Introducing Basil

It is with pleasure that I introduce you, Dear Reader, to a new member of the Darling household.  His name is Basil.  He's really rather charming.

Basil Darling

As those of you who have lost a beloved pet well know, their absence creates a sad void in one's life.  After Pompey died Boy and I missed him terribly.  We still do.

Reggie, being the pragmatist that he is, decided that the best thing for us to do would be to get a new pug puppy and to embark on a new chapter in our dog-owning lives.  I missed having a pug around the house, and it was in my power to do something about it.  So I did.

But it didn't turn out exactly how I thought it would.

About a week after we put Pompey down I telephoned his breeder to place our names on a list for a  puppy in an upcoming litter, hoping that they might have one sometime this fall.  The breeder I called, Don Ayrton of Cado Pugs, is one of the most respected pug breeders in America and is well known for producing handsome and well-formed pugs, many of which have become champions on the show circuit.  We've kept in touch with Don and his wife Carol over the years, and there was no question in our minds that if we were to get another pug it would come from them.

Don Ayrton of Cado Pugs

When I called and spoke with Don I learned that they did not have any litters on the way, but they did have a fourteen-month-old fellow who was available.  They had kept him to show, but had not been able to do so because only one of his testicles had dropped.  In order to show a dog, Dear Reader, it must be what is known as "intact," meaning complete with all its bells and whistles.  So to speak.

The Ayrtons thus found themselves with a very handsome pug that was no longer a puppy (and therefore not easy to place) and unshowable.  Unless someone was willing to take him as a young dog, he would likely spend the rest of his days as a kennel dog with the Ayrtons.  A very well-cared-for kennel dog, that is, living happily among a dozen or more other pugs in a house in rural Connecticut, which is where the Ayrtons live.

After much discussion amongst ourselves and with friends, Boy and I decided to adopt the little fellow and give him a home.  One week later we drove over to the Ayrtons and picked him up.  We've now owned him for over a month.  Although it all seemed a bit rushed to us (it had only been three weeks since Pompey died), the timing was optimal because we were leaving shortly for a two-week vacation on Nantucket that would be the perfect opportunity to bond with our new little guy.  And that's what we've been doing ever since.

Boy and Basil greet for the first time

We renamed him Basil (he was known by a different name by the Ayrtons), and he seemed almost instantly to know his new name.  He is distantly related to Pompey, whose father is Basil's great-great-grandfather.  Coincidentally Basil and Pompey share the same birthday of May 12th.

Basil is a darling little fellow, Dear Reader, and is very well mannered and easy going.  We are all still adapting to each other, and I am happy and relieved to report that it is going swimmingly.  I have to give the little guy a lot of credit for making such a radical (and for him entirely unexpected) transition in his life with what appears to be a considerable amount of grace and aplomb.

Well done, Basil!

Next: How Basil got his name, and—more important—how to pronounce it correctly

Photographs by Boy Fenwick and Reggie Darling

Oh, Those Devilish Velvet Slippers!

During our recent holiday on Nantucket, we were fortunate to be visited for several days by our friends Calista and John Littlefield.  We're crazy about them.  Their visit was a laughter-filled, boozy, uproariously funny jabberfest.  I'm still recovering from its merriment.

Calista is a great fashion plate and shoe diva, and stepped off the jet that delivered her to the island wearing a pair of classic Stubbs & Wootton black velvet slippers that feature an impish red devil wielding a pitchfork.  You know the ones I'm referring to, of course.

Reggie's Stubbs & Wootton velvet slippers,
the same ones Calista Littlefield sported

Apparently Calista's slippers excited rather a lot of comment among the fellow travelers waiting for their luggage after the flight.  One fellow said to her that the devil featured on her shoes reminded him of one that appeared years ago on a brand of canned deviled ham that he couldn't remember the name of.  None of us could remember it, either, when we spoke about it later that evening over what turned into a veritable waterfall of martinis.  We figured the company that once made the deviled ham had probably long-since dropped its mascot, falling to the pressure of lunatic protesters who threatened a boycott unless the company dispensed with its supposedly Satan-promoting imagery.

