Nothing truly embodies the taste of summer other than watermelon. The crunchy seeds juxtaposed with that cool, juicy melon — I have fond memories of splashing in a johnny pump, a sticky mess of watermelon covering my chin. So it’s with great affection that I’ve whipped up an adult version of my revered summer treat.

INGREDIENTS
6-8 cups cubed watermelon
4 ounces of feta (I tend to shy away from the crumbly version as I prefer hearty chunks)
1 sprig of rosemary, leaves removed, fine dice
2 sprigs of thyme, leaves removed, fine dice
1 clove minced garlic
3 tablespoons of olive oil
1 tablespoon of white whine vinegar
salt/pepper to season and taste
1/2 cup blanched, slivered almonds, toasted in an ungreased skillet, until brown

DIRECTIONS
In a large bowl, whisk the olive oil, vinegar, rosemary, thyme, salt and pepper, until you get a vinaigrette emulsion. You should nix the vinegar, and marinade the feta in the oil and spice mixture — either way is FAB.

Toss the feta in the dressing/mixture and allow to sit at room temperature for 15 minutes. Combine with watermelon and add in the almonds. The nutty crunch married with the yielding, salty feta and cool watermelon are divine!

Serve cold or at room temperature.

It would be fitting, perhaps unbelievably so, that my oven would cease to function the day before my housewarming party. The evening when I’m preparing crumbles, crisps, and meatballs and the like. The day before I celebrate my new home with dear friends.

However, after begging to borrow an oven for a sweet friend (what are neighbors for? she texts me), I settle into recipe finding, and I came across a luscious Patricia Wells’ recipe for simple Moroccan meatballs. Very decadent, very heady, I was shocked to discover that this meal clocks in under $10. And although I don’t eat lamb, I very well near broke my rule after the cumin wafted through my abode.

INGREDIENTS
1 lb ground lamb
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
2 tsp ground cumin
2 tsp sweet paprika
salt/pepper to flavor
1/4 cup mint leaves, fine dice

DIRECTIONS
In a large bowl, add all of the ingredients to the lamb. Mix with your hands (as they are the cook’s greatest tools) until just combined. You don’t want to overwork the meat, as it will get tough and chewy, so mix quickly until each meatball has a smattering of the ingredients.

Roll into small bite-sized meatballs. The recipe makes 24.

In a large skillet, add two tablespoons of olive oil. Ensure that the pan is hot so you’ll get a great sear. Cook the meatballs in two batches, otherwise the meat will crowd the pan, bring down the temperature, and your meatballs will boil rather than cook. NOT OKAY. You want that sweet caramelization!

Cook 3-4 minutes a side (total time 10-12 minutes, depending upon how you prefer your meat). Serve hot with greek yogurt infused with fresh dill or cucumber.

Enjoy!

Don’t let this smile fool you — I’ve been incredibly exhausted. This week has been one long sleepwalk of conference calls, girl catch-ups, research and presentations. In the midst of it all I’ve a housewarming party to plan, sans grill, and since I always set the bar for myself inexplicably high — I’m panicked. Part of me wants to serve up fresh apricots with arugula and toasted pistachios. An antipasto platter, delicately wrapped figs with prosciutto, and mint pesto pasta salad are some of the options I’m entertaining this weekend, and I’ve a day or so to shop, cook, and present the lot.

Can someone grab me a pillow?

Through this all I’m desperate to be comfortable. Clearly, I’m obsessed with my Hudson Denim Leggings, because I wear them ALL THE TIME. From casual, weekend looks of untucked shirts to cinched leather jackets and sky-high stilettos to a forgiving all-black ensemble, these jeans are perfection for all-occasion wear. Today I knew I’d be mac and cheese feasting so I paired a voluminous top with skinny jeans. Normally, I’d sport heels to elongate the look, but I’m a bit pooped to teeter. And you might notice that I’m playing out my necklace; truth be told, I’m obsessed with it’s tangled rope and stone effect, and how it wakes up a somber, lean silhouette.

