Everyone agrees, from dermatologists to the stars, to my long dead, but wrinkle free, paternal grandmother, that moisturizer is the shit. It doesn't have to be expensive- my grandmother used plain old Oil of Olay, as does one of my friends, who also has perfect skin.
Best used right after a wash or shower, moisturizer works, not by "being absorbed into the skin," as so many products claim, (because the very purpose of skin is NOT to absorb things,) but by creating a kind of barrier with water, that makes your outer layer of skin softer and more pliable. This is a good thing because not only does this barrier make you look nice, it maybe even diminishes the appearance of spots and wrinkles by plumping your face up, and if you use one with an SPF, it prevents sun damage.
Ok, enough with the science lesson. Recently I ran out of both my moisturizers at the same time. I was using Karin Herzog at night, and Eminence Stone Crop during the day. The Karin Herzog was starting to annoy me- it has hydrogen peroxide in it, which makes your skin glow, but also bleaches your eyebrows after a while. No, it was time to move on.
I started at the drugstore. Now, here is my problem. When did "moisturizer" stop being "moisturizer" and become... what were they calling it....? Oh, yes, at the drugstore we had "Normaderm Anti-aging Hydrating Care". (That's from Vichy, a lovely inexpensive French company.) I was also confronted with "Olay Definity Intense Hydrating Cream" and "Ageless Restoritives Energy Reneweal Day Lotion SPF 15." It is me, or are these things downright congressional? Like, what does "Definity" even mean?
The expensive lines are worse. These were my favorites (just the names- I didn't try any of em): "Primordiale Skin Recharge Cream", "Hydra Feel Unctuous Creme", "Dior Capture Totale Haute Nutrition Creme" and "Skin Cavier Luxe Creme." And honestly, I for one, would never want to put something called "Guerlain Orchidee Imperiale Fluid" on my face! It just sounds dirrrty. Or "La Prairie Cellular Cream Platinum Rare". Which is fine, because it's 1000$! It's like they just took fancy words and put them together. It's rare! It's platinum! It's cream! All for a bit of mineral oil.
In the end, I settled on some REN Hydra-Calm Global Day Cream, because it was all natural and it smelled nice. But it's still just moisturizer.
To me, Salsa Verde sounds like a small island in the Mediterranean, with rocky lagoon beaches, turquoise water, big crumbling stucco houses perched on hillsides, ancient olive and orange trees swaying in the ocean breeze, and lovely quay side restaurants. The waiters have mustaches, and the rich smell of roasting garlic and tart fresh lemon wafts from the kitchen. You watch your dinner come off the boat. Like Tiffany's, nothing bad can happen to you on the island of Salsa Verde.
In reality, Salsa Verde is a sauce. There are two kinds: the Mexican kind, which is yummy, but I will save for another time, and the Italian kind, which is what I am talking about today. Recipes vary- Mario Batali has egg and anchovy in his. Mine is the simplest of the simple, but very easy to mess with. I made a large batch last night, which we smothered on creamy halibut. It was a perfect contrast, and on a nasty March night, it tasted like spring. But you don't need fish- salsa verde goes on anything, from steamed green beans, to folded in with mashed potatoes, to steak. Trust me.
Salsa Verde
1 bunch Italian Parsley
1 handful cornichon pickles (about 8)
1 teaspoon capers
2-4 tablespoons Extra Virgin Olive Oil
2 tablespoons white wine vinegar (the best you have)
1 small shallot (or a small piece of red onion)
1 lemon (optional- you can use with or substitute for the vinegar)
Clean and dry the parsley well. Seperate the leaves and thin stems from the thick ones. Chop roughly. One handful at a time, with a couple of the pickles, the shallot and capers, add the parsley to your food processor (I have one of those tiny mini choppers. A blender would work too.) Lubricate with oil. Keep adding all the ingredients, and chopping, until you have a thick, beautiful green paste. It should taste sharp and bright and also a little creamy, but not too vinegary. If I have a problem getting it pasty, I keep adding oil.
Then- try not to eat by the spoonful.
So I learned something very interesting recently. And I am happy to share it with you. Are you ready? Because I know this small piece of information is going to change your life...
The people who work in the makeup department at Barney's work for the store, not the brands.
You're disappointed with me? That didn't just totally rock your world? Hmmm. Well then, let me go on. Perhaps you will find elucidation in the explanation.
