I've been hitting the blogger circuit lately, stepping into other people's lives for a spell. After visiting, I always leave comments (please write back!), which I like to think of as the 2013 version of the 19th-century calling card. Blog posts are just like old-fashioned paper invitations: "Come on in and take the armchair by the fire. The tea's almost ready."
Most of my new bloggy friends share their favorite things now and then, lovely pictures and words of and about French homes and blue farmhouses, antiques and repurposed castoffs, mouthwatering concoctions cooling on countertops, and glimpses of family love--near perfect and almost dysfunctional, all waving me in, making me comfortable in their separate worlds.
So here's my invitation to you: Step in, and I'll show you around my place a little. Maybe we'll have a bite to eat when we're finished.
Matthew, my oldest son, brought this dear wooden elephant family back from a trip to Ghana, where he'd gone to take photographs. The carver sold them in sets, but not in graduated families of six, big to little. Matty can be very convincing, and somehow the seller was made to understand that this gift had to contain a father, mother, biggest brother, big brother, little big sister, and baby sister. The elephant family rode home in a backpack, along with some Canon equipment, slung over the shoulder of a 6'4" traveler.
I had a hard time finding just the right spot for this sweet gift, the elephants' dark roundness blending too easily into tables and shelves.
Their current home is a repurposed planting box that held six small clay pots of portulaca for years, until the bottom fell out! Here, the repurposed box is turned on its side, allowing a private room for each of them.
If you come to visit me, you'll find this ceramic heart hanging in my entryway. I found it in a little shop outside of Boston, where we'd traveled to watch my oldest daughter play lacrosse with her college team. Allowed some rare time away from her team, we walked the hilly streets linked by small shops, stopping first for red velvet cupcakes crowned with fat pink icing roses and then for creamy, white chowder spooned up at a table in front of an old stone fireplace.
I did indeed buy the little heart as a memento, but look closely at its message. "Expect miracles."
I always do.
Okay, I'll admit it. I have a glass problem. I'm attracted (especially to dishes) to things made from glass, so if you need to borrow platters, plates, bowls, cups, or glasses, you know where to come. Once my husband asked me to stop buying dishes, but I think I've convinced him that one can never have enough (I just keep cooking!), especially when they are as lovely as this one. We bought this thin curve of a platter at the Three Rivers Arts Festival, where I stood mesmerized by the tablets of colors crafted by the vendor's glass alchemy.
"We'll take the big one," my husband told him.
And so we did. In the summer, this platter holds greens lightly tossed with a sweet lemon vinaigrette (mix the juice of 1/2 lemon with 1/3 cup olive oil, about 2 tablespoons of Splenda, and salt and pepper--this is a to-taste vinaigrette, so don't be shy---lick your finger and then adjust to your liking), often topped with panko-crusted goat cheese (the secret here is to partially freeze the cheese, cut into 2-inch slices which are then pressed into a plate of panko crumbs and browned quickly in about an inch of olive oil), thin red onion, and chunks of pear,
just like this:
When the salad's all gone, and we've licked the lemony bits from our fingers, I wash the gem-studded platter gently, holding it up to catch the light streaming through the window.
No comments:
Post a Comment