In times long-gone, consumer packaging was comprised of text and illustration. Type was often hand-drawn by skilled artists, and the images of fruit, vegetables, people, and places that graced the labels were beautiful miniature works of lithographic art, some nearly worthy of botany guidebooks. After the 1950s or so, with color photographic reproduction becoming more cost-effective, labels began to bear photos of the contents of the packaging. As a result, the modern shopper finds himself eye-raped by a dizzying array of computer-manipulated photographs and typography. The past decade or so has seen a rekindled interest in type-driven package design. Visit any Williams-Sonoma or an upscale grocery store, and you'll find meritorious efforts at reviving the old ways, but as attractive as these "retro-style" labels are, most of them break the illusion of having been teleported from another era with too many clean, sharp edges and perfectly kerned typography.
I've always wanted a convincing retro-style kitchen, but it would be both impractical and very expensive to have vintage appliances. As a compromise, I've been in the process re-labeling all of my
canned goods and other packaged goods with replicas of labels from
the 1920s. I scoured the inter-webs for hours looking for high-quality scanned images of labels matching the products I ordinarily keep in my pantry. In a few cases, I had to alter real labels for products not commonly sold in the '20s, such as black beans and enchilada sauce. I printed the labels on plain paper using a good laser printer to yield a semi-gloss effect, carefully cut them out, and wrapped them around the existing labels on my canned goods (in case I needed to view cooking directions or nutrition information). Now that practically every canned item has been re-labeled, one almost feels transported back through time upon opening the cabinet and finding neat rows and columns of lithographed tomatoes, beans, corn, peaches, and pears.
I didn't stop with canned goods, though. I also came across scanned labels of Quaker rolled oats canisters and coffee can labels, which I manipulated in Photoshop to fit modern-sized containers. I want a 1920s style cereal box as well for my store-brand Cheerios (which didn't exist until the '40s, but who cares), but printing an actual cereal box is beyond my resources. I'll settle for turning a cereal box inside-out to expose the plain brown cardboard, then gluing printed labels to each side of the box. I managed to create a label in the style of Kellogg's cereal boxes from the '20s, so I think that should do nicely.
I have modern appliances, but they are all white, a very timeless color. I may replace the white knobs on my stove with black ones for a little retro appeal. Other vintage touches include a replica of an ice delivery card, a 1920s "cathedral" style radio, and a wall-mounted bottle opener. I hope to get a set of glass spice jars, to which I will affix labels derived from 1920s spice tins.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
The Walmartization of Target
A nearly senile woman of at least threescore and ten greets me with a toothless smile and sad eyes. The displays of merchandise are in shambles; goods are strewn haphazardly on dirty shelves, tumbling onto the floor; passageways are crowded with heavy, slow-moving
mammals. As I venture deeper, I find myself surrounded by sour-smelling indigents dressed in slothful rags and
undisciplined children scurrying around, while at least a dozen different languages are clucking in my ears all at once. All the while, beady eyes stare at me
menacingly, filling me with a constant fear that I might be
pickpocketed, assaulted, robbed, or whisked away into some sort of
criminal underworld or white slave trade, my loved ones never to hear
from me again.
This harrowing description is not of a visit to a Moroccan bazaar, or even to a faraway planet. This is how I feel every time I set foot in a Wal-Mart.
Preppy folk of good breeding, such as myself, have a great appreciation for the finer things in life, i.e. well-made, long-lasting garments, antique furniture, fine silverware, Triscuits, and relaxing trips and getaways. The finer things do cost money, but we can afford them by squeezing our dollars on groceries and household necessities at low-price retailers. Most of these establishments have always attracted a lower-class clientele, whose disheveled appearance and inability to converse in proper English, or any English at all, make bargain shopping a distressing, sometimes even frightening experience for our sort.
Preppies know that many things don't have to cost a lot to do what they need them to do, and know where to find them at a more attractive price. Things like utilitarian glassware, kitchen utensils, placemats, party decorations, giftwrap, and storage containers can be found for cheap at discount stores such as Marshall's, T.J. Maxx, Ross, and even dollar stores. Low prices can be found on attractive clothing as well at many of these discounters (except dollar stores). Still, in order to get their bargains, preppies must conquer their fears of the lower classes and make their way through the writhing masses of mouth-breathers to claim their treasures. Sometimes, one just can't take the adrenaline rush, and just wants to get something at a fair price without offending his delicate sensibilities with the sights, sounds, and smells of trashy people. There was a time, not very long ago at all — not even two years ago — when there was a retailer where we could have our cake and eat it too. It was called Target.
Target offered kitchen wares, electronics, cleaning supplies, health, beauty, and hygiene products, and school and office supplies at prices significantly lower than supermarkets, drugstores, and department stores. Their prices were typically ever so slightly higher than their chief competitor, Wal-Mart, but they offered one very valuable feature that Wal-Mart did not: a sleaze-free shopping experience. The difference at the register added up to pocket change, well worth the privilege of shopping in a clean, quiet, orderly store patronized chiefly by well-bred customers. Target was something of a well-kept secret among tasteful folk for a very long time, and I enjoyed it. The rare expeditions I would make to Wal-Mart felt just like this entry's opening narrative. A subsequent visit to Target was like a gasp of fresh air by comparison, where anxieties melted away at the sight of shoppers to manor born and manners bred.
The walls separating the aristocrats from the unwashed masses began to crumble when Target introduced large grocery sections in its stores. Though offering a smaller selection of brands and varieties than supermarkets, their prices were very competitive, even with Wal-Mart stores, which had already had grocery departments for many years. With cheap groceries as well as cheap household goods and affordable, albeit shoddily made, clothing, Target suddenly became very attractive to Wal-Mart's clientele, and the vermin crept in, little by little, until a full-fledged infestation was irreversibly in place.
Just yesterday I stopped by Target on my way home from the cubicle for some moisturizer, face scrub, and a few groceries. My eyes were soiled at the sight of obese negresses wearing all-too-revealing rompers, a blubbery mother sporting a mullet with her pudgy urchins swinging from the shopping cart, wiry goons with cornrows in their hair and wifebeaters on their slouching backs, and an obese interracial couple to whom I was hesitant to get too close lest I slip in the amniotic fluid that was sure to erupt at any moment from the female's super-sized womb, though in retrospect, her oversized sweatpants probably would have absorbed most of it. Then I caught sight of a sure sign of Target's decline into disrepute: the Shaun White collection. It seems Target has partnered with skateboarder Shaun White to sell garish "skater" clothing inspired by urban street urchins to impressionable preteen boys during that delicate phase of development in which they are striving to develop a sense of identity. The identity of a directionless street-rat loitering in a public park is among the last I would want any son of mine to assume. The Walmartization of Target is happening now, reader, and cannot be stopped. Fellow preppies will soon face a choice of whether to brave the fray and benefit from their low prices on sunscreen and paper towels, freeing up funds for 1.5-liter bottles of Old Crow (which also must be purchased alongside the lowest of society, thanks to the state government's statutorily sanctioned monopoly on liquor sales), or pay premium prices at smaller stores in order to avoid the Target-Mart ordeal.
Those who choose the easy way out have many options, which I had long counted out but may soon reexamine. The inter-web is the most obvious solution, for it offers practically everything a gentle-man could want without the need to enter a store, but for a mostly trash-free shopping experience, they have the outdoor shopping complex. Outdoor shopping complexes were created to deter loitering gangs of surly teenagers by removing climate control from the equation and of course prohibiting skateboarding, and also to turn off the grubby riffraff who opt to stretch their greasy dollars elsewhere by filling their spaces with higher-priced merchants in architecturally pleasing buildings among well-manicured grounds with plenty of sunlight and pruned shade trees, all carefully laid out according to years of urban planning research to make shoppers feel at ease. Ideally, the relatively lower-priced stores, like Old Navy and Rite-Aid, are close to the boundaries of the complex, keeping less savory folk from wandering too far into the areas where their social betters are shopping. The whole complex is dotted with eateries offering such cuisine as sushi, baked goods, gyros, sandwiches, and gourmet dishes, all in an effort to keep away the chicken-n-waffles crowd.