Reggie has a long personal history with velvet slippers, Dear Reader.  He bought his first pair thirty or so years ago at Bergdorf Goodman, long before they became the rage of his lifestyle compatriots on the blogosphere.  They were embroidered with a gold threaded fox head.  He still owns them.  Back in the day Reggie would wear his velvet slippers around the house and to parties, and he sometimes would wear them out dancing in Manhattan's downtown clubs late at night.  Most of the time people he came across while wearing them had never seen such a thing, and they almost always had something to say about them, and not always flattering to the wearer.  Ah well, ignorance must be bliss . . . or so I've heard.

I first became aware of Stubbs & Wootton's velvet slippers a decade or more ago, when I first saw a pair of their devilish slippers on the feet of a man at a black tie party.  So clever and so soigné, I thought at the time.  I had to have a pair.

And so I bought myself some shortly thereafter, and I wear them from time to time, usually at dinner parties or to some festive affair.  Unfortunately they are just a wee bit tight on Reggie's feet, and so are strictly party shoes.  In July of this year I bought myself another pair of Stubbs & Wootton slippers as a birthday present to myself, made out of midnight blue velvet embroidered with the sun on one of them and the moon on the other.  My new slippers fit me better than my devil ones do, and so I've worn them out and about more.

So where is all this leading, you may ask?  Well, the other day, Dear Reader, while shopping for groceries at a supermarket near Darlington House, I chanced to find myself in the canned meats section of the store, for reasons that are too mundane to go into here right now.  On one of the shelves of said supermarket I espied a paper-wrapped, diminutive can of Underwood Deviled Ham, featuring the very same impish red devil found embroidered on Calista's and my Stubbs & Wootton velvet slippers.  Eureka!  The mystery was solved!

How fortunate it is that Underwood still makes its deviled ham, and still features the same red, pitchfork-wielding little devil on its packaging.  And how clever and amusing it is that Stubbs & Wootton replicated the little creature on its iconic slippers.  How devilicious!

I wonder, though, am I the last one in on this particular joke?

Better late than never, as they say . . .

Photographs by Boy Fenwick

Words To Live By

I have recently returned to my regular, workaday life after spending two supremely pleasant weeks on holiday on Nantucket lolling about and having a delightful time.  It was a lovely, restful vacation, Dear Reader, with the added pleasure of meeting new friends and reconnecting with ones of years gone by.

While on Nantucket we rented a house that had a framed American flag hanging on one of its walls, that attracted my interest.  It included an old black and white photograph of a young boy glued to the middle of the field of forty eight stars, and the following words written upon its white stripes in an old-fashioned cursive script:

Self Control

I will control my tongue, and will not allow it to speak mean, vulgar or profane words.
I will control my temper, and will not get angry when people or things displease me.
I will control my thoughts, and will not allow a foolish wish to spoil a wise purpose.

What was this about, I wondered?  Upon closer inspection I saw that at the bottom of the flag was printed "Inspired by the National Institution of Moral Instruction.  Washington, D.C., 1918" and was signed by a certain "Betsy Phmock" in the same handwriting that appeared on the flag.

So, what was the National Institution of Moral Instruction?  After doing a bit of Internet research I found that it is alive and well today, and is now known as the Character Education Institute.  Its mission is to "creatively use every phase of school, family, work and business life to teach and learn values," citing Theodore Roosevelt's statement as its inspiration that "To educate a person in mind and not in morals is to create a menace to society."

The moral instruction movement, I learned, is strongly associated with Horace Mann, the nineteenth-century champion of the common school, and was further popularized around the time the framed flag was made in the then-widely-read McGuffey Readers children's books that promoted virtues of thrift, honesty, piety, and punctuality, among others admirable traits.

As far as I'm concerned, Dear Reader, we as a people here in these United States would be far better off today if such "virtues" were as valued and promoted as they were one hundred years ago, when Betsy Phmock embellished the little flag that inspired this post . . .

Don't you think so, too?

