To try committing Max Sinsteden to paper is a daunting task. There is just so much to be said. His cup runneth over. And so I don't dare try, except to say that he is loved. Widely and bountifully loved. It's been written many times over since he was very young just how gloriously he can splash a room wall-to-wall with life, and yes he is talented and endearing and he throws one hell of a party. It's all true. But the thing I love most about Max is his heart - his giant heart with a seemingly endless capacity to love people and make everything around him more beautiful. To that end, it was no surprise that this past weekend was every minute just as beautiful and full as any days could ever be. 

As I pushed my way through his door on Friday night, weary from flying, I dropped my bag and found myself in the middle of an animated exchange between he and Ward, already lit up with chatter. A gin drink (and it's well-appointed monogrammed napkin, natch) were thrust promptly into my hand, and so began a night that started with Omar's and (though I'm told) it ended after Soho House, I don't recall much after the two bottles of rosé we guzzled. 

In a blurry blitz of the days following, we ended the weekend with a three-split birthday party on a rooftop somewhere in Brooklyn, clinking Southsides in Mason jars and dancing to a Honky Tonk band. When I walked in that day and Van waved me over, all I could think to myself was that I must have done something right in life to deserve these people. The love I feel for them warms my bones and makes me smile - I'm completely aware how schmaltzy I sound, and I don't care one bit. Excessive... yes. But too much? Never.

I've decided, by the way. The Love List is going to live within the confines of it's cottage rather than building a McMansion - it's my journal, the story of my life and the people in it, and that's what it's best at. I promise I'll keep looking for creative ways to tell that story. I've realized that the worn-out idea of "blogging" as it exists is just not for me. I hope y'all are cool with that.

“the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.” - Jack Kerouac

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It suffices to say I have been quiet, and that's really because I have the most treacherous writer's block ever. It's like my brain is broken, I don't know. I don't feel "me." Case in two points: one, I almost went and had my hair cut off because I am so sick of it. There is SO much of it. But my hair is full of secrets, so I can't very well go sending them scattering in a million directions when my locks hit the salon floor. Two, I was very seriously contemplating breaking out my old YSL Tributes (really, Jess?) for this weekend because I had some wild hair that I needed to feel tall and look like RuPaul's sexed-up trophy wife. I don't know though, those shoes have context. I'm going to an Agent Provocateur party next week and they feel relevant. 

You know what else I did? I went on the Master Cleanse because apparently what I need is a reason to be totally miserable. Beyonce, girl, I do not know how you did that for 20 days. Hat tip. 

Anyway.

I have thought so much about The Love List and where I want to take it next - big bad blog or totally pared down? I think I'm settling on the latter. I'll go into more detail in the next few weeks, but for now it suffices to say I am totally bored with the way "all things blog" are done. I am tired of hokey roundup posts and inspirational quotes and street style photos that all look the same, but I don't yet have the answer for that grand question that won't vacate my mind: "what's next?" The only thing I know is that I will continue to write, and that good words are what will continue to fuel The Love List. I have a big splashy tale to tell, but I am holding off on that story quite yet. 

So I am headed to New York for the weekend to see some of my favorite people in the world, which always blows the cobwebs off when my mind is starting to feel like a madwoman's dusty attic. Max has asked me to make what he adorably calls "the pimento cheese spread" (my family long ago abbreviated it to "p.cheese") for his birthday party this weekend, which warranted Duke's mayo being rush shipped to Manhattan. If that's any indication of the weekend to come, it will be exactly what I need. 

I made a playlist for you guys - it's a Prince/Robin Thicke/Solange funked up sammich with a good stretch of Bibio and Snowden-induced chill in the center. Perfect stuff for plane rides and afternoon drinks with friends. You can listen to that on Spotify by clicking here.

Other thoughts: what do y'all think of Tinder? It's all anyone seems to be talking about these days. Oh, and I feel the need to alert you 90's ladies that Andrew Keegan is on twitter. So there's that. 

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Hey Macklemore, can we go shopping? Confession: I have been on a lot of first dates lately. Like, a lot. I don’t even know how it happened – I can only equate it to the anomaly of going into Saks to find a dress and by some miracle, all of them fit. Early last month, there was this influx of invitations - and none of them bad. Not even a little. All at once, the universe presented me with a veritable cornucopia of well-adjusted, ambitious, handsome and well-mannered guys. 

