picks vol. 17
what we’re wearing
At the chalet — looks linked here: [https://liketk.it/5PeNt]
aprés ski meets city polish. soft shearling, embroidered suede, oversized fur. the kind of texture that makes winter feel intentional, not just survivable.
shearling coat — rixo
lace and satin maxi dress — ILA THE BRAND
plum knee-high boots — sam edelman
yellow croc-embossed clutch — toteme
embroidered jacket — marant etoile
high-rise denim — nili lotan
studded clutch — isabel marant
black knee-high boots — staud
faux fur coat — entire studios
stirrup pants — leset
alpine codes translated for the city. rich, layered, lived-in. the kind of polish that doesn't announce itself.
warmth, but make it refined.
what we’re sipping
gather:
2 ounces mezcal
¾ ounce coffee liqueur (mr. black preferred)
1 ounce fresh espresso
¼ ounce agave syrup
3 coffee beans, for garnish
create:
combine mezcal, coffee liqueur, espresso, and agave in a shaker with ice. shake vigorously until very cold. strain into a coupe glass. garnish with three coffee beans.
what we’re cooking
ingredients:
6 ounces 70% dark chocolate, chopped
3 large eggs, separated
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon espresso, cooled
pinch of salt
flaky sea salt, for serving
cacao nibs, for serving
how to make:
melt chocolate in a double boiler or microwave in 30-second intervals, stirring until smooth. let cool slightly.
whisk egg yolks into melted chocolate one at a time until glossy. stir in olive oil, espresso, and pinch of salt.
in a separate bowl, beat egg whites with an electric mixer until stiff peaks form.
gently fold egg whites into chocolate mixture in three additions, being careful not to deflate.
divide mousse among four small glasses or ramekins. refrigerate for at least 2 hours.
before serving, finish with flaky sea salt and cacao nibs.
what we’re reading
year of the monkey by patti smith
patti smith turns seventy in the year of trump's election, and the collision feels deliberate. this slim memoir moves between hotel rooms and desert highways, between dreams and waking, tracing loss—of friends, of certainty, of the country she thought she knew. smith's voice is as spare and haunting as ever: equal parts beatnik prophet and grieving witness. she talks to signs that talk back, photographs empty rooms, sits vigil at bedsides. the book asks what it means to keep making art as the world tilts, to remain open when closure feels safer. unpolished, deeply human, stubbornly hopeful—exactly what we need from an artist who's refused to perform youth or certainty for fifty years.