How grand would it be to construct a private, members-only shopping center, admission to which was governed by a membership committee? The pipe dream is for a shopping center to be run like a country club, where only members and guests can come to shop, and everyone is subject to a dress code. Membership would be free of charge, and the shopping club would be run for profit like any other shopping center, but the membership committee would be elected by members. Also, a process would be available to petition rescission of membership if a member's conduct or appearance became problematic for a large enough majority of other members. It will never happen because retailers won't want to set up shop where a limited number of consumers can come, but still, a gentle-man can dream. For the time being, I'll have to reevaluate just how much the dollars I save at Target are really worth.
This harrowing description is not of a visit to a Moroccan bazaar, or even to a faraway planet. This is how I feel every time I set foot in a Wal-Mart.
Preppy folk of good breeding, such as myself, have a great appreciation for the finer things in life, i.e. well-made, long-lasting garments, antique furniture, fine silverware, Triscuits, and relaxing trips and getaways. The finer things do cost money, but we can afford them by squeezing our dollars on groceries and household necessities at low-price retailers. Most of these establishments have always attracted a lower-class clientele, whose disheveled appearance and inability to converse in proper English, or any English at all, make bargain shopping a distressing, sometimes even frightening experience for our sort.
Preppies know that many things don't have to cost a lot to do what they need them to do, and know where to find them at a more attractive price. Things like utilitarian glassware, kitchen utensils, placemats, party decorations, giftwrap, and storage containers can be found for cheap at discount stores such as Marshall's, T.J. Maxx, Ross, and even dollar stores. Low prices can be found on attractive clothing as well at many of these discounters (except dollar stores). Still, in order to get their bargains, preppies must conquer their fears of the lower classes and make their way through the writhing masses of mouth-breathers to claim their treasures. Sometimes, one just can't take the adrenaline rush, and just wants to get something at a fair price without offending his delicate sensibilities with the sights, sounds, and smells of trashy people. There was a time, not very long ago at all — not even two years ago — when there was a retailer where we could have our cake and eat it too. It was called Target.
Target offered kitchen wares, electronics, cleaning supplies, health, beauty, and hygiene products, and school and office supplies at prices significantly lower than supermarkets, drugstores, and department stores. Their prices were typically ever so slightly higher than their chief competitor, Wal-Mart, but they offered one very valuable feature that Wal-Mart did not: a sleaze-free shopping experience. The difference at the register added up to pocket change, well worth the privilege of shopping in a clean, quiet, orderly store patronized chiefly by well-bred customers. Target was something of a well-kept secret among tasteful folk for a very long time, and I enjoyed it. The rare expeditions I would make to Wal-Mart felt just like this entry's opening narrative. A subsequent visit to Target was like a gasp of fresh air by comparison, where anxieties melted away at the sight of shoppers to manor born and manners bred.
The walls separating the aristocrats from the unwashed masses began to crumble when Target introduced large grocery sections in its stores. Though offering a smaller selection of brands and varieties than supermarkets, their prices were very competitive, even with Wal-Mart stores, which had already had grocery departments for many years. With cheap groceries as well as cheap household goods and affordable, albeit shoddily made, clothing, Target suddenly became very attractive to Wal-Mart's clientele, and the vermin crept in, little by little, until a full-fledged infestation was irreversibly in place.
Just yesterday I stopped by Target on my way home from the cubicle for some moisturizer, face scrub, and a few groceries. My eyes were soiled at the sight of obese negresses wearing all-too-revealing rompers, a blubbery mother sporting a mullet with her pudgy urchins swinging from the shopping cart, wiry goons with cornrows in their hair and wifebeaters on their slouching backs, and an obese interracial couple to whom I was hesitant to get too close lest I slip in the amniotic fluid that was sure to erupt at any moment from the female's super-sized womb, though in retrospect, her oversized sweatpants probably would have absorbed most of it. Then I caught sight of a sure sign of Target's decline into disrepute: the Shaun White collection. It seems Target has partnered with skateboarder Shaun White to sell garish "skater" clothing inspired by urban street urchins to impressionable preteen boys during that delicate phase of development in which they are striving to develop a sense of identity. The identity of a directionless street-rat loitering in a public park is among the last I would want any son of mine to assume. The Walmartization of Target is happening now, reader, and cannot be stopped. Fellow preppies will soon face a choice of whether to brave the fray and benefit from their low prices on sunscreen and paper towels, freeing up funds for 1.5-liter bottles of Old Crow (which also must be purchased alongside the lowest of society, thanks to the state government's statutorily sanctioned monopoly on liquor sales), or pay premium prices at smaller stores in order to avoid the Target-Mart ordeal.
Those who choose the easy way out have many options, which I had long counted out but may soon reexamine. The inter-web is the most obvious solution, for it offers practically everything a gentle-man could want without the need to enter a store, but for a mostly trash-free shopping experience, they have the outdoor shopping complex. Outdoor shopping complexes were created to deter loitering gangs of surly teenagers by removing climate control from the equation and of course prohibiting skateboarding, and also to turn off the grubby riffraff who opt to stretch their greasy dollars elsewhere by filling their spaces with higher-priced merchants in architecturally pleasing buildings among well-manicured grounds with plenty of sunlight and pruned shade trees, all carefully laid out according to years of urban planning research to make shoppers feel at ease. Ideally, the relatively lower-priced stores, like Old Navy and Rite-Aid, are close to the boundaries of the complex, keeping less savory folk from wandering too far into the areas where their social betters are shopping. The whole complex is dotted with eateries offering such cuisine as sushi, baked goods, gyros, sandwiches, and gourmet dishes, all in an effort to keep away the chicken-n-waffles crowd.
How grand would it be to construct a private, members-only shopping center, admission to which was governed by a membership committee? The pipe dream is for a shopping center to be run like a country club, where only members and guests can come to shop, and everyone is subject to a dress code. Membership would be free of charge, and the shopping club would be run for profit like any other shopping center, but the membership committee would be elected by members. Also, a process would be available to petition rescission of membership if a member's conduct or appearance became problematic for a large enough majority of other members. It will never happen because retailers won't want to set up shop where a limited number of consumers can come, but still, a gentle-man can dream. For the time being, I'll have to reevaluate just how much the dollars I save at Target are really worth.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Farewell, Sweet Summer!
While our Northern neighbors mark the official end of summer with the first Monday in September, the changing of seasons could be hardly less noticeable down here in the Dirty South. The day after Labor Day may as well be another hot, stuffy summer's day, making the mothballing of summer's sartorial trappings seem as pointless as a changing-of-the-guard ceremony and as premature as a ninth-grader fondling his first boob. The entire week of Labor Day is an awkward time, when we of good breeding feel compelled to stash away our whites, pastels, and seersuckers, put our socks back on, and keep right on sweltering under the Carolina sun. However, I discovered a way to take some of the awkwardness out of the preppy wardrobe transition: a week at the beach.
The week of Labor Day, my bride and I took off for Long Beach, as the locals have called it since before it was absorbed into the municipality of Oak Island in 1999, per the Southern tradition of clinging to obsolete geographical appellations. Her step-sibs were generous enough to let us stay in their unoccupied rental house for the week. While I thought it appropriate to leave my seersucker shirts at home, I continued to loaf about in lightly-colored polo shirts, khaki shorts, and bare feet while the days gradually grew slightly cooler. By the last evening of our stay, the cool-down after sunset drove me to change into chinos before sitting on the porch for one last session of stargazing. On the drive home, I wore a dark blue polo shirt, khaki chinos, and socks with my Sperrys. In such a casual environment, the wardrobe transition was much smoother and easier to cope with.