Photograph by Reggie Darling

The Pine Club's House Dressing Redux

Today I am reissuing a post that I put up several years ago about finding a bottle of salad dressing in the Siaconset Market on Nantucket from the legendary Pine Club of Dayton, Ohio.

The Pine Club's House Dressing
as photographed today on Nantucket

I'm back on island for several weeks again this August, and was delighted to find the Pine Club's salad dressing is still stocked on the market's shelves.  I've been enjoying its tasty tangyness almost daily ever since.  Here's my original post about it, which I hope you like, Dear Reader.

The other day I made a late-afternoon trip to the Siasconset Market here on Nantucket to pick up some last-minute supplies for dinner.  It's much closer to where we are staying on the island and more convenient for a quick visit than the Stop & Shop (for supermarket staples) or Bartlett's Farm (for heirloom vegetables and best-quality comestibles).  While I've shopped at these latter two grocers during our visit (Bartlett's has been an almost daily destination), they are too long a distance for a quick run.  Well, about as much of a distance as one can experience on an island as modestly sized as Nantucket.

The Pine Club house dressing,

ready to dress a salad on our deck on Nantucket

The Siasconset Market is a remarkable little store.  For the uninitiated, one would think it would be an unlikely source for a good selection of "gourmet" groceries.  First of all, it's tiny.  And second, it's rather remote, far away from the hustle and bustle of mid-island.  But when one examines what the Market has to offer, one is pleased to find a highly focused selection of edibles and household items that belie a razor-sharp understanding of the Market's affluent, WASPy clientele.

The Siasconset Market

Words cannot express my delight during a recent visit to the Market at coming across a bottle of house salad dressing from the Pine Club, of Dayton, Ohio.  Yes, Dear Reader, you read that correctly.  I'm talking jarred salad dressing!  At first I was drawn to the bottle by its charmingly retro-looking label, thinking "Oh, that looks worth checking out."  But when I stopped to examine it more closely I was surprised to see that the Pine Club referred to on the bottle was none other than a restaurant by that name where I spent several memorable evenings almost twenty years ago, when I visited Dayton on business.  I have thought of the Pine Club fondly ever since, longing to visit it again.  But Reggie hasn't found himself anywhere near Dayton in the intervening years, nor has he figured out a sufficiently suitable justification for going there, except to return to the Pine Club for another splendid meal.

The Pine Club's facade

Image courtesy of roadfood.com

As I drove back to our house I wondered, how did a jarred salad dressing from a restaurant in Dayton, Ohio, make its way to the shelves of the Siasconset Market, nearly a thousand miles away?

And then I pieced it together . . .

At the time I visited Dayton I was working as a bond analyst at one of the major rating agencies, where one of my colleagues was a fellow named George M.  I liked George, and he and I shared a love of eating in still-vital old-line restaurants, as well as a fondness for the island of Nantucket.  When George learned that I would be traveling to Dayton on business, he said that I should be sure to have dinner one night at the Pine Club, a beloved old-time steakhouse in the city, known for its delicious aged steaks and chops and a knotty pine interior unchanged since the late 1940s.  It turned out that the Pine Club was owned by a friend of George's named Dave Hulme who had bought the restaurant a decade beforehand, intending--among other things--to preserve its old-fashioned roadhouse charm.  Dave owned a house on Nantucket, too, and George would regularly visit him there during the summer to play golf, and Dave would sing the praises of his restaurant as they traversed the links.

David Hulme, owner of the Pine Club

Image courtesy of the Dayton Business Journal

As can be seen in the photograph, above, the Pine Club derives its name from its entirely wood-paneled interior (walls and ceilings), dating from the 1940s.  It is regularly voted the best steakhouse in Dayton, standing head and shoulders above its rivals, and it serves a menu that its original patrons would likely recognize.  Even though almost twenty years have passed, I vividly recall entering the restaurant for the first time and being thrilled to see its knotty pine interior lighted with table lamps and filled with banquettes upholstered in red vinyl.  I was quite happy to be seated at a table in the middle of the main room, where a waitress delivered a relish plate (Heaven!) and a basket of hot dinner rolls while taking our drinks order ("Make mine a highball, please!").  After starting with a classic iceberg-lettuce-and-blue-cheese salad dressed with the restaurant's tangy and sweet house dressing, I and my happy dinner companion polished off perfectly cooked, juicy strip steaks served with sour-cream-smothered baked potatoes and the restaurant's delicious signature stewed tomatoes.  I don't recall what I had for dessert, but I do remember that we had to pay for our meal with cash, as the Pine Club didn't accept credit cards.  It still doesn't.  To this day its customers must pay with either cash or sign under a house account.

