The Southern Biscuit is in Trouble - White Lily Flour Moving North

John sent me a link to this article in the New York Times. Actually, he just put the URL in the subject line, no message in the body. I had to figure out that he meant for me to copy and paste the URL into my browser, but since he hardly EVER sends personal e-mail messages from work (he is quite the company man), I knew it had to be important.

And it sho ’nuff is! White Lily is leaving it’s home for the last 125 years, a plant in Knoxville, TN, and moving to two plants in the midwest. The problem isn’t that it won’t be made in the same plant (though the notion of “place” is of great importance to southerners), they are using a different process! Is that “New Coke” I smell?

A blind test by two bakers, who were sent bags of the old and new product marked only A and B, underscored Ms. Corriher’s concern.

Zoellyn Smith, who worked in both quality control and research and development at the Knoxville plant, accurately identified the new product before she began to bake. Sample A, the new product, had “a grayish color” and made a “dense and chewy” cake, while Sample B, the old, made for silky, rather than stiff, dough and a “light and airy” cake.

“When I looked at just the flour I thought that Sample B was milled in Knoxville,” she said. “After performing the bakes there was no doubt.”

But it did not take a specialist in food technology and plant sciences to guess right. Ms. Hilton, the amateur baker, said, “There wasn’t a big difference, but I could tell the difference.” Even her family knew which batch was made with flour milled in the Midwest. “The biscuits came out just a little more dense, and the texture wasn’t quite as smooth.”

Told of the results, Ms. Badertscher said, “White Lily flour continues to be made from the same quality ingredients and processes as when it was produced in Tennessee.”

Keep saying it and you might start believing it, Ms. Badertscher, but bakers are a picky bunch.

This could be very bad. I called my mom at work today and told her to buy every bag she could find, asap, but she said for the last few weeks she’s had a hard time finding it on the shelves. Hey, M. Night Shyamalan, this is what you should be making movies about!

If any of my Arkansas readers are tuning in, I’ll happily pay for bags you find still milled in TN (should say on the package) and pick them up on my next trip home (sometime later this summer).

Monkeying with Meringue

So I baked a banana pudding the other day to take to a party. The meringue tore when I took it out of the oven. I put a spoon in the tear to make it look like the spoon had done it, but that just made the meringue split completely in two.

Someday I will learn to accept gracefully baking’s small disappointments, but it wasn’t going to be that day. I projected my anger on to John by freaking when he got too close to the fender of another car as he parked. I apologized later. He said, “You had pudding rage.”

And I did.

It’s worth knowing what I screwed up, because I love meringues. Meringue adds beauty and structure to a pie, but relatively few calories and no fat.

Besides yelling at my spouse, here is what I did wrong: over baked the pudding, cooled it too fast and mixed too few egg whites for the size dish I used. Like a lot of beautiful things that are low in calories and fat, a meringue can be as moody as a drag queen in a monsoon, so these mistakes were bound to take their toll.

Actually making meringue is easy.

Mix 1/2 cup sugar and two pinches of cream of tartar in small bowl and set aside.

In a very clean non-reactive bowl (stainless steel, glass or copper) place four room temperature egg whites (no yolks) and 1/2 tsp vanilla.

Beat egg whites until soft peaks form (soft peaks flop over, stiff peaks don’t).

Continue beating and add sugar/COT mixture one tablespoon at a time.

Continue beating until egg whites reach stiff peak stage.

Spread meringue on WARM filling all the way to the edge of the crust or dish to seal it.

Bake a meringue at a low temp (325 degrees) in the middle of the oven with plenty of headroom for about 15-20 minutes or until lightly browned. Turn off the oven and open the door slightly. Let it cool completely there.

My mistakes? I was in a hurry so I cooled the pudding on top of the stove. I used a recipe for three egg whites instead of four (from now on I’ll use a four egg meringue recipe no matter what the recipe calls for), and I left it in the oven a little too long, which also caused the meringue to weep.

I know. It sounds like a disaster. I tried to sneak in when we arrived so no one would see me lay the pudding down. Somehow it was still the first dessert to go. I guess a lot of people really love banana pudding.

