Archive for January, 2008


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.

Airy Chandelier

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.

Mosaic Tile Table

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.

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

Light Bright Car

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.

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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.

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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.


Edna Lewis and My Future Fortune

Edna Lewis

My grandparents were Arkansas farmers from Center Hill who raised supreme examples of everything – tomatoes, corn, peas and greens of all kinds, okra, watermelons, raspberries, blueberries, strawberries, peaches, and apricots, even peanuts. You get the picture. And this doesn’t even begin to describe my Mamaw’s flower garden, an acre of texture and color that might have illustrated the lushest of seed catalogues.

My grandparents’ garden at Center Hill was special, but it wasn’t an uncommon sight in that part of the world. A lot of my friends had similar garden experiences when they visited their families. At the time I never thought about what it would be like not to have a family farm. I was too busy moaning as I sat on an overturned milk crate beneath the blazing sun to anyone within earshot about having to pick what seemed like enough strawberries to fill a box car (as my great-grandmother would happily pick row after row while standing bent at the waist).

I also didn’t realize that my Missionary Baptist grandparents and their place were part of a budding organic movement back in the 1970s that had at least a philosophical connection to Alice Waters and her seminal Berkeley restaurant Chez Panisse, where the mantra, now more powerful than ever, was that food should be locally grown, seasonal, organic and beautiful.

On the other side of the continent in 1973, by then living in New York and calling Richard Avedon and Truman Capote long-time friends, Virginia-born Edna Lewis was writing a book I’m now reading called A Taste of Country Cooking, a memoir/ cookbook of Southern food that unconsciously extolled the virtues of, you guessed it, locally grown, seasonal, organic and beautiful food; oh, and lard.

As I read Lewis’s book I feel a nagging sense of having been cheated out of my organic food birthright. Somehow, from their outpost in White County, AR, my grandparents were swept up by the early winds of that movement–composting (God help us if we tried to throw a way a tomato peel in the presence of my grandmother), minimally invasive pest treatments, and award-winning produce to show for it. Like a Mughal prince, I was rich beyond my wildest dreams but had no idea because it was all I’d ever known.

For me, calling Lewis’s Taste a cookbook sort of misses the point, since much of my fascination with it comes from glimpsing a year in the life of a Virginia farmer’s daughter, the grand-daughter of a freed slave. Why not make the focus of a book about a day in the life from that time and place about food, since sustaining a family essentially revolved around growing it, preparing it and eating it.

Edna Lewis died last year. She left this world very well. In her later years she met a young chef from Alabama named Scott Peacock, now the beloved head chef at Atlanta’s Watershed restaurant. I say young. Like me, he’s in his 40s, and since I still feel young I declare that he is, too. For her final seven years Miss Lewis, as he called her, lived with Scott in Atlanta, deepening what sounds like a profound friendship and cooking up a storm.

Together they wrote one of my favorite books, The Gift of Southern Cooking, in which wonderful things result from the intermingling of generations and the respect Miss Lewis and Scott show for people, place and the best quality seasonal ingredients. I know from experience that folks who love people and cooking that much typically also create incredibly tasty food.

I am keenly aware that I have much more in this life than I will ever deserve, but I must confess that reading about Edna Lewis and Scott Peacock’s work and life together gives me a hopeful and greedy sense that someday I will be rich again, the way I used to be.