Tag Archives: Musings from the Dream House

Now We Are Seven

This dog ball sits under a lucite box in my office as a reminder that you never know what will change your life.  A little over seven years ago I walked into George Terbovich’s shop in Crestwood to buy a lighted dog ball for Rosie.  I thought it was nothing more than an afternoon errand to fill the time after my youngest’s nap and before his brothers’ carpool.

But it started a journey from shopgirl to blog reader to (on-and-off-again) blog writer.  I could not have foreseen the changes that this blog would bring when I stood on that concrete floor and shook this ball and watched the light inside flicker like fireflies for the delight of my five-year-old.

Today marks the anniversary of my first post. Mrs. Blandings opened my world in a way I never expected. I know that there are readers who have been around from the beginning and I am so flattered that you find something here to enjoy. Many of the bloggers who started in 2007 became real friends and I am still amazed that people can create a connection on-line that holds up in real life.

I am grateful, too, to the editors who have featured me on their pages and sites.  Thank you to Zim Loy, Stacy Downs, Margaret Russell, Karen Carroll and Michael Boodro. Thank you, too, to every designer  – too many to mention – who picked up the phone or answered an email about some crazy thing that had piqued my curiosity.  I am constantly inspired by your instinct, your knowledge, your passion and the humor with which you share it.

I did not expect to be a blogger (which seemed silly to me then.) I certainly did not expect to blog (on-and-off-again) for seven years (talk about silly.) So I can’t say if I’ll be here for seven more.  Life changes.  But the last seven years writing Mrs. Blandings have been a ball.  Thanks for playing along.

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Tools of the Trade

Do I need a vintage wine carrier? One that is secured with a dusky brass latch, that opens to reveal a space just large enough to nestle two bottles? No.  I do not.  But did I buy it because it’s infinitely more charming than toting wine to a friend’s in a sack or grasped firmly around the neck? Yes, that, and because what would feel better than the smooth ridges of the rattan on the backs of my fingers as I swing it in rhythm with my stride? Nothing that I could think of at the time. As I waffled (not too long, don’t worry) it did occur to me that I might give it as a hostess gift.  And I might.  But that is what I said when I succumbed to the vintage glass pitcher with the silver top that has the built-in cylinder for ice.  The same vintage glass pitcher that looks so lovely filled with lemonade garnished with fruit that lives in my cabinet still. Perhaps they will be friends, the wine carrier and the pitcher.  Long, long time friends.

If you haven’t been to Underdog Wine in Crestwood, do stop in.  It’s terrific.

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I’m White Again

Before we circle back to Paris (it seems to be a slow and circuitous route) I wanted to add one more entry from my current chalky white fixation.  I took the two youngest boys and a friend down to the Crossroads for First Fridays this month.

When there is something that I want the boys to see to which I know they might not immediately be attracted, I plan and promise in small doses.  We stay as long as it’s fun.  Junky food is likely a reward.

The weather here has been gorgeous and that night was no exception.  Live music, lots of dogs, one interesting gentleman in a black speedo and a cowboy hat all provided plenty of entertainment for them and for me.

They enjoyed the galleries more than I expected and spent some time looking at the art and speculating at the intent of the artist.  I was captivated by these sculptures by Judy Onofrio at Sherry Leedy. Onofrio has used bone in her work over the last few years.  A serious illness and the healing and survival that followed provided Onofrio the perspective that with endings there are new beginnings.  Even my middle son, who is still disturbed by the swan and often says, “Why do you always like things that have to do with death?” admired the grace and strength of these.  Though what he said was, “Yeah, they’re cool.” Indeed.

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Dexter Takes the Lead

Unless I need to set the alarm very early, this is how I wake nearly every day.  He wants out.  He wants breakfast.  He wants a walk.  I don’t have a rug in my room and he shifts his weight, the click of his nails on the floor both polite and insistent.  If I don’t open my eyes he lets out long sighs, but stop shorts of a whine.

Dexter always wins.  His exuberance and good nature are difficult to deny.  In addition, Rosie has been at the vet for several days.  She has a hematoma in her ear that became infected.  (I am hoping she secretly has a trust fund that she has been too shy to tell me about as well.) We can tell that Dex is concerned, though he’s not depressed. We are being gentle with him.  We understand.  We miss her, too.

The dogs and I usually take long, fast walks in the morning in order to keep my heart rate, and backside, up. Dexter doesn’t mind fast, but is impatient with my unwillingness to let him stop and smell, well, everything. The weather this weekend has been beautiful.  Summer, still, but not too hot and little humidity.  So tonight, in order to enjoy the evening and please him, I took him on a slow walk and let him stop and smell as often and as long as he wanted. There were times, as he sniffed seemingly nothing for an inordinate amount of time, that I was reminded of my same resolve and resulting impatience fourteen years ago or so, on visits when I promised my oldest that we could stay at the train store as long as he wanted.

Dexter amuses me in his typically male behavior of marking all territory “mine,” and I indulged him in this, too.  I think he is ridiculous, but he’s quite focused on this task.  Rosie, when she’s with us, looks back over her shoulder at me as he does this very nearly rolling her eyes.  Again, typically, he takes our inability to understand in stride.

He enjoyed the stroll and my patience and the smells.  Even with our slower gait he collapsed, seemingly exhausted, and lay snoring beside me as I was working.  The walk was satisfying for me as well.  As we walked slower, my thoughts came slower.  I noticed houses and gardens that I hadn’t before, though I’ve walked by them dozens of times.  A different dog might be smug with this knowledge.  But not Dexter.  It’s simply not in his nature.

I did not intent to be away so long.  I went to Paris in June and have been distracted since.  More regular posts should follow.

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Giddy Delight

I am not sure I can describe the giddy delight of this combination.  Not sure I can express the indulgence of it, so extreme in my world that it is decadent.  In-house frozen summer treats are nothing new around here; popsicles and ice cream sandwiches and vanilla are never in short supply. Cones, too, are often present and sometimes mint chocolate chip, but never sugar cones.

Things evolve this way.  All the boys like vanilla, so it’s easy.  All three, too, like cake cones. They are at ages where an ice cream cone a day has no effect on health or heft, not that any of them would stop to consider either.

I do not like cake cones, a scrunchy, airy styrofoam concoction I’ve never understood.  And while I like vanilla, I’m not tempted by it.  It is temptation itself that I resist.  I don’t over-indulge in anything, except perhaps the worry of over-indulging. But last week, alone at the grocery store, I stood in front of a foggy glass door and wondered, “What bad thing will happen? Cavaties? Countless pounds?” I hesitated. “Unlikely.” I nonchalantly tossed mint chocolate chip, my favorite flavor, into the cart.  Then, standing before the cone options, I noticed the mixed marriage of cake and sugar.  “Could they be as good as in a shop?” I wondered.  “Or will they be a crumbled mess?” (Not that I am judging crumbled messes at this point.  Every cone has her day.) I put my fears aside and brought them home.

As I popped open the cardboard box and spied true styrofoam, its smartly formed ridges holding each sugar cone whole and safe, I admired the design of their container. I opened it carefully and slid a cone from its home. The sharp edge of the scoop lifted the ice cream in a thick rippled curl and I pressed it inside the cone as gingerly as I would return a baby bird to the nest. Another scoop created a full round mound. I bit the ruffled excess from the edge, a first bite cliche, and pressed the soft, frozen cream to the roof of my mouth, feeling the cold and the sharp bite of the mint travel up my sinus, then the thick snap of the dark chocolate under my teeth.  A week later I wonder if it is the treat itself or the feeling of naughtiness that delivers the thrill.

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