If You’re Going to Flip a House…

There was a time when venerable old homes were lovingly maintained by owners. Then they got to be too much for today’s smaller families. Sometimes people just wanted the convenience of newer homes in different places. Many beauties were unceremoniously cleared off of their lots.

The preservation movement of the later 20th century, slowed the seek and destroy process down some. And the Modern era, with its “if it ain’t new, it’s crap” mentality is now comfortably sitting alongside a Postmodern sensibility that values lessons learned from the past.

So why am I not happy with house flippers? Don’t they slow the tide of history’s destruction?

Well, I am happy with some of them. We live in neighborhood where old homes are flipped a lot. Some are done well and sell quickly. But some flippers seem bound and determined to make things worse - Broken front door? Put the cheapest one you can find on it. Odd sized windows? Just board the window up until it’s a standard size. Hellbent on getting rich as quick as they can, they create eyesores that probably send them into the poor house just a little quicker.

If it weren’t rainy and cold outside, I would go snap a photo of the offending house I’m thinking of now. Instead, I’ll post a photo of a book I feel all home flippers should be required to read: Virginia and Lee McAlester’s classic A Field Guide to American Houses.

If you love old houses at all, you might want to consider buying it. It’s like an American home family tree. It’s not huge, but you will still learn the roots of everything from the New England Salt Box to Ozark Dog Trots to “Traditional,” whatever that may mean now. The maps of where things show up are interesting, too and reflect migration patterns over time.

Even if you are designing a new house, it can come in handy. When John and I built our house we used the Field Guide to keep from getting too far off course. We didn’t want some Disney idea of home, but we did want a house that matched who we are as people. Aesthetics and our geographic roots are an important part of that, so proportion, scale, eaves depth all ended up playing a role.

We are no experts and our house probably shows it, but if we weren’t keyed into history, things would have turned out badly for us. I have to believe that if some of these people who are flipping older homes paid a little more attention, they would be getting a MUCH bigger return on their investment.

Michigan Supreme Court: Sure They Lie, But The Religious Right is Smarter than We Are

“I think John and Troy should be able to protect their relationship, I just don’t think they should call what they have ‘marriage.’”

It isn’t that most people don’t want us to have a happy home and a long life together, it’s the word “marriage.” That’s the issue for a lot of people, probably even some of my readers. It was, in fact, what one member of my own family believed until I challenged him to tell me what qualities my sister’s 2nd and 3rd marriages had that our relationship doesn’t. (Answer: None.)

But the “let them be protected, but not married” logic is at least somewhat humane. In fact, back in 2004 Michigan voters passed a constitutional ban on gay marriage being assured by its pushers, people like Marlene Elwell and the Citizens for the Protection of Marriage, that:

“(This) has nothing to do with taking benefits away. This is about marriage between a man and a woman…”

They made a point of saying similar things in brochures and websites. Voters were told nothing would change, except that it would be for sure, for sure impossible for gay people to be “married.” Deb Price of the Detroit News tells of a frightening result of that constitutional change, however:

…Proposal 2 included language about not recognizing a “similar union for any purpose.” After getting the proposal passed, Citizens for the Protection of Marriage [edt.- yes, the same folks who said this has nothing to do with benefits] turned around and argued the “marriage” amendment bans public employers from offering partner health benefits.

And what happened? The Michigan Supreme Court ruled it unconstitutional for public universities to offer partner health benefits! So partnered faculty who had been invited to teach with those benefits for their partners and children as part of the deal (and believe me, we don’t make decisions to move these days without knowing we have them), are screwed.

Universities are scrambling to figure out a way around the law, but Price points out, with a quote from one of the two dissenting judges, a far reaching result of the precedent setting ruling that should scare all of us, gay or straight:

“(T)he majority condones and even encourages the use of misleading tactics in ballot campaigns… (I)n the future, organizations may be encouraged to use lies and deception to win over voters or the court. This should be a discomforting thought for us all.”