I certainly found Long Beach to be quite different from old familiar Wrightsville Beach. The drive down was complicated, involving multiple highways and traffic lights, and took 30 minutes longer than the drive to WB, the route to which I could drive blindfolded by now. The island itself, particularly our section, becomes ghostly quiet after sunset, and if you want exciting night life, you're shit out of luck. However, advantages abound. The house has far more convenient access to the beach than the condo at WB. No doors and gates to lock and unlock, no stumbling down a long, narrow, sandy pathway while dodging tourists lugging surfboards and giant coolers; all we had to do was walk down the stairs from the deck and down a wooden walkway, and we were there on the sand, which was wide-open and as uncrowded as a beach can get without being deserted. Back at WB, especially on Labor Day, we would have been squeezed in among gaggles of cackling high school girls constantly tweeting and hash-tagging, herds of guffawing frat boys chugging Natty Light, trailer-trash families with feral children screaming and running about, and the occasional ghetto-thugz out for a walk. While the people renting the house next door were on the trashy side (every adult male sported at least three tattoos apiece), at least there was plenty of open buffer space between us. No feeling the obligation to "go out" at night and blow money, because there's nowhere to go. The lack of premium cable left us with more time at night to read. And no fretting about keeping Granny's carpet white, white, white!
The best advantage of all, possibly scoring the winning point in the battle of Long Beach vs. Wrightsville Beach, was the absence of any prohibition of drinking alcohol on the beach. Yes, dear reader, after years of having to find increasingly devious means of disguising and concealing my hooch from the hawk-eyed lawmen of Wrightsville Beach who were born too late for the Prohibition Era, I was finally free to sit quietly on the beach and consume all the beer and liquor I wanted with utter impunity. Imagine the serene feeling of inner peace as I cracked open an ice-cold Yuengling and savored the smooth, medium-bodied taste of freedom, the only rumble being that of the surf and not the coppers' pickup truck.
This past week lived up to an ideal I had been missing out on: the classic preppy beach experience. I was free to drink myself stupid on the beach without fear of brushing with the law. I could get out to the beach itself in less than a minute and sit right in front of my private walkway instead of walking down an endless breezeway, taking an elevator, walking through a courtyard, unlocking a gate, and trying not to get knocked over by a surfboard on the long walk through the dunes, then having to walk another 50 feet or so before finding a bit of unoccupied sand among the throngs of tourists, and reversing the process every time nature called. Instead of going out on the town, I spent my days and nights reading, snacking, eating home-cooked meals, and staying up late talking and drinking, comforted by the fact that bedrooms and clean toilets were just steps away, instead of two or three blocks down the street. I made a day trip to the neighboring town of Southport for shopping and sightseeing, where I made the obligatory visit to the town's premier casual dining restaurant, Provisions, and purchased a souvenir t-shirt to add to my collection of souvenir t-shirts from preppy North Carolina coastal restaurants. The house itself was true to the preppy standard: vintage appliances still in working order; hodgepodge of flatware, dishes, and cookware; simple furniture covered with hard-wearing, easy-clean upholstery (in patterns to camouflage stains); color scheme of white, light blues, and pale greens; nubby, sand-colored carpets; the obligatory model tall ship; the collection of seashells gathered over many years straight from the beach (never purchased); shelves full of old puzzles, decks of cards, board games with pieces missing, and faded, dog-eared books; storage areas full of beat-up, half-rusted folding chairs, musty life vests, and children's beach toys; a musty, salty odor all over the house; and decades of family memories (for my bride, anyway). And of course I spent every day wearing the classics of casual preppy beach attire: chino shorts, polo shirts in light colors to reflect the sun's heat away; topsiders without socks; Leather Man Ltd. belts with nautical motifs; and my Tilley hat.
One day I hope to build my own classic beach house, in a 1920s or '30s style, the goal to be as architecturally correct as possible while taking advantage of the most modern materials for the sake of energy efficiency and easy maintenance. The house must appear as if a grandparent or great-grandparent bought the place new and the family has shared it ever since without changing the house's original design. The kitchen sink will be of white porcelain or enameled cast iron, countertops and backsplashes will be simple tile, and the floor will be linoleum, but the appliances will date from the '70s and '80s. Furniture will be plain and hail from various decades. The entertainment system will include a big clunker of a TV from the '80s hooked up to an antenna (no cable), separate VCR and DVD players, a collection of nautical and beach themed movies on DVD and VHS, a '90s CD & cassette boombox, and an even older turntable with big wood-enclosed speakers. Of course I'll have wi-fi. All walls will be white, and I'll probably carpet the whole house for sound dampening and for the comfort of bare feet. The bathroom fixtures will be replicas of those found in houses in the '30s, down to the exposed shower pipes. I'll keep lanterns, nonperishable foods, and a propane camp stove in a closet for stormy weather. It will be a fun project getting things to look faded and time-worn. Best of all, everything I need will already be there — clothes, hats, shoes, flip-flops, sweaters and jackets for off-season visits, a blazer if I go someplace fancy, beach chairs, beach bags, coolers, sunscreen, towels, sheets, toiletries, and even cooking spices — permitting me to hop in the car with just some groceries and booze and take off for the whole summer.
The week of Labor Day, my bride and I took off for Long Beach, as the locals have called it since before it was absorbed into the municipality of Oak Island in 1999, per the Southern tradition of clinging to obsolete geographical appellations. Her step-sibs were generous enough to let us stay in their unoccupied rental house for the week. While I thought it appropriate to leave my seersucker shirts at home, I continued to loaf about in lightly-colored polo shirts, khaki shorts, and bare feet while the days gradually grew slightly cooler. By the last evening of our stay, the cool-down after sunset drove me to change into chinos before sitting on the porch for one last session of stargazing. On the drive home, I wore a dark blue polo shirt, khaki chinos, and socks with my Sperrys. In such a casual environment, the wardrobe transition was much smoother and easier to cope with.
I certainly found Long Beach to be quite different from old familiar Wrightsville Beach. The drive down was complicated, involving multiple highways and traffic lights, and took 30 minutes longer than the drive to WB, the route to which I could drive blindfolded by now. The island itself, particularly our section, becomes ghostly quiet after sunset, and if you want exciting night life, you're shit out of luck. However, advantages abound. The house has far more convenient access to the beach than the condo at WB. No doors and gates to lock and unlock, no stumbling down a long, narrow, sandy pathway while dodging tourists lugging surfboards and giant coolers; all we had to do was walk down the stairs from the deck and down a wooden walkway, and we were there on the sand, which was wide-open and as uncrowded as a beach can get without being deserted. Back at WB, especially on Labor Day, we would have been squeezed in among gaggles of cackling high school girls constantly tweeting and hash-tagging, herds of guffawing frat boys chugging Natty Light, trailer-trash families with feral children screaming and running about, and the occasional ghetto-thugz out for a walk. While the people renting the house next door were on the trashy side (every adult male sported at least three tattoos apiece), at least there was plenty of open buffer space between us. No feeling the obligation to "go out" at night and blow money, because there's nowhere to go. The lack of premium cable left us with more time at night to read. And no fretting about keeping Granny's carpet white, white, white!
The best advantage of all, possibly scoring the winning point in the battle of Long Beach vs. Wrightsville Beach, was the absence of any prohibition of drinking alcohol on the beach. Yes, dear reader, after years of having to find increasingly devious means of disguising and concealing my hooch from the hawk-eyed lawmen of Wrightsville Beach who were born too late for the Prohibition Era, I was finally free to sit quietly on the beach and consume all the beer and liquor I wanted with utter impunity. Imagine the serene feeling of inner peace as I cracked open an ice-cold Yuengling and savored the smooth, medium-bodied taste of freedom, the only rumble being that of the surf and not the coppers' pickup truck.
