Wherever you are right now, whatever it is you’re doing, please pause and think of the victims of this afternoon’s chaos here in Boston. And people around the world for whom this scene is all too familiar.
Charleston: A Love Story
{One of the many breathtaking mansions in the neighborhood South of Broad Street.}
Last weekend, I made my first visit to Charleston, South Carolina. Prior to making the trip, I didn’t really know what to expect, but the only thing I’d ever heard from friends who’d been there were rave reviews. Little did I know just how enchanting this little city would be. In fact, until last weekend, I didn’t believe in love at first sight.
As a first-timer to Charleston, three of its features stood out most for me: history, architecture, and food. Needless to say, there’s too much history to cover in one blog post, and an army of well-qualified experts and tour guides are always at the ready to educate visitors. I’m not a big fan of group tours (they can be cumbersome, and it can often be tough to hear your guide and ask questions), but on this occasion, a guided carriage tour around the city on my first full day in town proved to be the perfect crash course for learning Charleston’s colorful and dense history. (I’d had no idea–or maybe I’d forgotten–that Charleston was once a walled city, that it’s where the first free blacks lived in the U.S., and that it’s known as the Holy City because it’s home to so many churches and houses of worship. And that barely scratches the surface.) Our guide and driver, Mark Jones, who, it turns out, is also a published author multiple times over, was exceptionally knowledgeable, even as tour guides go. That never hurts.
{Mark Jones and co., our superb guide and educator extraordinaire.}
As deep and rich and fascinating as Charleston’s history is, its architecture is even more so, if only because it’s physical evidence of the past that we can only imagine in our minds–like pictures in a book, only better. Building rules and regulations dictate that the city’s physical structures be preserved during renovation and rebuilding processes (the Preservation Society of Charleston is the oldest organization of its kind in the country), so it’s not unusual to find yourself browsing couture clothing or sitting down for a BBQ dinner in a setting that seems better suited to banking or horse grooming. (If you make it to Charleston, stop in the Urban Outfitters and Starbucks shops on King Street. Both are great examples of how the city has preserved its structural heritage while adapting to the needs of the modern consumer.)
{Urban Outfitters on King Street, Charleston’s main shopping thoroughfare.}
And then, of course, there are the historic homes along Meeting Street, The Battery, and the entire neighborhood South of Broad Street. It was during Jones’s tour through these residential neighborhoods that I fell hopelessly for Charleston. The streets are replete with grand homes built in Georgian, Victorian, Federal, and Italianate styles, among others. Many are only a single room wide and are famously turned sideways from the street, their long porches leading the way to neat-as-a-pin English-style private gardens that are (sadly for nosy tourists like me) not easily visible from the street. Some of the homes were built by shipping magnates with piles of money or those with old family fortunes, and some were symbolic, built and given as wedding gifts or grand gestures of love. One of the grandest of these homes is the Calhoun Mansion, located at 16 Meeting Street (the behemoth of a home is the largest privately owned residence in Charleston, at a hulking 24,000 square feet). The Calhoun Mansion was built by the wealthy merchant George Williams, who in 1890 gifted his daughter, Martha Williams, and her new husband, the jeweler Warring Carrington, a check for $75,000 to be used in the construction of a new home for the couple. The resulting home, just a few doors down at 2 Meeting Street, now serves as one of Charleston’s premier B&Bs. Although the Calhoun Mansion is open for tours, it’s still privately owned and serves as a part-time residence for its owner and his family. (Additional notable historic homes are listed here.) I can only imagine that living in this part of town is akin to waking up each day in the pages of a romantic period piece of literature.