Nineteen of the similar amendments to state constitutions, including Arkansas’, had similar “state shall not recognize similar union” clauses. It will take the U.S. a long time to climb out of this ridiculous hole. In the meantime, I guess Michigan won’t be getting as many talented professors as it once did and the religious right will continue to abbreviate the Ten Commandments to nine.

A Good Idea for Your Frig

I’ve been obsessed with the Democratic primaries and posting a lot on GrowingSense, so I apologize for ignoring Good Home.

Still don’t have a lot to post, but I ran across a simple idea from Barb Berggoetz in the Indianapolis Star the other day that seemed so practical. Ready for it?

Take your vegetables out of the crisper drawer in your refrigerator and keep them on a more visible shelf where you are more likely to use them. If you’re like me, you should add the step of scrubbing the swampy goo out of the drawers. THEN, put your soft drinks, or some other over-consumed temptation, in the crisper, and let the memory-erasing powers of those plastic drawers transform them into less of a temptation.

Of course, it might be a good idea to figure out a way to stack vegetables in the main cavity (eww, sounds like a hollowed out side of beef) of the refrigerator. Any ideas? And don’t berate me on how “not fresh” my veggies are gonna be, since limp ones are better than liquified ones any day.

My Mamaw

My grandmother died last Tuesday a.m., and her passing has rattled me in a way that she would not have understood. After funerals in the past, my grandmother, one of the most genuinely generous and giving people I’ve ever known, was downright pragmatic about the last stage of life. She tended many sick people until their dying day. It was her nature to lavish them with time and with flowers from her garden. And when their life on Earth ended, she saw the scene for what it was. That person was no longer with us. My Mamaw moved on, quickly, and maybe that’s why she could care for so many people with such great attention.

The only thing that kept me from being more of a blubbering mess than I was at her funeral was the fact that she would have considered my reaction to be somewhat impractical. But when you are a grandchild who gets exquisitely loved the way we were, you are bound to go through withdrawal. I did not inherit my grandmother’s ability to see things clearly for what they are. I do tend to know, however, when I have it good and when I don’t. And now that she’s gone, I, along with a whole lot of other people, don’t have it as good as we did.

By accident I ended up traveling to Arkansas and visiting with her the weekend before she died. She had broken a hip the month before. Dementia had progressed, and it was apparent that her future in this world would be spent in a nursing home.

Mom and I spent the afternoon with her that Friday. When we arrived we found her in the activity room where someone had rolled her in her chair. She sat by herself, listening to a little bluegrass band that had come to play - a mother and her two sons who were probably fourteen and seventeen years old. Their sister and a friend drew crayon flowers on copy paper and handed them out to the residents gathered around.

We sat with Mamaw while they played. A few days earlier she had stopped speaking, eating and drinking, but somehow she was still there. And I knew she would only be there for as long as she needed to be. Mamaw never dawdled. She patted my hand and pulled my head to her. She pointed over and over to a flower that one of the girls had drawn for her. She clapped occasionally during hymns, and mom and I sang so she could hear them better. Sometimes she raised her hands.

I have always had a lot for which to thank God, but rarely have I been so grateful as I was that day for the chance to sit with my grandmother and help her celebrate with this sweet band as she took a few more steps toward heaven.

After we left her at the nursing home, Mom took me over to show me what would have been Mamaw’s new apartment had she not broken her hip. It was cozy, and we were kind of sad she didn’t get to stay with her friends at River Oaks Village longer. And had my Mamaw heard us, she not only wouldn’t have understood; she would have laughed out loud.

(The picture above is my Mamaw this past Christmas with my Mom on the right and my Aunt Judy on the left. Both of her daughters, as well as the rest of her family made sure she had visits and lots of love every day. They learned well from her.)

Princeton U. - A Good Life

I’ve been negligent about posting and checking on my favorite blogs for a lot of reasons, which I’ll explain when I figure them all out myself. One reason I do know of is that I had to prepare for the last of my consulting gigs, this one at Princeton University’s art museum.

While I was there, Caroline (not to be confused with the Caroline who cuts my hair), my host took me to eat lunch in the faculty dining hall where they have a fresh floral arrangement in the foyer every single day.

I loved the contrast between the fuchsia and pink of the flowers against the rust colored walls and wanted to remember the combination for future design inspiration.

