Observing my kids over these past twentysomething years has found me many days scratching my head. These envelope-pushing-willful-behaving-socially-flying creatures that I could not in my wildest imagination conceive when I was a teen several decades ago, have left me positively bewildered on more occasions than I can count on my elbows-fingers-knees-and-toes.
And then, some days, everything about them seems golden.
I enjoyed that wonderfully-blissful refreshing shower of abundance this past week. Our second son, who is a plebe at the United States Naval Academy, tried out and passed the first round of competitive entry into a combat squad he hopes to be a part of, and called us as we were trying to fall asleep to tell us the good news.
The very next day, we got a call from our oldest son telling us the great news that he got accepted for the hoped-for part-time job teaching inner-city middle schoolers English and Math, while simultaneously studying through his senior year of college, working as a lab assistant, preparing for the GRE and applying to grad schools.
One day later, our daughter’s photo showed up in our small town newspaper, showing her digging a volleyball during one of their varsity games; our youngest son’s football plays were highlighted in the same newspaper in an article featuring eighth grade sports.
It was a good week. I beamed ear to ear with joy at their accomplishments and felt my heart take a literal leap.
More than twenty years ago, when I voluntarily derailed out of my corporate career on Wall Street to enter into the whole new world of at-home motherhood with back-to-back pregnancies and a wardrobe of maternity clothes (that became my permanent wardrobe for nearly a decade), I had no idea how the seeds we planted would sprout. Many, many times it seemed as though the seeds were thrown into frozen soil. The terrible two’s never lasted for just the second year of life, but stretched well into the “terrific” three’s and tug-of-war four’s. The “golden years” of five and six (or so I remember our pediatrician calling them that) never seemed particularly easy either. During middle school, I faced many days when I wasn’t quite sure I was going to make it. Head-scratching indeed.
And then somehow, with that mysterious unseen alchemy of sunshine, water and several spikes of high-packed vitamins, those seeds took root and one day, taking us all quite by surprise, sprouted. They grew and they grew. Trunks came up too. And became shockingly hardy. And then the trees bore fruit. Plump, juicy, savory fruit.
We happy parents are not bragging nor boasting. No. We’re simply delighted that our kids’ wings have taken hold and, sturdy and strong, have lifted them to heights not particularly on our horizons and directions never programmed into our mental GPS’s.
These past few weeks have left me facing dizzying news in the capital markets, disequilibrium with these historically unprecedented times and frustration with the irrational and illogical unfoldings on the financial and political scenes. If you are feeling the same way, try to take some time out to look for slivers of light. For moonbeams in parenting. Positive energy in your workspace. Words of encouragement from your colleagues.
I sense an overall edginess in our nation. An uneasiness with things on multiples fronts. My friends report difficulty sleeping. Worrying about their futures.
Looking for progress—large or small—is one of the joys of investing time and talent into other people. Of working with them to use their gifts and talents for the betterment of the world.
As you move forward these next few weeks, take a deep breath. Or two. And try to take time to savor the fruit. Juicy fruit is your sweet reward.
Blessings on your week,
Carolina
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Surprised by Joy…in Vermont
You only have a few weeks—or days—left to find joie in fall’s foliage. While you might be witnessing it in your own neighborhood, or perhaps have even driven somewhere close to home to see it in all of its glory, I can practically guarantee that you will not fully experience it unless you visit Vermont,
I traveled there a couple weekends ago when I took my daughter college-shopping throughout New England. As if the trees on the drive through Connecticut and Massachusetts weren’t breathtakingly gorgeous enough, with their brilliant golds and burnished reds, they left me practically gasping for air once we crossed the line into Vermont.
I can’t say that I’ve ever really traveled much throughout Vermont. A couple of ski trips there in the dead of winter were wonderful in their ski-resort campyness and exhilaratingly crisp still air (not to mention competitive downhill runs.) But fall in Vermont? Oh my goodness……
Tourists come from across the country and indeed, around the world, to visit Vermont in the fall. I’ve read about this for years of course. Always wanted to see if it’s what it’s cracked up to be.
It is. Trust me. Go see for yourself. Here’s what we did:
Burlington. We visited UVM, or Universitas Virdis Montis, the University of the Green Mountains. Set against the backdrop of Lake Champlain, between the Adirondack and Green Mountains, it is, without a doubt, one of the prettiest university towns in the country. Walk Church Street and take a peek inside the funky clothing stores, high end April Cornell, the candy shop (try the homemade dark chocolate bark studded with almonds!) and the chock-full-of-great-finds women’s consignment store. I picked up a Ralph Lauren cabled cotton sweater in the United States Naval Academy yellow for fall football game good cheer. It was a veritable steal! Eat outside at Leunig’s Bistro (115 Church Street). Authentic French bistro with inspiring food and charming décor. We had a perfect dining experience during our one night in Burlington, and my daughter and I created a lifelong memory there. A terrific escape.
Middlebury. Home to nationally-ranked liberal arts Middlebury College, this tiny town is as quaint as they come, being settled right after the end of the Revolutionary War. Downtown streets are lined with expensive boutiques and coffee shops, which are all within a short walking distance to the fabulous Middlebury Inn. If you get the opportunity to travel to Vermont, please call well ahead for a reservation, and try to stay at the Inn. Otherwise, you’ll be forced to stay at either a Bed & Breakfast (of which there are plenty) or drive, as we did, in the middle of the night in search of the last remaining room within a one-hundred mile radius of the town.
Killington. We wound up spending the night at Summit Lodge here, a ski lodge the sight of which was the prettiest one for sore eyes we could recall in recent memory. Having reserved a room at a B & B twenty minutes outside of Middlebury College, only to arrive to an empty house in the middle of nowhere (that might be where that Middlebury name thing comes from) with no locks on the room doors, no locks on the front door and not one person or dog in sight (leaving my sixteen-year-old daughter who had seen far too many horror movies in her short little life scared out of her mind at the thought of spending the night there). Our night at the lodge in Killington worked out just fine. Dated but charming in its campy simplicity and full of roaming Bernese Mountain dogs, the beds are warm, the food is hot and homemade and its in a well-situated spot in the green state.
Woodstock. Driving from Killington towards Boston, to continue our college tour schedule, we passed, quite unexpectedly, through Woodstock. My daughter had just fallen asleep, but had it been otherwise, I would have jabbed her ribs with my elbow and made her get up and walk around the town with me. It was as good as Vermont gets. The Woodstock Inn is picture perfect with white picket fence and symmetrical Colonial architecture. If I had been better prepared, I would have reserved a room here and spent the entire weekend strolling through this town. My jaw stayed open as I wove through its few narrow streets. Perfect shops and perfect homes line perfect streets. If most of Vermont strikes you as too “Vermonty,” then this town is for you. Plan a visit here for next year; I’ll be booking my room this week for ’09. It was crawling with tourists by 9:30 on Sunday morning before anything even opened.
Quechee. The home of Simon Pearce Glassware in the Historic Mill. A destination of its own. Travel to Vermont just to visit the restaurant and shop. Watch the potter at his wheel, take videos by the water wheel and dine in the renowned restaurant. A short drive from Woodstock and one which you will cherish for years to come! Simon’s hand blown glassware has been on my radar for more than twenty years and I am still kicking myself that I did not start collecting it back then when I had the chance to buy it wholesale. I can’t touch it now (except the the “seconds” pile.) Fabulous wedding registry and corporate gift center too.
If October is one of your favorite months, as it is mine, enjoy the way the earth laughs out loud during its next few remaining days ahead. And if you are fortunate enough to be able to afford the time away, make it an escape to Vermont. It is one of creation’s true masterpieces.
Until next week, all blessings,
Carolina
I traveled there a couple weekends ago when I took my daughter college-shopping throughout New England. As if the trees on the drive through Connecticut and Massachusetts weren’t breathtakingly gorgeous enough, with their brilliant golds and burnished reds, they left me practically gasping for air once we crossed the line into Vermont.
I can’t say that I’ve ever really traveled much throughout Vermont. A couple of ski trips there in the dead of winter were wonderful in their ski-resort campyness and exhilaratingly crisp still air (not to mention competitive downhill runs.) But fall in Vermont? Oh my goodness……
Tourists come from across the country and indeed, around the world, to visit Vermont in the fall. I’ve read about this for years of course. Always wanted to see if it’s what it’s cracked up to be.
It is. Trust me. Go see for yourself. Here’s what we did:
Burlington. We visited UVM, or Universitas Virdis Montis, the University of the Green Mountains. Set against the backdrop of Lake Champlain, between the Adirondack and Green Mountains, it is, without a doubt, one of the prettiest university towns in the country. Walk Church Street and take a peek inside the funky clothing stores, high end April Cornell, the candy shop (try the homemade dark chocolate bark studded with almonds!) and the chock-full-of-great-finds women’s consignment store. I picked up a Ralph Lauren cabled cotton sweater in the United States Naval Academy yellow for fall football game good cheer. It was a veritable steal! Eat outside at Leunig’s Bistro (115 Church Street). Authentic French bistro with inspiring food and charming décor. We had a perfect dining experience during our one night in Burlington, and my daughter and I created a lifelong memory there. A terrific escape.
Middlebury. Home to nationally-ranked liberal arts Middlebury College, this tiny town is as quaint as they come, being settled right after the end of the Revolutionary War. Downtown streets are lined with expensive boutiques and coffee shops, which are all within a short walking distance to the fabulous Middlebury Inn. If you get the opportunity to travel to Vermont, please call well ahead for a reservation, and try to stay at the Inn. Otherwise, you’ll be forced to stay at either a Bed & Breakfast (of which there are plenty) or drive, as we did, in the middle of the night in search of the last remaining room within a one-hundred mile radius of the town.
Killington. We wound up spending the night at Summit Lodge here, a ski lodge the sight of which was the prettiest one for sore eyes we could recall in recent memory. Having reserved a room at a B & B twenty minutes outside of Middlebury College, only to arrive to an empty house in the middle of nowhere (that might be where that Middlebury name thing comes from) with no locks on the room doors, no locks on the front door and not one person or dog in sight (leaving my sixteen-year-old daughter who had seen far too many horror movies in her short little life scared out of her mind at the thought of spending the night there). Our night at the lodge in Killington worked out just fine. Dated but charming in its campy simplicity and full of roaming Bernese Mountain dogs, the beds are warm, the food is hot and homemade and its in a well-situated spot in the green state.
Woodstock. Driving from Killington towards Boston, to continue our college tour schedule, we passed, quite unexpectedly, through Woodstock. My daughter had just fallen asleep, but had it been otherwise, I would have jabbed her ribs with my elbow and made her get up and walk around the town with me. It was as good as Vermont gets. The Woodstock Inn is picture perfect with white picket fence and symmetrical Colonial architecture. If I had been better prepared, I would have reserved a room here and spent the entire weekend strolling through this town. My jaw stayed open as I wove through its few narrow streets. Perfect shops and perfect homes line perfect streets. If most of Vermont strikes you as too “Vermonty,” then this town is for you. Plan a visit here for next year; I’ll be booking my room this week for ’09. It was crawling with tourists by 9:30 on Sunday morning before anything even opened.
Quechee. The home of Simon Pearce Glassware in the Historic Mill. A destination of its own. Travel to Vermont just to visit the restaurant and shop. Watch the potter at his wheel, take videos by the water wheel and dine in the renowned restaurant. A short drive from Woodstock and one which you will cherish for years to come! Simon’s hand blown glassware has been on my radar for more than twenty years and I am still kicking myself that I did not start collecting it back then when I had the chance to buy it wholesale. I can’t touch it now (except the the “seconds” pile.) Fabulous wedding registry and corporate gift center too.
If October is one of your favorite months, as it is mine, enjoy the way the earth laughs out loud during its next few remaining days ahead. And if you are fortunate enough to be able to afford the time away, make it an escape to Vermont. It is one of creation’s true masterpieces.
Until next week, all blessings,
Carolina
Sunday, September 21, 2008
How To Cope When Life Comes At You
My friend, Hattie, corrected me once when I complained about being stressed out from over-extending myself. “Darling,” she gently scolded, “don’t say that. It’s negative. Just admit that life is coming at you.”
Such was this past week. I witnessed things as never before professionally. Many of its events were historically unprecedented. I sat at my kitchen table early Saturday morning with a piping hot cup of joe, staring into space, needing the time to just sit and sip in silence. It was my simple kitchen table that served as the shock absorber on life’s past five bumpy days.
We all need coping mechanisms for when life comes at us. Be it a health scare or a horrifying diagnosis, loss of job or loss of spouse, wayward child or ailing elderly parent, when life comes at us hard, we need to sort things out. My strategies:
Crack of dawn exercise. My morning swims keep me sane. Long and private, wonderfully monotonous in the repetitive motions of a swimmer’s stroke, they free my mind to focus on the task or problem at hand. I solve most of life’s urgent dilemmas in the pool. Most of my articles and books are composed while swimming, sorting it all out in the water, and simply putting my thoughts down on my laptop later.
Protein at breakfast. Two hard-boiled eggs are one of life’s simplest remedies. With a little salt and pepper. Get that protein in and get it now. You can nosh on emergency dark chocolate a couple hours later.
Water and coffee by day. Drink organic. As much as required. With a little real cream. No sugar. No chemicals. No diet sodas. No sodas at all. Just the real stuff. (It puts hair on your chest.)
Radio during your commute. And by day. No TV. (Save that for just before bedtime.) And no fluff. (Just give us the facts please.)
Wear high heels and your favorite clothing. You’ll walk taller. And feel better.
Get mani-pedi’s in advance of tough weeks. In happy colors. Bright pink usually does the trick.
Deal with your hair . Add more highlights. (Don’t ask me why. Platinum just works.)
Walk the stairs or around the block. Running up a couple flights instead of taking the elevator will give you the mid-day rush of oxygen that your brain needs as well as five minutes of thinking time.
