Reggie Is Having Fun Over At Privilege

Reggie is thrilled (and tickled pink) to have collaborated with LPC, the writer of the marvelous blog Privilege, on a post analyzing and discussing the sartorial style of the East Coast Grande Dame.  For those of my readers who aren't familiar with LPC's Privilege blog, I whole-heartedly recommend that you click on over to it and give it a gander.  I am sure that you will become as hooked as I am.

The Style Icons of the East Coast Grande Dame
as selected by Reggie Darling for Privilege
Image courtesy of same

I first became aware of LPC's Privilege blog shortly after I started my own, and we have since become fast friends, transitioning from an initial electronic acquaintance discussing our shared High WASP backgrounds into a live, "Let's have dinner when you are in town" one.  Several years ago we guest-posted on each other's blogs about attending our twenty fifth college reunions at the Ivy League schools we went to, in her case Princeton and mine Yale.  You can link to her post about it on my blog here.

The East Coast Grande Dame's favored accessories
as selected by Reggie Darling for Privilege
Image courtesy of same

On her own blog, LPC frequently discusses the sartorial equipage of three types of WASP women: the "Sturdy Gal," the "Artsy Cousin," and the "Grande Dame," each of which she cleverly defines and analyzes for her devoted readers.  A month or two ago LPC did a post about Grande Dame style where Reggie commented and which prompted LPC to invite him to collaborate with her on a piece about the style of the East Coast Grande Dame, a subset to her broader Grande Dame category.  LPC sought Reggie's input because she is a life-long Californian (her parents decamped there from their East Coast High WASP origins before she was born), and felt that I could provide a window into the style of the East Coast Grande Dame from "the inside" (so to speak), as a New Yorker.

Modern Day East Coast Grande Dames
as selected by Reggie Darling for Privilege
Image courtesy of same

I had much fun collaborating with LPC on her post, peppering her with images and suggestions, and I think the result is absolutely swell.  I am honored that she asked me to contribute to it, and I encourage you, Dear Reader, to click on over and read the piece here.

I hope you like it!

Many thanks, LPC, for giving Dear Old Reggie the opportunity to have fun with you on our collaboration.  You are a treasure.

Mrs. Whaley, By Way of Maxminimus

I recently received a gift of a book from my esteemed fellow-blogger Maxminimus.  Titled Mrs. Whaley and Her Charleston Garden, the book is ostensibly about the author's justifiably famous garden in Charleston, South Carolina.  But it is more than that.  It is a charming and thought-provoking memoir that delves into Mrs. Whaley's past, her family, her marriage, and her philosophy of life.

Maxminimus' gift, photographed by Boy Fenwick
in the gardening barn at Darlington House

Maxminimus sent it to me, he said, because of the post I wrote awhile back, on Charleston Receipts.  He thought I might like it.  And he was right.

It is always so nice to have a book inscribed by its giver
Photograph by Boy Fenwick

It is not a particularly weighty tome, but it is one that resonates and ripples beyond its covers.  I highly recommend it to you, Dear Reader.

Mrs. Whaley's Charleston garden
Image courtesy of Preservation Nation

Mrs. Emily Whaley, who died in 1998 at the ripe age of eighty-seven, was of a vanishing breed of women that once spread throughout this country, whose population has been sadly depleted by the passage of time, the spiraling cost of living, and the supposed benefits of "progress."  She was of a class of women, largely wives and mothers, who were raised in a culture that valued tradition, continuity, self-discipline, service to others, and positive thinking.  While some, like Mrs. Whaley, were raised in affluence, it was not a prerequisite for belonging to this breed of women.  An appreciation for thrift and economy were also among its hallmarks.  They planned ahead.

Mrs. Emily Whaley with landscape architect Loutrel Briggs
Photographed in the 1970s
Mr. Briggs designed Mrs. Whaley's garden in 1940
Image courtesy of the Cultural Landscape Foundation

I was quite charmed by Mrs. Whaley's book, the stories she tells in its pages, and the nuggets of wisdom she shares.  The book is full of her keen observations and sensible opinions on matters ranging from working with others, marriage, raising a family, faith, getting involved, and being active.  She genuinely liked people, was appreciative of the advantages she had either been given or worked hard for, loved her dog Rosie, and didn't take herself (or others) too seriously.  She was happy to poke fun at herself.  And she was a worker, too—whether it be in her garden, helping out family members or friends, or toiling on behalf of a worthy cause.

