Tag Archives: Musings from the Dream House

Fall Forward

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Fall seems to set in with a flurry at the Dream House. A week or so ago Mr. Blandings’s sisters and their husbands were in to celebrate their mother’s 80th birthday. The week preceding was consumed by cleaning and fluffing and laughing and eating. All came off without a hitch and it was such a treat to have the women and men who have known Mr. B since birth here for such a happy occasion. I was reminded that I was merely a vessel; apparently, the boys all look just like him.

Most of us have had what we believe to be H1N1 and managed to dodge lice, which, while not uncommon among school-aged children still makes me itch just to type it.
This week my pulse is jumping as we have friends coming in from out of town and I can’t wait for them to see the city for the first time. Our weather was dreary last week and I fretted to Mr. B, “I hope it’s sunny and warmer. And that the trees turn a little more. But that the leaves don’t fall before they get here.” “I’m not sure that’s in your control.” I stared back in wonder at the irrelevance and sanity of this remark.
The visit has triggered a whirlwind of activity. The front hall needed a bit of spiff. Something, heaven knows, but I wasn’t sure quite what. The image above provided inspiration and the framer promises that the pieces will be back in time. Stay tuned.
In addition, I had sworn off junk. No more place holders, only really good pieces. Sadly, the Paul McCobb tables/consoles/chests that would be ideal flanking the bay in the dining room never seem to be a priority over football fees and field trips and food. Nick Olson provided inspiration here and if the consoles are not forever pieces, they may move on to one of the boys’ first apartment someday.
Mr. Blandings has the cookbooks out and keeps interrupting my painting and gilding with queries of dishes and desserts.
And Halloween is on the horizon. “What are the boys going to be?” a common question. For the last two years I have had a new code, “What ever your costume is, it exists in this house. Use your imagination.” Grumbling eventually gives way and they all come up with something of which they are usually quite proud.
My mania has peaked, I think, but I am never happier than when I have that creative muse whispering in my ear.
Image, above, Elle Decor, it graced the cover of the December 2006 issue, design by Shelton, Mindel & Associates. Photography by William Waldron. The image appears in the fantastic new book, Style and Substance, The Best of Elle Decor by Margaret Russell, which I received for review from the publisher.
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Roots of Addiction

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You know those stories about celebrities who give their children controlled substances? And how you read these accounts and wonder, “What were they thinking?”


Well, my mother was a little guilty of this. When I was small and we lived in Atlanta my mother made a very good friend while we were on the playground. I, in turn, became very good friends with the friend’s daughter as these things sometime happen.

While my parents’ house was an ever evolving array of tasteful yet jazzy (probably department store) finds, Krissy Livengood’s parents’ house was not.

Krissy Livengood’s parents had a pair of Wassily chairs. When I walked through their living room I was mesmerized by the slats made of leather. With every visit I’m quite sure her mother anticipated wiping my grimy fingerprints from the cool chrome. I could not resist running my hand along that silvery steel.

They were wonderful. I was in awe of those chairs. In my memory the room where they resided was always quiet, but perhaps my ears were ringing. While everyone else found it so intriguing that Krissy’s father had one blue eye and one brown eye, I thought that merely a quirk of nature. The thing that made the Livengoods interesting – fascinating even – were those chairs.

We moved from Atlanta when I was eight, but the chair addiction was firmly established. Imagine my delight with Judith Miller’s new book, Chairs. Over one hundred chairs, beautifully shot by Nick Pope, on big pages, presented in chronological order. Truly a chair lover’s dream.

And a terrific red cover. Almost as good as having a Wassily of my own.
P.S. Mrs. Livengood, in true Southern fashion, has passed her chairs to her daughter. Who now goes by Kristin.
Chairs by Judith Miller was provided to me for review by the publisher, Conran Octopus. All photographs by Nick Pope. The Wassily chair is fourth from the top.
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The Significance of Chintz Curtains

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Many years ago, when Mr. Blandings and I were first married, we went out to dinner with his father and step-mother.

Mr. Blandings the elder is old school. He mostly likes things the way they are, or rather, the way they have always been.


In a cozy restaurant on a winter evening we began to discuss a club to which the elder Mr. B belonged. I made an off-hand and stinging comment about the policy of having a separate dining room for women during the lunch hour.

As often happens, small sparks start large flames and he and I were heatedly engaged as our spouses stared quietly into their soups. In a firm voice he finally proclaimed, “When I am eating my lunch I do not want to sit next to a table of damn women talking about chintz curtains!”

As my Mr. Blandings felt my muscles flex to rise he put his hand on my knee and leaned in to say, “It’s cold and they drove.” We stayed. No one ordered dessert.

