The Smith: Undeniable Proof that Fancy is Overrated

My dear friend was up from North Carolina this weekend before heading to Southern Spain for 6 months, and second to seeing all of us, she was more than jazzed about having dinner at The Smith. She spoke nearly ad nauseum about it, raving about the gnocchi (“no-key”, in her unflappable southern accent). When we arrived at the cozy east village eatery, they had just opened all of their doors to allow the freshly-cooled-by-an-afternoon-storm air to waft in over the no-muss wooden tables and no-fuss patrons. Perfect in its simplicity, the atmosphere exudes what the menu offers: wonderful, rustic dishes that don’t try to be too fancy, but satisfy to the core. It is the perfect spot for the nearby NYU dorm residents who might be hankering for some home cooking from mum, and also great for those, like me, who need a break from the cutting edge cuisine that New York always has to offer, in favor of returning to the roots of it all.


Never one to turn them down, the blue point oysters on the half-shell were impeccable, and were they a bit less inherently pricey, I likely would have gotten a couple more orders and called it a day (as I often have with other mollusk enthusiasts). Ms. Dawson’s Fork and Knife Ceasar came in my favorite configuration: a wedge of romaine, dressing poured over, steak knife provided to carve as you wish.

Using the visit as an excuse for indulgence, we opted for Grandpa’s Rigatoni, cooked to the perfect al’ dente with a spicy pulled pork ragout, and the Ricotta Gnocchi (sautéed in butter to the perfect outer crisp) in a truffle cream sauce. Both dishes lent themselves perfectly to the sopping of our bread, wrapped like a candy in wax paper. I was so refreshed to be done without feeling like I needed to head off for a nap, the portions are truly perfect. My Hendrix and tonic was total perfection, and we ended up staying for another drink at the bar while our friends trickled in for a sip and a chat.

All in all, I wish I could find a place like this in my neighborhood. I will definitely be going back often, good friends in tow.

Dog Days

I am a die-hard dog lover, as explained in this previous post about the Tobster. They’re fun, they keep you active and engaged, give the love they get and teach that with responsibility comes reward. Dog owners are proven to have lower blood pressure and cholesterol, less instances of depression, higher survival rates and quicker recovery from illness and longer lives than people without pets. I plan to let my kids each get a dog when they turn ten that they will take care of, and can think of no better way to teach them to become responsible, accountable young adults.

BUT, this week has taught me that I am nowhere close to being a parent or multiple dog owner. In an endeavor to test out what having more than one dog is like, I volunteered to watch my boyfriends dog for the ten days he was away on a bike trip in Montana pretending to be James Dean. You may remember Duke from the short post I did about him a while ago. He is still the collar-tugging, acrobatic master he was when he was little, though he’s given up tail gnawing, as it proved hazardous to his health. He’s instead moved on to more apropos activities, such as wrestling, boxing, and recently discovered what I like to call the “Down dog, hump dog” as well as the “reverse mount employing head lock” and the “old fashioned”.

Thus far, I’ve had destroyed note pads, bath mats, magazines, garbage bags, throw pillows, slobbered bedspreads and chewed-to-a-mangled-mess Ray Bans. This is not to mention the dirtying of every pair of pants I’ve worn thus far, as his boxer jowels are impressively stocked with the awful goop-slime of his special, strangely elastic brand that he shmears on every surface as good as my Jewish friends do on a bagel. Needless to say, my dry cleaners are having a very lucrative week.

Walking is a nightmare. Toby, while much better than he used to be, is still a leash tugger, while duke likes to employ the fervent yank, effectively skinning my arm while nearly dislocating my shoulder. Should they decide to scamper (I say this as if they aren’t 85 and 65 pounds of muscle, respectively) in complete opposite directions for that “perfect pee spot” the effect on me is somewhat like a medieval torture device. This is all to the great amusement of fellow pedestrians.

Meals leave me feeling like Lebron James on the defense, boxing Toby out from intercepting Duke’s food, and later boxing them both out from my supper.

Sleep, or the space to do so, is quite hard to come by…real estate on my bed is about as coveted as a classic six facing the park. I’ve found myself fetal, or with one dog taking up the foot of the bed while the other is between my calves, and have even woken up sleeping entirely parallel to my headboard. My bum has been thought to be an acceptable pillow, and pillows thought to be acceptable slobber wipes. Should I kick them off, they jump back up within 10 minutes, should I kick them out, they cry and wrestle and growl.

