Snow day in Central Park.

I keep falling off the blog wagon, but I think that has more to do with a lack of adventures than a lack of enthusiasm. It's tough to run around town (and country) when the weather is so gloomy. One major exception: last Friday's walk through Central Park.

We trekked from 30th Street on the East Side across the Great Lawn and around the Reservoir before finally heading home. Our hike took nearly four hours.

Standing at the end of the Mall, with no one in sight, under this canopy of oaks, made me feel so tiny.

Sadly these Hunter wellies were my most suitable shoes for the adventure. Despite keeping me dry, the toes were not toasty. 

Next time I'll follow my hiking partner's lead and don Bean Boots. But of course a Rhode Islander would be better equipped for twenty inches of powder.

But even he wasn't prepared to take on these tots and their sleds. (We should have taken a sled!)

The weatherman promised 50 degrees this weekend so hopefully this (above) is the last snow we'll see till next winter. Hopefully.

Emilio Grossi's New England

He just might be the greatest American photographic artist whom no one has ever heard of. For five decades Emilio Grossi's minimalist portraits of life along the Seaboard have captured history and emotion without wide angle lenses, without color, simply by highlighting the texture of window panes and gray shingles or a wrecked barn in Rhode Island. 

Doorway, Milford

How can a solitary sand dollar move me to tears? Zooming in on the headlights of an old Chevy truck, paint chipped, tree branches reflected in the paint on the hood, Grossi makes America mythic - from the beaches of Key West to the strands of Cape Cod.

Check out more of this master (and my Grossi-inspired get-up) after the jump.

A Christmas sail.

Last year I spent Christmas in Newport, R.I., dipping my Hunter-clad toes in the icy Narragansett. This year I am far from the ocean (as far as I can be), but Santa (a.k.a. Mom) was kind enough to bring the coast to me in the form of this fabulous Sea Bag.

This tote, the signature holiday Green Star Bag, was made in Portland, Maine, from reclaimed sails. Since 1999, all materials (from canvas to Kevlar) have been recycled, restored, and stitched together by founders and designers Hannah Kubiak and Beth Shissler.

I had never heard of this brand but quick research shows that I received more than just a beach bag: Kubiak and Shissler are incredible women working hard to improve the lives of their fellow Mainers. 

Causes and projects they support include:

Sail Maine Scholarship Fund: they contribute funds to help children learn to sail.

Maine Cancer Foundation: they design limited edition Celebration Bags with pink ribbon sails.

Maine Correctional Institute for Women

Portland waterfront preservation

Thank you, Santa. (And thank you, Mom!)

Newport, Rhode Island

It's the coldest day of the winter thus far, and I'm barricaded in my apartment with a stack of magazines and Netflix. Christmas is two weeks away, but as usual I find myself craving the sea and the sand and the smell of steak over Kingsford coals.


It's days like this that I most miss Newport, R.I., this past summer's home away from home.

A holiday on the Cape.

For two straight weeks I have seen nothing but rain and gloom from sea to fruited plain. Rather than crawl under the covers and hibernate, I prefer to recharge with photo reminders of this past summer.

On Labor Day weekend Kate, Liz, and I made our maiden voyage to Cape Cod. We spent a night on the Dennis shore and one by a pond in Chatham. While not the most action-packed vacation we had ever taken, we certainly snapped enough pictures to prove otherwise.

Back seat warriors like myself must head into battle fully prepared. I suited up for the drive in my favorite Nantucket Reds. The ancient, faded L.L. Bean Boat 'n Tote carried necessities (water, makeup, sand, and Gatsby) and, later, the crown.

My souvenirs must tell stories, and this crown is no exception. It began its journey in the back of an Altima and now hangs in my closet, patiently awaiting its next adventure.

This sticker was affixed to the Altima's rear right passenger window. I spent a lot of time staring at that flag between New York and Providence, R.I., where I took this photo, and, finally, the Cape.

On Saturday afternoon we walked along Route 6, the Cape's main drag, to Captain Frosty's for their famous lobster rolls and ice cream.

As we unpacked our duffels in Dennis, Liz said, "Cary, how many pairs of khakis do you have?"

"Did I pack or do I own?"

"Do you own."

I thought about it for a minute and then replied, "I really can't say."

You can never own too many khakis. I swear by J. Crew's Boyfriend and Original fits.

On Saturday evening we took the boat for some water-skiing and a tour of the Bay. I was allowed to drive until I plowed into a lobster buoy.

We spent nearly an hour strolling the beach, hoping to catch the sun as it sunk below the horizon. Our iPhones were poised and ready to capture it.

On Sunday morning we drove to a nature preserve on Nauset Bay to hike and hunt for shells. This nautilus now sits on my windowsill.

The nail polish is, as usual, "Kennebunk-Port" by OPI.

Our cottage in Chatham boasted enough bunk beds to fill a college dorm room and a hammock and this pretty view.

Our last Cape adventure before heading home was a long boozy brunch at Spanky's Clam Shack on the Hyannis harbor. The waitress praised this cerulean sip as Spanky's special recipe, but I'm pretty sure it was just a Bay Breeze. Paired with slaw, fried clams, and quahogs, it tasted like a dream.

In just 48 hours we snacked on some of the best eats of the New England shore while admiring its prettiest sunsets. Scargo Cafe and Wildgoose Tavern also hosted our hungry little crew.

My stash of khaki pants thanks our hosts for the wonderful vacation.

Pastoral and pigskin.

On Friday I ran along my old route in Columbia, Missouri, my college town. I ran west toward Scotts Boulevard, past the church and the golf course, past the playgrounds and the subdivisions, and stopped along a dirt road to take some photos.

