Give me figs, palm trees, sparkling lemonade, sun-bleached shores, and let’s call it a DAY. Years back in my banking days, I took a much-needed respite to an all-inclusive resort in Aruba. I woke to room service and a terrace on the beach, and I lumbered around in gauzy cotton and soft sandals. I try to hold on to that memory for as long as possible, especially on days when the wind razors your skin and you can’t quite remember what warmth feels like.

Inside, I’m determined to recreate a luxurious spa experience. And as I have a predilection for French lavender and chamomile (a girl needs to CALM DOWN sometimes), clearly it would be love at first sniff with The Body Shop’s Divine Calm Sublime Body Lotion ($22 for 6.75oz). Excuse me as I bask in the glow of soft hands and velvet skin. Formulated with Community Trade organic soy oil, which helps to restore skin’s moisture barrier, Community Trade cocoa butter, Community Trade Brazil nut oil and grapeseed oil, which serve to soften and moisturize skin, this is a lotion worth acquiring. The scent is calming, and I can’t help but long for lazy days by the shore and straw hats.

Full Disclosure: Sample provided for potential feature/review.

If you’re like me — an idiot when it comes to makeup application — you will adore Stila’s Yumberry Lip & Cheek Stain ($24). A soft pearlized pink stain, you’ll find your cheeks naturally flushed and luminous. And breathe easy, for this doesn’t require a litany of brushes, pads and newfangled technologies to achieve fabulous results.

Full Disclosure: Product was provided for potential feature/review.

As you can see, I went a little bonkers in Miu Miu. There was the epic bag incident, and I thought I was in the clear, I thought I could make a break for it, but then I had the SHOE ENCOUNTER.

I mean, honestly. Would you say to these sumptuous peep toe bows? A hidden platform stiletto finished in buttery leather? Colored in a sweet cornflower blue? The divine stitching? Call it Miu Miu hysteria, but I fell under the spell of these ultra-comfortable kicks; I found myself walking around the store feeling pretty fabulous. The Miu Miu’s Calzature Nappa Heels in Washed Denim are truly epic, and what I love about Miu Miu shoes are the exquisite, ultra-feminine yet eclectic, details. From leather bows to zippered heels to jewel-encrusted flats, I’m starting to realize that I can always expect the unexpected from Prada’s younger, smarter sister brand.

One should never abandon their passion. Yesterday, I left a party early to scurry home to feast on a kale salad; I slipped under the covers, giddy, because come morning I would bake my very first Irish Soda Bread. It’s been quite some time since I powered up the stand mixer and cranked the oven, but amidst all the recent work-related frenzy, I’m determined to have work-life balance.

Even as I type I can smell the heady sweetness of cherries, the citrus of orange zest and the flakiness of warm bread. Who wouldn’t want to wake in the morning to this?

This Irish Soda Bread recipe comes courtesy of Ina Garten, but since I couldn’t find currants in my larder, I settled for cherries.

INGREDIENTS
4 cups all-purpose flour, plus extra for cherries
4 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt
4 tablespoons (1/2 stick) cold unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch dice
1 3/4 cups cold buttermilk, shaken
1 extra-large egg, lightly beaten
1 teaspoon grated orange zest
1 cup dried cherries

DIRECTIONS
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F. Line a sheet pan with parchment paper. Combine the flour, sugar, baking soda, and salt in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Add the butter and mix on low speed until the butter is mixed into the flour.

With a fork, lightly beat the buttermilk, egg, and orange zest together in a measuring cup. With the mixer on low speed, slowly add the buttermilk mixture to the flour mixture. Combine the currants with 1 tablespoon of flour and mix into the dough. It will be very wet and incredibly sticky. Make sure you flour your hands as the dough will instantly cling to them.

Dump the dough onto a well-floured board and knead it a few times into a round loaf. Place the loaf on the prepared sheet pan and lightly cut an X into the top of the bread with a serrated knife. Bake for 45 to 55 minutes, or until a cake tester comes out clean. When you tap the loaf, it will have a hollow sound.

Cool on a baking rack. Serve warm or at room temperature.

This month marks my three-year anniversary. Ice the cake, light the candles and scatter the balloons, I’m celebrating three years of sobriety. Three years of being awake, present and strong. This rebirth feels particularly auspicious because I sometimes thought I’d never get here. For two years, I skirted the fringes, coasting, reveling in the newness of how not-drinking felt, and then 2009 happened and I struggled to put one foot in front of the other. Forget this one day at a time nonsense, it was about me making it to the subway without slipping into a bar and ordering glass after glass of red wine. But I held strong, leaned on my friends, and realized that there was no way I could return to that dark country from which I had come. That life was better lived rather than numb, anesthetized.