Mrs. Emily Whaley with her beloved Rosie
sitting in her Charleston garden in 1997
Photographed by Milton Morris
Image courtesy of Workman Publishing Group

In short, Mrs. Whaley was a lady.  In the very best sense of the word.  She was someone that one would be proud to have as a mother or as a wife.  And she was a person that one would most certainly be honored to count as a treasured friend.

Thank you, Maxie, for introducing me to the delightful Mrs. Whaley.

Reggie is sure that you will enjoy Mrs. Whaley's memoir as much as he did, Dear Reader.  It can be ordered here from its publisher, Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill.  It is also most likely available in print and on ebooks at your local public library.

A Beach Chair Revival, Part II

As I wrote in Part I of this essay, several weeks ago we dropped off three vintage wooden folding beach chairs at Sausbier's, an awning shop in Hudson, New York, to have their torn seats replaced.  We have since picked them up and transported them to Nantucket, where we are renting a house overlooking the ocean, and where I am writing this post to you, Dear Reader.

Our chairs and umbrella set up on the beach

We are quite happy with the way the chairs turned out.  While the Sunbrella awning fabric we chose is handsome and colorful, it is admittedly not quite as attractive as what was used when the chairs were made in the 1930s/40s.  However, as I wrote in Part I of this essay, the modern-day awning fabric we chose is sturdier and far more resistant to splitting or ripping than what was available when the chairs were made.  And besides, it was in stock.

I decided to post this series not only because it is a fun before-and-after story, with an attractive subject, but also because there is a lesson to be learned here, Dear Reader.  And that is, with but a little planning and foresight one can find far more attractive and green alternatives to what is generally available in big-box and other mass-market retailers.  And one needn't pay an exorbitant price to do so, either.  Of course it would have been easy for us to go to Target or similar (we are most decidedly not Wal*Mart shoppers at Darlington, at least when humanly possible) and pick up some cheap and cheaply-made beach chairs.  But then I would have cheap and cheaply-made beach chairs whose likely near-term fate would be to wind up in landfill in the all-too-short time it would take for them to fall apart.  And not only that, but for the brief period I owned them I would be annoyingly confronted by their pedestrian ugliness.

Boy's crushable Borsalino, ideal for beach and travel, on his chair

Instead, we own attractive, sturdy wooden beach chairs covered with good looking awning fabric.  The chairs are not only a delight to look at, but they are fun to sit in as well, because they are--as I wrote in my last post--attractively beachy in a 1940s way.  And for Reggie, that's a good thing.

By re-using and reviving the chairs I believe we are doing "our part" for the environment, and are being far greener than if we had bought new ones.  And while we did put new, petroleum-based synthetic fabric on them, we did so to extend their lives for many more years and to provide honest income for a small, independent family-owned business rather than the shareholders of a global conglomerate.

The photographer's shadow sur la plage

Now, Dear Reader, I know that you are wondering: "So, Reggie, how much did all this good-feeling-inducing work actually cost you?  How much did you have to pay to get such chairs to loll upon oceanside at Fancy Land by the Sea?"  Well, the answer is that it did cost more than what it would have had I bought the cheapest alternatives available.  But that is not Reggie's objective in life.  Reggie's goal is to live in an alternate world to the degraded, cheap, mass-market vision that is generally foisted upon us today, and that in many areas of this country is driving out what was once unique, regional, and attractive.

We had the beach largely to ourselves

Reggie aspires to live in a world of grace and honest beauty, and prefers to spend his dollars with local, independent businesses, when possible.  And that is why, more often than not, I buy used, vintage, or antique furniture and furnishings.  Not only is the craftsmanship better than what is generally available today, but it is usually more attractive, and can often be purchased for less than what new choices cost today.  In addition, I am confident that I am acquiring something whose production hasn't contributed to today's environmental woes.  And on top of that, I know that once such goods pass out of my hands they are not likely to wind up in landfill, but will be recycled and re-used by future generations of appreciative owners.