I have not worn makeup of any sort during the day for many years now- probably since 2000. Recently, there was a large occasion when makeup was called for, (fine, my own wedding,) and so I set out with a valued friend, Katie, who is wise in such things, to obtain some. She directed me to Barney's, where she knew that there was an Armani counter.
I have had department store makeovers in the past, most recently at the Benefit counter at Bloomingdales in SoHo. I left looking like a drag queen version of Tovah Feldshuh, with an inch of foundation, too much mascara, heavy blush, and thick shiny eye makeup. I bought a bunch of stuff, spending a minor fortune, almost none of which I ever touched again. So I was not completely looking forward to the repeat experience. Katie took me strongly by the arm, and steered me to the Armani kiosk.
"She needs makeup. For her wedding. She never wears it, so it should be light, and she has a tendency to shine." Katie informed the man at the counter. I looked at Katie with my jaw on the floor- I never thought I had a tendency to shine before. The little counter man, who I could see was wearing some white eyeliner, appraised me with a cool eye, and nodded.
"I see what you mean," he told Katie. I was tempted to leave, but instead climbed up into the chair. There were mirrors everywhere, and I was forced to contemplate every tiny blemish and wayward hair on my skin, as the man set to work. Soon, I had three different kinds of foundation streaked over my face. The first Armani one was too heavy. The second was too powdery.
"Close you eyes, I have the perfect thing," He said. With a steady hand and fat brush, the man wiped something over my entire face. It felt wonderful-cool and creamy. I opened my eyes, and my blemishes, which had screamed and erupted under the other stuff, seemed to have completely smoothed out, as if by magic. My skin was as flawless as it is in my imagination.
"What is this?" Katie cried, grabbing the small glass jar of potion. "You're getting it. That's final." She fixed an arched eyebrow on me, but I didn't need convincing. It was Chantecaille Future Foundation, in case you are curious about the magic and all that.
I left the store that day with the foundation, a concealer, a powder, and a lipstick, none of which were by the same company, all of which I use all the time. Instead of having that feeling of getting ripped off that often accompanies a department store makeover, I felt like I might actually LIKE wearing makeup again. And I felt like I got to try everything. Take that, Bloomingdales.
August 2nd, 2008. These three pairs of shoes mark the day I should have realized that the economy was in the crapper. Because all three pairs were on serious, serious, serious sale at Jeffrey. Trendoid patent leather stilettos with hot pink heels in the shape of flowers, these are not. No, these are three of the most basic, elegant pairs of shoes a girl can hope to find marked 70% off. 250$ is not a crazy amount to spend on boots. But 1100$ is. And that was the original price of those boots. As Fred, my guy at Jeffrey said that day "You'll never see these on sale again." And reader, maybe he's right. But not for the reasons he thought.
I left the store that day, feeling ebullient- like I had gotten away with something. I couldn't believe my luck- three pairs of simple black shoes, for the price of, well, one pair of Louboutins? But looking back, I wonder if I should have guessed something was up. Because, at most points between 2005-2007, those three, basic pairs of shoes would have been long gone by week four of the sale. Heck, they probably never would have gone on sale at all. The fact that there they were, lingering (in my mind, waiting for me,) was perhaps a notice that a seismic shift was underway.
Now, seven months later, I don't regret anything, but times, they have, as they say, a-changed. Now, the stock market has followed the shoes to deep discount territory. The only thing is, I don't know what a deal on the stock market looks like. If only I knew my stocks like I know my shoes. And, as I walk to the subway in my favorite black boots, their red soles scraping off with wear, I wonder if the days of 1100$ plain black boots, like million dollar studios, and citibank stock at 51.80, are over?
And of course, if you are a tennis fan of any sort, it's hard not to love R. Fed, as my sister calls him. He's just so good. And then when you start to hate him for it, you realize he's also just so nice. And smart with the three languages. He and Rafa come off as real sportsmen. (Unlike say, cranky James Blake at the Olympics, who was a poor loser, whining about who touched what with what.) The Wimbledon final this year was so nerve wracking I had to leave the room, repeatedly. I hung in there, almost crying at the end for both men. I was as breathless as John McEnroe, who was my favorite when I was little, and who I can not call Johnny Mac.
I'll also be keeping an eye on fiery Marat Safin, Querry, and Djokovic. Roddick who?
As for the women, well, I like the sisters Williams. But for no good reason, right now, I lean towards Venus. I also like Safina. And I miss Sharapova's brooding elegance.