{The Calhoun Mansion and its gardens.}
{Two Meeting Street Inn}
(More architectural highlights from my carriage tour…)
{Updates were being made to this home, which is among a few unique homes in Charleston
that remain under ownership of their original owners, having never been sold.}
{The ceiling of this home’s porch was painted blue to resemble water,
which evil spirits are said to be unable to traverse.}
One thing I did somewhat expect before my visit to Charleston is that I’d be eating a lot, and that the food would be good. (I wasn’t sure, but I was hopeful that there would be pimento cheese, fried green tomatoes, and grits involved. There were.) I could not have prepared myself for the extent to which those predictions would turn out to be true. I stayed at the absolutely lovely Charleston Place Hotel, and while the accommodations were nothing short of amazing, what I found truly and pleasantly surprising was the quality of its restaurants. The two-and-a-half meals I had at the hotel (one lunch, one dinner, and a cocktails-and-apps gathering) were not only the best meals I had while in Charleston, but they were among the best hotel-restaurant experiences I’ve had in all my travels. Lunching at the Palmetto Cafe felt like dining in a terrarium or greenhouse, and the atmosphere and decor (contemporary farmhouse chic) were upstaged only by the menu. (Tempura-fried marinated tofu sliders? Homemade breads and herb butter? If I must!) And the Charleston Grill was the perfect piece de resistance of a blissfully happy weekend in my new favorite city. Alabama native Michelle Weaver helms the Mobil Four Star restaurant, but the Southern chef’s influence manifests itself far beyond the shrimp-and-grit dishes that are ubiquitous in the area. I still dream at night of the Thai fish entree I ordered for dinner–encouraged at every turn by the wait staff to “eat it with a spoon” lest I miss a single drop of the tart-and-spicy broth that pooled around the tender filet. Eating fish with a spoon felt silly and awkward at first, but I soon grew grateful for the advice and happily lapped up every last bite, just as I was eager to drink in every nook and cranny of this magical corner of our country. And I can’t wait to go back for more–of all of it.
{Pimiento cheese turndown amenity at Charleston Place Hotel.}
{Tofu sliders at Palmetto Cafe.}
{Fried plantains with braised pork and homemade pimento cheese.}
{Homemade breads, herb butters, and squash soup.}
{Sweet potato gnocchi for dessert–yes, dessert–at Charleston Grill.
I didn’t pull my camera out until the meal was nearly over, sadly.}
{Fried green tomatoes and grits for breakfast at Sweetwater Cafe.}
{Charleston Place Hotel, my home away from home for this picture-perfect weekend.}
Show us Your Grits
In my last post, I mentioned some cheese grits I’d recently had that almost made me spontaneously speak in foreign tongues. Even if they hadn’t been as creamy, cheesy, buttery, and velvety as they were, I probably would’ve proclaimed my love for them anyway simply for the reason that they were offered on the menu. I’ve had a lifelong penchant for cheese grits that began when my mom introduced them to me as a kid and that I’ve never outgrown. (I hope I never do.) Grits are typically a Southern dish, and cheese grits are even more of a novelty, so on the rare occasion that I spot them on a restaurant menu, I just can’t pass them up.
Reliving that recent cheese grits experience while writing my previous post, I considered contacting the restaurant and asking if they’d be willing to share their recipe so I could try my hand at them at home. Instead, I came to my senses and realized that I already possessed the Holy Grail of cheese grits recipes: my mom’s. After all, Daniel Boulud may be a world-renowned superstar chef with a littany of Michelin stars to his name, but one thing he has not is my mother’s loving touch.
A couple of tips before getting started: I’ve used fine grits, like Arrowhead Mills’, and the results are perfectly amazing, but more recently I tried using the more rough-cut variety from Trader Joe’s, and Oh. My. God. The added bite and texture took things to a whole new level of decadence. Lastly, this dish comprises mainly cheese, butter, and corn, things that Anyone Who Knows Anything About Nutrition would caution strongly against. But, you’ve already come this far, so what’s a little extra sprinkling of shredded cheddar on top of the gorgeous grits mixture before tucking them into the oven?
Try it and see.
Ingredients:
1 1/2 c. grits
3 eggs
2 tsp. salt
1 tsp. paprika
a few dashes of hot sauce
1 lb. sharp cheddar cheese, grated
1/2 c. butter
Directions:
Stir grits gradually into 6 cups boiling water; cook until thickened. Beat eggs until thickened; beat in seasonings and hot sauce. Add small spoonful of hot grits to egg mixture, stirring constantly. Stir egg mixture into remaining grits gradually; add cheese and butter. Mix well; pour into greased 9×13″ casserole dish. (Optional: Sprinkle more shredded cheddar evenly on top.) Bake at 350 for one hour or until firm (top should be golden brown).
Brazilian Court: Breaking (and Making) Up with Palm Beach
{Palm Beach, looking harmless enough.}
Anyone who knows me well knows that I hate Florida. Or, I did for a while, anyway. (Before anyone takes offense, please read on, and I’ll explain.)