The end of 2009 brought me the best job I’ve known, a circle of friends worth loving an a life finally worth fighting for, so although I’ve been under a considerable amount of stress these past few weeks, I haven’t forgotten how privileged I am, how grateful I am, and how humbled I feel.

My birthdays are spent privately, but I do splurge on myself a little, and yesterday I slipped into the heaven that is Miu Miu. But first I had cataclysmic failures at Prada (cheap, stiff, tired bags) and Chanel (complete and utter trash. The Cocoon collection should be burned, immediately), and Miu Miu was merely an afterthought. It’s downtown, too eclectic, the antithesis of my style. I’m grateful that I’m frequently mistaken because everything in Miu Miu spoke to me. Sang siren songs and what not.

After sifting through luxe bags, I GASPED when my SA, Christina Albina, unearthed this bag from the fabric. Think Hermès but chicer, without the down payment-for-a-house pricetag. The Sacca con Matelasse handbag in aquamarine is sensational. Buttery, soft leather, gleaming gold hardware and enough room to store my laptop, this satchel cued the doves fluttering out of my hair. Having just arrived from Milan, this delicious bag is that deep, unctuous blue I’ve been longing for. The color of actinic skies and unyielding oceans, I fell rapturously in-love. My patient friend Dina was kind enough to indulge my flights of handbag fancy. As Edith Piaf so sagely sang, I have no regrets!

FYI: Miu Miu plans to launch their Michael Jackson tribute collection with single gloves adorned with cocktail rings and shimmery sequined and rhinestone bags and shoes.

If I had to be banished to the bowels of a dungeon with one tin of food to eat, I would cry out for my macaroni and cheese. Perhaps it’s my old-school memories of Kraft out of a box (we went from the powdered to the phosphorescent cheese packet, and equated this to an elevation in status) or Stouffer’s frozen dinners heating in the oven, but mac & cheese is sacred, incomparable.

And although my palate has evolved and I’ve indulged in the truffle oils and pancettas and blue cheese variations, my little lip quivers at the sight of a caramelized crust, unctuous cheddar and elbow pasta. Recently, I slipped into MacBar, in dire need of comfort food, and would you believe that I ate the whole tin on the sidewalk? In the freezing cold? Oblivious to passersby? The eats are that good and worth the $6 splurge for the classic. Friends of mine have sung the praises of the carbonara and the stroganoff, and I fear I may need a restraining order.

Contrary to popular belief, oils are magical for your skin. When I entered my thirties, I discovered one its secret gifts: oil production. For nearly thirty years I had unblemished, easy skin and suddenly an Exxon situation erupted on my forehead. My combination/sensitive skin went into overdrive and gone were the days of Biore abrasive washes and cream cleansers. Now, I had to think of fitful sleep and proper hydration, face masques and exfoliants.

People, I had to map out a skin regimen.

And yes, I can hear the single violin playing in the background. Over the past few years I’ve been vigilant in curating a proper regimen of moisturizers, gel cleansers, weekly clay masks and essential oils. Because I’ve learned this — the more I attempt to strip my skin of oil, the more it produces. Alcohol has been tossed aside in favor of the rosemary and chamomile oils. Granted, when I say oil I don’t mean castor or vegetable, but purely hydrating botanicals that not only soothe but care for the skin.

Enter Darphin’s Chamomile Aromatic Care ($70). Formulated with chamomile and sage essential oils, lemon balm, jojoba and calendula oils, aloe vera extract — consider this a cup of soothing cup of tea for the skin. One that calms blotchiness and redness, one that calms irritated skin. I’ve been using this in the evening after cleansing, and my skin is left radiant, soothing and cashmere soft. And the luscious citrus and jojoba calms me into slumber. Clearly the price-tag is wince-inducing, however, I invite you to consider the concept of integrating nourishing face oils into your skin regimen. So whether you opt to invest in Darphin’s delicious elixir or snag a nourishing drug store brand, know that OIL is not your enemy.

Full Disclosure: Sample was provided for potential feature/review.

It’s rare that you’ll hear me rhapsodize over a rose-scented, micro-bead exfoliant. Roses, in particular, red ones, make me shudder. They remind me of bad first dates and frantic, last-minute Valentine’s Day gifts accompanied by the requisite cheap chocolates housed in a satin box in the shape of a heart. Traditional bead exfoliants wreck havoc on my ultra-sensitive skin, so at first glance Elemis’ Gentle Rose Exfoliator ($38) appears like an EPIC FAIL. It couldn’t possibly win me over.

Oh, but it has.