So off I went – a full on dating spree. There was one week where every single night, Monday – Saturday, I was booked for dinner. And at the end of it, there were even a couple of promising contenders. That was the beginning of May - there’s since been a slowdown (which I am grateful for), but it gives me a minute to take a step back from the blitz and process. Each guy was completely different – and even though I couldn’t resist the metaphorical allure of a closet full o’ pretty new frocks, eventually, I ended up returning them all and going right back to my favorite blue jeans. I mean, who am I kidding? I’m way too much of a tomboy. I never wear dresses anyway.

The monstrous, infamous Net-a-Porter sale is going on right now – let’s talk about what I ended up “buying”. My dates, in six dresses:

Dress #1 (Roland Mouret): So on-point and exquisitely executed, you know every girl in the room is going to be wishing she’d found it first. It’s you. It’s so you. So you, in fact, that you feel like a caricature of yourself in it. Oh, but the good taste of it! It makes for a good photo op, but in the end, you never wear it again.

Dress #2 (Roland Mouret): Body-conscious and exotic, it’s long, lean, and sweet-talks you from the rack in an accent so sexy, you know you’re not going to be wearing underwear with it. Every time you put it on though, it feels a little stretched out. You can’t shake the feeling that at least three girls you know have tried it on before.

Dress #3 (Oscar de la Renta): Practical and demure, it’s a total classic. It’s smart, conservative, a little sexy… just not quite sexy enough. Ends up hanging in your closet as an elegant go-to for dinners with your parents and their pals.

Dress #4 (RED Valentino): Did you try this one on? You can’t recall.

Dress #5 (Dolce and Gabbana): You have to admit that you totally bought this dress because it looks like one your friend has – but now that you have it, you realize it fits terrible, you totally hate it, and you cannot wait to take it back.

Dress #6 (Michael Kors): This dress is hot. Hot hot hot. No other way to put it. All-American, tailored to kill, and gorgeous. Is there much to it? Nope. But who cares? You’re going to wear the hell out of it while you can. It isn't on sale. You don't care.

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Jerry MacGuire may have had Miss Zellwegger at "hello", but Ferragamo totally had me at "monogrammed". Turns out, you can now completely personalize a pair of uber-timeless Varinas - down to having your initials emblazoned on the sole. I went for the rose gold ribbon - at 550.00, a bit of an investment for some, but considering the cost-per-wear, one well worth it. Good enough for the LSD, good enough for me.

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One of my favorite things about living in Atlanta has been all the incredible women I have come to know. Among them, near the very tip top of my list, is Mrs. Ginny Branch Stelling. I've talked before about how she's one of my favorite rays of blonde sunshine, but it stands to reiterate the fact that she is also an insanely talented stylist and creative. 

Don't you miss going to camp in the summer? I used to go to an Episcopal away camp that I still long for and look back on fondly. Being a grown-up now, I don't get to sleep away and have my day's activities planned out for me anymore. But Ginny and her team of ubertalent (trust me, you've heard of these ladies) have banded together to revive and reinvent the entire idea for a generation of overgrown campers. Appropriately titled "CAMP", they are offering a series of intimate workshops covering everything from artful photography to seamless makeup application. 

I will personally be signing up for Intimate Gatherings 101 - I love to cook for guests and I am always game to learn a little more about the art of entertaining. From beautiful table settings and floral arrangements to mastering compound butter, the "counselors" at CAMP will be leading a happy band of twenty revelers through a series of workshops at beautiful Serenbe, and I can't wait to be one of them.