In 2003, after graduating from Syracuse with an expensive magazine degree and big dreams of being an editor in New York City, where I’d interned the previous summer, I packed up my life and made the 1,400-mile journey to…Palm Beach. That’s right. It wasn’t exactly what I’d planned for myself when I set out to make a living in magazine publishing, but the industry was fickle and I went where the best job offer took me. After all, post-graduation, many of my classmates were living at home again, back in their childhood bedrooms, trying to figure out what was to happen next. Make no mistake: I graduated with a job offer in hand, and I was grateful. But, South Florida?
As it turned out, that low-level job I’d gotten in that completely foreign corner of the country was pretty great. I spent my days at five-star resorts, trying spa treatments, eating at restaurants I could never have afforded on my own, and trying on million-dollar diamond necklaces, all in the name of research for the stories I would write. Then, there were the cocktail parties and benefits at Saks Fifth Avenue and the like, my attendance at which was part of the job description. I had even made some great new girlfriends at work. Most days, I had so much fun that my $19,000-a-year take-home salary hardly fazed me (except for a new, nagging worry over the credit card debt I was beginning to amass in an effort to look the part I was barely paid to play).
The trouble was my post-6 p.m. life. While Palm Beach’s wealthy young style makers and socialites were heading out to the Island’s swank bistros, cafes, and lounges after work, I rushed home to inhale a microwaved dinner, change wardrobe, and sprint out the door again to the part-time job I worked at a local Anthropologie to earn some extra cash. Getting home at midnight too many nights, and still without a comfortable income, I was left worn out and wondering what I was doing there.
On a more serious level, there were some darker issues I had to deal with, too. There were several terrifying weeks of trouble with a perverted anonymous “admirer” whose hobbies included leaving filthy, explicit, and threatening letters under my windshield wipers and, on occasion, my front door. There were four massive, devastating hurricanes, one of which knocked out my power and air conditioning for 11 days. In the heat and humidity of September in South Florida, that proved plenty of time for my carpet to mold and for an entire ecosystem of insects to colonize my walls and floors. And then there was the unexpected, crushing death of the kitten I’d adopted four months earlier to keep me company. That’s when the proverbial camel’s back, after 16 months, finally broke. Taking my string of misfortunes as a sign that this wasn’t where I belonged, I tearfully turned in my resignation to a horrified publisher who stopped short of scooping me up in a fatherly embrace. On the day of my 24th birthday, I slammed the jam-packed trunk of my Nissan Altima (a merciful delivery from my dad after my Jetta died on a West Palm highway not long after I’d arrived there) and left Florida in a billowing wake of thick, bitter dust, bound for the bright lights of New York. I cried all the way to the Georgia border, and I never looked back.
Over the course of the next eight years, including a move from New York to Boston, I did everything I could to avoid setting foot in that poisonous place, save for the occasional connection in Miami en route to someplace else. This was no easy feat, as, when you’re the editor of a luxury lifestyle publication with a focus on coastal destinations, trips to Florida present themselves frequently. But when an opportunity recently arose to spend a weekend at Brazilian Court, the legendary Palm Beach hotel I’d grown so curious about during my time there, well, I couldn’t pass it up. To help me brave the occasion, I used the trip as an opportunity to reunite with one of my favorite friends, who I met while working at that fateful first job and who had long since moved back to her native Midwest.
This time, touching down in West Palm Beach and exiting into the clear, warm November air with the friend I had missed for so long, I was surprised to feel a wave of nostalgia as we loaded into our cab bound for Brazilian Court. We spent the next three days lounging on the beach that we’d once driven past daily en route to work; lingering over lavish meals at the hotel’s Boulud-helmed restaurant (by the by, Boulud’s cheese grits are worth every hyper-inflated penny they cost and calorie they contain); cat napping next to its palm-shaded swimming pool; getting pampered at its Frederic Fekkai Salon & Spa; and window shopping along Worth Avenue, site of so many mid-day lunches and after-work events all those years ago. (We also enjoyed a fabulous late-night dinner at Buccan. I regret not taking any pictures, but trust me when I recommend it.)
