Senior Contributing Editor and back-page columnist Marcia Sherril recounts her most precious Christmas memories
When my siblings and I were young, our Christmas tradition was to sell mistletoe to make money for our Christmas presents—and not just any mistletoe. We didn’t buy it in bulk at the local wholesale nursery. No, our father prudently armed his sons with rifles at a tender age and the boys were instructed to shoot the mistletoe out of the trees near our house—a forest that still runs deep along Birmingham’s Cahaba River. We would gather up the fallen branches and tie them into lovely bunches with red satin ribbons. Placing them ever-so-gently in little brother Billy’s red wagon, we set out on a three-mile journey to sell them to our neighbors. With each house situated on five-acre plots, we had quite a hike before us that lasted all day but would, without fail, result in pockets full of earnings to spend the next day on presents for our parents.
My favorite gifts were always those from my father, who would either have tons of money or be bankrupt and devising a plot to get it all back (a sport I continue to this day) but he nonetheless always gave the perfect gifts. Whether it was Earth Shoes (when those were the rage), or North Face parkas, or elephant-bell-bottom jeans when we were older—or when we had our own children: Cabbage Patch dolls, Furbies—whatever was unattainable, he got it. Every Christmas morning we would awake to the sound of him playing guitar and singing Christmas carols and Momma warming cinnamon buns in the oven while the Boston Terriers feasted on bacon. We still have the dogs, and we have our memories, and of course, we have Momma.
–Marcia Sherrill
–Marcia Sherrill
Tags: christmas, holiday, holidays, Marcia, Marcia Sherrill, memories
Terribly sad news has filtered into the AH&L offices this morning. Contributing Editor Marcia Sherrill’s beloved French Bulldog, Peach Blossom, passed away last night. Many of you have come to know Peach Blossom through Marcia’s back-page columns over the past six years, in which the beloved pooch played a supporting role in many a story. Rest in peace, Peach Blossom. You will be missed. Marcia and Anabelle, our thoughts are with you.
Marcia, Clinton Smith and Peach Blossom, Fifth Avenue, NYC, 2003
I’ve spent two decades trolling the Caribbean for summer deals, and it’s a little-known fact that before the proliferation of the Internet, the fancy-schmancy resorts in the islands offered our European brothers and sisters mega-deals (as in two weeks for the price of one). So, I happily gave up my childhood and adolescent love of the Gulf beaches and traveled from St. Barths to Haiti (more on that in my August column—attendants are a luxury ). Now, 20 (ah-hem) or so years later, I found myself with my New York teen wondering what to do for the three weeks before her school term commenced while all her buddies were still away at camps.
My godmother, Joie, generously offered to give us her house (with guest house) in Watersound amongst the “Emerald Coast” of Florida’s panhandle. Long gone are the astro-turf carpeted, spray-on ceiling, rank-with-mildewed-air-conditioning condos of my youth. This stretch of beaches—which I had all but forgotten—reaches from Destin to Panama City in an almost unbroken 50 miles of luxury, from Seaside (the pioneer in luxury coastal living) with its quaint restaurants and groceries, to the ultra-glam Alys Beach with homes rumored to belong to Paris Hilton and other A-List celebs. Sitting proudly amidst the sugary white sand and glass-green water, our house was the envy of all my Hamptons buddies as I snapped away at Frank Fleming sculptures, art-encased collages and shadowy, haunting beach scenes and e-mailed them to those sad enough to be trapped in Sag Harbor.
The homes along this stretch of Florida are magnificent! The beaches are not the thronged, sweaty, overlapping-beach-toweled landmasses of my youth. Here everyone has space, yet the friendliness remains. A neighbor from Miami popped over to sit under our umbrella, and when I told her I had been e-mailing pictures to friends, she snatched my camera and said, “Stop it now—I live in Miami and I come here to escape! This is a secret—this is for Southerners!”
Tags: Alys Beach, Anabelle, celebrities, celebs, Destin, Emerald Coast, Florida, Frank Fleming, Gulf, Gulf Coast, Haiti, Hamptons, Miami, New York, Panama City, Panhandle, Sag Harbor, Seaside, South, Southerners, St. Barths, The Hamptons, Vacation, Watersound
A portrait of author, chef and television personality Julia Child taken for our 1998 book
When my cousin Nora Feller and I were writing and shooting the photography for our breast cancer book, Portraits of Hope: Conquering Breast Cancer: 52 Inspirational Stories of Strength, we of course used every contact at our disposal to get to Mrs. Julia Child. We landed a contact at Food & Wine magazine who did the necessaries and we were soon booked to land in Boston. Grabbing an assistant almost on arrival, we made for the Child residence and, once there—despite the slow march into late afternoon—Julia (as we must call her) insisted that she cook for us at once—as we must be “starving from our journey.” As she chopped and whisked she talked candidly about her cancer and her great love for her husband, whose presence could be felt in the homey, traditional home she still presided over. Every room was utterly unpretentious and strewn with family photos, books and the detritus of two long and happy lives. Julia continued to cook away while charming me (alone while cousin Nora set up the photo shoot in the living room) and regaled me with her self-deprecation and down-home wit.
A far cry from her Junior League beginnings, she had amazed herself (and me) with the voyage of her life and the tap, tap of fame that came unexpectedly and without seeking. As she finished preparing my meal she set the dishes upon the table and turned away. But some sixth sense told her not to march off from the kitchen to where the cameraman was waiting. She turned and said, “Marcia, you aren’t eating?” And I replied, “Oh, I am so sorry; I don’t eat eggs. I have about a zillion food aversions.” She turned in mock imperiousness and said, “Marcia, I don’t think anyone has turned down food in my kitchen… I’ll make you bacon.” The eggs slid into the garbage. We laughed as her assistant raced in and said, “They just called from a magazine and need a new head shot,” to which she responded gleefully, “Tell them we have a world-class photographer here and that she will shoot me.” Nora, it seemed, would be getting that payment and it was sorely needed as we had poured much of our own money into the project. With that, Julia turned to go to the living room and winked.
Tags: books, Boston, cooking, cuisine, food, Julia Child, magazine, Marcia Sherrill, photography, recipes, writing
Editor’s note: With the Decorators’ Show House & Gardens less than two months away, we asked one of the participating designers, Matthew Quinn, to keep a journal of the process, every step of the way. Today is his second installment about how one of his spaces is taking shape. Look for a new installment every week until April 17 when the Show House opens.
Once a budget has been established, appliance selection is the most important step in designing a kitchen. In this modern show house, I knew I did not want to use a range, as they can appear too bulky. Alternatively, I decided to use a cook top and two ovens, plus a warming drawer, a microwave and an integrated 36”-wide refrigerator/freezer combination.
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Tags: Before and after, Decorators’ Show House, Decorators’ Show House & Gardens, Design Galleria, floorplan, kitchen design, Kitchens, Matthew Quinn, Showhouse, St. Regis, St. Regis Residences