Keep a cool head. Realizing that you can only do your very best will be a huge step towards framing your anxiety. You can’t control the world; it’s going to spin well beyond your grasp. You can only control how you respond to events. Calm, cool and collected are usually the passwords here.
Employ a diligent work ethic. Time spent at the water cooler is time spent away from the task at hand. Plan your work and (faithfully, cheerfully) work your plan.
Maintain your calendar. Keep your appointments, dropping only the optional ones and keeping all of the others. The world will still spin on its axis. People need to see you. And you them.
Get some sleep. Even when I wake up in the middle of the night, tempted to check email and turn on the news, I force myself back to sleep, knowing that I need physical fortification.
Pray. And allow others to pray for you. As they say, there are no atheists in foxholes. One of my clients told me she wakes up at three every morning and prays for me; another prayed with me on the phone on Friday, when life came at me especially hard.
Take the weekends off. Do all the stuff that keeps your household running smoothly. Like laundry. I visited the shoe cobbler with a couple pair of shoes needing attention; the flooring contractor to return unused wood; the grocer to stock up both pantry and fridge. As much as my brain told me to haul my body up to my study to immerse myself in my newest book project, my mind hadn’t yet caught up with last week. I needed quiet time. And I allowed the drive time running errands to be just that. No radio. No ipod. Just me and my mind and the gorgeous Connecticut countryside. Time to reflect on the fragility of life.
Go solo when need be. Stay in. I skipped a concert I was supposed to go to Saturday night. Couldn’t quite deal with people or crowds. Cooked dinner for me and my hubby and loved cocooning inside my own home. Phoned our sons who are away in college and enjoyed more than ever hearing their voices.
I enjoyed my family and my church today. I taught my three year-olds in cherub choir. Watched my son play football. Spent some time in the fresh air.
Shakespeare said that life holds more tragedy than comedy. Whether or not that’s true, we’ll never know. But we know for certain that life holds both. And requires, from each of us, mechanisms for coping when life comes at us.
As you witnessed history this past week when life came at you to one degree or another, I hope you dealt with it graciously. And I pray you will stay connected and will share its lessons with those whom you most love.
Blessings,
Carolina
Such was this past week. I witnessed things as never before professionally. Many of its events were historically unprecedented. I sat at my kitchen table early Saturday morning with a piping hot cup of joe, staring into space, needing the time to just sit and sip in silence. It was my simple kitchen table that served as the shock absorber on life’s past five bumpy days.
We all need coping mechanisms for when life comes at us. Be it a health scare or a horrifying diagnosis, loss of job or loss of spouse, wayward child or ailing elderly parent, when life comes at us hard, we need to sort things out. My strategies:
Crack of dawn exercise. My morning swims keep me sane. Long and private, wonderfully monotonous in the repetitive motions of a swimmer’s stroke, they free my mind to focus on the task or problem at hand. I solve most of life’s urgent dilemmas in the pool. Most of my articles and books are composed while swimming, sorting it all out in the water, and simply putting my thoughts down on my laptop later.
Protein at breakfast. Two hard-boiled eggs are one of life’s simplest remedies. With a little salt and pepper. Get that protein in and get it now. You can nosh on emergency dark chocolate a couple hours later.
Water and coffee by day. Drink organic. As much as required. With a little real cream. No sugar. No chemicals. No diet sodas. No sodas at all. Just the real stuff. (It puts hair on your chest.)
Radio during your commute. And by day. No TV. (Save that for just before bedtime.) And no fluff. (Just give us the facts please.)
Wear high heels and your favorite clothing. You’ll walk taller. And feel better.
Get mani-pedi’s in advance of tough weeks. In happy colors. Bright pink usually does the trick.
Deal with your hair . Add more highlights. (Don’t ask me why. Platinum just works.)
Walk the stairs or around the block. Running up a couple flights instead of taking the elevator will give you the mid-day rush of oxygen that your brain needs as well as five minutes of thinking time.
Keep a cool head. Realizing that you can only do your very best will be a huge step towards framing your anxiety. You can’t control the world; it’s going to spin well beyond your grasp. You can only control how you respond to events. Calm, cool and collected are usually the passwords here.
Employ a diligent work ethic. Time spent at the water cooler is time spent away from the task at hand. Plan your work and (faithfully, cheerfully) work your plan.
Maintain your calendar. Keep your appointments, dropping only the optional ones and keeping all of the others. The world will still spin on its axis. People need to see you. And you them.
Get some sleep. Even when I wake up in the middle of the night, tempted to check email and turn on the news, I force myself back to sleep, knowing that I need physical fortification.
Pray. And allow others to pray for you. As they say, there are no atheists in foxholes. One of my clients told me she wakes up at three every morning and prays for me; another prayed with me on the phone on Friday, when life came at me especially hard.
Take the weekends off. Do all the stuff that keeps your household running smoothly. Like laundry. I visited the shoe cobbler with a couple pair of shoes needing attention; the flooring contractor to return unused wood; the grocer to stock up both pantry and fridge. As much as my brain told me to haul my body up to my study to immerse myself in my newest book project, my mind hadn’t yet caught up with last week. I needed quiet time. And I allowed the drive time running errands to be just that. No radio. No ipod. Just me and my mind and the gorgeous Connecticut countryside. Time to reflect on the fragility of life.
Go solo when need be. Stay in. I skipped a concert I was supposed to go to Saturday night. Couldn’t quite deal with people or crowds. Cooked dinner for me and my hubby and loved cocooning inside my own home. Phoned our sons who are away in college and enjoyed more than ever hearing their voices.
I enjoyed my family and my church today. I taught my three year-olds in cherub choir. Watched my son play football. Spent some time in the fresh air.
Shakespeare said that life holds more tragedy than comedy. Whether or not that’s true, we’ll never know. But we know for certain that life holds both. And requires, from each of us, mechanisms for coping when life comes at us.
As you witnessed history this past week when life came at you to one degree or another, I hope you dealt with it graciously. And I pray you will stay connected and will share its lessons with those whom you most love.
Blessings,
Carolina
Monday, September 8, 2008
What’s the Difference Between a Hockey Mom and a Rocket Mom?
Mascara. Rocket Moms have always worn lipstick.
By now, the whole world has heard the line about the only thing separating a hockey mom from a pit bull being lipstick. Sarah Palin, the woman everyone knows about after being thrown into the national spotlight seemingly overnight, personifies feminine spunk that you just gotta love. Regardless of your politics, regardless of your stance on the working-versus-stay-at-home debate, regardless of your judgment on the teenage pregnancy thing. You just gotta hand it to her.
And if you’ve been reading my ROCKET MOM! Newsletters for the past four years, you know that I’ve always advocated wearing two things…if nothing else. Lipstick and mascara. So here we have it: hockey moms. Rocket Moms. ALL decent moms. Fighting to be the best they can be. And wanting to hear more of this woman we hardly know.
And now with Labor Day behind us, and my promise to once again renew the weekly dollop of “joie” via these email Newsletters, just how do we discuss what’s been on my mind these past ten days in light of the fact that some of my readers are faithful because they like a weekly mommy-motivator, while some of you are with me because you are part of the design-chef-francophile crowd following the release of Country French Kitchens? An interesting mix, to be sure. But let’s face it: we’re all in need of nurturing both hearth and home, be it via parenting tips or marriage notes or simply advice on how to get dinner to the table. So if this is not your cup of tea, please forgive me. Delete this newsletter and wait until next week. Because I feel the need to talk about this with you.
This time of year finds me re-thinking my A-game. How to effectively go into fall with personal and family game plan in hand. Charting football schedules against volleyball games, out-of-state visits to our two college kids against client dinners. PTA involvement with board meetings. Figuring out an exercise and grooming schedule.
Now here’s where Palin fits in. She’s not just a hockey mom. She’s a rocket mom of the nth degree. And she gives us plenty of tips on just how to get our A-game on the docket now that Labor Day and beach excursions are behind us.
What I’m learning from Sarah:
She’s got the multi-tasking thing down pat. Sarah usually has her Blackberry in one hand and something of her child’s in the other. Be it a ponytail she’s shifting into a ribbon or homework needing a quick check, she does it with her mind ready to jump to the next task at hand. One might find contradiction to the idea of “being in the moment” or of being into the thing you’re into. But Sarah seems to have figured out how to immerse herself into what she needs to and get her mind…and hands…prepared for what will inevitably come next, be it an executive meeting, a kid’s play-date, dinner preparations or a conference call.
She’s figured out that the best stress-reliever is physical exercise. Sweating at the gym or during a midnight jog is how Sarah best gets rid of the stresses that go with the job. Rocket moms have known this for years. We’re into strength training and aerobic activity to tone lumpy thighs and keep arms and abs strong. Sarah kept her fifth pregnancy a secret not because she necessarily wanted to, but because her abs were so tight (after four babies!) that she was able to.
She’s perky despite obstacles. Thrown into controversy both from her years as governor as well as parent to teenagers, she knows all too well that some things are beyond one’s control and spin outside of one’s reach or influence. In spite of it all, she stays cool under pressure and maintains a charming, can-do attitude even when the odds are stacked against her.
She’s kept her priorities straight. Husband and kids first. Everything else falls into place once these priorities are set. As much as she loves her role as governor, she loves being a wife and mom most of all. (Love that.)
She’s committed to service. Those who challenge her ability to be wife, mom and veep need to remember that she didn’t choose to run for the vice presidency. She was chosen. Opportunities come to those who are prepared. Be it in your professional or personal life, your role at your church or house of worship, or the corner of the world in which you roam, opportunities to increase your reach will come your way if you do your homework and work your tail off. Embrace them. Your territory for influence will expand exponentially. Guaranteed.
She’s intellectually and morally strong. I love strong people. Strong personalities. Can’t help it. Always been attracted to strength. Sarah sticks to her convictions unapologetically. If she believes in a cause or a point of view, stemming from conviction based on faith or experience or pure world view, she does not let others deter her from meeting her goal.
She’s embraced her femininity. Wears attractive clothing, an attractive hairstyle and obviously utilizes a fabulous skincare regimen because her complexion is flawless. Excellent personal grooming is a hallmark of all rocket moms, and while you might not prefer pink nail polish on your toenails (as do both Sarah and I…check out OPI’s “Calypso” for one last hot pink late-summer fling ), you certainly keep them in good shape. And, I know you are already wearing lipstick and mascara….
There’s more to learn over the next couple of months about this fascinating woman, Sarah Palin. I will be on the lookout for details, as I am always interested in reading about those women who might be role models for me. If you get any tidbits that you’d like to share, feel free to email me.
Until then, let me leave you with one last thought. My minister shared a true story about an itinerant preacher, Jesse Lee, who is the namesake for the church where my family and I worship in our own small town. Unqualified, without credentials or pedigree, he simply rode—horseback—from village to village talking with others about the Gospel. He held up an apple to one of these crowds in one of these towns and noted that we can all count the number of seeds inside an apple…but only God knows how many apples will grow from the seeds.
As you strive to go into the fall with your A-Game, contemplate the number of apples that might grow from your seeds. Your seeds of energy. Of wisdom. Of compassion. Of conviction.
All blessings,
Carolina
By now, the whole world has heard the line about the only thing separating a hockey mom from a pit bull being lipstick. Sarah Palin, the woman everyone knows about after being thrown into the national spotlight seemingly overnight, personifies feminine spunk that you just gotta love. Regardless of your politics, regardless of your stance on the working-versus-stay-at-home debate, regardless of your judgment on the teenage pregnancy thing. You just gotta hand it to her.
And if you’ve been reading my ROCKET MOM! Newsletters for the past four years, you know that I’ve always advocated wearing two things…if nothing else. Lipstick and mascara. So here we have it: hockey moms. Rocket Moms. ALL decent moms. Fighting to be the best they can be. And wanting to hear more of this woman we hardly know.
And now with Labor Day behind us, and my promise to once again renew the weekly dollop of “joie” via these email Newsletters, just how do we discuss what’s been on my mind these past ten days in light of the fact that some of my readers are faithful because they like a weekly mommy-motivator, while some of you are with me because you are part of the design-chef-francophile crowd following the release of Country French Kitchens? An interesting mix, to be sure. But let’s face it: we’re all in need of nurturing both hearth and home, be it via parenting tips or marriage notes or simply advice on how to get dinner to the table. So if this is not your cup of tea, please forgive me. Delete this newsletter and wait until next week. Because I feel the need to talk about this with you.
This time of year finds me re-thinking my A-game. How to effectively go into fall with personal and family game plan in hand. Charting football schedules against volleyball games, out-of-state visits to our two college kids against client dinners. PTA involvement with board meetings. Figuring out an exercise and grooming schedule.
Now here’s where Palin fits in. She’s not just a hockey mom. She’s a rocket mom of the nth degree. And she gives us plenty of tips on just how to get our A-game on the docket now that Labor Day and beach excursions are behind us.
What I’m learning from Sarah:
She’s got the multi-tasking thing down pat. Sarah usually has her Blackberry in one hand and something of her child’s in the other. Be it a ponytail she’s shifting into a ribbon or homework needing a quick check, she does it with her mind ready to jump to the next task at hand. One might find contradiction to the idea of “being in the moment” or of being into the thing you’re into. But Sarah seems to have figured out how to immerse herself into what she needs to and get her mind…and hands…prepared for what will inevitably come next, be it an executive meeting, a kid’s play-date, dinner preparations or a conference call.
She’s figured out that the best stress-reliever is physical exercise. Sweating at the gym or during a midnight jog is how Sarah best gets rid of the stresses that go with the job. Rocket moms have known this for years. We’re into strength training and aerobic activity to tone lumpy thighs and keep arms and abs strong. Sarah kept her fifth pregnancy a secret not because she necessarily wanted to, but because her abs were so tight (after four babies!) that she was able to.
She’s perky despite obstacles. Thrown into controversy both from her years as governor as well as parent to teenagers, she knows all too well that some things are beyond one’s control and spin outside of one’s reach or influence. In spite of it all, she stays cool under pressure and maintains a charming, can-do attitude even when the odds are stacked against her.