Perfumed with Moroccan Rose, the gel exfoliator is subtle, almost spicy, warming the skin, while the smooth micro-spherical Jojoba beads delicately exfoliate. The skin is left soft, cleansed of impurities. Perfect for all skin types, especially sensitive/combination skin, after a few weeks of use I’m pleased to relay that my skin is free of blemishes, which normally occur after having used traditional abrasive exfoliants. So if you’re seeking a little decadence in your skin regimen, I would invest in Elemis’ Gentle Rose Exfoliator.

Full Disclosure: Sample was provided for potential feature/review.

Sometimes you crave chrysalis. You seek to step out of your comfort zone and into the unknown. Sometimes these are massive leaps — career changes, new loves, new homes — and sometimes the changes are subtle, minor, only perceptive to you. Over the past year, I’ve experienced a significant amount of change, and I’m quietly tiptoeing my way away from what’s familiar. From embracing razor-edge accessories to luscious pops of color to bold fragrances, I’m in the process of evolving my style. Don’t get me wrong — I’ll never abandon the cashmere cardi or the wide-legged trouser with smart shoes, but one can grow board of the same silhouette and the same scent.

Recently, I was in a client meeting and we sampled a delicious array of fragrances — from Balenciaga to Marc Jacobs to Chloe. And I immediately cleaved to Marc Jacobs’ Daisy, for it’s classic, smart and safe. But then there was my CHLOE MOMENT. A fragrance that didn’t have my usual notes. One that was still fresh but bold, statement-making, a touch of evening slipped into day. And naturally I sprayed this all over me and I’m certain that I embarrassed myself. But I’ve been smitten ever since.

A bold and decidedly feminine fusion of mandarin orange zest, freesia, watermelon (!!??!), sandalwood and fresh iris, the Chloe Eau de Toilette ($65) is a scent you want to immerse in, or like me, want to continue spraying in a room filled with your colleagues.

So while I venture dangerously toward the scary world of eye makeup, studded shoes and fuschia, I’m realizing that signature styles and scents are constantly evolving and I’m DIGGING IT.

Full Disclosure: Coty is a client.

There are some, I am told, who never see the dead, though I am as yet unable to believe it*. We thought you electric. You had come from ether. Some sort of changeling with those unblinking blue eyes and a mouth ready for drilling. You were convulsive like that, weeded and overgrown. Dangerous. That winter the ice made a sculpture of your face; the river had not frozen, and we conspired and hoped for hairline cracks. For you to fall through.

I’m afraid things have taken a turn for the worse.

We made a habit of watching you, whispering the news that only forms from silence. Report: you were prone to chair-kicking, grave-digging, sneaking into blue cars. You were a walking bruise, the sort of child one only parades out for funerals. The afterlife wove its way through your hair and you wouldn’t stop with the singing. That summer you made us nervous. You had dug up things. Limbs we had quietly buried and hoped would never sprout and grow. O childhood hours, when behind each shape there was more than mere past, and before us — not the future.

We had you excavated. On your knees, soldier. You laid down like bandage. Petrified, like Pompeii. When Vesuvius erupted, the bread was left burning. Gray ashes cloaked the hyacinths with sorrow. Would you believe that we had begun to rebuild? We had assembled the pediment and the choir? That summer our rebirth would be our overture.

These women. They do and say such things. You had become our fieldwork and we were determined — to. We had our — wire. We would — punish. We were — expiring. Hurry. Hurry. Within this heart that burns lies a clock, ticking. We smother the sound with your suffering. You had become a typhoon. There was a pillow. An antennae. A scattering of leaves. The rain came down like burial.

We saw two birds in a wheelchair. We believe that the act of memory to be one of disassembly.

We found you by the river, a ticker tape of skin between stream and soil. Your face a massacre. A tangle of white lights braided into your hair, ribbons bound your ankles and wrists. You wore a necklace of barbed wire that read, Property. We scattered coins in the shape of your sleeping body. Marking you. Like territory.

We had predicted this. We shuffled our cards. We did our maths.

Don’t you see? Mothers never die; it’s daughters who must be sacrificed. Come autumn, it rained rats. There’s no graceful way around it. We were as shocked as you are. They hailed down from the sky and smacked the sides of a black lacquer box that contained the remains of you. We ran for cover. Their squeals, scratches and hissing only amounted to a tinny, a minor keying, but it was us kicking the box with our wooden feet that became siren song. We had the shakes. The air smelled of you, ether, rubber, of fangs tearing through skin. The rats had become a sea of trembling grey, and they, and you, amounted to a rattle of dry bones.

We are fearful of spring. Frightened you might claw your way up, bloom and return.

Believe me when I say that MAC’s Russian Red lipcolor is part of my morning repertoire. For years my red of choice was Cherries in the Snow, but Russian is pure, unadulterated perfection. With blue undertones and a clean matte look, I carry this lipstick every where I go.