Over the course of our stay, the sunlight that filtered into the hotel’s gorgeous courtyard and places beyond was a tonic, and I wanted to drink it. The grass was green. The sky was blue. The air was warm and light. The palm trees were restless in the breeze. This was the Florida people gush about, and I was enjoying it. The visit turned out to be relaxing, even healing, if only because I knew my time there would be fleeting. Regardless, this was a Florida I could live with, and I dare say I’d be happy to go back.
{Brazilian Court}
{Decadent turndown treats from Cafe Boulud}
{Worth Avenue}
{“Edible” art on Worth Avenue}
{My new lasting memory of Palm Beach. Simply lovely.}
Toro y Moi
{Toro y Moi at Paradise Rock Club, 2/15/13*}
Friday night brought for us another trip to the ‘Dise. As I’ve mentioned before, it’s one of my favorite places in Boston and a revolving door of great indie acts. This time, we stopped by to see Toro y Moi. I didn’t know much about these guys before Friday (I gave the tickets to my bf for his birthday, as he’s a more active fan), but what I discovered was a tight-sounding quartet whose music I found at times lounge-y, always groovy, and heavy on danceability. They’re really good. (It’s funny what a live music experience can do to change your perspective–I’ve heard Toro y Moi plenty while driving to and from work with my iTunes on shuffle, but, as I don’t typically favor anything that so much as hints at disco or funk, I usually skip over them. Not anymore!) And judging from my writhing, grinding neighbors in the sold-out crowd (which was thick with bearded hipsters, nerdy college boys in wool sweaters, PDA-heavy gay couples, and everyone in between), I wasn’t alone in my sentiments. Everyone was digging it.
Mr. Toro y Moi himself is 26-year-old Chazwick Bundick, a South Carolina native and University of South Carolina grad who started out making music in his bedroom as a high school student. His popularity gained momentum with the rise of the chillwave movement in 2010 and 2011. He’s also produced a number of records. Not bad for 26.
Anyway, I’m no authority on Toro y Moi, so I’ll leave all other facts and figures to someone more qualified. In the mean time, check out his website, or head to Amazon, where you can pick up his latest album, Anything in Return. (Better yet, if you’re in the Boston area, keep your business local and pick it up at Newbury Comics, where I got all my TyM loot.)
If you’re relatively new to Toro y Moi like I am, give a listen to “New Beat,” from his 2011 album Underneath the Pine. It’s a good starter track. (Though everyone whose input I’ve heard on the matter agrees that Anything in Return is excellent. So, perhaps start there.)
Toro y Moi still have a few tour dates left this spring. If you’re nearby, get tickets. You’ll be glad you did.
02/19 – Chicago, IL @ Metro
02/20 – Minneapolis, MN @ Fine Line Music Cafe
02/21 – Lawrence, KS @ The Granada Theatre
02/23 – Denver, CO @ Bluebird Theater
02/24 – Salt Lake City, UT @ Urban Lounge
02/26 – Vancouver, BC @ Biltmore Cabaret
02/27 – Seattle, WA @ The Crocodile
02/28 – Portland, OR @ Wonder Ballroom
03/03 – Los Angeles, CA @ The Fonda Theatre
03/29-31 – Sao Paulo, BR @ Lollapalooza Brazil
04/06-07 – Santiago, CL @ Lollapalooza Chile
As for us, next up, we’re seeing Sigur Rós in March, and Grizzly Bear and The XX in June (tickets here). It’s already been a great year for music, and there’s much more to come!
*It’s a bad photo, I know. When you’re 5’3″ and stuck in the back of a GA space in a sea of giant concert-goers, you do the best you can.
Soupocalypse 2013: When life gives you a blizzard, make black bean soup.
Out surveying the scene.
A few years ago, when I still lived in Brooklyn, I was introduced by a friend to what has since become one of my favorite and most-used recipes, for a blended black bean soup (I’ve never been a big fan of thin, liquidy soups or too-chunky ones). The best part is, he completely improvised it. One Super Bowl Sunday, as he toiled over the stove in the Park Slope apartment I shared with a friend, preparing to feed a hungry bunch of passive football fans who were more interested in his menu than the game, I observed from behind, frantically scribbling a list of ingredients and steps that went into making this amazing soup, which he’d made for us on one prior occasion. The directions are at some points difficult to read and frequently imprecise–there are no measuring cups or spoons, no units of weight to worry about–but that’s one of the things I love most about it. Sometimes, it turns out nice and mild. Other batches have left me teary-eyed and begging for the nearest cold beverage.