She’s kept her priorities straight. Husband and kids first. Everything else falls into place once these priorities are set. As much as she loves her role as governor, she loves being a wife and mom most of all. (Love that.)
She’s committed to service. Those who challenge her ability to be wife, mom and veep need to remember that she didn’t choose to run for the vice presidency. She was chosen. Opportunities come to those who are prepared. Be it in your professional or personal life, your role at your church or house of worship, or the corner of the world in which you roam, opportunities to increase your reach will come your way if you do your homework and work your tail off. Embrace them. Your territory for influence will expand exponentially. Guaranteed.
She’s intellectually and morally strong. I love strong people. Strong personalities. Can’t help it. Always been attracted to strength. Sarah sticks to her convictions unapologetically. If she believes in a cause or a point of view, stemming from conviction based on faith or experience or pure world view, she does not let others deter her from meeting her goal.
She’s embraced her femininity. Wears attractive clothing, an attractive hairstyle and obviously utilizes a fabulous skincare regimen because her complexion is flawless. Excellent personal grooming is a hallmark of all rocket moms, and while you might not prefer pink nail polish on your toenails (as do both Sarah and I…check out OPI’s “Calypso” for one last hot pink late-summer fling ), you certainly keep them in good shape. And, I know you are already wearing lipstick and mascara….
There’s more to learn over the next couple of months about this fascinating woman, Sarah Palin. I will be on the lookout for details, as I am always interested in reading about those women who might be role models for me. If you get any tidbits that you’d like to share, feel free to email me.
Until then, let me leave you with one last thought. My minister shared a true story about an itinerant preacher, Jesse Lee, who is the namesake for the church where my family and I worship in our own small town. Unqualified, without credentials or pedigree, he simply rode—horseback—from village to village talking with others about the Gospel. He held up an apple to one of these crowds in one of these towns and noted that we can all count the number of seeds inside an apple…but only God knows how many apples will grow from the seeds.
As you strive to go into the fall with your A-Game, contemplate the number of apples that might grow from your seeds. Your seeds of energy. Of wisdom. Of compassion. Of conviction.
All blessings,
Carolina
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Yearnings for Home
Last week gave me the distinct pleasure of focused time with family and friends. Out-of-state travel. The wedding of the babysitter who helped me raise our kids. Tucking our son safely into Plebe Summer at the United States Naval Academy. Reuniting with Nick, who has been away at summer school. Visiting old friends from Kentucky who have relocated to Nashville, and connecting nearly two decades worth of memories with up-to-date goings on in our now separate lives.
I could write a book on the Academy’s Induction Day alone. The final hug with our son as a civilian. The formal swearing-in ceremony. Twelve hundred freshly-shaved heads donned in sailor caps sitting quietly in lawn chairs on the expanse of lawn in front of the giant building where important people spoke. That last half- hour together. Watching him get in line with his platoon. And then that final sight—permanently imprinted in my brain—of twelve hundred men and women marching through the arch. Into what may well be the most grueling six weeks of their lives. The pain of that separation. The sullenness of our moods that night. Of lump in throat and flop in stomach.
And then on to D.C. where we witnessed yet another July 4th celebration on the mall. Sitting on blankets underneath the stars and the rain. With soaked bodies and slightly soaked spirits. Trying to energize ourselves with one less kid in tow. And enjoy the fireworks without confessing out loud about how much we missed our sweet Ben.
My husband drove the two remaining kids in our brood back home, while Nick headed south, once again to college for a new round of summer school, and I headed west to visit two cherished friends in Nashville. Graciously both housing me and giving me the grand tour of a city I did not know, their hospitality brought something to me which I needed very much at the moment. Still suffering sharp pangs of homesickness for my son, the plebe, I needed at that moment—but did not consciously realize nor acknowledge it at the time—the warmth of the cocoon of home. Of familiar friends and familiar shared pasts. Of deep-seated memories. Of laughter. Recognized southern accents (something I have not heard much of in these past five years in Connecticut). Of hanging out in jammies over breakfast. Of watching the wedding video of their son, a wedding I regret having had to miss, and crying together over its tenderness. And rejoicing in its promise of a bright future for two terrific newlyweds. Of meeting their new grandchildren. And catching up with their now-grown daughter and her new husband.
And on to the wedding of our dear Hannah. Now twentysomething and movie-star gorgeous. Thin as a noodle and looking more than smashing in her white fitted gown, veiled head and drawn-up hair with perfect make-up revealing none of the t-shirted and blue-jeaned past when she protected my kids while I dated my husband. Eating wedding feast burritos—a Hannah favorite—with her older siblings brought a floodgate of memories, as we noshed on chips and sipped on wine while catching up with every important detail of our lives.
This weekend reinforced the notion of home for me. It helped me realize more than ever that the intergenerational transfer of family ties—and of deep friendships—do not happen by chance. Or by legal transfer of title. Transfer of warmth and love through generations happens by the simple yet thoughtful acts built into the daily rhythms of life which, through years of repetition, hard work and discipline, grow into something powerful.
Not all families survive the marriages of our children. The in-laws sometimes hate the outlaws. The mother-in-laws sometimes buck heads with the daughters or the sons. Not all friendships survive hundreds of miles of geographical separation. Dinner dates are fewer and far between. Celebrations of life’s important events are sometimes missed. Catch-up phone calls are delayed. Birthdays are forgotten.
But it is this thing we call home that is the most important thing of all. Not the physical home to be sure. Homes come and homes go. Upholstery fades and the china breaks. But the substance of home remains embedded into our cores in a way that can not easily be forgotten or ignored. It is the smells. The visuals. The colors. The accents.
The hugs. The time spent. The sacrifices to personal issues made. Meals get shared and photos get exchanged. Lives get caught up on.
It is this that sustains us. That allows us to find and follow the joy.
I’m getting ready to take another trip this weekend. This time to see my aging mother. And meet up with my brother and my sister and their kids. To clean out the family home where we all grew up in order to move her into smaller and quieter quarters. One with wheelchair access and a handicapped sign in her own little spot in the parking lot. The circle of life goes on. Intergenerational transfer of love. Of care. Of yet another way to define home.
As you travel this summer to visit family and friends, I hope that you, too, fulfill your yearnings for home. In whatever way you define it.
Godspeed.
Carolina
I could write a book on the Academy’s Induction Day alone. The final hug with our son as a civilian. The formal swearing-in ceremony. Twelve hundred freshly-shaved heads donned in sailor caps sitting quietly in lawn chairs on the expanse of lawn in front of the giant building where important people spoke. That last half- hour together. Watching him get in line with his platoon. And then that final sight—permanently imprinted in my brain—of twelve hundred men and women marching through the arch. Into what may well be the most grueling six weeks of their lives. The pain of that separation. The sullenness of our moods that night. Of lump in throat and flop in stomach.
And then on to D.C. where we witnessed yet another July 4th celebration on the mall. Sitting on blankets underneath the stars and the rain. With soaked bodies and slightly soaked spirits. Trying to energize ourselves with one less kid in tow. And enjoy the fireworks without confessing out loud about how much we missed our sweet Ben.
My husband drove the two remaining kids in our brood back home, while Nick headed south, once again to college for a new round of summer school, and I headed west to visit two cherished friends in Nashville. Graciously both housing me and giving me the grand tour of a city I did not know, their hospitality brought something to me which I needed very much at the moment. Still suffering sharp pangs of homesickness for my son, the plebe, I needed at that moment—but did not consciously realize nor acknowledge it at the time—the warmth of the cocoon of home. Of familiar friends and familiar shared pasts. Of deep-seated memories. Of laughter. Recognized southern accents (something I have not heard much of in these past five years in Connecticut). Of hanging out in jammies over breakfast. Of watching the wedding video of their son, a wedding I regret having had to miss, and crying together over its tenderness. And rejoicing in its promise of a bright future for two terrific newlyweds. Of meeting their new grandchildren. And catching up with their now-grown daughter and her new husband.
And on to the wedding of our dear Hannah. Now twentysomething and movie-star gorgeous. Thin as a noodle and looking more than smashing in her white fitted gown, veiled head and drawn-up hair with perfect make-up revealing none of the t-shirted and blue-jeaned past when she protected my kids while I dated my husband. Eating wedding feast burritos—a Hannah favorite—with her older siblings brought a floodgate of memories, as we noshed on chips and sipped on wine while catching up with every important detail of our lives.
This weekend reinforced the notion of home for me. It helped me realize more than ever that the intergenerational transfer of family ties—and of deep friendships—do not happen by chance. Or by legal transfer of title. Transfer of warmth and love through generations happens by the simple yet thoughtful acts built into the daily rhythms of life which, through years of repetition, hard work and discipline, grow into something powerful.
Not all families survive the marriages of our children. The in-laws sometimes hate the outlaws. The mother-in-laws sometimes buck heads with the daughters or the sons. Not all friendships survive hundreds of miles of geographical separation. Dinner dates are fewer and far between. Celebrations of life’s important events are sometimes missed. Catch-up phone calls are delayed. Birthdays are forgotten.
But it is this thing we call home that is the most important thing of all. Not the physical home to be sure. Homes come and homes go. Upholstery fades and the china breaks. But the substance of home remains embedded into our cores in a way that can not easily be forgotten or ignored. It is the smells. The visuals. The colors. The accents.
The hugs. The time spent. The sacrifices to personal issues made. Meals get shared and photos get exchanged. Lives get caught up on.
It is this that sustains us. That allows us to find and follow the joy.
I’m getting ready to take another trip this weekend. This time to see my aging mother. And meet up with my brother and my sister and their kids. To clean out the family home where we all grew up in order to move her into smaller and quieter quarters. One with wheelchair access and a handicapped sign in her own little spot in the parking lot. The circle of life goes on. Intergenerational transfer of love. Of care. Of yet another way to define home.
As you travel this summer to visit family and friends, I hope that you, too, fulfill your yearnings for home. In whatever way you define it.
Godspeed.
Carolina
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Good Foundations
Driving back from my mom’s house in Pennsylvania a couple weekends ago—after cleaning her out and moving her into a new, smaller apartment—I sang to the happy summer tunes of the Beach Boys. “Good, good, good…good vibrations” played over and over in my head.
And for some bizarre reason, I switched it in my brain, focusing suddenly on “Good Foundations.”
One of my mantras—as a parent of four anyway—has always been “good mattresses, good books, good shoes.” No one ever got hurt by sticking with great foundations. More than that, instilling good foundations into the core of your children—and indeed, into your home, your wardrobe, your relationships, your life!—is an enduring hallmark of a life well-lived.
So it was with this mantra in mind that I reflected on the work that my brother and sister and some of our kids performed, cleaning out our mom’s home of forty-six years. I mentally searched for those solid foundations that helped grow my siblings and I into the spouses, parents, friends and colleagues that each of us are today.
My mom’s house was built of stone. In the early 60’s. This wonderful Pennsylvania stone has proven harder and harder to come by, and it has retained its value and its charm these nearly five decades later. Its color and its texture still resonate. Inside closets are floored with hardwood. The basement never leaked. It holds both upper and lower registers, so that, depending on the season, one can turn off a register and let hot air or cold escape or rise as need be.
Investing in value is as popular today as it was in 1962 when my parents bought what would become the only home I’ll ever remember living in until I grew up and married and bought nine of my own. Sitting on a large level lot, it seemed a good investment decision at the time, and has proven so nearly five decades later, as judged by the three purchase offers and the dozens of curiosity seekers driving—or walking by—unable to ignore the many members of our extended family arsenal moving in and out for one solid week, of condensing forty-six years of memories and memorabilia into boxes in order to quickly transition my mom into her new quieter and simpler life.
And, with the house now completely empty and in need of some serious freshening up, I’ll head back down this weekend to work with her builder in finalizing decisions in the cosmetic renovation work that we’ll pursue together in the next month or so ahead: we’ll choose new toilets and new faucets; fresh paint and fresh carpeting; stainless ovens and range and dishwasher; and updated tiles and countertops. We’ll tackle the pleasant job of updating a classic in order to appeal to this generation of homebuyers who demand natural stone instead of formica; low-VOC “green” paint instead of oil-or solvent-based; industrial-strength appliances instead of avocado-enameled; and bamboo or sisal instead of hardwood or shag.
Updating from one generation of quality into another is a good thing. For as time passes, technology improves, and tastes change and sophistication in style emerges and fresh color palettes dictate and, well, things move forward. I can hardly wait to roll up my sleeves and dig in! To wade through design centers in search of bathroom tiles. To scrutinize appliance configurations for someone’s kitchen re-do other than my own. To flip through flooring samples in search of that perfect one which thirtysomethings everywhere crave.
And always—always!—choosing quality. For quality never goes out of style. White porcelain sinks: a classic. Polished nickel faucets: who could argue with those?
If you are in the middle of a renovation (seriously did that five summers ago and last summer too), you no doubt understand the angst. Choosing tiles for more than one bathroom alone could throw the most rational person over the edge. (4 inch squares or rectangular subways? Colored or white? Relief or flat?) Flooring options, too, can drive one completely nuts! (To carpet or hardwood? Pre-finished or cut on site? Oak or bamboo?)
In your quest for quality, never lose sight of your need for individuality. Follow your nose. Your eye. Your gut. A house needs to look like a home. And only with your unique stamp, your taste, your hand, will it stand out from the pack.
Good mattresses, good books, good shoes. Good sinks, good faucets, good flooring.
Good stuff—good collections—usually reflect, in one way or another, precious memories. And precious memories always start with those whom we most love.
A good house is a great start for a good home. I hope you are continually moving in that direction. And as I help to feather my mom’s new calmer and smaller nest, I hope to give her, in what may be her final home, that which each one of us, in our hearts, seeks as well.
All my best,
Carolina
And for some bizarre reason, I switched it in my brain, focusing suddenly on “Good Foundations.”
