Shabby-chic-practical

Our home’s basic décor is… Who am I kidding?  There is no basic décor in our house.  We like what we like, or we keep what we had.  Maybe that is shabby-chic-practical. Daydream I do in Pottery Barn catalogs and other magazines with highly-stylized photos – where there is never a power cord displayed.  Odds are they snip off cords before snapping the photo.

I’m lulled into the magic of interior decorating when I go into Pottery Barn.  The simplicity of layers: a dazzling flat glass bowl, filled with beautiful sienna green glass marbles and three breezy papa bear/mama bear/baby bear sienna candles rightfully anchored in the middle.  And do you know what I do?  I buy the papa bear sienna candle.

At home, I set that big cool green candle on my counter, and it’s then I realize my kitchen counter and living room walls are warm colors.  I have made the biggest element of that Pottery Barn centerpiece mine.  And there it sits.  No glass bowl and no green marbles.  No mama bear/baby bear companions.  It's no longer Pottery Barn.  It's an awkward candle sitting on a gold counter.

I could add it to the fireplace mantel, but I already have three candles grouped together.  This won’t work because of that funny but true rule about grouping sets of odd numbers, not evens.  And, it's too chunky to join the mantel decor.

I glance to the corner of the kitchen where a wire basket holds some of my favorite heart-shaped beach rocks, an unbroken bottleneck from the beach, broken chocolate agates from the boys, rose quartz and gypsum from South Dakota.  Plus, my oh-so-smooth white rock from Greece.  And the heart rock my mom gave me one Mother’s Day.  The basket is nestled between the ceramic lantern and cork trivet I found in Portugal.  And anchored on either end by empty Ball jars that held canned tomatoes two days prior.  Liking the candle just as much as all this other stuff, I plunk it in the middle as a focal point.

Oh, alright… I couldn’t leave Sienna in the middle of my working counter space; I needed a quick place for it -- just as I did for the jars.  The candle doesn’t have the home it had in the store, but it is on a stage with much more character.  Welcome, Sienna, to shabby-chic-practical-nostalgic.

(Throwing practicality to the wind, I combined chocolate, cream, and the ocean in my Bedroom Decor.)

Spring Shopping

Last week my Microplaner broke in two. I loved that thing. For much of my 30’s, I bought specialty kitchen products from traveling cookware shows. Now, if I buy a tool for the kitchen, I want it to have a couple purposes: like a big bowl I could use for mixing and for serving... small bowls for individual fruit servings or to serve condiments with main courses.

But I loved that Microplaner. I used it for zesting fruit over a bowl. That’s it. A Microplaner does not fit my current kitchen multi-purpose mantra; plus, I still have my box grater standing at attention in the back corner of the cupboard. It would do the job, so I didn't need to replace the Microplaner, but I really wanted to.

Part of the allure of this tool is its history: It was originally used by wood workers. With a sturdy handle and a long, narrow, fine grater the width of a ruler, it was designed for delicate jobs – comparable to getting only the zest and no white pith off citrus fruit.

A new shopping complex opened up near us; surely either Pottery Barn or Williams-Sonoma would carry a replacement Microplaner. It was a good excuse to have a look around. I parked between both home stores, and another store caught my eye. J. Crew. Never been in one, so I decided to take a look. Lovely, lovely clothes. I moved to the middle of the store thinking there might be more sizes above 0 – 6 farther back. And there were! I found two XL vest tops for summer. I tried them on and realized I had made it to the size 12 section. No, my wardrobe at the present time would not be seeing J.Crew additions.

Sold on the idea of something new for spring, I decided to go to a store where I was sure to find something that would fit. Gorgeous spring colors dressed the windows of the shop across the way. Again, everything was lovely in this store too! I made a circle throughout the whole store and zig-zagged through the displays in the center of the store. I soaked up every spring hue of baby-chick yellow, bunny pink, lilac purple and mint green.

Then, sure enough, I found just the thing. The Microplaner in Williams-Sonoma fit my hand like a glove. I nearly bought the mini-whisk too, but the cashier said it shouldn't go in the dishwasher. At least I found one thing that fit me.

Breathing Like an Eel

When the hump on Hump Day is a big one and sits squarely on top of me...

...the short of it comes on Thursday...

Coming upon moray eels while scuba diving, well, they give you a start. Their green heads jut out from rocky, coral reef bottoms. Wide-eyed creatures, their mouths open and close ominously. (Need a picture? Check this one out.  Pretty intense, huh?) Rarely moving in the daytime, their bodies are tucked away among the rocks, leaving their true length to the imagination: a big head means a long serpent-like body wound into its hide-out. In reality, they are shy creatures. Their mouths open and close to help them breathe; that movement increases water flow over their gills.

Over the last several days, I’ve thought a lot about those eels. I’ve imitated their daytime movement. To unclench my teeth. When I feel a shooting pain go up my neck and into my head, I breathe like an eel. I loosen my jaw, open my mouth, and take in air. I detach my shoulders from my ears, unfurl the protective hunch, and lift up my head.

The stress over making tough decisions – not over life-threatening issues but “first world problems” that we are so lucky to have – lives very physically in my perfectionist body. But then there’s the thing called “relativity” – after all, they are our tough decisions. The trick is to find that subjective, tedious balance between the two realms of thought.

One would think after that year of cancer, I would hold perspective a bit better, but this week I’m caught under that humpy animal and breathing like an eel.

