Blueprint for a Southern Home

Design Bacchanalia

2011-05-22T13:14:00.004-04:00

Several months later and many house projects in, I'm pleased to report that there is progress. And not just little progress, but enormous. Pictures were sent throughout the course of my business travels of cut out walls, piles of concrete blocks, floors polished to a smooth white. All in all, a great deal of labor and love has transformed what was an otherwise dank space into something worthy of praise.

I've spent the last month or so on the road going from tradeshow to tradeshow, soaking up kitchen and bath designs from Vegas to New Orleans, and now I am eager to translate the vision into reality.

A few of my favorite finds were Artistic Tile out of NYC. They are Vetrazzo's ditribution partner in the tri-state area, and I had the pleasure of working the first and last show with them. They create gorgeous tile patterns, which they then sell through their network of dealers across the country. From arabesque to 1950s chic, they offer a palette I'm eager to incorporate into my home.

Then there was Kirei, with whom we shared a booth at AIA Expo in New Orleans. Between multiple stops at Butcher, Cochon's deli outpost and do check out the pork belly sandwich, I learnd about Kirei's eponymous material made from sorghum and used to create an earthy, upscale look in cabinenty, wall coverings, and even flooring. After squaring away a deal to create a rolling dinner table made of the material with owner John Stein, I spent the rest of my time working in the booth and strolling the floor.

Other cool items seen at the tradeshows:
Mockett wheels
Smart Glass lighting fixture by an Atlanta glass artist
Interface Flor
Artistic Tile
Kirei
Papatya Chairs

Food & Handsome Men

2011-02-06T10:58:00.006-05:00

Since my last check in, I've been to Quebec, and while there lost my camera. (Or as I like to look at it, passed it along in the world.) The extent of the images I have from the trip is posted above, a wintry street scene in Vieux Quebec. It's been a while since I've set off exploring foreign places on my own. Honestly, the last real prominent memory that comes to mind is the day I ambled the streets of Madrid to spite my sleeping boyfriend. Along my jaunt, I ate a orange, devoured a churro dipped in hot coffee, nodded to my elderly male admirers, and continued back to our abode where along the way I was stopped by a young, handsome Spaniard who asked if I had a novio. My Spanish was paltry but I knew what he was asking, so after blushing I supplied the requisite, "Si." Had I the grasp of language I so desired, I would have potentially found myself in a moral dilemma.

Quebec was obviously different. I was there on business and had I the choice Chris would have been there alongside of me. Instead, I spent my one and only night trudging through snow piles, poorly dressed for the near zero degree weather that surrounded me. Had I the foresight to call ahead to the restaurant I read about and was en route to, I wouldn't have been standing outside its darkened doors reading a sign in French that they would open a week from today's date, long after I would be gone, and more importantly, when I needed them the most - right now.

So I turned around defeated. I was prepared to hail a cab back to the hotel, but then thoughts I how I might do that flooded over me. For one, the streets were empty and I hadn't seen a soul since I descended down the wintry path. Another problem was that I hadn't seen a taxi and didn't know a number to call. I wanted to cry but the cold made it impossible to do so, and instead I started walking to what appeared to be a road with some traffic. As I turned the corner, the warm glow of a bistro caught my eye, and I navigated to the light. It was by first glance a tourist trap, but I didn't care. Hunger and numb fingers trumped my pride that night. I ordered from the English language menu and didn't bother to pronounce things in the Quebec-way, let alone French. I ordered a glass of the house white wine and my dinner, then read the English language about town paper. Halfway into my drink, the waiter, a handsome compliment to this experience, delivered to me a steaming seafood tart souffle, french fries, and a green salad.

I slept content that night, my sore throat assuaged by heavy dreams.

Closeted

2011-01-12T19:27:00.003-05:00

Day 3. After the funeral we hiked it back up to Atlanta, leaving warm(er) weather behind. It's in the teens here, and our entire neighborhood is still covered in snow. The most popular activity for Snow Days appears to be cleaning out closets (according to Facebook status updates.) We can be certain, once the ice and snow melts, everyone's innards, so to speak, will be emptied.

I'm racking my brain to find the correlation between closets and being cooped up inside our homes, and the only thing I can come up with is that when faced with prolonged exposure to a single space (e.g. our home) we have to confront it. This may be why so many Southerners have the proverbial skeletons in the closet. There's never enough snow on the ground for us to work up the courage - it is just another room, even smaller than all the others - to face the past.

Quick catalog of my closet: file bin, computer bag, trophy, myriad clothes, myriad shoes, old letters, receipts, purses, CDs.

Among the detritus of my life old letters and shoes hold the most meaning for me. The letters have been loving sorted and filed into boxes by year. From time to time I take them out, fixation on a particular year if I knew it was a good one, seeing the version of me others saw so long ago. They are pretty typical. Remember, it was C's closet so long ago that propelled me to save them like an archivist would. C has just moved into a new apartment and I imagine her setting her own boxes in some dark closet for reading when memory calls her.

The shoes are another story. My interest is not typical. I have a pair of shoes that I can not part with that I wore while in Paris, as in the whole time I was in Paris. They are nothing fancy, a worn pair of Ked's now dusty red from the Georgia clay. Then there's the gray and pink pair of Nike's my twin and I bought together while in NYC. We hadn't brought any good walking shoes, so we made a quick stop to the shoe store and walked out with near matching sets. Or the Vera Wang's from an old boss who was getting rid of them. Now, a favorite for evenings when magic might happen.

This brings me back to my grandmother, whose closets we helped clean out last weekend. I imagined we come across some remarkable discovery - my own closets will surely offer up some interesting life artifacts - but instead we found very little of her. Here was a woman who kept a very clean closet, and folks, it never snows in Florida.

In Memoriam

2011-01-05T22:43:00.008-05:00

(Jacqueline Mexson Catob)

Carillon bells rang this morning.

My grandmother passed away late last night. My family, those that are still in Florida, kept vigil beside her. I had wished to be there, but even the ones only an hour away didn't make it in time for her last few breaths.

I enjoyed the words of my twin who wrote this morning about her passing, "I did notice that she never changed her polish color from Thanksgiving. It only took 12 or so colors before she chose one, but I realized last night that I get my hands from her."

My twin wondered if she were compassionate enough, too. I should take the moment to note that my grandmother will never be described as being warm or even friendly really later in life, so we dealt with her seemingly displeasure with the way life turned out accordingly: frustrated, concerned, bummed.) My own last vision of her was as she was leaving our Thanksgiving day festivities, strong willed and hornery, but beautiful with her red lipstick my older sister applied after dinner. Vanity doesn't really disappear with time and her smile reminded me of how it will always be an intricate part of us.

I did love this woman whose hands (and artistic drive) I inherited. I also saw her that same week of Thanksgiving, but in the nursing home where she spent the last year of her life. The place was dismal, but my mom and her sisters brightened the space up as best they could with cut outs of fuzzy, funny animals, real furniture, books, comfy blankets. The smell of the place will stay with me, as will the fear I felt when faced with a mumbling man and disoriented older woman. Is this what we can become against our will?

But she was not this way when we entered her room. Her pale, gaunt face smiled as us. It had been a couple of years since I last saw her at her home, heavier, maybe even grumpier. Despite her demeanor she gave me a couple of drawings she made as a little girl. All models dressed in 1940s garb, long-legged, and polished. They looked like she traced them from a book or magazine. I took them home and from time to time, dug them out to look at where her small hands once worked the paper. Those hands that so long along created a montage of glamorous woman were now writing I thought, somehow continuing her story.

Honestly, I don't know a lot about my grandmother's early life. My twin was fortunate enough to glean some information and I heard some stories from cousins thrice removed when I lived briefly in London. I do know that as a child growing up in WWII London, she was sent to the countryside to live with strangers. When I think of the difficulty I have had adapting to new places, I can only imagine what she would have endured separated from family.

And that's the thing. I've looked at old pictures of family members decades old and can't connect with them. I look for resemblances - the curve of a lip, the shape of an eyebrow - but it's never enough. I'm thinking that what really connects us is the longing to know the other's past, present, and future. Most of the time it's what brings us together, but sometimes too much of that longing pushes people away.

This new year began with death but I think in this darkness there is light. While I was waiting to hear a status on my grandmother from my own mother, I heard what I thought was the phone ringing. (This is also known as the phantom ring for those of us who have to carry around two phones and also receive forwarded calls.) I cocked my head to the kitchen, nothing. Ten minutes later my twin called and said our grandmother died. 'What time?' I asked. To which she replied, 'About ten minutes ago.' Call it whatever you want but a lightness flooded me.

My grandmother inspired me. She was not perfect and I never idolized her, nor was she the kind of grandmother it seemed other kids had - sweet, plump, giddy, fun. These were adjectives I would never use to describe her. Still, her life resonated with me and I take comfort knowing that I did know her, even if it was a fraction of the life she lived and even if saccharine words will never befit the grandmother I knew. The more nuanced flavors in life are most interesting after all.

New Year, New Traditions

2011-01-02T17:03:00.004-05:00

Happy New Year.

I'm just now sitting down to address a few post-Christmas New Year cards. I've recently been inspired by a magazine called ReadyMade, so in lieu of store bought gifts I dared to make a few homemade things, namely a scarf (not yet delivered), pints of preserved lemons, and holiday cards. The knitting is not new, but something I used to do years ago in Oxford. Carlyle Wolfe, a local artist there would come into the bookstore with her yarn and needles and I was curious. One day, she showed me how to do it and I spent the weekend holed up listening to books on tapes until my friend Lauren came over and I taught her how to do it. She excelled, far more than I did, and tore through several skeins to my one. Then something else interested me and I moved on, forgetting how to cast on and the simple knit stitch until Chris' mom showed me on Christmas.

The cards were an entirely different matter. I've long made handmade cards, never being able to find designs or sentiments that resonate with me. After seeing an interesting collection of rubber stamps in the above mentioned magazine, I embarked on making my own stamp, in this case a bird. Simple and a nod to peace. I stamped out a handful before the holiday, adding some bits of paper for flair, and then Christmas hit, followed by snow and the arrival of my family, and the cards sat on my desk forgotten. Until today...

The preserved lemons are old news and constant pastime, only unusually engaged in during the first few weeks of spring. But after seeing some lemons in the grocery store and thinking how cheery they would be in the coming gray months of winter, I thought I'd make a few pints of lemons to give away. My own stash is down to a quarter piece, but I like knowing other people will have a chance to be creative with this surprisingly bright condiment. And I feel good knowing I'm continuing a tradition of preserving fruit, even if it isn't the same way (or even the same type of fruit) my grandma did.

If the World Were a Catalog

2010-12-21T19:23:00.003-05:00

I love public radio's Marketplace and today, while I was working from home, I heard the lovely voice of Molly Erdman. Molly started a clever blog called Catalog Living on which she posts pictures from all the catalogs that clutter our bedside tables along with tongue-in-cheek captions.

I'm not a catalog collector, but I like that Molly spoke about the anxiety we have because of fantasy home imagery. I believe it's akin to looking too much at fashion magazines and wondering why, after steady dieting and exercise, we still can't recreate the look of the D&G model. We actually live.

My pained attempts at perfection in our home (everything has a place I always say) is an ideal and ideals tend to live in books and the imagination of their creators, not in the real, hard surfaced world where 14 hour work days coupled with pinched budgets result in something more akin to a Rauschenburg work, artful but definitely messy.

Something to think about this time of year when out of town guests and catalogs will surely collide...

Now, in the spirit of tidying things up, I've freshened up the look of Blueprint. Let me know what you think. It's an homage to the Delta, where I learned how to properly set a table whilst making a "spaghetti cake", with a big city, modern day feel.

She Sleeps and Her Writing Does Too

2010-11-17T20:31:00.005-05:00

(Mississippi Delta, Sunflower County, Mississippi by Maude Schuyler Clay)

I swear this post was only going to say. "Mary is sleeping. Come back soon." But then I thought how unfortunate it would be not to share a few things:

1) I'm feeling the miss in Mississippi. I've been driving back and forth from the bright lights to quaint mountain foothills for work. You'd think the natural landscape would be comforting, and in some distant way it is. Still, North Mississippi and north Georgia country are the same but different. Equally beautiful in different ways: stark and flat vs. thick and rolling. In my mind I see Maude Clay's black and white photographs of the Delta so rich with earth, but it's her conversation -or the gallery director where her work hangs from time to time - that I crave.

2) Found this old post that made me glad I'm still writing. I posted just before I headed off to Asheville. (Little did I know that trip would alter the next moves my little Queen was making.) The post reminded me that it's good to take out our journals or old letters from time to time and reflect at where we were and think about where we are going.

Now, if you are wondering why there is no mention of wedding plans, remember, I didn't want this to be an update. Rather, I think when the prospect of marriage occurs, it's ok and maybe even a good thing to dig a little dipper into our souls. And that, my friends, is what I'm doing...

The Language of Plants

2010-10-26T11:31:00.004-04:00

(Solomon's Seal- Clearly an appreciation for Judaism even in the garden.)

It's been raining the last few days, so I haven't had a chance to get out and take a photograph of the progress. Chris made headway with an uplifting (literally) set of stairs that encircle a willowy crepe myrtle.

I did run out and get some plants for the patio, including: Solomon's Seal, Japanese Painted Fern, Autumn Fern, Coral Bells, and hardy begonia. For outside of the patio, a few azaleas, white ones in particular that remind me of the bush that create outside my bedroom window as a girl. We'll see how they take to our little space. I need to get some humus to enrich and lighten the heavy clay soil. If only I were born with a green thumb, this wouldn't be Chinese.

Afterglow of a Patio

2010-10-20T15:31:00.003-04:00

(Hardly hopscotch, more like a game of chess.)

It's funny to think about, but I lived in a space the size of this 500 sf patio in London. I was 23 and things like lumpy beds, shared kitchens, and cubbyhole-sized bathrooms did not phase me. I was too busy reading Oscar Wilde, feeling so glamorous in his words that I never noticed the shabbiness around me.

Five hundred square feet is a lot of space to fill with stone though. In this case, we hauled stone, shoveled dirt, and set stones with the help of three friends over the course of a weekend. Then on Sunday, when our shaky arms and legs could take no more, we declared the patio part of the project complete. It happened fast.

As I hunched over the earth collecting small stones to fill the gaps between larger ones, a rush of warmth, the kind I'd feel when my sister would brush my hair, came over me. On this very ground, all our closest friends and family would be gathering to celebrate our partnership.

I also thought, too, of the patio that inspired the patio I was standing on. The other I never had the opportunity to experience completed. When I left, it was only partially finished, surrounded with summer blooms and long grasses. It became a quiet metaphor for unrequited love and left a heavy mark on my heart and aspirations. I moved on, but still I dreamed of that patio.

Whether it is a job in a museum (got it) or bookstore (got it) or a piece of chocolate (got it many times over), my heart gets what it wants. I've always believed this and I believe it now even more than ever. It's the same with the patio, and although it took a little inspiration and cajoling on my part, Chris and I can stand on it at the end of the day and commend our work together.

Oddly, I have never addressed the patio space in the course of BPFASH, and I believe some background information on their history would be helpful. However, for now, I'm still soaking in the aftermath of completing something we set out to do, and recovering -- I'll admit -- from it.

A Gift For You, Dear Reader

2010-10-13T23:39:00.002-04:00

Sadly, I put all of my poetry collection in a place only accessible with a chair. Perhaps, a most egregious error.

Fall always makes me think of Jack Gilbert and his earth-scented poems that recall the past. He often writes to his wife Michiko, who is now dead; but in particular, it is his poems about partnership, the kind driven by romance, that I adore.

