I wear natural deodorant, but I used to swear by Old Spice Red Zone (for exercising) and Secret Platinum (for every day). In fact, a younger me would have pulled a face at the very thought of using a brand you could find in a Vermont co-op that “takes two weeks to start working”. Once I moved to New York after college, I started treating myself to twice-annual trips to the luxuriously quiet spa on the fifth floor of Henri Bendel for haircuts. I assumed I’d continue as such for years.
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The first social outing (weeks and weeks ago now) since quarantine felt like an inching return to normalcy—a tip-toe towards the ordinary, towards days filled with spontaneity and people and summertime routines. As I sat in the backyard of friends who live the next town over, their twin girls napping inside and their tiny dog yapping and carousing happily around my feet, I tipped my chair back and closed my eyes for just a moment, my head tilted towards the sun. I could smell the chlorine from the swimming pool behind me—the water a dazzling, fluorescent aquamarine—and a fruity, yeasty scent drifting up from two glasses of Nectar Blender IPA sitting on the table. (This is Greenport Harbor Brewery’s latest summer release: a hazy-looking beer with a blend of hops, citrus, tropical fruits, and milk sugar.)
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I’ve never smoked cigarettes. Twice, in college, I thought it might be an interesting thing to try on, in the manner that one is constantly auditioning new habits around that age—mimicking the crowd around you and seeing what sticks—much like pulling on skinny jeans instead of bootcut or listening to a different kind of music or drinking espresso when you’ve only ever had milky, sweet coffee.
One poorly performed drag (a too-sharp inhale followed by an agonizing minute of doubled-over coughing on the tiny balcony outside my dorm room while my friend Peggy laughed so hard she almost fell over the railing) and my smoking career came to an abrupt end before it even began.
Read moreHONEY SEMOLINA PECAN COOKIES
I’m remembering a warm evening last summer—in my mind’s eye, I’m driving in the waning light, the day growing dusky and golden, the air soft and humid as the temperature slowly drops. My windows are down and I have the music on loud. The National’s “Bloodbuzz Ohio” is playing and I’m half singing, half humming along to the words. Lay my head on the hood of your car…I was carried to Ohio in a swarm of bees.
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The hydrangeas are blooming. Yesterday I walked over to the garden and spotted two small zucchini nestled just beneath the bright tangerine-colored blossoms, and one row over, three snap peas jauntily hanging from the vines, their delicate tendrils snaking up the metal trellis. Arugula is coming along nicely, as are various lettuces and a hardy species of blue-green kale. At the far edge of the garden is my favorite plant: a small round bush of basil with broad leaves and pretty purple flowers that grow straight up in whirled cylinders. It’s not regular basil, the sort that you’re used to tasting in tomato sauce and lasagna and piled on top of pizza.
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