A few things I learned in flower arranging class.
A. There is always someone with less talent and more filler.
B. Firework sprays of carnations aren’t going away.
C. Brilliant couture statements aren’t easily understood.
If Rachel Ray throws a bunch of daisies in a tea kettle, trust me, Martha’s not impressed.
So, Giselle hated my flower dresses and I forgave her for her extreme use of baby’s breath. We met at a jazz club on the Champs-Élysées, and don’t ask. She reluctantly runs the show around here. In the kitchen we do get along because she uses a lot of butter, and come on, BUTTER. God created butter to go forth and multiply. In a perfect world, everything would be made with a quarter pound of butter and no apologies.
I have a lot of Giselle stories. Most involve narrowly escaped jail time, because she’s crazy and I’m utterly fearless. Mes fleurs, I promise to share some, but tonight I must keep it short. When delicious bundles of inky purple cabbage and smoky hydrangea need arranging, you go create magic. Giselle has yet to complement me.