So here, for a Thursday in fall is his poem, "The Great Fires":

The Great Fires

Love is apart from all things.
Desire and excitement are nothing beside it.
It is not the body that finds love.
What leads us there is the body.
What is not love provokes it.
What is not love quenches it.
Love lays hold of everything we know.
The passions which are called love
also change everything to a newness
at first. Passion is clearly the path
but does not bring us to love.
It opens the castle of our spirit
so that we might find the love which is
a mystery hidden there.
Love is one of many great fires.
Passion is a fire made of many woods,
each of which gives off its special odor
so we can know the many kinds
that are not love. Passion is the paper
and twigs that kindle the flames
but cannot sustain them. Desire perishes
because it tries to be love.
Love is eaten away by appetite.
Love does not last, but it is different
from the passions that do not last.
Love lasts by not lasting.
Isaiah said each man walks in his own fire
for his sins. Love allows us to walk
in the sweet music of our particular heart.

Jack Gilbert

New Paths on Old Property

2010-10-12T16:23:00.004-04:00

We retraced our steps from last summer, only this time there are less weeds and more dog paths twisting around the trees. (And there are more holes thanks to a pretty lemon beagle that likes to dig.) I spent the morning picking flag and stack stone to begin the first phase of the landscaping project. We decided on a mix of gray and brown to pick up the natural granite on the property and the red Georgia clay.

We want to create a few terraces throughout the property and envision our nuptials in the backmost part of the lot, in a grove that forms an almost perfect rectangle. I think we'll mulch the area just for the wedding, but that's a way off. We spent all afternoon a few months ago mulching the front lawn, and I ended up with blistered hands and a bright red sunburn. Trenching for the patio begins this weekend. I'll be wearing gloves.

Never the , Always the

2010-10-11T22:14:00.005-04:00

(The enchanted forest when men were boys.)

On more than one occasion I have said that if women spent as much time setting and achieving personal goals as we did planning our weddings, we'd be a lot happier. So here I am, planning a wedding, and of course there's a twist.

The short version of how we find ourselves here: A few weeks ago Chris took me to a favorite spot of ours - the enchanted bamboo forest - and he got down on one knee and asked me to spend the rest of my life with him. He dug up a split of champagne after I produced the requisite "yes" and we toasted to climbing the next plateau - because relationships are really less like a mountain and more an intense incline that levels for a while until the hike up. Being unapologetically sappy, it was dreamy and perfect. In our jeans, walking our dogs, taking a few minutes to salute our friendship.

We have been enjoying being engaged for the moment, but I couldn't help but think how and were we would say "I do" when it finally dawned on me that we must do it at home, and in our back yard, in particular. How quaint, you are thinking, but how practical, I was thinking. Instead of dumping all our resources and energy into a space I have little connection to - there are, after all, few places where we could be feasibly publicly marry that move me - why not prepare the house for our nuptials and invite all our friends to christen the new chapter of our lives together.

There's something else. According to a 1985 study entitled "Materialism in the Home: The Impact of Artifacts on Dyadic Communication", the objects in our home, e.g. the furniture and its arrangement, pictures we hang, plants we display, etc. are "messages about ourselves that we want to convey back to ourselves, and to the few intimates that we invite into our house." Identity, the study highlights, is "achieved through artifacts." But what about the abstract, say a wedding. The study identified the artifacts as being either historical, ancestral, fraternal, or developmental. A wedding would be all these things. Could a wedding become artifact?

The philosopher Marx W. Wartofsky would say yes. He distinguished a handful of types of artifacts, among them secondary artifacts, which is essentially a representation of actions embodied in socially shared practices. Heady, I know, but this view reinforces - and maybe reassures me - that the location is perfect. So join me as I explore our home in the context of of an impending marriage. It just might get messy...with dirt, of course.

If These Walls Could Talk

2010-08-25T21:38:00.004-04:00

"If these walls could talk." You won't be hearing that phrase very much anymore.

When I was a little girl my father held up a coffee mug and announced that, in fact, the very mug in his hand was made up of the same molecules that made up me. It was a profound thought for my petite brain to comprehend, but the memory stays with me.

My father is a master of these odd and often whimsical pronouncements (though some would call them meanderings because he does tend towards rambling.) We spoke yesterday about houses and he delivered to me another observation, though this time hundreds of miles of away, that my fully matured brain - according to a story I heard on NPR our brains peak at 25 - understood.

"The problem with the housing market is that people started thinking about homes as a financial investment," he said, "rather than a place to raise a family." He reminded me that aside from Mary St. where I was conceived (I can't make this stuff up!), every one of the Warner brood grew up in the same tiny cinder block home. And now, my father pointed out, his granddaughter crawls along the same terrazzo floor we used to eat Cheerios.

My parent's house is nicer than it was when we grew up in it, mainly, my mom claims, because she "couldn't have anything nice because we were always breaking stuff." There are plantation shutters where we had vinyl blinds; a sparkly oven in place of the hot box that was better at heating the kitchen than baking a cake; and I heard they recently finished a bathroom renovation that's replete with natural stone glass full doors. And now the floor, my dad says, you can see your reflection in it.

I point out all these changes not to belabor the conditions in which I grew up - honestly, one bathroom was all I knew so I didn't care about it unless I was standing in line doing "the dance" behind two more of my siblings. Rather, I'm suggesting that our houses reflect a society that demands instant gratification, not works in progress whether they be websites, art, people, or the very fabric of society - relationships.

I'd almost say that my parents' house is a compelling mirror of their union. There were those years when my mom encouraged my dad not to spend so much time in the back yard, that instead he should spruce up the front yard, put in grass, hedges, flowers even, but often despite his best intentions, the grass would eventually die, the shrubs would get, well, shrubby, and my father would return to the backyard to tend the rambling garden he hid behind our home. My dad, you could say, is private and I now see how he treated marriage: it was an oasis, hidden from the prying world.

I finished Elizabeth Gilbert's book Committed, and while I know some readers are perplexed by her writing, I took away from it a better understanding of the rules of engagement, namely, there aren't any. It is, rather, this prying world or the one we are trying to impress that labels "works in progress" as somehow unworthy. If this is true, then we are all unworthy because not a one of us is perfect.

Neither are our homes. Twenty-eight years later, the lawn remains mostly brown but my dad has these rich memories of all six of his kids making an effort to help him pull weeds, scatter seeds, or rake the autumn leaves. There was a triple homicide just up the block from my parents' house a few weeks ago, a testament to the despair the neighborhood (but not my parent's freshly painted house) has fallen into over the years. A wave of homeowners left and rented to people whose respect for the idea of a home is dwarfed by the chromed out idols (read cars) they park on their over grown lawns. But my parents won't leave their "investment" because to them a price could never be put on the memories they have from creating a life together within those humble walls.

You Get What You Need

2010-08-11T01:58:00.004-04:00

(It's 3 am so it must be time to be creative, she said.)

It's well past my bedtime but for you I write. I am not even sure who "you" these days, save for my dear friends who asked when I would put my fingers to work again. They are working, I want to protest, only instead they are directing emails to that person and the next, rarely moving to form the paragraphs that mean something to me.

I've just started reading Elizabeth Gilbert's Committed: A Skeptic Makes Peace With Marriage. [Full Disclosure: I assisted Gilbert with her book signing when Eat Pray Love was out in paperback. Second Full Disclosure: While I was delighted by Gilbert - she's charming, sincere, poised - I was no so taken with her acclaimed book. In fact, I was a fan of her previous writing, the more "masculine" stuff she calls it in Committed.] At any rate, I've begun Committed and already my head is spinning in a million different directions. My house, if you haven't already figured out is on hold. I exist on takeaway or leftovers, move like an exhausted being at the end of the day from front door to dinner table to bed and hit repeat, and now, having just read 1/20 of Gilbert's book, I've become wildly energetic. I love this book and how that in so little time, I've been awakened by words.

It's funny that even though I have a room full of books I still have to go to the library to get what I need. There are at least a hundred books on my shelf that I know I have not read, yet I am certain that one day I will come upon The Book at that particular moment. For now, it's Committed even if it doesn't belong on my shelf, but rather a kind of universal shelf. My mind has been racing in a million different directions lately, and one of the things it's been racing towards is marriage. It was an utter coincidence that Committed became available the day after my father texted (yes, texted) Chris to say that he gave Chris his blessing to ask me to marry him. This after a week-long deliberation on my father's part, I might add.

Chris was, as one might expect, annoyed by the delay. Why, he asked, does your dad have to make this difficult. I feel like I'm being judged, he pleaded. I was also annoyed that when a guy who I professed to loving, and more importantly he professed to loving me finally got to the next step, my dad stalled. In the last few years, in jest or maybe not, he had on at least one occasion reminded that I was no spring chicken. (I'll be 30 in a few months.) I was galled by his display, hurt by this seemingly unnecessary road block. My thoughts of a father who might proclaim as Winona Ryder's character in "How to Make an American Quilt" did, "Take her, she eats too much," were replaced with the image of father who, according to Chris, referred to me as "his most precious treasure." Isn't that weird, he asked.

If I am getting a little uncomfortable for a few of you I apologize. I don't think that's weird. I do, in my sweetest of moments call my father "daddy", whereas my mother is always "mom." I love my father and the effort he put forth in life to honor and protect me. They call it daddy's girl for a reason. In the same way, my dad wanted to be sure that I would always be Chris' girl. The fact that he wasn't hoisting me over to Chris and proclaiming that I eat too much was somehow reassuring. My dad, I think, wanted Chris to work for it.

Now where does this leave us with Committed? I'm still early on in the book, but I feel it's important to examine these seemingly obvious moments, to reconsider them much like we should reconsider marriage. I don't think Gilbert is asking us to give up on it, rather, I think she is asking us to see it from a new perspective.

Finishing Off the Details

2010-07-25T11:01:00.004-04:00

(Get the Job Done with a Finish Board)

Since January I've been slowly immersing myself in the practice of yoga. The year before I was introduced to it by C. whose dedication to yoga was evident in her near daily practice that involved turning off her phone and committing to what most people would consider a luxury. Yoga is not a luxury, rather, it's a gift I continue to tell others about since more than anything it has rewarded me with an innate sense of my inner world, which now more than ever, competes with a vibrant and demanding outer world.

I admit I could be more devoted in my practice. I've been going regularly two days a week - up from the one I started with in the darker days of the year. But as Bill Murray reminds us as needy, well-meaning Bob, in What About Bob?, it's all about baby steps. For now I practice at a studio, with an occasional practice at home that involves Sun Salutations and some breathing exercises. I enjoy going to the studio and have become friends with the owner, a delightful, petite 30 something whose glow belies her age. While most people take their tea on the road after class, I sit with her and talk about the things in life most of us only read about in the pages of women's magazine, too afraid to discuss the things that really move us.

We talk about home a lot too. She's currently renting but owns property, and spent most of last year building the space that is yet another home for her - the studio. Just the other day I was returning a glass to the kitchenette off the sitting area when I saw an elaborately decorated board filled with Corian countertop samples, wood flooring bits, pieces of fabrics. and photos cut from the pages of magazines.

What's this I asked, pointing at the board.

It was our inspiration for the studio. You've seen a finish board before, she asked. I hadn't, but I'd glad I did that day. With so many ideas for the house between the two of us, just such a board would guide us along the way.

Summer Roast

2010-07-23T09:42:00.007-04:00

(Backyard BBQ)

Two months to the date - I'm back. Ok, I couldn't resist the urge to write, but there were things that had to resolved before I could put my fingers to the keyboard recreationally.

Without doing a play by play, I've been most occupied with my new job. I'm the new brand manager for a recycled glass surface company that was, until recently, based out of California. They have since relocated and reorganized in the quiet hamlet of Tate, Georgia, which is where I commute to most days of the week. The funny thing about working for a company that manufactures building materials is that now think about my home more than ever.

So let's cut to the chase.

After a long hiatus of simply upkeep and maintenance, we are moving forward with more renovating plans. In fact, this afternoon, a fully assembled shed will arrive at our house. After doing more research than I did on past undergraduate papers, I found that buying the display model from the hardware is the way to go. The one we purchased had little wear and tear (I mean how many people have you actually seen walk inside the display anyway?), is fully assembled, and even comes with a few extra bells and whistles at more than half the original cost.

With the shed in place, Chris can begin the arduous process of emptying the basement of all things shed worthy so we can prepare the space for remediation. At the same time I am investigating stone options for our backyard patio project. (See above) Originally, I had a lead on dirt cheap marble, but with the cost of matching split-face (for the walls), we've decided to source stone from a distributor up I-75. Marble, although native to the area, would have been like outfitting a hound dog in a fur coat. Ridiculous.

We are, I'm happy to report, content. Of course, like any couple rounding out their second year we don't agree on everything (he wants a pitched roof, and I want to keep from bastardizing our ranch home), but then, I can't think of a single person I've ever agreed with about everything. In fact, in creating home with Chris, I've learned a lot about relationships, how they ebb and flow, and how each day is a discovery. An old friend asked me yesterday if it's love, does what Chris and I have constitute as the real thing? Of course, I said, love is the never ending attempt to want to know someone, even after realizing that we never really know anybody. And so I confess, I could spend the rest of my life wanting to know this man.

Mea Culpa

2010-05-22T09:30:00.001-04:00

More to come when I have some down time today. The house has been filled with guests for three weeks in a row. Much to discuss!

To the Women - Make Use of Time

2010-04-17T08:47:00.004-04:00

I've been in Jackson, Mississippi, since Thursday. The heavy hotel curtains have blocked out a good part of what I think must be a blue morning, only the other hotel rooms face mine so I can't open them quite yet. I've been up since 5:30 a.m., thinking about what's next. I came to Jackson for my film, the one I told myself I was over and then decided, showing it one more time wouldn't hurt. And it didn't. There was a lovely crowd for it, all quite complimentary and encouraging. Lots of questions at the end of the film. For me though, it was wonderful to see it one last time of such a big screen after working on a 14 in. screen for so long. Part of me is sad to move on from the film: there were so many conversations and friendships that grew out of the process. Another part of me is ready to put it to rest and focus on the book.

If I haven't mentioned this already (though I'm sure I have) the book is an outgrowth of my written thesis on the history of Thacker. Only after meeting with my editor yesterday I learned that rather than a stuff analysis of the show, he'd like to see something more personal. In most academic books, authors clearly identify who they are in relation to the subject they are writing about. I do the same in my thesis, but for the book, my editor suggested that insert myself into the story throughout. You can imagine the relief I felt when he told me this. To any naysayers of my version I can say, Listen, this is through my eyes. I hear pens are cheap these days, why don't you write a version of what you think happened.

So I am eager to get back and commit to my story perhaps in a way I was not able to as a graduate student when the demands of academia push my personal feelings, which I believe are equally important, into the margins. I told my friend the other day that I plan to commit to this writing the same way a southern woman commits to planning her wedding: fiercely and without regret. When so many things feel up in the air, it's nice to know that there is the permanence of words on paper.

G is For Galanga and the Wonderful Curries You Can Make With It

2010-03-23T17:01:00.005-04:00

(Galangal root. No, it's not ginger.)

Last week we took our friends to a dinner at the Bangledeshi spot near our house. We haven't been there since last fall, and when I got there I remembered why.

Having lived a somewhat sheltered culinary life in Oxford and in the white collar world in general, I had forgotten what service at other cultural spots might entail. In truth, service has been up to my demanding standards at all the Buford Highway restaurants I frequent. I'm pretty patient, understanding, and often attempt to immerse myself in the scene. I can't think of the last time I've been slighted, save for the Chinese restaurant debacle during which Chris lost it on the waitress who in broken English called him a liar.

But dinner last week was something else. It was a reminder of what dining at other people's tables can be like in foreign countries. We take it for granted that when we enter these exotic restaurants, that we are still in the American South, but really we've crossed the threshold into new cultural territory. Some things are the same though. An insistent waiter is not unlike your Southern mother-in-law- who likes to see you gobble up her pineapple cheese casserole. (If you haven't tried this covered dish delight, you are missing out. The sweet pineapple is intensified by the salty cheese and ubiquitous Ritz crackers.) Then there's the command to try everything, a little of this, or a taste of that. Don't miss the pimento cheese. Yes, it looks unappetizing but it's not the appearance that matters. Right?