That recipe has traveled with me through three moves (including one from Brooklyn to Boston), tucked inside the front of my favorite cookbook. I’ve copied it down, e-mailed it, and made it over and over again for friends and family, and it’s always received with the same enthusiasm. It’s even become a Christmas Day lunch tradition with my family.
Naturally, when I learned that we’d be spending this weekend barricaded indoors by record-setting snowfall, I thought it the perfect occasion to make a pot of this glorious soup for my bf and me. I was right. After I finished making it, I let it sit on the stove for a bit as we bundled up and went outside to shovel snow and take a walk around our neighborhood. We came back home cold and wet, but a couple of bowls of black bean soup later and we were snug as bugs, watching the snow through our windows. I’m already looking forward to having leftovers today for lunch.
*A few notes about this soup: it’s 100% vegetarian (the original recipe called for chicken broth, but I use vegetable broth and it’s absolutely delicious). The recipe also calls for half and half, but you can omit it to make the soup vegan. Last but not least, it’s gluten free when you swap in corn tortillas instead of flour ones. As for serving suggestions, a squeeze of lime or some diced avocado are superb accoutrements.
I hope you’ll try it, and I hope it becomes a favorite for you, too. Enjoy!
Ingredients:
1 large white onion, chopped
1 large red bell pepper, chopped
Celery, chopped to equal onion and pepper piles
2 cloves of garlic, chopped
1 jalapeno, chopped and seeded (keep seeds and/or use 2 jalapenos for more heat)
1 Serrano pepper, chopped (and seeded, if desired; using the seeds adds more heat)
2 cans black beans, rinsed and drained
Salt and pepper to taste
Orange juice (no pulp)
1 carton of vegetable broth (or chicken broth if you prefer it)
1 package corn or flour tortillas
Canola oil (for frying)
Extra virgin olive oil
Sour cream (or fat-free plain Greek yogurt), for garnish
Heavy cream or Half & Half
Tools:
Large soup pot
Large skillet
Immersion blender
Tongs
The recipe.
Mise en place (sort of).
To make soup:
Coat the bottom of a large soup pot with a few tablespoons of olive oil. Add chopped vegetables and garlic and sautee on medium heat for 8 to 10 minutes or until veggies turn translucent. Add salt and pepper to taste. Once vegetables are translucent, add enough orange juice to cover the bottom of the pot (don’t cover/submerge the vegetables), and stir. Add 3/4 of the black beans, then turn heat to high and add the entire carton of vegetable or chicken broth. Bring to a boil. When mixture boils, turn heat down, cover pot, and simmer for 90 minutes, stirring every 20 to 30 minutes. After 90 minutes, remove lid, and blend contents of pot with immersion blender until soup is smooth. Add remaining 1/4 of black beans, and 1/2 or 1 cup of heavy cream or Half & Half. Stir.
Celery, onion, and red pepper.
Garlic, jalapeno, and Serrano.
Everyone into the pot…
…except for these guys, for now.
All in, and simmered.
The fun part…
Almost there.
This is my sous chef, inspecting my work.
To make tortilla strips:
(The number of tortillas you use is based on your preference. Any leftovers that don’t get eaten with the soup make great snacks later!) Stack tortillas and cut into uniform 1/2-inch strips. Fill a large skillet with about 1/2 inch of canola oil and turn heat to medium high or high. Once oil is hot, drop 5 or 6 tortilla strips in at a time, frying for a minute on each side, or until the strips are golden brown and become crispy. Use tongs to transfer strips onto a plate lined with a paper towel to absorb excess oil. Sprinkle with salt. Garnish each serving of soup with as many strips as you’d like.
Small tortillas work best for this part.
Cut into 1/2-inch strips.
Get your canola oil onto the stove.
Fry on one side.
And then the other. 
Drain, and salt.
Et voila! My favorite soup in the world.
Cobblers Cove
Cobblers Cove
One of the perks of my job as the editor of a luxury lifestyle magazine is that I get to log a lot of time at some pretty fabulous hotels and resorts. In the last couple of years alone, I’ve traveled all over the Caribbean, to South America (if you ever get the opportunity to visit the Galapagos Islands, do it!), and some destinations closer to home, like Northern California and Southern Florida. Today, I’m back home after spending most of the week in Barbados at a sweet little resort called Cobblers Cove. Cobblers is a Relais & Chateaux property, which, among other things, means that the food there is good (very good, if you ask me), which I’ve found to be a rarity in the Caribbean. It also has just 24 rooms and suites, giving it an intimate, home-like quality.