One of my mantras—as a parent of four anyway—has always been “good mattresses, good books, good shoes.” No one ever got hurt by sticking with great foundations. More than that, instilling good foundations into the core of your children—and indeed, into your home, your wardrobe, your relationships, your life!—is an enduring hallmark of a life well-lived.
So it was with this mantra in mind that I reflected on the work that my brother and sister and some of our kids performed, cleaning out our mom’s home of forty-six years. I mentally searched for those solid foundations that helped grow my siblings and I into the spouses, parents, friends and colleagues that each of us are today.
My mom’s house was built of stone. In the early 60’s. This wonderful Pennsylvania stone has proven harder and harder to come by, and it has retained its value and its charm these nearly five decades later. Its color and its texture still resonate. Inside closets are floored with hardwood. The basement never leaked. It holds both upper and lower registers, so that, depending on the season, one can turn off a register and let hot air or cold escape or rise as need be.
Investing in value is as popular today as it was in 1962 when my parents bought what would become the only home I’ll ever remember living in until I grew up and married and bought nine of my own. Sitting on a large level lot, it seemed a good investment decision at the time, and has proven so nearly five decades later, as judged by the three purchase offers and the dozens of curiosity seekers driving—or walking by—unable to ignore the many members of our extended family arsenal moving in and out for one solid week, of condensing forty-six years of memories and memorabilia into boxes in order to quickly transition my mom into her new quieter and simpler life.
And, with the house now completely empty and in need of some serious freshening up, I’ll head back down this weekend to work with her builder in finalizing decisions in the cosmetic renovation work that we’ll pursue together in the next month or so ahead: we’ll choose new toilets and new faucets; fresh paint and fresh carpeting; stainless ovens and range and dishwasher; and updated tiles and countertops. We’ll tackle the pleasant job of updating a classic in order to appeal to this generation of homebuyers who demand natural stone instead of formica; low-VOC “green” paint instead of oil-or solvent-based; industrial-strength appliances instead of avocado-enameled; and bamboo or sisal instead of hardwood or shag.
Updating from one generation of quality into another is a good thing. For as time passes, technology improves, and tastes change and sophistication in style emerges and fresh color palettes dictate and, well, things move forward. I can hardly wait to roll up my sleeves and dig in! To wade through design centers in search of bathroom tiles. To scrutinize appliance configurations for someone’s kitchen re-do other than my own. To flip through flooring samples in search of that perfect one which thirtysomethings everywhere crave.
And always—always!—choosing quality. For quality never goes out of style. White porcelain sinks: a classic. Polished nickel faucets: who could argue with those?
If you are in the middle of a renovation (seriously did that five summers ago and last summer too), you no doubt understand the angst. Choosing tiles for more than one bathroom alone could throw the most rational person over the edge. (4 inch squares or rectangular subways? Colored or white? Relief or flat?) Flooring options, too, can drive one completely nuts! (To carpet or hardwood? Pre-finished or cut on site? Oak or bamboo?)
In your quest for quality, never lose sight of your need for individuality. Follow your nose. Your eye. Your gut. A house needs to look like a home. And only with your unique stamp, your taste, your hand, will it stand out from the pack.
Good mattresses, good books, good shoes. Good sinks, good faucets, good flooring.
Good stuff—good collections—usually reflect, in one way or another, precious memories. And precious memories always start with those whom we most love.
A good house is a great start for a good home. I hope you are continually moving in that direction. And as I help to feather my mom’s new calmer and smaller nest, I hope to give her, in what may be her final home, that which each one of us, in our hearts, seeks as well.
All my best,
Carolina
Monday, June 30, 2008
Swimming for my Kid…and Maybe Yours Too
“If your actions inspire others to dream more and do more, you are a leader."
John Quincy Adams
This weekend found five of the six in our family swimming or kayaking in the chilly waters of Long Island Sound for one of our own: Nick.
You might know that our son, Nick, was successfully treated for leukemia and, off chemo for a year now, is doing fabulously well. If you have been reading my newsletters during these past four years, you’ve followed the “Nick Notes” as well as our own family’s particular journey. And you know that he is a rising senior at Wake Forest University, and is in school there this summer taking a full course load to ensure graduation “on time” with his classmates.
So when I was asked last year to swim in the Inaugural Swim Across America in Greenwich for the Alliance for Cancer Gene Therapy, I replied with an eager “absolutely!” having never done anything like this before in my life, blindly believing that my morning hour-long laps in my gym’s heated pool would prepare me fully for the event. But I had no idea. A mile-and-a-half. In open water. At 58 degrees.
That was an interesting swim to say the least. The first twenty-five minutes found me unable to put my face in the water, it was just that cold. I cried. Hyperventilated. Swallowed a lot of salt water. Almost threw up. Had early stages of hypothermia. Felt dizzy upon finishing. Couldn’t feel the knuckle in my pinky finger for nine full months afterwards. But I swam for Nick. I kept reminding myself with each stroke in those chilly waters that my discomfort was but a fraction of what he endured for thirty-two long months of treatments.
And so it was with anxiety and, frankly, fear and trepidation, that I enrolled once again for this year’s Swim. I can’t say that I looked forward to it, because I didn’t. Can’t honestly say that I wanted to do it. Because I knew how difficult it was for me and I really sort of dreaded it. But I knew that I had to do it and so I signed up with a lump in my throat and did everything I could to prepare myself physically and mentally for it. And my husband signed up for it, too, as did our sons, Ben (who at eighteen is leaving for the US Naval Academy tomorrow for Induction Day) and Victor (who at thirteen was one of the youngest swimmers entered). Cristina (at sixteen) kayaked and helped to keep us swimmers lined up between the buoyees as well as anyone in distress. We represented “Team Nick” and, hesitant as we were about the swim ahead, we did it cheerfully for not only our son and brother, but for the thousands of people who are courageously fighting various forms of cancer and its treatment each and every day.
And what a glorious swim it turned out to be! Blue skies and slightly warmer temperatures were the morning’s greatest gifts. And the water looked like a piece of glass! It was calm. A tad bit warmer. Smarter this year than last, I wore a full wet suit (instead of the flimsy shortie that I wore last year); I put in my contacts so I could actually see the finish line as we got closer to it (a mentally exhilarating thing to be sure!); and I splashed around in the water for a few minutes before the swim to let me body get a little used to it before diving in.
I found myself enjoying it. Truly enjoying every minute of it! I enjoyed swimming with the other swimmers, most of whom swam in honor or in memory of a loved one. I enjoyed the sun hitting my face. The vast expanse of the open water and the freedom that came with that. My strokes. I was downright in love with the Swim. I felt my body gliding through the water in thanksgiving for the gift of life. The gift of Nick. The gift of excellent health that allowed me to do such a thing.
When I hit the finish line, I was practically giddy. Big smile. Sense of accomplishment. Good time, too, coming in a full five minutes ahead of last year. Landed squarely on my feet, without fatigue or deep-seated chills. Just proud to be a part of something so large.
I would love for you to check out the Swim Across America web site. And our family’s personalized page, too. Chances are, someone you love deeply has been affected by cancer. And I would love to swim in that person’s honor or memory next year. When I swim once again for Nick.
Perhaps you too, can take part in something large. Relay for Life or a Triathalon perhaps. Something much larger than yourself. In honor of someone you love, as well as the thousands whom you will never even meet. The sacrifice will prove exhilarating. Meaningful. Very real.
Please let me know how I can make it more real for you. It would be my honor.
Wishing you all blessings on your week. We leave tomorrow for Annapolis. To send off our second son who has decided to dedicate his life to service to our country. And to you.
Until then,
Carolina
John Quincy Adams
This weekend found five of the six in our family swimming or kayaking in the chilly waters of Long Island Sound for one of our own: Nick.
You might know that our son, Nick, was successfully treated for leukemia and, off chemo for a year now, is doing fabulously well. If you have been reading my newsletters during these past four years, you’ve followed the “Nick Notes” as well as our own family’s particular journey. And you know that he is a rising senior at Wake Forest University, and is in school there this summer taking a full course load to ensure graduation “on time” with his classmates.
So when I was asked last year to swim in the Inaugural Swim Across America in Greenwich for the Alliance for Cancer Gene Therapy, I replied with an eager “absolutely!” having never done anything like this before in my life, blindly believing that my morning hour-long laps in my gym’s heated pool would prepare me fully for the event. But I had no idea. A mile-and-a-half. In open water. At 58 degrees.
That was an interesting swim to say the least. The first twenty-five minutes found me unable to put my face in the water, it was just that cold. I cried. Hyperventilated. Swallowed a lot of salt water. Almost threw up. Had early stages of hypothermia. Felt dizzy upon finishing. Couldn’t feel the knuckle in my pinky finger for nine full months afterwards. But I swam for Nick. I kept reminding myself with each stroke in those chilly waters that my discomfort was but a fraction of what he endured for thirty-two long months of treatments.
And so it was with anxiety and, frankly, fear and trepidation, that I enrolled once again for this year’s Swim. I can’t say that I looked forward to it, because I didn’t. Can’t honestly say that I wanted to do it. Because I knew how difficult it was for me and I really sort of dreaded it. But I knew that I had to do it and so I signed up with a lump in my throat and did everything I could to prepare myself physically and mentally for it. And my husband signed up for it, too, as did our sons, Ben (who at eighteen is leaving for the US Naval Academy tomorrow for Induction Day) and Victor (who at thirteen was one of the youngest swimmers entered). Cristina (at sixteen) kayaked and helped to keep us swimmers lined up between the buoyees as well as anyone in distress. We represented “Team Nick” and, hesitant as we were about the swim ahead, we did it cheerfully for not only our son and brother, but for the thousands of people who are courageously fighting various forms of cancer and its treatment each and every day.
And what a glorious swim it turned out to be! Blue skies and slightly warmer temperatures were the morning’s greatest gifts. And the water looked like a piece of glass! It was calm. A tad bit warmer. Smarter this year than last, I wore a full wet suit (instead of the flimsy shortie that I wore last year); I put in my contacts so I could actually see the finish line as we got closer to it (a mentally exhilarating thing to be sure!); and I splashed around in the water for a few minutes before the swim to let me body get a little used to it before diving in.
I found myself enjoying it. Truly enjoying every minute of it! I enjoyed swimming with the other swimmers, most of whom swam in honor or in memory of a loved one. I enjoyed the sun hitting my face. The vast expanse of the open water and the freedom that came with that. My strokes. I was downright in love with the Swim. I felt my body gliding through the water in thanksgiving for the gift of life. The gift of Nick. The gift of excellent health that allowed me to do such a thing.
When I hit the finish line, I was practically giddy. Big smile. Sense of accomplishment. Good time, too, coming in a full five minutes ahead of last year. Landed squarely on my feet, without fatigue or deep-seated chills. Just proud to be a part of something so large.
I would love for you to check out the Swim Across America web site. And our family’s personalized page, too. Chances are, someone you love deeply has been affected by cancer. And I would love to swim in that person’s honor or memory next year. When I swim once again for Nick.
Perhaps you too, can take part in something large. Relay for Life or a Triathalon perhaps. Something much larger than yourself. In honor of someone you love, as well as the thousands whom you will never even meet. The sacrifice will prove exhilarating. Meaningful. Very real.
Please let me know how I can make it more real for you. It would be my honor.
Wishing you all blessings on your week. We leave tomorrow for Annapolis. To send off our second son who has decided to dedicate his life to service to our country. And to you.
Until then,
Carolina
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Heart of the Home
This post was originally published in May 2005
"The world is too much with us; late and soon
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers…" Wordsworth
It started with my need for a new mixer. OK. Well, maybe not exactly. It probably really started when we bought our home in Connecticut around two years ago. The kitchen needed a make-over. Not a complete renovation—as some do—but a make-over, to be sure. Its footprint was fine, as was its size. Windows and doors were good, too. But it was dreary. Dark, drab and dreary.
But a re-do—no matter the scope—was out of our reach at move-in, just as it is now. So I’ve tried to not think about it too much.
That’s tougher than it sounds. What with me being a “visual person”—energized by color and proportion and pattern—and kitchen tours taking up space on every New England town’s calendar within the next few weeks, it’s almost impossible to not notice renovated kitchens. Nor to salivate over their inevitable appeal.
Such was the case this past Friday when a friend and I tromped through six fabulous kitchens throughout Ridgefield. An annual little ritual, it’s practically inescapable. Carefully calibrated to Mother’s Day—not to mention the bursting of daffodils, the budding of most trees, and the flowering of rhododendron—it coincided perfectly with spring fever and, as it turned out, Nick’s chemotherapy schedule.
And so it was that my friend, Nancy, and I enjoyed most of the afternoon together…roaming around gorgeous homes, indulging in wonderful treats catered by local restaurateurs, and commenting on what both appealed—and what didn’t—to our strong aesthetic sensibilities. Nancy is an artist, too. And she just finished her own dream kitchen a few months ago. So she has not only a good grasp of the whole kitchen re-do thing; she has a similar eye to mine and is highly motivated by strong visuals.
Interestingly, we were both struck by exactly the same things. An enormous, albeit completely-perfect home, didn’t do it for either one of us as it did for a friend whom I bumped into while there. “Isn’t this absolutely incredible?” my friend exclaimed.
Nancy and I looked at each other.
“It’s perfect,” I dead-panned.
Too perfect. Perfectly painted, perfectly appointed, perfectly accessorized, perfectly clean. Was it possible real people really lived there? Could anyone have ever actually sautéed onions and garlic at its immaculate stainless-steel Viking range?
As we walked to the car, Nancy and I reflected on what truly makes a home, anyway. And where does one stop? In this real estate frenzy of the new millennium, where success is measured by capital gains, square footage and location-location-location; how much is enough, after all? Do we really need commercial-grade stainless steel Wolf ranges and double Sub-Zero’s? Granite countertops and farmhouse sinks with copper faucets? Islands with pull-outs?
