My burning house

This week last year, I was walking determinedly away from Elmwood in the middle of the night as dozens of fire fighters rushed in. Remember that story?

It was below freezing and all I grabbed as I left was an ancient down parka and my camera. House full of priceless family heirlooms from the past 200 years and I didn't ever bother with actual pants. When fellow New York blogger Foster Huntington asked me to be a part of his new project The Burning House, a photo documentation of what's worth saving, I couldn't help but laugh. I knew what I'd save and it wouldn't be much. But, of course, the spirit of the blog is more than literal, it's a visual articulation of what means the most to you.

I once read if you ask a woman what her favorite piece of clothing is, she'll show you her newest purchase and if you ask a man, he'll show you his oldest. I got this edwardian corset cover dress a few weeks ago, so the parable must be true. My most cherished shoes, on the other hand, I got 6 years back and they've been re-heeled every year since. Vintage alligator Ralph Laurens that cost an eye popping $25 at a thrift store, but if the shoe fits.

My aunt Teri painted this oil study of Elmwood and my other aunt put it in the giveaway pile a few years later.  She said she didn't think it was up to snuff, but I adore it to no end.

When I turned 18, my grandfather sent me my very own key to the house, complete with a hand written tag and the world elm dremmled on it. It lives in my wallet, just in case.

I bought these fancy rosewood clippers as a present to myself when I got my job at Saipua two years ago. I was over the moon with excitement. Even though the clippers aren't the most useful ones I have now, I really love remembering how thrilled I was when I got them.

My wallet might as well be priceless treasure. One of my dearest of friends gave it to me on a whim and it was love at first sight. I thought it was some insanely well kept ali macgraw in love story type deal from the 70s but it was a sample of a never made marc jacobs collection wallet he swiped for a song when we both worked for the company. If I have my way, I'll use this wallet until I die.

Lastly this little trio of bowls are the first things I ever made in my pottery class. I'd be heartbroken to loose the record of how far I've come and how far I have left to go. 

But of course, making it out alive is number one. Making sure my great-grandmothers ring is on my finger and my camera is around my neck is number two. Everything else is just hopeless sentimentality, especially since I discovered online computer backup last year.

The link to my post on Foster's blog is here and I hope you go through the more recent entries while you're over there. So many wonderful things and so many interesting people. He also accepts reader submissions, too. I'd really love to hear what you'd save if you could.

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I love you both

One of my top most favorite humans, bloggers and all around wonderful girls (the highly respected and adored *GINNY BRANCH STELLING*) opened a little vintage etsy shop called I love you both yesterday. I died of happiness. And then that happiness turned to sadness.

Because people, at the start of yesterday morning, I had -38 cents in my checking account. NEGATIVE 38 CENTS. Do you know how annoying it is to pay an overdraft fee for 38 cents? Thought so.

Ginny is perhaps the only person alive who can give me a run for my money in the collecting department. She buys with her whole heart and soul and her taste is a perfect blend of sweetness, simplicity and utility.

Anyway, the short end of the story is I found a check I had squirreled away (1st check from Hearst for freelancing!) and deposited that sucker quicker than you can say ginnyiwanteverythinginyourshop. I, however, refrained and snuck away with the hand thrown terra cotta pot above.

If you know what is good for you, you will go to her shop and find something to love. And after that you will go and look at this photo of us at her wedding, if for no other reason than we look cute.

Thank you.

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Shelf. Take two.

It recently dawned on me that I've stopped showing you my stuff. You know, the stuff that I've been buying lately. Old stuff. Did you think I was just not buying stuff? Because HA. No. I will continue to buy stuff till there is no stuff left to buy. (personal mission.)

I bought this old shelf made from sewing spools and really heavy gauge wire a few visits to Maryland back. I splurged on it and by splurged I mean it cost more than $30. I've had a serious weakness for spool furniture for the past few years, the real good, old handmade stuff is pretty tricky to find.

It's holding half of my dead horse bay bottles and a few other not too special thingies I use for flowers. The good stuff is mostly not on here because, hello, I'm still traumatized from the last shelf that was in this same spot. Serious heavy duty hardware this time. And if it falls again, I promise, you will be the first person to witness my burning shame in all of its glory.

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Checking my mail always makes me a little anxious. I know that 96% of the time there's going to be nothing good, or even worse, nothing at all. I've been getting a lot of letters addressed to my ex-boyfriend and I that advertise buying joint funeral plots. Depressing on so many levels.

And yet I watch my mailbox like a hawk. Every Sunday as I automatically reach for my mail key, my heart sinks a little bit when I realize there's not even the tiniest of hope that something wonderful will be waiting inside.