When I lived in London and went exploring in Holland, I ended up among a group of new friends who threw together a pot luck. The spread covered all four covers of the world. Try this, someone said as they ladled a curiously yellow soupy mess over a pile of rice. It ended up being a Indonesian-style chicken curry, and the next day, after my host had finished her morning prayers, I asked her to write down the recipe for me. You may not be able to find all of these ingredients, she told me, but she insisted I find them. She was right. For years I substituted galangal root with ginger, because I was too lazy to order the dried stuff online from an international food website. The ginger was a mediocre substitute at best and eventually I quit making the recipe. Then a few months ago, I was breezing through the Dekalb Farmer's Market when I spied a pile of galangal roots. Had my Indonesian friend not insisted, I would have forgotten about them.

Mold is a 50s Ranch-Style Home's Bestfriend

2010-03-11T17:52:00.003-05:00

Not to gross out my dear readers, but I spent the good part of the early afternoon with Fred Rodriguez (Remediation Group), my newest client , as he went through our house looking for mold. Since I'm a firm believer in trading services whenever appropriate, he was valuing the amount of work I needed done on the house. Our friend N., who lives nearby recently had to have her home remediated after a series of health problems. (N. works for Fred and introduced the two of us.)

So what did he determine? Yes, we have mold (but apparently anyone who lives in a house as old or older does.) It's not as bad as N.'s place but we will have to do a significant amount of prep work in the basement before Fred will send in a crew to clean it up. Then what's next?

I was reviewing my nerded out list of house projects the other day and realized that we had accomplished 95% of our goals. I've added about ten more things to complete by this time next year, including packing up the contents of the basement and throwing out what can't be sold in a yard sale. Chris asked Fred when all this needed to be done to begin remediation. "Nothing is so bad it needs to be done now," he said. Then I chimed in, "It will get bad if it starts to bother me because I will bother you Chris."

Clean up begins next weekend.

Environmental Serenade

2010-03-05T11:40:00.003-05:00

As I was running around Drew Valley the other day, I started to think about the running I did in Atlanta before I moved here, in particular, the neighborhood by friend's place in Buckhead. In the my the shapes of trees, curves of the street blended into my current surrounding, and as I approached the top of a hill, I had forgotten where I was. It was like waking up in a hotel bed after a night of boozing. I had to think hard. Where was I?

A friend just told me this is called disassociation. It's when you have so much going on that you layer information and things get confusing. I agree with her in some sense that this is my reality, but I also think it just shows the power of memory. So I went to yoga on Saturday to remedy the situation, forcing myself to take each moment at a time to filter out distraction. It seemed to work. Even though I had planned to make a day of writing on Sunday (I instead spent it up in the air with my guy in a helicopter and later braised beef short ribs), I find myself with a kind of clarity this morning.

With the washing machine whirring and Turner letting out an occasional growl at invisible passerbys to serenade me, I'm feeling quite zen staring out into the backyard as I start my day.

Schedule

2010-03-01T16:07:00.002-05:00

Is it March already? I just finished eating a grilled pimento cheese sandwich on the day that marks my commitment to all things health and fitness related. A kind of personal housekeeping, if you will. The timing is perfect. We just had bash to celebrate Chris' 30th birthday and both of us want to get back to our pre-move-in state. For me, it's all about a schedule. Can I convince him to go for a run with me at 8 am a couple days in the coming weeks?

Part of all this maintenance is to motivate me to incorporate a writing schedule into my life. I was feeling particularly creative after making a movie about Chris for his birthday and realized if I applied that same dedication to my other projects, they wouldn't take years to complete. I haven't decided if Ill go the route of Salman Rushdie, who devotes the morning hours until lunch to write (which may not work for me with my consulting anyway), or the route of my friends who commit to writing on a per word basis. But I need to decide by tomorrow.

Masquerade at Home

2010-02-11T10:23:00.003-05:00

(Home for a few days.)

Up for air. Oxford was a whirlwind. I worked for two days straight, then Chris arrived, calming me. We stayed at my friend's place in the county, a B&B in the former location of a hunting lodge. I always feel comfortable in that place. My earliest memories of a meal there was at dusk. The walls, a creamy white wood tongue and groove, combined with the airy overhead mast created a dreamy place where I could dine and converse quietly with my companions.

I don't know how C.B. and I became friends, but it happened the same way you fall in love. Isn't that how good friendships begin after all. She was overseeing a rehearsal dinner for a wedding I was playing the part of bridesmaid. From the outside, she saw my dedication to this affair while the bride-to-be seemed to overlook it. I couldn't live up to the bride's expectations no matter how hard I tried, and by the end of the wedding weekend, we quit talking to each other. It's remained that way, more or less, ever since. As misunderstandings go, the bride and I were never able to make amends. I felt slighted, she didn't feel waited enough upon, and I let go. She did too in her own way. Yet out of this tragedy (because it is tragic to lose a friend) I discovered a new friendship.

C.B. lives in the restaurant she and her husband own. Well, they live above it anyway. Only this last visit did I realize how difficult this must be. People in your home most every day and at every hour. I think of myself cringing at times when I come home and there is a foreign car parked our driveway. I put my happy face on, and for a moment, entertain the guest, whoever they might be. I feign happiness despite getting in an accident or getting laid off when all I want to do is cry.

I wonder how we can live in places where masks are worn as often as the clothes on our backs. I think of my friend and what I can offer her. Recognition maybe or perhaps I can just tell her, "Yes, I know you. I"m glad you get me."

Short Sheeted

2010-02-02T23:29:00.003-05:00

(Under the sheets. That's where I like to be.)

Another week gone and here I am packed and ready to leave for Mississippi once more. How many people can say they look forward to visiting Mississippi? Only people who've been there. It will always be a special place for me. In fact, during an interview today with Lucy Schultz of the Oxford Eagle, I was asked where I grew up. I was born in Tampa, I said, but I grew up in Oxford.

I'm departing solo in the morning. Chris will join me Friday afternoon but until then I'll be tying up loose ends with the film, visiting with friends, and relaxing. It's been a rough beginning to my week. I spent the good part of the morning in an Atlanta courtroom waiting for a parking violation case to be dismissed, the afternoon at the drs, and the evening paying bills. Needless to say work is in a slump and I find myself anxious once again.

Then I spoke with A. who has been off for the last two weeks studying for an exam. We haven't spoken in months due to both of our busy schedules, but we were able to update each other with the most pertinent of news, including our grievances and were able to encourage each other. That said, A. sounded good and seemed settled well into her new home in the Crescent City. I'm just wondering when my uneasiness with Atlanta will be a distant and laughable memory.

Too Long, Days Too Short

2010-01-24T03:22:00.004-05:00

(A glance back while moving forward.)

I am not at home. I wish I were though since it's 2:33 a.m. and I've been parked in front of a computer for the good part of my Friday and Saturday. I arrived in Oxford, Miss. on Thursday evening, and I've spent most of my time in a office working on the documentary film, which debuts in less than two weeks. I can honestly say that I've thrown everything into this project and it will be nice - and daunting - to see it in the company of an audience that's been waiting patiently for it.

Getting to Oxford was interesting. It's been half of a year since I've returned. The landscape was green then, and the heat forced me indoors, but it's been mild the last few days with the exception of the cold rain that only began to fall a few hours ago. I am enamored with the landscape of north Mississippi, and driving across the states gave way to a pleasing transition of shape and color. Hard edges became soft hills. Pale vegetation glowed beneath a blue sky at en route to my destination.

This morning I awoke to birds and soft light. A few hours before, the neighbor announced his return home with a drunken farewell I heard outside the window. His goodbye seemed more like it was a part of my dream and it didn't bother me. I smiled and feel into a sleep I haven't had in too long.

Choosing the Path Home

2010-01-20T11:29:00.004-05:00

(What children think of home.)

A crazy but long week. I head to Oxford, my former home and stomping ground - at least until I started grad school and disappeared into academia - Thursday. I'm staying with a friend while I work with colleague and co-director of the film, Joe York. I feel like this has been a long time coming and I'm ready to finish this project and move on to the next one. I was just telling Chris last night that I don't ever wan to be one of those people who constantly recycles old material, and part of moving forward is letting go, or putting things to rest. Of course, mastering something would be nice, too, but what to master?

A few friends have inspired me to pick up my camera again. Armed with a better understanding of the process of art making, I think I'm ready to switch gears to a visual language. I've even discovered a cache of photos of homes I shot a few years ago and I'd like to play with that topic again, but this time dig deeper. There are a few books I'd like to order to expand my thinking on homes, and after finishing another film project of sustainable building, it would be nice to combine the research. I find it tragic that we endeavor to built a sustainable home, investing oodles of money to create a livable, earth friendly space, rather than work on the relationships with the home that give it its meaning.

Dear Isla-

2010-01-12T22:21:00.008-05:00

We made our temporary home in Isla Mujeres, Mexico, for New Years. It was a striking contrast to our Atlanta digs - white, bare, airy. It was enough space though, a bed, opposing side tables, a small TV on a table, and a chair not to be used for sitting, but for drying wet bathing suits. A bathroom with a door provided the essential privacy needed for a vacation in gastronomic hinterlands, and it also was home to a mini-fridge capable of cooling the entire room were it necessary. But my favorite thing about the room was that just beyond a floor-to-ceiling panel of windows: a balcony that faced west. Naturally, evenings were spent there sipping leftover wine from the night before or cold beers. It's true that the simplest environs are the most satisfying.

Over the course of the week the room became cluttered with things collected from our adventures around town: sea glass, wooden toys, a can filled with beans and covered with Christmas Contact paper used as a shaker to ring in the New Year, and sand, lots of sand. Every day, a maid came and mopped the floors clean, made our bed, and altogether made me appreciate the life more lived. Instead of making our bed we were speeding around on a moped watching waves crash and the sun set over emerald water.

In Isla, People left their doors open for my prying eyes. Beyond each threshold were small spaces decorated with dolls and twinkling lights, pink cinder block walls, statues of the Virgin Mary, and worn furniture. There seemed little difference between the interiors of these homes and ones I seen in my own. All of these things, these trinkets, are memories.

Blue Plate Special

2009-12-28T16:29:00.003-05:00

We finished the bathroom - finally. I don't even have pictures of it yet because we've been busy with the holidays, but they'll be up soon. For now though, it's a pale shade blue with white tile -- two inch on the flor, four inch in the bathing area - and a white pedestal sink and matching toilet. We moved the honey colored vanity from our bedroom into the bathroom which had the added benefit of opening up our bedroom. The piece also adds character to the space, and gives me a place to dress in the morning without having to compete with Chris for mirror time.

While I was putting together chocolate mousse for Christmas Eve dinner, I rediscovered my old dishes (although it felt like I was seeing them for the first time!) In particular, I found the blue lined French plates A. gave me a few years ago. Then I discovered two other blue plates, one with a seashell and the other depicting a boat, and I decided that I would somehow integrate these plates into the bathroom, perhaps on the wall. Chris was not keen with this idea. "Old women do that sort of thing," he said. So I took one of the French blues and put the current accouterments arranged on the vanity -- a tea cup of matches, bottled bath salts, and an empty vintage spirits bottle yet to be filled with bubble bath -- on top of the plate. The others, and there are 4, I stacked to the side. I plan to hang them along the bathroom door despite commentary from the man who just installed a flat screen TV at the foot of our bed. (Of course I did not protest this since I bought the thing and intend to watch Pride & Prejudice and other "old women" films with it.)

Pink Peonies that My True Love Gave to Me

2009-12-09T10:23:00.004-05:00

(Pink peonies for the lady's Southern garden.)

I just read about Clare Cooper Marcus, a UC Berkeley professor who has written about the home in her book House as a Mirror of Self. I don't know why I hadn't read about her research until now, but it's something worth exploring. She using Jungian theory to explore how our homes speak to who we are. Home magazines never seem to make that a point likely because if people realize that home comes from within they'd stop spending so much money trying to emulate someone else's world.

It's nearing winter but I'm thinking about gardens. I've been dreaming of a garden I once had the pleasure of experiencing years ago. I tended to its lettuces and tomatoes, plucking leaves and fruit as each meal required. I long for a garden though I know with the granite dome on which our house sits this is far from a possibility. Living in Mississippi I was surrounded by gardens and their happy gardeners. Clare Cooper Marcus' latest intrigue is how gardens heal, a theory I'd like to explore in tandem with my understanding of homes. (I think about this now and I can't think of a single crumudgeonly gardener so gardening must have a positive effect on disposition.)

When I moved to Atlanta and began assessing my new residence I had dreams of planting hydrangeas (in honor of Chris' parents), forsythia (in honor of mine), and peonies. I had once seen peonies at the Botanical Gardens in Brooklyn and have ever since imagined their soft petals a part of my personal landscape. A few months ago I spotted the neighbor's righteously overgrown pink peony bushes and decided it was sign to plant some of my own. While we haven't progressed beyond the threshold of our home, perhaps in the next planting season I'll have my peonies planted firmly in the soil of Atlanta just as I plan to be by then.

The Post in Which the Universe Has Righted Itself

2009-12-08T15:49:00.002-05:00

Little known fact: I like being proved wrong.

Yesterday, I got a nice phone call from the gentleman who rear-ended me, and after he explained to me how sorry he was not getting back with me sooner due to a bout of food poisoning, I physically shrunk in my chair. I recalled all the negative thoughts that were swirling around my head over the weekend and the waste of energy created from feeling so "wronged." "You probably thought I was a jerk," he said after I picked up the phone. I nodded, but moved the conversation in another direction - to our respective backgrounds in music. Turns out young fella has a talent for signing and writing (I checked his website out after our conversation) and has a show tonight. I don't know if I'll have time to check it out, but I told him I would put him in touch with the new producer for Thacker Mountain Radio.

Now, I still think you should file a police report after a car accident just for the record, but I'm glad I rose above aggression. Doesn't the South - no, the World - have enough of it?

Tea Time

2009-12-07T14:59:00.005-05:00

(Home: Refuge from the big, bad, world. )

Funny how the little things can slow you down if you give them enough attention. For me, it was a lesson learned. ALWAYS call the police for even the most minor of car accidents. No longer living in my old hamlet, I'm reminded of the travails of city life, namely it's every person for themself. So I'm left to deal life's most recent curve ball: a twenty-something Atlanta-based musician rear-ended me.

At any rate, I managed to get over my funk just enough to tackle some more work on the house with Chris. Although we were bummed to hear that my sibling and her children won't be visiting this weekend, we were pleased to know that we didn't have to kill ourselves to finish the rest of the upstairs renovations. Somehow we managed to accomplish more than we set out to do, including, finishing the bathroom plumbing, installing hardware, priming the guest room, and last but not least, bake some ginger molasses cookies.

I'll post the recipe and some update photos. Also, we just sold the booth in the dining area. We were sad to see it go, but welcomed our first guests to our new table setting last Friday and the new arrangement left me all smiles.

Today's Teatime is from 20x200, a very cool project by NYC gallery owner Jen Bekman. Bekman was recently featured in the "home" section of the New York Times, but it's the art she sells at 20x200 that caught my eye. She regularly features artists whose work explores the idea of home. And her most recent artists listing, Amy Casey, fits the profile. Check it out and try to resist buying these limited edition prints.

First Prize Friends

2009-12-01T09:04:00.003-05:00

There's something to be said of an organized office. Last night I worked in the newly painted (and organized) space for a record breaking 2 hrs. Previously, I'd grow anxious with the time, ultimately leaving when my curiosity about what was going on elsewhere in the house got the better of me. Instead, I transcribed film for two hours with Turner at my heels.

I'm now able to consider my favorite part of the house. With the office nearly up to snuff, and the floor boards in place throughout both baths, it's a tough call. Who doesn't love a relaxing soak? (Count two of my friends who attest to only ever taking baths.) On the way home from a shoot in Gwinnett County, I was told of a little boy's class exercise in which he had to describe his favorite room. He cited the office because "his parents let him hang his best artwork."

