You really can go home again—sort of

Friends Subie and Phil were coming for dinner tonight, and I had hoped we could eat on the patio. This morning’s storms, amd the wet and chilly day wiped out that idea. I just couldn’t see serving six of us brats, corn on the cob, hot potato salad and asparagus around a coffee table, so I suggested to Jordan we eat in the main house, and she readily agreed. She’s been wanting me to come in there for joint cooking projects, but I have not been sure of the steps, the high lintels on the doors, etc. And if we leave Sophie outside, she’ll fuss, bark and make herself and everybody miserable; if we brought her in the house, we couldn’t visit on the porch because she’d do the same thing. (Do you get the feeling my life is ruled by a dog? Not really, but she’s one who will bolt given the chance, and I’m not going to try her on that front porch.)

Since it was cool tonight, we happily had appetizers in the living room—and Sophie ws inside and well behaved. It’s strange, I think, to be in a house you once lived in and filled with your furniture when someone else, even close family, lives there and decorates it to their taste. The kids’ furniture is heavier, over-stuffed, bigger than I would want—it makes it a whole different house but one that is nonetheless charming and inviting. They still have my dining set, and I sat at the head of the table—my princess chair, as Jordan called it, only now I was on my walker with a seat. We all remarked that it was really like old times to be there, and we were delighted.

I was responsible for dinner but really I only made the German potato salad. Jordan and Christian did the corn, a bit of asparagus, and brats that he did on the grill. A really good dinner, although I thought the potato salad needed more vinegar.

Still one of the nicest evenings I’ve spent in a while.

It’s been a food weekend. Friday Jordan and I went to Local Foods Kitchen and came home with turkey burgers. I also got egg salad and Brussel sprouts slaw for lunch—loved the egg salad; the slaw not so much. Didn’t like the texture. But the turkey patty made three meals for me—I ate almost half of it Friday and then made half sandwiches yesterday and today.

Last night I made Welsh rarebit just for me. No, not rabbit—rarebit means “a small bit” and this is a melted cheese dish, far more complicated than what my mom used to call Welsh rarebit (that was just melted cheese on toast). Last night’s version had sharp cheddar, Worcestershire, dry mustard, and stout. And it congealed into a solid state. I piled it on toast and baked it until the cheese was bubbly—unfortunately by then the edges of the toast burned and the whole thing set off my too-sensitive smoke alarm. But the rarebit was good, and I had it again this morning.

I’m still fiddling with cooking, and I think with both the potato salad tonight and the rarebit last night I was a bit off in the proportion of flour to liquid in my roux. One night recently I made a mushroom ragout (I probably blogged about it) and had the same problem—I could taste a bit of flour and that’s wrong, means I had the proportions off.

It’s fun to be fiddling with food again, and it was fun tonight to cook in my old kitchen, though I had to appoint Jordan sous chef to fetch and carry for me, partly because I don’t move around that easily and partly because I don’t know where they keep things. Yet even today when I can’t find a utensil or something, my mind goes to where it should be in that kitchen. Yes, it was sort of like being home again, and yes, you can go home again.

Houses I Have Lived in

 I just learned that my “doctor’s wife” house, the one I lived in for twelve years when my children were babies, has come on the market—for an exorbitant figuring too near $2 million for my comfort. I assure you we did not pay much more than 1/8^th that price in 1969 and sold it in 1982 still under ¼ that amount. Times have changed—and so has the house. It has been remodeled, added on to, redesigned—much of which hid its good bare bones.

Originally in the Mediterranean style, it had turned pillars on the front porch, a large terrazzo entry way which made me immediately fall in love, Mediterranean tiles around the circular fireplace. Much of that was covered with synthetic substances in a misguided attempt to upgrade or modernize the house. The second owners after us asked for pictures because they wanted to restore it to its original state—today their efforts hardly show, although they are the ones who added a two-story garage with guest quarters above it, a wonderful addition.

Today the house is chic and modern and too fussy for me. When we moved in, ugly blue fiberglass curtains completely hid the lovely curved windows and the house had a general air of not being loved. We improved what we could on the limited budget of a new physician, but some of our furniture was old, none of it was expensive. I would call the house in our day comfortable, a lived-in home. We did add love—it was a happy house. I can’t say that for it today—but it is fashionable. I don’t know where I’d kick off my shoes and read a book.

We did gut and remodel the kitchen, taking out a lot of brickwork. Today the kitchen has been refigured and remodeled again and a lot of exposed brickwork added. What goes round, comes round.

My kids have been spare in their comments except to say they don’t recognize many parts of it. One son loves the new patio, as do I, but I sure wouldn’t have put a pool in that yard. It’s where my ex grew twenty tons of green beans—too bad he’s no longer alive to appreciate the irony.

The whole transformation—and the price—reminded me of my childhood home. We saw it on our September visit to Chicago. The kids were astounded when I said to stop, that was the house. I had talked about a changing neighborhood, and I guess that didn’t compute for them. They thought poor.

The house today, we guess, is worth one million. Built in 1893, it’s fashioned like a brownstone but made of red brick with elaborate stone work with a typical bay window. I think my dad bought it in the 1930s for under $10,000. It’s tall and skinny, with a half third floor. Whereas in my day the houses all had wooden front porches—we screened ours in summers and lived there, today the porches are all gone and the tiny front yards, once just a patch of grass, are now landscaped with Japanese maple and other exotic plants.

I visited the other day with the girl who grew up next door—then, my dad’s garden, an extra lot, was between our houses. Today, there’s a house there that the owner told us was designed to fit in with my home. But Judy (her name too) told me she always thought of ours as an upper middle class neighborhood. That’s even stretching a point to me but it was nothing like it is today.

Do you think my living in these houses has influenced the price? Can we advertise “Judy Alter slept here” as in the old saw about George Washington? I doubt that would have an effect. And somewhere along the way, maybe when I had an empty nest, I got over the craving for a bigger and better house. Today, I live in 600 square feet and couldn’t be happier. There’s a moral there somewhere but I’m not going to figure it out.