I ventured to the Hamptons not once, but twice over the past two weekends. Once for pleasure, once for employment. I’ll let you determine which excursion resulted in sun poisoning.

Through a bizarre series of events, I was solicited to nanny this weekend. I have never watched anyone for longer than 24 consecutive hours, nor do I particularly enjoy surrendering my weekends to cosplay as Nanny McPhee. But these upcoming flights are not going to pay for themselves.

Over the course of four days, I cooked, cleaned, chauffeured, mediated disputes, provided emotional support, and entertained two 10-year-old twins and one emotionally intelligent 13-year-old poodle inside what can only be described as a minor country estate. I now possess a profound respect for the nannying community and require approximately 2–3 business days for my nervous system to return to factory settings.

I do not cook. I do not clean. Yet through blood, sweat, and psychological warfare, I have successfully secured the funds necessary to continue flying commercial.

May updates for the group chat:

I’ve written extensively about how much I adore . It genuinely is the sweetest community, and I was so honored to attend their collaboration dinner with FreshDirect. The Italian dinner summer soiree was, as usual, peak whimsy and perfection.

As someone who is rarely in the kitchen (despite having been forcibly stationed there all weekend), I was previously unaware how fresh Fresh Direct actually is. Every tomato and floral arrangement looked like it had been plucked directly from an Italian grandmother’s backyard moments before serving. Also, they’re NYC-based. We love a hometown hero.

I’m always inspired by the people I meet at Crumbs events. Nearly everyone writes or works in food in some capacity, and there’s something really fulfilling about sharing a meal with people who romanticize groceries to the same pathological degree you do.

I certainly don’t have the following some of these creators have cultivated (although we are onboarding new nibblers daily), which is why I was genuinely surprised to receive an invitation in the first place. But that’s proof of ’s intentionality. The entire Crumbs ethos is rooted in nourishing community rather than clout extraction, which feels increasingly rare online.

(Maddie, if you’re reading this, your thank-you note has already been drafted in my head and will soon exist physically.)

Popped over to Montauk before the official Memorial Day descent into linen-induced hysteria. I’m grateful we squeezed in one quiet Hamptons weekend before the Summer Fridays migration and collective societal collapse.

We stayed at Montauk Yacht Club, which was genuinely stunning and only about five minutes from downtown and the beach. Unfortunately, I made the catastrophic assumption that because I required a sweater while sitting outside, I would not need SPF 50. I continue to misunderstand how the East Coast operates.

In a world of endless Teams notifications, Election Day reminders, and promotional emails from brands you do not remember granting access to your personal information, there is truly nothing more thrilling than receiving good old-fashioned snail mail.

During my camp era, I maintained an extensive network of pen pals with whom I corresponded religiously. I still have every letter tucked away in my apartment like archival evidence of a simpler civilization. One such pen pal turned childhood best friend, Kennedy () , recently suggested we revive the tradition after writing about the long-lost art of letter writing — something we were once certified professionals in.

Armed with my aggressively curated stationery collection, I can confirm that handwritten letters possess a sort of je ne sais quoi that iMessage simply cannot replicate. Nothing says “I cherish you deeply” quite like spending $8.99 on a sheet of unnecessarily thick paper.

Recent sites and bites:

I knew this place had to be exceptional when Caitrin sent me an unsolicited Resy invitation approximately two hours after dining at Confidant. No context. No scheduling inquiry. No “are you free?” required. She understands that I will always make myself available for a chef’s table experience. To be loved is to be known.

The lineup:

1. scallop crudo

2. dry-aged steak with potatoes and beef fat salsa verde

3. trout mousse on sourdough with smoked trout roe

Located in Williamsburg, Leo is known for their naturally fermented breads and pizza, but the real sleeper hit is the rotating soft serve situation. On a previous visit, we had PB&J. This time: blackberry and chocolate.

Also, their natural wine selection is excellent, if you’re into that sort of thing — which I assume you are if you willingly crossed the East River for dinner.

What I’m jamming to:

Cowboy Nudes, Geese

The first official addition to my 2026 Summer Soundtrack.

I’ve got eyes for anything moving / Fell in love with a tumbleweed...

This song sounds like making eye contact with a stranger at a dive bar and permanently altering the trajectory of your evening.