The surf was perfect for frolicking

Now, to answer the burning question of how much Reggie paid for all of this.  He spent a total of $50 to buy the chairs at assorted tag and yard sales, which he admits was a score, and another $270 to have them tightened and recovered.  That works out to a total of $320, or a little more than $100 per chair.  That seems like a very reasonable price to me because what I got for that is three honest wooden folding beach chairs covered with striped awning fabric that will last another fifty-plus years, and not some junky mass-market alternative that will wind up in landfill in only a few.  And what else did I get?  I also got two posts out of this subject that I have the pleasure of entertaining you with, Dear Reader.

Off for a walk

All photographs by Boy Fenwick

A Beach Chair Revival, Part I

I like old-fashioned beach chairs from the first half of the 20th century, the folding wooden ones covered with colorful, striped cotton awning fabric.  I much prefer them to today's cheaply made, mass-market beach chairs, made with powder-coated aluminum frames and covered with plastic webbing or mesh.  I find most of today's options, and certainly those available at big-box retailers, to be ugly and degraded.  But then, that shouldn't come as a surprise to you, Dear Reader, since Reggie is a self-avowed old fogey when it comes to these things.

Boy and I have collected a number of old-fashioned awning-covered folding chairs over the years.  And we use ours for one of their original purposes--at the beach.  We took some with us to Block Island several summers ago when we spent a vacation there, and we enjoyed sitting on them at the ocean's edge.  It all seemed so classically New England and beachy, in a 1940s sort of way.

Originally sold at hardware stores and awning shops for use at the beach, at picnics, or when camping, vintage awning-covered wooden folding chairs can be found today at antiques fairs and group shops, and also at tag and yard sales.  We've bought ours at the latter, rarely spending more than $20 a piece.  Their one drawback is that--unlike today's throw-away versions--they do require maintenance every now and then.  The frames can get rickety, and thus need tightening.  Also, cotton awning fabric weakens over time, particularly when such chairs are stored in barns and garages for fifty or more years, and the fabric rips, and so needs to be replaced.  The awning fabric on several of ours had given way, and they were no longer usable.

In anticipation of an upcoming beach vacation later this summer, I decided to replace the ripped awning fabric on our useless chairs, so that we could enjoy sitting on them again.  Although I had recently found (and bought) some yardage of vintage awning fabric for this very purpose, I decided upon reflection not to use it when replacing the fabric on our chairs, because I suspected that it, too, would soon split, given its age.

So we visited Sausbiers, Inc., a family-run awning (and fire extinguisher servicing) shop located on a side street in Hudson, New York, where we selected new Sunbrella awning fabric for our beach chairs, and arranged to have them remade before we leave for the shore.  (Note: "Sausbiers" is pronounced "sauce-beers" and not "soas-bee-aye" as we once thought.)

While the fabric that is available today for such projects is made from synthetic material, and the selection isn't as attractive (or extensive) as what one could buy half a century ago (is anything?), it is stronger and sturdier, and far less likely to split or rip than if it were made from mercerized cotton, as it once was.  We selected a colorful striped awning fabric from the swatch book at Sausbiers for our chairs, reminiscent of their original stripe, and left them to be recovered.

I'm planning on posting pictures of our revived beach chairs after I pick them up.  Stay tuned for the end result . . .

All photos by Boy Fenwick

The L.L. Bean Boat and Tote Bandwagon

Reggie, like many of his readers, is a great fan of the iconic L.L. Bean Boat and Tote Bag and considers them to be indispensible in his day-to-day life.  Originally introduced by the company in 1944 as "Bean's Ice Carrier," they have been in production ever since, and are today widely used for purposes well beyond carrying blocks of ice.  Reggie first remembers seeing them in the early 1960s as a young boy, for Reggie's mother, known as Mummy Darling (or "MD"), was a great fan of the bags, and there were many of them in our household when I was growing up.  In fact, I can't remember a time in my life when there weren't at least several L.L. Bean Boat and Tote bags knocking around.  MD loved the bags for their sturdy good looks, easy practicality, and good value--attributes that continue to recommend them highly to this day.