Gray, gloomy skies don't make Missouri any less beautiful. This farmhouse, guarded by barbed wire and a thick wall of holly, looked especially proud against the clouds and strong cold breeze.

Ripe holly stood out against the greens and browns and grays. It also reminded me that Christmas is now just two months away.

If not for the rain I might have snuck past that fence for some close-up shots and fun-seeking, but menacing sprinkles demanded I make tracks.

My adventure outside the farm served as inspiration for Saturday's outfit at the Homecoming game. I channeled the sky and earth in white jeans, a white pointelle cotton tuxedo shirt, gold belt, brown leather handbag, and (of course!) the beloved olive drab fatigue jacket. All pieces are by J. Crew. On my feet are the peep-toe, heeled brogues by Nine West. The lipstick is Lancome L'Absolu Rouge in (just like the holly) Berry Noir.

Standing next to me (and equally well-dressed) is one of my oldest and dearest friends Kristen B., author of White Gloves and Party Manners. She wore a black Merino wool cape by Ann Taylor Loft and a beaded black and gold headband by Belle.

The old college try.

I'm spending the extended weekend in my Missouri college town, catching up with dear friends and remember what the rest of the country looks like in autumn. [See below for its beauty.]

Tonight we visited the Blue Note to catch Pete Yorn on his current tour.

His album musicforthemorningafter was the soundtrack to my senior year of high school. His new beats set the tone for my Brooklyn days and Manhattan nights. I think he's wonderful.

Yorn's is good American music: music created with guitars and drums and pianos. Music created for dancing and ruminating on fast-moving trains. Music for interstates. Music for heartbreak. They make me wish for a fire escape and a thick wool sweater and a wood-burning stove. These are epic songs for epic youth in an epic country.

Pete puts on a good show, too.

Mid-Best.

Autumn in New York is hailed as the City's prettiest season, and I do agree that cool breezes, choppy rivers, and long afternoons spent tossing the pigskin in Central Park give new meaning to the phrase "urban oasis". But to really discover what makes this season so special, to understand why the long winters and the hot summers are worth all our trouble and discomfort, you must leave Manhattan.

This week I am in my home state of Missouri, rediscovering an oft-overlooked part of America and reconnecting with college friends. My journey began in Saint Louis, where backyards like this are a dime a dozen and where long boulevards seem to burst into flame with Technicolor maple and sycamore leaves.

I could spend all afternoon tromping through these woods - found outside city limits in the village of Chesterfield - but not, perhaps, in these shoes. They are my current daytime favorites - vintage pony hair by the granddaddy of department stores Saks Fifth Avenue, scooped up at Williamsburg's Beacon's Closet.

Brooks Bros & Mad Men

On Tuesday I joined Max Wastler of All Plaid Out at Brooks Brothers' Madison Avenue flagship to celebrate the launch of their capsule collaboration with Mad Men. The limited line of suits created by Emmy-winning series costume designer Janie Bryant will be available through the end of the series' season.

Stepping off the elevator and into the label's second floor suit department was like stepping back in time. Tie clips and slick hair abounded, and the duds looked great (if a little safe, but that's fine with me. I have little need for fops and dandies and prefer my men traditional(ly dressed)).

For a much more informed analysis of the suits and the talent behind them, visit All Plaid Out.

My eye, however, was not on lapels and pinstripes, but on the guests present - almost all the young gents who work at Sterling Cooper. Salvatore! Campbell! Oh my lands! Outfitted in Brooks' finest they seemed perfectly "in character", save for artfully mussed hair. Michael Gladis' beard and Vincent Kartheiser's hipster shag, for example, were quite post-modern (although my phone number exchange with Vincent so that I might set him up with a dear friend was decidedly more old-fashioned). Draper and Sterling must have been at a board meeting because I searched and could not find them. Undeterred I knocked back another dirty and shot some stick with Kinsey and the boys. This good girl has gone Mad.

Another beautiful day in Brooklyn.

For this Missourian "brewery" is usually synonymous with Anheuser-Busch, and when it's beer-thirty, I'll make mine a Bud Light, thankyouverymuch. Yesterday afternoon, however, I felt adventurous. We braved the downtown downpour and sloshed all the way to the Brooklyn Brewery deep in the heart o' Williamsburg, where a rowdy crowd converged over Scrabble boards, pepperoni pies, and all the Weisse our little hearts could ask for.

To round out this makeshift Oktoberfest I donned a Laura Ashley dress, cranberry tights, and Frye boots. Back home these shoes are called "shit kickers". I bought mine (somewhat paradoxically) at Bloomingdale's on December 23, 2001. They got me through high school, college, and many, many county fairs.

Back to the beer. I started with East India Pale Ale, which boasts (according to their website) hints of lemongrass and ginger and a "robust bitterness". In other words EIPA tastes like Midtown street food.

A verdict is still out on the seasonal Pumpkin brew. Some considered it a little too faithful to the spicy gourd. I liked it for the same reason.

You can buy six beer tokens for twenty dollars, but I advise going halvesies with a buddy. Otherwise this will happen. We gave a couple Brown Ales to lucky strangers. Then we took the three o'clock brewery tour.

I don't remember much said by our tour guide. (Bear in mind that I'd just polished off three Pilsners in an hour.) I do remember learning that the reason nothing else tastes like beer is because no other food or beverage uses hops. Hops give beer its flavor. And if you don't know, now you know!

I might have retained more brewery knowledge if I hadn't been poking around what looked like Frankenstein's lab. Beakers and hoses and strangely colored fluids gave the room a very timely Halloween vibe.

Pumpkins, hay bales, and a surprise visit by a gloomy kitty only confirmed what I had previously feared: Indian summer is over. Not even I can raise a glass to that sad state of affairs. But that doesn't mean I'll never try. Prost!