I keep the proof of my successes (pdfs of articles, certificates of achievements) filed away in boxes. While in Florida, I found a trophy from 6th grade. I can't remember exactly why I earned it - probably grades - but I took it back home with me. It's now sitting on my desk and tucked into the golden eagles perched on the marble is a picture of my friends. Making good friends over the years is perhaps my greatest achievement.

Tea Time

2009-11-24T12:18:00.003-05:00

I missed Tea Time yesterday, so my Dear Readers, I have a treat for you. My mom was telling me how she online shops then abandons her cart. A friend confided in me that she does the same thing too. A recent study found that nearly 60% of US online retailers survey are seeing cart abandonment rates of over 20% this year. They're in good company.

As many of you now, I am a fan of all things twigs and branches. I will never forget the silvery branches of the birch trees in Massachusetts countryside. So, of course I was drawn to Branch Home, a sustainable design for living store that's filled with unusual gifts and home accouterments you'll feel good about purchasing. I don't think many of you will abandon your cart here.

Chaos Theory #1

2009-11-24T08:06:00.000-05:00

I read a page of an old journal (circa My Early 20s) from the cache I've been storing in the basement. On it I wrote a few of the things that make me happy. At the top of the list was the word "cleanliness" and right after it "order."

Lately, I've been feeling good about where I am both physically and mentally. I've pushed myself very hard these last 5 months or so and now I feel ready to take the next step, which is create. Some artists can work in utter chaos, perhaps even thrive in it. Chaos thwarts me. I'd rather sit next to a pile of neatly stacked trash than a disheveled mess of fresh roses.

This is one of my many quirks. I've been rediscovering, or better yet, reminding myself of who I am in the new space than now feels like home. This evening we put down a large area rug near my writing desk that I let my bare feet brush across. Closing my eyes I could have been in Oxford only it was colder there this time of year, and unlike today, my house was lonely.

Hell or High Water

2009-11-17T17:24:00.004-05:00

(In which Dante discovers that the Devil is actually dust.)

So I did not accomplish much last weekend. After an episode of House Wars (a new show staring Yours Truly and Significant Other) that highlights one couple's attempt to whip their house into shape, I lost my focus. That said, the weekend end happily ever after. Chris did another round of leaf maintenance on the lawn and I refreshed the master bedroom, removing at least a pound of dust and several bags filled with clothes and other miscellany.

A clean house will lift your spirits. Sadly, getting it into shape can sometimes feel as though you are Dante going through hell (except trust me, far less interesting.) There's something about removing the past and displacing it.

View from a Room

2009-11-13T12:56:00.003-05:00

I wish you all could see the gorgeous vista I'm presently enjoying. It's a blue sky and my pansies are drinking in the sun. (I will too on a long run this afternoon.)

I been very busy at both the architecture and construction firms lately, but the busyness has recharged my batteries. OR perhaps it's just fall. I always feel sluggish in the summer months, trading exercise for ice cream or any other thing with the word 'ice' in it. Now as I watch the leaves fall in our back yard, I'm contemplating a weekend of chores I'm more than willing to tackle.

I'm hoping we'll continue our new tradition of Goldberg's at 9 (which is the site of Chris' weekly pastrami fest) and then I'll attempt the following:

Clean non-public areas of house to match the now gleaming front area
Vacuum car
Rework intro for exhibition on sustainability for Gwinnett Environmental Center
Rework marketing materials for a client
Finish article tentatively title Comfort Me with North Georgia Apples
Sort through old clothes/closets
Begin stock piling for next weekend's yard sale
Finish bathroom for good!
Start jewelry chest project
Write!

Maybe I won't tackle everything, but there's nothing more satisfying than crossing things off a list.

Just Peachy

2009-11-11T22:38:00.004-05:00

(Leviathan, Bo Bartlett.)

There are a few things that I'm enjoying presently in our home.
1) Aquiesse candles from Devonshire in Brookhaven. (I've also discovered an intriguingly named Febreeze air freshener called Moroccan Bazaar. I initially bought it on lark for Chris since he lived in Morocco for a time, but at a fraction of the price of the candle and since we both enjoy the scent, we've kept it.)
2) A postcard I spied at A.'s house in New Orleans promoting the work of Georgia-artist Bo Bartlett. His paintings are evocative of Andrew Wyeth, but with a fateful twist.
3) A sweet potato pie leftover from dinner with Chris' parents on Saturday. Subtle cinnamon and a creamy filling. This is the sweet potato pie of my dreams.
4) Narcisco Rodriguez perfume. A birthday gift and a wonderful airy contrast to my deeply seductive - but equally heady and very 80s - Paloma Picasso.
5) Sibyl Moholy-Nagy's (aka Sybil Peach) book Native Genius in Anonymous Architecture. I'm reading this for research on a sustainable design exhibition that I'm working on with Houser Walker Architecture and the Gwinnett Environmental and Heritage Center. It demonstrates how native builders contributed to modern architecture. And yes, she is the wife of the surrealist photographer.

Stay Tuned ... In

2009-11-10T20:40:00.005-05:00

(Heart-breaking cake of staggering cholesterol.)

In an ideal world, it wouldn't still be raining, and I'd have the energy to be working out some creative project. Instead, I'm waiting for the rain to stop and I'm drained after a long day of sitting in Atlanta traffic and staring at a computer screen. In fact, it's actually been fairly productive start to my week.

The other day I was asked to help develop some kid-friendly heart healthy meals/snacks for a segment of TBS' Dinner and a Makeover. They're featuring Chris' mother's nonprofit organization the Queen of Hearts Foundation and will be preparing the recipes for a show that will tape in December.

"Can you have it done by Monday?" his mother asked.
"This Monday?"
"Yes," she said.
"Sure."

And so, come Sunday, I hadn't come up with anything. After sending an email to several friends who have tots ranging from age one to five, however, I had a little more perspective on what kids are eating today. What surprised me the most was that several of my friends' kids love things many adults have never tried, i.e. curry, quinoa, tofu, and soy milk. Knowing this reconfirmed the fact that I have a wonderful bunch of forward-thinking friends. You are what you eat after all.

So what recipes did I come up with? Stay tuned... We're testing them this weekend.

Tea Time

2009-11-09T16:54:00.004-05:00

I've been in a whimsical mood, so now that the house is in order (the public part of it anyway) , I've begun to collect fun things for Christmas. My new favorite place to shop is Devonshire, a store in Brookhaven (just off Dresden near Peachtree Rd) that specializes in home furnishings and gifts. Although I've decided against putting up a tree this year -- we're still in the middle of home projects -- I'm picking up a few things to fill the house with holiday cheer. Continuing in the twig theme, we'll have a small twig Christmas tree.

Tea Time

2009-11-02T17:32:00.004-05:00

(Briochin - Sexing Up House Cleaning)

It feels like 6 o'clock in the evening thanks to the time change. Alas, I'm late posting the weekly Tea Time link so here goes...

This week's comes from my boss at Houser Walker who shared with me the eye candy found on a package design blog. Why a package design site? These designers make even the most mundane of household chores seem glamorous. Oui! Oui!

Booth Be Gone

2009-10-30T21:42:00.003-04:00

(The booth where it all began.)

I'm feeling a pang of regret. I just posted for sale on Craigslist the booth that used to be our dining room seating. Chris had it custom made a few years ago, and while I thought it was a nice piece, we both agreed it no longer fits the space. So why do I feel bad about it selling it? This was the booth where Chris and I had our first date.

Falling for Words

2009-10-30T09:54:00.003-04:00

It's time I confess. I already did so sitting with A. in a boutique candy shop in New Orleans, but I need to air it publicly. In the midst of moving, I've put my writing projects on hold. So affected by my surroundings, I found it imperative to shape parts of my new home to also somehow reflect me. The last few months have been productive. The bathroom is nearly complete, and we're making headway with some other maintenance work to the house long overdue. My things sit in familiar arrangements, and every once in a while I discover an old object from a box I decided to finally unpack.

Every Thursday night my cycling instructor shouts out at me (and to the class), "Where do you see yourself tomorrow?" I take her question seriously while I pedal furiously on my stationary bike. Maybe a few years ago I would have thought what I'm doing right now is like what I do in class spinning my wheels. But with experience backing me (and moving me forward), I've realized that even the little things we change or the small challenges we resolve enable us to grow.

There are two big writing projects I've been romancing the last two years, and now that I feel comfortable (comfort is the key) in my new home, it's time to fully realize them. Some of you know that one of the projects is about Thacker Mountain Radio, the show I produced for some time and wrote about for my Master's thesis. An editor is patiently waiting for the manuscript. The other is the makings of a book I think a lot of people will get. I don't want to disclose too much, so I'll tell you that it's about feeding people. It's a story I've had in me for a long time and certain things had to happen before I could even begin to shape it in words.

They say that sometimes falling in love is all about timing. Writing is the same way and I'm glad I am no longer fighting this notion.

Today's To-Do List

2009-10-28T11:49:00.001-04:00

Dog Food
Milk
Oatmeal
Granola Bars
Sink?
Meat (Chicken /Fish)
Swifter
------------
Dry cleaning
------------
Home - call KitchenAid
------------
Lowe's
------------
Gym

Tea Time

2009-10-26T17:16:00.005-04:00

(Tree Gold)

We ran around all weekend, mostly in north Georgia where we went to our friend's wedding in Big Canoe. Sadly, we were there for less than 24 hours, but it was long enough to take in breathtaking mountain vistas and Fall's gift of the colors ochre and red ochre. Apparently ochre is the earliest color known to man, which might explain the whimsy I feel when taking in its beauty. Red ochre has often been used in rituals to symbolize blood and rebirth. But I like the color best on my lips for a night out of dinner and dancing.

This week's Tea Time post was something I stumbled upon and immediately let out a giggle. My favorite line:

'In 1650 Blaise Pascal turned away from his studies in mathematics to contemplate the “greatness and the misery of man.” He decided, ”Most of the evils of life arise from man’s being unable to sit still in a room.” It only follows then that lying in bed must be a virtue.'

Apple Pie Redux

2009-10-22T13:35:00.002-04:00

We had an amazing dinner last weekend that got me dreaming about apples. Our friends L. and Tex invited us to dinner at L.'s family home in Stone Mountain. The home over looks a lake, but the real sight was the kitchen island where L. and her dad were slicing apples to caramelize for a pork loin.

Dinner came quickly-- sauteed kale with pan-seared tenderloin and caramelized apples, and amedley of root vegetables. Since Chris had been in Chicago, this was our first non-restaurant meal in a few days and it was good. Dessert reminded me -- in taste at least -- of the birthday cake I made for Chris some time ago. Lots of chocolate, mousse filling, and ganache. Heavenly.

Unfortunately, I came down with a cold that very evening and for the next few days it was chicken soup from wherever Chris could procure it (my favorite was Poncho's.) While I was sick, Chris finished the grout work in the bath with Al and installed our toilet -- a funny thing with two buttons for flushing.

This weekend, we head to Big Canoe for a wedding. More importantly, and perhaps selfishly, we will also be celebrating our first anniversary of knowing each other. As I told him, all other options were off the moment I met him.

Which brings me back to apples. On our first date Chris cooked for me. I wanted to contribute something to the dinner, so I surprised him by bringing an apple pie that I made just a few hours before I headed to his house. Initially, I drove to my friend's house in Atlanta from Spartanburg, SC, with a cooler full of cut up apples and fresh pie dough. A few hours later, I arrived with my pie in a red plate and heart full of hope.

Tea Time

2009-10-19T13:01:00.002-04:00

Feeling a bit under the weather despite the appearance of good weather over the weekend. My Tea Time post is a little early today. I plan to leave the office an hour or so after my lunch so I can sweat out my cold in bed.

This week's post comes from Newsweek about the trend of people staying put in their homes. The story is particularly relevant since Chris and I have talked about moving to Portland, OR., but being close to family trumps everything -- at least for now.

Speaking of Progress

2009-10-14T10:07:00.000-04:00

(Before)

I still can't believe I grew up in a house with 8 people who shared one bathroom. Before my dad even had a chance to cut off the car's engine, we'd all pile out and race to the front door to be first in line. Today, I have the luxury of my own powder room -- although, as you can see from above, it remains under construction. We are so close to finishing the project. In fact, Chris installed the tile floor with the help of a friend. The walls have been painted "Ghost Ship," a blue shade of gray, and we are in the process of finding a pedestal sink. Soon I won't have to wait for my turn to do my hair in the morning and guests won't be forced to trespass our bedroom to the other bath.

(Almost after.)

Trayed Not Tabled

2009-10-13T11:31:00.001-04:00

From the rusted tin tray destined for the garbage that holds a few select perfumes (Narcisco Rodriguez, Paloma Picasso, and Tea Rose), a red metal dish my mom made circa the 1960s in shop class, and our his/her watches to the chinked porcelain dish upon which six Moroccan tea glasses rest, I've found that trays bring order to my life. More are stashed in cupboards for when the opportunity calls for a pink painted floral or gold-flecked Fire King platter.

"Arranged on a tray," writes Rita Konig in an article on the subject of trays, "[things]feel less like a group of random objects and more like a collection of treasures."

Send me pictures of your favorite trays...

Tea Time

2009-10-08T10:47:00.000-04:00

Sometimes we need a little inspiration. I started reading E.O. Wilson's The Creation yesterday, setting up a palette on the front lawn. After a week of downcast weather, I needed a little sun. I'm starting to think about ways to bring the outdoors inside for the coming months, and this book has me thinking green. It's Wilson letter to a Southern Baptist preacher on why we need to put aside our literal reading of the Bible that the end is nigh and consider our earthly home (which if you are of the religious bent, the home God created.)

I've been reading a lot lately - from magazines to other peoples' blogs - and I've decided to post links to articles that I've read that explore ideas of home. I'm doing this every Monday. Mainly because I need something to look forward to on Mondays and I'm sure you do too. (Especially at 4 p.m. when you begin watching the clock.) I'll being calling these post Tea Time after the job I once had at the National Trust in London. Every day we stopped working to feast on dainty cakes and sweet cups of tea. Book chats and reviews of the latest plays, films, or bands, were highlights of our conversations.

Today's post comes from Slate.com. Two writers pose the question: Can a writer invest a random, worthless item with value by inventing a story about its significance?

Then check our the the duo's website. I'm thinking of all those trinkets that have begun to fill a vintage chest of drawers and the stories they could tell.

October Haiku

2009-10-06T15:37:00.001-04:00

The day was dreary
waiting for the autumn sun.
Then I came home.

Bad Idea

2009-10-06T11:46:00.000-04:00

As it happens, Tweeting my life does not work for me. In addition to some technical glitches, I simply couldn't submit to sending my schedule into the ether. We just got back from a birthday weekend in New Orleans. I hadn't been there since 2005, so I was amazed at how bright the skyline was coming into the city later Friday night.

We took a break from working on the house, but Chris will be finishing the floors this week. I'll have some photos of the progress up this week.

Clocking In on My Time

2009-09-22T22:29:00.000-04:00

(If only life could be lived under these trees.)

Some people keep a journal to loose weight, but my problem isn't the size of my waist. It's time. In an effort to better manage my time, I've decided to twitter my whereabouts for 30 days straight. Ever one to stare at a computer screen for moments on end, I'm trading in blanking out for productivity. There's something to a Twitter post that says, "Mindlessly browsed for watches for three hours." Ok. Not that I am inclined to waste my time that way, but trust me, I've got issues. You can follow the minutiae* here.

*Don't worry, I'm restricitng Twittering to homelife only. Afterall, this a blog about the Home.

After the Flood

2009-09-22T12:47:00.001-04:00

(Last week we built a bathroom. This week will be an ark.)

Just before I reversed out of the driveway, our neighbor appeared in the backyard to let me know that Em was running loose. Apparently a tree fell in the middle of the night and he found Em rooting around his yard. (She's a runaway dog most days, so everyone knows her.)