You can view and register for classes here. See you at CAMP this summer!

photography: Ali Harper // styling: Ginny Branch

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Because your Dad is cooler than you give him credit for... 1. Hartford linen shirt 2. Persol foldable 714 sunglasses 3. Bowers & Wilkins P5 headphones 4. The James Bond Archives hardcover book 5. Jack Rudy Small Batch Tonic (handmade in Charleston)  6. SuitSupply Yellow Knit Tie (available locally, SuitSupply at Shops Around Lenox, 3400 Around Lenox Dr.) 7. Andover Trask The Standard bag (handmade locally - matt@andovertrask.com)

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"What the FUCK is a maxxinista"

Longshore Studio Gallery, New Orleans

48 x 48, acrylic on canvas

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A few months ago, my travel schedule was downright frenetic. Every weekend I felt like I was throwing shit in a bag and flashing some TSA mook my I.D. to board a plane to somewhere. I grew so weary that I promised myself a solid two months off from serious travel, and after Christmas, I kept that vow. But as summer officially rears her head, I see my calendar filling up exactly the way it always has - and so with me will go my favorite companion, my Hudson Sutler overnight bag. I've mentioned before my "light and tight" travel philosophy, and barring few exceptions, I try not to lug what can't be taken aboard with me. Grant Hewit's line of sturdy canvas carry-ons is right up my alley for that exact reason - just enough room for what I need, but small enough to throw over my shoulder... and force me to edit my packing list. 

Last month, I got to take part in the shoot for Hudson Sutler's latest lookbook. With Caroline behind the lens, I held it down for the girls in front of the camera (and to lend a hand styling the shoot) with a great group of dude-centric SouthEastern talent; Grant, of course, but also Brier & Moss' Nick Barnes, purveyor of sweet neckwear and Jack Donnelly's arbiter of fine pants and shorts, Gregg. You can peek the full lookbook here and see how much fun we had.

photography: Caroline Fontenot

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My love affair with the tulip glass - a curvy little thing with the most delightfully thin lip - begins and ends at Holeman & Finch, where they have taken my already self-indulgent manner of imbibing and enabled me to the point of downright pickiness. I am not entirely sure they don't all secretly roll their eyes when I walk in. But Pumps, God bless Pumps - to only say he is my favorite waiter is doing him a disservice, because he and I have acquired such a sense for one another, we are now more than patron and server, we are friends. If I am nursing a cocktail below regular speed, he swoops in and confiscates it because he knows. At this point it's really down to something that hovers between a science and a stage act. I'll make a little face at something too sweet or fruity, and he'll take one sniff and say "Oh no. This isn't you." Off it goes, quickly replaced by something boozy, almost always involving gin and probably Frenet. 

"Could you bring us those drinks in a tulip glass?" I asked him last night. I was ordering two Valley Forges, a cocktail that is most memorable the way my friend Sudie put it the first time Pumps ever put one down in front of me: "Jess, that is rubbing alcohol. With a lemon twist." 

The Valley Forge usually comes in a standard cocktail glass, but I've never liked them - the lip is too thick, and the shape really fails to confine liquid, so if you're standing (which at this point, my friend Matt Weaver and I were, as we waited for a spot at the bar to open up) things can get rather messy if the glass is full. And so Pumps brought our drinks dutifully in their tulip glasses, delivering them to the wide eyes of Matt, who couldn't believe the murder I was getting away with by ordering a drink in a specific glass because the alternate was "too sloshy." I laughed when he pointed it out. "I know what I like." I shrugged, fully aware that I am and always will be a professional pain in the ass. 

We'd started the evening out at Proof & Provision, the bar at the stunning Georgian Terrace hotel (the very site of Gone With the Wind's 1939 premiere) where when I specified BlueCoat in my gin & tonic, Matt nodded with approval. "Nice choice." Later, as he told me more about Andover Trask, his handsome line of hand-sewn bags, we got to talking about the small things that set his apart from your standard-issue boat tote and came to the quick realization we were both obsessed with details.  We were abuzz with ideas all night, and later, as Pumps ushered us over to two open spots at the bar we'd been too chatty to notice, I silently vowed I was never again going to apologize for being perceivably high-maintenance. 

Life is best lived when you relish the details: that little cloth you wrap around your perspiring champagne bottle, the warm water you run roses under when you cut their stems so they bloom quickly, that chop you give your down pillows, the fresh-cracked pepper on your salad, and the vegetable-tanned leather handles on an Andover Trask bag... these are the little things that excite the everyday, and if you are lucky enough to train your eye to spot them, you can live an extraordinary existence inside the same day that someone else might call mundane. Cheers to the details y'all, no apologies. I'm toasting them in my tulip glass.