Seems like we do. A Harvard University study found that Americans spent $233 billion on remodeling and repair projects in 2003, with kitchen re-do’s topping the list. A stunning 4 million Americans will do a kitchen remodeling project of some type in this year alone!
Staggering in scope, it is easily understandable. We have everyone from Home Depot to Pottery Barn to Williams-Sonoma to Target to HGTV to thank. Oh, sure. You might not need a kitchen transformation. But seriously, do you have enough fortitude to walk out of Williams-Sonoma fiscally unscathed? And have you seen the summer plastic ware at Target? As if I needed another lime green line item in my home…it was pure will-power that prevented me from grabbing a dozen of the cutest soda-fountain-style tumblers in my favorite color on my weekend outing there……
I read recently that most people do a major kitchen remodel for one simple reason: their friend did it. Oh great. Ernie will never buy that. A brilliant tax break? We get that. Increasing the value of your real estate. Get that, too. But peer pressure?
It’s easy to see why. I mean, a wonderful kitchen is a lovely thing to behold. I totally get it. Want it. But can’t yet have it.
So in case you’re in the same state (and I have to suppose that many of you are, given the success rate of these kitchen tours) here are “5 Strategies for Infusing-Your-Kitchen-With-Beauty-If-You-Don’t-Have-The-Designer-Kitchen-You’d-Really-Like-To-Have-But-For-Whatever-Reason-Don’t:
Inject bold bursts of color. Be it via woven placemats at the breakfast table, colorful pottery on your countertops, or brightly-painted kitchen towels hanging from your oven bar: use generous strokes of color to put your brain on a heightened state of alert. Your cabinets might be dreadfully tired (as our mine) and your outdated appliances might leave you feeling totally uninspired. But take heart: a few brilliantly colored decorative objects can provide just the punch your sleepy kitchen needs.
Treat yourself to one new kitchen accoutrement. Seen Le Creuset’s latest red Dutch ovens? Or Kitchen Aid’s new apple green mixer? How about a shiny chrome coffee grinder? If a total kitchen overhaul is out of your reach, perhaps one modest indulgence will give your room that little kick-in-the-pants that it needs.
Change the lighting. My Country French rooster chandelier ala my latest birthday, elevates my eyes upwards…out of the direction of my drive-me-crazy-cabinets and onto something much more beautiful and intriguing. Considering its relatively minor expense, it proved a clever way of adding serious visual interest to a space which otherwise drags me down visually. Shop around. While not as cheap as a new box of candles, a new lighting fixture is often a great way to go.
Change things in stages. Perhaps by giving your cabinets a new paint job, you can change the look of the whole room. My girlfriend, Leslie, contracted with a house painter as well as with a decorative painter to dramatically lift her entire kitchen into a veritable work of art. The decorative painter glazed and then hand-painted different floral designs on each cabinet panel, elevating the room into one of lightness and pure beauty. The end result is stunning! Maybe by simply replacing a worn-out dishwasher you can inject a dash of modernity to an otherwise out-dated room. Or perhaps the relatively easy job of changing your countertops will give you more of the look and function that you desire.
Enjoy your collections. Not only did my recent trip to Paris cement my affection for le coq; it heightened my awareness of any and all fabulous renditions seen since my return. I can hardly pass by a rooster without checking its craftsmanship, size and price tag. (Sorry, Ernie.) Infuse your environment with the things that you love. Be they pictures of friends and family magnetized to your fridge…or cows or pigs or roosters (we really are a silly bunch, aren’t we?) don’t be afraid to show off your collections to their fullest. When your day is looking particularly gloomy or your hormones are raging; the little things that bring you joy will help to blow both those black clouds away from your precious little head as well as more evenly distribute those swirling shivers of estrogen.
Finally, reflect on the relativity of materialism. Nancy and I—walking back from “house perfect” on the kitchen tour, talked about how it’s all relative anyway. For what seems like extravagant indulgence (or a vulgar display of wealth, depending on your perspective) is just that: it’s a perspective. It’s all relative. What seems ridiculously unnecessary to me might seem perfectly legitimate to you. And remember that most of what we possess is viewed by some 90% of the world as pure luxury. Keep perspective. If your kitchen drives you nuts, try to maintain some level of thanksgiving for what you do have, rather than some level of misery for what you don’t.
The kitchen isn’t called the heart of the home for nothing. It’s where we put love into what we put into our body. Where we infuse our food with energy. Where we sift and dice and shake and bake. Where we laugh and learn and read and relax. Do your part to make it the heart of your home…whether you like the way it looks or not.
I wound up getting a new mixer for Mother’s Day. As bizarre a request as it was—coming from someone whose least favorite word in the English language is “practical”—I got the desire to actually mix something up in there. (Bake a cake….or something along those lines, anyway.) And I have a funny feeling it will actually send me into my kitchen more often…whether I like it or not.
"The world is too much with us; late and soon
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers…" Wordsworth
It started with my need for a new mixer. OK. Well, maybe not exactly. It probably really started when we bought our home in Connecticut around two years ago. The kitchen needed a make-over. Not a complete renovation—as some do—but a make-over, to be sure. Its footprint was fine, as was its size. Windows and doors were good, too. But it was dreary. Dark, drab and dreary.
But a re-do—no matter the scope—was out of our reach at move-in, just as it is now. So I’ve tried to not think about it too much.
That’s tougher than it sounds. What with me being a “visual person”—energized by color and proportion and pattern—and kitchen tours taking up space on every New England town’s calendar within the next few weeks, it’s almost impossible to not notice renovated kitchens. Nor to salivate over their inevitable appeal.
Such was the case this past Friday when a friend and I tromped through six fabulous kitchens throughout Ridgefield. An annual little ritual, it’s practically inescapable. Carefully calibrated to Mother’s Day—not to mention the bursting of daffodils, the budding of most trees, and the flowering of rhododendron—it coincided perfectly with spring fever and, as it turned out, Nick’s chemotherapy schedule.
And so it was that my friend, Nancy, and I enjoyed most of the afternoon together…roaming around gorgeous homes, indulging in wonderful treats catered by local restaurateurs, and commenting on what both appealed—and what didn’t—to our strong aesthetic sensibilities. Nancy is an artist, too. And she just finished her own dream kitchen a few months ago. So she has not only a good grasp of the whole kitchen re-do thing; she has a similar eye to mine and is highly motivated by strong visuals.
Interestingly, we were both struck by exactly the same things. An enormous, albeit completely-perfect home, didn’t do it for either one of us as it did for a friend whom I bumped into while there. “Isn’t this absolutely incredible?” my friend exclaimed.
Nancy and I looked at each other.
“It’s perfect,” I dead-panned.
Too perfect. Perfectly painted, perfectly appointed, perfectly accessorized, perfectly clean. Was it possible real people really lived there? Could anyone have ever actually sautéed onions and garlic at its immaculate stainless-steel Viking range?
As we walked to the car, Nancy and I reflected on what truly makes a home, anyway. And where does one stop? In this real estate frenzy of the new millennium, where success is measured by capital gains, square footage and location-location-location; how much is enough, after all? Do we really need commercial-grade stainless steel Wolf ranges and double Sub-Zero’s? Granite countertops and farmhouse sinks with copper faucets? Islands with pull-outs?
Seems like we do. A Harvard University study found that Americans spent $233 billion on remodeling and repair projects in 2003, with kitchen re-do’s topping the list. A stunning 4 million Americans will do a kitchen remodeling project of some type in this year alone!
Staggering in scope, it is easily understandable. We have everyone from Home Depot to Pottery Barn to Williams-Sonoma to Target to HGTV to thank. Oh, sure. You might not need a kitchen transformation. But seriously, do you have enough fortitude to walk out of Williams-Sonoma fiscally unscathed? And have you seen the summer plastic ware at Target? As if I needed another lime green line item in my home…it was pure will-power that prevented me from grabbing a dozen of the cutest soda-fountain-style tumblers in my favorite color on my weekend outing there……
I read recently that most people do a major kitchen remodel for one simple reason: their friend did it. Oh great. Ernie will never buy that. A brilliant tax break? We get that. Increasing the value of your real estate. Get that, too. But peer pressure?
It’s easy to see why. I mean, a wonderful kitchen is a lovely thing to behold. I totally get it. Want it. But can’t yet have it.
So in case you’re in the same state (and I have to suppose that many of you are, given the success rate of these kitchen tours) here are “5 Strategies for Infusing-Your-Kitchen-With-Beauty-If-You-Don’t-Have-The-Designer-Kitchen-You’d-Really-Like-To-Have-But-For-Whatever-Reason-Don’t:
Inject bold bursts of color. Be it via woven placemats at the breakfast table, colorful pottery on your countertops, or brightly-painted kitchen towels hanging from your oven bar: use generous strokes of color to put your brain on a heightened state of alert. Your cabinets might be dreadfully tired (as our mine) and your outdated appliances might leave you feeling totally uninspired. But take heart: a few brilliantly colored decorative objects can provide just the punch your sleepy kitchen needs.
Treat yourself to one new kitchen accoutrement. Seen Le Creuset’s latest red Dutch ovens? Or Kitchen Aid’s new apple green mixer? How about a shiny chrome coffee grinder? If a total kitchen overhaul is out of your reach, perhaps one modest indulgence will give your room that little kick-in-the-pants that it needs.
Change the lighting. My Country French rooster chandelier ala my latest birthday, elevates my eyes upwards…out of the direction of my drive-me-crazy-cabinets and onto something much more beautiful and intriguing. Considering its relatively minor expense, it proved a clever way of adding serious visual interest to a space which otherwise drags me down visually. Shop around. While not as cheap as a new box of candles, a new lighting fixture is often a great way to go.
Change things in stages. Perhaps by giving your cabinets a new paint job, you can change the look of the whole room. My girlfriend, Leslie, contracted with a house painter as well as with a decorative painter to dramatically lift her entire kitchen into a veritable work of art. The decorative painter glazed and then hand-painted different floral designs on each cabinet panel, elevating the room into one of lightness and pure beauty. The end result is stunning! Maybe by simply replacing a worn-out dishwasher you can inject a dash of modernity to an otherwise out-dated room. Or perhaps the relatively easy job of changing your countertops will give you more of the look and function that you desire.
Enjoy your collections. Not only did my recent trip to Paris cement my affection for le coq; it heightened my awareness of any and all fabulous renditions seen since my return. I can hardly pass by a rooster without checking its craftsmanship, size and price tag. (Sorry, Ernie.) Infuse your environment with the things that you love. Be they pictures of friends and family magnetized to your fridge…or cows or pigs or roosters (we really are a silly bunch, aren’t we?) don’t be afraid to show off your collections to their fullest. When your day is looking particularly gloomy or your hormones are raging; the little things that bring you joy will help to blow both those black clouds away from your precious little head as well as more evenly distribute those swirling shivers of estrogen.
Finally, reflect on the relativity of materialism. Nancy and I—walking back from “house perfect” on the kitchen tour, talked about how it’s all relative anyway. For what seems like extravagant indulgence (or a vulgar display of wealth, depending on your perspective) is just that: it’s a perspective. It’s all relative. What seems ridiculously unnecessary to me might seem perfectly legitimate to you. And remember that most of what we possess is viewed by some 90% of the world as pure luxury. Keep perspective. If your kitchen drives you nuts, try to maintain some level of thanksgiving for what you do have, rather than some level of misery for what you don’t.
The kitchen isn’t called the heart of the home for nothing. It’s where we put love into what we put into our body. Where we infuse our food with energy. Where we sift and dice and shake and bake. Where we laugh and learn and read and relax. Do your part to make it the heart of your home…whether you like the way it looks or not.
I wound up getting a new mixer for Mother’s Day. As bizarre a request as it was—coming from someone whose least favorite word in the English language is “practical”—I got the desire to actually mix something up in there. (Bake a cake….or something along those lines, anyway.) And I have a funny feeling it will actually send me into my kitchen more often…whether I like it or not.
Infusing Heart into the Hearth of the Home
This post was originally published in May 2006
"There is no reason, either in prose or in rhyme, why a whole house should not be a poem." Ella Church Rodman
With any luck, your Mother’s Day weekend was as wonderful as was mine. As one day cannot hold the full celebration, the “holiday” has been elevated—in my family anyway—to the entire weekend. It starts on Thursday night and extends ‘til midnight on Sunday. Extra lounging in an excusable indulgence, as is extra chocolate, extra newspaper perusing, and extra sleep.
And if that’s not quite enough, in this section of Connecticut where we make our home, kitchen tours have been perfectly calibrated to Mother’s Day “weekend,” and so I became happily transplanted to two different towns…with a third this coming week…all in the name of “Happy Mother’s Day.” Call it wonderful coincidence or perfect event planning: celebrating the hearth gets to us mothers’ hearts whether we like it or not.
These tours, quite spectacular in every imaginable way, go beyond the familiar house tour offered by many historical societies or trusts for historic preservation in cities across the country. They zoom in specifically on the most honored room in the house: the kitchen. Architects and kitchen designers stand for the duration of the tour, beaming with pride over the perfectly appointed rooms they have created for their clients. As they should. Most of the work is exquisite and deserves recognition.
And recognize we patrons did in full force. Attended by hundreds of would-be renovators scourging the tour for ideas, curiosity seekers anxious to see what the next-door neighbor has been up to, professionals simply checking out the competition, and HGTV and Food Network junkies by the truckloads, the kitchens on tour scratch our collective itch.
As a wannabe kitchen renovator (my oven is falling apart, my fridge door hardly stays shut and my stove is on its last leg), I had a strong desire to see what folks are doing in kitchens around my neck of the woods. Granted, Fairfield County, Connecticut can be a rather daunting neck to grasp; the most difficult part is simply getting my brain wrapped around the scope of the kitchens on tour. For we’re not talking merely ripping up vinyl flooring and replacing it with hardwood here. We’re talking six burner professional ranges, imported marble countertops, double Sub Zero’s, handmade tile backsplashes and handpainted friezes. Copper countertops and double-wide limestone farm sinks. Trips to Europe—with interior designer in tow—in search of that perfect armoire. Or vacations spent trolling through the Paris flea market for the grandest chandelier. One of the homes undertook a four-year renovation; granted, its 10,000 square foot size required a committed team of experts in order to eventually pull it off. But its final result—impressive, certainly—boggled my mind.