Of course, the new air has me dreaming of fall and fall clothes. Every magazine is touting their new fall fashion issues, and with them come the usual proclamations: "The Little Black Dress is Back!" "The NEW Gilded Age" (cause, like last year, it wasn't the gilded age.) "Forty Looks for Forty Bucks" blah blah. The forecasting I can do without.
Instead, my need for new fall gear, comes, I think, from deep within my reptilian memory. Going-back-to-school shopping was a ritual initially detested, then dreaded, and finally enjoyed, though my mother and I would fight about what was appropriate. (And sometimes SHE was the misguided one, letting me get ridiculously sophisticated clothes that I insisted I needed, and then never wore again, after getting mocked by my peers. A suit comes to mind. Like the kind secretaries wear to work. Fall, '93.)
These shoes fit my fall mood perfectly. I bought them several months ago, but they aren't very summer, are they? They are womanly, as opposed to carefree and girly, but I wouldn't call them serious or old either. The round toe, high high heels and the black soles are too subtly playful for that. I like to think of them as the Sophia Loren of shoes: Cool without trying at all, smart, Italian, and round in all the right places. They'll look great with anything, and everything, or nothing at all.
In the past year or two, I've taken up an interest in cooking. For most of that time, I was "ok" at it. What I made was palatable, but probably not all out delicious. People were not screaming "YUMMY!" when they ate my food. They were nodding politely and not vomiting in front of me. But I think any beginner goes through that.
Like writing, the only way to learn to cook, is to cook. Reading cookbooks (seriously) and watching cooking shows helps, not so much for the specifics, but for the generalities. I learned that people cook with medium onions, chopped up and softened in butter or oil A LOT. Other things I learned: to stop worrying about things burning (they almost never do on top of the stove. In the beginning I undercooked EVERYTHING) and to stop worrying so much about following the actual recipe verbatim, especially since I don't bake. (Thank you Mark Bittman.) Also, Ina Garten's food looks incredible, but she's like the Paula Deen of the Northeast. When in doubt, she adds fat! But she also eyeballs amounts, which is comforting. And honestly, though I don't love her food, Rachel Ray is great to watch to pick up some knife skills.
So, recently something quite interesting has happened. I can actually cook a really tasty meal, in about 45 minutes, with no real recipe. And not just one thing (well, sometimes one thing.) And I find it therapeutic. RC often looks at me in the kitchen in askance: where is empty-refrigerator-camel-smoking-cat-hair-covered girl I met?" he wonders. Still here, but without the cigarettes. So I thought I'd start sharing with you the things I've been making.
Last night I made this Striped Bass dish. I got the fish at the farmer's market on Sunday, and quite honestly you can use any fish you want. I probably wouldn't do Tuna or Salmon, but that's me. We had a pound, but that's just because that's what they had.
Veracruz Style Sauce:
1 Medium Onion (duh), roughly chopped
2 Tbsp Extra-Virgin Olive Oil or so
1 half-pint Sungold Cherry Tomatoes (though 2 or 3 beautiful summer tomatoes of any sort would work)
1 handful of pitted green olives (I like the whole foods ones in cans, but any will do, or even black.)
1 tsp capers
1 tsp pickled jalapenos, chopped (funnily I had real Serranos in the fridge, but I just like these better.)
I started by heating up my big All-Clad saute pan that I do everything in. That's one of those little things I learned on TV- heat the pan first. Then I added the oil. Then the onions. I cooked the onions for a good while. They were so soft and sweet. Probably at least ten minutes, maybe fifteen, stirring occasionally because my stove heats things lopsidedly, and also to get the onions unstuck from the bottom of the pan (hey, it happens). Then I added the tomatoes, whole.(If I had had big ones, i would have chopped them first, and left the skin and seeds.) Then I turned the stove off, accidentally, because I was cooking rice on the burner behind it, and the rice was done, then I went to season the rice, and then I came back to check the sauce, and lo, there was no sauce. So I turned the stove back on. I covered the pan, to try to get the tomatoes done faster. You want them to pop, which they will, beautifully, and this takes a little time- about ten more minutes. But I got nervous about the onions, so I added a dash of white wine, to moisten things, but if you don't turn the stove off, you won't have to. But it doesn't hurt at all. Ever.
