Amidst a last minute order in your 11th hour, as your receptionist has stopped answering phones to run down and help clean your tulips and frantically strip roses and mint for you to equally as frantically plug in to your arrangement—the smell of lilac overwhelms you. And if only for a second, you stop to realize why ever the hell you are in the event business. And then, back to finishing this piece. That is spring as a florist.
Lilac is still forever my favorite, though I may tell you from time to time that it’s something else. If I do, I’m lying, or I’ve just forgotten how many sweet memories I have attached to the scent, since you can never quite recreate the smell of lilac unless it’s actually spring—In the same way that faux gardenia scent never quite smells like gardenias, but somehow falls into an “old lady” perfume category every time. Dyptique has gotten pretty close (props), but there’s nothing quite like the real deal.
The flower market mornings have continued, except now I’m realizing that the good stuff is gone by 5, so I’ve done my best to be out of the house, coffee in hand by 4:20am and have somehow succeeded in this mostly every time. The things a florist will do for some gosh darned local lily of the valley. I think my next plan is to stay up with friends until two in the morning, and then have a field trip to the flower market to really see what’s first available. I’ll let you know how that one goes.
Flower ranting aside, I find that I’m so hyped after three or…ahem…four cups of coffee in the day, that I’ve mustered the energy after a long day to be in the presence of lovely people and experience San Francisco a bit more. Tonight, though, it’s me and my Aimee Bender book, alone in my apartment. I think the city is finally growing on me, and I’m growing within it. It’s a mutual thing.