Now, there’s certainly nothing wrong with any of these indulgences. We can call it “protecting our investment” or “infusing our home with beauty” or “doing careful research.” The kitchens on tour were, with few exceptions, veritable works of art.
And as a visual artist, I appreciate the need for transformative beauty as much, if not more than, the next person. Indeed, my need to fill my kitchen with things that I love, things that I find beautiful, is a highly motivating adventure for me. Ever in search of wonderful roosters or lamps or linens or candles: I’m almost always on the hunt.
But as I tromped through house after house, I remained inspired most by understatement, as always. By the antique and smallish house that didn’t scream “Look at me!” Which spoke to me through its quietly unassuming authenticity. Of wonderful proportions, clean color and organic materials. Of beautiful, yet simple, fabrics. I like things that are gorgeous. But I like them to come at me in the same way that nature does. “The earth laughs in flowers,” Emerson wrote, and certainly their beauty is inescapable for those willing to slow down long enough to fully appreciate it. But flowers don’t scream. They softly persuade. They whisper “Come hither.”
As I go about the initial steps towards a complete kitchen re-do, I hope I can translate my need for organic beauty to the designer with whom I will eventually work side-by-side. I hope my desire for open shelving, a rather common solution in kitchens across Europe, overrides designer’s dreams of expansive (and expensive) full-scale cabinetry. I hope that my desire for a glass-doored refrigerator, one which I’ve held for more than two decades, is not met with skepticism by well-intentioned planners who worry that children’s fingerprints and messy living habits will intrude on the assumptive need for impeccable order and cleanliness. I hope that my desire to impart my own stamp, through my collections formed over nearly a quarter century of marriage, will not be met with a “professional’s” desire for something less artsy. Or for something that appeals to his or her aesthetic, rather than to mine.
For the one thing I had hoped to see more of in these wonderfully designed kitchens was the owner’s handprint. Or that of their children. I would have loved to have seen a crumb or two. Or some suggestion that the owners actually cooked there. That dough was, on some days, actually rolled out on the marble countertop and that vegetables were stir-fried on one of those six burners. Indeed, the phrase “working kitchen” has evolved in order to distinguish between those kitchens which are designed to be merely beautiful versus those in which homeowners actually cook.
I’d like to think that some kitchens stand—from decades of use or from recent renovation—where roasts are basted and hearts are repaired. Where bills are paid and where lunchboxes are packed. Where we value the notion of nurturing: through meals and through conversation. With preparation along with presentation.
Few things tug at our heartstrings as do our kitchens. We have long recognized them as the hearth of the home. Let’s just hope that in the real estate frenzy—as well as in the overly-consumptive age in which we find ourselves—that we keep the heart in the hearth of our homes. And that we are able to translate it aesthetically so that our loved ones can benefit. Via fabulous aromas or soothing patterns and color. Through folk art collections or through hand-crafted dinner plates. Through pottery or placemats.
For therein lies the challenge. As always. Infusing the hearth with heart.
"There is no reason, either in prose or in rhyme, why a whole house should not be a poem." Ella Church Rodman
With any luck, your Mother’s Day weekend was as wonderful as was mine. As one day cannot hold the full celebration, the “holiday” has been elevated—in my family anyway—to the entire weekend. It starts on Thursday night and extends ‘til midnight on Sunday. Extra lounging in an excusable indulgence, as is extra chocolate, extra newspaper perusing, and extra sleep.
And if that’s not quite enough, in this section of Connecticut where we make our home, kitchen tours have been perfectly calibrated to Mother’s Day “weekend,” and so I became happily transplanted to two different towns…with a third this coming week…all in the name of “Happy Mother’s Day.” Call it wonderful coincidence or perfect event planning: celebrating the hearth gets to us mothers’ hearts whether we like it or not.
These tours, quite spectacular in every imaginable way, go beyond the familiar house tour offered by many historical societies or trusts for historic preservation in cities across the country. They zoom in specifically on the most honored room in the house: the kitchen. Architects and kitchen designers stand for the duration of the tour, beaming with pride over the perfectly appointed rooms they have created for their clients. As they should. Most of the work is exquisite and deserves recognition.
And recognize we patrons did in full force. Attended by hundreds of would-be renovators scourging the tour for ideas, curiosity seekers anxious to see what the next-door neighbor has been up to, professionals simply checking out the competition, and HGTV and Food Network junkies by the truckloads, the kitchens on tour scratch our collective itch.
As a wannabe kitchen renovator (my oven is falling apart, my fridge door hardly stays shut and my stove is on its last leg), I had a strong desire to see what folks are doing in kitchens around my neck of the woods. Granted, Fairfield County, Connecticut can be a rather daunting neck to grasp; the most difficult part is simply getting my brain wrapped around the scope of the kitchens on tour. For we’re not talking merely ripping up vinyl flooring and replacing it with hardwood here. We’re talking six burner professional ranges, imported marble countertops, double Sub Zero’s, handmade tile backsplashes and handpainted friezes. Copper countertops and double-wide limestone farm sinks. Trips to Europe—with interior designer in tow—in search of that perfect armoire. Or vacations spent trolling through the Paris flea market for the grandest chandelier. One of the homes undertook a four-year renovation; granted, its 10,000 square foot size required a committed team of experts in order to eventually pull it off. But its final result—impressive, certainly—boggled my mind.
Now, there’s certainly nothing wrong with any of these indulgences. We can call it “protecting our investment” or “infusing our home with beauty” or “doing careful research.” The kitchens on tour were, with few exceptions, veritable works of art.
And as a visual artist, I appreciate the need for transformative beauty as much, if not more than, the next person. Indeed, my need to fill my kitchen with things that I love, things that I find beautiful, is a highly motivating adventure for me. Ever in search of wonderful roosters or lamps or linens or candles: I’m almost always on the hunt.
But as I tromped through house after house, I remained inspired most by understatement, as always. By the antique and smallish house that didn’t scream “Look at me!” Which spoke to me through its quietly unassuming authenticity. Of wonderful proportions, clean color and organic materials. Of beautiful, yet simple, fabrics. I like things that are gorgeous. But I like them to come at me in the same way that nature does. “The earth laughs in flowers,” Emerson wrote, and certainly their beauty is inescapable for those willing to slow down long enough to fully appreciate it. But flowers don’t scream. They softly persuade. They whisper “Come hither.”
As I go about the initial steps towards a complete kitchen re-do, I hope I can translate my need for organic beauty to the designer with whom I will eventually work side-by-side. I hope my desire for open shelving, a rather common solution in kitchens across Europe, overrides designer’s dreams of expansive (and expensive) full-scale cabinetry. I hope that my desire for a glass-doored refrigerator, one which I’ve held for more than two decades, is not met with skepticism by well-intentioned planners who worry that children’s fingerprints and messy living habits will intrude on the assumptive need for impeccable order and cleanliness. I hope that my desire to impart my own stamp, through my collections formed over nearly a quarter century of marriage, will not be met with a “professional’s” desire for something less artsy. Or for something that appeals to his or her aesthetic, rather than to mine.
For the one thing I had hoped to see more of in these wonderfully designed kitchens was the owner’s handprint. Or that of their children. I would have loved to have seen a crumb or two. Or some suggestion that the owners actually cooked there. That dough was, on some days, actually rolled out on the marble countertop and that vegetables were stir-fried on one of those six burners. Indeed, the phrase “working kitchen” has evolved in order to distinguish between those kitchens which are designed to be merely beautiful versus those in which homeowners actually cook.
I’d like to think that some kitchens stand—from decades of use or from recent renovation—where roasts are basted and hearts are repaired. Where bills are paid and where lunchboxes are packed. Where we value the notion of nurturing: through meals and through conversation. With preparation along with presentation.
Few things tug at our heartstrings as do our kitchens. We have long recognized them as the hearth of the home. Let’s just hope that in the real estate frenzy—as well as in the overly-consumptive age in which we find ourselves—that we keep the heart in the hearth of our homes. And that we are able to translate it aesthetically so that our loved ones can benefit. Via fabulous aromas or soothing patterns and color. Through folk art collections or through hand-crafted dinner plates. Through pottery or placemats.
For therein lies the challenge. As always. Infusing the hearth with heart.
Renovating the Heart of the Home
This post was originally published in May 2007
In towns across New England, spring house tours—and specifically kitchen tours—sprout up like crocuses on a cool May Morning. Synced up to perfectly align with Mother’s Day, they provide women the distinct voyeuristic pleasure of peeking inside the lives of those who might otherwise hide behind barriers—physical or economic—too high to otherwise scale.
Such was the case this past week when in my own tiny town seven homes were opened for our annual kitchen tour. This Friday I will also visit a Designer Showhouse with a girlfriend; others dot the weeks ahead, but hey, you can only peek into so many lives. As is usually my observation at the end of the day: we have become proficient fluffers and featherers of our nests. Call it the cocooning movement, call it a thrust in home entertaining…or call it the desire for conspicuous consumption: we are decorating and renovating our homes like there is no tomorrow!
I cannot criticize the efforts of these best-intentioned homeowners. For I am officially in their ranks. Previously involved in an extensive renovation of the third floor of our house, we have also done less glamorous projects. We’ve ripped up carpeting to lay down hardwood. Removed wallpaper to paint ceilings to floors. Replaced lighting fixtures. Added bamboo shades and silk panels. And now we are getting ready to enter the kitchen demolition phase. The builder is lined up. Plans drawn. Master carpenter commissioned. Appliances configured.
I fully understand the angst.
Somewhere between the eighties and the start of the new millennium, we collectively (as a nation) decided that a completely remodeled, bells-and-whistle-loaded kitchen would be the benchmark for a good house. That whether we cooked or not, we needed industrial-strength appliances. That we required six burners, even if our family was small or our nest was getting emptier and quieter. That we had to have stainless steel, regardless of its penchant for attracting tiny fingerprints. That cabinets had to be perfectly configured. Drawers had to silently glide.
I spent a good deal of time sorting all of this out. Trying to get our heads—and our checkbook—wrapped around the scope of the project. To figure out what was really necessary and what was purely frivolous. In doing my research, I stumbled across an interesting little statistic that claims that most people do a kitchen renovation because of—drum roll please—peer pressure! That it’s not only to get a house up to speed or for re-sale or for aesthetics or because we might want to improve the odds that we’ll actually cook in it. We want renovated kitchens because our friend did it. Or our neighbor. Geez.
Chances are, you are either in the midst of a renovation yourself, you have just finished one or you are about to go down the path towards one. So keep your eyes open for the following trends:
Glass-fronted refrigerators. Martha Stewart just put one in her New York house. They’ll certainly be the rage within a year. I wanted one—in fact, it was the one thing I requested in my own renovation—but I’m not getting it. Couldn’t get anyone in my family to come on board with me. Couldn’t get anyone excited about keeping it looking the way they do in the magazine ads for them. But stay tuned. They’re going to be big.
Stone countertops that are not granite. Granite has been used. A lot. We’re now seeing stone that is not in the ubiquitous category. Look for more limestone and marble. And some very good stone look-alikes.
Steamer ovens. OK. I think this is a guy thing. I tried to convince my husband that an old-fashioned pot works just fine when heated over an open flame, but he is convinced that we’ll eat more steamed broccoli if we buy a unit designed for just that. (And steamed fish, chicken and cauliflower, too.) Whatever. They’re a great size for a wall or island installation and are selling like hotcakes.
Warming drawers. Seems like I’m in the minority here by not getting one. But something’s gotta give. Can’t have everything. They do a great job of keeping things warm until everyone gets home from soccer and piano lessons.
Fabulous hardware. Look for wonderful knobs, drawer pulls and hinges. Available in a huge variety of styles and finishes, these will impact character to your cabinetry and add the visual punch that the room deserves.
Lighting fixtures take up space. Look for wrought iron in black and bronze finishes. Saw quite a lot of interesting ones at market. All price points, styles and shapes. Lighting has really taken a place of prominence in the overall room design and budget.
Kitchens reign supreme as the official stamp of the home. They mark the personality of the homeowners. Of their tastes and of their stage in life. They are the first room to which would-be home buyers make their first beeline and the real deal maker—or breaker—of the home. As you wake up your senses and follow the call of spring (and you can feel it, can’t you?), open your eyes and minds to the endless possibilities, creative stirrings and nurturing opportunities in this most important room. They don’t call it the heart of the home for nothin’.
In towns across New England, spring house tours—and specifically kitchen tours—sprout up like crocuses on a cool May Morning. Synced up to perfectly align with Mother’s Day, they provide women the distinct voyeuristic pleasure of peeking inside the lives of those who might otherwise hide behind barriers—physical or economic—too high to otherwise scale.
Such was the case this past week when in my own tiny town seven homes were opened for our annual kitchen tour. This Friday I will also visit a Designer Showhouse with a girlfriend; others dot the weeks ahead, but hey, you can only peek into so many lives. As is usually my observation at the end of the day: we have become proficient fluffers and featherers of our nests. Call it the cocooning movement, call it a thrust in home entertaining…or call it the desire for conspicuous consumption: we are decorating and renovating our homes like there is no tomorrow!
I cannot criticize the efforts of these best-intentioned homeowners. For I am officially in their ranks. Previously involved in an extensive renovation of the third floor of our house, we have also done less glamorous projects. We’ve ripped up carpeting to lay down hardwood. Removed wallpaper to paint ceilings to floors. Replaced lighting fixtures. Added bamboo shades and silk panels. And now we are getting ready to enter the kitchen demolition phase. The builder is lined up. Plans drawn. Master carpenter commissioned. Appliances configured.
I fully understand the angst.