Top: Club Monaco (from my clothing swap!!!)
Necklace: LOFT (gift)
Jean Leggings: Hudson (gift)
Starlight Flats: J. Crew
Bracelet: J. Crew

Photo snapped by David “The Vicarious Lifestyle” James.

Even in the toughest of climes, I’ll manage to find a way to don grey, black and navy blue. Call me an ardent evangelist of simple, dark hues, but I cleave to all that is familiar, flattering and classic. Now don’t be mistaken — I’m fond of my vermillion blouses and emerald green dresses, but I’ll always boomerang back to my primary comfortable love.

You won’t find me wearing patterns all that often as I’m a bit curvy and one has to select the RIGHT pattern, however, this sweet top with shocks of red, complimented by glitter, grey, and a tangle of pearls make this laid-back chic.

And why, you wonder, has posting been a bit light? Well…

A. Some rat fuck stole my iPhone, forcing me to spend money I don’t have, money set aside for a GRILL, on a new phone.
B. Work. Work, and possible some more work.
C. Coming to terms with the fact that I friendship I once held sacrosanct has flickered, faded and burned out.
D. I’m skeptical that I’ll ever find love, and I’m pondering this.
E. And some rat fuck stole my iPhone.

Sunglasses: Banana Republic (gift)
Pearl and Chain Necklaces: J. Crew
Rings: David Yurman, Coach Bee Ring
Floral Top: Club Monaco (snagged from my clothing swap!!)
Grey Trousers: Chaiken
Starlight Flats: J. Crew
Julia Leather Shoulder Bag: Coach

Photo snapped by Andrea “Get it, Girl!” Arterberry.

Have you ever wanted to rummage through someone’s closet? Try on their sinewy dresses and slip into their sculptural shoes? It’s an old game, this dress-up, but it’s one that I’ve rarely played. When I was younger, I would sometimes disappear into my mother’s smoke-ridden leather jackets and wrap dresses. But the clothes were tinged with our sadness, and I found myself itching, raw and red. It would be a decade before I lived in a dorm and we girls would practice the Friday night tight-shirt rotation.

So imagine my glee when I got the chance to fondle and paw all the lovelies in my sweet friend Karen Robinovitz’s closet. An astute collector of designer and couture, Karen has amassed a gasp-worthy host of beautiful pieces over the years — works of art, really. From the stunning Nicholas Kirwood for Rodarte shoes to the final pieces from the late Alexander McQueen’s collection to structured Rochas and piles of luscious second-skin Lanvin, Karen’s collection can leave one speechless.

Or in my case, wracked with enviable sobs.

What I love most about Karen, aside from her selfless way of nurturing and fostering others, is her devoted affection for fashion — it’s downright biblical. She doesn’t buy simply to hoard, but she acquires in the way one amasses fine art — to appreciate and preserve objects of great beauty. To see her unearth gowns from bags and gasp over box clutches, to evangelize Lanvin’s eye for creating ultra-feminine, eclectic pieces for the complicated, yet elegant woman, is infectious.

Today I read an article where women in their 20s purchase clothing merely to be on trend or au courant in fashion, while women in their 40s desire perfection in tailoring and cut. For me, Karen hovers in the middle, seeking out a few gems a season that are perennials, shocking and wonderful and whimsical classics. Karen consistently redefines the meaning of classic.

So I invite you to take a mental vacation (this was mine prior to settling down with my work laptop for the evening), and indulge in a little sartorial holiday in Karen Robinovitz’s closet!

In college we hung Monet prints, Depeche Mode, Zeppelin, Heathers, and Pearl Jam posters; polaroids of us drunk, or on our way there, festooned our desks and jammed closet doors. We used fun-tack, purchased from the college bookstore, and we thought ourselves terribly decorative. Little Marthas in the making.