I knew Princeton was well financed, but it never dawned on me how well until as we ate I remarked about a beautiful garden outside a nearby window. Caroline said that it was endowed with so much money that they have a hard time spending it, so they change every plant in the garden on a monthly basis, with the exception of the boxwoods and what looked to me like a few arborvitae.

I didn’t have a ton of time to tour the campus, but what I saw was really lovely. Here are just a few photos of buildings I thought were interesting:

Oh, one more fun note. Princeton is an elegant sounding name, isn’t it? Before the school was moved to Princeton and adopted the village’s name, Princeton was known as the College of New Jersey. A good PR move, I think.

Sweet Caroline

So I was looking for a new place to get my haircut because the owner of the barber shop I was going to made some snide remark to me about one of his other customers. I never trust people who do that, since unfortunately I give people too many opportunities as it is to make me the brunt of unkind comments.

So Karen suggested I try Salon Orange Moon, an Aveda salon near the church.

Called them up and made an appointment with Caroline, who quickly became my latest gay man girl crush. She’s in the picture below. Precious, no?

(Crass price discussion alert) So, check it out! For $25.00 I get Caroline, a neck massage, a hot towel facial, hot tea (or water or even a beer if I wanted it, I think) delivered to my chair, and a second rinse to get rid of the annoying little stray hairs left after the hair cut. Now that’s service.

Run, don’t walk to Salon Orange Moon on Delaware. Caroline’s booking up though, so schedule an appointment guys. And, of course, there are other folks there who can cut your hair, too! Tell ‘em Troy sent you.

Oh, and if anyone is wondering, I put this in Good Home because this kind of treatment makes me a much nicer person at home.

Ignore Us Oh Lord

My hometown, Batesville, AR, is having a flood the likes most living there have never seen.

My mom sent me an e-mail with pictures and a comment about how floods and twisters had been the norm for the last three months.

I replied that it sounded downright Biblical and that they ought to all start acting right.

Her reply:

One lady in the paper last night said she is hoping the Lord forgets
about the locusts.

Methodist Minister Celebrates Gay Unions

I’m posting the quote below from an article about a Methodist minister who is trying to come to terms with committed gay couples in a very public way here on Good Home because I think it very much goes to the heart of what the foundations of a “good home” are. As the wedding coordinator for our church I think about this issue a lot, with very mixed emotions.

From the Washington Blade:

Rev. Dean Snyder can’t officially marry gay or lesbian couples.

But denominational bylaws won’t stop the senior pastor at Washington’s Foundry United Methodist Church from conducting services that honor same-sex couples.

“It seemed uncharitable and unfair to make such a big deal about our straight couples’ commitments and not to honor the commitments of our gay and lesbian couples when the fruits of the spirit, the signs of God’s grace, were obviously present in their relationships,” he said, “just as it was in our straight couples’ relationships.”

Snyder, who is straight, recently told his congregation he would preside over services that “recognize and honor” gay couples in committed relationships.

He said the services are not marriage ceremonies, but allow “us to gather as a congregation, and as family and friends of a couple, and say we recognize your commitment and we honor it.”

“After three years of prayer and discussion, this is where I came to,” Snyder said. “It’s not a good solution, but it’s a step in the right direction, not treating gay and lesbian couples as though their relationships didn’t coun

t.”

Back to the Farm?

While playing around with the search term “postmodern food” (related to some writing I’m doing on Southern cooking for gen-x and beyond) I ran across a title by Bill McKibben called Deep Economy - The Wealth of Communities and the Durable Future.    Rev. Mike loaned it to me because he had already read it, of course.

McKibben’s book challenges the notion that “more” is always “better.”  In fact, more in some instances is better (poverty+an ability to provide for your family=better), but there is a point at which more actually makes things worse (amount of space needed to house family of 3 comfortably+10,000 square feet≠better).  What does this have to do with Good Home?  Well, on this blog I play around a lot with the notion of “good enough.” Do we need the finest and newest of everything to make us happy?  No, nor could we afford it.