Somewhere between the eighties and the start of the new millennium, we collectively (as a nation) decided that a completely remodeled, bells-and-whistle-loaded kitchen would be the benchmark for a good house. That whether we cooked or not, we needed industrial-strength appliances. That we required six burners, even if our family was small or our nest was getting emptier and quieter. That we had to have stainless steel, regardless of its penchant for attracting tiny fingerprints. That cabinets had to be perfectly configured. Drawers had to silently glide.
I spent a good deal of time sorting all of this out. Trying to get our heads—and our checkbook—wrapped around the scope of the project. To figure out what was really necessary and what was purely frivolous. In doing my research, I stumbled across an interesting little statistic that claims that most people do a kitchen renovation because of—drum roll please—peer pressure! That it’s not only to get a house up to speed or for re-sale or for aesthetics or because we might want to improve the odds that we’ll actually cook in it. We want renovated kitchens because our friend did it. Or our neighbor. Geez.
Chances are, you are either in the midst of a renovation yourself, you have just finished one or you are about to go down the path towards one. So keep your eyes open for the following trends:
Glass-fronted refrigerators. Martha Stewart just put one in her New York house. They’ll certainly be the rage within a year. I wanted one—in fact, it was the one thing I requested in my own renovation—but I’m not getting it. Couldn’t get anyone in my family to come on board with me. Couldn’t get anyone excited about keeping it looking the way they do in the magazine ads for them. But stay tuned. They’re going to be big.
Stone countertops that are not granite. Granite has been used. A lot. We’re now seeing stone that is not in the ubiquitous category. Look for more limestone and marble. And some very good stone look-alikes.
Steamer ovens. OK. I think this is a guy thing. I tried to convince my husband that an old-fashioned pot works just fine when heated over an open flame, but he is convinced that we’ll eat more steamed broccoli if we buy a unit designed for just that. (And steamed fish, chicken and cauliflower, too.) Whatever. They’re a great size for a wall or island installation and are selling like hotcakes.
Warming drawers. Seems like I’m in the minority here by not getting one. But something’s gotta give. Can’t have everything. They do a great job of keeping things warm until everyone gets home from soccer and piano lessons.
Fabulous hardware. Look for wonderful knobs, drawer pulls and hinges. Available in a huge variety of styles and finishes, these will impact character to your cabinetry and add the visual punch that the room deserves.
Lighting fixtures take up space. Look for wrought iron in black and bronze finishes. Saw quite a lot of interesting ones at market. All price points, styles and shapes. Lighting has really taken a place of prominence in the overall room design and budget.
Kitchens reign supreme as the official stamp of the home. They mark the personality of the homeowners. Of their tastes and of their stage in life. They are the first room to which would-be home buyers make their first beeline and the real deal maker—or breaker—of the home. As you wake up your senses and follow the call of spring (and you can feel it, can’t you?), open your eyes and minds to the endless possibilities, creative stirrings and nurturing opportunities in this most important room. They don’t call it the heart of the home for nothin’.
7 Lessons I Learned in Paris
This post was originally published in April 2005
"April in Paris, chestnuts in blossom, holiday tables under the trees." E. Y. Harburg
After reveling in a mountaintop experience, it often takes one a couple of days to not only regain altitude and perspective; it takes a little while to fully grasp what—exactly—just happened.
Such was our trip to France.
Escorting thirty-six young musicians to Paris for a three-concert tour proved to be an amazing experience which I cannot fully communicate in this Newsletter. My words will fall short; our pictures will miss most of it; and stories re-told with enthusiasm to eagerly awaiting family members will only reveal a glimpse of the experience. What happens when vision meets strategy, passion meets energy, and divine inspiration meets faith cannot be comprehended by those missing the mountaintop. But because it is now part of who I am, I feel moved to attempt to share it with you.
Paris was, for me anyway, the fruit of nearly fourteen years of musical training in my kids. And it found my heart bursting with joy as I celebrated it. After listening to “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” played mostly with less-than-perfect intonation upwards of ten thousand times; of the foot-stomping, the eyeball-rolling, and the ‘I hate the violin’ when my children were too irritable to practice; of the 90-minute roundtrip weekly drives to Westport for lessons: watching not only my own Ben and Cristina, but the orchestra kids aged twelve to eighteen, perform Beethoven’s “Fifth” and Barber’s “Adagio for Strings” in a medieval cathedral in the center of Paris left me ebullient. Tears stained my cheeks as the music moved and carried my soul to a height previously unimagined. Friendships forged with the most unsuspecting partners, as commonalities were uncovered and shared. Barriers erected by political divisions, theological differences, and ideological disparities collapsed under the international love language of music.
It was an extraordinary experience, and I learned a few lessons along the way:
1) We stand on tall shoulders of the spiritual giants who lived before us. When one visits a city with cathedrals still standing after the frenzy of the Crusades and the numerous battles fought there, one realizes the magnitude of the spiritual convictions of those who came before us. Studying the Chartres Cathedral—and walking the halls of La Trinite and the Magdalena Cathedrals where our children performed—allowed me not only the luxury of admiring stained glass windows depicting prominent Biblical themes; it allowed me to ruminate on the vision, inspiration and dedication with which they were crafted. In earlier times in Paris, religion was not a part of life. It was life.
2) Art, music and literature are necessary components for creating a life worth living. As are good shoes, good mattresses, and good books necessary elements of every childhood; good art, good music, and good literature provide needed nourishment for the soul. Wandering through the rooms of the Louvre—and my favorite museum in Paris, the Musee D’Orsay—gave me even greater appreciation for the importance of fabulous art. They don’t call these guys masters for nothing. I am convinced that the world would be both safer and happier if everyone learned to paint, played a musical instrument or sang in a choir, and read classical literature on a daily basis. Music remains the universal language of the heart; anyone who does not understand this had better start listening to Mozart.
3) Celebrate serendipity. Already a lesson explored in both my book as well as in earlier Newsletters, it is worth repeating here, as I witnessed, embraced and practiced what I preach. Most of you may know by now that I have an inordinate amount of passion for the color lime-green (or illness, depending on your perspective). It was pure serendipity that, while walking down a Parisian street in search of French ceramics and candles, we stumbled upon a lime-green sofa setting against a bricked store wall. I started laughing hysterically. Where but in Paris would I find a lime-green sofa in the middle of the street? I promptly sat down in it, reveled in the experience, and allowed it to be captured in film. It was serendipity that, while walking around a tony shopping district, I was grabbed from behind, only to find a Parisian lady who spoke no English attempt to communicate to me that her surname was “La Coq” and could I please tell her where she could buy the Vera Bradley backpack I wore which sported roosters and eggs? I happily told her—in English—that it was no longer available but sign-languaged her to get out a paper and pen so I could write down the internet site where she might have some luck. The serendipity of that encounter still makes me smile. Perhaps it was serendipity that our tour guide was darn near perfect; that our flights were uneventful; that our hotel was perfectly situated; and that the Parisian orchestra, which played in a joint concert with us, was well-prepared and delightful. Serendipity or angels watching over us: we celebrated each and every tiny victory.
4) Food plays a huge role in the celebration of life. To be French means to have a passion for all things related to food. They unapologetically indulge in the culinary arts and enjoy all of its inherent stress-relieving side benefits on a thrice-daily basis. They endorse a ‘live to eat’ rather than an ‘eat to live’ M.O. And it shows. “Take-out coffee” is an oxymoron. It simply does not exist in France. (I asked for it everywhere and never found it until I returned to JFK airport.) Coffee is meant to be drunk sitting down, preferably with a friend or two, along with a baguette or a sugar-or-chocolate-filled crepe as well. While French women may not get fat, American women visiting France just might. I embraced the French dining philosophy for eight days and came back with more “wiggle in my waddle,” if you know what I mean. Que sara sara (or is that Spanish?)
5) Charm and charisma still work. They are not overrated. From the hotel staff to Parisian waiters to the clerk at the Ralph Lauren store: all met our needs with grace and charm. When an unsuspecting yet magnificent floral arrangement brought a constant tickle to my throat, the “Polo clerk” ordered up a glass of water for me. It was delivered on a cloth napkin atop a silver tray. (When was the last time that happened to you stateside?) When our orchestra met up with the community orchestra for a joint concert, we were—every one of us—enthralled by its Parisian conductor, Sylvan. Young and vibrant, he exuded charm with his humility and gracious behavior toward us; the hot pink tie against his otherwise all-black “uniform” proved once again, the magic of charisma.
6) “Bonjour” means something. The French refuse to start a conversation without it. Once, when I barged into my explanation of needing several Eiffel Tower charms for bracelets without the mandatory “Bonjour” opening, the store clerk stopped me mid-sentence, interrupting my banter with “Bonjour, Madame, how can I help you?” How wonderful to be reminded at every turn that today is, indeed, a good day!
7) “Bonjoie” means even more. Late on the second night of our trip, bubbling with energy and excitement after traveling to the top of the Eiffel Tower, I accidentally said “Bonjoie” (jwahr) rather than “Bonsoir” (swahr). Sarah, the perfectly-fluent chaperone to which I directed this mis-step, proclaimed: “Happy joy of life to you, too!” Giggling my way up the escalator to my hotel room, I didn’t quite realize the extent of my error. But the next morning on the bus, everyone greeted me with “Bonjoie.” And so it stuck. It became our password for life in April in Paris. I can think of none better.
Our children shone like sugar-coated gumdrops sprinkled around the streets of Paris, dotting major landmarks and sweetening each and every meal. I was thrilled and honored to have been part of an event of such historic significance for our young and tiny youth orchestra. They were goodwill ambassadors for our symphony, our town, and our country. Never have I been more proud as a music lover, a parent, and as an American. Perhaps my experience sheds some insight on how you, too, can celebrate life.
Until we chat again, au revoir!
"April in Paris, chestnuts in blossom, holiday tables under the trees." E. Y. Harburg
After reveling in a mountaintop experience, it often takes one a couple of days to not only regain altitude and perspective; it takes a little while to fully grasp what—exactly—just happened.
Such was our trip to France.
Escorting thirty-six young musicians to Paris for a three-concert tour proved to be an amazing experience which I cannot fully communicate in this Newsletter. My words will fall short; our pictures will miss most of it; and stories re-told with enthusiasm to eagerly awaiting family members will only reveal a glimpse of the experience. What happens when vision meets strategy, passion meets energy, and divine inspiration meets faith cannot be comprehended by those missing the mountaintop. But because it is now part of who I am, I feel moved to attempt to share it with you.
Paris was, for me anyway, the fruit of nearly fourteen years of musical training in my kids. And it found my heart bursting with joy as I celebrated it. After listening to “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” played mostly with less-than-perfect intonation upwards of ten thousand times; of the foot-stomping, the eyeball-rolling, and the ‘I hate the violin’ when my children were too irritable to practice; of the 90-minute roundtrip weekly drives to Westport for lessons: watching not only my own Ben and Cristina, but the orchestra kids aged twelve to eighteen, perform Beethoven’s “Fifth” and Barber’s “Adagio for Strings” in a medieval cathedral in the center of Paris left me ebullient. Tears stained my cheeks as the music moved and carried my soul to a height previously unimagined. Friendships forged with the most unsuspecting partners, as commonalities were uncovered and shared. Barriers erected by political divisions, theological differences, and ideological disparities collapsed under the international love language of music.
It was an extraordinary experience, and I learned a few lessons along the way:
1) We stand on tall shoulders of the spiritual giants who lived before us. When one visits a city with cathedrals still standing after the frenzy of the Crusades and the numerous battles fought there, one realizes the magnitude of the spiritual convictions of those who came before us. Studying the Chartres Cathedral—and walking the halls of La Trinite and the Magdalena Cathedrals where our children performed—allowed me not only the luxury of admiring stained glass windows depicting prominent Biblical themes; it allowed me to ruminate on the vision, inspiration and dedication with which they were crafted. In earlier times in Paris, religion was not a part of life. It was life.
2) Art, music and literature are necessary components for creating a life worth living. As are good shoes, good mattresses, and good books necessary elements of every childhood; good art, good music, and good literature provide needed nourishment for the soul. Wandering through the rooms of the Louvre—and my favorite museum in Paris, the Musee D’Orsay—gave me even greater appreciation for the importance of fabulous art. They don’t call these guys masters for nothing. I am convinced that the world would be both safer and happier if everyone learned to paint, played a musical instrument or sang in a choir, and read classical literature on a daily basis. Music remains the universal language of the heart; anyone who does not understand this had better start listening to Mozart.
3) Celebrate serendipity. Already a lesson explored in both my book as well as in earlier Newsletters, it is worth repeating here, as I witnessed, embraced and practiced what I preach. Most of you may know by now that I have an inordinate amount of passion for the color lime-green (or illness, depending on your perspective). It was pure serendipity that, while walking down a Parisian street in search of French ceramics and candles, we stumbled upon a lime-green sofa setting against a bricked store wall. I started laughing hysterically. Where but in Paris would I find a lime-green sofa in the middle of the street? I promptly sat down in it, reveled in the experience, and allowed it to be captured in film. It was serendipity that, while walking around a tony shopping district, I was grabbed from behind, only to find a Parisian lady who spoke no English attempt to communicate to me that her surname was “La Coq” and could I please tell her where she could buy the Vera Bradley backpack I wore which sported roosters and eggs? I happily told her—in English—that it was no longer available but sign-languaged her to get out a paper and pen so I could write down the internet site where she might have some luck. The serendipity of that encounter still makes me smile. Perhaps it was serendipity that our tour guide was darn near perfect; that our flights were uneventful; that our hotel was perfectly situated; and that the Parisian orchestra, which played in a joint concert with us, was well-prepared and delightful. Serendipity or angels watching over us: we celebrated each and every tiny victory.