When we graduated, we discarded the chipped wood desks and sheetrock walls and purchased IKEA sets, framed romantic moments and candles, which nearly burned down our $900 uptown rentals. Because back then no one could afford to live downtown. As the years passed, our tastes grew discerning, the fun-tack set sought out expensive custom frames and the art grew more speculative, obscure and decidedly personal. The photographs of our wilder moments had faded into sepia, dovetailing into marriages, trips and the fast padding of miniature feet.

In my new home I’m deep in the business of wall decor. While I prefer a bare wall, minimalist aesthetic, something about this warm, haphazard display at West Elm put my heart on pause. Frames in varying sizes juxtaposed with hung objects, mirrors and a clutter of books breathe life into a space, give it character and a burst of creativity. There is no order to the collection, just a stream of consciousness of inspirations, images, photographs, objects and prints.

So as I shift from my heavy mirror surrounded by candles to something closer to my quirky self, I welcome recommendations for frames, cool objects, etc.

A decade ago I walked into a midtown salon and asked for a blowout. An enclave of haute stylists circled me like vulture-like, and solemnly shook their heads. It can’t be done, they exclaimed. No way would hair like mine ever be sleek and straight. Perhaps I should try the Dominicans up in the Bronx? Back then women who had coarse, curly hair were routinely shamed by haughty stylists.

As I left I wanted to shout back that I had a watch, I knew what time it was. I grew up in New York, went to school in the Bronx. I’ve had the Dominican blow-dry, which required sitting in a scalding-hot dryer for over an hour and suffering scalp burns.

A year later, after having discovered the wonder that was the flat iron and the product that was Kerastase, I returned to that rat bastard salon and as my friend Eileen so sagely says, I told them ABOUT THEMSELVES. My hair all straight and flouncy, naturally.

Since then I’ve been floored by the products and equipment that have made accessing straight hair and managing curly hair markedly easier, but I haven’t returned to an uptown salon until yesterday, when I had the privilege of road-testing Blow NY.

Voted best blowout by Vogue, InStyle, Allure, and New York Magazine, Blow offers a blowout bar, blowout academy and a small host lightweight and efficacious haircare products that transform hair from frizzy to fabulous. After nearly forty minutes of heat-styling, my hair was light, had tremendous movement and was unbelievably soft and shiny.

This was BEFORE the flat-iron, friends, which makes this blowout the business. Color me impressed, for I left the salon and stepped into the human humid soup that is New York in the summer, and my locks were frizz-free and foxy. So if you’re desperate for a new blowout space, check out Blow.

Full Disclosure: The kind folks at Blow offered me a blowout, gratis.

If this be a home, fill it with lavender and life. Lay down plush rugs and hang gossamer curtains from wrought iron rods. Fragrant the rooms with blooms, citrus and a cacophony of aromatics hinting of a spice garden. Make your four walls and rented rooms a place worth coming home to.

After nearly a decade of hoarding Domino (the cover and spread of actress Zooey Deschanel’s abode warmed my cold, cruel heart), Real Simple, and ELLE Decor magazines, shuffling from one dreary and dirty apartment to another, I’ve found a small, but inviting space I feel privileged to call home. For years, photographs and sketches were wrapped in paper, rolled and bundled with twine; expensive shower curtains and objets de art were tucked away, awaiting the moment they would make their very audacious debut.

Come next week I’m celebrating my new home and new life with a housewarming party. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than entertaining for my dearest friends, watching their eyes light up like fire when encountering my red velvet cupcakes with peanut butter icing or my delectable pistachio pesto. The gifts they feel obligated to bring (as etiquette requires one to do on an occasion such as a housewarming party) doesn’t concern me, because the greatest gift they could possibly give me is their friendship, their presence in my new home. So when I think about housewarming gifts, I focus on the sweet indulgences, the perfect, personal touches one can bring to their home.

Hammocks & High Tea Lavender Satchels ($20): From the artistic print to the lavender and verbena perfume, I adore these closet satchels because they immediately dispel the ubiquitous packed-in-a-box smell. Hang them from your closet rod or nestle them in your lingerie chest, and your clothes are guaranteed to smell and feel unbelievably fresh and floral.