Photo by Boy Fenwick

The first Boat and Tote bags I remember were made entirely of colorless canvas, with the handles and the body made from the same plain white material.  Later, contrasting handles and bottoms of nautical red or blue appeared.  Over time, as the bags gained popularity, additional color options were added, and today the colors available to purchasers of these bags are virtually limitless, particularly when taking advantage of L.L. Bean's custom color palette choices.

At Darlington we have quite a few Boat and Totes, and we use them all the time.  Many of our bags have "Darlington" embroidered on them, as we use them to transport flotsam and jetsum between our city apartment, where we live during the week, and Darlington.  When we are in the city we keep one or two bags open and at the ready for receiving stuff, such as clothing and books, to take to the country, and we do the same in the country for the reverse trip.  In addition, we keep a bag in each of our automobiles embroidered with "Car" to hold things like bungee cords and reflectors, and Pompey has several bags for his belongings embroidered with his name, too.

We don't just use Boat and Tote bags at home, either.  I use one embroidered with my initials to lug documents back and forth to my office (just as I did for books in school), and Boy uses and supplies his staff with Boat and Tote bags embroidered with his decorating firm's name and logo, ordered from L.L. Bean's direct-to-business arm.

Since Boat and Tote bags are virtually indestructible, we are reluctant to let go of ours when they become worn.  And so we use our older bags for purposes that don't require them to be in pristine condition.  Once we cycle a bag out of the clothing and personal effects transport phase of its life we use it for groceries and other shopping expeditions, and our oldest bags--worn ones that still remain sturdy--are used to transport things like tools, or for storage.

As far as I am concerned, there's no other place to buy these bags than from L.L. Bean.  Why buy them from imitators when the "real thing" is readily available from the original purveyor at an attractive price?  Just as I don't buy fake Gucci loafers or Belgian shoes, I don't buy Boat and Totes made by any other supplier than L.L. Bean.  And I think you shouldn't, either.

My Birthday Bucks

I have worn white bucks for a very long time.  In fact, I've worn them my entire adult life.  They are my favorite summer weekend shoe when I want to wear something with tone and that is more substantial and provides greater support than a pair of loafers or moccasins.  Not only do I love the way white bucks look, I like the lore of them, and I have a sentimental attachment to mine, as they were a gift to me from my older brother, Frecky.

Frecky gave me my first (and only) pair of white bucks in 1977 for my twenty-first birthday, when he informed me that "No self-respecting gentleman doesn't have a pair of white bucks in his wardrobe," and that it was time to remedy that shortfall.  And Frecky would know, as he was then rather a Beau Brummell of the preppy school of dressing, having recently graduated from Yale and was attending the University of Virginia Law School.  He was also something of a mentor for me when it came to learning the important and finer points of perfecting my sartorial equipage, mixing (and savoring) such libations as planter's punch cocktails or mint juleps, and dining in grown-up restaurants with nary a parent in proximity.

At the time I was between semesters at Yale and spending the summer working at a lowly job in a lofty law firm in Washington, D.C., living with my father and (newish) stepmother in their townhouse on Embassy Row.  That was a bit of a trial, as they weren't used to having a loutish college boy under foot, and they continually bombarded me with difficult and nosy questions when I had the misfortune to come under their laser-beam scrutiny.  They also informed me that they expected me to do my own laundry (even when they had a full time housekeeper who did theirs, and who had done mine in the past) and that I would also be responsible for taking care of various menial chores and projects that summer in return for their allowing me to live with them rent-free, even though I was (according to them) earning good money.  The nerve!