Cruel World, Holly Humberstone

With temperatures climbing past 80 and rent increase notices arriving as we speak, yes Holly, it is indeed a cruel world. But this perfect pop song at least makes the sweat stains feel slightly less foul.

End of August, Noah Kahan

We are once again entitled to emotional back pay courtesy of Noah Kahan. While this is one of the more upbeat tracks on the album, do not let the production fool you. The opening intro of cicadas alone can bring a tear to my eye.

If you, like me, currently live in a city far removed from your rural roots, I recommend listening with a box of Kleenex and perhaps avoiding eye contact with anyone on public transportation.

So that’s the state of the union: moderately employed, mildly crispy, psychologically defeated by two ten-year-olds, and still somehow optimistic enough to make restaurant reservations two weeks into the future. A testament to the human spirit, really.

I’ll be spending the next several business days re-regulating my nervous system, drinking electrolytes like it’s my full-time job, and attempting to recover from both UV exposure and prolonged interaction with children. Wishing you a week filled with good meals, tolerable humidity levels, and at least one moment worthy of a $5 postage stamp.

xx, B

Unfortunately, I am unable to offer any thought-provoking discourse, as I am currently busy trying to wind together the two viable brain cells required to jumpstart consciousness. The emails keep coming. The Teams notifications multiply like biblical plagues. There are lost socks breeding in corners of my apartment. And the season has arrived when we all collectively realize our pale, tender civilian forms are expected to report for bikini duty in less than 30 business days.

How, exactly, am I supposed to put down a small mortgage for a Solidcore membership when it costs me three emotional dollars to exit my perpetually unmade bed each morning?

Alas, the tide is high, but I’m holding on.

And to afford the aforementioned torture chamber, I will use this moment to unpack some recent tops and turmoils.

What can I say? You’re a captive audience. And your billable hours are, frankly, more affordable than therapy.

If you came looking for inspiration, I suggest consulting an author more put together than me. Today is not a day for Mary Oliver whispering you only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. The summer algorithms have begun, and I am under psychic assault Acquired Style’s beach bachelorette with trust funds.

The soft animal of my body loves martinis.

The foreboding beach vacations on my calendar demand discipline.

Thus, I am not only manic.

I am unsupervised.

I apologize in advance.

Stream of consciousness:

I was recently informed that Donald Trump’s face will be on every passport beginning next month.

Which, as fate would have it, is exactly when I need to renew mine.

How in God’s name am I supposed to stare at this man for the next decade, much less make it through customs emotionally intact? I can already feel the disappointment of every international border agent burning into my skin as they reluctantly stamp me through.

Is waiting barefoot in airport security not punishment enough?

When, I ask, will the terrors cease?

During a fit of sleepless capitalism, I decided I do not know enough about stocks.

At what age does this become a required life skill? Am I already lagging behind my financially literate peers? If I invest in Nvidia today, can it cover my September flight to Greece?

Better yet—

Can it sustain my Solidcore membership without requiring the collateral of a firstborn child?

I am simply just a girl.

Standing before the NASDAQ.

Asking it to help her.

We as a society have got to chill out on the protein obsession.

When Starbucks unveiled protein cold foam, I took it as a warning shot.

Civilizations have collapsed for less.

I’m told fiber is replacing protein as the new wellness fetish, but frankly it cannot come soon enough.

Just eat the damn chicken.

Tofu, if it suits you.

I cannot track macros while also pretending to understand microeconomics.

I am by no means endorsing big tobacco—

but someone recently quipped that Europeans seem happier because they can still smoke outside.

I’m not saying they’re right.

I’m just saying it’s a compelling theory.

Until we discover a modern replacement for the intimacy of sharing a hand-rolled cigarette in a plaza at 2 p.m., I propose federally mandated midday siestas.

Just policy suggestions.

Recent happenings, to the best of my recollection:

My first exhibit went live.

Which means, yes, a thought I once had in a Google doc is now physically installed in a museum.

A deeply satisfying and slightly terrifying development.

“What,” you may ask, “does soccer have to do with 9/11?”

Great question.

Come to the museum and let me radicalize you.

(White House, if you’re listening, no. The 9/11 Museum is not a woke institution. It’s a joke. Simmer down.)

