It’s been… a weekend. In ways, it’s been very, very enjoyable, but in others it’s made my heart hurt. It’s not my story, and I’m only peripherally involved. But I can say that life isn’t fair and it’s not right, and if I could change it all, I would.
So there’s that.
Anyhow. I think I was born in the wrong decade, maybe the wrong century. Yes, I know the medical advances of this century are amazing, but on the other hand, do I really want to know I am dying if nothing can be done? Or should I just drop dead and have no one be the wiser as to cause? I don’t know. It’s a Catch-22, I think.
I immerse myself so often in other time periods. I have been stuck in historical fiction for oh so long. Anything before about 1920 draws me in. Women in skirts, horse-drawn carriages, oil lamps, and men who ruled the roost with an iron fist. It’s not to say that I wish my life were that way; I kind of like my modern life with all the conveniences. Being able to prepare a meal in thirty minutes or less is amazing. I couldn’t do that a hundred years ago, that’s for sure. But it’s my escapism, my need to get away from the hum-drum that is my normal life.
It rubs off in my real life too. Maybe that’s why I am so fascinated by antiques. I’m constantly trying to surround myself that were old before I was even conceived. It gives me comfort somehow. You wouldn’t really know it from looking at my house, what with the dueling laptops and the big flat-screen tv, but it’s sort of the style I’ve gone for with my choice in furnishings. I’ve got a lot of wood furniture, stuff that looks old and distressed, though I bought much of it new. There are no “modern” pieces, nothing from IKEA (though I admire the style), nothing cold and clinical. Just the warmth of dark woods, mainly cherry.
Today I found a new-to-me antique and consignment store, just south of the island, stuffed full to the gills with lovely things. The first thing I saw as we drove past was a porch full of wooden furniture. I gasped audibly, and Kurt knew to turn around without even asking me. Just on the porch I found several things I wanted — an antique cradle, a gorgeous child’s desk, several tables and cabinets and oh I could go on and on and on. Inside were even more lovely things. I didn’t have time to really look; Kurt stayed in the van with a sleeping ME, and I was attempting to wrangle a hyper four-year-old who insisted on touching everything as I toured the store.
But even still, I managed to score the perfect narrow chest of drawers for ME’s clothes and a neat little cookbook shelf that I plan to hang on my kitchen wall. It won’t hold all of my cookbooks (apparently I have close to forty, can you believe it??), but it will hold the ones I use most often.
I’m guessing it’ll be Mark Bittman’s How To Cook Everything and the America’s Test Kitchen Cookbook that will have pride of place up there. I’m sort of over my Betty Crocker and my Better Homes & Gardens cookbooks. Ooo and maybe my Moosewood cookbooks too! I love The Enchanted Broccoli Forest. That one I can read just to read, not just for the recipes. That, my friends, is the mark of an awesome cookbook.
I have a feeling I’ll be going back to this antique store more and more. Maybe it’s that I live such a nomadic life that I’m naturally drawn to things that have been around for a long time. Maybe that’s where I find my permanence, I don’t know. But I don’t see myself giving up the antiques any time soon…