Needless to say, Chris took the chainsaw to the tree and built a makeshift solution until we can take care of the fence. Much of west Atlanta remains under water, a sight that eerily reminds me of New Orleans after Katrina.

I visited New Orleans a few months after the hurricane and I still remember how difficult it was to navigate the city without any street signs or lights, for that matter. Parts of Atlanta have disappeared under the water in the same way the 9th ward was reduced to a water stained chunk of the city. Not nearly as many lives have been claimed by the rain, but I am reminded of the fragile nature of homes despite their brick and mortar foundations.

The sun has finally opened her eyes to us this afternoon -- time to move on from the darkness.

Image Source: AJC, Phil Skinner

Demo This

2009-09-21T09:56:00.000-04:00

It's Monday morning and Buford Hwy is flooded. It's been raining in Atlanta for so long I've lost track of the days. Rainy weather is a good excuse to stay indoors and that's just what we did last weekend. There was no cozying up on the couch. Instead, we demolished the bathroom. Photos and commentary tonight.

Staying Alive

2009-09-15T16:37:00.000-04:00

Having worked at this Southern institution for 1/6 of its life, I have to share this video filmmaker Joe York made to celebrate Square Books' 30th anniversary. It seems like just the other day I was getting dressed up for the 25th anniversary at the old Off Square Books location.

Square Books was my home for 6 years. My boss Lyn teased me about having a cot in my office, since it seemed I was there when she left in the evening and when she returned at 8:30 every morning. On my last day, a few of the senior employees gathered at City Grocery's bar (our official bar) to say there farewells. There, Richard Howorth and his wife Lisa presented me with a necklace upon which hung a golden key. "So you'll always have a key to the store," he said.

Enjoy Joe's work and check out more of it here.

SQUARE BOOKS 30th Anniversary Video from Joe York on Vimeo.

Napping Lately

2009-09-14T11:19:00.000-04:00

Mondays hit harder than a hangover. In our home, we sleep later during the week than on the weekends. For good reason: we like to maximize our time together.

Last week witnessed the purchase of a new car to replace my Camry, which was totaled following a three year battle with a leaking trunk. I was more happy that I would get the coveted carport spot, than actually driving the car itself. That excitement alone belongs to Chris.

We also ate with Tex and L. on two occasions. The first night, we ate a late supper chez Mary/Chris that was more of a collaboration. Pork loin on the grill served with coconut rice and sauteed soy broccoli. Later in the week, we dined chez L./Tex and devoured plates of baked goat cheese salads, pan-sauteed halibut topped with a simple, but summery, tomato relish, and Chris' coconut rice.* I contributed the remains of peaches and raspberries, which I fashioned into a cobbler.

By Saturday, our stomachs full, we set out to work on the bathroom. With the tiling finished, Chris and his dad rebuilt the toilet (a fairly disgusting task that occurred while his mom and I fixed lunch.) On Sunday, I removed the existing bathroom fixtures and commenced to scoff at the layers of wall paper beneath that wreaked of 1960. I would have pressed on but I was weirdly unmotivated and decided to nap.

*The one dish I've washed my hands of as a cook is rice. It was one of things Chris made for me on our first date. Although it was a little mushy because I was late, since then, he's proved to be the official Rice Cooker in the house.

A Room of a Different Color

2009-09-09T13:36:00.000-04:00

(The Color Changing Room)

We have still not painted any of the rooms since I moved in. However, the botched tile work has been repaired, so this weekend we may pick up the brush. I stress over everything, and the color of the bathroom is an equal opportunity for scrutiny.

As happenstance has it, my boss left an article on my desk and the opposite side has a brilliant (though somewhat dated) story on color. "There's a wish for a more home- and nest-like world, particularly in terms of more natural chromatic color versus the high-tech color that saw an extensive movement in the late 1980s and much of the '90s," Margaret Walch, director of the Color Association of the U.S.

Ms. Walch was correct. Just shortly after the publication of the article, Chris painted his house hues reminiscent of twigs and "dirt," my sister bluntly put when she first visited. The trend followed suit in other areas, namely clothing fashion. Does anybody remember the coterie of bridesmaids donning chocolate gowns? When the love faded, you would always have pictures of your friends dressed as giant-sized chocolate bars.

The brown stuck. It's the predominate color in our house, revealing both comedy and truth in my reference to Chris' "man cave," and it's also a blaring (despite the muted tone) reminder of our pasts, which were without the other. Color, as much as tchotchkes, invoke the past, but we rarely acknowledge this fact. When I moved into A.'s old house on Pierce Avenue in Oxford, Mississippi, I purposefully left the bedroom the blue she and her sister painted it. The color reminded me of her. The rest of house was washed in color that had significant meaning, too. The Tiffany blue kitchen a nod to my prized Tiffany box that lived under my bed; the pink bathroom and curtains a farewell to girlhood.

Our house in Atlanta is warm -- cozy on most nights -- and though I still remember falling softly asleep on Chris' brown bed linens for the first time, since then we've arrived at a different color. We'll start with the bathroom first, and see where it leads us.

From the Cry Baby Room: Hot House Flower and the Nine Plants of Desire*

2009-09-02T17:59:00.000-04:00

(Do we take care of plants or do they take care of us?)

The other day I moved my plants to the window and booked a flight to Isla de Mujeres. After a few evenings with Hothouse Flower and the 9 Plants of Desire by Margot Berwin, it was the only thing to do.

Lila Nova is a thirty-something ad woman in NYC disillusioned with the way her life’s unfolded: divorced, demoralized, and lonely. She moves into a nondescript apartment near Union Square’s greenmarket where she buys a bird of paradise. It’s an unusual choice for the location, but doing so brings color and drama to her lackluster life.

First, she’s introduced to David Exley, an attractive but rustic plant dealer at the greenmarket who tells her about the nine plants of desire. Then she stumbles on a Laundromat that doubles as a greenhouse where she meets its proprietor Armand. He offers her a cutting of a fire fern, one of the nine plants of desire. Lila takes advantage of Armand’s generosity and the result is devastating. In an attempt to make amends with him and with herself, she departs for the jungles of Mexico.

This is not Mexico for tourists. Instead, it’s a place steeped in magic and ritual, untamed and uncertain. As Lila goes deeper into the jungle she gets closer understanding her life. What is that she wants? What is it that we all want? More to the point, perhaps we all have a little Lila in us, that yearning to attain all that the nine plants represent (love, immortality, fortune, fertility, sexuality, life force, magic, freedom, adventure).

This is a captivating debut from Berwin, and one I debated whether to rush through or savor. (However, a quick search divulges more of Berwin's writing not to be missed.) If Hothouse Flower does anything, it asks us to slow down and consider that which we desire. And for those of us with a thumb more brown than green, you’ll think of your plants as beings, not just things.

*The guest room, where all the books in our house live, was affectionately dubbed the "cry baby" room when I moved in with Chris. The way I remember it we had our first argument and I went to the guest room (where my old bed resides) to sulk. It didn't last long. We made up, and since then, we reference going to the cry baby room when either of us need a little breather, or in my case, a good book to read.

Everything in Its Place

2009-08-31T12:12:00.000-04:00

(Felder Rushing - A Study in Pratice & Patience)

C. wasn't kidding. I haven't posted in quite a while, and for good reason. No internet the last week (though I did sit in the parking lot of a chain pizza joint to download emails), and the house has been abuzz with activity.

My friend B. stopped by the third weekend of August and spent the night. We made Moroccan: steamed cod, couscous, and spiced French lentils. Then, proceeded to drink a bottle and half a of wine between the two of us so that a few hours later brownies seemed like a good idea. They were indeed, though I don't recommend making brownies while inebriated. I doused the mix with too much baking soda. B. was gracious as usual, and complimentary about the house, which had been frustrating me. We gave B. "the tour" and his enthusiasm for what we have planned charmed me. It reminded me of my first date with Chris. He gave me a tour of his house, and afterward, I was convinced I would be around to see all his ideas come to fruition.

The next morning we woke up early, said our farewells to B., and immediately began to work on the basement. By early afternoon, we were covered in dust and ready for lunch. Such hard work deserved - no, required - a hearty lunch. We split burgers at Vortex, then headed home for a long afternoon snooze.

Other distractions to date are a couple of articles I have due for Delta Magazine on the newest cook book Simple Fresh Southern from the Lee Bros. and the artist Jere Allen, a pushed back deadline for The Book, and preparations for first foray into volunteering for the Decatur Book Festival. I'm also still hammering out the details for Golden Apple Media.

I'm adding a new feature to The Blog. While I was out grocery shopping I ran into fellow writer, Itabari Njeri, who has a short story coming out in a noir collection edited by Dennis Lehane, as well as her first work of fiction from Akashic Books. Since writers need more support than ever, especially in the South, I'll be including book reviews in future posts, which seem appropriate for a blog from someone whose guestroom is actually The Bookroom. Up first will be Hot House Flower and the 9 Plants of Desire by Margot Berwin. Ms. Berwin's book seems incredibly appropriate to the South considering the relationships many of us have with plants. I'd like focus on books bent towards home or the idea of place, so let me know of anything I shouldn't miss.

(Image Source: NYT)

Head-to-Toe Vegetables

2009-08-12T22:17:00.000-04:00

(Home is where the hearth is.)

A friend recently asked me where I get the inspiration for my posts and it's often the pictures I've collected (and failed to properly organize) on my computer. Sometimes they're recent, sometimes they're old. In fact, I'm planning to download all the images off my old computer and will be able to cull from that cache as well next month. I have a particular penchant for photographing other people's homes over the years, and I have amassed a healthy supply of narrative photographs.

(Tilapia with Green Onion Sauce and Basil Mint Pesto Penne Rigate)

This week, though, Chris suggested that I post images from our meals together. I had thought about doing this before, but it seems like a lot of people do it and I wanted to focus on the oft overlooked parts of the home, i.e. the bedroom, closets, gardens, etc. But after dinner tonight, when Chris bit into the tilapia we made together, I knew I had to document what has proven to be the "something" that keeps us in tandem with one another. I won't be able to document everything, but here is a start.

(Pickled Green Onions)

Inspired by the summer surplus of vegetables and fruits that turn before I have a chance to enjoy them, I've gotten into pickling again (remember the lemons.) Pickling adds another dimension to whatever fruit or vegetable you use, and in return, you get a couple of more weeks out of them (assuming you can resist using them before the week is over.) Following a simple recipe for ramps, I pickled the white parts of scallions. Most people throw the white part out and use the green, but with an Asian-style pickle, you can top rice or grilled meat to add a sweet and tangy finish.

(Balsamic Peaches)

The other condiment I made today was balsamic peaches. I simmered three whole peaches until I could slip them out of their skins, then halved them and returned to the pot with 1/4 cup balsamic vinegar, 1/2 water, and 1/4 cup sugar, a cinnamon stick, and 1 T black peppercorns. I turned the peaches over once and waited until the liquid reduced by half. They're best consumed within a few days, preferably with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and a sprinkling of crushed amaretti cookies.

The More the Mary-er

2009-08-08T12:19:00.000-04:00

(Speaking of writers, here I am with Clarissa Romano, one of my favorite dames.)

As I write this, I'm working from bed. There's a lot going on at chez Attebery/Warner. What was to be a day of tiling the bathroom has turned into Chris sleeping by my side mid-afternoon while I eke out an article for Edible and begin a business plan to launch Golden Apple Media this fall. Then there is THE BOOK.

I received a congratulatory email from my editor regarding the reception of my documentary film on Thacker Mountain Radio, which engendered in me fear rather than ecstasy. Always one to under-promise and over-deliver, I'm wondering how I will add another one hundred pages to what I've already written. How can I turn something feverishly academic into a cool read in less than three weeks?

There is hope. I've befriended the lovely Laurel Snyder through our mutual friend Lauren Cerand and I have to say it's a match made in heaven. To be a writer without a community is a suffocating thing. Despite Chris' genuine enthusiasm for my work - of which progress has been minimal - there is an understanding between writers that can not be grasped by those who don't wield the pen for a living. (I'll never forget the conversation I had with one writer who sneered at to the 23 year old version of me, "You don't want to be a writer, do you?") It was too late, the pen had already chosen me. Talking to Laurel the other night reminded me that I'm not the only one trying to make a go of this life.

Florida Redux

2009-08-04T13:40:00.001-04:00

Chris and I are back from Florida. We loved spending time with my family but we we happy to see Em and Turner. While Em managed to devour a blanket, everything else was as we left it -- including the bathroom project. We plan to complete the tile this week, but I'll believe it when I see it.

Dual Homecomings

2009-07-29T14:37:00.001-04:00

(Bryan Ledford on the big screen at Lyric Theater)

For the record, I'm back. This is a busy week as I prepare to visit my childhood home with Chris. (He hasn't meet my parents yet, so the trip should be interesting.) My mom jokingly asked me if I think Chris will no longer want to marry me when he sees how small their house is. Even if designer digs were never within our reach, I remind her that our home was always rich in love.

On Monday ,I finished the Thacker Mountain Radio documentary film (a good first draft) with Joe York to much aplomb. The Oxford film Festival screened it as part of their summer series and about 75 people showed up to see it. Afterward, I was approached about showing it in the annual festival, which is held every February in Oxford. Not one to pass up an opportunity for growth, I said, "Sure." Joe and I are anticipating working on it together in the upcoming months to get it ready for its official debut. I'll keep everyone posted on the film's whereabouts.

After coming off a weekend of long hours and sleepless nights, I'm glad to be back in Atlanta with Chris, Em and Turner. All three were besides themselves upon my return and I have to admit, it's heartening to feel so welcome and loved.

Craving Normalcy

2009-07-26T11:03:00.000-04:00

(N.'s Eggs on Toast)

As the momentum to create picks up, I've been thinking about what I will be working on when my film wraps tomorrow. Since A. has been in town, we've talked about the fact that I need to blog on a more regular basis. Admittedly, I've been lazy. There was a time -- not too long ago -- when my plate was so full I had no time to see friends in Oxford, let alone family in Florida. While that style of working is not a mode of operation I ever want to return to, I'd like to get back on my writing schedule, which will instill a modicum of discipline in my life.

Walking a dog might do the same. With A.'s parents out of town, I've volunteered to walk Rupert, a cancer survivor who's taciturn save for the appearance of a stroller or other passerbyer. When Em lived with me in Oxford, I relished our morning walks and energy they provided. Now, sluggishly peeling myself from the bed, I'm usually bleary-eyed until I perk up only steps away from walking into the office.

Aside from sleeping in a cozy bed and waking up to good conversations over coffee (rather than the sketch beds and bland coffee that are the hallmarks of hotels), by staying with friends we are offered a window into the patterns and whims of other peoples lives. Not wanting to do anything but relax on Saturday is apparently normal.

Precursor to Status Anxiety

2009-07-24T07:55:00.000-04:00

I'm back in Oxford for a few days to work on my film about Thacker Mountain Radio. The weather is perfect - a nice, humidless eighty degrees - and the town is quiet. I also realized as I was driving thirty miles an hour how much I don't miss Atlanta's aggressive drivers.

This week I have the pleasure of staying my dear friend A.'s parents' home just off the Square. A. didn't grow up in the home, but her sister did and the vestiges of her childhood are everywhere: prom photos, a cheerful decor, and a trove of nail polishes in a rainbow of colors. My own bedroom in Atlanta is a palette of muted browns, and I noticed that getting out of bed at 6 a.m. this morning (far earlier than I ever do in Atlanta) must have something to do with the cheery decor. Color, we've know for a long time, affects us.

I noticed, too, that A.'s parents repainted their kitchen. This has been an ongoing affair; last time I was there it was tangerine orange reminding me of Mario Batali's Babbo, or his shoes (though I prefer the former.) Now, it is a pleasant shade of pale blue, somewhat breathy, therefore adding a nice airiness to the space. I find in A's mother a similar desire to change up rooms on a regular basis. Just as many rooms make up a house, so do many views.