Also, and I say this as casually as I can, Charles III visited the museum today, and I am kicking my feet over the possibility that the literal King of England may have read words I wrote.

If I disappear, assume I died of colonial irony.

During one particularly tumultuous evening, Caitrin appeared bearing a smile, and more importantly, a fat bottle of cab.

As I’ve said before and will continue to evangelize:

There is nothing holier than female friendship.

Squeeze your people.

Text the girls back.

Bring wine to a woman in distress.

Participate in the social safety net.

I popped home and saw Little One.

Yes, I am one of those people who forces strangers to look at dog photos.

And yes, you will be seeing more.

She is my soul animal.

An ex once quipped that we got her so my mother could have “another expensive little blonde thing.”

Guilty on all counts.

But in my opinion?

Worth every penny.

Recent Bites and Musings

7th Ave Diner and Donuts literally restored my faith in the city breakfast economy.

I swear to God this is a real check.

Forty dollars.

Two full meals.

No crimes committed.

There is light at the end of the tunnel.

You just have to take the F past Broadway–Lafayette Street station.

Bar Mercer in SoHo.

Great burger.

Great martinis.

Mushy peas.

Plenty of walk-in seating, a phrase now bordering on mythological.

Need I say more?

Soundtracks while I spiral:

you and forever:

While I remain mildly suspicious of Jack Antonoff, I support hearing a man publicly lose his mind over Margaret Qualley.

Obsession is simply the correct response.

drop dead:

Do we detect a trend?

I’m a sucker for yearning.

If this single foretells the album, I’m about to become clinically delusional.

The WhatsApp Shakespeare:

RAYE is having a moment.

And deservedly.

A full lyrical autopsy of online dating despair.

Prepare to pause your Hinge membership.

Again.

What I’m plotting, in case you’re concerned for me:

finishing Just Kids, beginning Famesick, wandering into Lévy Gorvy Dayan to stare thoughtfully at contemporary art I may or may not understand, becoming a sheet-pan woman (huge if true), increasing my fiber before wellness culture invents another nutrient to shame me over, planning beach escapes to the Hamptons, 30A, and Greece on PTO I do not currently possess, and searching for a tinted moisturizer rich enough to hydrate both skin and spirit. Also sourcing parental gifts, because why are Mother’s and Father’s Day scheduled like a fiscal quarter-end. Who approved this.

So yes—many irons in the fire. Very little executive function.

Back to the trenches!

xx, B

On Saturday, I resumed my rightful position holding court at Bar Pisellino surrounded by a rotating cast of my most beloved personalities, clinking the season’s first spritzes in celebration of the sun’s return. And I’m pleased to report: despite what the headlines insist, there is, in fact, a god. She drinks Aperol.

As an August baby (Leo-adjacent in spirit and calendar), I take seasonal transitions very seriously.

So, consider this your official dispatch: the light is coming back, and I, your humble town crier in kitten heels, have begun compiling a sacred list of patios ready to receive us (list en route, pls be patient).

Yes, the world may be teetering. Yes, everything is…a lot. But come. Sit with me. Tilt your face toward the sun like a well-watered houseplant. If we must lose our minds, let it be chic. Let it be theatrical. Not a breakdown, but a diva fit.

Because if we can’t indulge in a little seasonal delight then frankly, what are we even doing here?

The snow piles have surrendered, the sidewalks are thawing, and thanks to a medically unadvisable combination of Mucinex and Afrin, I can once again hear the birds sing.

Where is this going? Unclear. But the coat is unbuttoned, the drink is cold, and you’re coming with me.

What I’ve Been Up To:

Dance Party:

They say joy has a habit of circling back, and on cue, Harry Styles has reemerged to soundtrack the occasion with Kiss All the Time, Disco Occasionally. Coincidence? I think not. As Prince Harry so wisely advised, “if you must join a movement, make sure there’s dancing.” And who am I, a deeply committed subject of serotonin, to resist? Thus, I’ve spent my recent weekends conducting highly rigorous fieldwork across the city’s discos.