This past week lived up to an ideal I had been missing out on: the classic preppy beach experience. I was free to drink myself stupid on the beach without fear of brushing with the law. I could get out to the beach itself in less than a minute and sit right in front of my private walkway instead of walking down an endless breezeway, taking an elevator, walking through a courtyard, unlocking a gate, and trying not to get knocked over by a surfboard on the long walk through the dunes, then having to walk another 50 feet or so before finding a bit of unoccupied sand among the throngs of tourists, and reversing the process every time nature called. Instead of going out on the town, I spent my days and nights reading, snacking, eating home-cooked meals, and staying up late talking and drinking, comforted by the fact that bedrooms and clean toilets were just steps away, instead of two or three blocks down the street. I made a day trip to the neighboring town of Southport for shopping and sightseeing, where I made the obligatory visit to the town's premier casual dining restaurant, Provisions, and purchased a souvenir t-shirt to add to my collection of souvenir t-shirts from preppy North Carolina coastal restaurants. The house itself was true to the preppy standard: vintage appliances still in working order; hodgepodge of flatware, dishes, and cookware; simple furniture covered with hard-wearing, easy-clean upholstery (in patterns to camouflage stains); color scheme of white, light blues, and pale greens; nubby, sand-colored carpets; the obligatory model tall ship; the collection of seashells gathered over many years straight from the beach (never purchased); shelves full of old puzzles, decks of cards, board games with pieces missing, and faded, dog-eared books; storage areas full of beat-up, half-rusted folding chairs, musty life vests, and children's beach toys; a musty, salty odor all over the house; and decades of family memories (for my bride, anyway). And of course I spent every day wearing the classics of casual preppy beach attire: chino shorts, polo shirts in light colors to reflect the sun's heat away; topsiders without socks; Leather Man Ltd. belts with nautical motifs; and my Tilley hat.
One day I hope to build my own classic beach house, in a 1920s or '30s style, the goal to be as architecturally correct as possible while taking advantage of the most modern materials for the sake of energy efficiency and easy maintenance. The house must appear as if a grandparent or great-grandparent bought the place new and the family has shared it ever since without changing the house's original design. The kitchen sink will be of white porcelain or enameled cast iron, countertops and backsplashes will be simple tile, and the floor will be linoleum, but the appliances will date from the '70s and '80s. Furniture will be plain and hail from various decades. The entertainment system will include a big clunker of a TV from the '80s hooked up to an antenna (no cable), separate VCR and DVD players, a collection of nautical and beach themed movies on DVD and VHS, a '90s CD & cassette boombox, and an even older turntable with big wood-enclosed speakers. Of course I'll have wi-fi. All walls will be white, and I'll probably carpet the whole house for sound dampening and for the comfort of bare feet. The bathroom fixtures will be replicas of those found in houses in the '30s, down to the exposed shower pipes. I'll keep lanterns, nonperishable foods, and a propane camp stove in a closet for stormy weather. It will be a fun project getting things to look faded and time-worn. Best of all, everything I need will already be there — clothes, hats, shoes, flip-flops, sweaters and jackets for off-season visits, a blazer if I go someplace fancy, beach chairs, beach bags, coolers, sunscreen, towels, sheets, toiletries, and even cooking spices — permitting me to hop in the car with just some groceries and booze and take off for the whole summer.
Monday, August 12, 2013
Time Trippin': Nostalgiathons can mess with your head
It's been quite a while since my last entry. After the loss of our beloved condo at the beach, I haven't had a great deal to blog about this summer. We've spent our weekends mostly at home or visiting family, helping the grandparents-in-law move into a senior living facility, and, in turn, stuffing a 10x20 storage unit with whatever furniture they couldn't cram into their two-bedroom apartment, which we hope someday soon will grace a larger, more stately home befitting titled nobility such as ourselves. Yes, reader, on my natal day, my bride bestowed me with documentation of my new title of Duke of Pomerania and Livonia, along with a handsome medal signifying my membership in the Pomeranian order of Pour Le Mérite, and, as a bonus, certification of my knighthood in the Livonian Templars. I acquired an additional badge in the form of a red Maltese cross with a griffin to signify my knighthood, and look forward to displaying both medals with my formal highland regalia at next year's highland games. Earlier this year, I acquired for my bride the title of Countess of Bohemia, so we are each noble in our own right.
As previously stated, we hope to move up to ritzier digs within the next year or two. Once her grandparents sell their house, they plan to buy one for us outright, likely in a neighborhood similar to where I grew up, with attractive homes, well-manicured lawns, quiet neighbors of good breeding, and no homeowners' associations. I am hoping for something stately-looking, perhaps with a large portico where I can take tea on rainy afternoons, and a lawn suitable for croquet games.
Although we no longer have our usual beach destination, all is not lost; we still have access to my bride's step-siblings' house down the coast, where we look forward to spending a week in September to mark the end of the summer season, loafing on the sand all day and cooking seafood dishes every night. The little town is much quieter and more isolated than rollicking Wrightsville, but at least on this beach, we can consume alcohol openly with impunity, rather than have to outwit roving lawmen who rival Eliot Ness in their zeal for eradicating suds from the shore. I have been grappling with the temptation to acquire more preppy accessories such as Nantucket Reds, nautical motif belts, and more seersucker shirts. I did manage to get my hands on a Tilley hat, the hat of choice for sailors.
This past weekend, my bride took off for a girlfriends getaway, leaving me to my own devices -- a potentially dangerous thing for a man with an active imagination, reclusive tendencies, free time, and birthday money to burn. It was the perfect time to purchase a load of youth-oriented used DVDs from the glorious period of 1997-2001 and have a nostalgiathon all weekend. I found quite a few gems at the local used bookstore, including I Know What You Did Last Summer, Can't Hardly Wait, Dude, Where's My Car?, Drive Me Crazy, Go, Skulls, and Urban Legend. Oh, what an orgy of '90s bliss! Erstwhile youth icons such as Sarah Michelle Gellar, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Freddie Prinze Jr., Joshua Jackson, Melissa Joan Hart, and Katie Holmes graced my 47-inch screen all weekend, accompanied by soundtracks including artists such as Third Eye Blind, 311, Smash Mouth, Britney Spears, and Eve 6. There were even some music videos among the special features, including "Steal My Sunshine," "Can't Get Enough of You Baby," and "Drive Me Crazy." All the while, I was wearing the same kind of plaid Abercrombie & Fitch shirt I used to wear all the time in those days.
Holy crap, talk about nostalgia overdose. By Saturday night, I was experiencing some mildly mind-altering, Jack Finney-esque effects, experiencing fleeting moments in which I felt as though I had indeed slipped back in time, which is remarkable considering I was in a house that I had only occupied since 2007, I had watched all these movies on a flat-panel TV, and I had been using my iPhone throughout the day. Nevertheless, my brain was buzzing with '90s tunes and fleeting thoughts of '90s cultural memes. While delusions are all well and good when I'm in complete control of them, this time I actually had to remind myself that it was 2013, not 1999. Trippy, man. And I hadn't had any alcohol all day, which may have actually been a contributing factor, considering how I was in a perpetual state of total sobriety until 2005. Imagine how far down the rabbit hole I could have gone if I had done this in a '90s-themed room.
As previously stated, we hope to move up to ritzier digs within the next year or two. Once her grandparents sell their house, they plan to buy one for us outright, likely in a neighborhood similar to where I grew up, with attractive homes, well-manicured lawns, quiet neighbors of good breeding, and no homeowners' associations. I am hoping for something stately-looking, perhaps with a large portico where I can take tea on rainy afternoons, and a lawn suitable for croquet games.
Although we no longer have our usual beach destination, all is not lost; we still have access to my bride's step-siblings' house down the coast, where we look forward to spending a week in September to mark the end of the summer season, loafing on the sand all day and cooking seafood dishes every night. The little town is much quieter and more isolated than rollicking Wrightsville, but at least on this beach, we can consume alcohol openly with impunity, rather than have to outwit roving lawmen who rival Eliot Ness in their zeal for eradicating suds from the shore. I have been grappling with the temptation to acquire more preppy accessories such as Nantucket Reds, nautical motif belts, and more seersucker shirts. I did manage to get my hands on a Tilley hat, the hat of choice for sailors.