Fierce Mountain Gnomes

In my first ski lesson with Bill 25 years ago, he taught me the importance of traversing.  When the slope down the mountain looks too steep, look across the mountain and ski to the other side.  I thought our evening out snow shoeing from the top of Sterling Mountain at Smuggler's Notch in Vermont would include traversing leisurely down a mountain. At the bottom of Sterling Mountain, we grabbed snow shoes and gracefully boarded the chair lift.  In addition to his snow shoes, Bill carried the small knapsack with our bottle of wine for dinner.  The winds howled as we crawled above the mountain to its top.  I kept thinking that the ride up is always the worst part of skiing: high above the slopes where there is no protection from the wind.  This would be the most unpleasant part of the evening.

At the top, we exited the chairlift and met another couple who had been on this expedition several times.  They led us to the warming hut where we would be having dinner.  We had a good laugh before our guides garnered our attention just before dusk to give us the evening’s itinerary.  We would put our snow shoes on now and leave them on for the rest of the night until we were at the bottom of the mountain.  The women’s facili-trees were out the door down a snowy path to the right.  The men’s were anywhere they felt comfortable.  I am confident that none of us women fully cloaked in snow shoes ever used the trees. 

Before dinner we were invited to go on a short, scenic hike to get used to our snow shoes.  Sounded like a grand idea.  I was all for it.

Bill and I, together with our newly found friends from NYC, were probably the most mature people there.  Consequently, we hung back and let those more youthful folks knock down the snowy path that hadn’t been traveled for over a week.  It was dark.  The white snow was interrupted with black trees and the contour of the path could only be seen by watching the lump of a human move in front of you.

 The path went up and down, curved right and left.  On the first hill up, we were like baby calves finding our new legs.  I ventured too far to the left and my leg disappeared into 18 inches of snow.  Simultaneously, a guide in the back called out, “Just walk like a duck to get up the hill!”  Well, my duck legs were stuck, so I could only flap my wings.  Which I did.  Then my laugh muscles sucked all the power from every other muscle in my body.  I soon sobered as I realized I had closed the path for 10 to 15 people behind me.  Tightening my core -- thank goodness I went to pilates two days before -- I heaved my leg up and back onto the path.  Then came the downhill.  Just as ridiculous.  I skated between trees following the guy in front of me who was cussing.  Short and scenic are not how many of us would describe this hike.  We ended up on a frozen pond that was covered with deep snow.  Now, Bill and I knew the extreme benefits of lagging behind and letting the others tamp down the snow.

We trudged across the pond, trooped up a hill, and stopped momentarily to see the lights of Stowe over the top of the mountain.  What was even more beautiful was the sight of the warming hut – until we opened the door.  It was a sauna in there.  I removed all the layers I could on the top.  One more layer and I’d be down to my black bra.  The snow pants weren’t going anywhere as they were anchored on by snow shoes.

Dinner was delicious; however, we couldn’t see anything but outlines and gray masses of what we were eating.  The warming hut had no electricity.  This was a true candlelit dinner.  While I really enjoyed the dinner, I realized how much I rely on my eyes to create the full gastronomic, gourmet effect.

After dessert in the dark, we started our hike down.  The first part was very steep, but I was confident that we would soon turn and it would get easier.  Downhill was hard work, and I was overheating.  I pulled my ski goggles off and gave them to Bill.  Then my gloves.  I kept waiting to traverse through woodlands where the decline would even out.  My knees screamed at me.

“OK, we are going to try to slide here!” called a guide.  “Walkers to the left, sliders to the right!”  The idea was to turn turtle, hold your snow-shoed feet up off the ground in table-top position, and slide down the mountain.  I watched thinking it might be a good alternative for my howling body parts, but no one could slide: there was too much snow on the slope.  I took off my coat and tied it around my waist.  Then my sweater.  My hip joints were raw.  I started to side-step every few feet to relieve the pain.

I can’t tell you how long it took to get down the mountain – whether it really was the 40-minute trip it had been billed to be.  I knew my face was beet red.  I kept thinking that thought I’ve had so many times flying when my boys were crying, “I will never see these people again.”  No, I did not take a picture of the aftermath.  Imagine your own version of a red-faced 47-year-old woman.

I wish I could say the landscape was beautiful.  I’m sure it was.

I wish I could say that I can’t wait to do that again.  I’m sure I won’t.

Sometimes my romantic expectations do not meet with reality.  The morning after this adventure, I mustered one line in my journal: “My thighs have been used as punching bags by fierce mountain gnomes.”

While I won't be going snow shoeing down a mountain again, we will definitely be going back to Smuggler's Notch for another family ski trip!  Skiing Smuggler's Notch, VT

The Winter Hitchhiker

Well, the weather is always a good fallback for conversation. It’s safe and you can normally find agreement on it from folks without too much negotiation or conflict. So, I start there today. Spring is on its way. So close. Even if we have a couple good 12 – 18” snowfalls – which would brighten up the dirty, tall, icy piles around here – it won’t last for weeks. Yes, if that gray sky would just drop flakes, I would happily take it. Or if those clouds would just ship out and make way for some sun, the rest of the population in snow country would also feel a bit better.

Some people, Bill being one of them, are more desperate about the need for 90-degree weather. Driving through a local neighborhood, I saw a very desperate guy (not Bill) in need of sun and warmth. He stood next to the curb, a smile on his face, and his rigid arm and thumb extending, pleading for a lift.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. He was holding a sign that made me smile when I passed him. I had to have another look. I circled the block and pulled over to the curb a few feet away from him. I know what moms say about hitchhikers, but he looked harmless enough: I had to stop and take his picture.

He wanted a lift to paradise, but I told him he would need more than just a car ride on a snow-, ice-, slush-lined street to get there. He didn't reply, but he did let me take his picture.

 (See the glory of 50 Inches of Snow in Pictures!)