After seventeen years I better understand the roots of tradition and the minefields of dinner conversation. I am, however, still mystified that someone would not want to join in a conversation on chintz curtains as I find them irresistibly divine.
Images of Cecil Beaton’s home, Reddish House, from Architectural Digest Celebrity Homes, 1977; photography by Beaton. The Aesthete posted on Reddish yesterday. I had already written this and should probably have pitched it. Sadly, I’m too lazy.
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Snack Attack

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“We are requesting parents provide snacks for their child(ren) as food allergies have made this a difficult issue for us at school.”

Benign, right? I understand. Between peanut allergies, gluten allergies, childhood diabetes and various aversions it is probably more frustration than any teacher needs to keep track of who can have what between math and gym.

The first day, while fixing breakfast and packing lunches, I packed Goldfish in three Tupperware containers. I know Goldfish are not particularly loaded with nutrients, but I also know the Blandings boys are not going to snack on carrot sticks and edemame. They would starve first. Nearly anything they would choose would be loaded with sugar. It’s a snack, for heaven’s sake. Goldfish would be fine.

“Mrs. Brown says I can’t have Goldfish for a snack.”

“What?” This is the middle boy. The impish one. The one who might be trying to get my goat.

“Mrs. Brown says I cannot have Goldfish for a snack.”

“Why not?”

“They are not healthy.”

I’m not exactly sure that this is Mrs. Brown’s call, but it is the first week of school and I am certainly not going to cause a dust-up over Goldfish.

“What about popcorn?”

“Um. I dunno. Yeah. I think popcorn would be fine.”

The next day, while fixing breakfast and packing lunches, I popped popcorn. I packaged up three snack serving in Tupperware containers. For about a week I heard nothing.

In the meantime the middle came home to say that Mrs. Brown had said the most hilarious thing at school. “She told us that if we didn’t put our stuff away and get in our seats she would cut our hands off with a spoon then throw them out the window.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah. It was funny.”

“Mom, she’s kidding,” added the oldest, “She’s not really going to cut their hands off with a spoon.” I was grateful for the clarification. Apparently Hans Christian Anderson and Lemony Snicket were in tune with their target audience.

Then, the next week, “Please provide a snack for your child that does not contain small pieces, like popcorn.” This from the youngest’s teachers.

“Do you think Mrs. White would be ok with Goldfish?”

“Sure.”

So then in the morning, while making the breakfast and packing the lunches I made popcorn, which I placed in Tupperware containers for the oldest two and packed Goldfish in Tupperware for the youngest. Then I waited. Nothing. No reprimand. We were good. Routine at last.

A couple of weeks later, “Mrs. Brown says I cannot bring my popcorn in Tupperware; it needs to be in a Ziploc bag.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, she just said it needs to be in a Ziploc bag.”

“Are you having trouble getting the Tupperware open? Why would she care?”

“No,” indignant as only a child can be who has been accused of not being able to do something so remedial as open Tupperware, “I don’t know why she cares, but she does.”

So then in the morning, while making the breakfast and packing the lunches, I made popcorn for the oldest two, putting one in Tupperware and one in a large Ziploc bag and filled another Tupperware container with Goldfish. I was skeptical about the Ziploc bag. It seemed to me that popcorn in a Ziploc bag that has spent the better part of the day in a back pack would be confetti by snack time. But I was, frankly, weary of both thinking and talking about snacks.

Later that day as we are unpacking back packs, “Mrs. Brown says you need to send my popcorn in a smaller Ziploc bag.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Why do you keep saying that? No, I’m not kidding. Mrs. Brown says you need to send my popcorn in a smaller Ziploc bag.”

“Tell Mrs. Brown that if I get one more set of instructions regarding the snack that I am going to cut her hands off with a spoon and throw them out the window.”

“Really? I can say that?”

“No.”

That night I said to Mr. Blandings, “I can’t believe the amount of push back I’m getting on the flipping school snacks. I am getting more communication on snacks than I am on curriculum.” He was not interested in engaging on the subject.

The next morning, while fixing the breakfasts and packing the lunches, I made popcorn for the oldest two, packing one in Tupperware, one in a smaller Ziploc bag and putting some Goldfish into a Tupperware container. Thank heavens the middle school teachers have more on their minds, like managing raging hormones and ensuring all electronic devises remain stowed throughout journey, than the container of snacks or their contents.

When the boys piled in the car that afternoon I said, “How was school?” And the middle child said, “Good. But Mrs. Brown wants you to call her.” Every muscle in my body tensed. I could feel my blood pressure start to climb. This was beyond ridiculous. “Really, why?”

“She said you need to schedule your time for parent/teacher conferences since you missed curriculum night.”

Oh.

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