When the tomatoes began to pop, I added everything else. And d'you know what else I should mention? Salt. Occasionally I would throw a handful in, when I remembered. You can almost never have too much salt, except when you do, and then it's a nightmare, so taste while you cook. I let that all cook togethe, while I grilled the fish on my grill pan. It bubbled, and turned it down, and then only one side bubbled. (The fish cooks in 12 minutes or so.) It was delicious. I almost didn't even need the fish, honestly. I served with canned fat-free refried beans, cilantro lime rice (rice cooked in chicken stock, lime juice, chopped cilantro) and left over tortillas.
But to the point. So, like many, if not most, women, I have some serious issues with my boobs, both good and bad. I got to thinking that I would make a little list. At first it was going to be "good things" to, you know, empower myself. Then it was going to be bad things, just to vent. And then it was just things, good, bad and neither.
1. Finding a bra can be difficult. I am a 32DD. Do you know who else wears a 32DD? Porn stars. And people with implants. Yeah. I am neither. I am all about Fantasie bras. They are pricey but worth it.
2. Dressing the top half of my body takes a significant amount of time and thought. I remember once a friend of mine said "I love those shorts! You can just wear them with a white tank!" And I was like "Um, no. I can not go out in public in a white tank." Suffice to say, she did not understand. I've learned that it's actually better to wear tighter clothes, but fit is so important. I dread pulling button downs. I love Rebecca & Drew shirts, but sadly, I love Steve Alan shirts more. They fit-ish. The XS gaps, but the S is too big, and it gaps too. Sigh. I envy my flatter friends and their devil may care attitude to sweet strappy summer tops.
3. Big boobs add about five pounds to your perceived weight. It's true! Wearing a properly sized bra helps with this, but still...
4. They make a really good rest for the remote control when I watch TV. I doubt my flatter friends can use their breasts as a shelf! Sometimes I'll have the remote sitting there for an hour or so before I even notice it.
5. Babies, all babies, love me at first sight. Seriously, I look like lunch.
6. They are sexy? I guess?
7. They are always changing. Who knows what size they'll be in the future?
I am down for the surprise.
Neon nails? YES PLEASE! I have been waiting for these colors since my last bottle of Wet & Wild went clumpy at Breezemont Day Camp, summer of 1985. Thank you Essie, you read my mind. My only complaint: Where's the green and blue?
I have passed by this little jam-packed boutique on 9th street about a thousand times. Because it's so crammed with stuff, and also because of it's purple awning, retro-video game font, and to be quite honest, the silly name, I always thought Funky LaLa was a vintage store of the ancient pit stained rock and roll t-shirt variety. How wrong I was.
Lucky for me, and now you. Yesterday as I wandered home from running very boring errands, an absolutely stunning dress caught my eye from deep within the store. I decided to enter. Either the dress was a vintage anomaly, or I had misjudged the place. Either way, I was willing to investigate. The store is indeed crammed, but the clothes are all by young, up and coming designers. It's like a candy store for clothes horses. The dress that caught my eye was by the amazing Robert Rodriguez, who also sells as Fred Segal, and Bergdorf. There were other designers I had seen and admired: Grey Ant, Foley & Corinna, to name a few. And some I had never seen or heard of. I realized I had a find of epic proportions on my hands.
The clothes on each rack were uniformly great- though don't expect a lot of color. Spring seems to be dawning with a neutral palate, at least at Funky LaLa. That's fine with me. If I had had the time, or the wherewithal, I could have done some serious damage there. I loved a soft fawn brown dress-length tunic with shiny flat brown sequins on the front. There were some great wide legged pants, and kicky little motorcycle jackets in interesting fabrics. And the clothes weren't all! There were great shoes; they had the best pair of flat black Gryson boots, with zips on the side, on sale, and a cool flat pair of sandals in a couple of colors. And bags! Of the sort that are not commonly seen on famous people! In a good way! Botkier is a favorite.
Considering the high price point of the place, the ladies who worked there were unexpectedly charming. I was greeted at the door with an offer of water. When I looked at the dress, I was also shown a similar skirt, with no push or attitude. As I handled the boots, one of the ladies approached (the one who offered me the water) and told me they were actually on bigger sale then marked, a nice piece of information that would have made me buy them, if they had had my size. And when I walked out (sadly) empty handed, it was with a friendly "bye." The kind that makes me want to go back soon.
Funky LaLa
422 East 9th Street (Between 1st Avenue and Avenue A)