While I was there, I swam with turtles (fortunately, my camera was dead that day, so I don’t have any photos of the screaming fit that happened; turtles are much cuter from the deck of a boat than when they’re circling around and under you, grazing your feet as they go by), read my book by the pool, and relaxed on the patio of my room (no TVs here, so you truly get to disconnect). But I also managed to make it off-site, to St. Nicholas Abbey, a beautiful old sugar cane plantation; Codrington College, a seminary institution surrounded by sky-high palms; and Hunte’s Gardens, a dramatic and stunning Jurassic-looking garden that grows inside a giant crater in the earth. Throw in a couple of home-style lunches–one at The Atlantis Hotel and the other at Sunbury Plantation House–and my Barbados experience was complete. This wasn’t my first trip to the island, but it was my first time experiencing so much of what Barbados has to offer. And I have to say, I hope it’s not the last.
Your Tanlines are Showing
I love music, and even more so, going to shows. I arrived a little late to the party, though, having spent about four years living in New York without doing enough to explore new artists and check out shows (except for what seems like more Ted Leo and the Pharmacists shows than is reasonable for one person to attend). This is made sadder by the fact that I lived in Brooklyn, the epicenter of American indie music. Hyperbole? Maybe. But it’s true. So much music was being made right under my nose and I didn’t seize the opportunity to soak much of it in. In fact, thinking about all the great shows I must have missed while living there still makes me wince. (Brushing off a chance to see Arcade Fire play in a church sanctuary on the Lower East Side comes to mind. “Arcade What?” I’d said at the time.)
That’s not to say that there was none of it going on. I bopped around with sweaty hipsters in a dark basement as the Shout Out Louds choked out lines from “Howl Howl Gaff Gaff” a few feet away. I swilled PBR with The Picture at a loft party in Dumbo. I stuffed myself, embarrassed by the Midtown-office outfit I was still wearing, into general admission space with hundreds of shoe-gazing Manhattan high schoolers to sway and sulk at the feet of Death Cab for Cutie and Stars. I suffered through a few Robyn Hitchcock shows at Southpaw, and I raced to see the Fiery Furnaces sing in the back of a book store in Williamsburg when I heard they were there. Still, if I could turn back time, I would have made a better effort.
Happily, all is not lost. Over the past two years, since taking up with a certain someone who shares my love of music, I’ve made up a lot of ground. We’ve watched Givers rock Middle East, been hypnotized by Beach House at the Wilbur, and caught a surprisingly dynamite performance by Miike Snow at House of Blues. It doesn’t hurt that we live a stone’s throw from Paradise Rock Club, a place that’s firmly affixed in my Official Register of Happy Places. (It’s like this: If you live in New York and you love art, you probably love making trips to the Met. If you live in Philly and you love cheesesteak, you probably consume a lot of Pat’s. And if you live in Boston and dig indie music, you probably log a lot of hours at the ‘Dise.) There, I had what I imagine a religious experience would be like while seeing the Antlers. Then came Cults and Washed Out. Both were incredible. Our most recent outing to the ‘Dise was for a long-anticipated show by the guys who inspired this post: Tanlines.
Tanlines are a Brooklyn-based electronic-pop duo, formed in 2008, who produce a whole lot of sound with a pretty small setup that comprises a guitar, drums, a keyboard, and some electronic equipment. On stage, they’re charming; Jesse Cohen, who mans the jumble of equipment and sings backup, hams it up at every opportunity, while the ostensibly bashful singer/guitarist Eric Emm offers absolutely no banter with the audience. Despite, or perhaps because of, a pretty serious fumble that caused the pair to start one song over again, my heart swelled with adoration for these guys, who seem to be on the verge of a big break. It was like watching an older brother and his best friend on stage, praying they’d get through their set problem-free. And even when things got shaky, I couldn’t help but love them because they’re such good guys. Good guys who happen to make awesome music.
The marquis sighting never gets old.
Emm, setting up his own equipment.
Showtime!