However, there comes a time for a little violet love. A blackberry that won’t evoke the emo and the gothic, but a deep, voluminous color that is a stark contrast to my fair skin and noir hair. And when the magical Sarah Conley showed me the light that was MAC Media, I couldn’t resist.

Forgive me for being snap-happy, but I j’adore this lipcolor. It’s bold, velvety and statement-making. So on the days I’m not keen on rocking the red lip, I’m pretty smitten with this luscious lip alternative.

If you’re seeking a luxurious bath experience without giving your credit cards a workout, stockpile on Jason Naturals Tea Tree Satin Shower Body Wash ($11.99). Paraben, laureth sulfate, and cruelty-free, this lavish bubbly wash delivers a rich, sudsy lather and a delicious concoction of healing botanicals such as Jasmine, Orange Blossom, Eucalyptus, Geranium and Vitamin E. Soothe parched skin with all-natural oils and therapeutic Tea Tree Oil from Australia.

Initially, the glycerin-like gel gave me minor vertigo, however, the subtle perfume, the high-moisture properties, and the calming tea tree elevated my morning shower to spa status. So if you’re the environmentally conscious sort who craves a body wash that can pull double-duty as a shower gel and bubble bath, hit your local Whole Foods for Jason Naturals.

Full Disclosure: The folks at Jason were kind enough to send a sample for potential feature/review. Image courtesy of Drugstore.com

Believe me when I say I curse the day that I breezed by the J Crew Starlight Granite ballet flats in late December. Pausing, I slipped on a sample and was smitten with the graphite glitter shoe on my feet. The delicious toe cleave, the way the deep grey picks up light, and the way in which a pair of shoes can make an outfit infinitely special — I promised myself to return and scoop up the flats after the frenetic holiday season.

Little did I know that the flats would sell out across the country. When half of America is a size 7.5/8, snagging a beloved pair of shoes proves to be a considerable challenge. Ever since the disappearance of the Starlight, every flat felt inferior. A pale comparison to the bewitching original.

Today, on the hunt for the perfect, curve-contouring LBD for an upcoming Barbie fete, I nearly screamed when I saw the Starlights ($125) on display. I snatched up the shoe and was thrilled to snag it in my size. The flats run a bit big, so keep this in mind should you want to make the ultimate splurge for your feet.

Although I wasn’t able to locate the flats online, check with your local J Crew store for availability. And while browsing, I tried on a delicious cashmere sweater (EXPENSIVE WIN) and a too-big, paltry prom number (FAIL). I didn’t leave with either, but I love sampling new stock.

If there is a moment where I’ve ached for bare minimalism — a simple day replete with hotcakes and amber syrup, old movies and an easy drift in and out of slumber — it would be this one. One year, ages ago it seems, an old friend gave me two books tied with red ribbon — T.S. Eliot’s The Cocktail Party and The Complete Poems and Plays, 1909-1950. That was the year I encountered Eliot’s “The Wasteland”. A grim, vivid sky, the crowd of undead tremulous and waking. A man who saw the world as a desert — uninhabitable, ruinous, where birth is a memory of death. Reading Eliot at nineteen disturbed me; the poem was at turns haunting and prophetic, and eerily emblematic of how I saw the world when I was supposed to have been young and wide-eyed. I consumed the whole of Eliot’s work and took to lilacs, and each spring I awaited their brief return. There was a bush of them by my dorm and I would lean in, inhale deeply, closing my eyes. But that brief moment of pleasure and indulgence was always inevitably interrupted by someone calling out my name, that nervous laugh, what are you doing, Felicia? Nothing, I’d say. Just smelling flowers. And we would laugh because I was Felicia, sometimes strange that way. Prone to lilac-sniffing and other oddities.

After Salinger died, I found myself revisiting old friends. I stood on a chair today and sifted through old books when I happened upon Eliot’s lyric, and the lines I had read and re-read out loud to myself nearly fourteen years ago –

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

But it’s winter and the ground is cold and the air dry and biting. You could almost feel the ice-pick chipping away at our fragile skin. I cleave to the memory of spring and buds awakening, and I searched through my drawers to find something that would take me back to that place, albeit briefly.

Enter Demeter Lilac Cologne Spray ($20). Perfumes have this mythical way of evoking memory so vividly. Clean and evocative, Demeter’s Lilac is distilled to a single, raw scent, and it transported me back to my former self. The spray of wild flowers, a crisp day and warm sun, anorak jackets and flannel shirts and frayed sleeves — I wish I could reverse time and remain there, instead of occasionally meandering in and out of regret. I would have written more. I would have realized that a clattering of coins and crisp dollar bills wasn’t going to erase all that had come before and wouldn’t resolve all that was to pass. I would have been easier with my heart and I would have loved myself a little more, a little earlier.

Full Disclosure: The kind folks at Demeter provided me with a sample for potential feature/review.