I don’t know that I would wear these earrings, but I am intrigued by the creative process behind them. Each pair, super light and one of a kind, is made from layers and layers of paper, handpainted with gold, silver or copper and finished with several coats of waterproof varnish. The colours are rich and the shapes decadent, (there is a Renaissance feel to them) and at 18 Euro, they’re an affordable alternative to chandeliers.
The only socks on my feet these days are Chups, but when the cold lifts, I’ll be wearing Lirika Matoshi’s beautiful stockings. Imagine ladybugs, flowers and starry nights beaded onto fishnets with exquisite precision. They’re expensive, but the work is so intricate. take a look at Matoshi’s Instagram feed –– it’s such a delight.
I hear that staying in is the new going out, and with temperatures as frío as ours, I have no problem with that. But I do love to be around people. It’s one of the reasons that I am challenged by winter –– opportunities to connect with people, even curbside, are often crushed by cold. Enter the dinner party. We rarely host, and nor do our friends. But I think it’s high time we brought back the dinner party. We need not serve soufflés or beef wellingtons. Dinner can be a bowl of pasta or a curried soup, just something warm and cozy that’s easy to make. It’s such a luxury, for me anyway, to be cooked for, and to break bread with friends in the their own homes. Likewise, I love to entertain, and although I’m not a super cook, I can rustle up a decent risotto. Besides, as a smart New York Times writer once said, “to me it has always been clear that a dinner party is about what is said, not what is eaten.” When in doubt, serve cheese, and lots of it.
In this house, we eat everything with a glug of good olive oil on it. I’m not a baker, but if I were one, olive oil would no doubt make its way into our cakes. This one here looks heavenly, and just the sort of cake I’d love to serve with Moroccan mint tea on chilly afternoons.
After ten days in our small, dark basement, my Mum moved into the Four Seasons for a day for bright sunlight, silence and frette linens. We hung out for the afternoon — me reading magazines in bed, and the children splashing about at the spa. If not for this buggar of a cold, I would have come swimming, too. I rarely skip on the chance for a swim. Even the plague wouldn’t stop me from diving into this David Hockney pool.
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