Sassy Southern Cooking with a French Twist

When a House Becomes a Home

I’ve lived a lot of places. Boston, New York, Chicago, Wyoming, Paris, Southern France, Minneapolis, to name a few. But, I’ve never lived anywhere as long as I’ve lived in Charleston (fifteen years) and never as long as in a single house as the one I currently call home (ten years).

Now two weeks away from a move to a new house in Charleston (hence my extended blog absence – apologies),  I’m finding myself in an increasingly reflective and nostalgic state about how and when Charleston became my adopted, long-term home, and how and when the house I’m currently living in became a cherished home.

Charleston’s easiest. It was literally love at first sight and she’s never given me even an inch of slack to break her spell. The poetry of the architecture and landscape interwoven with the beauty and pain of her history leave me completely spellbound to this day and almost certainly will until the day I die.

This house is another story. I wasn’t even officially looking for a house when she found me. Her rigid Georgian lines (on the front exterior) and masculine-looking brick didn’t initially appeal to my senses. This house was originally built for and lived in by individual families, but by the time I came across her, she had endured several years of single male professionals’ occupancy, and bore the neglect of nesting apathy. All white and “vanilla,” with a knotty, twisted and overgrown garden, she needed love and tending. She needed living.

Once Tann Mann and I moved in, we set about doing just that. The garden got a face lift, the walls got color, the windows were adorned with curtains. The brand new refrigerator, once likely home to forgotten, spoiled milk, Jell-0, and stale bread, was now fully stocked with food to create recipes and feed friends. The brand new oven was christened with pot roasts and meat loaves.  I became familiar with her sounds and midnight creaks, accrued over nearly eighty years of living. Tann Mann found his favorite spots, and made them his own, especially his bird’s-eye perch at the top of the steep stairs or very near me working in the kitchen. Eventually, Chutney Cat found us and slunk her way into our lives and our hearts.

Tann Mann right at home, in the kitchen, begging for treats from the tables.

Tann Mann right at home, in the kitchen, begging for treats from the table.

Lasting friendships with endearing neighbors that became as beloved as family formed. Memories were made. A best friend married the love of her life in the garden. I fell in love with the love of mine over long talks and deep laughs in the very same garden. Christmas trees were selected and decorated and placed in the front living room window – the decidedly best spot for viewing from within and from the street. Kids plodded through the ‘hood en masse every Halloween. Neighborhood pets were born and some sadly died….all live in my mind and heart forever. Especially Angus, Scarlett, Ivy, Rebel, Sister, Houston, Bucky and Blue.  Speaking of Blue, one day out of the clear blue, then-neighbor Bill Murray showed up on my doorstep, patted Tann Mann on the head, and most endearlingly asked me to dinner, where he proceeded to tell me I was beautiful and sang “Me and Bobby McGee” in a French accent.   Quel amazing night!

Did all of this make it home?  Absolutely, all of this did. But, what really made it home for me was my kitchen.

My beloved kitchen in my home on Gibbes Street.

My beloved kitchen in my home on Gibbes Street.

Long gone was the vanilla white, about five years ago replaced with sage and sun yellow, to reflect the sunlight that beamed into the windows and warmed the honey-hued oak floors. Ten years into its life, my oven wears the patina of what seems like a thousand tarts and the stove a lifetime of recipes for my cookbooks and meals for me, my friends and family. I love my kitchen. If I could take her with me, I would. Today, I’ll be packing up large chunks of her into boxes sealed with tape to be sent off to my new house and my beautiful new kitchen. But, there are things bigger than boxes that can contain much more. My kitchen and this old house, my home, will reside forever in my heart. There is room for a new home, but saying goodbye to this one will be very hard.

Thank you for joining me here over the years. I look forward to taking you on many cooking and writing journeys in my new place.

Bon appetit!

 

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3 Responses to When a House Becomes a Home

  • What a lovely story. Thank you for sharing.
    You are a very lucky person to live in on of my most favorite places. If it weren’t for the colder temps, we could live there. But alas I am a person who must have the warmth of the sun all year round. And I do. And it is home. My husband feels the same.

    May you find happiness in your new home and lots of new recipes to cook in your new kitchen. Mazel Tov.

  • Holly, sweet, sweet words about a place that holds your heart. And his PhD the new adventure to come in the new home.

    • Thank you, Sunny. Wishing you and your husband continued happiness. Many thanks to you as well, Cheryl, and thanks for building such a lovely site for me.

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