This past weekend, my bride took off for a girlfriends getaway, leaving me to my own devices -- a potentially dangerous thing for a man with an active imagination, reclusive tendencies, free time, and birthday money to burn. It was the perfect time to purchase a load of youth-oriented used DVDs from the glorious period of 1997-2001 and have a nostalgiathon all weekend. I found quite a few gems at the local used bookstore, including I Know What You Did Last Summer, Can't Hardly Wait, Dude, Where's My Car?, Drive Me Crazy, Go, Skulls, and Urban Legend. Oh, what an orgy of '90s bliss! Erstwhile youth icons such as Sarah Michelle Gellar, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Freddie Prinze Jr., Joshua Jackson, Melissa Joan Hart, and Katie Holmes graced my 47-inch screen all weekend, accompanied by soundtracks including artists such as Third Eye Blind, 311, Smash Mouth, Britney Spears, and Eve 6. There were even some music videos among the special features, including "Steal My Sunshine," "Can't Get Enough of You Baby," and "Drive Me Crazy." All the while, I was wearing the same kind of plaid Abercrombie & Fitch shirt I used to wear all the time in those days.
Holy crap, talk about nostalgia overdose. By Saturday night, I was experiencing some mildly mind-altering, Jack Finney-esque effects, experiencing fleeting moments in which I felt as though I had indeed slipped back in time, which is remarkable considering I was in a house that I had only occupied since 2007, I had watched all these movies on a flat-panel TV, and I had been using my iPhone throughout the day. Nevertheless, my brain was buzzing with '90s tunes and fleeting thoughts of '90s cultural memes. While delusions are all well and good when I'm in complete control of them, this time I actually had to remind myself that it was 2013, not 1999. Trippy, man. And I hadn't had any alcohol all day, which may have actually been a contributing factor, considering how I was in a perpetual state of total sobriety until 2005. Imagine how far down the rabbit hole I could have gone if I had done this in a '90s-themed room.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
From one room to the next
"Our lives are like rooms in a house. We stay in one room for a while, and shut the door behind us as we move into the next room."
On a visit to my wife's grandparents' house, her grandmother said these words that only a strong-willed woman with 80 years of memories could string together to express her philosophy on life. She said them in an effort to comfort us when we got emotional at the sight of their half-empty house, where they've lived for 30 years, hosting parties and entertaining grown children and grandchildren. Living by themselves in a two-story house has become too challenging, between her Parkinson's disease and his painful joints, so they have secured a place at a nearby rest home, where they plan to live out their days in greater comfort. While we know their quality of life will surely improve, we all nonetheless feel sad that they have to exit the biggest and brightest room in their metaphorical house and close the door behind them.
This transitional period has ramifications for my wife and me, as well, for they are no longer fit to travel long distances, forcing them to put their beloved beach house up for sale. Next week may very likely be the last time we visit the house. Needless to say, we're very sad to lose the place. I consider this one of the rooms in the metaphorical house Granny was talking about. My wife entered this "room" when she was about 15 years old, and spent countless blissful summer days there, forgetting her troubles and just enjoying herself or getting into teenage shenanigans at night with her girlfriends. I stepped into this room in 2007 when she shared her favorite place with me the first summer we were together, and came for numerous summer weekends and nearly every week's vacation we had. I also got to reconnect with my preppy roots by getting the preppy beach experience I had been denied in my childhood. It's been a wonderful six years for me, and 19 for my wife; we've had getaway weekends there for one-on-one time, spent countless lazy hours doing nothing, eaten countless delicious meals at our favorite restaurants, and hosted raucous, bacchanalian vacations with groups of friends, getting wasted at the bars one night and staying up into the wee hours playing drunken card games the next. On days when conditions weren't ideal for sitting outside, we would pass the afternoons reading, napping, or taking in the charms of the beautiful town while strolling about in our casual preppy attire. All the while, I got to revel in the condo's 1990s time capsule effect, its decor unchanged since the early '90s. Down there, I would get to pretend it was perpetually 1998 or so, and all was right with the world. We had the time of our lives in that room; now it appears the time is nigh to leave that room and quietly shut the door.
It seems we're moving to a different room now anyway, one in which we prefer to get wild on a smaller scale, opting for parties at home with a few like-minded friends. Lately when we've gone out at night at the beach, we've been ready to go back at about midnight instead of 1:30 or 2, and spend more evenings in the condo watching movies than out on the town. So it may be that the condo is gradually outliving its usefulness as a place where we can collapse after drinking all night at the bars without having to drive. The growing crowds and increasingly heavy-handed enforcement of open container laws at our beach have also made sunbathing less enjoyable. So once we have to bid goodbye to the beloved condo, my hope is that we can still get wild, on a smaller, more intimate scale, with groups of friends at our other family-owned beach houses, be it my family's house at Myrtle or her step-siblings' house at Long Beach, where we can sit on uncrowded sands, fix big shrimp dinners, and stay up late playing games and chugging cocktails. Failing that, we can sunbathe at our neighborhood pool or our back patio, and have friends come up to get wild at our townhouse, which we may end up doing this coming Memorial Day weekend. A small part of me actually looks forward to a reprieve from the long drives, the gasoline expenses, the dog boarding bills, and the stresses of packing everything we'll need.
There is hope that the room beyond this one will be just as big and bright, if not more so, for her grandparents have promised to buy a larger house for us with some of the proceeds from the sale of their current home. We hope for a quick sale, so that we can take advantage of depressed housing prices before the market recovers. A bigger house with a couple of guest rooms would be a great place for raucous house parties when we don't want to drive four hours to the beach. Perhaps there is a room in the house beyond this one where we'll have a beach cottage all to ourselves, where we can keep clothes, shoes, sheets, towels, swimsuits, chairs, sunscreen, toiletries, and liquor, leaving us to be able to hop in the car with nothing but groceries before heading down to the beach.
On a visit to my wife's grandparents' house, her grandmother said these words that only a strong-willed woman with 80 years of memories could string together to express her philosophy on life. She said them in an effort to comfort us when we got emotional at the sight of their half-empty house, where they've lived for 30 years, hosting parties and entertaining grown children and grandchildren. Living by themselves in a two-story house has become too challenging, between her Parkinson's disease and his painful joints, so they have secured a place at a nearby rest home, where they plan to live out their days in greater comfort. While we know their quality of life will surely improve, we all nonetheless feel sad that they have to exit the biggest and brightest room in their metaphorical house and close the door behind them.
This transitional period has ramifications for my wife and me, as well, for they are no longer fit to travel long distances, forcing them to put their beloved beach house up for sale. Next week may very likely be the last time we visit the house. Needless to say, we're very sad to lose the place. I consider this one of the rooms in the metaphorical house Granny was talking about. My wife entered this "room" when she was about 15 years old, and spent countless blissful summer days there, forgetting her troubles and just enjoying herself or getting into teenage shenanigans at night with her girlfriends. I stepped into this room in 2007 when she shared her favorite place with me the first summer we were together, and came for numerous summer weekends and nearly every week's vacation we had. I also got to reconnect with my preppy roots by getting the preppy beach experience I had been denied in my childhood. It's been a wonderful six years for me, and 19 for my wife; we've had getaway weekends there for one-on-one time, spent countless lazy hours doing nothing, eaten countless delicious meals at our favorite restaurants, and hosted raucous, bacchanalian vacations with groups of friends, getting wasted at the bars one night and staying up into the wee hours playing drunken card games the next. On days when conditions weren't ideal for sitting outside, we would pass the afternoons reading, napping, or taking in the charms of the beautiful town while strolling about in our casual preppy attire. All the while, I got to revel in the condo's 1990s time capsule effect, its decor unchanged since the early '90s. Down there, I would get to pretend it was perpetually 1998 or so, and all was right with the world. We had the time of our lives in that room; now it appears the time is nigh to leave that room and quietly shut the door.
