Spring break has evolved into something far beyond its original weeklong pause. I am in awe of friends who possess the wherewithal to arrange for ski school out west, a multi-family stay in Mexico, or an excursion to Morocco months in advance. But for me, spring break is not dissimilar to online shopping. I will spend hours, if not days, opening tabs, screenshotting ideas, pinning restaurants on Google Maps, and seeking validation from others for every possibility. And in the end, my time will have been spent for naught: I will have accumulated a digital wishlist but no actual procurement, left wondering why I have nothing to wear do.
Inspired by my friends’ travel plans, I scoured the far reaches of the northern hemisphere for considerations - Barbados, Southern California, London - and in the end, I surrendered to the allure of staying home. If you can (literally) look past the yellow plumes of pollen, March and April are inarguably the most pleasant months here. (In fact, I woke up the morning of my previously mentioned New York trip, paralyzed by a wave of dread about leaving, and decided to stay put instead.) Just as I thought my spring break plans were reduced to spring cleaning, an opportunity to stay in my office landlords’ Edisto house fell into my lap at the eleventh hour.
Several of my formative years were spent in the armpit of the lowcountry, Walterboro, South Carolina, where I had the happiest childhood imaginable. My mom would drive my brother and me into Charleston everyday for school, where I counterbalanced my quaint small-town upbringing with polished urbanism. The hour’s drive both to and from school blessed me with an encyclopedic recall of ‘90s pop lyrics and left me with an unwavering fondness for South Carolina’s winding backroads.
Remove every bit of refinement and Edisto is to Walterboro what the Hamptons are to New York City: the established beach getaway pipeline. Every summer of my childhood was spent at Edisto with my grandparents flying kites and catching crabs with string-tied chicken necks. Despite my empty threats to flee to Connecticut, the smell of gas golf carts and boiled peanuts ignites my olfactory nostalgia and keeps me firmly tethered to the south. I am and will always be deeply low-brow. I am afraid it’s in my DNA. My eighth great grandfather, Johannes Fripp, was a privateer (or, in bacchanalian retellings, a pirate), who was granted his namesake island as a reward from King Charles for defending the English encampment near Beaufort. Later Fripps built Tidalholm, famous for its features in The Great Santini and The Big Chill, as their summer getaway. My grandmother, the last surviving Fripp in my immediate family, was born and raised in Walterboro, and, as such, there is a healthy dose of redneck in the bloodline.
After decades removed, I found Edisto just as I had left it: without frills and devoid of pretension. We ate shrimp for every meal, picked buckets of strawberries, and stayed up late watching episodes of Bob Barker-era The Price is Right in a picture perfect beach cottage. I have said it before, and I will say it again: I am at my happiest when days are simple and I am unburdened by my possessions. I returned home sun-kissed, freckled, and with a small sunscreen-soiled wardrobe that looks to have been sponsored by Doen, but sadly and decidedly was not.
It brings me great joy to share the memories and experiences of my childhood with my daughter. The world will chip away at her sweetness eventually, but for now, simple days like these overflow our cup.
More?
I’ve mentioned many times my love for Air Mail. I picked up editor Graydon Carter’s new memoir When the Going Was Good for the weekend at the beach. Carter reflects on his life journey, which includes co-creating Spy magazine and serving as the editor of Vanity Fair for 25 years. It’s the tale of an underdog, who transformed from a Canadian linesman into a coiffed magazine world topdog.
New York is still calling my name. The newly-opened US Printemps, the imminent reopening of The Frick (April 17), Just in Time’s anticipated opening (April 26), and TEFAF New York (May 9-13) may be reason enough for me to skip town for a few days soon.
Hacks returns this week!!! White Lotus be damned, I need something fulfilling to anticipate weekly.
I share almost every aspect of my life with my husband and/or daughter, but tennis is the one thing I have for myself so I may as well look and feel good doing it. Enter the skirts from newly launched Spence.
Nette is the worst thing to happen to my bank account in a very long time, but it feels good to be excited about an in-person shopping experience in Charleston.
I am honored to be included in Carl Dellatore’s forthcoming Interior Design Master Class: 100 Rooms from Rizzoli. It will be released in September, but it is available for pre-order now.
When everything is yellow, the pollen stains go unnoticed. Butter me up:
I have tried many times to replace this shampoo and conditioner, but these are my holy grail.
Flats that look and feel like butter.
A mini skort!
When they go high, I go low. Kitten heels forever.
These orb vases are similar to but cheaper than my favorites from Michael Hawkins.
Just replaced my cutting boards for meat prep with these. Give me microplastics or give me death. Kidding! Give me both!
Cool girl power suit (jacket available here, here, and here; dress available here and here)
Hot take: Levain’s lemon cookies are better than the chocolate chip.
Will rationalize this purchase as an Easter dress.
Sister Parish’s Circe chintz in yellow is my all-time favorite fabric from their collection. I have used it previously for a hunting lodge bedroom and am excited to have it pulled for a current project in Maine. That’s versatility!
A cashmere cardigan that costs less than the cotton crap from J.Crew.
All for now xx