Much to my relief, my newly married brother was also living in Washington that summer and working at the same law firm as I, but employed there as a much more exalted Summer Associate.  So I saw quite a bit of Frecky that summer, which was a great pleasure to me.  Not only was I fond of him and looked up to him, but he was full of all sorts of good advice as to how to manage my humorless father and his irritating wife, having trod the same path only several years before.  One day early in July, having lunch with Frecky in Lafayette Square, he informed me that he had decided to give me a present of white bucks for my twenty-first birthday.  And not just any white bucks, but white bucks from the only purveyor that one was to buy such exalted footwear: Barrie Ltd. of New Haven, Connecticut, located right next door to J. Press in the middle of the Yale campus.  What joy!

The small problem that Barrie was in New Haven and we were in Washington was remedied by a quick phone call from my brother to place an order for a pair, which arrived in the mail several days later.  I was excited to put them on my feet for the first time, and I felt like a swell when I wore them to the office where I was working.  It didn't matter that Barrie had sent a pair that was one size too large for my feet--I was thrilled to have them, and wore them constantly.

And I've worn the same pair of white bucks ever since, for over thirty years.  There have been times when I haven't given them a lot of wear, but that has not been the case for more than a decade.  And it's a good thing that Barrie sent a pair that was a size too large, for my feet grew in my forties, and the bucks now fit perfectly.  Once Memorial Day hits I pull them out and wear them at least once or twice a weekend.  I also wear them weekdays when I'm on vacation, such as during our recent trip to Italy.  And I take good care of my bucks.  I've had them resoled and reheeled countless times, I've had new insoles added, I've had the leather cleaned, and--more recently--I had a failing leather heel of one of them rebuilt.  I also regularly pounce them with a Buck Bag that contains white powder made for whitening white buck shoes.  Sure, they don't look spanking new, but that is fine with me because one doesn't really want to wear blindingly clean, straight-from-the-shop bucks.  It is far better that they boast some age.

You may know that white bucks are the source of the expression "white shoe," as in "He works at a white-shoe law firm," a firm that employs elite and moneyed professionals and that draws its clients from a similar world.  However, you may not know that at one time men were referred to, in certain circles in this country, as "black shoe," "brown shoe," or "white shoe" fellows.  "Black shoe" men were those who could afford to own only one pair of good leather shoes, which of course would be black--the safest and most versatile shoe available.  "Bown shoe" men were more affluent and could afford to have an expanded shoe wardrobe beyond basic black.  "White shoe" men were the most affluent, those who could afford to own many pairs of shoes, including shoes as impractical and upkeep-requiring as white bucks.

Today, when most people (at least in the Western world) have ready access to reasonably priced shoes, such distinctions are no longer meaningful.  But at one time--in the first half of the twentieth century--those were fairly commonly used expressions that many people understood instantly.   Men who wore white shoes--in this case, bucks--were understood to be more affluent and dandified than the average Joe.  And that is part of the allure of white bucks.

Tell me, do you or someone you know wear white bucks?

All photos by Boy Fenwick

The Belgians Bandwagon

Reggie is one of the legions of bloggers who is a devotee of Belgian Shoes.  These iconic, soft-soled slippers, known as Belgians, have a long-time, cult-like following among the Social Register set and fashion cognoscenti, and more recently among certain lifestyle bloggers.  They are available in this country today only from the carriage-trade Belgian Shoes store on East 55th Street in Manhattan, and also from the company online.

The "Mr. Casual" in brown calfskin, a personal favorite

The store isn't all that much to look at, as it sits in a nondescript building on a side street, and is very plainly decorated, if one could call it decorated at all.  But what treasures are to be found inside of it!

The store on 55th Street, just east of Park Avenue

Belgian Shoes was founded in the 1950s by Henry Bendell, a nephew of the founder of the Henri Bendel store in New York (and who was, himself, once president of that fabled retailer), and their shoes are still hand-sewn to this day in the country from which they've taken their name.

A catalogue from years gone by

(note colorful options for women)

The store is open only from 9:00 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. on weekdays, and from 10:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. on Saturdays.  They do minimal advertising, only in The Wall Street Journal and Quest Magazine, and the shoes are mostly sold by "word of mouth" to repeat customers and those introduced by same.  Not surprisingly, they are rather expensive.

