Kiss the Cook

As I said, on Thanksgiving I have few duties. I set the table, I buy the ornaments and I make dessert. Sometimes I don’t get to make dessert, but that is another story for another day.

This year Mr. Blandings was hunting for recipes for pumpkin creme brulee, but I intervened. “You know your mother really just wants pumpkin pie. I think we should make her a pumpkin pie.” “Will you make your pumpkin chiffon pie?” “Um. Sure. You know that recipe is a little wonky.”

The recipe comes from a book that I started during a period of passing interest in cooking during my girlhood. (My friend, Stu, is laughing at the misspelling of “abbreviations.” She had a front row seat to the year that immediately followed my tenure in a progressive school that found spelling irrelevant. Turns out it wasn’t.) Thank heavens for the abbreviations page as these are clearly incredibly obscure shorthands.

Mr. Blandings loves flipping through this book, “What in the world is Coke Salad?” Really, I have no idea. I have absolutely no memory of Coke Salad, though Grandmother Rassmussen’s Doughnuts and Five Cup Salad are crystal clear. “Seems you had a bit of a sweet tooth.” Not had, have. Still, there is not one savory dish in the book.

Both my grandmother and my mother made Nana’s Pumpkin Chiffon Pie. When I made it for the first time as an adult, I was skeptical that my mother actually made this recipe. It calls for the use of a double boiler. I have no recollection of my mother ever using anything as sophisticated as a double boiler. Still, I forged ahead.

There are all kinds of weird things about this recipe. It calls for three egg whites, but later refers to beating the yolks. I have to guess a little. Oddly, the pie turns out great.

Mr. Blandings is particularly charmed by my review at the bottom of the recipe, “Delicious!!!!!!!” “Seven exclamation points. You must have really liked it.”

Which reminded me of my copy of Dorothy Rogers’s The House in My Head. The book is a wonderful, well, not peek, but full-on expose of a couple building a very thoughtful house. Even if the house they built is not your style, the effort that went into it will garner your respect.

At the back of the book is a collection of Rogers’s recipes. In my copy, the book’s original owner has written notes on the recipes. “This is perfectly elegant prepared and served in fresh tomato shells.” “The flavor is so mild and delicate, the sauce kills it.” “This had a rare and tangy flavor we both liked.”
Charmingly, I feel like Mrs. Sandy was writing these notes for me. Not the notes she has made of substitutions and how to reduce the recipe, not the cook’s tricks, but these reviews feel like something she was providing for the cook who came next. For me. These are absolutely delicious.
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Thankful

We wrested control of Thanksgiving from Mr. Blandings’s mother several years ago. We had a beautiful meal at a lovely table the last time she hosted, but the entire evening was peppered with comments like, “It’s so much trouble,” and, “Next time maybe we should just go out.” As she apologized about the pile of dishes I was gladly tackling (when you don’t cook, you should clean up) she said, “I noticed at the grocery store that you can just tell them the number of people and they will make the whole thing. You can pick it up until noon.” In a moment of pique, up to my elbows in soap suds I said, “Even better, we could just eat at the cafe tables by the deli and throw the whole mess in the trash when we’re finished.” Mr. Blandings, ever even, intervened, “Mom, you’ve done a lot of work for a lot of years, maybe next year we will have Thanksgiving at our house.”