Diptyque Roses Candle ($60): My affection for Diptyque, the crown jewel of illumination, runs deep. I’ve always been enraptured by the line’s distinct, subtle fragrances, which warm and fragrant your surroundings, making it a worthy at-home investment. And while I typically eschew the pungent scent of most rose candles, this delicate blend of a variety of roses, renders a warm yet subtle fragrance. Diptyque craftsmen blend the wax with very rare natural essences from Grasse (the very location where Chanel’s fragrances are born!) to ensure that each candle releases the perfect amount of scent for as many as 60 hours of burning.

If you adore candles, but balk at the sometimes hefty pricetag, I’ve become smitten with Good Home Company’s Village Lavender Candle ($20), a soy-based candle that infuses your home with its warm, inviting scents. Akin to tumbling through groves of blooms, you will find yourself settling in on Friday nights with a great flick, popcorn (my ultimate must-chow is Popcorn Indiana’s Cheddar) and a candle burning down to the wick.

Affordably priced at under $10, Mrs. Meyer’s Geranium Candle offers a clean, cool scent to accompany you when you’re busy scrubbing into the gloaming. Earth-friendly and cruelty free, I adore Mrs. Meyer’s products because they offer gentle and effective products that won’t crack the proverbial piggy bank. From lemon verbena to astringent basil to soft lavender, their line of hand soaps, counter/surface cleaners are the gift that keeps on giving. So if you’re tired of the ubiquitous dizziness that accompanies a Clorox wipe down, opt for natural products come move-in day.

Although I’ve been crazed with settling into my new space, I couldn’t help but race into Anthropologie’s home section. Although I find their clothing quality to price ratio sometimes questionable, Anthropologie’s whimsical, fantastical and eclectic home items always give me pause. From coasters that could forseeably be transformed into works of art to etched ombre bowls to wrought iron lamps, you can find magic from $8-$800.

Naturally, one who collects cookie cutter discs and saves for a stand mixer, couldn’t help but yearn and splurge on the Breville Dual Disc Juice Processor ($399). A brief aside: while I was in the stages of moving and selling off my furniture, four men on varying occasions pointed to my juicer and said it was the best one could buy. Each word of praise was followed by a knowing nod that I had acquired the king of juicers. A Williams Sonoma exclusive, the titanium cutting disc coupled with the superior motor speeds and stainless steal puree disc, you could juice apples to baseball hats, seriously. In the midst of a horrendous heat wave, it’s a great privilege to come home and savor delicious, healthful juices.

Ultimately, the greatest gift you could possibly give yourself is appreciating your great space, being humble about all that you have in your life, heart, and home, because life can take unexpected turns, objects could be lost or taken from you, and what matters are those people trickling into your home. Holding your hand as you step into a new life, a wonderful, wonderful unknown.

Full Disclosure: The aforementioned products, save the Anthropologie items, were provided for editorial consideration.

Come tomorrow, you’ll find me rolling around Karen’s closet, pawing things, sobbing, the usual and expected.

Who doesn’t crave a return to a world where ladies waxed ravishing in cashmeres and silks, perfecting the crimson pout, and every gent wore a hat. Weeks ago I viewed The American Woman exhibit at The Met, and I found myself lingering over the demure coats and gossamer gowns of another era. Words cannot express how giddy I am that fashion has returned to refined glamour. From the tailored tweed suits to wool sheaths and faux fur mufflers covering a rope of glinting stones, I want to swathe myself in imperial colors, drape myself in Edwardian fabrics. However, my new abode is tempering my Miu Miu and Burberry ways, so I’m finding solace in the fact that mass retailers are offering workhorse staples, weekend wares and chic cocktail attire at a price that won’t have me cracking proverbial piggies.