But why pay retail when a trip to a local auction yields recycled and often more interesting pieces that didn’t require a semi full of non-renewable resources (oil) to get here from say North Carolina, not to mention the trips that other large trucks (more oil) made to ship supplies there.  Only to have furniture (plastic covered - more oil) sitting in acres of air-conditioned and over lit (more non-renewable fossil fuels) warehouses.

I know, where do you start and where do you stop?  I don’t really know, but that’s the question I’m starting to ask.  And local food is starting to look smarter and smarter to me for some of the same reasons.  And what if the world’s goal is to raise it’s level of consumption to that of the U.S.?  God forbid.  Given our already depleting sources of fossil fuels, imagine if all of India and China decided they needed as many cars per family as we think we do?   And why shouldn’t they?  Their economies are strengthening.   

I’m really starting to wonder if my grandparents and their self-sustaining farm, not to mention their continued support of local economies, didn’t have a better handle on energy consumption than we do.   Oh, who am I kidding?  They totally did.   

But is having a farm what John and I need to do?  I really don’t enjoy sweating that much and I have a developing asthma issue.  What would  other alternatives  be?  Could I just cook for our homestead?  What about food cooperatives?  Maybe we get our food from them.  More plentiful small urban gardens?  My church is starting some interesting work with a project called “Eden in Indianapolis” working with area gardeners and local restaurants.  I’m kind of interested to see how it will turn out.   

Open to suggestions.    

Just a Few Birthday Pics

Didn’t really have my camera handy for most of my birthday weekend, but thought these two photos were fun.

Katie, Rob and Taylor (taking the photo) and Julie (in back) before we popped over to Talbott Street to catch the Ladies of Legends! Awesome show, as always. Why is John not in this pic?

Julie drove down from Cleveland to help us celebrate and joined me for a Spa Day on Saturday. She loaned me a sparkly tiara to wear (only around the house, I promise) AND she brought a cake that Lori sent with her for my b-day! Isn’t it incredible? It was a pre-show snack as well breakfast and brunch the next day.

Good Service for Good Home

Had our friends Ron and Kevin over for dinner last Saturday night. I was making Country Captain and needed some good chicken parts. So I trotted on down to Marsh Marketplace (used be O’Malia’s) where I typically buy all of my meat.

I chose my parts and asked the guy waiting on me to chop the breast halves in half again so that they would be the same size as the other pieces.

He looked at me with a very confused look on his face and said, “But they are already in halves.”I said, “Yes, I know, but I need those pieces cut in two again so that they will be finished cooking at the same time as the other pieces.”

He looked back to another meat counter employee who was packaging pork chops and said, “He wants these breast pieces cut in two,” which caused the guy to emit a most annoying sigh.

I asked, “Is there a problem? You guys are butchers, right? The other guys who work here do this for me all of the time.” Silence.

As guy one took the pieces (we’re talking two pieces that I needed cut) back to guy two, guy two picked up a wispy thin fish deboning knife and started to cut on the pieces. What do these people normally use to cut meat? Sonic waves?

I finally said, “Okay, just wrap the pieces up. I’ll cut them myself with my CLEAVER when I get home.” They wrapped them up and I walked away in disbelief.

As I shopped I happened to catch sight of the store manager who was thankfully working on the floor. I clued him in on what had just happened, and he assured me that he would take care of it and that what I had asked for was exactly the kind of thing the meat department should be doing. Not a bad response, but a BETTER response would have been:

“I’ll let the guys know that this is not an atypical request. In fact, if you have time, let’s walk back to the meat counter and I’ll have someone cut those breasts in half for you before you leave.”

No such luck. But as the title of this post suggests, Good Home found good service this weekend, too.

Now you’re going to hear me do something I hardly ever do: praise a store in Carmel. In Clay Terrace! A Starbucks!! I wish I had something else to put here so I could use three exclamation points!!! That works.

So, here you go. Dave and I were up at Clay Terrace boring ourselves silly by going through home stores with nothing much interesting to see except these glass balls at 3 Chairs

and these ceramic pig heads from Z Gallerie that I think cross a line into slaughterhouse creepy, but that David kind of dug. Ironic that I would be the one less impressed with them, given that I’m one of bacon’s biggest fans.