So I figured out that the reason I stumbled across the Pine Club salad dressing on the Siasconset Market's shelves was because David Hulme likely still owned a house nearby and had talked the owners of the Market in to stocking his product, and they must have obliged because he was probably a regular customer.  And the Pine Club's dressing had to be a good, steady seller there, too, given the Market's clientele.  While not exactly an earth-shattering connection to work my way through, it was a pleasant puzzle nonetheless.

A Pine Club salad dressing four pack

And that's how I came to find a jar of the Pine Club's house salad dressing at the Siasconset Market on Nantucket.  I happily brought one home with me in the L.L. Bean Boat and Tote bag that I use when out shopping, and Boy and I enjoyed it that evening at dinner sitting on our deck overlooking the ocean.  While Reggie is not ordinarily a fan of prepared salad dressings, the Pine Club's is really quite delicious, and he highly recommends it.

You, too, can own the restaurant's salad dressing, along with its steaks and stewed tomatoes, since--as I learned when researching this essay--the Pine Club will be more than happy to ship its justifiably-famous delicacies to you.  I've copied several images of options available for order from the restaurant here in this essay.

Now that I know the Pine Club does mail order deliveries, I'm planning on ordering some steaks from the restaurant when my Nantucket vacation is over.  I figure if I can't find my way to the Pine Club any time soon I'm happy for it to find its way to me.

The Pine Club

1926 Brown Street

Dayton, Ohio 45409

(937) 228-5371

www.thepineclub.com

Please note, Reggie has received nothing from the Pine Club for his recommendation, except the happy memories of his visits there almost two decades ago, for which he is most grateful.

Summer Roses

One of the true joys of summer is when garden roses come into flower.

You can't easily find garden roses in Manhattan, where I live during the week.  The roses available in the city are mostly mass-produced and imported from far away, and are bred for uniformity and longevity.  While beautiful, they are somewhat soul-less, I think.  They are too perfect.  And they often don't have a scent to them.

Garden roses, on the other hand, are blowzy and luscious, and all the more beautiful because they are not uniform.  That's their allure to me.  Another pleasure is they fill the house with their heady scent.  I love them.

We are fortunate to have garden roses available at the Farmers' Market near us in the country, from the good ladies of Cedar Farm.  Their stand at the market is always filled with gorgeous and unusual flowers, and is a must-stop destination for us every Saturday morning that we are at Darlington.  Boy has arranged a selection of garden roses that we picked up from them yesterday, and has arranged them in an early nineteenth century Anglo-Irish sweetmeat dish in our drawing room.

They will soon start dropping their petals, slowly surrendering them to the inevitable passage of time.

Ephemeral beauty.

Photograph by Boy Fenwick

Rest in Peace, Dear Pompey

It is with sadness and gratitude that I write today's post, a tribute to my dear sweet Pompey, who died two weeks ago after fourteen happy, play-filled years.  Pompey's amusing antics graced this blog many times since its inception, and he was a great favorite of many of you, Dear Reader.

Pompey Darling
May 12, 1999 to July 8, 2013

As I reported in an earlier post, we almost lost Pompey a few short months ago.  We were fortunate that we didn't, though, and the time we had with him since then allowed us to cherish him all the more, loving him every moment we were blessed with his company until it came time for us to say our final goodbye.

At the kitchen door at Darlington

Funny, faithful, and loving, Pompey was all that I could have ever hoped for in what I truly believe is "man's best friend."  He certainly was mine.  I did adore him so.

