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Something’s Cooking

Something’s Cooking

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As the physical reality of my world shrinks to house and yard, each individual room looms larger. The living room has become my primary work space, the basement an entertainment hub and gym, and the kitchen — ah, the kitchen is getting a workout.

Like many of us stuck at home, I’ve been eating more — and better — than usual. This is because there’s more food in the house and because my typical excuses for not cooking — what a horrible commute! such a day I’ve had at the office! — are no longer viable.

So when I come downstairs in the morning I’m greeted with distinctive cooking smells — with the tang of last night’s curry or the aroma of last week’s (reheated) quiche.

It’s a more full-bodied, full-aroma’ed house I live in these days. And I have to say … I like it.

Contented with Containment

Contented with Containment

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The more I read of Niall Williams’s This is Happiness (more about this wonderful book in a later post), the more I realize that, although I grew up in Lexington, Kentucky, I also grew up in an Irish storytelling culture. Although on the surface my dad seemed to be the chief yarn-spinner, Mom was no slouch in the storytelling department, and her mother, my nana, could tell tall tales with the best of them.

One of Mom’s stories, which may have come in part from her mother — or at least happened when Mom was a little girl — involved a man whose name was Mangione, I think, or maybe Mahoney. This man lived on High or Maxwell or one of the tree-lined streets around the University of Kentucky.  And one fine day he went into his house, climbed up into an attic room, and — Mom always said this part dramatically — never came out again.

As a child I was always fascinated with the mechanics of this arrangement. Was there a bathroom up there? Did he receive his food on a tray? As an adult I realize that this man must have have had agoraphobia or some other anxiety that kept him from leaving the house. But whatever the reason, I’ve often thought of his as a cautionary tale, what happens to people who don’t get out enough — they simply stop wanting to leave.

Is our sheltering-in-place creating an epidemic of agoraphobia, a generation of hermits? Will the quarantines be relaxed, the doors thrown open, and people just yawn and say, that’s fine, but I’ll stay inside, thank you very much.

I feel it in myself, this lessening of desire to be out and about in the world, this contentment with containment. I wonder if others feel the same way.

A Clutch of Keys

A Clutch of Keys

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From a neighbor, we’ve received a windfall of dubious utility and uncertain origin: a clutch of keys — if that’s the best collective noun to use for them.

Some are for doors, some are for clocks. All are antiques. They hail from an era when keys were king. No plastic card, no fob, no key code. These are the real thing, known as bit or barrel keys, Wikipedia informs me. They’re the kind of keys that belong on a big ring, the kind of keys zealously guarded by housekeepers or superintendents.

Before I began this blog I would not have photographed these keys sitting on the counter. They would have been just another pile of stuff. But now I see the illustrative potential of things, find myself stopping to admire the kooky wall art in the lobby of my building (see yesterday’s illustration) or to snap picture of leaf shadows on siding.

It’s a new way of seeing … and yesterday, I saw these keys.

Ready for its Closeup

Ready for its Closeup

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The bathroom remodeling project is drawing to a close; the room is almost complete. It’s marble and gray, a cool neutral space — one that already puts the rest of the house to shame.

I marvel at its elegance, wonder if we’ve overdone it, but tell myself, no, this is the first of several projects that will spiff up the old place, make it more livable now and perhaps boost its market value later. I remind myself that this is money earmarked for just such a use. I tell myself to chill out.

Mostly, I tell myself to wait for the first ceremonial soak, perhaps as soon as tonight, though that may be overly optimistic. To wait for the warm water that I can slide into, up to my shoulders. To wait for the room to be finished and polished and gussied up — ready, like these lights here, for its closeup.

Shades of Gray

Shades of Gray

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Never fear, dear readers, this blog isn’t taking a more salacious turn in its second decade. This post is not about the erotic novel and film “50 Shades of Gray.”  It’s about what color to paint the bathroom.

The weekend remodeling project is proceeding apace, and by next weekend, we’ll need paint. Will it be Abalone or Barren Plain? London Fog or Seattle Mist? Wind’s Breath or Cedar Key?

This remains to be seen. I want a warm gray to match the swirls of color in the marble-like porcelain floor and shower tile. But I don’t want to ignore the marble vanity top, which is a bit cooler in tone.