On a side note, I had two wonderful conversations with A's parents. The first was with her mother on status anxiety and how it relates to our homes; and the latter was with A.'s father about finding your voice as a writer, a process which he describes as finding "your ear."
(A's father is the author of a rolicking book set in Mississippi.)

I'll be posting on status anxiety in the upcoming week after I revisit Alain de Botton's book of the same title.

Strikes Me As Lovely

2009-07-21T21:24:00.000-04:00

Lame is all I've got for you. Between spotty email, bathroom/roof repairs that have drained our pockets and zapped what remains of our energy after long days of work, I've been slow to post anything anywhere -- except for Twitter. Check out my feed on what I'm making, renovating, or turning upside down at our house with additional tweets on what what strikes me as lovely.

Mixing Business and Pleasure

2009-07-02T09:27:00.001-04:00

(Sketch for my first business card.)

This week I started working for an architecture firm as their Marketing Director. The job is somewhat serendipitous considering my interest in the idea of home. Many of the projects Houser Walker Architects develops are for museums, libraries, and universities, and like homes, these places foster dreams.

When I was kid I wanted to be an architect, then as fate would have it a cousin enrolled in the architecture school at University of Florida and the few times I saw her during holidays she seem bogged down by books and projects. This was not the life I envisioned for myself, so instead I grew up to work in a place surrounded by books and kept hours more akin to a lawyer than to a bookseller. Life has a way of coming full circle though, and despite the fact I still have no desire to actually be an architect, I have the opportunity to work with them, share ideas, and most importantly, strengthen a business that nutures our identities.

The Kitchen Ascent

2009-06-25T12:36:00.000-04:00

(Cozy up in the kitchen and see where it leads.)

J. writes, "I was on Southern Living. com and came across this kitchen idea. I think you might know the owner of this kitchen (from City Grocery in Oxford.)"

She's correct. The image is from the kitchen of dear friends John and Bess Currence. The first time I saw their recently-completed kitchen, I had to take a deep breath. What you can't see in the picture is a small, spiral staircase that ascends to the master bedroom. I often talk of the kitchen dance that couples do, but the Currences have taken it to another level. I like it.

Image Source: Southern Living

Life's Ups and Downs

2009-06-24T12:11:00.001-04:00

(Rest in Peace - Benson Albemarle Attebery, a fine dog and friend.)

A few updates:

Chris' family dog Benson passed away this week, so we've all been dealing with the loss by bunkering down as a family. Yesterday, Chris and his parents buried Benson in our front yard. It's hard to think of that little guy no longer with us.

I've just been hired by Houser Walker Architects to do strategic planning for marketing and publicity. It's only part-time but with the film and book, it couldn't be more perfect.

My first guest is coming to Atlanta next week: My twin sister Jacqui. We have a couple of things in mind to do including some house beautifying and eating at the Mexican restaurant Chris discovered a few months ago that blows Taqueria del Sol out of the water.

Selling Ideas of Home

2009-06-12T10:11:00.000-04:00

So I just got back from an interview with an architecture firm in Atlanta. No, I am not thinking about a career change. Rather, the job encompasses marketing and publicising the firm. I feel like this opportunity is right up there with my interests and I was impressed with the principal who I met with -- he and I seem to be on the same page with regards to sustainability, ideas of home, and how the environment impacts our outlook on life.

I won't know anything until Monday, so everyone keep your fingers crossed.

Formerly of the Hospitality State but still Hospitable

2009-06-11T11:04:00.000-04:00

(S. took this picture of me this morning. )

"S. is coming this week," Chris told me a few days before his arrival. S. is Chris' friend from college who is now a sales rep for Taylor guitars.

Not the kind of person to open my home to guests without a made bed, I pulled my old sheets from the closet and outfitted the bed I lugged from Mississippi. I'm sitting next to it now. It's in a room that was once the abode of Chris' roommate who has since vacated. The room has been restored as a guestroom/office. The walls are terribly white, and in the morning the room grows bright and is filled with birdsong. (Some people -- Chris for example -- find it annoying, but I prefer it to the janky alarm that resounds at 7:30 everyday via Chris' cell phone.)

Apparently guests slept on the couch or an air mattress before I moved in. There was another empty room, but it was never set up as a place for guest to rest. I like to think that S. will be more productive today having slept in my old, comfy bed (which I miss) instead of the couch. Or, that the breakfast I offered him -- just as I offer Chris most every day -- will sustain him. It's these little touches, a bed offered or a hot, homemade meal that make the difference.

IKEA for Dummies

2009-06-09T08:50:00.000-04:00

(A man's bathroom reinvisioned.)

IKEA. Say that word and the response ranges from "I love that place!" to "Get me out of here!" The store has its followers and haters, and those of us who appreciate it for what it means: Affordable out of the box design. Of course, to get the look they proffer be sure to set aside a good part of your day. IKEA products are notoriously migraine-inducing before they take shape as say your new platform bed or shelf.

One network television show used IKEA products on a show called the Tool Academy. The idea was to get a bunch of guys -- the "tools" -- to put together beds with their partners and see who could problem solve together. The results ranged from all-out wars to strengthened bonds. IKEA should consider offering relationship counseling alongside their fifty-cent hot dogs.

A few months ago, Chris and I watched a British documentary on marijuana in which a mother -- curious about the real effects of the drug -- purchased an IKEA product to put together after smoking several joints. It's no surprise that she couldn't complete the task. Then again, I felt like throwing in the towel the other day when Chris and I were stumped by the illustrated directions for installing a chandelier. Is IKEA too cheap to hire a technical writer for those of us who appreciate words?

All this leads me to the progress we made last weekend. After a successful trip (albeit a long one for such a short list), we returned home with three shelves, some storage baskets, and a chandelier. The shelves replaced two milk crates that had been crammed between the toilet and the sink. I used to spend several minutes digging out my blow drying and styling products, now everything is nicely organized by use in baskets arm-length away.

Amazed that installing the shelves did result in hours of frustration, we high-fived and moved on to the kitchen. After Chris removed the old chandelier, we spent several minutes trying to decipher the cryptic installation directions for our IKEA replacement. I was certain either Chris would fall off the ladder onto the glass table or be electrocuted. Neither happened. An hour later, we stood beneath a handsome lamp as I wiped sweat from Chris' brow.

Florida by Any Other Name

2009-06-08T08:54:00.000-04:00

(In lieu of the beach, an interesting night in Ozark, Alabama.)

Rather then live in one of the homes that line Ozark's (Alabama) main street, when J.'s uncle was relocated to Alabama he and his wife rebuilt a near exact replica of their Florida home on top of a red clay hill they razed of trees then sodded.

Had I closed my eyes as we drove up their long, private drive-way and opened them in front of the house I would have believed to be back in Florida -- where I grew up. Unfortunately, I don't have a picture of the front of the house, but with its stuccoed walls, cool color, and breezy windows, it was a dead-ringer for one of the homes along Bayshore Boulevard on the Tampa Bay.

Inside was no different (although the furniture lent itself to a southern setting.) With the exception of the living room and one guest bedroom, the interior walls were painted aubergine, green, and gray. The ceiling in the dining and sitting room boasted vaulted ceilings with alternating panels of white and purple ("I just love purple," Aunt M. told us.) In lieu of a red room (which is ubiquitous in the South) there were two rooms painted coral. The house seemed to unfold before us; each room opening into the other in an inviting way.

We spent most of our time in the kitchen with J.'s aunt. She bustled around the island as she opened drawers that revealed high-end appliances and cherished service. She had a story for everything, including a ribbon of plates that decorated the wall above the cabinets. (The first few were gifts, and then she started collecting them.) An early 1900s Russian coffee urn was most interesting thing in the house, though it was not actually in the kitchen. "Uncle B. smuggled that out of Russia under Jimmy Carter seat in a limo when he was in the Secret Service," Aunt M. gushed.

We ate pork tenderloin that night served with a sticky bourbon sauce and sweet potatoes. For dessert, a simple pound cake. Afterwards, J. and I sat on a "snuggler" couch reading, then we watched a film with the older company. I barely made it to bed, but when I did, sleep was thick. Morning came and I awoke cocooned in a pink glow. Were there a noise machine, I could have tricked myself into believing the Gulf was just outside my window.

Twig Follow-Up

2009-06-04T17:32:00.000-04:00

(Girl Scout skills failing, here is an example of what ours was supposed to look like.)

A few people were interested in what the "branch chandelier" looks like. Here's the photo from ApartmentTherapy and a link to the how-to. Ours has already been turned into firewood and we are considering other alternatives. (Paper, rock, scissors-style.)

In the meantime, J. and I just returned from Ozark, Alabama where we stayed with her aunt and uncle. I have pictures from that adventure and can't wait to tell you all about this immaculate home.

Twiggy Revisited

2009-05-29T11:09:00.000-04:00

I wish we had a picture of our latest project. The other day, following a suggestion from a friend, I decided to look for an antler chandelier to replace the out-moded one that hangs above the dining table. Unwilling to chalk up nearly a thousand dollars for a white tail design, I tried to think what resembles antlers. Branches! Twigs! (The ceiling of the house is wooden planks so I thought breaking up the lines with curvilinear forms would make the room appear less rigid and masculine.) After doing a little research, I found a how-to guide for making a branch chandelier. It seemed easy enough -- or so I thought.

After convincing Chris that this would be a good idea (the best time to do this is after a long day of work when there is less likely a chance for protest), we hunted for fallen branches. After arranging them on the ground to a desired width, we tied them together with thin wire. It's just a test, I told him. I wanted to see what this would look like. We brought the tangled bundle of firewood inside and hung it just below the existing chandelier. Wow, I thought, Welcome to Camp Wawona.

It didn't seem to fit the space. We needed branches from a noble tree instead of the gnarled and grey limbs we plucked from the ground. We failed well, I told Chris. Even though we still don't have the chandelier of my dreams we had a good laugh and worked together.

Sharing the Table

2009-05-26T12:19:00.000-04:00

(Former Dining Table at Pierce Avenue)

Even though I've settled into my new home without any snags I've been aware of the subtle tug of war that goes on when two people begin to share a space. Chris is gracious letting me do whatever I want, although I still run ideas by him. He was impressed with my closet organization skills having transformed one scary cave into a fully functional holding cell for cleaning supplies and outdoor accouterments. "I didn't know there were even shelves in there," proclaimed one awe-struck roommate when she opened the door.

Yesterday I tackled the kitchen with Chris' mom while he was at work. She and I shared several what-is-this glances as we consolidated 100 beer glasses (most obtained from the local brewery) and dumped many bags of expired canned food. We took down a collection of photos on the side of the refrigerator for Chris to sort through. Initially, to my dismay he kept them all and rearranged them to resemble collages my friends and I used to make when we were thirteen. After a while, there was something comforting in seeing it.

Last night a dear Oxford friend came over for dinner. He's working an hour south of Atlanta for the summer and I was eager to see him. For years, he's dined at one of my many kitchen tables and sampled everything from coq au vin to homemade donuts. I had recently made preserved lemons, so I prepared Morroccan-stlye cod with cinnamon scented lentils on a bed of saffron couscous. For dessert, I whipped up a batch of coconut maccaroons, which I paired with a trio of ice creams and sorbet (mango, ginger, and coffee.) While Chris swooned over the meal, reaching for my hand under the table between bites, I was reminded of how food sustains us and keeps us going. For so long food was a way for me to reach out to people (and in some cases attract others), but now it is something that nurtures love and friendship.

She Was Here

2009-05-25T08:42:00.000-04:00

(The Lady of the House, Pierce Avenue)

We departed Saturday. After a long week of packing, a group of my guy friends arrived to load the moving truck so Chris and I could hit the road in the afternoon. I had little time to dwell on leaving though. A few days earlier, my friend and surrogate Oxford mother Elaine passed away unexpectedly. Her funeral services were Saturday morning.

Whenever I would leave Oxford, I always made it a point to say goodbye to Elaine at the local bookstore where she worked. We'd hug and I'd mischievously wave goodbye. Upon my return, I would visit her again to dish on my adventures while we shared a cup of coffee and she smoked a cigarette. She encouraged me and listened -- never judging -- as I told her the stories that might make my "real" mom cringe.

At the visitation services on Saturday, there were cards imprinted with an image of Elaine along with brief paragraph about her life. Elaine was homemaker it read (in addition to working part-time at Square Books). Despite the fact that she was well on her way to completing a Ph. D. in History when she met her husband more than thirty years ago, she gave herself to being a wife and mother. Above all else she loved her husband and children. "Homemaking" was her calling.

Home was an important part of Elaine's life. It was a haven for when her children returned to Oxford, a place of gathering, and for hiding from the world. It was filled with the past: photographs, knick-nacks, and other things handmade by Elaine or her children. With her passing, home takes on another meaning to me. It is a memorial to our existence that quietly proclaims, "I was here."

(In Memoriam Elaine Cremaldi)

The Corner of Our Universe

2009-05-18T00:32:00.000-04:00

(The Corner of Our Universe: Chris' Kitchen in Atlanta)

So this is it. A week ago I began dismantling my house at Pierce Avenue. As if it weren't difficult enough to deconstruct my HOME, I decided to torture myself with a yard sale.

Southerners share a particular penchant for yard sales. In fact, the largest of them runs along the I-127 corridor just a few hours away from Oxford. Last weekend in town there were 25 yard sales listed in the classified section of the local paper. My listing was among them:

1___ Pierce Avenue. 7 AM. Furniture. Art. Household Goods. Everything goes!

It was optimistic, and at first -- as I watched the sun rise over the neighborhood -- I was too. Then people began to arrive. They picked things up and I watched as they scrutinized how my belongings might fit into their lives. What do you with these?, one woman asked holding up a tart plate. I wanted to tell her about the roasted pears with marscapone or the potato gratin I once baked in them, but as I was about to speak she proclaimed that they would become saucers for her houseplants. She bought all six.

Inside my house these banal parts of my life made sense, but on the lawn they were disparate. Is context the key to feeling good about the arrangement and meaning of things that comprise our homes? I hope so. Next week my boyfriend (yes, the one I fell madly for at our bestfriends' wedding) and I will be living together. We'll be merging our two worlds -- both of which are sharply defined -- into one space. I love him for wanting to share his corner of the universe with me. Home, no doubt, will grow deeper with meaning.

2009-03-30T09:32:00.000-04:00

In the moonlight, the color and scent of the wisteria, seems so far away

'tsuki ni tooku oboyuru fuji no iroka kana'
-Yosa Buson (1716-1784)

I learned of this purple beauty after watching the English film Enchanted April. Wisteria and England are intertwined in my mind. When I see this woody vine, I want to brew a pot of tea.

My mother is half-English. There was no prescribed teatime at our house, but once she surprised us with a traditional afternoon tea. My first real one was in Peterborough, England. My cousins marveled at how many sugar cubes I dropped into my cup. Then they laughed as I drowned a scone in Devonshire cream and strawberry jam. I left not a crumb.

The tradition of teatime is no longer in vogue (unless you are like Moby and open a tea shop in Manhattan.) In fact, one English citizen was so concerned that the tradition would be forgotten that he sponsored an "afternoon tea" legacy for the National Trust, England's version of their preservation society. I worked there for a few months after college. Every day at 4 o'clock we sipped tea and nibbled on one of the many gourmet treats from the resident pastry chef.

Aside from the crumb cake, the thing I remember most was the conversation.

You can make tea time even sweeter by making a treat to go along with it. For my solo tea last weekend, I whipped up some date almond biscotti with ingredients I had on hand. You can modify this simple recipe to whatever ingredients are in your pantry.

Image source: Domino Magazine

The Good in Goodwill

2009-03-24T16:17:00.000-04:00

(Our dogs get along, so why can't we?)

"We respect a style that can move us away from what we fear and towards what we crave: a style which carries the correct dosage of our missing virtues." - Alain DeBotton, The Architecture of Happiness

If you haven't heard, I'm moving to Atlanta (which makes move number eleven.) I've been living alone in Oxford for the last year and have enjoyed it. I hang pink curtains without protest, obsessively clean without being called neurotic and never have to hear the drone of a television because I choose not to own one.