Accompanied by my work wife, real-life bestie, and resident philosopher Cammy, we twirled into Parkside Lounge for a pop princess dance party that felt both anthropological and deeply cathartic. “Humans are meant to be dancing,” Cammy declared, somewhere between Charli XCX and a spiritual awakening. And while I still cannot definitively answer the age-old question—are we human, or are we dancer—I have, in the interest of science, agreed to participate in the study.

I may be new to the dance floor, but when it comes to the pre-boogey picnic, my resume is extensive. We began the evening at The Bowery Hotel for a tiny tini before gliding to our dinner destination, Ye’s Apothecary.

Think herbal speakeasy meets slightly witchy dinner party; dimly lit, vaguely medicinal, and exactly the kind of place that makes you believe the night has plans for you.

What we ordered (for research purposes, obvs): Garden cucumber mix, Money Bag potstickers, Godmother’s chicken wings, crab fried rice, and (2) Nude & Nobles (because who can resist cocktails with a name that reads like a personality type).

Saturday Strolls:

I’ve found myself venturing all the way uptown these past few Saturdays. An act of devotion I do not take lightly. There are, frankly, very few people worth the 30+ minute train ride, but Elise and Holden remain part of the chosen few. While I’m not yet mature enough to convincingly cosplay as an Upper East Side lady (nor do I own the appropriate outerwear), I can admit there are cultural riches to be found beyond the downtown dive of the week.

Let’s begin with Central Park. A delight in every season, yes, but I personally prefer my strolls without the threat of black ice and wind bite. Still a touch brisk, but on a recent weekend wander with Holden, the first honest rays of sun broke through my post-blizzard malaise like a minor miracle. Miraculously, the swans were even out to play. Casually gliding, unbothered, weaving between stubborn patches of ice like they, too, had decided winter was over.

On a stroll that was, regrettably, more gray than golden, I found myself inside the Guggenheim for a survey of Carol Bove’s work. Accompanied by Elise, her boo, and her boss, we made our slow ascent up the rotunda, encountering a world of steel sculptures, paper collages, and meticulously arranged curiosities.

Bove’s materials don’t just sit pretty, they subtly unsettle. Steel bends where it shouldn’t, paper holds more weight than expected, and suddenly you’re hyper-aware of your own body in relation to it all. Her work invites (read: gently forces) you to consider where you end and the space around you begins. An existential spiral, but make it chic. If you’re unable to center your inner art critic, at least you’ll leave with certainty that you’re at least minimally more cultured than the average plebeian.

Recent Muses:

Just Kids, Patti Smith: I know, I know. A West Village girl reading Just Kids. How terribly on brand. How completely performative. But what kind of historian would I be if I didn’t conduct a little site-specific research? Consider this fieldwork. Archival immersion. Method acting, even. Let me have this.

“Where does it all lead? What will become of us? These were our young questions, and young answers were revealed. It leads to each other. We become ourselves.”

“Everything distracted me, but most of all myself.”

“Perhaps priest and magician were once one, but the priest, learning humility in the face of God, discarded the spell for prayer.”

What I’ve Been Listening To:

Taste Back: Harry’s cheeky little postmortem on the “you up?” text. Equal parts ego boost and emotional hazard. Look, we’ve all played both roles. No judgment here.

American Girl: We’ve traded Harry’s House for house music, and I’m fully here for it. The whole album feels like a drunk cig, but this song in particular perfectly captures the intimacy of bopping to the beat while slightly blitzed.

Untouched: Dusted off this 2010s dance floor relic like its archival couture. The opening notes alone could revive a dead pregame. If this isn’t on your “getting ready to rule the world” playlist, we need to talk.

Stateside + Zara Larsson: If you watched Alysa Liu’s iconic Exhibition Gala performance and this hasn’t been playing in your ear nonstop then I really don’t know what to tell you. I guess you’re not a girl’s girl. PS: Whatever beta blockers you’re on Alysa, send the scripts my way.

The light lingers, the coats loosen, and suddenly everything feels a touch more possible. Spring doesn’t ask for much, just that you step outside, order a drink, and take the long way home. So consider this your permission slip: to linger, to wander, to romanticize with reckless abandon. God knows we’ve earned it.

And while I’ll be busy chasing sunlight and spritzes in the meantime…let’s just say I’ve also been taking a few notes after dark. More on that soon ;)

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