Until something wonderful does turn up. Last week I got a mini surprise sent to Saipua from Christine, a darling kindred spirit who reads An Apple a Day. The envelope had 8 vintage stamps used as postage- in the accompanying letter she explained that each of the stamps was inspired by a post on the blog. Seriously. Some people are so thoughtful, sweet and kind. I'm left in shock, wondering how I've turned into such a self consumed maniac.

The inside she stuffed full with beautiful old photos, an old pullman car ticket and more of the same beautiful unused stamps. I have an idea of who I'd like to send them off to, but I think I've lost my nerve. Best to bide my time till I can figure out a good home for them.

Old stamps feel like little time capsules, almost too precious to use. Maybe I'm still in the puppy love stage, but I'm not ready to part with them. Especially the fox one, that one's all mine. I've been going as far as to call it my preciousssss, which is the highest compliment I can give to anything, living or otherwise.

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Step into my office

Little known fact- when it comes to computer stuff, I work exclusively from bed. I have a big old 700 sq foot apartment all to myself, with an eat-in kitchen, living room, office and bedroom but I can't kick the bed habit. Decadent, yes?

A week or two ago I got this pillow in the mail from Liane at enhabiten. It's made from an antique crazy quilt and its revolutionized my office. Even as I type this, I'm cozied up to that quilt and that pillow. This is where this (gestures frantically to your open internet browser) happens. You know, the magic and all that.

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Over the river and through the woods...

Since tomorrow is thanksgiving, I should be writing a very impressive post about making some insane appley, cinnamony, brown sugary, buttery, nutty, flaky, crumbly, yummy thing because I'm a real life domestic goddess. But then I wake up and remember I'm not. Instead, I'm curled up under my quilt at home in Brooklyn, delightfully alone.

My train home leaves at 5am tomorrow morning and I'll be puttering around my folk's house till sunday or monday. Activities include long walks to the bay, dog patting, antique malling and standing in front of the fridge, hovering over a cold turkey carcass. I have a lot of things to be thankful for, no?

Happy thanksgiving, friends. If I could share a piece of pie with you, I would.

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Cambridge fieldtrip

On our blink and you'll miss it visit to Cambridge last week, the design*sponge ladies and myself stopped into a wonky antiques mall. 5 stories of odd and random expensiveness, but I came out with a tiny lab glass beaker, so whatever, it was worth it.

It's heavy but still feels delicate and it's really small, like 2 1/2".

Boston is so funny. It damn near blizzarded, snow, sleet- all kinds of miserable. But I ate a lovely and too short early morning breakfast with Kate, got a ton of divine wallpaper (yes more!), toured two amazing old houses and memorized all the lyrics to every Lady Gaga song there is.

Um yeah, that last bit wasn't my idea. The girls in the front seat controlled the cds and now I've been schooled in what "the kids are listening to these days". That poker face song and the other one about a shorty fire burning on the dance floor. Charming. Absolutely charming.

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Jefferson's apples

Not a big shock by now, but I am really pretty obsessed with fruit. After all, please note the silly and mildly embarrassing name of this blog, chosen two years ago when I had no idea what a blog even was.

Last week I became the proud owner of this set of prints, given to me by a friend who knows what's what. I love birthday presents, especially 4 months after the fact.

The watercolors are from 1820 and document Thomas Jefferson's collection of fruit varieties grown in the orchards of Monticello. Kind of perfect. I mean, an apple called sheep's nose? Did your heart not just melt?

In the spirit of honesty, I feel compelled to tell you I've had a crush on Thomas Jefferson since my middle school took a trip to Monticello. Brilliant, detached and built himself an awesome house? All I could want and more.

Laugh if you must, but have you watched HBO's John Adams? Watch and ye shall see.

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A close call

I thought about buying this photo from work for a few months. I kept on putting it off, because honestly, I didn't need it and didn't really even know why I wanted it to begin with.

Last week a girl peeked into the counter and asked to see it. My heart dropped down into my stomach. I stammer. What? This photo here? With the baby? Really? Oh, okay..... Let me get that out for you.... I swallow my pride and hand over the photo. I'm friendly. We chit chat about old photos. Inwardly I'm thinking get your mitts off my damn picture.

She decides it's weird for a single twenty-something to hang photos of babies in her house. I see her point but decide to disregard it completely. After she walks away, I have my wallet out in T point 2 seconds. Now I'm the proud owner of a photo I do not need.

The moral of this long winded story is twofold.

#1. If you want an antique, you need to buy it straight away or make peace with the fact that someone else could buy it first.

