Are there places on our planet that enjoy luxurious, gentle transitions between the seasons? Does any wardrobe rotate in steady lockstep with the ripening leaves, frosts, thaws and heat? I ask for more than rhetorical effect; I would be envious of a place where linen, gaberdine, flannel and tweed can be predictably selected without fear of getting it terribly wrong. Anywhere I have lived, it is summer one day, and the next it has already been fall for a week. That it then reverses back just as I’ve slipped into warmer clothing—the dreaded Indian summer—is cruel. And so we formulate ways to weather unseasonable seasons. I find the following three items indispensable.

The fourteen ounce tweed jacket is ideal. True, this conclusion is based on experience rather than science, and I realize tolerances vary greatly. But I also challenge those skeptics to find this versatile weight far too hot or cold on those unpredictable inter-seasonal days. I have worn one of mine between forty and seventy degrees fahrenheit without any major problems. The trick, if it can be called that, is to mentally recategorize the jacket as a sweater or cardigan, which one wouldn’t think twice about slinging over an arm or wearing with a scarf as needed.

Conversely, cotton socks present somewhat of a versatility challenge. They don’t really insulate well while managing to wear too warmly in the real heat. Quality versions are no less expensive than woolen socks and I have even struggled to launder them with consistent results. But they are the only sock for unpredictable weather; not because they adjust, but because they will not cause too much discomfort if the temperature veers in either direction. I realize this wisdom is less an endorsement for the cotton sock than a recommendation based upon its shortcomings. But isn’t all versatility grounded in some form of compromise?

Cotton socks, languishing in mediocrity.

Finally, the seemingly least practical tip. For years I assumed the lightweight scarf was one of those silly accessories favored by stylists for their warm-weather clients who yearn for cold-weather style (these people live in Los Angeles, by the way). But then I was given one made of modal (reconstituted cellulose spun to incredible fineness). It is softer than cashmere, and, like a scrap of urban rubbish, could easily float around the city on a stiff enough updraft. Despite these qualities it also insulates exceedingly well when worn beneath a jacket or casually over a lightweight knit. I am a convert—with the sincerest apologies to stylists everywhere.

There is one slight problem though. A gauzy (polka-dotted) scarf will not go unnoticed, and tweed, while widely worn, has strong enough fall and winter connotations to elicit snarky comments if worn too early in the season. These items are only as good as one’s likelihood of wearing them, and for one reason or another, most of my preferred inter-seasonal stuff is fairly conspicuous. I wonder if this is why many men resort to technical gear—the sort of athletic stuff that is said to breathe and wick. But I ask: what’s more alarming, a man warding off an unseasonal cold snap in tweed or the site of a mountaineer hailing a cab?

A decanter can be purpose-built, or, as is the case here, the destiny of a cut-glass and silver wedding present.

“The modern habit of doing ceremonial things unceremoniously is no proof of humility; rather, it proves the offender’s inability to forget himself in the rite, and his readiness to spoil for every one else the proper pleasure of ritual.”

- C.S. Lewis

As wines age, insolubles agglomerate and precipitate in the form of dusty-looking sediment. If the wine has been correctly stored, which is to say horizontally, this sediment will have collected in a crop-row along the length of the bottle. And so the first step to decanting is to stand the bottle upright, gently so as not to cause too great a plume, and for several hours until the sediment has resettled in the ring at the bottom. Uncorking the bottle without disturbing the sediment requires a steady hand, or—and it pains me to admit this—one of those high-tech lever-action screw-pulls. The decanter itself need not be one—any wide-necked glass or crystal pitcher will do—but it must be absolutely clean. The other, rather more exciting accessory is a light source illuminating the bottle’s neck so the pourer can see and prevent any sediment from escaping. This can be done dramatically with a low candle, but the flashlight function on a smart phone is just as effective. The decanted wine will not just be sediment-free, but opened up from its long stay in the bottle.

The other type of decanting isn’t just a less refined process; it demonstrates quite effectively what is meant by that particularly obtuse term, opened up. Younger, less complex wines also benefit from leaving the bottle before drinking, but the reason isn’t sediment—it’s air. In the virtually airless environment of the bottle, a young wine might take several years to find a pleasant balance of tannin, varietal flavor, alcohol and acid. The introduction of air—oxidation—speeds things up considerably, toning down astringency and amplifying the rounder, fruit flavors lurking just below the surface. I also find the strong ethanol nose some warm-weather wines can have disappears altogether after decanting. The method is blessedly simple: unceremoniously uncork a bottle and pour it vigorously into a clean carafe. Let sit for some unspecified amount of time and drink.

A good hook is indispensable when setting out clothes.

I might be unique in drawing the comparison, but I’m always reminded of decanting wine while laying out my clothes. I rarely remove something directly from a closet or armoire and pull it over my head. Folded sweaters or polo shirts usually need some mild reshaping; trousers always benefit from a quick shake and smoothing; shirts I snap into life with a flourish. The practice also affords the opportunity to inspect for marks, missing buttons or creases—those minor emergencies, correctible as they are, still better discovered at home. But the main purpose is to knock some of the drawer and closet shape out of the garment before wearing—to allow the garment to breathe.

Like old wines, more formal clothes require significantly greater attention. If a suit is needed, I remove it to a hook for inspection. Despite precautions, lint and dust settle on shoulders and lapels—something remedied by a few gentle sweeps of a quality lint brush. If a shake doesn’t release the errant wrinkle, out comes the iron and board. Shirt, tie, handkerchief, socks and shoes are chosen, each carefully inspected and no less subject to brush or iron. I arrange the various components; an hour later the results have either found a natural harmony or require some minor adjustment. Either way, it’s the time spent out of ordinary enclosure that reveals.

The truly devoted rotate their wardrobes and regularly inspect their wine collection; they shine shoes religiously and faithfully note cellar temperature. These activities are executed in the name of practicality, and the tangible benefits—fresh suits and wine—suggests that practicality alone is motivation enough. But it would be foolish to deny the ceremony; hobbyists are always aware of ritual. As C.S. Lewis infers, forgetting oneself is the point.

Oh Snap!

The Wine, The Ritual and The Wardrobe