It seems we're moving to a different room now anyway, one in which we prefer to get wild on a smaller scale, opting for parties at home with a few like-minded friends. Lately when we've gone out at night at the beach, we've been ready to go back at about midnight instead of 1:30 or 2, and spend more evenings in the condo watching movies than out on the town. So it may be that the condo is gradually outliving its usefulness as a place where we can collapse after drinking all night at the bars without having to drive. The growing crowds and increasingly heavy-handed enforcement of open container laws at our beach have also made sunbathing less enjoyable. So once we have to bid goodbye to the beloved condo, my hope is that we can still get wild, on a smaller, more intimate scale, with groups of friends at our other family-owned beach houses, be it my family's house at Myrtle or her step-siblings' house at Long Beach, where we can sit on uncrowded sands, fix big shrimp dinners, and stay up late playing games and chugging cocktails. Failing that, we can sunbathe at our neighborhood pool or our back patio, and have friends come up to get wild at our townhouse, which we may end up doing this coming Memorial Day weekend. A small part of me actually looks forward to a reprieve from the long drives, the gasoline expenses, the dog boarding bills, and the stresses of packing everything we'll need.
There is hope that the room beyond this one will be just as big and bright, if not more so, for her grandparents have promised to buy a larger house for us with some of the proceeds from the sale of their current home. We hope for a quick sale, so that we can take advantage of depressed housing prices before the market recovers. A bigger house with a couple of guest rooms would be a great place for raucous house parties when we don't want to drive four hours to the beach. Perhaps there is a room in the house beyond this one where we'll have a beach cottage all to ourselves, where we can keep clothes, shoes, sheets, towels, swimsuits, chairs, sunscreen, toiletries, and liquor, leaving us to be able to hop in the car with nothing but groceries before heading down to the beach.
Monday, February 25, 2013
Edwardian dinner trial run
The day after Valentine's day, I finally got some hands-on practice for what it would be like to host a sumptuous Edwardian dinner. The food itself wasn't so sumptuous, but the surroundings were pretty damned elegant for a couple in their early 30s.
Not having seen my mother-in-law (MIL) since that last fine dinner which I recounted in my last entry, we decided it was high time we return the favor and host her at our house. A friend of ours, having nothing else to do that Friday night, joined us, which was fine with me because it made the table setting symmetrical. We hurried home and got as much ready as we could before MIL arrived promptly at 6:30, having already set the dining table the night before with a plain white cloth, our Strasbourg sterling flatware, a mix of our finest china (all pieces for each service matched, of course), and one of my latest acquisitions: stemware by Waterford! OK, so it's the Marquis line by Waterford -- their machine-cut econo-crystal -- but it's still quite pretty and sparkles in candlelight just like high-end Waterford. We planned a modest three-course repast of salad, baked mahi-mahi with mashed potatoes and steamed broccoli, and a fruit tart for dessert. While waiting for the fish to bake, we had some pre-dinner cocktails in the drawing room. Once it was ready, we gathered around the dinner table, lit with a pair of beautiful English silver candelabra, and I poured everyone's wine from a cut glass decanter. After the salad course, I turned on the coffee maker so that it would be ready for dessert, laid out the fish on a silver platter, and put the mashed potatoes and broccoli into silver serving bowls. I played footman for a bit, serving the wine from another decanter and taking the fish platter to each person, and then we passed around the side items and rolls. We presented the fruit tart on a round silver salver, and served the coffee in my other recent acquisition, a stunning silver-plated coffee/tea service given to us by my wife's grandmother. Made by Goldfeder in the 1930s, the service includes a kettle-on-stand, teapot, coffee pot, sugar bowl, creamer, and waste bowl, on an enormous, heavy, footed tray. As we were only serving coffee, I put the coffee pot, sugar & creamer on a smaller silver tray. Ordinarily I would have served an appropriate port wine with dessert and coffee afterward, but I knew MIL was getting tired, so I omitted the dessert wine. Cleanup took about an hour, as the dishes and serving pieces had to be hand-washed.
It was a lovely experience, and a great way, I think, to practice serving a grand, multiple-course dinner in the spirit of the evening meals at Downton Abbey. I learned a few lessons from this scaled-down trial-run. First and foremost, I'm never doing this again on a Friday night right after work! I would rather have begun preparations about 2 hours before the scheduled start time. Also, I made the blunder of removing the dinner plates before removing the chargers, instead of both at once. I also lack proper fish forks, but considering the cost of silver these days, little can be done about that. I really should get a pierced serving spoon in my Strasbourg pattern in case I serve very moist vegetables, and a salad set as well; this time around, we made do with a Wilton Armetale salad set.
Someday, though, I hope to host a truly grand Edwardian dinner, with guests arriving in evening dress and gathering around a most elegant table to dine on courses such as hors d'oeuvres, consomme, salmon, filet mignon, some sort of palate cleanser, and dessert. I may even go so far as to hire serving staff for the evening. I've been hard at work making my dining room more and more elegant. After that dinner, I added a leaf to the table and swapped in my nicer-looking damask cloth. I recently purchased a pair of marble-topped plant stands, on which I placed a pair of artificial palms, that really make the room feel lush. Later today I'm finally going to see about getting a gilt frame for my self-portrait, and sometime soon I hope to install a chair rail and crown molding. Later on, as funds become available, I'll get an Oriental-style area rug. For now, though, it's a wonderful experience to be able to sit down in the mornings before work at a beautifully-appointed table, amongst our shining silver and sparkling crystal, and soak in the splendor of another era as we ingest our cold cereal before heading out for another 8 hours of drudgery.
Not having seen my mother-in-law (MIL) since that last fine dinner which I recounted in my last entry, we decided it was high time we return the favor and host her at our house. A friend of ours, having nothing else to do that Friday night, joined us, which was fine with me because it made the table setting symmetrical. We hurried home and got as much ready as we could before MIL arrived promptly at 6:30, having already set the dining table the night before with a plain white cloth, our Strasbourg sterling flatware, a mix of our finest china (all pieces for each service matched, of course), and one of my latest acquisitions: stemware by Waterford! OK, so it's the Marquis line by Waterford -- their machine-cut econo-crystal -- but it's still quite pretty and sparkles in candlelight just like high-end Waterford. We planned a modest three-course repast of salad, baked mahi-mahi with mashed potatoes and steamed broccoli, and a fruit tart for dessert. While waiting for the fish to bake, we had some pre-dinner cocktails in the drawing room. Once it was ready, we gathered around the dinner table, lit with a pair of beautiful English silver candelabra, and I poured everyone's wine from a cut glass decanter. After the salad course, I turned on the coffee maker so that it would be ready for dessert, laid out the fish on a silver platter, and put the mashed potatoes and broccoli into silver serving bowls. I played footman for a bit, serving the wine from another decanter and taking the fish platter to each person, and then we passed around the side items and rolls. We presented the fruit tart on a round silver salver, and served the coffee in my other recent acquisition, a stunning silver-plated coffee/tea service given to us by my wife's grandmother. Made by Goldfeder in the 1930s, the service includes a kettle-on-stand, teapot, coffee pot, sugar bowl, creamer, and waste bowl, on an enormous, heavy, footed tray. As we were only serving coffee, I put the coffee pot, sugar & creamer on a smaller silver tray. Ordinarily I would have served an appropriate port wine with dessert and coffee afterward, but I knew MIL was getting tired, so I omitted the dessert wine. Cleanup took about an hour, as the dishes and serving pieces had to be hand-washed.
It was a lovely experience, and a great way, I think, to practice serving a grand, multiple-course dinner in the spirit of the evening meals at Downton Abbey. I learned a few lessons from this scaled-down trial-run. First and foremost, I'm never doing this again on a Friday night right after work! I would rather have begun preparations about 2 hours before the scheduled start time. Also, I made the blunder of removing the dinner plates before removing the chargers, instead of both at once. I also lack proper fish forks, but considering the cost of silver these days, little can be done about that. I really should get a pierced serving spoon in my Strasbourg pattern in case I serve very moist vegetables, and a salad set as well; this time around, we made do with a Wilton Armetale salad set.