Belgians have been the subject of countless blogosphere postings, including a recent one by Admiral Cod.  While it's not that I've got much to add to the volumes of what has already been written about these addictive slippers, I do feel compelled to write about them here because, well, Reggie believes he is the one who really discovered Belgians in the first place . . .

. . . at least among a group of friends he once had, but doesn't run with anymore.

In addition to plain leathers, Belgians come in exotic hides and fanciful prints

(not for the faint at heart)

But long before that, I first learned about Belgians shortly after moving to New York after college, thirty years ago.  That is when I met and befriended a high-tone decorator named Harry who I am no longer friends with for reasons that are known to him but remain a mystery to me to this day.  I guess I did or said something off-putting, but Heaven knows I don't recall whatever it was.  Ah well, life goes on.

One can also have one's crest applied to one's velvet or patent leather Belgians

Anyway, Harry wore Belgians almost all the time, as certain swell-New-York-lifelong-bachelor-decorator types are known to do, and insisted that I make a pilgrimage to their store on (then) East 56th Street and buy myself a pair or two.  Being an open-minded chap I took his advice and did so.  I've been a devotee ever since.  In fact, I'm wearing a pair as I write this post that you are now reading, Dear Reader.

One time Harry and I were out on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, where we were, admittedly, doing a bit of slumming.  We had gone out to a boozy dinner at the then white-hot fashionable Bowery Bar, and were standing on a street corner afterwards, discussing what to do next.  As we stood there, up towards us came a stumblebum, hand outstretched, begging for change.   As I reached into my pocket, Harry leaned over to me and said, sotto vocce, "The shoes, check out the shoes!" and motioned with his head toward the feet of the supplicant in front of us.  I looked down at the fellow's feet, and saw, much to my surprise, that he was wearing what appeared to be a brand-new pair of Belgians.  The incongruity of this was, to put it mildly, astonishing.  "Where did you get those shoes?"  I asked the bum.  He responded, "Do you like them?" "Why, yes I do like them,"  I said, "but tell me, do you know what those shoes are?"  I asked.  "They're comfortable, that's what they are," he said.  I responded, "Yes, I'm sure of that, as I have the same ones.  But those are expensive shoes, and not usually seen in this part of town.  Where did you get them?"  He said, "I got 'em at the Mission.  They've got lots of good stuff there they give away, for free.  You should check it out, you might find something you like there, too!"   Harry and I roared with laughter at this, and I said, "I'm sure that you are right, my good man, given what's on your feet."  I then handed him a dollar, and off he wandered into the night, wearing his Belgian Shoes.

The Belgians ad in the May Quest Magazine

Several years later I took a share in a beach house in Fire Island Pines and fell in with a fast party-boy set that found my choice of footwear to be almost as amusing as Harry and I had found what the Bowery bum had on his feet that night.  At the time, the prevailing shoes of choice in the Pines were decidedly more plebeian in origin than my favorite slipper.  During the better part of the decade I spent going to the Pines I don't recall ever seeing a person there, other than myself, wearing Belgians.  Admittedly, Reggie was a bit of a fish out of water in that particular community on Fire Island.  For, on the other hand, when he visited friends in East Hampton it was, at times, difficult to find someone who wasn't wearing Belgians.

Reggie in his Belgians-wearing Fire Island days

But it was not until Boy and I bought Darlington House that my fondness for Belgians truly became an addiction.  As my readers know, Darlington is an old house and in the country, and for much of our occupancy has been a drafty and sometimes chilly place to hang one's hat, at least when the weather turns cool.  Under those circumstances, having a comfortable house shoe to slip in to when coming in from a sometimes wet, muddy, or snowy outside is advisable.  That such a shoe should have a soft sole is desirable, too, when many of the floors in said house are wood.   And that's where the genius of Belgians comes in.  Easy to slip in to and out of, they are supremely comfortable to wear, and their soft soles are perfect for silently traipsing through Darlington's rooms.

