It is that time of year again. A time when we settle into moody, dusk blanketed evenings and nights that are richly painted with tones of amber, chocolate and chilly blues. A time when indoor comforts become a haven and food is not simply about sustenance, but rather a stage for merry moments of connection and enrichment meant to be shared. For me, this is what Thanksgiving and festive feasting is all about – Reaching into the darker, seemingly hollow nights and pulling from the shadows, something full of warmth, decadence and comfort. 

I have long been in love with autumn. A most elegant season, all dressed up in chocolaty jewel tones and perfumed with the scent of damp earth, decaying leaves and wood burning fires… It is no wonder that, once again, October has completely captivated my attention. With its effortless beauty and the forever shifting scenes of golden light and transforming foliage, I find myself melting into fall’s misty mornings and wind whistling nights. Tempted into candlelit, novel reading hibernation by steaming cups of tea and bowls of homemade soups, falling in love with longer shadows and the song of the rustling leaves that lull us into this cozy state. A period of rest, a time to recharge. It is a season of cozy charm and of chic richness. It is a time of year that simply feels like coming home.

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a witch. Wished that one day, my magical powers would reveal themselves and I could step into an unknown yet perfectly familiar place. That I would eventually live in a little cottage in the woods with a leather bound spell book, a roaring fire and a silky black cat, casting broomstick silhouettes over full moons and lighting candles by gently blowing on the wick – It is a whisper of a wish always in my heart. A magical dream that is forever etched onto my soul, no matter how impossible or impractical. I simply have always known that I was meant for magic.

As the September light washes over the lingering days of summer, I am reminded just how perfect each season can be. The final flush of the garden with its determined blooms and the concluding burst of produce all write the closing sentences to the chapter entitled ‘summer’, a season facing its final bow of the year. These quiet days before the arrival of autumn are full of splendor and reflection. A collection of moments to be transformed into memories, flavors begging to be preserved and safely tucked away, patiently waiting to be cherished once life has settled into the depth of our upcoming season of hibernation. September is a beautiful finale… A golden tasseled curtain call for summer.

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 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 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.