Someday, though, I hope to host a truly grand Edwardian dinner, with guests arriving in evening dress and gathering around a most elegant table to dine on courses such as hors d'oeuvres, consomme, salmon, filet mignon, some sort of palate cleanser, and dessert. I may even go so far as to hire serving staff for the evening. I've been hard at work making my dining room more and more elegant. After that dinner, I added a leaf to the table and swapped in my nicer-looking damask cloth. I recently purchased a pair of marble-topped plant stands, on which I placed a pair of artificial palms, that really make the room feel lush. Later today I'm finally going to see about getting a gilt frame for my self-portrait, and sometime soon I hope to install a chair rail and crown molding. Later on, as funds become available, I'll get an Oriental-style area rug. For now, though, it's a wonderful experience to be able to sit down in the mornings before work at a beautifully-appointed table, amongst our shining silver and sparkling crystal, and soak in the splendor of another era as we ingest our cold cereal before heading out for another 8 hours of drudgery.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
We like the way they live
"We like Downton Abbey because we like the way they live." With those words, my mother-in-law (hereafter referred to as MIL) not only gave a good explanation for why the popular British series captivates so many viewers on this side of the pond, but also drew an apt parallel from the world of fiction that illustrates how our sort, who were raised to appreciate gracious living and the finer things, just like the fictional residents of Downton Abbey, prefer, or at least aspire, to live.
On Christmas Eve, my bride and I made the short trip to her mother's house for dinner and pleasant company. At dinner, conversation got around to how much we all enjoy Downton Abbey. An account of the evening's activities and a description of the setting in which this conversation transpired will show why MIL's acute explanation of the series's appeal resonates so with our sort.
We began the evening in the drawing room with glasses of fine champagne, celebrating the holiday and decompressing from its related stress and fatigue. From there, we moseyed into the family room to be able to continue interacting while MIL finished preparing dinner in the adjoining kitchen. After exchanging gifts, we made our way to MIL's small, but elegant, dining room. Her table is an early 19th century drop-leaf. To the side is a lovely inlaid sideboard, and to the other side is her china hutch, where she displays the china handed down to her from her grandmother and great-grandmother. The table was set with sterling flatware, gold-rimmed crystal, silver candelabra, and damask napkins. This is the way our sort have always done things.
As landed gentry, Lord Grantham and his family are free from the demands of regular jobs; they fill their days with leisure activities, charitable projects, and entertaining guests. They wear just the right clothing for every occasion, and take their meals in a splendid dining room with the finest china, crystal, and silverware, pairing each course with an appropriate wine. Sometimes, after dinner, the gentlemen adjourn to take a nip of brandy or cognac with a cigar before rejoining the ladies.
Although descended from landed gentry, our sort did not inherit the means to operate large manor-houses with a full staff, but they have managed to inherit, and bequeath, their aristocratic ancestors' legacy of gracious living, albeit on a smaller, more practical scale. We buy as much house as we can afford within our means, then furnish them with well-designed pieces that serve their purpose while making life more pleasant and enjoyable. My whole house could fit in the saloon at Downton Abbey, but I have furnished it with elegant, yet practical, antique or second-hand furniture. You would be hard-pressed to find a house among our sort with a matching suite of furniture, but somehow all the pieces magically work together to create a feeling of both sophistication and comfort. Like at Downton Abbey, most of the furniture was handed down through the family, the remainder bought at auctions or second-hand stores for less than a comparable new piece would cost. Our sort also take on do-it-yourself home improvement projects that make our homes more elegant while saving funds for other nice things. I have already installed an attractive faucet in my downstairs powder room (purchased on clearance) and have grand plans to install crown molding in every room. I have just acquired a three-dimensional brass coat of arms cheaply on eBay, to which I will affix my own armorial and display in my foyer.
A couple of generations ago, even middle-class people had at least a cook/maid; sadly, with the advent of minimum wages, 99% of Americans settle for a weekly visit from a cleaning lady or, more likely, no one at all, and manage everything themselves. Within that 99%, there are key differences in how our sort conduct an evening at home, and how the rest of the slovenly masses do so.
Picture, if you will, Mr. & Mrs. McTacky. Before leaving for work, they either cram down a bagel or Pop-Tart while rushing out the back door, or crouch at the kitchen table over a melamine bowl of cereal and take their coffee to the car in a "to-go" mug. In the evening, arriving home from their McJobs, they enter through the back door as if they were servants or deliverymen, and the first room they see is either the kitchen or an unsightly utility room. They head to the fridge and grab a can of soda or domestic beer and plop down on their La-Z-Boys for a bit before it's time to make dinner. While Mrs. McTacky cooks, Mr. McTacky gets to see, smell, and hear all the food preparation from his barcalounger in the "living area" thanks to the fact that the rooms in their modern home "flow" into each other and therefore lack any barriers between where they relax and where food is prepared and consumed. If the couple have children, they huddle around the kitchen table, possibly with a pile of mail and other junk shoved off to one side, with an unobstructed view of dirty cooking pans and the kids' hideous "artwork" displayed on the refrigerator door, and consume their repast off of ugly plates from Wal-Mart, either of melamine or heavy stoneware, with stainless steel forks, guzzling water from plastic tumblers. If there's dessert, it comes on either a disposable paper plate or worse, a paper napkin. It's likely that they own moderately priced fine china and stemware, received as wedding gifts, but keep them locked away in a cabinet to be used only for "special occasions," staying out of sight the other 360 or so days of the year. They may even have a fully-furnished dining room, but it, too, is only used for its intended purpose about 5 times a year, serving as a depository for mail or a place to sit and pay bills the rest of the year.
By contrast, Mr. & Mrs. Grace across town try to live up to the Crawleys' standards the best they can while making some concessions to practicality. They have a simple breakfast in the dining room using their Wedgwood china and sterling silver, having filled their Wedgwood cups in the kitchen instead of fussing with the Wedgwood coffee pot. After a relaxing breakfast, they leave for work through the front door. After work, they come home through the front door, process the day's mail, prepare cocktails in real glasses, and catch the news or quietly read for a bit. Mr. Grace can enjoy a little peace and quiet while Mrs. Grace makes dinner out of sight. When dinner is ready, they and their children serve themselves off the stove, take their dinner on fine china to the dining room table, which the youngest would have already set with sterling flatware and cloth napkins, and sit down for a quiet, relaxing meal together, out of sight of the messy kitchen. Down the street, their child-free friends, who find it boring to sit at the table when it's just the two of them, take dinner in the den on their Royal Doulton with glasses of wine, setting up their wooden tray tables with place mats and sterling. They may have a little port or sherry with dessert, poured from crystal decanters kept on a silver tray, or maybe some decaf coffee. Later in the evening Mr. Grace might have a dram of cognac or brandy.
When it comes to hosting guests, without butlers, cooks, maids, and footmen, we can't serve the seven-course dinners that Lord and Lady Grantham host all the time, but in order to preserve the richness of those spectacular multi-course feasts of old, our sort use exquisite dinnerware to serve a soup or salad course, an entree with side items, and dessert, all paired with an appropriate wine. Entrees and side items are passed around in serving bowls in the same china pattern, and crystal water goblets are filled from a silver pitcher. After dinner, coffee is served from an heirloom silver coffee service that belonged to someone's great-grandmother. For lack of a butler, a coffee maker with a timer makes sure that a fresh batch is ready, when dinner is finished, to be poured into the silver pot, which stands on a tray on the kitchen counter with a full sugar bowl while the creamer sits in the fridge, and the coffee cups and spoons wait on the sideboard. Because we keep entertaining in mind while shopping for houses, and avoid houses whose rooms "flow" into each other, our guests won't have to watch the hostess dump coffee from the Krupps into the antique silver pot or see a stack of dirty plates festering in the sink while trying to enjoy dessert; nor will we adjourn to a "living area" while a table littered with used coffee cups and soiled napkins stands in full view. Cleanup happens after the guests have left or gone to bed.
