fresca abound.

So today and tomorrow and the next day--as many days as I can grab--I'm going to remember to inhabit these drowsy, oppressive days before the cool comes. Days that require bowls of melon and books and shade. Days that slink into sleepless, hot nights. Days that require us all to move a little more slowly, a little less aggressively, remember about peaches, humming fans. Days that ask us to pray for rain.

I will find you a picture later, perhaps. After my nap. When it is not so hot.

By Way of Introduction

By way of introduction for a new little segment on First Milk, my favorite Sesame Street clip of all time. *Some* might say that I am not unlike Bert. I would suggest that even they wouldn't know how I felt about these bottle caps as a child. People, you can take your circuses and SHOVE THEM. My bottle caps and I are off to bed.

For Tromping

Booties! Grey ones! For tromping!

Sky, Sea

Wood for making fires for roasting marshmallows in (Colorado):

Rope, light house, dirty beach toes (California):




{Photos by me, by me}

NYC, Things They Have in

1. My street, on which
2. My hiccup of a house, in which
3. My bed, my duvet, my curtains, my pillows,
4. My hooks for hanging my hat

San Francisco, Things They Have in/Around

1. Pirates
2. Gray Priuses for zipping about in
3. Taylor's Automatic Refresher
4. Very nice mist
5. Hostels that are also light houses
6. Bearded trees as big and old as the whole world probably
7. Water
8. Sky
9. Love

Pay Witness, Raise High

Dearest Meggy, Meglet, Megaroo,
I could not love you any more. I am richer for knowing you and your song and your sass and I wish you the happiest. The happiest, feelingest, dancingest and the loveliest, most joyful wedding and life and life and LIFE.

Thank you for helping us think about why we make the choices we make, and the promises, and why we dance these particular dances or don't. Thank you for allowing us to pay witness to, raise high, your preparations for those promises you plan to make on Sunday. Be happy and happy and happy with your beautiful David, my dear. That's an order. I outrank everybody on this block.

One more thing: I know you live very far from Junior's Deli on Flatbush Avenue these days. As such, I would be happy to send a cheesecake in your very specific direction if one day either you or David should want to promise the other half.

xo,
A.

{Roofbeams for raising high, flickr.}