Learn more: Holeman & Finch offering amateur bartending classes this summer

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Julia Reed, by all definitions, is a writer. And a great one - so good, in fact, that I've devoured just about everything she's ever penned since I reasonably became conscious of what good journalism was. By the time I was wrapping up college, she'd become sort of a personal folk hero to me - someone I wanted to model my own career after, and ostensibly, perhaps my life as well. She was always weaving a tale about some character she'd collected along the way, and I think her enthusiasm for people is part of what attributed to my own life becoming such an ongoing collection of extreme personalities. 

They say you should never meet your heroes. But last night, thanks to Garden & Gun magazine and Ann Mashburn, I met Julia Reed, and she was everything. She gabbed Ashlyn's and my ear off, good-naturedly disavowed herself from the sangria being served for it's lack of blushy color and (most notably) a detectable amount of booze, and then shushed me for calling her "ma'am." It thrilled me that the voice behind her writing was so authentic. Here she was, right in front of me, and she was exactly the way I wanted her to be. 

The entire intent of this blog, from the beginning, has always been to celebrate great people. In her most recent title, Mrs. Reed does the same, lauding lots of the folks she's crossed paths with through food and the stories that accompany her artfully recollected recipes. She goes on in the most charming way about her buddy Jason Epstein, who she met as an interview subject (a way I myself have made many a tremendous friendship), a literary legend in his own rite, who's now carved out (pun intended) a serious name for himself among foodies the world over (see: "Eating".) Her transparent affection for him and their years-long love affair with food rang a little bell in my head. 

It jingled my brain right over to my handsome, refined, and incredibly talented friend Ryan Sand - a culinary talent not (yet) widely recognized, but who has trained under some of the best names in the business (the Culinary Institute of America, Daniel Boulud, Thomas Keller) at barely 26 years. Aside from the bias granted by the fact that he is my closest friend's twin brother, I will say regardless: I know many chefs, and Ryan stands out as the finest I'm acquainted with.

Case in point: one day, many moons ago, in Gainesville, Florida, a bunch of Sigma Chis, one Kappa Alpha, and myself gathered in my shabbily-appointed townhouse to cook and imbibe. It was a weekly gathering, our little supper club of amateur and aspiring food folk - but this time, we were here to revel in our visiting New York chef's professional presence. The veggies were good at the farmer's market, so in a flurry, Ryan whipped up a ratatouille with the sort of grace and confidence a prima ballerina displays onstage. Every movement was fluid and intentional. As he spotlessly lopped a ladelful on each of our plates, I didn't detect the slightest note of pomposity. It occurred to me then that this was so practiced for him, that married with his talent, the art of executing a fine meal had become second nature. That evening silently sealed my premonition of his future celebrity. The aforementioned Kappa Alpha in the room years later decided to attend the same culinary school Ryan did, and I'd like to think that ratatouille had something to do with it. 

I'd be remis if I didn't note that for the most part, this post was penned on the back of JCT Kitchen's Thursday Specials menu. I was so abuzz from meeting Mrs. Reed (exhilarated, sure... but let's be honest, there was liquor involved too) that I utilized the most readily-available paper and started scratching away notes with a stolen red pen from Holeman & Finch. I was afraid if I didn't do otherwise, the booze would make off with my thoughts. I'm sitting on my kitchen counter now, cross-legged with my computer in my lap, chewing on an enamel pen that's so rock-hard my Mother, were she here, would no doubt chide me for endangering what she likes to call my "expensive teeth." Translating sober on a Saturday morning what you wrote down drunk on a Thursday night is an interesting practice, but I think my original point was this: Julia Reed makes me look forward to my adult life. We so fear growing older - maybe because we lose our looks, or maybe because we're that much closer to death, I don't know - but her stories remind me that there is still so much ahead that's good. Perhaps I'll be profiling Ryan one day for some magazine and recall that little moment in Gainesville again. The joy of watching the people you love evolve is truly one of life's best blessings, and her latest title is a latent reminder of that very fact. Further, as I peer into the years in front of me (coming soon: thirties!) I'm reminded there are so many people left to meet, love, remember... and write down. That, my friends, is the good stuff, and if you ask me, really what it's all about.

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