There’s always a bit of melancholy the morning after a party. Decay presents itself quickly, when just hours prior it was a fresh feast. Now crumbs are scattered amid crusty cheese and limp vegetables—proof that bread was torn, crackers stacked with spread. The foraged tablescape is like a carcass, the missing platters are meat stripped from the rosemary branch bones. The glasses that once sparkled with votives, now hold hollow metal shells. The flowers though, remain. Like a party favor for the hostess, the bouquets serve as a reminder that there were hugs on the couch, dancing in the kitchen, and stories shared in the warmth of the night air. xo