I just got home from a weekend of sultry heat in the midwest, visiting family, getting the little cousin girls together for fragrant, cricket filled, night-rides on scooters, firefly chasing, trips to the ice cream store and all of those 'normal' summer activities that take on a certain storybook enchantment when you grow up in an urban beach environment.

I'm hittin' it running. I've got a fantastic event planned next week in NYC { blog out loud, NYC bay-bee! } So my postings will be light this week as I wrap up the final details on that.

From my virtual cigar box of trinkets and treasures, feathers and seashells, my file of miscellany:

The perfect, New Hampshire, Maine {insert favorite remote, beachy place here} summer house kitchen.

Isn't this about the most charming, summer house beach kitchen. I want to think it sits somewhere remote and those who use it, open it up every summer, removing the drop cloths from the furniture, wiping the salt from panes of glass, opening windows, sweeping the floors and readying it for a long summer of tan bare feet, shell seeking and lobster cookouts.