Actually 3 Chairs had more interesting stuff than my current crumudgeonly mood will allow me to share (some other post), and the staff was super friendly and knowledgeable to boot. Plus, they didn’t run us out when we accidently stayed past closing time. Oops! Sorry, 3 Chairs.

Nice as they were, I was nonetheless stupefied to the point of needing caffeine so I requested that we stop in at Starbucks, which was close by (I secretly like Starbucks. There, I said it.)

We walked in and for some reason I decided to order french pressed coffee made with the decaf of the day. Danny, the 17 year old (according to his co-worker) who was waiting on us was enthusiastically supportive when I told him that we wanted pressed coffee.

He said, “But if you order a French Press, you can choose from any bean we have. Do you want me to help you choose the perfect bean for you?”

The perfect bean, for me?! Not being one to sneeze at perfection, I gave him a hearty, “You bet!”

So he came from behind the counter, which always impresses me, took us over to the beans and asked us what we liked (smooth, bold okay, remember the decaf) or did not like (not so into citrusy) in a coffee, and finally pointed us to the Komodo Dragon blend, which was really good.

As he was brewing he told us why French pressed coffee is so good (no paper filter to stop the oils from brewing with the coffee) and answered my questions about the best presses, about the different coffees, etc.

This man knows his stuff. So if you find yourself at Clay Terrace, stop in at the Starbucks and ask for Danny. Tell him Troy at Good Home sent you. Keep my name to yourself at the Marsh meat counter though, not that you every have to worry about getting cut by someone there. But I hear their sonic wave slicers are deadly!

My Green Heaven

I love greens. They are fine sauteed in olive oil with a little garlic and served over warm cannellini beans, but they speak most eloquently to me when they are stewed in pork stock.

In the interest of preserving present friendships and laying the groundwork for new ones, I will assume that the thought of me using pork as a seasoning does not makes you glow with a feeling of superiority.

Buying greens, preparing them, and cooking them makes me almost as happy as eating them. You can buy decent ones prepackaged in stores now, but fondling a gigantic pile of bright and tender leaves is an awesome way to ward of the vampirish gray of Indiana’s winter, so why not buy fresh? I found this outstanding mix of collards, turnip greens, and lacinato kale at Sunflower Market (closing soon, by the way). Aren’t they beautiful?

Six pounds will make plenty for sharing.

Washing (got to get the grit off) and then trimming the yellowed areas, stems and the thicker ribs from the middle of leaves takes awhile, so I prefer to prepare greens for cooking a day in advance. Wait any longer and they start to lose their punch. I wrap the clean leaves loosely in paper towels and put them in plastic bags in the refrigerator where they keep just fine.

While I’m groping the greens, I put a pound of slab bacon, unsliced if you can find it (Goose the Market has the prettiest I’ve ever seen) in two quarts of water to boil. Score the hunk-o-meat deeply before putting it in. Let the bacon boil for about 45 minutes. If it’s good bacon, the smoky awesome smell will kick even more winter booty!

Don’t you worry about all that fat going into your greens. Once you cook the flavor out of the bacon, discard it or give some of it to a favorite animal in your life (See, now your even making the pets happy!). Store the stock in a cold place over night. The fat will congeal and you can just skim most of it off before putting even one beautiful leaf in the pot. Since I like mine to have a bit of a sheen, I leave in a little of the fat.

When you’re ready to cook the greens, get the skinny pork broth good and hot, a low boil is fine. Cut the collard greens into one inch wide strips. Lay them in the hot water and put the lid on so they can start cooking down. I put the collards (the bigger leaves in the picture above) in before the other greens because they are typically less tender and take a little longer to cook.

While the collards are cooking down, tear the other more tender leaves into similar sized shapes by hand, stirring the cooking collards occasionally. Then put the other greens in and put the lid back on. Once all of the leaves are all coated and turned in the stock, lower the heat to a simmer. Cook the greens slowly, covered, for 30 more minutes or a little longer if they started out tough. Stir them every once in awhile. Sprinkle a couple teaspoons of sugar in there some where along the way.

