It’s inevitable. I buy cookie making supplies in bulk. I have cutters for all occasions. I have cheap sets of food dyes and way too pricey ones, too. I typically have extra flour and sugar in my pantry, many times over. I stockpile powders – both the sugar and meringue versions. There’s enough butter in my fridge to make you think I churn it myself. I get the eggs straight from my sister-in-law’s hobby farm. I love to make sugar cookies, the complicated ones with pretty color palettes and bouquets of piped royal icing roses. I’ve gotten to be a decent cookier over the last decade. Why is it that, when my timeline is tighter than a pair of 80s jeans, I always get to the vanilla part and realize I am completely out? You need 2 different vanillas when you make cookies. Only real extract will do for the cookie part of the equation. But, when you mix the icing, real vanilla will absolutely ruin the color. Icing calls for clear imitation vanilla so your blues won’t veer toward green, and your pinks will ring true. That is how I found myself on an afternoon vanilla run a few months ago. The grocery store is only 4 turns from my driveway. Turn #1 is where I saw her. She was sitting in the ditch, her dark brown legs shining in the late afternoon sun. She was disheveled, sure. Her white cotton skirt was a filthy brown in many places. I was out of my car faster than my dachshund when he hears the treat jar shake. I looked at her hard. I could save her; I was pretty sure. Still, there was only one way to know. I had to smell her. Expecting the worse, I took a deep breath and went in with gusto, touching my nose to her seat. Sandalwood? Was that a hint of clove? Definitely lavender. I was relieved. She was filthy but smelled like an angel. This dirty little Chesterfield loveseat with the mahogany turned legs was coming home with me. I love free stuff. I love old stuff. I love the thrill of the hunt and the unexpected success of reinvention.
I am where family heirlooms come to die. Some of them even came from my own family. I have my great aunt Johnny’s chifforobe, my blessed cross to bear since birth. It’s been a closet, a craft cabinet, and currently serves as pantry overflow. I have my own grandmother’s turn of the century dining table, China hutch, and buffet. I have Kevin’s grandmother’s China. I have everyone’s collections: gloves, doilies, handkerchiefs, and dolls. I have all the old luggage, 50 years’ worth of perfume remnants, gallons of vintage buttons, and piano sheet music from the 40s. I have my grandfather’s barbering cape and his razor straps. I have vintage shellacked turtle shells and a cow’s jawbone from a Hunt Brother’s farm tank another grandfather dug. I have an extensive feather grouping, a troupe of milk glass pieces, antique church hymnals galore, and quite the assemblage of marble eggs. I love old wooden spoons and dried flowers and snake sheds and real silverware. I have Aunt Opal’s mink stole from Neiman’s, my grandmother’s aprons, and any family Bible I can swipe. Often, there is no love for the old things, no place for velvet lined music boxes or leather diaries or really nice grosgrain ribbon. I am single-handedly saving industries, I tell you.
This was a great weekend for redecorating my living room. In my world, that means unearthing my collections and going shopping in all the closets, all the rooms, and underneath all the beds. It made me think. There isn’t much in this house that is new. Most of my furniture is second hand. I don’t see the purpose in spending insane money with a home full of dogs and cats who are not as much welcomed on the furniture as they are mandated to use it all. My sofa was a marketplace find, used, covered with a black velvet slipcover I engineered based on a dream I had. True story. The occasional chair was purchased at a going out of business thrift store. I had it recovered with a bolt of gorgeous Waverly toile fabric I scored from a Goodwill for $5. The end tables were old nightstands. The 1890 upright grand piano was a thrift store birthday present from me to me. My headboard was made from all the 1910 doors we didn’t reuse during a remodel. My dining area is miniscule, so the aforementioned China hutch is where 99% of my clothes reside in my closet. The extra toilet paper is in the wooden produce container from Spain. If you need to vacuum, you’ll have to open another antique wardrobe to find the Hoover, duh. But, if you really make a mess, go straight for my mother’s early 80s Rainbow vacuum. It’s in the cabinet with the turntable and my vinyl album collection.
Trends come and trends go. Today’s all white is tomorrow’s Skittle colored walls. I may have dropped out of my architecture classes due in equal parts to another baby on the way and horrible math skills, but I know this much to be true. A perfectly designed room is the one you walk into that reeks of you. Suddenly, you can exhale. Your shoes pop off with zero effort on your part. You sink into the fabrics and scents and sights. You want to stay. That’s all that matters. For me, that means living in a museum. You know, where people come to see ‘em. Incidentally, that Chesterfield loveseat turned out to be a stunner.
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