I’m on day 7 of 11, and if Chris couldn’t tell from my inability to muster excitement for hearing from him on the cell-service-free, wild roads of the North West, I’m knackered. The warm reception he is hoping for upon his return might be replaced with a warm reception from Duke, while I pour myself a glass of red, belt the chorus of Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin” and point him in the diection of the vacuum.

Oyster Bay Fourth

A minagerie of my favorite shots from the 4th:

American Ingenuity


Sphinx pose


Budwesier Fetch



Muddled Mojito


Pool Fireworks


Hazards of Pool Fireworks


Jacques


Sailors Sunset


Golden Hour


Dusk on the Bay


Goodnight Sun


Fireworks over the Bay


Smoke


Whisps


Great Gatsby

Disorder beyond whimsy, order just shy of batty

During my interior decorating excursions (read: moments of creative bliss) I happened upon two cardinal sins I see far too often in who I like to call the "aesthetic philistines" spaces: white walls and empty wall space. I realized this one day while at a home that had no paint on any walls, no coherence to any room and no sense of fluidity throughout the abode. Quite literally a mish-mash of fleeting “oh, well that’s nice” objects, I felt very confused, stressed even, which
does not a home make.

A home should have a general theme according to its architecture, each room corresponding to it in a different way, with distinct personal touches to each object, whether it be a grand piano covered in framed family photos, a giant porcelain rooster on the kitchen counter (I’ve already acquired mine despite the sad fact that he fits nowhere as my space reflects my income ever-so quaintly)



your coffee table books on display (my nearly shameful collection is ever-expanding thanks to Archivia nearby.



or your favorite flowers on the table as you walk in (I recommend heading to the flower district for some fantastic silk flowers in a vase with epoxy water – mine fool nearly everyone),



your home should be distinctly you, in whatever way you can explore it to be.

I’ve found that I have far too many facets to explore a distinct theme to its zenith. There’s the prepster of my past who loves monogram and bright colors,



the New Yorker of my present who loves black and a bit grungy (as does captain jack, the current tenant),

the nature lover of my childhood - responsible for the emu egg on my desk,



the antique lover of my mothers influence responsible for my framed late 1800’s line drawings of French lawyers as well as “the alphabet” by William Nicholson,





the Oyster Bay inspired nautical explorer responsible for my sofa,



the rugged Montana girl who can’t wait to peg up a gorgeous black and white brindle cow skin (who was treated in the Native American fashion) on her only remaining blank wall, and I'm not sure where the "molded from an actual baby pig piggy bank" fits in, but I'm sure I'll identify her soon enough.



I believe in things that can transform over the years and never invest in what can’t. My alphabet will one day be in my children’s play room, the lawyer prints in the study, the rooster in my kitchen, the pig in my bedroom and cow skin in the bar/Montana themed man-room (one has to give her guy space for his shenan’s). I obviously have big ideas for my future real estate, but I believe in dreaming big while loving what you have and never compromising taste.

However I decorate, it always has a sense of disorder beyond whimsy and order just shy of batty. However you decorate, I believe it should always have a mature and classic taste that is distinctly yours, representing and evolving with you, formed from a solid base that is both grounding and evolutionary in its cohesiveness. So, while I'm happily nesting in my not-so-new apartment, I’ll be on the edge of my seat waiting for the chance to decorate my next one, and fully intend to weasel my way into helping friends with theirs in the meantime, my workplace lending itself perfectly to the task.

A matta of comfort and style

I love to walk around the sales floor at work. It is a visual symphony of color, shape, arrangement and aesthetic style. I wish I could have an iota of the talent that our Visual Merchandising team does. I was perusing recently when I came across these thread and brass bracelets by Matta, designed in the style of a sacred prayer rosary. Simple in their construction, versatile in that I can pair them with a leather bracelet or an hermes, and comfortable in a rustic sense (the beads scratch a bit, but just to remind you that they're there!), I don't think I'll be taking them off until the end of the summer, when I invest in more autumnal colors of these Indian-at-soul bracelets. Namaste!