#2. If you disregard the above and someone else is holding something your dying to buy- DO NOT TELL THEM YOU WANT IT. End of story. Never ever say something like- oh if you don't buy that i'd like to.... It's a guaranteed death sentence. Act politely but supremely uninterested. They're either going to buy it or not and anything you say will just make matters worse.

Okay young grasshoppers, I'm tired of divulging trade secrets. Go forth to your local flea market and prosper.

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Plates

Remember the great plate destruction of 2009? Yes. I'm still finding shards of glass all around my apartment.

About 3 weeks ago, a mini miracle happened. I came home from a miserably long day at work to find a package at my apartment door. From a reader. And not just any reader, but an awesome, handsome, charming and funny boy. Cue shrieking 3rd grade girls!

Okay, okay. So it's not like that, but whatever, HE SENT ME IRONSTONE PLATES. And I love them, and him, forever and ever. After some internet sleuthing, I've found out that they're the tea leaf pattern by Powell & Bishop ca. 1867-1878. Pretty and simple, with a little faded gold clover leaf in the center.

Now I have no excuse to continue eating like genghis khan sans plate.

This whole post begs the question- How thoughtful can one human be? Seriously? Nick is amazing, go see for yourself. He sent me plates when I had none.

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Brimfield bits

Let's talk about brimfield, okay? Is now good for you? I'm finally ready.

I found these 30s/40s heels in a puddle on the ground at some weird army navy tent. I squealed. They fit. It was an honest to goodness cinderella moment, nevermind the mold and broken heel caps.

In a good shoe, I wear a size six, but a seven feels so good, I buy a size eight. (name that movie!?)



Well, more like an 8 1/2 or 9 which makes finding pre-1950s shoes really hard. Pretty ones that fit can get really pricey so the 5 dollars I paid is just a joke.

The whole trip I'd been eyeing padlocks but was sort of revolted by the $80+ price tags. Lest you think that because of my $5 shoes, brimfield is a bargain hunters paradise- sadly it ain't. Dealers generally seemed to know what they had and charged accordingly. More than your local flea market, anyways. When Amy A. pointed out this heart shaped lock for waaaay less, I pounced.



Now i just need to find something to lock up around the house.

A leather bound, scalloped, starred, empty address book. This is the sort of thing I hardly need but makes me the most giddy.

A romantic alternative to my boring and useful gmail contact list. Fit for, you know, scrawling the names of the handsome gentlemen I happen upon during my windy walks alone in the wilds of brooklyn. Oh god. I've been reading too many Austen novels again.

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Four eyes

So I found these glasses. And they're great. And I adore them. And they fit. And my friends say I look brainy in them etc.... All is wonderful, except, well, I don't technically wear glasses.

At least, the last time I had a vision test, ca. 1992, I didn't need them. That was 17 years ago and these days I'm a bit more squinty when it comes to street signs. When I wear my friend Kit's glasses, things look better, so that's a signal.

I found these at a true junk shop upstate, with their cute coffin-like case and a price tag that is, um, unbelievable for (bakelite? horn rim? cellulose?) glasses this old (30s? 40s????).

Clearly, I am out of my element in this whole new world of glasses. I'll defer to the better judgment of Dana, my sartorial soul mate, who knows all about these sorts of boyish vintage things. Like indigo dyed denim and tee shirt hems through out the 20th century.

Dana, love, share your wisdom with the world. Inquiring minds want to know.

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The dollhouse

From the age of 7 up until high school, I thought I would grow up to be a historical reenactor, working at Williamsburg, churning butter and wearing straw hats. I'm only telling you this because I trust you not to tell anyone else. It's pretty embarrassing.

It all started with American Girl dolls. Micha and I got our first dolls in '88, back when they were still incredibly special and handmade in Germany. The dolls (Kirsten and Sam to start with) and their clothes were neat, but what I loved most were the miniature doll antiques that went with them.



Samantha's Victorian artist's box had actual tubes of oil paint, which thrilled me to no end. Real paint! In metal tubes!

Coming from a family that supports a healthy obsession, my dad built my sister and I a 3 story dollhouse that topped out at 10 feet tall. So tall it can't fit through any of our doorways. It's still there, full to the brim with wallpaper, miniature quilts, little christmas trees during the holidays. I'm pretty sure my mom spent all of her disposable income keeping us stocked in doll sized hatboxes.

I think my mom got a kick out of seeing me sprawled out on the living room floor, methodically dusting and straightening everything in the dollhouse when I was taking these pictures. I swear, I was not playing with dolls, 25 year olds don't play with dolls. I was playing with things inside the dollhouse. Which, you know, is kind of the same thing.



Again. Don't tell anyone, I'm trying to retain a smidgen of dignity here.

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