The heat of August is inescapable. It lingers and swelters and leaves you in a sundrenched haze. As temperatures continue to climb over the sprawl of concrete that I, at the moment, call home, the desire for a sense of escape is profound. Slow, intentional moments dripping with nostalgia become the main ingredient of my existence this time of year. Behind sunscreen smudged sunglasses I find myself lost in daydreams of a childhood spent on slip and slides, running through front yard sprinklers and my parent’s wild idea of a crab boil for my sister’s 5th birthday party. These memories come in flashes, spinning into sunflared souvenirs of long lost carefree summers. Bright colors of plastic pools, grass stained cut off shorts and chalk drawn bike courses on the burning asphalt of the cul-de-sac – These are the echoes of my very early childhood. One that feels so impossibly far away, and yet still manages to wash me in a sense of timeless joy and adventure. I wish that I could bottle up that feeling of an innocent, wide eyed summer. The feelings of long lost days full of wonder and possibility. The days of skinned knees and the call of ice cream trucks. A time when land lines kept us grounded in reality and stacks of four by six drugstore photos cluttered junk drawers and filled countless shoe boxes. I long for the simplicity of it all. The Kodak tone of my childhood. 

July always feels extra nostalgic for me. Memories of the long days of summer from my childhood sometimes seem to be the most vivid. The scent of sunscreen and a slight tint of green in my hair from afternoons submerged in chlorine, the beauty of sun-ripened strawberries and homemade pies, and sprinklers in the yard and the taste of water from the tightly coiled green garden hose. I can play horseback gallops and diving board moments in my head on a loop as though watching family video tapes with an old VCR. Memories that flicker, at times, so clearly that I feel as though I could reach out and touch them.

I have forever been in love with the classic romance novels, with their tales of wooing and letter writing, dreamy picnics by the sea and petite bouquets of wildflowers gathered on strolls through the countryside, it is as if my dream life is being lived out by these characters. As I have settled more and more into my unconventional adult life, I see how much these fictional moments inspire me. How they have shaped my creativity and my life and how deeply I crave designing imaginative worlds for myself and my guests. It has all woven itself into a space meant for romanticizing seasons and experiences through nostalgia and tales of bygone eras. With summertime creeping in, the desire to build a feminine picnic with classic french faire and bottles of crisp white wine shifted from a faraway fictional daydream to an absolute compulsion. I needed an afternoon of sundresses under the shade of a lemon tree, Parisian inspired sandwiches, a bit of cheese, stone fruit and a salad that would transport me to the South of France.

It is the year of the Cool Auntie. A time to celebrate the childless cat ladies who show up to Easter brunch with a collection of wild tales and a passport that gets more action than Henry VIII had wives. The Cool Auntie is a vibe. She is a lifestyle. An essence. And not everyone appreciates her. Not everyone appreciates me. I have an out-of-the-box kind of lifestyle. I am a childless cat lady. The Cool Auntie to my friend’s kids and my nephew. The black sheep of the extended family who is talked about and most likely judged a little bit and definitely not at all understood. And to be honest, I do not always understand my life myself. It is not exactly what I imagined it to be and yet, upon reflection, I think I have always marched to the beat of an unexpected drum. I have chosen the artist's path, one that has not always been easy, but one that has been filled with exceptional stories and a lifetime of memories. I am not always sure of the life I lead. I have doubts. I have had dreams of a family life, oftentimes I still do. Planning kids birthday parties and holiday traditions, visions of family life, it all swims around in my mind from time-to-time. But ultimately, the universe had other ideas, other plans.

I have an undeniable love affair with Parisian bistros. The charm, the classic menu, the pomp, the apero culture, le café au lait, the waiters who either love me or roll their eyes at me… j'adore tout! I cannot help but be pulled into this city and the vibrant energy it emits – the rich culture and the way that they just know how to live is envyable. And most of all, I adore how they eat! 

Craving an evening in Paris, I had to bring a taste of the experience to my little boîte à bijoux. A moment in a classic bistro with a few french staples that I cannot live too long without. Moules Frites, an uncomplicated green salad and bien sûr, mousse au chocolat.

I often think about the love letters that Victorian women used to write to their friends. The passions and adoration expressed for a love that is so very different from that of a romantic partner but oh so vital. Having been single for what feels like a lifetime, I have found endless affection and companionship within my female friendships. The love of which has gotten me through wildly contrasting times, chapters of utter elation and blackened pools of sorrow. I have women in my life who have seen me through countless versions of myself (some of which we should all like to forget.) Women who I have laughed with until tears stream down our faces, cheeks sore from unbridled smiles. Women who have watched me grieve and who have picked me up when I could not do so for myself. It is the power and love of these women who I owe a depth of gratitude to, the reason I have grown into this version of myself. The version I am most proud of. And to celebrate them is such an effortless venture. So it seems only right that for Valentine’s day, I turn to the true loves of my life for an evening of much needed platonic romance and absolute effervescence. 

If by some wild chance, it is not obvious by now, the golden age of Hollywood and the films made during that era are not only a huge inspiration for me, but also a large part of who I am. I became enamored with Turner Classic Movies when I was in the second grade. The characters, the stories, the fashion and the starletts… I was love struck. That year, I styled my hair like Veronica Lake, blonde strands dramatically swept over one eye, my affect as mysterious as possible. I remember the school photographer trying to get me to push my hair out of my face for my school photo. I refused. What can I say, I have always been committed to the craft. 

All this to say, and reiterate, that the tales of Hollywood, the glitz and glamour of that world, is simply deeply ingrained in me. So when I set out to create my dinner parties and evenings as a whole, I am often inspired by favorite films, costumes, characters and settings from a bygone era. 

A Very Retro Christmas. With visions of shrimp trees and jello moulds, I invite you to enter the fanciful world of food art that was the 1970s. With eclectic color, endless dips and quirky skewers sculptures you are in for a Christmas red and crystal platter fever dream. Hold on to your reindeer!

A night fit for Mamie Fish and the legendary 400 of New York’s Gilded Age. This feast with its perfectly roasted prime rib, towers of brussels sprouts and a sparkling croquembouche, rivals the lore of Thanksgiving at the distinguished Delmonico's.