this week:

  • the simplicity of one really great gold cuff
  • my newest addition to my earring collection, haven’t been able to take them out of my earlobes
  • friends succeeding //
  • scouring pinterest, streets, cafes for new hair inspiration
  • on the search for antlers (like this or this) // to be displayed over my (new!) fireplace
  • this pendant light // to be tied over a reading nook
  • emily’s announcement this morning! (might’ve cried)
  • inayali‘s instagram // the best of montréal
  • the luxury of eating breakfast instead of grabbing a quick coffee
  • inspiration for a clean simple office


have a great week, xx





Why do we love the restaurant industry? Why do we love dealing with the rare distasteful guest, the unruly child, or the 12% tipper? Some say it’s a trap, some say it’s the worst dead end job we can have. People question why we chose this career path (yes, career), they question why we would choose something that occupies up our nights, weekends, and holidays. You don’t always approve. You drill us on where we went to school or if we are in school, what we plan on doing “after this,” when we plan on getting a “9-5.”

This isn’t a phase.

We love this industry. Love. It’s hard work, it’s dirty work, but 99% of the time it’s incredibly gratifying work. We can’t please everyone, but damnit we try. Restaurants are here to provide you with an experience. From the garnish on your dish, to presetting your salad fork, the dimly lit bulbs, to flower heights, restaurants are here to please you. Whether it’s bringing you your regular drink before you ask, or splitting an entrée in the kitchen, addressing you by your name, or greeting you with a champagne toast because we heard it’s your anniversary, we are here to make you remember. We sincerely apologize when things aren’t up to your standards, we refire your dish when your twelve ounce New York sirloin well done is too “tough,” we plate you a dessert when your friend whispers to us on their way to the bathroom that it’s your birthday.

Things get frustrating, don’t let us fool you. Dealing with you can be difficult at times, but that will never affect our demeanor. We are your server, plain and simple. We are here to serve you, to make you happy, to get you whatever you need. Sure, we don’t appreciate the waving of the wine glass, the snapping of the fingers, the scowls when we recite the special, but none of that matters. We are here to serve you. We make jokes while passing each other in the kitchen and move on. If you don’t have a sense of humor in this industry, you won’t make it. We promise you, you will not make it.

But there’s something about this place, about this business, that keeps us needing more. It’s like a high all the time; indescribable, messy, perfect. An empty restaurant before the doors open has a feeling, one hard to put in words. The chefs hustling in the kitchen, the morning light, the cold hard marble bar. It’s the calm before the storm. Before the hundreds of guests, the dozens of dishes being pushed from the kitchen, the shaking of martinis, we can’t get enough. We are addicted.

We fall in love with our regulars, our co-workers, dishes from past menus we wish we could get back (oh duck rillette, how we miss you), craft elixirs, a certain wine. We fall in love when the whole restaurant is in the weeds, with our jokes, our danskos. We fall in love with the reactions guests give us after their first bite, when guests request us for their 40th birthday. We fall in love with guests when they realize we remember their name, the sarcasm, the dishwashers, table five, a napkin fold.

We fall in love with the connections we make with restaurant folk everywhere. We fall in love with how sexy a dish can look, we fall in love with Sunday doubles.  We fall in love with each other all over again when we finally get to sit down after the long shift, favorite cocktail in hand, anxiously waiting to do it all again.


I’ve never had anything more than a short attention span. Rooms always end up half organized, agendas half written in. What I do though is fall 2000% in love with things and become their number one advocate. (I think I’ve told over 20 friends about cupcakerie.)

  • Johnny Cash’s quote when asked his idea of paradise: “This morning, with her, having coffee.”
  • this Etsy store where I bought my sister some prints for her birthday in January
  • I’ve decided on a winter wedding (still need a boy though). Favors will include coffee with customized coffee collars and waffles. Lots of white. Lots of fur. Lots of gold. Lots of red lipstick.
  • my new super secret pinterest board. (only one friend knows)
  • coffee. in all forms. hot, iced, cupcake, creme brûlée.
  • #100happydays
  • my favorite red lipstick: nars red lizard
  • cupcakes from a teeny cupcake bakery about a block from my apartment called cupcakerie. specifically their cinco de mayo.
  • duck rillette (please don’t ever leave our menu, I adore you)
  • my citrus print and the handwritten note of brittany wright of wright kitchen
  • bolthouse’s green goddess juice
  • to do lists and idea notebooks

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my hair is greasy in the morning. no, no let me rephrase. my hair (sometimes) has that oh-my-god-you’d-be-lucky-waking-up-next-to-this look but the SECOND I step outside that door, it appears as though I bathed in last night’s fryer oil. **disclaimer: this may indicate I really do need glasses. instead of wedding gifts, I want our guests …

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In ode of Harry’s surgery tomorrow (yikes!), I’d like to showcase his best quality – just how close he will get. Love you.

Harry facts:

  • nicknames include: Sugar Britches, Puppadew, Sugar Pie
  • if you throw a piece of food across the room, he will flawlessly sneak it out of the air but the second a new face is there to watch… he gets stage fright.
  • he winds up to jump on the bed
  • he likes to put his head on a pillow
  • grapes are one of his favorite foods (along with jelly beans and pork tenderloin)


to talk about art and its meaning

to drink gin and tonics in short glasses

to wear wrinkly socks and sweater tights

to observe men’s fashion from every corner of the earth

to discuss the meaning of “art” and “talent” until breathless

to doodle bridges and eyeglasses and cigarettes and foreign landmarks

to take pictures of croissants and cheese

to buy worn in boots so they slouch in all the right places

to continue to obsess over helvetica

to read magazines cover to cover

I need to start blogging more, even if it’s for one reader. And sure sure sure I say this pretty often but with no school work to do, it should be pretty easy right? Here’s to getting back into blogging even if they’re as irrelevant as this irrational fear post.

1. Ever since I lived with Laura, or actually ever since I knew her, I’ve been afraid that if I fall or trip – I’d break all my teeth, as if my arms suddenly went missing. Not because she threatened me or anything (although she was a bully), but it was one of her fears. So thanks Laur, we are now one.

2. Walking in between a parked car and another concrete surface or car, I have this overwhelming feeling that it’s going to jump forward and pin me against said hard surface. But this might only happen in Saw.

3. Stepping out or onto an elevator, if the elevator plunges down (because the cables are cut obviously) my leg will get chopped off. (usually my right leg)

4. Not moving to New York at one point in my life. Although this is more of just a fear, it’s not really irrational.

5. Sending my resume to GQ. I’m shaking just typing this one.