At Home.

If I'm baking a raspberry white chocolate almond tart at eleven pm on a Friday night, does that make me a 1950s throw back or a Proverbs 31 woman?

Okay, seriously, I can't help it. I'm home. Yes, home. Which means I've been baking and cooking up a storm. I pick up fresh grated parmesan from my Harris Teeter, watermelon from Providence Produce, and vinaigrette from Trader Joes. Then two years of bent up energy is released in baking brownies, layering truffle parfaits, decorating tacos, pouring wine, refilling peach ice tea, slicing tomatoes, arranging limes with lemons, chopping onions, sprinkling ice cream dessert, stretching pizza dough, stirring banana bread, sprinkling feta, stacking spices, and sautéing peppers.

I moved my old ipod speakers to the kitchen, tucked beside the mini coffee pot and beautiful cookie jar. So with a background of Lady Antebellum or Sugarland or the Walling Jennys or Music from the Wine Lands, I mull around and drink wine and create...

Aside me, a crystal knob apron rack hangs yellow fabric from my sister, another with white roses from my mom's best friend, and a pink frill I bought with my mom. They remind me of aprons in heaven. Pictures of friends and favorite places hold like lingering love and memories against the buttery yellow wall. This space is dotted with treasured memories, delicate details, and the fresh feeling of cottage comfort. It's home to me. Home.