As far as aspects of life not related to dining and entertaining, I make every effort up a gracious standard of living. I will not wear jeans, t-shirts, sweatshirts, or athletic shoes to work. My bride's childcare job calls for sturdy clothes, but she makes every effort to pick natural fiber articles that fit well, coordinate, and flatter her figure, and keeps herself well-groomed. We make sure to dress appropriately for all occasions such as shopping, dining out, and meeting friends or relatives. I keep our calling cards on my person when we're out and about, and use them as gift enclosures or for brief correspondence. This past New Year's Eve, we set out champagne for our friends in a silver chiller on a silver tray with four crystal champagne flutes. Lately, I've taken to enjoying an electronic cigar (which doesn't leave an odor) after dinner with a snifter of cognac or brandy. I think the Crawleys would nod with approval.
On Christmas Eve, my bride and I made the short trip to her mother's house for dinner and pleasant company. At dinner, conversation got around to how much we all enjoy Downton Abbey. An account of the evening's activities and a description of the setting in which this conversation transpired will show why MIL's acute explanation of the series's appeal resonates so with our sort.
We began the evening in the drawing room with glasses of fine champagne, celebrating the holiday and decompressing from its related stress and fatigue. From there, we moseyed into the family room to be able to continue interacting while MIL finished preparing dinner in the adjoining kitchen. After exchanging gifts, we made our way to MIL's small, but elegant, dining room. Her table is an early 19th century drop-leaf. To the side is a lovely inlaid sideboard, and to the other side is her china hutch, where she displays the china handed down to her from her grandmother and great-grandmother. The table was set with sterling flatware, gold-rimmed crystal, silver candelabra, and damask napkins. This is the way our sort have always done things.
As landed gentry, Lord Grantham and his family are free from the demands of regular jobs; they fill their days with leisure activities, charitable projects, and entertaining guests. They wear just the right clothing for every occasion, and take their meals in a splendid dining room with the finest china, crystal, and silverware, pairing each course with an appropriate wine. Sometimes, after dinner, the gentlemen adjourn to take a nip of brandy or cognac with a cigar before rejoining the ladies.
Although descended from landed gentry, our sort did not inherit the means to operate large manor-houses with a full staff, but they have managed to inherit, and bequeath, their aristocratic ancestors' legacy of gracious living, albeit on a smaller, more practical scale. We buy as much house as we can afford within our means, then furnish them with well-designed pieces that serve their purpose while making life more pleasant and enjoyable. My whole house could fit in the saloon at Downton Abbey, but I have furnished it with elegant, yet practical, antique or second-hand furniture. You would be hard-pressed to find a house among our sort with a matching suite of furniture, but somehow all the pieces magically work together to create a feeling of both sophistication and comfort. Like at Downton Abbey, most of the furniture was handed down through the family, the remainder bought at auctions or second-hand stores for less than a comparable new piece would cost. Our sort also take on do-it-yourself home improvement projects that make our homes more elegant while saving funds for other nice things. I have already installed an attractive faucet in my downstairs powder room (purchased on clearance) and have grand plans to install crown molding in every room. I have just acquired a three-dimensional brass coat of arms cheaply on eBay, to which I will affix my own armorial and display in my foyer.
A couple of generations ago, even middle-class people had at least a cook/maid; sadly, with the advent of minimum wages, 99% of Americans settle for a weekly visit from a cleaning lady or, more likely, no one at all, and manage everything themselves. Within that 99%, there are key differences in how our sort conduct an evening at home, and how the rest of the slovenly masses do so.
Picture, if you will, Mr. & Mrs. McTacky. Before leaving for work, they either cram down a bagel or Pop-Tart while rushing out the back door, or crouch at the kitchen table over a melamine bowl of cereal and take their coffee to the car in a "to-go" mug. In the evening, arriving home from their McJobs, they enter through the back door as if they were servants or deliverymen, and the first room they see is either the kitchen or an unsightly utility room. They head to the fridge and grab a can of soda or domestic beer and plop down on their La-Z-Boys for a bit before it's time to make dinner. While Mrs. McTacky cooks, Mr. McTacky gets to see, smell, and hear all the food preparation from his barcalounger in the "living area" thanks to the fact that the rooms in their modern home "flow" into each other and therefore lack any barriers between where they relax and where food is prepared and consumed. If the couple have children, they huddle around the kitchen table, possibly with a pile of mail and other junk shoved off to one side, with an unobstructed view of dirty cooking pans and the kids' hideous "artwork" displayed on the refrigerator door, and consume their repast off of ugly plates from Wal-Mart, either of melamine or heavy stoneware, with stainless steel forks, guzzling water from plastic tumblers. If there's dessert, it comes on either a disposable paper plate or worse, a paper napkin. It's likely that they own moderately priced fine china and stemware, received as wedding gifts, but keep them locked away in a cabinet to be used only for "special occasions," staying out of sight the other 360 or so days of the year. They may even have a fully-furnished dining room, but it, too, is only used for its intended purpose about 5 times a year, serving as a depository for mail or a place to sit and pay bills the rest of the year.
By contrast, Mr. & Mrs. Grace across town try to live up to the Crawleys' standards the best they can while making some concessions to practicality. They have a simple breakfast in the dining room using their Wedgwood china and sterling silver, having filled their Wedgwood cups in the kitchen instead of fussing with the Wedgwood coffee pot. After a relaxing breakfast, they leave for work through the front door. After work, they come home through the front door, process the day's mail, prepare cocktails in real glasses, and catch the news or quietly read for a bit. Mr. Grace can enjoy a little peace and quiet while Mrs. Grace makes dinner out of sight. When dinner is ready, they and their children serve themselves off the stove, take their dinner on fine china to the dining room table, which the youngest would have already set with sterling flatware and cloth napkins, and sit down for a quiet, relaxing meal together, out of sight of the messy kitchen. Down the street, their child-free friends, who find it boring to sit at the table when it's just the two of them, take dinner in the den on their Royal Doulton with glasses of wine, setting up their wooden tray tables with place mats and sterling. They may have a little port or sherry with dessert, poured from crystal decanters kept on a silver tray, or maybe some decaf coffee. Later in the evening Mr. Grace might have a dram of cognac or brandy.
When it comes to hosting guests, without butlers, cooks, maids, and footmen, we can't serve the seven-course dinners that Lord and Lady Grantham host all the time, but in order to preserve the richness of those spectacular multi-course feasts of old, our sort use exquisite dinnerware to serve a soup or salad course, an entree with side items, and dessert, all paired with an appropriate wine. Entrees and side items are passed around in serving bowls in the same china pattern, and crystal water goblets are filled from a silver pitcher. After dinner, coffee is served from an heirloom silver coffee service that belonged to someone's great-grandmother. For lack of a butler, a coffee maker with a timer makes sure that a fresh batch is ready, when dinner is finished, to be poured into the silver pot, which stands on a tray on the kitchen counter with a full sugar bowl while the creamer sits in the fridge, and the coffee cups and spoons wait on the sideboard. Because we keep entertaining in mind while shopping for houses, and avoid houses whose rooms "flow" into each other, our guests won't have to watch the hostess dump coffee from the Krupps into the antique silver pot or see a stack of dirty plates festering in the sink while trying to enjoy dessert; nor will we adjourn to a "living area" while a table littered with used coffee cups and soiled napkins stands in full view. Cleanup happens after the guests have left or gone to bed.
As far as aspects of life not related to dining and entertaining, I make every effort up a gracious standard of living. I will not wear jeans, t-shirts, sweatshirts, or athletic shoes to work. My bride's childcare job calls for sturdy clothes, but she makes every effort to pick natural fiber articles that fit well, coordinate, and flatter her figure, and keeps herself well-groomed. We make sure to dress appropriately for all occasions such as shopping, dining out, and meeting friends or relatives. I keep our calling cards on my person when we're out and about, and use them as gift enclosures or for brief correspondence. This past New Year's Eve, we set out champagne for our friends in a silver chiller on a silver tray with four crystal champagne flutes. Lately, I've taken to enjoying an electronic cigar (which doesn't leave an odor) after dinner with a snifter of cognac or brandy. I think the Crawleys would nod with approval.
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