This week I had the exquisite pleasure of glimpsing The Limited’s take on simple suiting, colorful coverups and trousers that harken back to the days of Katherine Hepburn. Their Holiday collection echoed the contrast color and fabric plays shown on the runways — a cinched leather jacket is juxtaposed with a green tweed pencil skirt, while silks, faux fur scarves and wool trousers make for soigne sophistication.

Although The Limited’s plaids, the staid black dresses and doggie fashions left me cool, the emerald cashmere cardis, the uber-warm camel coat, the jewel-tone layering essentials, and the foxiest of scarves (who can refuse a red funnel neck??!!) had me craving burnt leaves and crisp evenings in the gloaming.

Although I’m at my best in the morning, showered in light, feeling hopeful and pensive amongst the still and quiet, there’s something deliciously sinful about an after-hour escapade. The feeling that you’ve teetered to the point of no return; you went wayward, drifted to the fringes of things. What once was cannot be undone.

However, with a sordid past like mine you cleave to the daylight, and the only digressions worth having are of the playful, food-indulging, sartorial sort. So when my sweet friend and mogul-in-the-making, Karen Robinovitz, invited me for an evening of decadent chocolate cake, blueberry creme, shopping and the chance to shop with one of my favorite, whimsical designers, Erin Fetherston, I nearly DIED. Until I heard the following two words:

JUICY COUTURE.

I will be candid: I am not a Juicy girl. I am a J. Crew girl and that should tell you EVERYTHING about yourself and everything about AMERICA. However, when I learned that Erin Fetherston was creating a special capsule holiday collection for Juicy, reinterpreting the brand and infusing it with her fairy-like, ethereal dust — from jewelry to the ubiquitous track suits — my interest was piqued.

JUICY + ERIN? HOW?

Inspired by old movies, magic, and her sense of play, come holiday expect to be surprised as you view Juicy through this very talented designer’s eyes.

After the smelling salts kicked in, and I relayed that taking a photo with her was quite funny, me being the shortest person in America and she being the tallest, she was quite kind, self-deprecating and impossibly chic. And perhaps I was still basking in the evening glow when I stumbled upon this EPIC TOTE.

Quite honestly, the Georgina Tote, and several items from Juicy’s Bird collection had me speechless. I lost the power of speech. Don’t get me wrong — there were the frightening tracksuits, the sweet dresses that would have served me better ten years ago and five pounds lighter, however, the uber luxe cardis, the cashmere cowlneck sweaters, the plush lamb jackets and the supple leather of the Georgina was the perfect evocation of fall’s call for ladylike luxe. What fluttered my cold dead heart were the exposed zippers (very Wang), the taupe, nearly lilac/mauve hue, and the terrific structure with a hint of slouchiness. If you’re looking for an investment work bag, THE JUICY IS IT.

So here’s me, a little shocked, a little awe-struck, and a lot in love with my beautiful tote.

Top: All Saints
Boot Cut Jeans: J. Crew
Georgina Tote: Juicy Couture (gift)
Necklace: LOFT (gift)
Imogen Heels: All Saints

Snapped by Dina “The Warrior” Fierro.

There was once a story of a great love. Of one hand guiding another throughout a store. Of gently tap-tapping a case, and a ring held up to the light. Because although you didn’t know much about carats and clarity, you loved objects that sparkled. Stones that captured, held and reflected the light. You had silly dreams of a soigne dress, a strand of pearls and a blue box wrapped in white ribbon. You dreamed of a Tiffany ring.

And although time has passed and the great love flickered, faded and blew out, my affection for jewelry has gone beyond a desire to have a ring on that lone finger. From a whisper of an idea to the alchemy in crafting the stones to the shock of color glinting from the dome that is their display case, I’ve become mad for jewelry. While my collection is very modest (I was the girl who lost all her earrings and broke all her chains), I believe in acquiring a few key pieces and building slowly through the years.

Last week, in the midst of the frenzy that was my epic move, I dropped everything and raced to the Tiffany 2010 preview. Introducing a collection of jewels that celebrate color and light, I found myself gawking not at the $7MM 20 carat flawless diamond necklace, but at the butterfly broach and the luscious garden pendants done in orange citrine, peridot, and lavender amethyst. Pink tourmalines and diamonds drew me in, and I found myself saying that if these jewels were wrong, I don’t want to be right.