Part of the pleasure of wearing Belgians, aside from their comfort, is that they have tone: one doesn't often see them off of the UES/Greenwich/Hamptons/Palm Beach/Hobe Sound axes.  Of course there are other, more off-this-beaten path enclaves that one occasionally encounters a Belgians-wearing fellow traveler, such as Far Hills, Lake Forest, Grosse Pointe, Wayzata, Hillsborough, Santa Barbara, Pasadena, River Oaks, Highland Park, Mountain Brook, Buckhead, Charleston, Middleburg, Chevy Chase, Gladwyne, New Canaan, West Hartford, and Brookline . . . just to name a few.

One each of our Darlington Belgians

Boy and I have, between the two of us, eight pairs of Belgians that we keep at Darlington, in assorted colors and leathers.  We wear the soft-soled "Mr. Casual" model, the only one worth owning as far as I'm concerned.  We each have several more pairs in our city apartment, too.  Boy also keeps a pair of Belgians (which he calls "Belgiques") in his office that he brings with him to wear in clients' recently installed houses or apartments, where the occupants often initially go shoeless or wear slippers to protect their new (and rather expensive) polished floors and handmade carpets.

I don't usually wear my Belgians when out and about, as I consider them to be primarily a house shoe.  I rarely wear them when leaving Darlington's property, and almost never out in the city.  I will admit to occasionally wearing mine when making a quick trip to the corner for a carton of milk, or when taking Pompey out for a discrete morning constitutional, and I sometimes change into them for a long plane ride.  However, that's about the extent of my public wearing of Belgians.  While I think women can look marvelous wearing them when out and about (and the color combinations available to women are extraordinary), I generally think most men look a bit, well, fey when doing so.

But I can't imagine life without them.

Tell me, where do you wear your Belgians?

Belgian Shoes
110 East 55th Street
New York, New York 10022-4540
(212) 755-7372
http://www.belgianshoes.com/

All photos, except of Reggie, by Boy Fenwick; photo of Reggie by Hazel Hazaga

The Real Thing: Freshly Picked Strawberries

There's nothing quite like freshly picked strawberries, just minutes out of the farm field where they've been grown and harvested, warm, sun-kissed, plump and juicy, and eaten at the very inflection point of their ripeness, when mere moments later they might be, in fact, overripe.

While I am an admirer of the beautiful Driscoll's brand of ruby red, gigantic strawberries astonishingly available throughout the calendar year in many supermarkets (how do they do it?), there is a very short spell--no more than several weeks--in June when the shelves at the local farm stands near Darlington groan under the weight of the juiciest, plumpest, most delectable, locally grown strawberries imaginable that unmask the hybridized ones in supermarkets for what they truly are: mere cardboard shadows of the "real thing," no matter how pretty they might be.  When I eat our locally grown, freshly picked farm stand strawberries in June, I find myself pausing and saying, "Oh, right, that's it.  That's what a strawberry really is."

This past weekend saw the much-anticipated appearance of strawberries at Holmquest Farms, our favorite nearby farm stand, much to the delight of members of the Darlington household (Pompey included) and our weekend guests.  And I must say that this year's bumper crop is one of the best in recent memory, having benefitted from several sultry spells this spring of unseasonably warm and sunny weather.

Perfection, thy name is country farm stand strawberry.

We bought our first batch of strawberries on Saturday and served them alongside a cloud of heavenly coconut cake at a dinner party we hosted that evening in honor of our visiting house guests, all of us giddy with pleasure, each spoon- and forkful a revelation of joy.

After our guests departed Monday morning, Boy consoled himself with another trip to Holmquest Farms to pick up yet another basket of just-picked, luscious strawberries just for us.  He said that he felt fortunate that he was able to buy some that morning, since the strawberries were selling out to delighted customers as fast as the farm hands could reload the shelves with their bounty.  That evening I prepared and served the strawberries, carefully removing their hulls to preserve as much of their juicy, succulent, and sweet fruit as possible.

And we devoured every last one of them, licking our lips and laughing with unbridled pleasure.

Holmquest Farms
516 Spook Rock Road
Hudson, New York 12354
(518) 851-9629

photo by Boy Fenwick