My relocation to Atlanta presents a situation which many of us have experienced: moving into another person's home. It's terrifying and exciting at the same time. In my case, it's the home of my boyfriend. In the past, I've lived with women who eventually become friends, but either way the emotions of sharing a space are similar.

How can we learn to better live with each other? I read last night that the sharing of a meal is one of the most important ways to nurture relationships between people who live together. I think of many of the meals I shared with Katy, my housemate who recently
married and moved to France. Bowls of pasta and salad provided the canvas for conversation about love, happiness, and dreams. The same goes for Chris, who like me, prefers to stay at home and cook. At home, there's no competition from clanging dishes and loud diners.

Learning to like what we contribute to our homes is another story. At first, Katy didn't love the art I hung around the house we shared, but it grew on her. I wasn't enamored with her futon but it became a cozy place for me to sleep when my bedroom was too cold. We grew to appreciate the things each other loved, and today, I miss her French memorabilia that covered the house.

Alain DeBotton asks, "Why do we change our minds about what we find beautiful?"

The answer: We learn to appreciate another person's contribution to our world. If you don't adore something, see it with a fresh pair of eyes. (And if all else fails, there is always Goodwill.)

Anti-Clutter is Anti-Southern

2009-03-19T09:13:00.000-04:00

(Clutter is such an unpleasant sight that I will spare you any illustration of it.)

With spring around the corner, there is one thing on my mind: A clean, fresh house.

I am convinced that an orderly home ushers in new ways of thinking and inspires healthy living. Several years ago, a friend gave me a copy of Simplify Your Life by Elaine St. James. In addition to whittling your wardrobe down to a palette of three colors and limiting lunch dates, she stresses keeping a clutter-free house.

Clutter is an interesting word. It's from the Middle English word cloteren which mean "to clot" and its modern usage suggests a state of confusion. The word is often used to convey a state of mind or the condition of a place -- usually the home.

In an effort to avoid clogged -- or clotted -- arteries, we limit the amount of bacon and butter we consume, but yet we don't limit the amount of stuff we put in our homes. In doing so, we thwart the creative process. (Anyone who has ever tried to write at a cluttered desk will understand.) For some, the problem stems from anxiety of parting with the past, but for most of us, it's simply laziness. While there are organizations to help the extreme cases of clutterers (check out Clutters Anonymous), the majority of us just need to get out of in front of the TV or stop procrastinating, or both.

In the South, people have a lot of stuff. Several houses come to mind, and in fact, when the New York Times wrote about one particular southern family, the description of their home is not without the reference to the amount of stuff on their walls, shelves, tables, etc:

If there were a publication called Southern Home and Book, the _______ place would be the editorial template. There’s a big wrap-around porch typical of antebellum manors, and the downstairs hall is given over to floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The décor exhibits the eccentricity and faded gentility Northerners associate with Southerners; in the parlor, which Ms. _______ calls the “critter room” because of animal-related objects like an armadillo basket and a stuffed bobcat, stands a wobbly-sounding piano, topped by a toy talking monkey.

I think the difference between what these people do -- namely, displaying their collections -- is different than someone keeping every issue of the New Yorker since 1980. (I know someone who does that too.) When a collection no longer has meaning, if it becomes so covered in dust that we can only make out its silhouette, it's time to reconsider the objects in our home. We must ask ourselves if we are we defining them or if they are defining us?

This weekend, in honor of spring, pick a room -- or start small with a closet -- and begin unclogging the arteries of your home.

I Dare You to Give Me Lemons

2009-03-11T14:56:00.001-04:00

(She wore lemon to colour in the grey night.)

I know the end of winter is near when yellow jonquils push up from the earth to announce spring. They don't stay around very long as they are quickly replaced by bright patches of tulips, then purple irises. Spring also wakes me with a symphony of bird calls outside my window.

Calendars and clocks are wonderful for organizing lives, but sometimes it's better to rely on our senses. If we are simply aware, we will know what's coming next. Give yourself permission to slow down and maybe even lay in bed longer to listen to the birds.

To save the last remnants of winter, I preserved lemons. Lemons are a traditional fruit of the cold weather months, but I like how they allude to spring. You can make preserved lemons in just twenty minutes at home. They'll keep in your refrigerator for up to six months. Enjoy them finely diced and tossed with fresh green vegetables, fish, barbecued meat, and anytime you want an unusual piquant flavor to spice up a meal.

A simple recipe for preserved lemons.

Image Souce: David Lebovitz

A Writer's Bestfriend

2009-02-23T14:48:00.000-05:00

(Donna Tartt's little friend.)

I'm rarely home these days. In fact, tonight I dined on takeout from a sandwich chain after a long day of running between campus and home. I envisioned living out my last days in Oxford cocooned in the place I created in which to nest, and instead, I am spending my time on the streets. Not Slum Dog Millionaire-style, but it does have to do with a dog.

Instead of the pink light inside my house that filters through my curtains, it's the blossoms of Japanese magnolias I see -- a first sign of spring -- every morning. I didn't realize what little time I spent outdoors until I got Em. Now, it's at least an hour, often more, that I am truly present in the world (when not telling Em "No" as she sniffs some unpleasant object, poised to dine on it.) I wonder how people can have dogs in big cities paved with cement when I delight in seeing Em's nose half buried in dirt.

Now that I have a dog, it seems that everyone does. I'm also learning dog introduction etiquette (which is that I learn the dog's name but not the owner's) and still get embarrassed when Em uses the front yard of a fancy mansion to relieve herself. Even still, with her in my life, I am in good company. I Google my favorite writers and I've found that dogs are common companions in this field. In fact, Em was a rescue from a group named for Willie Morris's beloved canine Pete.

Then there is the famous Faulkner portrait by Henri Cartier-Bresson with Faulkner looking out in repose with his animated "fyce" or rat terriers . Faulkner had this to say about dog ownership: "Every boy should have a dog. He should be ashamed not to own a dog, and so should everybody else who didn't own a dog." Over at The Valve, they've posted a link to pictures of esteemed writers and their dogs. There's Amy Hempill (Wanita), Donna Tartt (Pongo), and Robert Penn Warren (Frodo). The number of southern writers with dogs outnumbers the others, which is interesting considering that the post was on the New York Social Diary.

I can understand the way in which a dog fits into a writer's life, especially in the South where being outside is a way of life most months out of the year. Contemplation is the writer's best friend, too, and walking a dog provides an instant scenario in which to follow your instinct.

(Faulkner's decisive dogs.)

Spring Cleaning Comes Early

2009-02-08T22:30:00.000-05:00

(Some people use post-it notes to be organized, but I get a dog.)

One of the benefits of inviting people to stay with you is that all those projects you keep putting off are suddenly done in one afternoon. Such was the case last weekend, when, after realizing that Chris will be here in FOUR DAYS, I decided I had a lot to do. Namely: hand-mop the floors, rehang the shower curtain, change light bulbs, clear out the summer garden, vacuum the house and car, and wipe everything down. After being on the road for six weeks, a thick layer of dust covered just about everything, and now that I have a dog, hair covers just about everything.

Let's talk about the dog. As I write this, Emileigh is laying beside me in her bed on the floor. She probably thinks she has the most boring dog owner ever, wondering what it is I do all day beside move things around the house and tap at a white object that glows. Bored by me, and because she is still a puppy, she's managed to add some flair to the house. The silk couch I own is now flawed, as is a lamp, and I am with one less bird's nest.

There is a strange correlation between Emileigh and my boyfriend's arrival to my house. Space, that thing we can never really define until something or someone disturbs it, has become an issue. I can not fathom how my parents' shared their space with six children. I am having a hard enough time adjusting to staying with my boyfriend and letting a dog sit on my couch. And perhaps, therein lies the problem.

Growing up, I didn't have any space. Space was the bottom bunk and the pen I used to write underneath the one above me to establish my territory. My twin sister and I used to tape a line down the middle of the room on Saturdays when our room had to be cleaned by the end of the day. That was the only time I was OK with her having a few extra inches. Continuing in the shared space theme, I moved in with my boyfriend after I left my parents' house in the suburbs. He and I lived in a smallish apartment in the the city with a Lab and a German Shepard. The Lab ate a good deal of my books. He, just like Emileigh, was a puppy.

I lived with one other boyfriend after that. He worked from home out of our bedroom, desipte the large den he could have used in the house we shared with a friend. Instead, he became a permanent fixture in the corner of the room with his tower of Coke cans, a sight I found far from endearing. When we moved to London, there was no other choice than to work out of our tiny studio apartment, so we became brilliant (that's what they say to mean "great!" in London) at driving each other nuts. I read and he asked me why I read so much.

Of course with Chris it is different, and with Emileigh too. There is still the adjusting and the wondering if what I am doing is crazy.I like things to be perfect. I look at magazine of homes that are crisp and serene and without a speck of mess. I want that because to me it demonstrates control. But if we let a little bit of control go in our lives, we can let another thing enter: love.

Dogs and the End of Television

2009-02-06T22:06:00.000-05:00

(Meet Emileigh Earhart, my bakery beagle.)

I have entered the world of dogs, so there will be some new posts coming up next week. In the meantime, I'm getting the house ready for my boyfriend's first visit to see me (usually I trek the five and a half hours to see him) and trying to train a kind of puppy. I've already prepared Chris for the no television-zone, which he took care of by figuring out a way to redirect his satellite to his laptop. I am amazed by how quickly men go to action to do such inane things as redirecting their television, but when it comes to screwing in a new bulb or taking the trash out, it can take months, let alone ever happen. Thankfully, I've got a guy who can do both.

Dinner Party Daresay

2009-01-18T22:50:00.000-05:00

I'm reminded that Mississippi is the Hospitality State every time I return from a trip. Its motto is emblazoned across its welcome sign. I was once told by an Italian that when you are invited to their home for dinner, it's a sincere gesture. It's the same for Southerners. So what's the proper thing to do when you are invited to dinner and told not bring anything? Bring wine or flowers.

One friend, who was a usual guest at my dinner table, always brought either flowers or wine. It was particularly nice when he brought flowers because they were something I considered an indulgence. My roommate and I would drop them in the closest vase, or something vaguely resembling a vase, and the table was set. Another nice touch is something that Alysson often does. Buy flowers from the grocer and dress them up in nice paper. (Even newspaper can look good when tied with a pretty bow.)

Wine is a welcome treat, too, even if it is not intended to be consumed that evening. I've received many a bottle of my favorite wine or port when the table was already full of libations. The gift can be saved for another occasion. The next dinner party they invite you to perhaps.

So why bring anything? Consider the fact that your host/friend has gone out of their way to accommodate you. Even the tidiest of hosts must spend some time freshening up their place. I should know, since I always devote a few hours to cleaning before a dinner party. Meal preparation also requires substantial time (not to mention money) to ensure a scrumptious feast. And don't forget the fun afterwards. While you are crawling into your cozy bed, your host is cleaning up the equivalent of a week's worth of dirty dishes. I'm lucky enough to have friends who linger around for the dishwashing, but I never expect it.

I used to throw dinners on a regular basis, but the cost and time made the experience less than enjoyable. Downsizing and limiting my feasts to simple, managable meals (my boyfriend gets the experimental dishes), has made dinners with friends a reality once again. It would seem that throwing a dinner for friends is a burden, and for some people it is. It also explains why places like Applebees and TGIFs are still in business. If you haven't had friends over in while, invite them over. For me, it feels good to wait on other people, but home is also an intimate place for people to get to know you better.

***

For an easy gathering with friends, consider brunch. Many of the dishes can be made a day ahead of time so that you can enjoy your friends' company. Also, you can serve a signature drink like Bloody Marys or Mimosas, or be adventurous and invent your own breakfast concoction. With clean up at a minimum, you'll have the afternoon to take a nap!

Dog House

2009-01-10T08:49:00.000-05:00

(Oscar Mills)

I'm about to foster a dog in my home, a beagle named Emileigh.

The Dog History runs deep and dysfunctional in my family. My twin sister has two Bostons. They're wild and fierce, but at night they are like any tired dog. They sleep. We had dogs growing up. There was Dukes, then Angie, and finally, Bear. All were mutts and when the kids grew tired of feeding them, my parent's surrendered all three to sympathetic friends with larger yards. (In a similar move, my older sister "got rid of" a Papillon mix that "drove her nuts." In a car ride the other day, her two-year-old proclaimed out of nowhere, "No Dogs!", to which her mother chimed in, "Or cats!" Unable to train dogs, she's at least trained her daughter.) Like my older sister, my mom has never been a fan of canines, and I suspect it was my father's persuasion that allowed any dogs to set foot, let alone stay, in our house. Today, they have a miniature Daschund, a runt named Brutus.

Brutus belonged to one of my brothers, but between his yearly sojourn to Switzerland and moves around town, Brutus relocated to my parents' house, and more specifically, my dad's lap. In Mississippi, I had my own dogs for a time. There was Bass, a gentle German Shepard, and Badger, a Lab mix whose name fit his rambunctious personality. For four years, I was a dog owner, sharing the responsibility with a boyfriend. They were clearly his dogs though. Four years later he split and took the dogs with him.

The only dog I was truly fond for the last few years is Oscar, a dog rescued from the rubble of Katrina. He belonged to my friend Alysson, who previously lived in my house. I remember the first time I saw Alysson. She was walking north on Lamar with this handsome, blond dog at the end of a leash. For a moment, I was transported to Paris. (Later I learned that Oscar responded to some commands in French.) The pair was the picture of chic in a small, north Mississippi town and I wanted to know them. We met shortly thereafter, and have remained friends, sharing recipes, glasses of wine, and stories. Oscar, I'm told, is settled into his new digs in Jackson, but when he stops by his old place at Pierce, you can tell he remembers it.

Many Homes for the Holidays

2008-12-24T17:12:00.000-05:00

I'm still on the road and will be moving around the South until the Super Bowl. Currently, I am in Tampa, Florida, but before that I was spending time in Atlanta. However, for the last few days I was on Crystal River, just north of where I grew up on the Tampa Bay. I will be posting about another kind of manspace I found there. More later.

Until then, Merry Christmas and Happy Hannukah to all.

Making Room for the Man Couch

2008-12-17T11:55:00.000-05:00

(Humidor)

LaGrange, Georgia. – The way to a man’s heart is not through his stomach, but through a leather recliner. I spent the last two days with my best friend Jessica and her husband James at their home in LaGrange where James took a job a few years ago. Jessica says the house was bachelor pad before she moved in.

Vestigages of that life remain: beer steins and leather couches.

According to one source, a hallmark of the bachelor pad is the lack of attention to detail and cleanliness. The leather couch makes sense, he says. The cushions never have to go to the dry cleaner, which makes cleaning up easy.

A list of men who own leather couches whirls around in my head. Brother-in-laws and rockers among them. In the case of my sister, both she and her spouse decided to put a black leather set in their living room. That was four years ago. Today, she’s wondering why she didn’t recommend them for the den.

This brings me to where the man couch should live. In an earlier post, my architect cousin Beth explained the role of the den, specifically how modern design plans have thwarted this much-coveted man space. Rather than dens or sitting rooms, which were for the ladies, open floor plans force people to share spaces once deemed private for the different sexes.

So what's the big deal? My recent writing on the value of shared spaces suggests that the phasing out of the den is a good thing. It’s not. The best relationships are ones with boundaries, and in the South, where boundaries are often blurred, privacy is at a premium. The man couch in the living room (or what was once the sitting room) looks weird because it is. Where there should be a humidor, there’s a chintz vase in its place.

(Chintz Vase)

Putting the "PUH" in Pecan

2008-12-09T01:31:00.000-05:00

As some of you know, I spend a good amount of my life in the kitchen. Today, I received this recipe from Cara Lundqvist, a former high school classmate of mine in Tampa, Florida, who now lives in Finland. (She met the man and moved there!)