Ironically enough I spied a diamond “Love” bracelet to only discover a Forever 21 knockoff this morning. Yet, after perusing million-dollar gems and more modestly-priced fare, I’m drawn less to the big-ticket items but rather to the pieces that evoke a smile, a wink, and a sweet craving. My friend Dina reminds me that a woman’s jewelry collection is so terribly personal, so I invite you — whether you are privileged enough to splurge on a piece of jewelry housed in that ubiquitous, magical Tiffany box, or ordering an eye-catcher off Etsy, or scavenging for a vintage broach — to only buy the objects you love. Objects that you know, with confidence, that you’ll wear for years to come.

Who knew that finding a royal blue, sunken in couch would be on par to finding Peruvian buried treasure? While New York is truly the shopping mecca of America, I’m starting to realize that my hunt for the perfect investment piece will take me on the outskirts of the city. And although I fell in love with the sustainably-produced Crate and Barrel Lounge sofa and capable of inflicting immediate slumber, my home can’t accommodate a piece this large. Ultimately, I’ll need to find a luxe loveseat and a reading chair in soft, washable fabric, in the deepest of blues.

Wish me luck. This search might take FOREVER. However, I’m willing to wait this out for a sofa is the foundation of a living room, to which all decor revolves. I’ll keep you posted as I hit points east (Long Island) as well as outlets and a needed upstate sojourn. Any recommendations?

In the interim, I snagged what I thought was the perfect window drapery from Restoration Hardware. Brushed cotton twill, plush to the touch and marked 40% off, I assumed this would be the wall-hanging clincher for my bedroom. Until I realize that the silver sage, while a great compliment to my grey bedding, clashed with my taupe carpet (insert heavy sigh). So I had to rethink my plan, and then I found a place for my treatment in the living room, knowing that my couch and colorful accents will pop the neutrals.

If only I knew someone over six feet tall willing to hang curtains.

Come Holiday LOFT is taking its cues from the refined lady who artfully pines for whimsy and play. She’s smitten over her bejeweled adornments, gilded-beaded clutches, sinewy scarves and a flutter of autumn lapel and wrist blooms in deep fuschia, violet and blush. Evenings are rife with simple black dressing, but day calls for entrance-making loden jackets, cinched at the waist and accented with a puff of fur or a rhinestone-embellished belt.

LOFT’s sartorial metamorphosis over the past few seasons has been remarkable. A brand that once held cache with the peanut-crunching, suited woman, now offers supple knits, second-skin silks and exquisite detailing. Surveying my office, where the women take fashion very seriously, the buzz over LOFT has been strong and mounting. A few of us were caught wearing the teal silk LOFT button-down. We marveled over the flattering hot pink dress, nipped at the waist. And most of all, we applauded the price tag. For those who cannot afford Burberry Prorsum, Marc Jacobs, Barneys New York, and even J. Crew — LOFT offers an affordable luxe alternative. Although some of their earlier incarnations heavily borrowed from J. Crew’s palette (then again J. Crew borrows from Miu Miu and Prada, sometimes shamelessly so), LOFT is staking its claim and producing evocative prints and flattering cuts.

I nearly FAINTED at the holiday preview — half of the items shown needed a place in my closet. A boxy tweed coat served as a counterpoint to a sleek silhouette of a etched ruffled blouse, buttoned-up cardi and painted-on-the-body leggings. LOFT also presented a dashing alternative to jacket dressing with draped knits, voluminous faux furs and luxe layering. Sweaters were striped, slouchy and cozy. Deep autumnal hues were balanced by pops of mint green, mustard, and fiery pinks. Naturally, ruffles, lace, brocade and awe-inspiring gems were the ultimate evocation of holiday.

With price points ranging from $29-$150, I implore you to reconsider LOFT, NOW!