I like my greens to taste like greens, but season them with salt if needed (probably won’t be) or other herbs and spices. Adding a dash of tangy heat is traditional in the south. When I have it, I sprinkle some pepper flavored cider vinegar on them. Tabasco will do in a pinch.

Serve those babies warm with just about anything. Greens get along with all kinds of food. I would be just as happy to eat them with Kung Pao Pork as I was when we had them with our fried chicken last week. They can easily be a main course, too, if you have good cornbread, biscuits or the crusty bread John has been making lately.

How To Care When You’re Not There!

Stop what you’re doing and check out what had to be my friend Scott’s best Christmas present ever: the Here Kitty, Kitty Automatic Feline Feeder.

Midland Goodbyes

The rumors are true. This spring Midland Antiques Market will move from its gritty, funky and generous downtown Indianapolis location to a new spot, somewhere up north. Too bad, since I think part of Midland’s appeal has been its unpretentious hipness, a vibe that will be a challenge to duplicate in its new surroundings.

Oh well. That’s business.

While I don’t know how interested I’ll be in heading up to its new location (it’s hard to beat my current 1/4 mile drive) I can still celebrate it’s current eclectic mix of just about everything any designer might need–a magician’s hat of funky home goods.

The homey and sweet lines of this chandelier would make an easy fit for a clapboarded cottage or a lyrical foil in a sleek dining room, especially if it were painted.

I have my eye on this table as part of a 1960s Palm Springs feel Dave and I are thinking of working into a guest bedroom.

Comfy, even if it is bulky. I can see still see this crewel pattern (I love crewel) in an Anthropologie-inspired bedroom.

I have no idea what I might do with a car shaped lamp made of Light Bright pegs, but how could anyone not love it?

Well, so long Midland. As a neighbor you were great fun. I’d wish you well in your new digs, but selfishly I hope we downtowners will be seeing you again sooner rather than later.

In Case You Didn’t Know

I brought my other blog, GrowingSense, out of retirement. Turns out I needed another outlet more than I thought. If you care, you can check in on my more random and political blatherings there.

In Search Of– White Stone Ground Grits in Indy

I want to make grits with shrimp paste as an appetizer (Scott Peacock and Edna Lewis recipe here) this weekend, but I can’t find any stone ground white grits around here, only yellow ones, which are polenta. I’m sure the yellow grits would be fine, but I think the white grits would make a smooth textural and more neutral backdrop for the shrimp. Not sure that the yellow kind would work as well. Plus, and I know it sounds provincial, I never ate yellow grits growing up.

I should probably give Wild Oats a call, and I welcome advice from Hoosiers. I tried O’Malia’s downtown and Sunflower Market in Broad Ripple. If I can’t find the white ones, should I go ahead and make the yellow ones? I already bought the shrimp.

Update: This story has a very happy ending. Chris at Goose - The Market on Delaware was able to hook me up with some white stone ground grits. They were the creamiest, smoothest grits I’ve ever had. A little butter and a little cream - a lot of stirring, like 1 hour and 20 minutes- and a spoonful of a buttery shrimp mixture (see recipe link above) made those grits supreme. Totally worth the trouble. Thanks Chris!

Heath Ledger is Dead.

I’m so sad. Heath Ledger was found dead today in his apartment in NY.

A Ghost in Winter

John and I stopped in Saturday night at Lara and Frank’s house for dinner and to play with their Wii. Lucie, their five-year old, smoked me at bowling, but she made my Mii avatar look much thinner than I am in real life so all was forgiven.

Lara’s style is traditional with a twist, so this Louis Ghost Armchair fits right nicely into their house, as I’m convinced it would in almost any space. And I’m always amazed by how comfortable this chair is. Fun and elegant at the same time, too.

Also loved all of the light and mercury glass in the living room, which adds much needed sparkle during these dim and melancholy winter months.

Since the glass pieces are holiday decorations, there was some discussion between Lara and Frank about how much to leave up and for how long. I’ll go ahead and weigh in by saying I think they should keep all of it out until taxes are due.