There is a time worn tale about Mr. Blandings, who endured many dressed up and formal Thanksgivings at his grandmother’s, wondering, “Why can’t I have Thanksgiving on my own table?” And now he does. It is the best holiday for cooking. It allows him to plot and plan and test and taste. Our Thanksgiving dinners are not large, but they are homey.
Thanksgiving at my dad’s house is very casual and very big. My step-mother comes from a large family and most of her siblings and their spouses and children are there. In addition, my step-mother is one of those women who collects people, so there are usually five or six holiday strays who join in as well. The first Thanksgiving after we were married, Mr. Blandings and I went to Texas to spend Thanksgiving with my folks. Because of the number of people coming in from out of town, the last couple of times that I had been home I had been farmed out. It just seemed that if we were coming home, we should stay at home.
My dad picked us up at the airport and we caught up on who was coming and what was cooking. “We’re staying at the house, right?” “Uh, yeah.” But there was something. A hesitation. A slight narrowing of his eyes. As we pulled down the windy street and approached the house my pulse began to jump. There was an RV in the driveway. There was an RV in the driveway. “What’s that?” “Why don’t you just leave your bags in the car for now; I’ll bring them in in a bit.”
Seething. Furious. Nearly unable to speak, and frankly, a little embarrassed, I led Mr. Blandings into the house. “I simply cannot believe…” But I turned to him and his eyes were sparkling, “You were the one who said you had to stay at the house. Besides, I’ve never slept in an RV before.” No kidding.
So, our Thanksgivings, the Thanksgivings on Mr. Blandings’s table, fall somewhere in between. We are not in sweats, but neither are we in coat and tie. He cooks the meal and I bake the pie and set the table. We have a Thanksgiving tradition of giving each person at our table a Christmas ornament with dessert. It kicks off the next holiday. I’m in charge of these too, though this year I forgot. I’ve had a couple of big projects in the works and, well, I forgot. Until yesterday when I remembered.
I dashed out to find flowers and ornaments. The last couple of days have been fraught with an odd frustration which has led to an unusual holiday ennui. Dissatisfied with autumnal flowers, I stood at the florists with my arms crossed until I left apologetic and empty handed. The ornament search, which is usually a delight, was illogically frustrating. How could there not be a bear ornament to celebrate the youngest’s part in a school play? What could possibly take its place? All was lost.
And so it went until, home again, I began to bring linens from the closet and china from the cabinet. “It’s so much trouble,” I fretted. “No one notices but me anyway.” I set the entire table on a slightly rumpled tablecloth. Not badly rumpled. Slightly. Who would care?
And since yesterday I had been walking past it. Not only un-ironed, the cloth hung a little longer on the right side than the left. Before I went to bed I tucked it behind a chair.
Up early, I stood in the dining room in the dim light with my coffee cupped in both hands. Nonsense. Completely ridiculous to unload all the plates and silver and glasses. Folly. No one would even know. And then I began to stack the place settings on the window seat in the bay and pull the cloth and napkins to take them upstairs to iron them. It does matter. It matters to me, even if the members of the fraternity with whom I reside never notice. This is just where I want us to be, somewhere between a coat and tie and sweats. Somewhere between the country club and an RV.
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Corinthian Hall

A few weeks ago my editor at Spaces, Zim Loy, called to ask if I could bring a couple of my chairs for a shoot. The images would accompany my latest article on collecting, um, chairs.

Absolutely, sure, fine, delighted, where?

Kansas City Museum,” was her reply. I furrowed my brow and Zim read the silence correctly, not a dropped call, but confusion. “You’ve been there, right?”

“Well, no.” “You’ve never been to the Kansas City Museum?! The Long estate? You’ll die.”

“Oh. Ok.” Robert A. Long made his fortune in lumber long ago. I had been to Longview Farms, which was the Long family’s country retreat. Terrific. This would probably be good. I googled it and off I went.

The Beaux Arts home was completed in 1910. It was a private residence for 24 years. After Robert Long and his wife died and his children were hither and yon the house languished for a while until it was purchased to serve as a museum.

The black and white images here show the house when the Longs owned it; the later photos are of the house before the rooms were converted to exhibit space.

The building is currently undergoing an extensive renovation. It was certainly amazing to see it. I did not take pictures while we were there, but you can see the house in its current state here.

One of the initial phases of the renovation was the restoration and protection of the stained glass, which is wonderful, but I could not stop looking at the plaster work. Stunning. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.
For more information on the Long family, the house and the museum check out the Friends of the Kansas City Museum site here. Hard hat tours are available for members.
Images courtesy of the Kansas City Museum.
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Britt Invasion

I had coffee with a local home reporter, Stacy Downs, this week and we were talking about design trends from 2009 (be on the lookout for Stacy’s article in the Kansas City Star; she is rocking the House and Home section.) Stacy noted the preponderance of black walls which sent me digging through my files.

I have several features from the late 70’s with walls clad in inky black, many including punches of white.

One of my favorites is a Kansas City home designed by Tom Britt that appeared in Architectural Digest in November of 1978. Just as I had finished scanning the images I heard the mail drop in the slot. Thunk. Heavy and hard, I knew a magazine would await. And, then whose work appeared in Vogue December 2009?

Mr. Britt, again. This time using black and white as accents in Alexis Swanson’s and Trevor Traina’s drawing room. Old dog. New tricks.
Photography from AD, Russell McMasters. Photography from Vogue, Francois Halard.
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