Ah, dear, the problems of affluence — in which we are freed from the daily tedium of black and white (what will we eat? where will we sleep?) to contemplate … the shades of gray.

Tick-Tock

Tick-Tock

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From where I sit I hear three clocks ticking. There is the familiar cuckoo from the kitchen, the breath-in-breath-out grandfather between the windows, and the “bim bam” on the mantel, the fastest of the trio.

Listening to them all at once isn’t confusing; it’s multi-modal. It’s the solidity of braided ropes, a hammock of sorts, holding me in place.

It’s the calm center in the midst of the action: like listening to a Bach prelude or fugue, where you search for each voice amidst the harmony. Or like jumping rope, double dutch.

It’s all about the rhythm, about three adding up to one. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Bye, Bye Bathroom

Bye, Bye Bathroom

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The bathroom remodeling job that’s been planned for a couple of months has now begun. Last night I had a final ceremonial soak in the tub — ceremonial and quick, since there was almost no way to keep the water warm enough or high enough in that bathtub to really soak at all. (One of the many reasons it’s being replaced.)

Even though I know it’s for the better, I couldn’t help but have a backward glance for this small room that holds many memories. I thought about the many baths I gave my children in that tub, the girls when they were young, including some precious times when all three of them were in there — and there was more water splashed on the floor than anywhere else.

But those days are gone, I told myself. So I took some photos, removed the old makeup, body wash, bobby pins, hair clips and other paraphernalia that had accumulated — and said goodbye.

Which is good, because now … it’s gone.

The Theater Downstairs

The Theater Downstairs

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One of my hobbies is watching movies, especially ones that are nominated for Oscars. This year, that task has been made infinitely easier because many of the films are available streaming or on DVD. Some, like “The Irishman” or “Marriage Story,” both vying for best picture, were released only on Netflix. Others, like “Joker” or “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, ” are already available on DVDs.

As a result, I’ve been doing more “Oscar prep” in my basement than ever before. This creates some interesting situations. For instance, I fall asleep more easily on the couch in the basement, so that means I’m having to watch a few films twice in order to get their full effect. I watch some of them while exercising, too, which also strains my attention span (and lengthens my workout time).

However, the last movie I watched in a theater, “Little Women,” put me in a seat that reclined so far back that I might as well have been lying on the worn blue couch in the basement.

So there you have it, as basements become more theater-like … theaters are becoming more basement-like.  Sometimes I just love the modern world.

(Photo: Wikipedia — my basement looks nothing like this!)

Home Alone

Home Alone

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The house is seldom empty these days, but it will be for more than a week, so I’ve been sitting in silence for the most of the day. It’s not that I don’t love my life and the people in it. It’s only that I need to recharge in quiet.

What I’m listening to now is the sighing of the wind and the chirping of the parakeets. A few minutes ago I had the Sunday talk shows on the radio, but that was producing indigestion, so I’m back to the natural sounds of birds and air.

I may take a cue from Copper and move with the sun. He starts out in the front of the house for the morning rays, then moves around to the back for the afternoon light. He usually finds a square of pure sunshine and lies down in it.

In about an hour the lowering rays will strike the living room couch in an oh-so-inviting way. It may prove too enticing to ignore.

Blank Slate

Blank Slate

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I’ve started off the new year with almost as much clutter as before — with one notable exception: I cleared off one counter in the kitchen. I banished the bread box, moved the canisters and corralled the papers. Which means I begin 2020 with one clean sweep of vintage Formica.

I’m not sure why I did this, but there must be a deep-seated need to begin the year with a blank slate, to clear the way for 12 more months of experiences … and stuff.

Nature abhors a vacuum, of course, especially in this house, and things are constantly piling up on the counter: newspapers, mail, glasses, crumbs. But so far nothing I can’t dispatch quickly to its intended spot or to the recycling bin.

This won’t last long, I know. The house in general is full to bursting. There’s a warren of boxes in the basement, and a vanity and bathtub in the garage … but here in my kitchen, at this very moment, there is a lovely open countertop. And I’m going to keep it that way as long as I can.