A southern home is not complete without its pies. Three gold stars for Cara for keeping up the southern tradition of making pecan (puh-kahn) pie in Finland:

PECAN PIE

Filling
Ingredients
1 cup of dark brown sugar
2/3 cups of maple syrup
1 tablespoon of rum
3 eggs
2 cups of chopped pecans

Directions
In a bowl, whip the brown sugar and the syrup together until sugar has dissolved and the consistency is smooth.
Beat in 2 eggs and add 1 tablespoon of rum.
Add pecans and mix around until they get completely covered in the sticky liquid.

Crust
Ingredients
6 tablespoons of butter
24 graham crackers
2 eggs
1 teaspoon of cinnamon

Directions
Melt 6 tablespoons of butter in a saucepan or microwave.
Crush 24 graham crackers into fine pieces.
In a bowl, add the butter into the graham cracker mix. Add more butter if needed. Mix should be moist. Stir in 2 egg whites. Add a teaspoon of cinnamon.
Press graham cracker mix into pie plate.
Pre-bake pie crust for 8-10 minutes at 350F.

Pour filling into the pre-baked crust and bake until the pecans are lightly toasted on top. About 20-30 minutes.

No TV Zone

2008-12-01T22:03:00.000-05:00

I am hooked on television. I don't own an "idiot box," so whenever I have the chance to park it in front of one, I do. For those of you who think this is strange, I couldn't agree with you more. I haven't owned a TV in years. The reason is simple. I would become an addict.

(Case in point: Last night, I watched 3/4 of the True Blood series. More on that later...)

It's unfortunate, because Barry Hannah, the acclaimed writer and hero to many, once explained the value of the TV for creativity, and especially writing. It's about stories, he said. (In reality, my friend used this argument when I made fun of how much he watched TV. It's not in the watching, it's what you do with it that counts.) Hannah's point is that too much isolation from the rest of the world is never a good thing.

(Barry Hannah)

Clarissa subscribed to cable this fall. This is my friend who grew up in the bright lights and big cities of L.A. and New York. For the first couple of years she lived in Oxford, she watched movies and a few local fuzzy channels she captured with bunny ears. I recall the day I walked into her house and noticed the screen was clear. You have cable, I announced, rather than asked. Then in her usual way of explaining things (yes, my Clarissa really does explain it all), she told me that she needed it.

All this brings me to the "blog." A few weeks ago during my meeting with Charles Wilson, the professor signing off on this project, we discussed the sudden-hit TV series True Blood. I'd heard about it from my sister in Florida who records it and watches at her convenience every week. It's good she told me, but never why. So when Dr. Wilson brought up, I was intrigued. What is he doing watching this show?

(It's like Cheers with Vampires and Sex and Southern Drawls.)

Charles Wilson has his finger on the cultural pulse of the South, that's why. The show, he explained, and I would later find out, was series of dialogues about race, sexuality, and gender in the South. What I noticed, aside from the rich amount of sex and violence, was the depictions of southern homes. Whether it's the home Jason now lives in since he parents died in a flash flood, the home Sookie inhabits by herself since her grandmother was murdered, or the shabby digs of Tara's abode she shares with her alcoholic mother, the theme is this: the south is all about the shared space. Even Will Compton, the vampire Sookie has fallen for, shares his home with transient vampires; and Sam, the owner of the bar Merlotte's, spends more time in there than in his tin can trailer. You get the sense that people move between spaces more freely in the south.

I thinking about this as I plan my own move from Pierce Avenue. Will it be easy? I hope so, and perhaps watching a little TV will help with the process.

It's a Man's World, but the Bedroom Don't Mean Nothin' Without a Woman or a Girl

2008-11-29T16:22:00.000-05:00

So I spent last weekend in Atlanta. The conversation about gendered spaces came up again, although this time I got feedback from my boyfriend Chris, whose corner of his bedroom I had taken over. He scored points with me saying that the bedroom should be a shared space. Really?, I thought, as I reorganized my oversized suitcase blocking the master bathroom.

Ideally, a home, especially the bedroom, should feel as though it is a shared space for those who live there. Most men will take a back seat to decorating, protesting the occasional stuffed bird or pink walls (or curtains, in my case.) Chris's house, on the other hand, is distinctly his own, which is something I can appreciate. He has a plethora prints, a series of monochrome paintings that line his hallway, and a large abstract drawing that forms the focal point (though it competes with his "tiny" television) of his living room. There are leather couches, ample lighting throughout, and a pairs of glass doors that open to a porch (where both male and female smokers congregate.)

Where we were great at sharing space, aside from the obvious, was in the kitchen. Ordinarily, I am territorial in this space, but with the right person I move in tandem with my partner. The kitchen, I was told, was more or less an eyesore before Chris has his way with it. Now replete with slate and granite, and all new appliances, including a gas range, it's a cozy space, and probably the place where we spent a good amount of my visit. We cooked several meals together for ourselves and friends. There was his chicken, pasta carbonara, and chicken salad, paired with my risotto, steak, and grits.

Back in my tiny Oxford home, I crave the company I had in Atlanta. People complain about sharing a home, but I've realized how much we miss out on when we stir a pot of risotto together. A bed even seems more inviting when it becomes a place to disappear to together.

House/Sex/Wars

2008-11-20T07:57:00.001-05:00

"So," I ask my friends Michael, Matt, and Clarissa, "Is the bedroom a female space?" Earlier that day, my professor and I discussed gender and space and after determining the porch male, the kitchen female, and the living areas shared, we were left with the bedroom.

Michael and Clarissa claimed female while Matt later recanted that it is solely such. His parents, he said, share everything. It's a his and hers house. The conversation ended and the guys proceeded to the porch while the women stayed in the kitchen.

While they did whatever it is men do on porches (Clarissa posits that the porch is actually a shared space, and while I think she is right, it has only recently become this way), we women cooked and dished on men.

When Matt and Michael returned, the conversation resumed. Matt pointed out how in the 1980/90s there was a change in Southern architecture that witness the den (male space) become a shared space with the kitchen. A bar often separated the two. I'm curious about the truth of his observation. When did the open floor plan take hold of the south? Was it something that the west coast or more urban areas embraced before we did? Very likely, but I'll get the facts from my architect cousin in Portland and let everyone know.

For now, our group seemed content to interpret the bedroom as a female space. Then I remembered that my mother, in the last year or so, painted her shared bedroom pink. Not a soft pink, but a garish flamingo color. Light comes through the windows on late afternoon and it becomes for my parents what Dr. Charles Wilson calls "a sanctuary." And perhaps he's right. As I write, I am in my sanctuary. A bed with a heated blanket.

Eat Like a Southerner

2008-11-19T09:54:00.000-05:00

(Did someone just die, or are the Rebels playing?)

I finished the article on Helene DeFrance's cookbook/entertainment guide the other night. Reading it was rather timely considering I've been in entertaining mode for most of November. This month there was dinner with friends every weekend. There was Alysson and two other law clerks from Jackson (toast points with caramelized onion and Parmesan cheese, rosemary pecans, and the ubiquitous cheese plate), a baked ziti dinner (a la Marcella Hazan) with Alysson, Nathan and Scott Barretta, and most recently, a shared meal with Scott (a regular) and my friend Avon who spent the last year in France learning about food at Rose Bakery in Paris. The menu was simple: orrecichette with a bordelaise New Orleans-style sauce and salad. This weekend, I'll be cooking remotely in Atlanta.

(The Maryland Rebels and their pan-fried chicken.)

Entertaining is one thing southerners have down pat. Witness the Grove. Aside from weddings, I've never seen such decadent and decided planning of meals. What happens in the Grove has garnered the attention of national print in Saveur among other publications. Recently, I was to meet some editors there from Gourmet who were considering doing a story on the spectacle. A spectacle it is. When my brothers arrive next week from Florida, I intend on sharing this little piece of culinary heaven with them.

On the Plate

2008-11-12T12:43:00.000-05:00

What fortuitous timing. Yesterday, during a culture meeting for the company I work for, I was asked to make our new office "pretty." The enthusiasm for my selection stemmed from the knowledge that I whipped Pierce Avenue into shape in under a month. (The key to getting anything done is setting a deadline, and in the case of my new home, I set the date for a party.)

The company's new location will be at the corner of Van Buren and S. 9th, just across the street from St. Peter's Episcopal Church. The highlight of the place is not its "decaying elegance," though there is certainly something to be said of it, but its porch. I find it fitting that a company, which has positioned itself as helping businesses with their identity, would work out of a place reminiscent of a home. Homes are incubators of our identities.

Lagniappe:

(Signing with Helen DeFrance on November 28 at Square Books.)

Bess Currence Reed, formerly of Regal Literary out of NYC (and now all things BBB with her husband and chef, John Currence) just asked me to write about Helen DeFrance's forthcoming cookbook At Home Cafe: Gatherings for Family and Friends. I'll be interviewing Helen for an article that will tie-in with her event in Oxford on November 28.

Homekeeping Tip #1

2008-11-12T12:05:00.000-05:00

(Alysson poised to pour.)

This in from Alysson Mills who refers to my home as "Mary's Jewelbox":

Here are two websites that you should be checking daily --

www.designspongeonline.com

www.apartmenttherapy.com

DISCLAIMER: Both sites provide sneak peaks of homes capable of producing house envy in the viewer.

On the Menu: Southern Kitchens

2008-11-11T09:39:00.000-05:00

(Tasting the menu at Ravine.)

No discussion of the southern home is complete without addressing the bedroom (reading: Suzi Parker's Sex in the South; watching: Cat on a Hot Tin Roof). Before I explore that space, however, this week I'll be posting on the southern kitchen and the places we entertain.

Living in Oxford, Miss., creates more than a few examples for this conversation. Home of the Southern Foodways Alliance, an organization that documents and celebrates the diverse food cultures of the American South, as well as The Grove, a place on the campus of the University of Mississippi that becomes the picnic grounds for those attending the football games most weekends in the fall, Oxford is not short on places to eat. There are also a few restaurants on the outskirts of town, whose cozy settings coupled with a BYOB policy, create an at-home dining experience.

I'll be bombarding the blog with posts on all of these things, in addition to a write up of Julia Reed's latest books on home and entertaining, and my own ruminations on what it means to feed people. How did I become a hostess? There's a story there, I promise.

In Which Mary Confesses to Being a Snoop

2008-11-02T00:01:00.000-04:00

I have a confession. I like to know what people keep in their drawers and closets. Apparently, so do other people. As I finished packing my suitcase last weekend, Michael Hearst, one of my house guests, said something along the lines of, "Looking forward to going through your stuff." Hours earlier, I hid my journal and other unmentionables, but only for the sake of politeness. I laughed him off.

The subject came up initially at breakfast. Another person in the entourage staying at my house confessed to doing the same thing as a kid. I'm convinced that some of us have carried the habit into adulthood out of a yearning to "know" the other. While I can't remember the last time I employed my finely tuned snooping skills (and you wonder what we learn in grad school, hah!), my house provides the curious with a cadre of places to find things. One such thing is a long, narrow, wooden box with a series of small drawers. Within each of them are at least one of the following: shells, keys, sea sponges, feathers, prayers written on little pieces of paper, and marbles. Those are just the things I can publicly admit to hiding.

Why do we hide things that don't necessarily need to be veiled? Sometimes I think it is to simply be surprised by that which we possess, but have forgotten.

If the boys dug through any of my drawers, I wouldn't know. But I did receive this video that gives me at least a vague idea of what went on while I was away.

The Guest House

2008-10-22T22:01:00.000-04:00

(Can I?, Andrew Blanchard)

This weekend, I hit the road for Nashville and Asheville, then Spartanburg, South Carolina on Sunday to see my friends Drew and Liz Blanchard. While I am gone, the Southern Foodways Association kicks off its 11th symposium where writers, historians, and the curious converge this year to talk about southern beverages. (Don't worry, Blueprint will be deconstruction the kitchen next week.)

I mention this only because in my absence, some of the conference's guests will be staying at my house. I offered chez Mary to Michael Hearst, member of One Ring Zero, a Brooklyn-based band. SFA conference organizer, John T. Edge, asked them to come down and play some of their songs, which are based on chefs' recipes, at one of the events. I'm glad I'll get to catch some of this before I leave on Thacker Mountain Radio and later at Proud Larry's, a local music venue.

I give Michael the key to my heart-home (because that is how I feel about my space these days) Friday morning. Then I'm off to a wedding for the first leg of the trip (after a night in Nashville) and head over to South Carolina. Some will remember my introduction of Andrew Blanchard last month when I made false promises about posting an interview with him. Well, in addition to eating vegetarian food and basking in the company of good South Carolinians, I intend on sitting down with Drew (hopefully on his back porch) to make things right.

The Corner of the Universe

2008-10-18T20:23:00.000-04:00

(The main bath of House #6, which I shared with two guys. It wasn't so bad.)

The only place I feel that I am myself is in the shower, I once told a friend. He laughed, and then I realized what I had said. How people behave in their homes versus in public spaces is the subject of many biographies that line bookstore shelves. It’s nothing new. “Our house,” writes Gaston Bachelard, “is our corner of the universe.” On our front porches, we may play a role of some kind – concerned/nosy/noisy neighbor – but once we cross over the threshold of our houses, we can exist as we wish.

Even though I rent the place I live in, I still consider it a home. Owning the property is not the key. What matters is owning the idea of it as a home. Few people in New York City and other urban centers possess a mortgage, yet despite this fact, they’ve made where they dwell their own. My corner of the universe has been described as happy, cozy, warm. Quite different adjectives have been used to describe me in public places. “You’re cold,” one ex-boyfriend complained. He didn’t realize the “chill” was just a costume. People who know me, and more importantly, those who have sat at my table, would laugh at the thought of me as The Ice Queen.

So, if homes can affect who we are and our perspective of life, why do we spend so much time trying to make them look like the austere places we see in magazines (devoid of humanity and life) and invest little energy in their maintenance?

Blueprint for a Southern Home

Design Bacchanalia

Food & Handsome Men

Closeted

In Memoriam

New Year, New Traditions

If the World Were a Catalog

She Sleeps and Her Writing Does Too

The Language of Plants

Afterglow of a Patio

A Gift For You, Dear Reader

The Great Fires

New Paths on Old Property

Never the ____________, Always the ____________

If These Walls Could Talk

You Get What You Need

Finishing Off the Details

Summer Roast

Mea Culpa

To the Women - Make Use of Time

G is For Galanga and the Wonderful Curries You Can Make With It

Mold is a 50s Ranch-Style Home's Bestfriend

Environmental Serenade

Schedule

Masquerade at Home

Short Sheeted

Too Long, Days Too Short

Choosing the Path Home

Dear Isla-

Blue Plate Special

Pink Peonies that My True Love Gave to Me

The Post in Which the Universe Has Righted Itself

Tea Time

First Prize Friends

Tea Time

Chaos Theory #1

Hell or High Water

View from a Room

Just Peachy

Stay Tuned ... In

Tea Time

Tea Time

Booth Be Gone

Falling for Words

Today's To-Do List

Tea Time

Apple Pie Redux

Tea Time

Speaking of Progress

Trayed Not Tabled

Tea Time

October Haiku

Bad Idea

Clocking In on My Time

After the Flood

Demo This

Staying Alive

Napping Lately

A Room of a Different Color

From the Cry Baby Room: Hot House Flower and the Nine Plants of Desire*

Everything in Its Place

Head-to-Toe Vegetables

The More the Mary-er

Florida Redux

Dual Homecomings

Craving Normalcy

Precursor to Status Anxiety

Strikes Me As Lovely

Mixing Business and Pleasure

The Kitchen Ascent

Life's Ups and Downs

Selling Ideas of Home

Formerly of the Hospitality State but still Hospitable

IKEA for Dummies

Florida by Any Other Name

Twig Follow-Up

Twiggy Revisited

Sharing the Table

She Was Here

The Corner of Our Universe

Never the , Always the