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Posts Tagged ‘stock pot’

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Vintage Pyrex bowls.

Goodness, this was a lousy week.

Even before the tragedy in Connecticut on Friday I was overwhelmed, disheartened and in need of some peace—proper peace, the kind that soaks into the bones. The song ‘Where Are You, Christmas?’ has never been a favorite of mine, but I have to admit that lately I have been wondering the same thing. Here it was the middle of December, and I should have been happily knee-deep in the fun and joy of Christmastime. Instead, stress seemed to have formed a Plexiglas case around me, isolating me from the season I love so much, allowing me to see it but not feel it. It was as if I was watching it all on television.

By Wednesday I was stretched to maximum capacity and utterly exhausted. I crossed everything off my list for the afternoon, drove to the antique district in Red Bank and walked into the red wooden shop at Front Street and Bridge. My blood pressure went down to a simmer as soon as I opened the door of the old building, a mighty garage sale on two floors. It’s a good place to step out of yourself, out of the present, into what (at least) feels like a warmer time. The place even has a calming aroma; the mix of wood, vintage clothes, books and housewares all together in one spot is what I imagine 1958 or thereabouts smelled like.

This antiques shop relaxes me because the stuff within is not so much precious as homey. There are the odd mahogany end tables and gilded mirrors, but there are far more simple things, ones that waft good memories around me like a May wind. I love seeing the type of 1960s porcelain figurines my aunt used to display on her dresser, the ones of ladies with updos, wearing broad sweeps of black liner on their upper eyelids and real dangling earrings. I love seeing the same miniature Madame Alexander dolls I used to collect, and the kind of metal lunchbox my sister used to carry to school.

The vintage kitchen stuff soothes me most of all. The nooks and alcoves piled floor to ceiling with kitchenware are quiet places where you can step in and feel enveloped by women, long-gone, who imprinted themselves on the worn goods they left behind. Here the potato masher and wooden spoons with well-used handles, there the scratched ceramic bowl in which of hundreds of loaves of bread rose. Corningware dishes that saw countless Thursday night meatloaves, birthday-dinner chicken fricassees, heaps of peas from a carefully tended garden. Within these humble, common possessions were the spirits of generations of women who worked their whole lives to keep their families well fed and protected. I felt that spirit, decades later, and felt the safety they provided transfer to me.

Depression glasses and plates are stacked by color, and they make muted rainbows on the shadowy parts of the shelves. Utensils are in spatterware buckets and inside drawers of wooden hutches. The place is a mishmosh, granted; but there IS order, there IS a layout, and I found that comforting, too. What Holly Golightly appreciated about Tiffany, I appreciate here.

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I liked these as a kid, but my mom wouldn’t let us get them because she heard a rumor that they contained lead. Was that true?

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Jadeite vases, coffee cups and bowls.

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Rolling pins.

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Enamelware soup ladle, made to accommodate a deep stock pot.

Christmas decorations are all around the shop, too, most from 1960 and earlier. I loved peering into the cabinets full of candle choirboys, never lit so they would always stay perfect, and grinning Santas. My mom has Christmas things she loves putting on windowsills every year, and so do I. I imagined the sweet-faced angel below being someone’s mom’s favorite. And once again I felt enveloped and safe, even though it was through an image of someone I had never met, from a time before my time. It didn’t matter that it didn’t make sense on paper; it worked.

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Shiny Brite tree ornaments.

Many years ago I was at this very shop and fell in love with a tiny bottle brush Christmas tree. I came back a couple of days later to buy it and it was gone. Amazing how the loss of something that cost three dollars could have made my heart sink like it did, but it did.

On Wednesday I turned a corner and saw another bottle brush tree. At just two inches, it was tinier and even cuter than the one I lost all of those years ago. Three and change. Done.

I stayed for an hour and left the shop feeling much looser and calmer. Yes, the rest of my week got hairy from time to time, and I’m sure it will again. But I have my little bitty tree right here on my desk, and it helps to remind me of the joy and peace this season is supposed to have.

I’m not sure I believe in sweeping generalizations like great joy is all around us, if only we reach out and grab it. Would that it were. At times like this it seems even more implausible, and that’s coming from a pretty enthusiastic optimist. But I don’t think that’s how it works.

Instead, I think we should seek out any bright little glimmers of joy we can find. Those are all around us, and those we should grab. It doesn’t matter if it’s Christmastime or any other time of year. Hang on to them and let them sink into your bones. They’ll fortify you. When necessary—before it’s necessary, really—I recommend taking a day, or an afternoon, or even an hour, to play hooky from the world.

And I figured this out: Maybe stress is best diffused just by seeking out anything or anyone that can help us to feel safe. Maybe that’s where peace comes from, too.

I hope you figure out a way to find it—all year long but especially now.

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Storms (both) over! Power (twice) restored! Things getting back to normal! But oh, just kidding, November had one more banana peel for me to slip on.

Last night at around 7p I went down my hallway and heard a…well…watery noise. Turns out the boiler in my building had gone kablooie and my radiators were delivering the message. And continued to do so for the next six hours, until the emergency plumber arrived.

I think it would be simplest to describe the horror event with statements from all involved.

Me: OHNOOHNOOHNOOHNOSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOP

Downstairs neighbors: HOLY F***

Radiators: SPLURT SPLURT SPLURT

Landlord: …crickets.

Plumber: $215 even.

I created the below contraption in an effort to coerce the continually dripping water to do my bidding instead of its own. Low dripping valve to funnel to skillet to long metal cylinder I found in the office closet to my biggest stockpot.  I was exhausted but undaunted, figuring maybe I never took physics, but I sure watched The Goonies enough times as a kid.

I should have taken physics.

And this is what I caught out of my bathroom radiator—rusty water. I call it Gross Soup. Mmmmmmm nummy.

So.

Once I got everything more or less under control—it only took till about 12:30a—I did the only sensible, rational thing I could think of. I sat down and chipped cooled, dried bittersweet chocolate out of a Pyrex bowl with the small plastic spatula that came with my Cuisinart Mini-Mate Chopper and ate it all with very cold milk. Then I roasted hazelnuts in the oven and rubbed their skins off with a kitchen towel. It was surprisingly relaxing.

Today I learned I will not have heat until early next week.* The gas company guy offered a sweet expression of folksy wisdom: ‘Don’t try lighting the pilot light or you could blow this place sky high.’

After hearing this, I ate a wedge of my homemade gingerbread, finished a dopey novel, and shopped for supplies. Knowing the house was going to be cold, I made a point to wear my stage tech boots all day, which make me feel powerful. There are many ways to suit up for battle.

Don’t think for a minute that I am some saccharine-soaked Pollyanna, dismissing the indignity of what happened last night, which was due entirely to my landlord’s negligence**. I took out my frustration by duct taping my radiator valves. And I plan to deliver this guy his comeuppance with shameless abandon. Though not with duct tape, because it’s too good for him.

It’s just that I know people who don’t have entire houses right now, post-Sandy. Or their cars were totaled by ocean waves while sitting right in their driveways. Or their possessions, after gulping 500 gallons of seawater, were totaled as well. Plus…being cold is work enough. Bellyaching about it just makes hard work harder.

Tomorrow I am going to a party, finishing my hazelnut recipe***, tagging my Christmas tree at the farm to be cut next month, and working on my Christmas cards. Here’s the shot. That could cheer anyone up.

Truffle cookies. Way prettier than Gross Soup.

*This is not a repeat from 10/29-11/9.

**His name is Jim. I call him Jimmy Crack Corn, from the old Southern antebellum song, because he doesn’t care.

***It’s called Better Than Nutella. Hello and yes I need to make you.

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