A couple days after we saw them at Paradise, Tanlines made their late-night TV debut on “Late Night with Jimmy Fallon.” They played “All of Me,” from their album Mixed Emotions. You can watch here, via Daily Motion (try as I might, I can’t embed the video here. Sorry.).
And here’s the video for my favorite Tanlines track, “Not the Same”:
Welcome!
It’s here! My first blog post* is finally—finally—here. For the last 10 years, as a magazine editor I’ve been seeking out and telling fascinating stories about travel, lifestyle topics, home design, and incredible people who do incredible things. Recently, however, I’ve found it a bit of a paradox that I haven’t previously kept a blog. On one hand, I make a living telling other people’s stories, so it should seem natural that I’d want to tell my own, too (shouldn’t it?). On the other, I spend most of my time writing and editing, and I’m always up against a deadline, so finding the time (and the desire) to write about my own life hasn’t always been easy.
But, it’s time. I’ve had some amazing adventures in the past, and more are in the works. Infinite Lindsay is a place where I can record them all, and where I can share anything else that might be plying the infinite depths of my always-active mind.
I’ve decided to skip any type of boring bio. Instead, I’ll let history unfold as needed. If you know me well, or if we’re just getting acquainted, I hope Infinite Lindsay will be a means by which we can share stories, opinions, ideas, and so much more (anyone have a fab tofu-meatloaf recipe handy?).
Lastly, please pardon the mess while I figure this out. I hope you like it here!
(This is me.)
*This is not actually my first blog post. This afternoon, in haste I accidentally deleted my first first post and have so far failed to figure out how to retrieve it. Things are already out of order, but they can only get better from here.
Back to The Greenbrier
I was born and raised in West Virginia, a state that, sadly, is known in most parts of the world according to crude stereotypes. (Actually, I’m wrong here: West Virginia isn’t known in most parts of the world. Many people in the U.S. don’t even know it’s its own state.) I could devote an entire post to all of the things that make West Virginia beautiful, special, and unique, but for now, I’m only talking about one—The Greenbrier.
If you’re not already familiar with this precious gem, here’s its story in a nutshell: The Greenbrier is a grand resort (and I do mean grand) in White Sulphur Springs, a quaint town in the Allegheny Mountains in the southeastern part of the state. It’s perhaps most famous for two things: first, its wacky, whimsical interior design, which is the handiwork of Dorothy Draper. Second, that below the resort lies a U.S. Government Relocation Facility, a.k.a. “The Bunker,” a.k.a. an emergency Cold War fallout shelter that was commissioned by President Dwight D. Eisenhower in 1956 and built for use by the United States Congress in the event of a nuclear war. Though The Bunker was never used, it was kept stocked with supplies for 30 years, and its existence wasn’t declassified to the public until the 1990s, after a Washington Post article blew its cover.
Add to these incredible tidbits the fact that, during the Civil War, the resort was closed to guests and used instead by Union and Confederate soldiers as a military hospital or military headquarters, and that it boasts a world-class chef-training program and a world-renowned golf course, and you have one of the most unique resorts in the country. Above all else, though, since its founding in 1778, The Greenbrier has been a beacon of elegant entertainment and respite for the well-to-do. In that regard, not much has changed.
Anyway…I didn’t plan to spend much time on The Greenbrier’s history, but you can’t really talk about The Greenbrier without it. I vacationed at the resort a time or two with my family when I was young (too young to remember it), and the original purpose of this post was to share photos from my recent return there. We arrived the day after Christmas, so, needless to say, it was completely decked out for the occasion, making our stay there even more special.
-
- Arriving—26 years later!
-
- Our suite. Clashing color combo courtesy of Dorothy Draper.
-
- The main hall, site of afternoon tea and this giant poinsettia tree.
-
- The main hall.
-
- Backgammon and bubbly.
-
- A view of the entrance from inside another wing of the resort.
-
- This way to the spa…
-
- Toucan-topped Christmas trees alongside the indoor pool.
-
- A peek into the Main Dining Room, where a jacket is still required for dinner.
-
- Christmas flair.
-
- A model of the resort, complete with running train.
-
- Big, big bows. Loved that floor.
-
- A hallway lined with patriotic Christmas trees.
-
- My favorite vignette in the resort.
-
- The famous white sulphur spring—and then off we went.