4) Food plays a huge role in the celebration of life. To be French means to have a passion for all things related to food. They unapologetically indulge in the culinary arts and enjoy all of its inherent stress-relieving side benefits on a thrice-daily basis. They endorse a ‘live to eat’ rather than an ‘eat to live’ M.O. And it shows. “Take-out coffee” is an oxymoron. It simply does not exist in France. (I asked for it everywhere and never found it until I returned to JFK airport.) Coffee is meant to be drunk sitting down, preferably with a friend or two, along with a baguette or a sugar-or-chocolate-filled crepe as well. While French women may not get fat, American women visiting France just might. I embraced the French dining philosophy for eight days and came back with more “wiggle in my waddle,” if you know what I mean. Que sara sara (or is that Spanish?)
5) Charm and charisma still work. They are not overrated. From the hotel staff to Parisian waiters to the clerk at the Ralph Lauren store: all met our needs with grace and charm. When an unsuspecting yet magnificent floral arrangement brought a constant tickle to my throat, the “Polo clerk” ordered up a glass of water for me. It was delivered on a cloth napkin atop a silver tray. (When was the last time that happened to you stateside?) When our orchestra met up with the community orchestra for a joint concert, we were—every one of us—enthralled by its Parisian conductor, Sylvan. Young and vibrant, he exuded charm with his humility and gracious behavior toward us; the hot pink tie against his otherwise all-black “uniform” proved once again, the magic of charisma.
6) “Bonjour” means something. The French refuse to start a conversation without it. Once, when I barged into my explanation of needing several Eiffel Tower charms for bracelets without the mandatory “Bonjour” opening, the store clerk stopped me mid-sentence, interrupting my banter with “Bonjour, Madame, how can I help you?” How wonderful to be reminded at every turn that today is, indeed, a good day!
7) “Bonjoie” means even more. Late on the second night of our trip, bubbling with energy and excitement after traveling to the top of the Eiffel Tower, I accidentally said “Bonjoie” (jwahr) rather than “Bonsoir” (swahr). Sarah, the perfectly-fluent chaperone to which I directed this mis-step, proclaimed: “Happy joy of life to you, too!” Giggling my way up the escalator to my hotel room, I didn’t quite realize the extent of my error. But the next morning on the bus, everyone greeted me with “Bonjoie.” And so it stuck. It became our password for life in April in Paris. I can think of none better.
Our children shone like sugar-coated gumdrops sprinkled around the streets of Paris, dotting major landmarks and sweetening each and every meal. I was thrilled and honored to have been part of an event of such historic significance for our young and tiny youth orchestra. They were goodwill ambassadors for our symphony, our town, and our country. Never have I been more proud as a music lover, a parent, and as an American. Perhaps my experience sheds some insight on how you, too, can celebrate life.
Until we chat again, au revoir!
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Countertop Controversies: Carrying the Weight of Your Heaviest Kitchen Decision on Your Overburdened Shoulders
Are you thinking about enrolling in a 12 Step Granite Recovery program? Know every granite pattern by first and last name? Memorized every vein? Color? Distributor? Froze your way through “slab walks” in unheated warehouses searching for one that spoke to you? Toured kitchen showrooms, city-wide house tours and realtor open houses looking for the very best the earth’s quarries have to offer?
You’re not alone. We have become a nation addicted to granite for our kitchen countertops. Real estate ads will boast of “stainless appliances and granite counters”; shelter magazines will give descriptions of the granite’s exact name (in a language we do not recognize); and designers will talk about it ad nauseam as if the very integrity of your kitchen depended on a heavily-granited presence.
Whatever happened to old-fashioned soapstone? Or limestone? Marble? And how does those humblest of countertop materials—tile and wood—work? Where does concrete fit into the countertop controversy? Or silestone? And where did the name Caesar Stone come from? (Could that be Caesar Augustus?) And what’s with Zodiaq with a “q”?
If you are in the middle of a kitchen remodeling job, you will undoubtedly find yourself smack dab in the middle of the countertop controversy for at least a few weeks before you make your final decision. You’ll be frantically calling every slab dealer in your state; have nightmares of spilt red wine on the Carrera marble you envision; toss and turn over the image of toddler’s climbing to snitch forbidden cookies onto your newly-installed limestone; and whig out at the thought of trying-to-be-helpful dinner guests chopping vegetables—without that necessary bamboo cutting board resting comfortably underneath those organic carrots—which set on top of your easily-scratched soapstone.
Selecting countertops for your kitchen will be the heaviest decision you’ll make for this room. And you’ll carry it on your overburdened shoulders until installation day…and beyond. Here’s the skinny on what you really need to consider:
Who will be working the room? You? Your spouse? Housekeeper? Teenage football player son? Grandmother? Personal chef? How much does this person know about the proper care and feeding of countertops?
Are you—or that special someone managing your kitchen—careful about chopping? Or do you generally forget to pull out the cutting board? Will those accidental scratches make you insane?
Do you enjoy rolling out homemade dough? Like the idea of pressing butter-laden phyllo onto your countertop surface? Or will that oily stain drive you nuts?
Do you enjoy maintenance projects? Find the weekend ritual of cleaning and oiling your countertops to be particularly soothing? Or does the thought of adding mineral oil to preserve your soapstone inspire you to jog to the nearest laminate dealer?
Are you a color bug? Gotta have grey limestone to coordinate with that luscious Provence gold? Or cannot live without the thought of green?
Are you accident prone? Always breaking a glass full of red wine on the way to the sink? Like to catch falling knives for the thrill of it?
Your countertops will take a beating. They will support stuff and help you organize stuff. They will give you a surface on which to chop, wrap, measure and serve food. Think about your daily routines in your kitchen. And how you want to best nourish the stomachs and souls of those whom you serve there. And then release the weight of this decision onto the cabinets that will support them. Controversy over.
You’re not alone. We have become a nation addicted to granite for our kitchen countertops. Real estate ads will boast of “stainless appliances and granite counters”; shelter magazines will give descriptions of the granite’s exact name (in a language we do not recognize); and designers will talk about it ad nauseam as if the very integrity of your kitchen depended on a heavily-granited presence.
Whatever happened to old-fashioned soapstone? Or limestone? Marble? And how does those humblest of countertop materials—tile and wood—work? Where does concrete fit into the countertop controversy? Or silestone? And where did the name Caesar Stone come from? (Could that be Caesar Augustus?) And what’s with Zodiaq with a “q”?
If you are in the middle of a kitchen remodeling job, you will undoubtedly find yourself smack dab in the middle of the countertop controversy for at least a few weeks before you make your final decision. You’ll be frantically calling every slab dealer in your state; have nightmares of spilt red wine on the Carrera marble you envision; toss and turn over the image of toddler’s climbing to snitch forbidden cookies onto your newly-installed limestone; and whig out at the thought of trying-to-be-helpful dinner guests chopping vegetables—without that necessary bamboo cutting board resting comfortably underneath those organic carrots—which set on top of your easily-scratched soapstone.
Selecting countertops for your kitchen will be the heaviest decision you’ll make for this room. And you’ll carry it on your overburdened shoulders until installation day…and beyond. Here’s the skinny on what you really need to consider:
Who will be working the room? You? Your spouse? Housekeeper? Teenage football player son? Grandmother? Personal chef? How much does this person know about the proper care and feeding of countertops?
Are you—or that special someone managing your kitchen—careful about chopping? Or do you generally forget to pull out the cutting board? Will those accidental scratches make you insane?
Do you enjoy rolling out homemade dough? Like the idea of pressing butter-laden phyllo onto your countertop surface? Or will that oily stain drive you nuts?
Do you enjoy maintenance projects? Find the weekend ritual of cleaning and oiling your countertops to be particularly soothing? Or does the thought of adding mineral oil to preserve your soapstone inspire you to jog to the nearest laminate dealer?
Are you a color bug? Gotta have grey limestone to coordinate with that luscious Provence gold? Or cannot live without the thought of green?
Are you accident prone? Always breaking a glass full of red wine on the way to the sink? Like to catch falling knives for the thrill of it?
Your countertops will take a beating. They will support stuff and help you organize stuff. They will give you a surface on which to chop, wrap, measure and serve food. Think about your daily routines in your kitchen. And how you want to best nourish the stomachs and souls of those whom you serve there. And then release the weight of this decision onto the cabinets that will support them. Controversy over.
Cabinet Crazed: To Glaze or Not to Glaze: That is the ($64M) Question
To glaze or not to glaze. Or paint. Or leave in their natural state. Ahh! Selecting kitchen cabinets. It will arguably be your most pressing design—and budget— dilemma, coming in a slight second to the drama of selecting your kitchen designer, interior designer, builder or architect for the project.
In the roughly $23.0 billion U.S. cabinetwork and countertop manufacturing industry, the inherent angst of choosing kitchen cabinets is simply the enormous cost in doing just that. For cabinets can eat up at least one quarter of your entire kitchen remodel, adding thousands—if not tens of thousands--of dollars to your overall kitchen remodeling budget faster than you can say “cherry-inset-door-with-cathedral-frame-in-painted-finish-with-chocolate-glaze.” Add to that the realization that this decision holds long-term consequences—there is an almost zero chance that you will rip these boxes out before the next couple of decades have passed—and you have the perfect storm for what will surely become the $64 thousand question in your kitchen-remodelers-or-building-household. You are officially cabinet crazed.
One of the most commonly-held misconceptions about the kitchen cabinet purchase is that the lowest cost “stock” cabinet option—or even that middle-of-the-road semi-custom deal—is necessarily your best bet. This is a carefully-contrived trap into which the unsuspecting homeowner can easily become ensnared! Beware of boring materials, standard door frame styles, limited paint selections and size constraints that will—before you even realize it— zap the creativity gene right out of your right brain! For the “stock” option will practically ensure that your kitchen cabinets—which present an otherwise huge opportunity in which to raise your creativity quotient—look like every other kitchen cabinet in every other home in America. Seriously, can our nation handle one more cream-painted maple cabinet with dark mocha glaze?
Your kitchen should reflect your unique personality, carefully-developed design predilections and family history (however wacky yours might be.). Art and antique collections—hopefully gathered for their interesting provenance or sentimentality—should be proudly displayed so as to infuse this most important room with your individual stamp. You need to enlist the services of a master carpenter who will build custom cabinets so that your creativity can be unleashed—without thought or concern for those standard options commonly chosen by the masses:
Do you have unique space configurations that can be dealt with in an interesting way? Could a cabinet be built for this space that would highlight its quirkiness?
Do you enjoy open, airy spaces? Why not opt for open shelving, dramatically increasing your room’s visual appeal while simultaneously reducing your overall budget?
Do you prefer cherry to particle board? Or pine to maple? Don’t let the so-called experts convince you that your taste buds are less refined than theirs.
Do you adore painted finishes? Transparent—and good for the earth—milk paint? Hand-rubbed waxes to high-gloss polyurethane?
Do you dream in color? Enjoy the palette of Provence? Or prefer the decades-old tried-and-true traditional option of all-white?
Do you cook in your kitchen? Or is it your trophy room? Why not incorporate an antique table with a marble top for rolling out dough? Or a farm table on which to chop vegetables, further upping the charm factor while reducing the dollar drain of adding yet more expensive cabinets?
Look at your kitchen as you would any other room in your home: with eyes wide open. Give yourself plenty of time to let your imagination soar. And move out of the despair of being cabinet crazed and into the heights where creativity reigns supreme.
In the roughly $23.0 billion U.S. cabinetwork and countertop manufacturing industry, the inherent angst of choosing kitchen cabinets is simply the enormous cost in doing just that. For cabinets can eat up at least one quarter of your entire kitchen remodel, adding thousands—if not tens of thousands--of dollars to your overall kitchen remodeling budget faster than you can say “cherry-inset-door-with-cathedral-frame-in-painted-finish-with-chocolate-glaze.” Add to that the realization that this decision holds long-term consequences—there is an almost zero chance that you will rip these boxes out before the next couple of decades have passed—and you have the perfect storm for what will surely become the $64 thousand question in your kitchen-remodelers-or-building-household. You are officially cabinet crazed.
One of the most commonly-held misconceptions about the kitchen cabinet purchase is that the lowest cost “stock” cabinet option—or even that middle-of-the-road semi-custom deal—is necessarily your best bet. This is a carefully-contrived trap into which the unsuspecting homeowner can easily become ensnared! Beware of boring materials, standard door frame styles, limited paint selections and size constraints that will—before you even realize it— zap the creativity gene right out of your right brain! For the “stock” option will practically ensure that your kitchen cabinets—which present an otherwise huge opportunity in which to raise your creativity quotient—look like every other kitchen cabinet in every other home in America. Seriously, can our nation handle one more cream-painted maple cabinet with dark mocha glaze?
Your kitchen should reflect your unique personality, carefully-developed design predilections and family history (however wacky yours might be.). Art and antique collections—hopefully gathered for their interesting provenance or sentimentality—should be proudly displayed so as to infuse this most important room with your individual stamp. You need to enlist the services of a master carpenter who will build custom cabinets so that your creativity can be unleashed—without thought or concern for those standard options commonly chosen by the masses:
Do you have unique space configurations that can be dealt with in an interesting way? Could a cabinet be built for this space that would highlight its quirkiness?
Do you enjoy open, airy spaces? Why not opt for open shelving, dramatically increasing your room’s visual appeal while simultaneously reducing your overall budget?
Do you prefer cherry to particle board? Or pine to maple? Don’t let the so-called experts convince you that your taste buds are less refined than theirs.
Do you adore painted finishes? Transparent—and good for the earth—milk paint? Hand-rubbed waxes to high-gloss polyurethane?
Do you dream in color? Enjoy the palette of Provence? Or prefer the decades-old tried-and-true traditional option of all-white?
Do you cook in your kitchen? Or is it your trophy room? Why not incorporate an antique table with a marble top for rolling out dough? Or a farm table on which to chop vegetables, further upping the charm factor while reducing the dollar drain of adding yet more expensive cabinets?
Look at your kitchen as you would any other room in your home: with eyes wide open. Give yourself plenty of time to let your imagination soar. And move out of the despair of being cabinet crazed and into the heights where creativity reigns supreme.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