In my arms on Nantucket

I fell in love with Pompey the day we brought him home to Darlington House as a wee puppy, fourteen years ago.  I've been besotted with him ever since.  So good natured, so friendly, such a fond companion Pompey was.  I called him my "little one" and my "little man."  Boy called him his "sweet familiar," a name that always made me smile.

Snug in his bed at Darlington

I knew that when we retrieved Pompey from the animal hospital after his scare in May that we had him on borrowed time.  Although enfeebled by his ordeal, Pompey rallied over the ensuing weeks, and there were times when he almost resembled his old playful, darling self.  A week before he died, though, he started to decline, and it became clear to Boy and me—at first individually and then acknowledged between the two of us—that our sweet fellow was beginning to check out.  The evening before he died Pompey went into a spiral, and no amount of painkiller medicine that I administered to him was able to alleviate his suffering over a long and sleepless night.  Poor, dear little man.

By four in the morning I knew that his time was up.

In a pensive mood

I woke Boy, and the two of us got out of bed with Pompey and carried him downstairs.  We took him out to our screened porch, where the three of us had spent many happy times over the years.  We waited there together as the dawn broke, Pompey lying on the sofa between the two of us, breathing slowly.  A calm settled on us as we sat there quietly, our little family close together for the last time, listening to the sounds of the birds waking and calling their early morning songs.

Happy as a clam with Boy on Nantucket

I telephoned the vet's office as soon as it opened, and arranged to bring Pompey in later that morning.  His end was merciful and swift, and Pompey died with dignity, sheltered in the embrace of those who adored him most, bathed in our tears and love.

I shall miss my dear sweet darling for the rest of my days.

At the Four Seasons in Baltimore

I am truly blessed, Dear Reader, to have had the privilege of Pompey's loving friendship for fourteen years.  I am grateful that Boy and I were able to raise and nurture him with love and care, and that he lived with affection his entire life.  And I am fortunate to have known the devotion of Pompey's faithful companionship for more than a quarter of my own life.  I know I am a better person for it.

On our bed at Darlington

Thank you, dear Pompey, for all the joy, laughter, affection, and fun you brought to me and to those who loved you over the years.  You were a very special, very much loved friend.

May you rest in peace, dear little one.  I will always love you.

Photographs by Boy Fenwick and Reggie Darling

More of Darlington House in AD

I thought it would be appropriate for me to mark my return to the blogosphere by showing additional photographs of Darlington House that appeared in the June issue of Architectural Digest magazine.

The main elevation of our drawing room at Darlington House
featuring a wallpaper panel from Dufour's Cupid and Psyche series

These are pictures that appeared in the print version of the magazine, but that weren't featured in the online edition until only recently.  You can see the other photographs of Darlington House that also appeared in the June issue of the magazine in my Reggie Revealed post.

Darlington's dining room, restored to its original yellow wall color

The full run of photographs of Darlington House, along with the accompanying article written by the marvelous and erudite Mitchell Owens, is featured on AD's website, and can be found here.  I'm thrilled by it.

Reggie spends a lot of time sitting at this table, pecking away
on his laptop, working on posts for this blog

I must admit that having a house that I live in appear in a design magazine has always been a fantasy of mine.  That Darlington House was chosen to be featured in Architectural Digest, the pinnacle of such magazines in my view, makes me dizzy with pleasure.

A view of the upstairs hall

When I leaf through AD's pages featuring the houses, apartments, yachts, and castles of celebrities, billionaires, and tastemakers I can't help but wonder how it is that our own little plain Jane of a house was chosen to appear in its pages?  It almost takes my breath away.

A view of the upstairs sitting room, which we call our "Snuggery"

Even so, a little voice in the back of my mind keeps asking, "What's next, Reggie?  What else do you have up your sleeve?  When are you going to buckle down and actually get to work on that book of yours that you've been talking about?"

Well, Dear Reader, I'm not going to let those inner voices rain on my parade here quite yet.  I plan on continuing to revel in the pleasure of the AD story having run, resuming my regular posting here on RD, and allowing myself the space to sit back and enjoy it all.

At least for now . . .

All photographs by William Waldron and styled by Howard Christian.  All images courtesy of Architectural Digest